An Old-Fashioned Girl (2 page)

“Not a bit. I had a nice time coming, and no trouble, except the tipsy coachman; but Tom got out and kept him in order, so
I wasn’t much frightened,” answered innocent Polly, taking off her rough-and-ready coat, and the plain hat without a bit of
a feather.

“Fiddlestick! He wasn’t tipsy; and Tom only did it to get out of the way. He can’t bear girls,” said Fanny, with a superior
air.

“Can’t he? Why, I thought he was very pleasant and kind!” and Polly opened her eyes with a surprised expression.

“He’s an awful boy, my dear; and if you have anything to do with him, he’ll torment you to death. Boys are
all
horrid; but he’s the horridest one I ever saw.”

Fanny went to a fashionable school, where the young ladies were so busy with their French, German, and Italian, that there
was no time for good English. Feeling her confidence much shaken in the youth, Polly privately resolved to let him alone,
and changed the conversation, by saying, as she looked admiringly about the large, handsome room, “How splendid it is! I never
slept in a bed with curtains before, or had such a fine toilet-table as this.”

“I’m glad you like it; but don’t, for mercy sake, say such things before the other girls!” replied Fanny, wishing Polly would
wear earrings, as everyone else did.

“Why not?” asked the country mouse of the city mouse, wondering what harm there was in liking other people’s pretty things,
and saying so.

“Oh, they laugh at everything the least bit odd, and that isn’t pleasant.” Fanny didn’t say “countrified,” but she meant it,
and Polly felt uncomfortable. So she shook out her little black-silk apron with a thoughtful face, and resolved not to allude
to her own home, if she could help it.

“I’m so poorly, mamma says I needn’t go to school regularly, while you are here — only two or three times a week, just to
keep up my music and French. You can go too, if you like; papa said so. Do, it’s such fun!” cried Fanny, quite surprising
her friend by this unexpected fondness for school.

“I should be afraid, if all the girls dress as finely as you do, and know as much,” said Polly, beginning to feel shy at the
thought.

“La, child! you needn’t mind that. I’ll take care of you, and fix you up, so you won’t look odd.”

“Am I odd?” asked Polly, struck by the word, and hoping it didn’t mean anything very bad.

“You are a dear, and ever so much prettier than you were last summer, only you’ve been brought up differently from us; so
your ways ain’t like ours, you see,” began Fanny, finding it rather hard to explain.

“How different?” asked Polly again, for she liked to understand things.

“Well, you dress like a little girl, for one thing.”

“I
am
a little girl; so why shouldn’t I?” and Polly looked at her simple blue merino frock, stout boots, and short hair, with a
puzzled air.

“You are fourteen; and
we
consider ourselves young ladies at that age,” continued Fanny, surveying, with complacency, the pile of hair on the top of
her head, with a fringe of fuzz round her forehead, and a wavy lock streaming down her back; likewise, her scarlet-and-black
suit, with its big sash, little
pannier,
bright buttons, points, rosettes — and, heaven knows what. There was a locket on her neck, earrings tinkling in her ears,
watch and chain at her belt, and several rings on a pair of hands that would have been improved by soap and water.

Polly’s eye went from one little figure to the other, and she thought that Fanny looked the oddest of the two; for Polly lived
in a quiet country town, and knew very little of city fashions. She was rather impressed by the elegance about her, never
having seen Fanny’s home before, as they got acquainted while Fanny paid a visit to a friend who lived near Polly. But she
didn’t let the contrast between herself and Fan trouble her; for in a minute she laughed and said, contentedly, “My mother
likes me to dress simply, and I don’t mind. I shouldn’t know what to do rigged up as you are. Don’t you ever forget to lift
your sash and fix those puffy things when you sit down?”

Before Fanny could answer, a scream from below made both listen. “It’s only Maud; she fusses all day long,” began Fanny; and
the words were hardly out of her mouth, when the door was thrown open, and a little girl, of six or seven, came roaring in.
She stopped at sight of Polly, stared a minute, then took up her roar just where she left it, and cast herself into Fanny’s
lap, exclaiming wrathfully, “Tom’s laughing at me! Make him stop!”

“What did you do to set him going? Don’t scream so, you’ll frighten Polly!” and Fan gave the cherub a shake, which produced
an explanation.

“I only said we had cold cweam at the party, last night, and he laughed!”

“Ice cream, child!” and Fanny followed Tom’s reprehensible example.

