THE BUFFALO DOLL SHOW.
BY ELIZABETH FLINT WADE.
All the Jenny Wrens of Buffalo were busy for weeks beforehand, preparing for the event of the season—the News Doll Show at Music Hall—and when the opening day arrived the result of their labor must have surprised even these industrious little workers. The first impression as one entered the great hall was that not only all the dolls in Buffalo, but in all the towns in the vicinity, had accepted the invitation to be present. There were dolls everywhere. They hung from the balcony, and clung to the fronts of the boxes; they clustered in pyramids against the walls, and crowded the boughs of huge Christmas trees; they stood on tables, and filled the evergreen arches; and each one seemed to be doing her "sawdust best" to make this the finest doll show ever given.
A more democratic gathering of dolls could hardly be imagined. They came in silks and velvets, in calicoes and muslins, in wools and in laces; they wore gorgeous Worth costumes, tailor-made gowns, and party, walking, and working gowns. Two came in bloomers, but seemed rather ashamed of themselves, and tried to hide behind a group of demure-faced nuns. There were newsboys, college-boys, Indian warriors, boy choristers, brave knights in shining armor, and solemn priests with gown and book. There were nurses in caps and aprons, milkmaids with milking stools and pails, Salvation-Army lasses, royal queens of England, and Quakers in soft gray gowns, with looks of mild astonishment at finding themselves in such a mixed company.
The doll show was planned for the purpose of giving to every little girl in Buffalo, between the ages of two and ten years, whom Santa Claus seldom if ever visits, a doll at Christmas. All the dolls were to be given away, except some of the groups, and those which were to compete for prizes, and be afterward sold. The money taken for admission and from the sale of dolls was to be divided between the Buffalo Fitch Crèche and free kindergartens, so it was no wonder that every one was interested.
Dolls were arranged to illustrate scenes from stories and from real life, and, of course, the two charities which were to have the benefit of the show were represented. A perfect fac-simile of the interior of the crèche nursery, even to the wall-paper, was shown in miniature. The nurses and babies were dolls. Baby dolls were sleeping in cradles; others were playing in the fenced and cushioned "pond," where the little one learns to creep; and others were sitting in the laps of doll nurses, taking real milk out of tiny bottles. This group was made and donated by the pupils of St. Margaret's School, and over the nursery was suspended a beautiful doll representing St. Margaret, made after the figure of St. Margaret in the famous painting in Glasgow.
The representation of the other charity—the free kindergarten—was so perfect in every detail that it seemed as if a fairy must have touched a real kindergarten with her magic wand, causing both room and pupils to shrink to Lilliputian size. So natural were the attitudes of the dolls at their work, play, and study, that one almost expected them to move about like real kindergartners.
THE MAYPOLE DANCE.
One of the gayest groups was arranged on a raised platform in the centre of the hall. This was the Maypole dance, where, holding the ends of bright ribbons, merry-faced dolls danced about two Maypoles, which were festooned with flowers. "How natural!" was the exclamation of each spectator, while the dolls in the balcony looked down on this group as if envying them their good time, and wishing themselves in their places.
Two groups of special interest to the boys—for even boys condescended to visit the doll show—were the football game and the bowling-alley. For the football a ground had been marked off on green baize, and here a lively scrimmage was going on; the make-up of the players was exact, even to the long hair. One poor fellow, who had doubtless been in the thickest of the "rush," was limping off the ground, his clothes torn and muddy, his face stained with blood, and his football hair standing out in every direction. In direct contrast to this scrambling group were the tenpin-players in the bowling-alley. Two were playing—for it was a double alley—while the others stood in order, watching the game and waiting their turn at the bowls, each of them as silent and as grave as the famous tenpin-players of the Kaatskills.
THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS.
Whoever had read Chaucer's enchanting Canterbury Tales could not fail to recognize in one quaintly attired group the pilgrims on their way to Canterbury, with Chancer riding in their midst. The stately knight was at the head; following him was the "younge squire," and "short was his gown with sleeves long and wide"; and bringing up the rear was the fat and jolly priest. Having seen this merry company, one longed to hear again the charming tales they told at the old Tabard Inn in Canterbury. Next to this Old-World group was what might be called nineteenth-century pilgrims—a band of Salvation-Army lasses marching to the sound of drum, waving their banners, and shouting their "War-Cry."
THE SALVATION ARMY.
