WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BABY.
BY MAGARET EYTINGE.
THE Tutchy children were all mad.
I don’t mean they had lost their senses and required strait-jackets, but they certainly did need something to smooth the frowns from their brows and the pouts from their lips.
The Tutchy children were pretty children—when they weren’t mad—with bright blue eyes, much the color of some of their grandmother’s centennial dinner-plates, and auburn hair that looked as though it would, on the slightest provocation, turn red.
There were nine of them, Susie, Willie, Robbie, Lizzie, Nellie, Annie, Sallie, Maud and Baby.
Quite enough for such a little woman as Mrs. Tutchy to look after.
Captain Tutchy was away—he was away about half the time with his ship “The Treasure”—named, he said, after his wife—and Mrs. Tutchy had just received a letter from him saying he could not be home for the Christmas holidays, and so the children must wait for their presents and their party until he came, “and you may expect me, my dear,” the letter ended, “the second day of the New Year.”
And this is why the Tutchy children were mad.
They said nothing until mamma, hearing baby cry, went out of the room. Then they began:
“What will Christmas be without papa?” said Lizzie. “Who’s to laugh, I’d like to know? Papa does most of the laughing.”
“I shan’t, for one!” said Willie.
“Nor I,” said Robbie.
“There won’t be a bit of fun getting up early on Christmas morning,” said Nellie. “No boxes to open, and no stockings to empty!”
“I’ll not hang up my stocking, and I’ll not get up early, either—so there now!” said Annie.
“Why? won’t Santa Claus come at all?” asked Sallie and Maud, in one breath.
“Yes, I s’pose he’ll come,” answered Annie, “but he won’t bring such nice things as he does when papa’s home. He’s a very, very old friend of papa’s.”
“No party! Just think of it!” said Susie. “’Twon’t seem like Christmas.”
“And the captain,” said Robbie, who was fond of giving the captain his title, “isn’t coming back till the day school begins. He never did such a thing before, and I think it’s real mean!”
“Great old holidays!” said Lizzie.
“I’m mad!” said Susie, who, by-the-by, was the eldest of them all.
“So are we all of us!” said the others in chorus.
Just then Mrs. Tutchy came into the room with Baby in her arms, and in Baby’s arms was a funny, broken-nosed doll.
Baby was the sweetest, dearest little thing that ever played “patty-cake” or said “goo.”
Her eyes were so blue that you thought of violets, blue-bells, and summer skies, the moment you saw them, and then gave it up, for there was nothing quite as blue as they were, and her silken hair lay all over her pretty, round head in tiny rings just the size and color of mamma’s wedding-ring.
Mrs. Tutchy looked both surprised and sad when she saw eight frowns and pouts—perhaps I should say seven, as wee Maud’s almost disappeared when she looked up at her mother—instead of eight smiles.
But she pretended not to notice the sixteen unlovely things, and said, in a pleasant voice, “Baby is ready for a ride. I have wrapped her up warmly. Get her hood, Susie, and, Willie and Robbie, fasten her little wagon on your new sled. You may all go for a walk—I don’t remember such a fine 24th of December for years—but I shall expect you home in an hour, and whatever you do, take good care of Baby.”
Now if the Tutchy children had not been mad they would have jumped up and down and shouted and half-smothered Baby with hugs and kisses; but being mad, they went silently about—their silence, to tell the truth, would have been considered noise by a small, quiet family—preparing for their walk.
And when they were ready, if Maud had not set them the example, they would have actually forgotten to kiss mamma “good-by.” Dear me! how mad they were!
Off they started in a funereal manner, Susie and Maud ahead, the other girls following two by two, and the boys dragging Baby, still holding the broken-nosed doll, in her little wagon on the sled, bringing up the rear.
Baby crowed and cooed and prattled to her dollie—there never was a jollier baby in the whole world—but still Will and Bobbie frowned and pouted.
“I wish we didn’t have to lug Baby everywhere,” at last said Willie.
“So do I,” said Robbie.