“I don’t care! It
was
cold; and I warmed mine at the wegister, and then it was nice; only, Willy Bliss spilt it on my new Gabwielle!” and Maud
wailed again over her accumulated woes.

“Do go to Katy! You’re as cross as a little bear today!” said Fanny, pushing her away.

“Katy don’t amoose me; and I must be amoosed, ’cause I’m fwactious; mamma said I was!” sobbed Maud, evidently laboring under
the delusion that fractiousness was some interesting malady.

“Come down and have dinner; that will amuse you;” and Fanny got up, pluming herself as a bird does before its flight.

Polly hoped the “dreadful boy” would not be present; but he was, and stared at her all dinnertime, in a most trying manner.
Mr. Shaw, a busy-looking gentleman, said, “How do you do, my dear? Hope you’ll enjoy yourself;” and then appeared to forget
her entirely. Mrs. Shaw, a pale, nervous woman, greeted her little guest kindly, and took care that she wanted for nothing.
Madam Shaw, a quiet old lady, with an imposing cap, exclaimed on seeing Polly, “Bless my heart! the image of her mother —
a sweet woman — how is she, dear?” and kept peering at the newcomer over her glasses, till, between Madam and Tom, poor Polly
lost her appetite.

Fanny chatted like a magpie, and Maud fidgeted, till Tom proposed to put her under the big dish-cover, which produced such
an explosion, that the young lady was borne screaming away, by the much-enduring Katy. It was altogether an uncomfortable
dinner, and Polly was very glad when it was over. They all went about their own affairs, and after doing the honors of the
house, Fan was called to the dressmaker, leaving Polly to amuse herself in the great drawing room.

Polly was glad to be alone for a few minutes; and, having examined all the pretty things about her, began to walk up and down
over the soft, flowery carpet, humming to herself, as the daylight faded, and only the ruddy glow of the fire filled the room.
Presently Madam came slowly in, and sat down in her armchair, saying, “That’s a fine old tune; sing it to me, my dear. I haven’t
heard it this many a day.”

Polly didn’t like to sing before strangers, for she had had no teaching but such as her busy mother could give her; but she
had been taught the utmost respect for old people, and having no reason for refusing, she directly went to the piano, and
did as she was bid.

“That’s the sort of music it’s a pleasure to hear. Sing some more, dear,” said Madam, in her gentle way, when she had done.

Pleased with this praise, Polly sang away in a fresh little voice, that went straight to the listener’s heart and nestled
there. The sweet old tunes that one is never tired of were all Polly’s store; and her favorites were Scotch airs, such as,
“Yellow-Haired Laddie,” “Jock o’ Hazeldean,” “Down amang the Heather,” and “Birks of Aberfeldie.” The more she sung, the better
she did it; and when she wound up with “A Health to King Charlie,” the room quite rung with the stirring music made by the
big piano and the little maid.

“By George, that’s a jolly tune! Sing it again, please,” cried Tom’s voice; and there was Tom’s red head bobbing up over the
high back of the chair where he had hidden himself.

It gave Polly quite a turn, for she thought no one was hearing her but the old lady dozing by the fire. “I can’t sing any
more; I’m tired,” she said, and walked away to Madam in the other room. The red head vanished like a meteor, for Polly’s tone
had been decidedly cool.

The old lady put out her hand, and drawing Polly to her knee, looked into her face with such kind eyes, that Polly forgot
the impressive cap, and smiled at her confidingly; for she saw that her simple music had pleased her listener, and she felt
glad to know it.

“You mustn’t mind my staring, dear,” said Madam, softly pinching her rosy cheek. “I haven’t seen a little girl for so long,
it does my old eyes good to look at you.”

Polly thought that a very odd speech, and couldn’t help saying, “Aren’t Fan and Maud little girls, too?”

“Oh, dear, no! Not what
I
call little girls. Fan has been a young lady this two years, and Maud is a spoiled baby. Your mother’s a very sensible woman,
my child.”

“What a very queer old lady!” thought Polly; but she said “Yes’m” respectfully, and looked at the fire.

“You don’t understand what I mean, do you?” asked Madam, still holding her by the chin.

“No’m; not quite.”

