TIN-TYPES.
Mr. Bradley said he did not often allow any one behind his counter, as all the boys in the village could testify; but these young ladies were welcome in any part of the store.
"That little one is the spryest child I ever saw," said the man with the court-plaster, as Flyaway hovered about the candy-jars, like a butterfly over a flower-bed. "She isn't a Yankee child—is she?"
"No, sir," replied Dotty, quickly; "she is a westerness."
She had heard Horace use the word, and presumed it was correct.
"I do wish Dotty would be more afraid of strangers," thought Prudy. "I never will take her anywhere again—with a wheelbarrow."
Flyaway fluttered around for a minute, and then alighted upon her favorite sweet-meats, "pepnits." She chose for her portion a large amount of these, an harmonica, and a sugar pig, which Dotty assured her was not "colored." "Nothing but pink dots, and those you can pick off."
"The rags came to seventy-five cents, and this young lady has now had her third; here is the remainder," said Mr. Bradley, smiling as he gave each of the little Parlins some money, and bowed them out of the store.
"I'll put it in my porte-monnaie, sir; my sister Prudy didn't bring hers."
"What makes you talk so much, Dotty Dimple?" said Prudy, "that man has been making sport of us all the time."
"Did he?" said Dotty, solemnly. "I'm 'stonished at grandma Parlin letting us sell rags! Wish this wheelbarrow was in the Stiftic Ocean."
"But it isn't, little sister, and the worst of it is, we've got to take it to the photograph saloon; it's so far home and back again."
"Got to take the ole wheelbarrel every single where we go," pouted Flyaway, as drearily as either of her cousins.
"You needn't mind it, though," said Dotty, giving the one-wheeled coach a hard push; "a little girl that's going visiting, and have succotash for dinner."
"I didn't know I was. O, I am so glad! What is it!"
"Corn and beans. Aunt Martha's girl is the best cook,—makes cherry pudding. Dear, dear, dear! Wish I was in Portland; see 'f I wouldn't go to Tate Penny's, and have some salmon and ice-cream!"
Down the beautiful shaded street walked the three little rag-pedlers; and it did seem as if they were met by all the people in town, from the minister down to the barefoot boys going fishing. At last they arrived at the house on wheels.
"Now I'll tell you, Fly, what we're going to do," said Prudy. "Dotty and I want to have our tin-types taken, to give to grandma, as a pleasant surprise. We'll pay for yours too, if you'll sit for it."
"Tin-tybe? Of course, indeed I will. Won't I have nuffin to do but just sit still? But I'd rather be gentle (generous), and give it to my mamma."
"Well, to your mamma, then. What will be the harm, Dotty, in leaving this wheelbarrow out here at the door?"
"I don't know," said Dotty; "I hope there won't any 'bugglers' come along, and steal it."
"I shall watch it," replied Prudy, with a care-worn look; and they all went up the steps and entered the little picture-gallery.
The windows were closed, and the odor of chemicals was so stifling, that the children almost gasped for breath. The artist seemed glad to see them, made no remarks about the wheelbarrow, though he must have noticed it, and said he would be ready in a few minutes. While they waited, they walked about the room, looking at the pictures on the walls.
"See," said Dotty; "there is Abby Grant, with her hair frizzed. Prudy" (in a low whisper), "you don't s'pose he will carry us off—do you? I forgot about the wheels, or I wouldn't have come! O, see that little boy; hands as big as my father's! Here comes Jennie Vance; I'm going to call her in."
Dotty had forgotten her contempt for her lively friend. Jennie came in, twirling the rim of her hat, and looking quite gratified by this mark of friendship in Dotty.
"Going to have your picture taken, Dotty Dimple? Well, so I would if I was as pretty as you are. O, dear" (with a sly peep at the glass), "I wish I wasn't so homely."
Now Jennie was a handsome child, and knew it well; but Dotty took her wail in earnest. "Why, Jennie," said she, with ready sympathy, "I don't think you're so very homely; not half so homely, any way, as some of the girls at Portland."
Jennie frowned and bit her thumb. Prudy smiled "behind her mouth," but Dotty was serenely unconscious that she had given offence. By this time the artist was ready, and thought it best to try Flyaway first; for he had had enough experience with children to see at a glance that this one would be as difficult to "take" as a bird on the wing. Prudy made sure the wheelbarrow was safe, and then turned to arrange her little cousin.
"Here, put your hands down in your lap."
Up went the little hands to the flossy hair. "It won't stay, Prudy, or nelse you tie it."
"I shall brush it, the very last minute, Flyaway. All you must do is sit still. Mayn't she look at your watch, sir, just to keep her eyes from moving?"
"No matter what she looks at," replied the artist; "but she must keep that little head of hers straight."
His tone was firm; he hoped to awe her into quietness. Flyaway was frightened, and clung to Prudy for protection. "Don't the gemplum love little gee—urls?" said she, in a voice as low and sad as a dying dove's.
Mr. Poindexter laughed, and stroked the beautiful floss lovingly.
"Just turn your sweet little face this way, dear child; that's all."
"O, my shole! Must I turn my face to my back!" said Flyaway, bewildered.
"No, no; look at this picture on the wall. See what it is, so you can tell your mother."
"It's a bridge, and a man, and a fish," said Flyaway, flashing a glance at it.
