tion>Annie Hamilton Donnell
The Very Small Person
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066160524
Table of Contents
The Little Girl Who Should Have Been a Boy
Illustrations
That is where we play—I mean it is most pleasant there
Little Blue Overalls climbed into a chair
’Fore I’d lean my chin on folks’s gates and watch ’em!
She stayed there a week—a month—a year
It was worse than creepy, creaky noises
I can’t play … I’m being good
Murray had … seen the vision, too
Elizabeth
Chapter I
Little Blue Overalls
Miss Salome’s face was gently frowning as she wrote.
“Dear John,” the letter began—“It’s all very well except one thing. I wonder you didn’t think of that. I’m thinking of it most of the time, and it takes away so much of the pleasure of the rose-garden and the raspberry-bushes! Anne is in raptures over the raspberry-bushes.
“Yes, the raspberries and the roses are all right. And I like the stone-wall with the woodbine over it. (Good boy, you remembered that, didn’t you?) And the apple-tree and the horse-chestnut and the elm—of course I like them.
“The house is just big enough and just small enough, and there’s a trunk-closet, as I stipulated. And Anne’s room has a ‘southern exposure’—Anne’s crazy spot is southern exposures. Mine’s it. Dear, dear, John, how could you forget it! That everything else—closets and stone-walls and exposures—should be to my mind but that! Well, I am thinking of moving out, before I move in. But I haven’t told Anne. Anne is the kind of person not to tell, until the last moment. It saves one’s nerves—heigh-ho! I thought I was coming here to get away from nerves! I was so satisfied. I really meant to thank you, John, until I discovered—it. Oh yes, I know—Elizabeth is looking over your shoulder, and you two are saying something that is unfit for publication about old maids! My children, then thank the Lord you aren’t either of you old maids. Make the most of it.”
Miss Salome let her pen slip to the bare floor and gazed before her wistfully. The room was in the dreary early stages of unpacking, but it was not of that Miss Salome was thinking. Her eyes were gazing out of the window at a thin gray trail of smoke against the blue ground of the sky. She could see the little house, too, brown and tiny and a little battered. She could see the clothes-line, and count easily enough the pairs of little stockings on it. She caught up the pen again fiercely.
“There are eight,” she wrote. “Allowing two legs to a child, doesn’t that make four? John Dearborn, you have bought me a house next door to four children! I think I shall begin to put the books back to-night. As ill luck will have it, they are all unpacked.
“I have said nothing to Anne; Anne has said nothing to me. But we both know. She has counted the stockings too. We are both old maids. No, I have not seen them yet—anything but their stockings on the clothes-line. But the mother is not a washer-woman—there is no hope. I don’t know how I know she isn’t a washer-woman, but I do. It is impressed upon me. So there are four children, to say nothing of the Lord knows how many babies still in socks! I cannot forgive you, John.”
Miss Salome had been abroad for many years. Stricken suddenly with homesickness, she and her ancient serving-woman, Anne, had fled across seas to their native land. Miss Salome had first commissioned John, long-suffering John—adviser, business-manager, brother—to find her a snug little home with specified adjuncts of trunk-closets, elm, apple, and horse-chestnut trees, woodbiney stone walls—and a “southern exposure” for Anne. John had done his best. But how could he have forgotten, and Elizabeth have forgotten, and Miss Salome herself have forgotten—it? Every one knew Miss Salome’s distaste for little children. Anne’s too, though Anne was more taciturn than her mistress.
“Hullo!”
Miss Salome started. In the doorway stood a very small person in blue jeans overalls.
“Hullo! I want your money or your life! I’m a ’wayman.”
“A—what?” Miss Salome managed to ejaculate. The Little Blue Overalls advanced a few feet into the room.
“Robber, you know;—you know what robbers are, don’t you? I’m one. You needn’t call me a highwayman, I’m so—so low. Just ’wayman ’ll do. Why, gracious! you ain’t afraid, are you? You needn’t be—I won’t hurt you!” and a sweet-toned, delighted little laugh echoed through the bare room. “You needn’t give me your money
