Somebodys Little Girl | Page 7

Sister Angela; and Sister Mary Felice, who watched the little
blue-checked-apron girls playing in the sand; and Sister Ignatius, who
cooked the cakes with the caraway seeds in them; and Sister Theckla,
who taught the little girls to Count and to Sing.
Why, the whole world, surely the up-on-the mountain-world, seemed
full of Only-Just-Ladies.

Not just a Lady here and there, coming to visit with hats on, to talk a
little to the Sisters, to look at the little girls with blue checked aprons
on. But here they were coming and going all the time, moving about,
and living in the cabins, walking everywhere with or without hats on,
standing on the gray cliffs, and looking down--maybe into the heart of
a worldwide violet there, off the edge of the cliff, such as Bessie Bell
saw or fancied she saw.
So many Ladies.
Bessie Bell leaned against the little fluted post of the gallery to the
cabin that she and Sister Helen Vincula lived in, and decided to herself
that, strange as it was, yet was it true that the whole world was full
of--Ladies.
There were yet stranger things for Bessie Bell to learn.
She had not for long played with those many little girls in all sorts of
clothes, and with larger girls, and with boys,--some with
short-striped-stocking-legs and some with long-striped-stocking-
legs,--before she heard one child say: ``Mama says she will take me to
Sweet Fern Cave to-morrow.''
Or perhaps it was another child who said: ``Mama won't let me wade in
the branch.''
Or another child said: ``Mama says I can have a party for all the little
girls and boys on the mountain next Friday!''
Then another little child said: ``My Mama has made me a beautiful
pink dress, and I will wear that to your party.''
Mama? My Mama?
Bessie Bell leaned against the little fluted post of the gallery to the
cabin where she and Sister Helen Vincula lived, and thought a great
deal about that.

And Bessie Bell wondered a great deal what that could mean: Mama?
My Mama?
There were strange new things in this world.
Bessie Bell almost forgot to remember now, because every day was so
full of such strange new things to know.
Mama? My Mama?
Bessie Bell did a great deal of thinking about that.
One day the little children were playing at building rock chimneys.
There was not much sand there for little children to play in, so that the
children often built rock chimneys, and rock tables, and rock fences.
As they were playing one little girl suddenly left the playground and
ran, calling: ``Mama! Mama! Come here; come this way, and see the
chimney we have built!''
Bessie Bell turned quickly from play and looked after the little girl who
was running across the playground to where three ladies were standing.
The little girl caught the dress of one of the ladies, and came pulling at
her dress and bringing her across the ground to see the stone chimney,
and the little girl kept saying:
``Look, Mama! See, Mama! Isn't it a grand chimney? Won't it 'most
hold smoke?''
Bessie Bell stood still with her little hands--they were beginning to be
round pink little hands again, now--clasped in front of her and
wondered.
``See, Mama! Look, Mama!'' cried the little girl.
``Why does she say: Mama?'' asked Bessie Bell, because she just
wondered, and wondered--and she did not know.

``Because it is her Mama,'' said a child who had just brought two more
rocks to put on the chimney.
``Oh,'' said Bessie Bell.
That lady who was the little girl's Mama looked much as all the ladies
looked.
``Are all Ladies Mamas?'' asked Bessie Bell.
She hoped the child who had brought the two rocks would not laugh,
for Bessie Bell knew she would cry if she did.
The little girl did not laugh at all. She was trying so carefully to put the
last rock on top of the stone chimney, she said: ``No, Bessie Bell: some
are Mamas, and some are only just Ladies.''
There. There it was again: Only-Just-Ladies.
Bessie Bell wondered how to tell which were Mamas, and which were
Ladies--just Ladies.
Very often after that day she watched those who passed the cabin
where she and Sister Helen Vincula lived, and wondered which were
Mamas--
And which were Ladies.
There was no rule of old or young by which Bessie Bell could tell.
Nor was it as one could tell Sisters from Just-Ladies by a way of dress.
For Sisters, like Sister Helen Vincula, wore a soft white around the face,
and soft long black veils, and a small cross on the breast of the dress: so
that even had any not known the difference one could easily have
guessed.
But for