That Old-Time Child, Roberta

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That Old-Time Child, Roberta

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Title: That Old-Time Child, Roberta
Author: Sophie Fox Sea
Release Date: February 5, 2005 [eBook #14897]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
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THAT OLD-TIME CHILD, ROBERTA
Her Home-Life on the Farm
by
SOPHIE FOX SEA
Louisville Printed by John P. Morton and Company
1892

[Illustration: "Must I look so when I die? Boo-oo!" "I'll cross my heart,
Lil Missus, 'twuz dem drefful men dat sed 'Boo-oo!'"]

TO MY REVERED AND BELOVED FRIEND, Mrs. Preston Pope, I
DEDICATE THIS CHILD'S STORY. IT WAS SHE WHOSE LOVE
OF CHILDREN FIRST SUGGESTED IT, AND WHOSE WORDS OF
KIND APPRECIATION AND ENCOURAGEMENT HAVE BEEN
TO ME "AS APPLES OF GOLD IN PICTURES OF SILVER."

Roberta Marsden, or Lil Missus, as the negroes called her, for the

opening of my story dates back several years before the Civil War
began, lived on a country place in Kentucky. She was a beautiful child,
and despite a few foibles that all flesh is heir to, such a really lovable
one that she was fairly worshiped by mother, aunt and uncle, and every
one of the negroes, from old Caleb, the testy and ancient coachman, to
the veriest pickaninny, who thought it a great feat to catch hold with
grimy fingers to the fluttering strings of the little girl's white apron
when she came among them at Christmas and on other occasions to
distribute sweets and more substantial tokens.
It was a great wonder that the child was not utterly spoiled. But it
seemed that her nature reflected the love lavished on her as a mirror the
face that looks into it.
Aunt Betsy declared she did not have one selfish bone in her whole
body.
I think the reason of that was, there were so many about her looking to
her for comfort in some way, that when little more than a baby in years
she fell into the habit of thinking of and caring for others almost as a
woman would.
Aunt Betsy was a rheumatic, and always ailing, and the child could not
remember the time when her beautiful, patient mamma was not very,
very sad. Although she smiled often on her little daughter, it seemed as
if there were tears right behind the smiles, just like rain-drops shining
through the rays of the sun. And when she crept close to her at night
she could feel the long lashes sweep her cheek, and they were so often
wet.
The negroes on the place, especially the older ones, would grumble out
their aches and pains to the child, as if they thought she had the gift of
healing. And indeed she had, in her way.
For when old Squire split his foot open with an ax, they lived so far in
the country they couldn't get a physician every time it needed attention,
and her kind, brave mamma undertook to dress the wound herself every
morning. She would let the deft little fingers squeeze a sponge full of

tepid water over the cut as many times as it was necessary, then hold
the scissors and bandages, and help in other ways. And old Squire said
the tender, compassionate little face "ho'ped 'im as much as Miss July
did."
Those that need sympathy intuitively know where to get it. It's just like
the flowers reaching out for sun and dew.
I expect the city children who read this story feel very sorry for Roberta
because she lived in the country. But they needn't be, for she was never
lonely and scarcely ever idle. The older negroes on the place said she
was like "ole missus" (that was her grandmother) in her ways. And
among other things they told about the old lady, to show how stirring
she was and what a manager, was her method of arousing the
household to their duties in the beginning of the week: "Wake up! wake