Read Ebook: A Troublesome Flock: A Mother Goose Play for Children by Guptill Elizabeth F Elizabeth Frances

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Ebook has 907 lines and 30721 words, and 19 pages

While she walked slowly around the room the optician sat down at the table and wrote rapidly. "How does this sound," he presently asked.

"'WANTED: Occupants for a small, partially furnished flat. All conveniences; rent reasonable. Apply 432 Walnut Street.' You don't happen to know any one who wants a flat, I suppose?"

Frances said she did not.

"The lady who had my second story rooms was called away by her mother's death, and now she is not coming back. With Mark away at school it is really very important to have them rented." The Spectacle Man tapped the end of his nose with his pen and began to hum absent-mindedly:--

"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it."

At this moment a boy with a dripping umbrella appeared at the door. He proved to be Dick, and was at once despatched to the Wentworth with instructions to ask for Mr. John Morrison, and let him know his daughter was safe and only waiting till the storm was over; and on his way back to stop at the newspaper office and leave the advertisement.

"Dear me!" said Frances, after he had gone, "we might have sent Mrs. Gray's glasses; I am afraid she will be tired waiting for them. She can't see to do anything without them, and she is lame too."

"Well, she is fortunate in having a friend to get them mended for her. And now I wonder if you wouldn't like to see old Toby," said the optician, taking down a funny looking jug in the shape of a very fat old gentleman. "When my grandfather died he left me this jug and the song about the bridge. Did you ever hear it before?"

Frances said she never had.

"Grandfather used to sing it to me when I was a little boy, and I find it still a very good song. When I get into a tight place and can't see how I am to get through, why--" here he waved his hands and nodded his head--

"'The bridge is broke, and I have to mend it,'

"and I go to work and try. Sometimes it is for other people, sometimes for myself. Bridges are always getting broken,--'tisn't only spectacles."

Frances smiled, for though she did not quite understand, it sounded interesting; but before she had time to ask any questions a tall young man entered. "Why, Wink! what in the world are you doing here?" he exclaimed.

"Oh, daddy dear, I hope you haven't worried!" she cried, running to him; "Mrs. Gray broke her glasses and couldn't read or sew, and I thought I ought to have them mended for her,--it wasn't far you know--and then it began to rain so I couldn't get back."

"And this is Mr. Clark, I suppose," said Mr. Morrison; "let me thank you for taking care of my little daughter. And now, Wink, put on this coat and your rubbers, and let us hurry before mother quite loses her mind."

When she was enveloped in the waterproof, Frances held out her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Clark," she said; "I hope you will find some nice person to rent your flat. Good-by."

The Spectacle Man stood in his door and watched the two figures till they disappeared in the misty twilight, then he returned to the shop. "Peterkin," he said, addressing the cat, "I like that little girl, and I suppose I'll never see her again."

Peterkin uncurled himself, stood up on the counter, arched his back, and yawned three times.

A CERTAIN PERSON.

A day or two after her visit to the optician's, Frances lay curled up on the broad window-sill, a thoughtful little pucker between her eyes. About fifteen minutes earlier she had entered the room where her father and mother were talking, just as the former said, "As a certain person is abroad I see no objection to your spending the winter here if you wish."

Before she could ask a single question a caller was announced, and she had taken refuge behind the curtains.

It was quite by accident that they happened to be staying for a few weeks in this pleasant town where the Spectacle Man lived. They were returning from North Carolina, where they had spent the summer, when a slight illness of Mrs. Morrison's made it seem wise to stop for a while on the way; and before she was quite well, Mr. Morrison was summoned to New York on business, so his wife and daughter stayed where they were, waiting for him, and enjoying the lovely fall weather.

They liked it so well they were beginning to think with regret of the time when they must leave, for though really a city in size, the place had many of the attractions of a village. The gardens around the houses, the flowers and vines, the wide shady streets, combined to make an atmosphere of homelikeness; but to Frances' mind its greatest charm lay in the fact that once, long ago, her father had lived here. At least she felt sure it must have been long ago, for it was in that strange time before there was any Frances Morrison.

She had never heard as much as she wanted to hear about these years, although she had heard a good deal. There were some things her father evidently did not care to talk about, and one of these was a mysterious individual known as a Certain Person. The first time she had heard this Certain Person mentioned she had questioned her mother, who had replied, "It is some one who was once a friend of father's, but is not now. I think he does not care to mention the name, dear."