"There, smooth your forehead; now you will do." And so she did, for two seconds, till she began to squint, to see whether it was a fish or a dog; and that picture was spoiled.
Next time she tried so very hard to sit still that she swayed to and fro like a slender-stemmed flower when the wind goes over it. The picture was blurred.
"O, Fly, you must keep your shoulders still," said Prudy, looking as anxious as the old woman in the shoe.
"I didn't never want to come here," said the child; "when I sit so still, Prudy, it 'most gives me a pain."
"But you haven't sat still yet, not a minute."
"I could, you know, Prudy, or nelse I didn't have to breeve," groaned Flyaway, lifting her eyebrows.
"Another one spoiled," said the artist, trying to smile.
"Yes," said Dotty, who felt none of the care. "Once it was her head, and then it was her shoulders; and now her eyebrows are all of a quirk."
Poor little Flyaway felt as much out of place as a grape-vine would feel, if it had to make believe it was a pine tree.
"Wisht I'd said 'no,' 'stead o' 'yes,'" murmured she, puckering her mouth to the size of a very small button-hole.
"This will never do," said the patient artist, almost in despair. "Hold your little chin up, there's a lady. Don't put it in your neck. Now! Ready!"
But at the critical moment there was a jerk, and Flyaway cried out,—
"I've got a sneeze; but, O, dear, I can't sneeze it."
"Why, where's that head of yours, little Tot? I declare, I believe it goes on wires, like a jumping-jack."
"My head's wrong side up," said Flyaway, mournfully; "my mother said it was."
Mr. Poindexter laughed: it was impossible to be vexed with such a gentle child as Flyaway. "Really, my young friends," said he, rubbing his stained fingers through his hair, "I believe I shall be obliged to give it up for the present. Have the child's mother come with her to-morrow, and we'll do better, I am sure."
With the likenesses of the other girls he succeeded very well; and Prudy and Dotty were glad to find, that after paying for theirs, they each had ten cents left.
"Now, Fly, we will go to aunt Martha's."
But Fly was amusing herself by scraping dirt out of the cracks of her boots with a bit of glass.
"Dotty won't be to aunt Marfie's. I don't want to stay where Dotty isn't."
"But your mamma will be there, you know; and I told you what they are going to have for dinner."
"Yes, secretary," said Flyaway, proud of her memory. "She is a very nice cooker, but you'll have hard work to get me to go."
She drawled out the words languidly, and seemed on the point of going to sleep.
"O, girls, girls, girls," cried Prudy, opening the door and looking out, "our wheelbarrow is gone—it's gone!"
"It's bugglers; I told you so," said Dotty.
Mr. Poindexter was quite amused by his little sitters. "I saw that you came in a coach," said he, "and without any horses."
"Our grandmother said we might," spoke up Dotty, anxious to divert all blame from herself. "She said we might; but Prudy ought to have gone straight home. I knew it all the time."
"I dare say some one has driven off your carriage in sport," said the kind-hearted photographer; "never fear."
"O, no, sir; it was new and red. Folks wanted it to haul stones in, and that was why they took it," said Dotty, wrathfully.
The children looked up street and down street. No wheelbarrow in sight. "We must go to aunt Martha's, and then come back and hunt for it, if we have to go without our dinners," they said. They took Flyaway between them, and marched her off. She was almost as passive as a rag baby, ready to drop down anywhere, and fall asleep. "'Cause I am so tired," said she.
Aunt Martha cordially invited the two cousins to dine. They thanked her, but no, they must find the wheelbarrow. "We shan't say, certain positive, that bugglers took it, but we s'pose so," said Dotty, softening her judgment, as she remembered her mistake about the "screw-up pencil." They went home through the broiling sun, but found no trace of the wheelbarrow.
"It's a dreadful thing," said Prudy, lazily, "but I don't feel as bad as I should if I was fairly awake."
"Me, too," yawned Dotty; "I wish we could lie down under the trees, and go to sleep."
They had been a long while in the close saloon, inhaling ether, and this was the cause of their languor. As they entered the yard they met Horace.
"O, dear," said Dotty, trying to look as sorry as she knew she ought to feel, "that wheel—"
"What!" exclaimed Prudy.
There, under a syringa tree in the garden, stood the wheelbarrow. The girls rubbed their eyes, and wondered if they were walking in their sleep.
"That thing trundled itself in here about half an hour ago," said Horace, gravely. "You may know I was surprised to look up, and see it coming without hands, just rolling along like a velocipede."
Dotty eyed the runaway wheelbarrow stupidly. "I don't believe it," said she, flatly.
Horace laughed; and then the fog cleared away from Dotty's mind in a minute.
"Why, girls," said he, "how long did you think I could wait to haul off my weeds? You were gone two hours. I watched you on your parade, and followed at a respectful distance."
"In order not to disturb the procession. Then, when I saw you going into the saloon, I went up and claimed my wheelbarrow. Didn't want it any longer—did you?"
"No, and never want it again," said Prudy.
"By the way, here's a conundrum for you, girls, Why's a wheelbarrow like a potato?"
"I shouldn't think it was like it at all," answered Dotty. "Where did you read that?"
"Didn't read it anywhere. I've given up books since I undertook gardening. Never was much of a bookworm. Make a very respectable earth-worm; ask aunt Louise if I don't."
The little girls entered the house, too tired and sleepy to make any reply.