That Old-Time Child, Roberta | Page 6

he made
Dilsy thar. Dey iz prezak like dem monkeys I seed de time I went en
town ter de circus."
Now Polly was not an impartial judge of the twins, for she had been
installed as their nurse, and she hated to nurse.
"For shame, Polly! Those nice little babies. And then, besides, as God
made all things, he made monkeys too, of course."
"No, never! You can't make me berleeve dat. Gord nerver wase hees
valerbel time maken' monkeys."
That was the "last straw that broke the camel's back." After trying so
hard to be patient, and especially as she knew it was nothing but pure
contrariness in Polly, for only the Sunday before she had answered
every question correctly, and added some pious interpolations
exceedingly gratifying to her young teacher.

So she got up, went to her refractory pupil, and lifted her forefinger by
way of giving emphasis to her words.
But Polly, recognizing that her little mistress's temperature was rising,
felt a proportionate rise in her own, rolled her eyes till nothing but the
whites were visible, and stuck her lower lip out.
It would be impossible to conceive of a creature uglier or more
aggravating looking than Polly, when she did that way.
In a flash, down came Roberta's little soft pink palm on her cheek.
Mrs. Marsden happened to be passing on her way to the quarters to
visit a sick servant, and witnessed the performance. She was amused,
but worried too, that Roberta had allowed herself to be so provoked, for
it almost made a farce of the whole thing; and she knew how much in
earnest her little daughter really was. The child's flushed cheeks and
flashing eyes brought back, O so vividly! another face and another pair
of flashing orbs so like hers. There were tears in Mrs. Marsden's eyes
when she went in the summer-house and took her seat on the bench that
circled around it.
"Did you strike Polly, daughter?"
"Yes 'em, Mamma."
"What did you strike her for, daughter?"
"She wouldn't say her lesson, Mamma, and she knew it all the time.
And she rolled her eyes at me so, and stuck out her lip and looked so
ugly, I just couldn't help it, that's all."
"I am sorry, daughter, that you gave way to your temper so. For
remember, you are only the sower that plants the seed, and God takes
care of all the rest. If you really try to teach Polly, and she won't be
taught, you mustn't make a personal thing of it, but just leave it with
God. Then, again, daughter, unless you practice self-control, teaching
others is a farce. I know Polly has been very trying, indeed. But I want

you to show a real forgiving spirit, as one should always show when
one is working for the Master. I want you to tell Polly you are sorry
you struck her. For you are sorry, I know--I see it in your face."
A kind of staccato snuffle was heard in the direction of Polly.
Roberta gave another look at the surly, unprepossessing countenance,
then said, in a low voice:
"I will, Mamma, if you will let me hide my face in your lap while I am
saying it."
"But why hide your face in my lap, daughter?"
"Because--because--Mamma--I am afraid--if she looks at me as she did
before, that I will slap her again. I don't believe I could keep from it
this evening; I am all out of sorts."
Afterwards that observation of Polly's, "Dilsy never had no daddy,"
caused Roberta no little thought. Really, she was no better off than
Dilsy, she reasoned, for of course the child did not take in the full
significance of the imp's meaning. Nobody ever told her that her papa
was dead. Indeed she had been taught to pray for him every night. She
felt sure he was living. But, where? Why did he not come home and pet
her, like other little girls' papas she knew--pet her, and make her
beautiful, sad mother smile sometimes. For it seemed to the child that
she grew sadder and sadder all the time. There was nobody she could
talk to about him, for her mamma's eyes filled with tears at any chance
allusion to him. Aunt Betsy nearly snapped her head off when she
asked her a question, and Uncle Squire, chatty as he was upon every
other subject, would squint his eyes in a knowing way, puff out his
cheeks, and answer, "Lay o'ers ter ketch meddlers." Yes, there was one
person she was sure she could coax into telling her why her papa never
came home to see them all, and that was dear, good Mam' Sarah, the
weaver. When Aunt Betsy scolded Mam' Sarah, she