The most elaborate group exhibited was called "A Hunt Breakfast" (reproduced at the beginning of this article), representing the annual "meet," when the Duke of Beaufort and the Earl of Bathurst join in a fox-hunt, an event of great importance among English sportsmen. The group surround a breakfast-table spread with every eatable found on an English breakfast-table on a "meet" morning, the food, both in form and color, being an exact imitation. The men were dressed in hunting costumes, the Duke of Beaufort and his huntsmen wearing blue broadcloth coats with buff facings, while the Earl of Bathurst and the "Vale of White Horse" men wore pink broadcloth, the cloth being imported from England expressly for these tiny huntsmen. Both parties wore white twill hunting-breeches and high top hunting-boots, and the latter would have taxed the skill of a fairy's boot-maker. At a side table one of the hostesses was pouring tea, the tea-set being of Dresden china, decorated in pink and blue, the sportsmen's colors. The whole scene was duplicated in a three-panelled mirror at the back, which was twined with holly and evergreens. At either side of the room was arranged an English park scene. Pink water-lilies floated on tiny ponds, statues showed amid the shrubbery, and a background of evergreen gave the appearance of a real wood. This peep at the way English aristocracy amuses itself was originated and arranged by Mrs. Harry Hamlin, of Buffalo, whose husband takes an active part in the well-known Genesee Valley hunts, which were described a short time ago in Harper's Magazine.
The doll which attracted the most attention was one which had come all the way from Paris—where she had just taken a prize at a doll show there—to attend the Buffalo doll show, and see how such things were done in America. From the tip of her fluffy parasol to the toe of her slender boot she was a true Parisian. Her gown was of pink brocaded satin, her coat and high poke bonnet were of moss-green velvet. In one hand she held a lace fan, and in the other a ruffled chiffon parasol, and a point-lace handkerchief peeped from a jewelled shopping-bag which she carried on her arm. Her clothing was not her chief attraction, for Mademoiselle could do wonderful things—for a doll. She turned her head, fanned herself, twirled her parasol, bowed gracefully, winked in a most coquettish manner, and shrugged her shoulders now and then as if the great doll show was all very well for America, but couldn't compare with Paris.
"THE LAST ONE!"
One group that attracted a great deal of attention represented a little newsboy, who is a well-known figure in Buffalo, selling his "last one" to a lady. The doll which won first prize was a copy of Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, and was of perfect proportion, even to the base on which it stood. Instead of a torch, she held in her hand an incandescent light.
Saturday was children's day, and all of that day the hall was filled with them. All the children's institutions had been given tickets of admission, and not one child missed the show. To them it must have been a glimpse into fairy-land. An East-Side free kindergarten teacher took the precaution of tying the children under her charge all together with a rope, after the fashion of a Swiss mother who passed through Buffalo a few years ago on her way to the far West, with her ten children tied together with a clothes-line. The children exclaimed over and admired the grown-up dolls, but not one was heard to wish for one for her very own.
"Wouldn't you like that nice doll for yours?" said an older sister to the little maid in her charge, pointing to a doll in a wonderful Worth gown.
"No, I would not," came the quick reply. "She's far too old. Do you think I want to be a grandmother?"
"They're just lovely," said one little girl, as she walked round the stage looking at the prize dolls; "but they're not nice to play with. I want a doll that will wash."
"Here is the doll I like best of all," said a brown-eyed maid, stopping before a two-year-old baby doll with curly hair and laughing black eyes.
"And I! And I too!" said half a dozen others, crowding closer. "She's just the doll you could cuddle and take comfort with."
An agent of Santa Claus was at the show on children's day. A poorly clad child was gazing wistfully at a table loaded with "every-day" dolls. "Which of those would you like best?" said a voice at her elbow, and there stood a stout gentleman looking down at her in the most friendly manner. "This, sir, if you please, sir," pointing to a doll in pink gingham. In a moment it was in her arms, and the gentleman was gone; but he was heard from at various tables, though no one could keep track of him very long; and owing to his kindness many children who never had a "boughten" doll before carried one home then. No one found out who he was, but one five-year-old, who hugged a flaxen-haired doll to her heart, said she "guessed he was Santa Claus's brother."
There were ten thousand dolls at the doll show, and the day before Christmas the police force and the members of the charity organizations distributed them, and on Christmas morning there were many happy doll mothers in Buffalo who, for the first time in their little lives, tended doll babies—thanks to the News Doll Show at Music Hall.
[A PATIENT TUSSLE.]
If I were you I wouldn't mind
A tussle with my Latin verb;
I'd rule myself in study hours
As if with steady rein and curb.
One day you'll find that Latin text,
If you'll have patience, just superb.
[AMATEUR COOKING FOR LITTLE GIRLS.]
The amount of pleasure that a little girl can have with a cooking-stove that will really and truly cook is difficult for any one who has not tried it to realize. In these days toy cooking-stoves are so made that a real true fire can be made in them, and very good meals can be cooked, even if the stove is a small one.
