Read Ebook: Slovenly Betsy by Hoffmann Heinrich

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 299 lines and 15553 words, and 6 pages

Now Minnie was a pretty girl, Her hair so gracefully did curl; She had a slender figure, too, And rosy cheeks, and eyes of blue. And yet, with all those beauties rare, Those angel eyes and curly hair, Oh! many, many faults had she, The worst of which was jealousy. When on the brilliant Christmas tree St. Nicholas hung his gifts so free, The envious Minnie could not bear With any one those gifts to share. And when her sisters' birthdays came Minnie Would envy every pretty thing Which dear Mamma to them would bring.

Sometimes great tears rolled from her eyes, Sometimes she pierced the air with cries, For hours together she would fret Because their toys she could not get. Ah, then! how changed this pretty child, No longer amiable and mild. That fairy form and smiling face Lost all their sprightliness and grace. Her tender mother often sighed, And to reform her daughter tried. "Oh! Minnie, Minnie," she would say, "Quite yellow you will turn some day."

Now came the merry Christmas feast; St. Nicholas brought to e'en the least Such pretty presents, rich and rare, But all the best for Minnie were. Now to her little sister Bess St. Nicholas brought a yellow dress; This Minnie longed for , And snatched it from her sister mild. Then all in tears did Bessie run To tell her mother what was done.

Then Minnie ran triumphantly To try the dress on, as you see. But Minnie was not satisfied, She pouted, fretted, sulked, and cried; Sisters and brothers had no rest,-- She vowed their presents were the best, And springing quickly to the glass, What saw she there? Alas! alas! Oh! what a sad, such deep disgrace! She found she had a yellow face. "Ah, me!" she cried, now, in despair, "Where are my rosy cheeks--oh, where?" Exclaimed her mother, "Now you see The punishment of jealousy."

THE LITTLE GLUTTON

Oh! how this Mary loved to eat,-- It was her chief delight; She would have something, sour or sweet, To munch from morn till night. She to the pantry daily stole, And slyly she would take Sugar, and plums, and sweetmeats, too, And apples, nuts, and cake.

Her mother Mary oft reproved, But, ah! it did no good; Munch, nibble, chew, from morn to night, The little glutton would.

One day, upon some bee-hives near She chanced to cast her eyes; "How nice that honey there must taste!" She cried, and off she flies. On tiptoe now the hives she nears, Close up to them she creeps, And through the little window panes Quite cautiously she peeps. "Oh, dear! how good it looks!" she cries, As she the honey sees; "I must, I will, indeed, have some; It cannot hurt the bees." And then a hive she gently lifts,-- Oh, foolish, foolish child,-- Down, down it falls--out swarm the bees Buzzing with fury wild. With fright she shrieks, and tries to run, But ah! 'tis all in vain; Upon her light the angry bees, And make her writhe with pain.

Four weeks and more did Mary lie Upon her little bed, And, ah! instead of honey, she On medicine was fed. Her parents grieved so much at first Their child so sick to see; But once more well, with joy they found Her cured of gluttony.

SOPHIE SPOILALL

I never saw a girl or boy So prone as Sophie to destroy Whate'er she laid her hands upon, Though tough as wood, or hard as stone; With Sophie it was all the same, No matter who the thing might claim, No matter were it choice or rare, For naught did the destroyer care. Her playthings shared the common lot; Though hers they were, she spared them not, Her dolls she oft tore limb from limb, To gratify a foolish whim.

"Fie!" said her mother, "don't you know, That if you use your playthings so, Kriss Kringle will in wrath refuse To give you what you might abuse? Remember, how in times gone by, You've always found a rich supply Of Christmas presents; but beware, You'll find no more another year."

You'd think such words would surely tend To make this child her ways amend. But no; she still her course pursued, Regardless of advice so good. But when her mother sees 'tis plain That all her arguments are vain, Says she, "Since I have done my best, I'll let experience do the rest." Meantime the season of the year For Christmas gifts was drawing near, And Sophie doubted not that she An ample store of them would see. At length the happy hour was come. The children, led into the room, Behold, with wonder and surprise, Three tables set before their eyes. One is for Nelly, one for Ned, And both with choicest treasures spread.

What could Barbara say to such an impulsive, generous girl? Well, that was just what she did say, and when she finally left the phone and returned to the table, her face had lost its look of perplexity.

"Well, Dads," she exclaimed, beaming so merrily that her dark eyes threatened to ignite, "I guess I'm in for it now. Cara is bound to play me up, although why she's so keen I can't see."

"High-brow! Me, a high-brow?"

"Exactly. What do you think a good student ever becomes if not intelligent?"

"Exactly again. That's just how one becomes a high-brow. If you had scattered interests, Babs dear, it would be different. But when one concentrates one achieves."

"Daddy, don't you want me to study?" Barbara's voice was pleading, her eyes misty.

"And mother loved the same things I do," quickly defended Barbara, in turn putting her hands on his shoulders.

"Yes, but not at your age," he argued.