They had never thought, much less said such a thing before, but then they had never been quite as mad before.
Suddenly the sound of a drum was heard, then the shrill blasts of horns and the ear-piercing strains of a fife, and they could see a crowd gathering in the distance.
“Hurry up!” called Susie, who had remarkably sharp eyes, “there’s some men on horseback dressed awful funny!” and away she ran, dragging Maud by the hand, and away went Nellie, Lizzie, Annie and Sallie after her as fast as they could go.
“We can’t run with Baby,” said Willie, “and we’ll miss all the fun!”
“Too bad!” said Robbie, with two frowns rolled into one. “But I say, Will, let’s go anyhow.”
“Pshaw! there won’t be anything to see by the time we get there,” said Will.
“I don’t mean to take Baby,” said Robbie. “We’ll leave her by the door of this empty house. Nothing can happen to her before we come back.”
“That’s so,” said Will, “we won’t be gone a minute;” and they lifted the sled, wagon and all, up the two steps that led to the door, and, before Baby knew what they were about, they were off.
The other children were already two blocks away, but the boys soon overtook them, and another block brought them to the spot where the crowd was gathered.
The frowns and pouts, for the time being, disappeared, and the Tutchys laughed long and loud at the antics of the queer-looking figures who were parading about with a patch-work banner inscribed, “Old Original Santa Claus Guards,” when suddenly Susie turned around, and with frightened eyes cried out:
“Why Will,—Robbie, where’s Baby?”
Will hung his head, but Robbie, assuming a careless air, replied:
“The captain’s youngest daughter? O! she’s safe. We couldn’t bring her and run after you too, and so we left her.”
But Susie waited to hear no more. “Show me where!” she said, and they all started back again on a much faster run than that with which they had followed “The Old Original Santa Claus Guards.”
The “house to let” was quickly reached.
No sled—no wagon—no broken-nosed doll—no BABY was there!
And now indeed the frowns and pouts took flight, and tears and sobs came in their stead.
“O dear! O dear!” cried the Tutchy children, “what shall we do?”
Then they ran hither and thither, asking every one they met:
“Have you seen a baby in a little wagon on a sled?”
“A beautiful baby, with blue eyes?”
“A broken-nosed baby—O, no, no, no! a lovely baby with a broken-nosed doll?”
“A sweet baby, with golden curls?”
“A baby named ‘Snow-drop’ and ‘Diamond’ and ‘Bird’ and ‘Plum’?”
No one had seen her, and sadly the procession took up the line of march for home.
How they told their mamma they never knew, but when the tale was done she gave one great gasp, and tore out of the house like a wild woman, with no hat on her head, and nothing but a small shawl about her.
“I must go too,” said Susie, and she flew after the poor distracted mother, while the seven other children sat down on the floor and cried.
“O! how wicked we have been,” said Lizzie, “to say that to-morrow wouldn’t be a merry Christmas, when we had such a darling, beautiful baby!”
“And dear papa coming home in a few days!” sobbed Nellie.
“And mamma so good and sweet!” said Sallie.
“And all of us such very nice chilluns!” said Maud.
Willie and Robbie said nothing, but buried their faces in their hands, and wept softly.
“I SEE DIS YERE BABY A-SETTIN’ ON A SLED.”
The sun went down, and back came mamma and Susie, hollow-eyed and pale, but no Baby.
Not one of the children thought of stockings, or presents, or parties, or Christmas itself, that wretched Christmas Eve, but they clustered in silence, real silence this time, about their mother, until one by one they fell asleep.
But Mrs. Tutchy sat with dry, wide-opened eyes, listening—listening all night long, until the joyous morning chimes rang out upon the clear, frosty air.
As they ceased, the sharp ringing of the street door-bell echoed through the quiet house.
Dropping wee Maud from her lap, where she had slept for several hours, the poor little woman, her heart beating loud and fast, hastened with trembling steps to the door and flung it open.
There stood a tall, straight negro woman, with a gaudy turban on her head, a small boy, much darker than herself, clinging to her skirts with one hand, and yes—O, thanks to the good God—holding the rope of the boys’ sled with the other, baby in her arms!
Almost as wild with joy as she had been with sorrow, the mother snatched her darling, and covered her with kisses.
“Come in, come in,” she cried, in her old, pleasant voice, the tired gone out of her face, and her eyes shining bright with happiness.
Up jumped the Tutchy children from all corners of the room, and such a hurrahing and shouting of “Merry Christmas,” and kissing of Baby never was known, even in that house before.
“An’ now, yo’ Abraham Ulysses, yo’ jess tell the lady yo’ information,” said the woman to the grinning boy, pulling her dress out of his hand, and pushing him forward.
“Needn’t push so,” said Abraham Ulysses, rolling his eyes about in the most wonderful manner for a moment, and then fixing them solemnly on Mrs. Tutchy’s face.
“I war a-goin’ along, an’ da’ war a drum down da’—I’s goin’ to have a drum—”
“I’ll drum ye,” interrupted his mother, giving him a smart slap on the cheek. “Perceed on yo’ story widout no prelimnaries.”
“Yo’ jess stop dat now, Mary Ann Johnson. I ain’t tellin’ no story. I’s tellin’ the truff, ebery word of it, an’ yo’d better mine yo’ brack bisness, Mary Ann Johnson, and dat’s de fac’!”
“Lissen at dat ar sassy young nigger!” said Mary Ann Johnson, raising her hands and eyes. “Go on, I tell yo.”
Abraham Ulysses went on.
“Da war a drum an’ sojers—I’s goin’ to be a sojer, a sword sojer—and all de wite folks dey runned to see ’em, an’ I runned, too, but ’pears, tho’, I couldn’t git da’, an’ I see dis yere baby a-settin’ on a sled, an’ I sez to myself, ‘Bressed nippers! Abra’m ’Lysses, dat ar’s one of dem angel babies dat done come done from hebben Chrismasses, an’ dat ar’ sled she’s a-settin on, Santy Close’s goin’ to giv’ to yo’ sho’s yo’ bohn!’ an’ I took hole dat ar rope, an’ drug dat ar’ sled—”
“To our premises,” interrupted his mother, “an’ he cum a-runnin’ in, an’ a-shoutin’ ‘Hi! mam, here’s a little angel fer yo’! take her out de waggin quick, an’ giv’ de sled to me.’”
“But bress yo’ heart, honey, I knowed dat ar’ baby was mislaid de minute dese eyes beheld her, an’ I took de sweet thing in my arms an’ mollified her tears, an’ giv’ her some milk an’ soon she fell asleep.
“An’ I set up dis yere bressed night wid dat ar’ bressed chile, ’spectin’ ebery minute somebody’d come and require for her, an’ sho’ ’nuff, a perliceman makes his appearment early dis yere bressed mornin’ an’ tole me—how he foun’ out war de chile was de Lord ony knows—to fetch de pooty lammie here, an’ I done come tho’ Mr. Johnson is a-waitin fer his breakfis’, an’ de pork a-sizzlin’ in de pan dis yere bressed minute.”
“Thank you a million times!” said Mrs. Tutchy; and in the twinkling of an eye Mary Ann Johnson was several dollars richer than when she entered the room.
“Thank you a million of times!” repeated the children; and Will, after whispering a moment with Robbie, went up to Abraham Ulysses, and placed the rope of the sled, which he had dropped while telling his story, in his funny little black hand. “The ‘Two-Forty’ is yours,” he said.
“Hi, mam! look a-yere, yo’ Mary Ann Johnson, wot I done tole yo’? Santy Close did send it to me,” screamed Abraham Ulysses, cutting a queer caper, “an’ sho’s yo’s bohn dat ar’ baby is an angel, too, ain’t she?” turning to Mrs. Tutchy.
“Yes, my boy,” said the happy little woman, “the angel of this house.”
A TURKISH CARRIAGE.
