Star-Dust | Page 2

right to do. How patiently
and how drearily she padded through these early years of Lilly's

existence. There were rubber insets in her shoes which sagged so that
her ankles seemed actually to touch the floor from the climbing upstairs
and downstairs on her missionary treadmill of the cracked slop jar; the
fly in the milk; the too-tepid shaving water; the bathroom monopoly;
the infant cacophony of midnight colic; salt on the sleety sidewalk, the
pasted handkerchief against a front window pane; ice water. Towels.
Towels. Towels.
And how saucily after school would Lilly plant herself down in the
subterranean depths of the kitchen.
"Mrs. Schum, mamma says to give me a piece of bread and butter."
With her worried eyes Mrs. Schum would smile and invariably hand
out a thick slice, thinly buttered.
"More butter, mamma said."
"That's plenty, dearie; too much isn't good for little girls' complexions."
"More but-ter!"
"Here, then."
Scalloping the air with it before little Harry's meek eyes: "You can't
have any. You don't pay board. We do!"
"My Mamma-Annie she paid board once. Uh-huh! my Mamma-Annie
she's an angel in heaven and you aren't. Uh-huh!" This from little Harry,
who was far too pale and wore furiously stained blouses.
"But your mamma-Annie's dead now. You can't be a real live angel
without being dead first, and I'd rather be me."
"Lilly, aren't you ashamed? You run on now, or I'll tell your mamma.
Poor little Harry can't help it he's an orphan with only his old gramaw
to look after him. You a great big girl with your mother and father to do
for you. It's not nice to be against Harry."

"Well, what was I saying so much, Mrs. Schum? Can I help it he says
she's an angel? Here, Harry, you can have it. Mamma's got a whole
basket of apples in the closet and a dozen oranges. Honest, take it, I'm
not hungry."
He would mouth into it, round eyes gazing at her above the rim of
crust.
There were times again when Lilly would bare her teeth and crunch
them in a paroxysm of rage and tyranny over little Harry. She would
delight in making herself terrible to him, pinch and tower over the
huddle of him with her hands hooked inward like talons. His meekness
hurt her to frenzy, and because she was ashamed of tears she clawed.
"Oh, you! You! You just make me feel like--I don't know what."
"Ouch! Lilly, you pinch!"
"Well, then, don't always hold your head off to one side like somebody
was going to hit you. I hate it. It makes me feel like wanting to hit
you."
"I won't."
"You aren't such a goody-goody. You steal. You stole some balls of
twine my papa brought home from his factory. Mamma says you got it
behind your ears."
"I haven't anything behind my ears."
"Oh, silly! Everything isn't there just because you say it's there. If I
close my eyes just a little eeny, I can see birds and fountains and a
beautiful stage, and me with my hair all gold, and a blue satin train that
kicks back when I walk, and all the music in the world winding around
me like--like everything--like smoke. But it isn't truly there, silly,
except inside of me."
"Haw."

"I'm going to be the beautifulest singer in the world some day, with a
voice that goes as high as anything, and be on the stage, and you can't
even be on it with me."
"'N' I'm going to work in a butcher shop and give gramaw all the meat
she wants without even putting it down in the book."
"You steal."
"Don't."
"Do."
"And I won't ever have to touch the meat if it's got blood on."
"Fraidy, scared of a little blood." Then with not a great deal of
relevance, "I could have the yellowest hair in the world if I wanted to."
"How?"
"Oh, by just wanting to."
"Nit."
"Could."
"Your mamma's calling you."
"Lil-ly, come practice."
"I'm coming." To Harry, "I can do something you can't do."
"What?"
"Hop up six stairs on one foot."
"Dare you."
Ankle cupped in her hand, brown braids bobbing, she would thus essay

two, three, even four steps of staggering ascent, collapsing then against
the banister.
"Ouch!"
"Told you so."
"Well, I nearly did."
"Oh, you nearly do everything."
"I can't help it if my foot isn't strong enough to hold me."
"Lil-ly, don't let me have to call you again."
"I'm coming, mamma." And then for a final tantalizing gleam of her
little self across the banister, "Last tag."
CHAPTER II
One wall of the Becker back parlor was darkly composed of walnut
folding doors dividing it from the front-parlor bachelor apartment of
Mr. Hazzard, city salesman for the J.D.