A silence fell between them. The man whose shoulders were straight as a soldier's, in spite of his bending over with constant research work, was now thinking of Barbara's mother. She was gone. Her devotion to nursing during the war had cost her her life with the deadly influenza then ravaging the camps among America's flower of youth. She had been a nurse, just as Barbara was now determined to be, and the research work in bacteriology, which was Dr. Hale's chosen field, had been as fascinating to her as it now threatened to become to Barbara.

"Do you mean, Dads, that we shouldn't do any more experiments this summer?" his daughter asked gently.

"And fall out of line--with you!" Barbara's arms went quickly about his neck and so the promise was given.

"I have, slathers of them," she fibbed bravely. But no mention was made of Cara's offer of the extra party dress.

Nor did she bother to tell her dad that Glenn Gaynor was expected to be at the party. Glenn was the attractive youth who figured so prominently in Barbara's appearance on the beach, when Cara and her girl friends stood at a safe distance, thrilled in admiration.

One hour more--and then she must be at Billows.

ON HER WAY

"Just for a lark," Barbara told herself, "I'll take the old cap and gown. We are sure to dress up after we undress, and I really haven't a decent robe."

A robe! If she only could have known how this particular item had bothered the other girls, especially Ruth Harrison. The cap and gown which Barbara had decided to take, "just for a lark," were sent her last winter by Marjorie Ellis who achieved them in a brief stay at college and wanted to forget she had ever heard the word. Marjorie hated college now, she had been so homesick while away in Connecticut, that she absolutely refused to return at mid-years, and because she knew Barbara would love even to play at being a collegian, Marjorie sent her the mortar-board hat and the big black cape, they poetically call a gown.

Often had Barbara dressed up in the college clothes, especially at night when she would parade around in the enfolding comfort of that soft, black robe. It was this habit, no doubt, that gave her the idea of fetching the costume to Cara's party. This and the necessity of having something to throw on over her pajamas--how lucky that she had the pajamas!

Packed at last and her misgivings quieted, Barbara ventured a look at herself in the old-fashioned mirror that hung between her room and the sitting-room.

"I guess I'll do," she told the reflection. It showed a tall, finely formed girl, with a head held high--Barbara's head couldn't get enough of sky gazing--and wearing a sport suit that Dora, the maid of all work, had helped her make.

"Good material and not a bad fit," the girl secretly commented, for the natty little jacket was made of bright green flannel, and the skirt of white flannel had a matching stripe of green. Her blouse was white, bought ready made, and a little white felt hat had been picked up at Asbury Park; not picked up on the beach, however, but at a bargain counter very late last fall. So that the costume was quite complete and decidedly effective.

Of course Barbara's hair was bobbed, and because of a little ripple that huddled around her ears the bronzed, glossy tresses framed her face in a most attractive way. Barbara seemed dark and her blue eyes were often taken for brown. Her brown hair might be called brunette, if one didn't see the bronze tones that came in certain lights.

And she wore her clothes well. That was why her own amateur efforts, supplemented by the not unwilling but always protesting Dora, usually turned out well. So she had no fear for the effect of her sport dress upon her arrival at Cara's party; it was the robe and the party dress and other accessories that bothered her somewhat.

"Cara's car is coming out this way, Dads," she told her father as she picked up her bag, "so they're going to stop for me."

"There's a knock; I'll answer," Barbara interrupted, hurrying to the side door. "Oh, it's Nicky and his sister Vicky," she presently explained, for she could see the two Italian children through the glass door; Nickolas and Victoria.

"Don't bother with them," her father ordered irritably. "I wish those children would stop coming around here."

"Oh, Dads, the poor youngsters have only three eggs to sell and we've got to buy them from them," insisted Barbara, opening her purse with its precious party money in it to give Nicky twenty cents in return for three eggs "just laid."

"And how's granny?" Barbara asked the black-eyed children.

"Fine," said Nicky.

"She ain't either, she's sick," declared Vicky.

"Say," Nicky squeezed in, "do you want an ole candlestick? I've got one fer half a dollar."

"No, I guess not." Barbara was becoming impatient. "Run along; here's my car," for the toot from Cara's car was sounding along the drive.

"It's a swell candlestick," Nicky argued. "I could get a dollar fer it in Asbury."

But Nicky and Vicky were off, scampering as if Dr. Hale had threatened them with a shot-gun.

"I shall--not," replied her father, sending the first two words after Barbara, and blowing the last one against the hall mantel. He would not phone Barbara, not unless there was very urgent need to do so, and there appeared to be no prospect of the latter contingency, just then.

Dora came forth from the pantry, two eggs in one hand and one in the other. Her long face was longer than usual, and her faded eyes seemed about to lose their jell and melt into a little puddle of colorless mucilage.

"There's the eggs," she intoned, as if any one could have mistaken them for tomatoes.

"Yes," echoed Dr. Hale, "I see. But I wish those youngsters would peddle eggs some place else. They're a nuisance."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet