Connor Magan's Luck and Other Stories Part 4

And that's the way they went home. Billy in his dress generally looked like a seal standing on his hind flippers, and Sammy resembled one also--nevertheless it was a pleasant sight.

NANNETTE'S LIVE BABY.

A good many years ago, in the city of Philadelphia, lived a little girl, named Nannette.

One summer afternoon her mother went to pay a short visit to her aunt, who lived near by, and gave her little girl permission to amuse herself on the front door-steps until her return. So Nannette, in a clean pink frock and white ap.r.o.n, playing and chatting with her big, wax "Didy,"

which was her doll's name, formed a pretty picture to the pa.s.sers-by, some of whom walked slowly, in order to hear the child's talk to her doll.

"You'se a big, old girl," she went on, smoothing out Didy's petticoats, "and I've had you for ever and ever, and I'se mos' six. But you grow no bigger. You never, never cry, you don't. You'se a stupid old thing, and I'm _tired_ of _you_, I am! I b'leve you'se only a _make b'leve_ baby, and I want a _real_, _live_ baby, I do--a baby that will cry! Now don't you see," and she gave the doll's head a whack--"that you don't cry? If anybody should hit _me_ so, I'd squeam _m-u-r-d-e-r_, I would! And then the p'lissman would come, and there would be an _awful_ time. There, now sit up, can't you? Your back is like a broken stick. Oh, hum, I'm tired of _you_, Didy."

Leaving the doll leaning in a one-sided way against the door, Nannette posed her dimpled chin in her hands, and sat quietly looking into the street. Presently a woman came along with a bundle in her arms, and seeing Nannette and "Didy" in the doorway, went up the steps and asked the little girl if she would not like to have a real little _live_ baby.

"One that will _cry_?" eagerly asked Nannette.

"Yes, one that will cry, and laugh, too, after a bit," answered the woman, all the time looking keenly about her; and then in a hushed voice she asked the child if her mother was at home.

"No--she's gone to see my auntie, shall I call her?" replied Nannette, jumping to her feet, and clapping her hands, from a feeling as if in some way she was to have her long-wished-for _live_ baby.

"No; don't call her; and if you want a baby that will _cry_, you must be very quiet, and listen to me. Mark me now--have you a quarter of a dollar, to pay for a baby?"

"I guess so," answered Nannette; "I've a lot of money up stairs." And running up to her room, she climbed into a chair, took down her money box from a shelf, and emptying all her pennies and small silver coin into her ap.r.o.n, ran down again.

"This is as much as a quarter of a dollar, isn't it?"

The woman saw at a glance that there was more than that amount, and hastily taking poor little Nannette's carefully h.o.a.rded pennies, she whispered:

"Now carry the baby up-stairs and keep it in your own little bed. Be careful to make no noise, for it is sound asleep. Don't tell anybody you have it, until it cries. Mind that. When you hear it cry, you may know it is hungry."

Then the woman went hurriedly away, and Nannette never saw her again.

Nannette's little heart was nearly breaking with delight at the thought of having a real, live baby; and holding the bundle fast in her arms, where the woman had placed it, she began trudging up-stairs with it.

Finally puffing and panting, her cheeks all aglow, she reached her little bed, and turning down the covers, she put in the bundle and covering it up carefully, she gave it some loving little pats, saying softly, "_My_ baby, my real, little live baby that will _cry_!" And then she carefully tripped out of the room and down-stairs again.

Very soon Nannette's mother came home, bringing her a fine large apple, which drove all thoughts of the baby from her mind, and it was only when night came, and she was seated at the supper-table with her papa and mamma that she remembered her baby; but at that time, suddenly, from somewhere that surely was in the house, came a baby's cry; and clapping her hands, her eyes dancing with joy, Nannette began to slide down from her chair, saying with great emphasis, "That's _my_ baby."

Her mother laughed. "_Your_ baby, Nannette?"

"Yes, mamma, _my_ baby; don't you hear it _cry_? 'Tis _hungry!_" And she started to run up-stairs, but her mother called her back.

"Why, Nannette, what ails you? What do you mean about _your_ baby?" she asked in surprise.

"Why MY BABY, mamma! I bought it for a quarter of a dollar! a baby that _cries_--not a mis'ble make b'leve baby. Oh, how it _does_ cry! it must be _awful_ hungry!" And away she darted up the stairs.

Her father and mother arose from their seats in perfect amazement, and followed their little girl to her room, where, lying upon her bed, was a bundle from which came a baby's cries. Nannette's mother began to unfasten the wrappings, and sure enough there was a wee little girl not more than two or three weeks old looking up at them with two great wet eyes.

Of course Nannette was questioned, and she related all she could remember of her talk with the woman from whom she bought the baby. Her papa said perhaps the baby had been stolen, and that something had been given to it to make it sleep.

"But what shall we do with it?" asked both the father and mother. "_Do_ with it?" cried Nannette. "Why, it is _my_ baby, mamma! I paid all my money for it. It _cries_, it does! I will keep it always."

So it was decided, that the baby should stay, if n.o.body came to claim it, which n.o.body ever did, although Nannette's papa put an advertis.e.m.e.nt in a newspaper about it.

It would take a larger book than this one in which to tell all of Nannette's experiences in taking care of "_my_ baby," as she called the little girl, whom she afterward named Victoria, in honor of the then young queen of England.

Victoria is now a woman, and she lives, as does Nannette, in the city of Philadelphia. She has a little girl of her own, "mos' six" who is named Nannette for the good little "sister-mother," who once upon a time bought her mamma of a strange woman for a quarter of a dollar, as she thought. And this other little Nannette never tires of hearing the romantic story of the indolent "Didy" and the "real little live baby that will _cry_."

BROTHERS FOR SALE.

Molly was six years old; a plump, roly-poly little girl with long, crimpy golden hair and great blue eyes. She had ever so many brothers; Fred, a year older than herself, and who went to the Kindergarten with her, was her favorite. Molly was very fond of swinging on the front-yard gate; a forbidden pleasure, by the way. This is the preface to my story about Molly.

One windy, sunny day the little girl was "riding to Boston" on the front gate; she had swung out and let the wind blow her back again a half dozen times, and she was happy as a captain on the high seas, enjoying the swaying, dizzy motion.

Every little girl--and many a boy--has swung on a gate, standing tip-toe on the lower bar, leaning the chin on the upper bar; and as the gate swayed outward, watched the brick pavement rush under foot like a swift stream, all the time dreaming she was a steamboat.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

In some such position, with some such thoughts. I suppose, was our Molly when a strange cry reached her ears.

"Brothers for sale? Brothers for sale? Got any brothers for sale?"

"Dot a plenty," said Molly as the gate swung plump against the oddest great man.

He was very tall, wore a huge fur cap, and great coat that reached from his chin to his ankles. The pockets were evidently so full that they bulged out on all sides, and his red belt was stuck full of every odd toy imaginable.

He had besides, an enormous pack on his back.

Molly's eyes, always wholly devoted to the business of seeing, observed all this.

But she only remarked, "What makes your face so _rusty_?"

Perhaps he didn't hear her; anyway he repeated his cry, "Brothers for sale? Got any brothers for sale?" and was moving on when Molly's piping voice screamed after him, "Tell yer _yes_; dot a plenty!"

This time he stood still.

"Dot one, two, free--many's _ten_ I fink. Tommy, he's naughty, calls my rag dolly a meal-bag--I'll sell him. He's a drefful wicked boy; he snaps beans at the teacher and gets a whipping every single day."

"I'll take him," said the big man. "How much shall I pay you--what shall I give you for him?"

"A han'kercher with some _perfoomery_ on it."