Dotty Dimple Out West | Page 8

put her finger down Freddie's throat and patted his back.
In a very short time the mischief was undone; the child caught its breath, and blinked its little watery eyes, while its face faded from deep magenta to its usual color of dough.
Dotty was immensely relieved.
"Bess its 'ittle heart," cried Mrs. Lovejoy, pressing it close to her travelling-cape, while several of the passengers looked on, quite interested in the scene. "Did the naughty, wicked girlie try to choke its muzzer's precious baby? We'll w'ip her; so we will! She shan't come near my lovey-dovey with her snarly hair."
Mrs. Lovejoy's remarks pricked like a nosegay of thistles. They were not only sharp in themselves, but they were uttered with such evident displeasure that every word stung.
Dotty was creeping away with her head down, her "snarly hair" veiling her sorrowful eyes, when she remembered her hat, and meekly asked Mrs. Lovejoy to restore it.
"Take it," was the ungracious reply, "and don't you ever offer to hold another baby till you have a little common sense."
Dotty walked away with her fingers in her mouth, more angry than grieved, and conscious that all eyes were upon her.
"I didn't mean to scold you, child," called the woman after her; "only you might have killed my baby, and I think you're big enough to know better."
This last sentence, spoken more gently, was intended to heal all wounds; but it had no such effect. Dotty was sure everybody had heard it, and was more ashamed than ever. She had never before met with any one so ill bred as Mrs. Lovejoy. She supposed her own conduct had been almost criminal, whereas Mrs. Lovejoy was really much more at fault than herself. A woman who has no tenderness for a well-meaning little girl, no forgiveness for her thoughtless mistakes, can never be regarded as a lady.
Thus, for the second time that day, Dotty had met with misfortune.
Her father knew nothing of what had occurred, and she had not much to say when he offered a penny for her thoughts.
"I oughtn't to have given that baby any corn," said she, briefly; "but he didn't choke long."
"Where are your gloves, child?"
Dotty looked in her pocket, and shook her head.
"You must have left them in the seat you were in. You'd better go after them, my daughter, and then come back and brush your hair."
"O, papa, I'd rather go to Indiana with my hands naked. That woman doesn't like me."
Mr. Parlin gave a glance at the wretched little face, and went for the gloves himself. They were not to be found, though Mrs. Lovejoy was very polite indeed to assist in the search. They had probably fallen out of the window.
"Don't take it to heart, my little Alice," said Mr. Parlin, who was very sorry to see so many shadows on his young daughter's face so early in the day. "We'll buy a new pair in Boston. We will think of something pleasant. Let us see: when are you going to read your first letter?"
"O, Susy said the very last thing before I got to Boston. You'll tell me when it's the very last thing? I'm so glad Susy wrote it! for now I can be 'expecting it all the rest of the way."
CHAPTER IV.
"PIGEON PIE POSTPONED."
This is Susy's letter, which lay in Mr. Parlin's pocket-book, and which he gave his impatient little daughter fifteen minutes before the cars stopped:--
"MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER: This is for you to read when you have almost got to Boston; and it is a story, because I know you will be tired.
"Once there was a wolf--I've forgotten what his name was. At the same time there were some men, and they were monks. Monks have their heads shaved. They found this wolf. They didn't see why he wouldn't make as good a monk as anybody. They tied him and then they wanted him to say his prayers, patter, patter, all in Latin.
"He opened his mouth, and then they thought it was coming; but what do you think? All he said was, 'Lamb! lamb!' And he looked where the woods were.
"So they couldn't make a monk of him, because he wanted to eat lambs, and he wouldn't say his prayers.
"Mother read that to me out of a blue book.
"Good by, darling. From "SISTER SUSY."
"What do you think of that?" said Mr. Parlin, as he finished reading the letter aloud.
"It is so queer, papa. I don't think those monkeys were very bright."
"Monks, my child."
"O, I thought you said monkeys."
"No, monks are men--Catholics."
"Well, if they were men, I should think they'd know a wolf couldn't say his prayers. But I s'pose it isn't true."
"No, indeed. It is a fable, written to show that it is of no use to expect people to do things which they have not the