to see them.
So this is the end of the tale of Nutcracker and the King of the Mice.
THE DEAD DOLL, by Margaret Vandergrift [Poem]
You needn’t be trying to comfort me—I tell you my dolly is dead!
There’s no use in saying she isn’t, with a crack like that in her head.
It’s just like you said it wouldn’t hurt much to have my tooth out, that day;
And then, when the man ‘most pulled my head off, you hadn’t a word to say.
And I guess you must think I’m a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue:
As if I didn’t know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
You might make her look all mended—but what do I care for looks?
Why, glue’s for chairs and tables, and toys and the backs of books!
My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it’s the awfullest crack!
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf.
Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself!
I think you must be crazy—you’ll get her another head!
What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!
And to think I hadn’t quite finished her elegant new spring hat!
And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat!
When my mamma gave me that ribbon—I was playing out in the yard—
She said to me, most expressly, “Here’s a ribbon for Hildegarde.”
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;
But I said to myself, “Oh, never mind, I don’t believe she knew it!”
But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
For I’ve hit it over and over, and it hasn’t cracked a bit.
But since the darling is dead, she’ll want to be buried, of course:
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I’ll walk behind and cry, and we’ll put her in this, you see—
This dear little box—and we’ll bury her there out under the maple-tree.
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he’ll put what I tell him on it—yes, every single word!
I shall say: “Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head.”
THE DOLL, by Edmund Glasby
Who knew what horrors the doll had seen through the centuries?
“It never ceases to surprise me just how much rubbish someone can collect over the course of a lifetime.” Stanley Jones sipped from his cup of tea, surrounded by chests and boxes of various shapes and sizes, most of which had now been packed with antique child’s toys; spinning tops, garishly-painted marionettes, hand-crafted wooden animals, small drums, and the like. Faint rays of sunlight shone in through the small attic window, filtering through the thin cloud of dust motes, which were suspended in the musty air.
“Me too,” replied Michael Hargreaves. “Although that said, according to Briggs, some of this stuff could well be worth a bob or two.” He pointed to a pile of heaped paintings, which rested on a chair nearby. “Take that lot there, for instance. Although they may look a bit tatty, and I for one don’t like the look of them, I daresay someone will pay through the nose for them at the auction.”
Jones finished his tea, got up from his chair, and walked over to examine the paintings. Removing a rag from a pocket in his brown overalls, he reached down and wiped free the layer of dust which had accumulated on the topmost painting. It was an old-fashion oil painting, a landscape, featuring a majestic yet dark and foreboding castle set atop a densely-wooded mountain. The thunderous brooding skies augmented its sinister appearance.
“What do you think?” asked Hargreaves, getting up and walking over.
“I’m just seeing if I can find a signature.” Jones rubbed his rag around the edge of the painting and then along the ornately-carved frame. “Doesn’t seem to be any.”
“Still hoping to find a long-lost da Vinci?”
“I’d be so lucky.” Jones returned his rag to his pocket. “How long have we now been in this business? Ten, eleven years? You would have thought in all those years of clearing out some of these old houses, we would have come across something of value. The one and only time I ever found something of any real worth was that Edwardian chest of drawers—”
“The one from the old Fitzwilliam place? I remember. Didn’t one of the heirs turn up to claim it or something?”
“That’s right. Beats me how he hadn’t learned of the old man’s demise earlier. After all, his obituary had been in all of the papers. Besides, Briggs is usually very thorough checking up on whether or not there are any living next of kin.” Jones removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
Hargreaves leaned forward and accepted the cigarette the other offered. He inhaled it quickly into lighting, then scowled down at it, rolling it absently between his fingers. “You know, there are times when I’ve been tempted to pocket a little something or other. After all, it’s not really like stealing, is it? I mean, who’s going to miss the odd necklace or a few rings? It’s not as if the old man who lived here kept an inventory of all his worldly possessions, now is it? And as you said yourself, some of this might fetch a—” He stopped abruptly upon hearing the sounds of a door slamming downstairs and the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer.
They glanced guiltily at each other and tried to look busy.
A few seconds later the door to the small attic room was flung open and Peter Briggs stepped inside. He was a short, slightly fat man in his late fifties; balding and bespectacled, his forehead wrinkled by worry frowns. In his right hand he held a clipboard, and he carried about him an air of officiousness.
Jones stubbed out his cigarette and jumped to attention. “We’re getting there, boss,” he said. “This is the last room in the house. We’ve packed up all of the pieces from the two large rooms downstairs, and we’ve got most of the furniture outside waiting for the delivery van. It was a struggle getting that piano down from the upstairs bedroom, but we managed it.”
Stepping