After this Frances asked no more questions, but she thought a great deal, and her imagination began to picture a tall, fierce looking man who lurked in dark corners ready to spring out at her. Sometimes when she was on the street at night she would see him skulking along in the shadows, and would clasp her father's hand more closely. Altogether this person had grown and flourished in her mind in a wonderful way.

And, she couldn't tell how, a Certain Person was connected in her thoughts with "The Girl in the Golden Doorway." This was a story in her very own story-book, a collection of tales known only to her father and herself, which had all been told in the firelight on winter evenings and afterward written out in Mr. Morrison's clear hand in a book bought for the purpose, so that not even a printer knew anything about them.

This particular story, which she had heard many times, was of a boy who lived in a great old-fashioned house in the country, where there were beautiful things all about, both indoors and out. The only other child in the house was a little girl who looked down from a heavy gilt frame above the library mantel. The boy, who was just six years old, used to lie on the hearth rug, gazing up at her, and sometimes she would smile and beckon to him as if she wanted to be friends.

This happened only at nightfall when the shadows lay dark in the corners of the room and the fire blazed brightly; at such times things that had before been a puzzle to him became quite clear. For instance, he discovered one evening that what looked like the frame of a picture was really a doorway belonging to the house where the little girl lived, and it was plain that if he could only get up there he could find out all about her. Once there, he felt sure she would take him by the hand and together they would go away--away--somewhere! But the mantel was very high, and polished like glass.

One afternoon when he had come in from a long drive, and feeling tired was lying very still in his usual place, looking up at the little girl and the long passage that seemed to stretch away behind her, a strange thing happened. So unexpectedly it sent his heart into his mouth, the girl stepped out of the doorway; and then, wonder of wonders! he saw a stairway at one side of the chimney-piece where he had never noticed one before.

Daintily holding up her silken skirt, the little maid descended and stood beside him. Astonished and bewildered, he put out his hand to touch her, but with a laugh she flitted across the room.

Seized with the fear that she would escape him altogether, the boy started in pursuit. In and out among the massive chairs and tables they ran, the girl always just out of reach, the boy breathless with anxiety. His heart quite failed him when she darted toward the mantel. Then he remembered he could follow; and indeed she seemed to expect it, for she stood still at the top of what had grown to be a very long flight of steps, and beckoned. He hurried on, but the steps were very steep and slippery, and try as he would he could not reach the top.

Suddenly some one opened the library door, there was a crash and a clatter, the girl disappeared, and the boy heard his mother's voice asking, "Jack, what in the world are you doing?"

"I fell down the steps," he replied, picking himself up from among the fire irons that had tumbled in a heap on the hearth.

"What steps?" asked his mother.

He rubbed his eyes: they were not to be seen, and the little girl--yes, there she was, looking out of the golden doorway, and he was sure she shook her finger and laughed. He gave up trying to explain--grown people are hopelessly stupid at times--but he always felt certain that if the library door had not opened just when it did, he could have caught the little girl.

"Wasn't it a pity!" Frances always exclaimed at this point.

"Yes," her father would reply, "the little boy lost the chance of a lifetime, for there is no knowing what he might not have discovered in the house of the golden doorway."

"And she never came down again?"

"No, for the boy went away to live not long after this, and everything was changed."

"And is the little girl still over the library mantel?"

"No, Wink, she was taken away long ago."

When the caller left, Frances came out of her hiding-place behind the curtains. "Are we going to stay here all winter?" she asked.

"But can't we go with you, father?"

"No, Wink, I am afraid not, for several reasons."

"Of course it will be hard for us all, but if it seems to be the best thing I am sure you and I will be brave and let him go;" Mrs. Morrison's voice trembled a little, and for a moment she hid her face on Frances' shoulder.

"Will you be gone very long?" asked the little girl.

"Several months, if I go. The matter is not decided by any means. I do not see how I can leave you," answered Mr. Morrison.

"You must go, Jack; it will be the very thing for you. It isn't only the money, dear, or even the opportunity for getting on in your work, but you need a change, for you haven't been yourself lately. Frances and I will stay here and be very comfortable, and when you come home we'll have a jubilee."

"And not go back to Chicago?" Frances asked.

"The winters there are too cold for you. No, I think we'd better stay here, but not in this house," said her mother.

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