“Well, dear, I’ll tell you. In my day, children of fourteen and fifteen didn’t dress in the height of the fashion; go to parties,
as nearly like those of grown people as it’s possible to make them; lead idle, giddy, unhealthy lives, and get
blasé
at twenty. We were little folks till eighteen or so; worked and studied, dressed and played, like children; honored our parents;
and our days were much longer in the land than now, it seems to me.”

The old lady appeared to forget Polly at the end of her speech; for she sat patting the plump little hand that lay in her
own, and looking up at a faded picture of an old gentleman with a ruffled shirt and a queue.

“Was he your father, Madam?”

“Yes, dear; my honored father. I did up his frills to the day of his death; and the first money I ever earned was five dollars
which he offered as a prize to whichever of his six girls would lay the handsomest darn in his silk stockings.”

“How proud you must have been!” cried Polly, leaning on the old lady’s knee with an interested face.

“Yes; and we all learned to make bread, and cook, and wore little chintz gowns, and were as gay and hearty as kittens. All
lived to be grandmothers and fathers; and I’m the last — seventy, next birthday, my dear, and not worn out yet; though daughter
Shaw is an invalid at forty.”

“That’s the way I was brought up, and that’s why Fan calls me old-fashioned, I suppose. Tell more about your papa, please;
I like it,” said Polly.

“Say ‘father.’ We never called him papa; and if one of my brothers had addressed him as ‘governor,’ as boys do now, I really
think he’d have him cut off with a shilling.”

Madam raised her voice in saying this, and nodded significantly; but a mild snore from the other room seemed to assure her
that it was a waste of shot to fire in that direction.

Before she could continue, in came Fanny with the joyful news that Clara Bird had invited them both to go to the theatre with
her that very evening, and would call for them at seven o’clock. Polly was so excited by this sudden plunge into the dissipations
of city life, that she flew about like a distracted butterfly, and hardly knew what happened, till she found herself seated
before the great green curtain in the brilliant theatre. Old Mr. Bird sat on one side, Fanny on the other, and both let her
alone, for which she was very grateful, as her whole attention was so absorbed in the scene around her, that she couldn’t
talk.

Polly had never been much to the theatre; and the few plays she had seen were the good old fairy tales, dramatized to suit
young beholders — lively, bright, and full of the harmless nonsense which brings the laugh without the blush. That night she
saw one of the new spectacles which have lately become the rage, and run for hundreds of nights, dazzling, exciting, and demoralizing
the spectator by every allurement French ingenuity can invent, and American prodigality execute. Never mind what its name
was, it was very gorgeous, very vulgar, and very fashionable; so, of course, it was much admired, and everyone went to see
it. At first, Polly thought she had got into fairyland, and saw only the sparkling creatures who danced and sung in a world
of light and beauty; but, presently, she began to listen to the songs and conversation, and then the illusion vanished; for
the lovely phantoms sang Negro melodies, talked slang, and were a disgrace to the good old-fashioned elves whom she knew and
loved so well.

Our little girl was too innocent to understand half the jokes, and often wondered what people were laughing at; but, as the
first enchantment subsided, Polly began to feel uncomfortable, to be sure her mother wouldn’t like to have her there, and
to wish she hadn’t come. Somehow, things seemed to get worse and worse, as the play went on; for our small spectator was being
rapidly enlightened by the gossip going on all about her, as well as by her own quick eyes and girlish instincts. When four-and-twenty
girls, dressed as jockeys, came prancing on to the stage, cracking their whips, stamping the heels of their topboots, and
winking at the audience, Polly did not think it at all funny, but looked disgusted, and was glad when they were gone; but
when another set appeared in a costume consisting of gauze wings, and a bit of gold fringe round the waist, poor unfashionable
Polly didn’t know what to do; for she felt both frightened and indignant, and sat with her eyes on her playbill, and her cheeks
getting hotter and hotter every minute.

“What are you blushing so for?” asked Fanny, as the painted sylphs vanished.

“I’m so ashamed of those girls,” whispered Polly, taking a long breath of relief.

“You little goose — it’s just the way it was done in Paris, and the dancing is splendid. It seems queer at first; but you’ll
get used to it, as I did.”

“I’ll never come again,” said Polly, decidedly; for her innocent nature rebelled against the spectacle, which, as yet, gave
her more pain than pleasure. She did not know how easy it was to “get used to it,” as Fanny did; and it was well for her that
the temptation was not often offered. She could not explain the feeling; but she was glad when the play was done, and they
were safe at home, where kind grandma was waiting to see them comfortably into bed.