Two little children, a boy and girl aged respectively six and eight, think there is no fun in the world like that of cooking their supper on their stove, which stands on the hearth in their nursery. Their mamma is a good housekeeper, and has a wonderful old-fashioned receipt-book, in which she has written receipts for grown-up people's food, but which she finds can be used by the children if only a third of the materials are taken. Last week these two children—we will call them Howard and Marion, although these are not their real names—were allowed to invite their cousin Ruth to take supper with them, and to cook the supper themselves. Howard made the fire very carefully, with only just enough paper to start the shavings of wood. Then when it blazed up and the draught was good he put in some more wood and some very fine coal. Marion in the mean time was busy preparing the materials for cooking; she had to get ready creamed chicken, creamed potatoes, and cup-cake. The chicken had already been roasted and the potatoes boiled, but she had to cut up both the meat and vegetable into small pieces.
The cream sauce had to be made by adding two teaspoonfuls of flour to a half-cup of cream, and stirring it well before putting on to warm. When the sauce was ready to heat, two saucepans were filled, one with the chicken and the other with the potatoes, and the sauce was poured over them. A pinch of salt was added, and they were left on the fire until thoroughly cooked. As the fire was burning well, this was about five minutes. Served hot, these were two delicious dishes, I can assure you.
The cake both children helped to make from the following receipt, called cup-cake: 1 cup of butter, 2 cups of sugar, 3 cups of flour, 1 cup of milk, 4 eggs, 1 teaspoonful of soda. This receipt is for grown-up people, so the children only used a third of it; but it was quite as good. Marion beat the sugar and butter together until it looked like thick cream, while Howard was beating the eggs. Then the flour and beaten eggs were stirred up with the sugar and butter, and the soda (dissolved in milk) was added as a finishing touch. Then it was poured into the cunningest little patty-pan imaginable, all buttered so it would not stick to the bottom, and was put in the oven, where it only had to stay fifteen minutes, as the fire was burning just right.
There are many other things these children have learned to cook, but these three are their favorites, and they say they really can't tell which they enjoy most, the cooking or the eating.
[THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.]
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
CHAPTER III.
GRACE TAKES A HAND.
"Mother darling, may I have a good long talk with you to-day, a confidential talk, we two by ourselves?"
"Yes, Grace, I shall be delighted."
"And when can it be? You always have so many around you, dear: and no wonder, this is the centre of the house, this chair, which is your throne."
"Well, let me see," said Mrs. Wainwright, considering. "After dinner the children go to Sunday-school, and papa has always a few Sunday patients whom he must visit. Between two and four I am always alone on Sunday, and we can have a chat then. Mildred and Frances will probably walk home with Miriam, and want to carry you off to the Manse to tea."
"Not on my first home Sunday, mamma," said Grace. "I must have every littlest bit of that here, though I do expect to have good times with the Manse girls. Is Mrs. Raeburn as sweet as ever? I remember her standing at the station and waving me good-by when I went away with auntie, and Amy, the dearest wee fairy, was by her side."
"Amy is full of plans," said Mrs. Wainwright. "She is going to the League to study art if her mother can spare her. Mildred and Frances want to go on with their French, and one of the little boys, I forget which, has musical talent; but there is no one in Highland who can teach the piano. The Raeburn children are all clever and bright."
"They could hardly help being that, mamma, with such a father and mother, and the atmosphere of such a home."
All this time there was the hurry and bustle of Sunday morning in a large family where every one goes to church, and the time between breakfast and half past ten is a scramble. Grace kept quietly on with the work she had that morning assumed, straightening the quilts on the invalid's chair, bringing her a new book, and setting a little vase with a few late flowers on the table by her side. Out of Grace's trunks there had been produced gifts for the whole household, and many pretty things, pictures and curios, which lent attractiveness to the parlor, grown shabby and faded with use and poverty, but still a pretty and homelike parlor, as a room which is lived in by well-bred people must always be.
"Well, when the rest have gone to Sunday-school and papa has started on his afternoon rounds, I'll come here and take my seat, where I used to when I was a wee tot, and we'll have an old-fashioned confab. Now if the girls have finished dressing, I'll run and get ready for church. I'm so glad all through that I can again hear one of Dr. Raeburn's helpful sermons."
Mrs. Wainwright smiled.
"To hear Frances's and Amy's chatter, one would not think that so great a privilege, Grace."
"Oh, that amounts to nothing, mamma! Let somebody else criticise their father, and you'd hear another story. Ministers' families are apt to be a little less appreciative than outsiders, they are so used to the minister in all his moods. But Dr. Raeburn's Every Morning has been my companion book to the Bible ever since I was old enough to like and need such books, and though I was so small when I went that I remember only the music of his voice, I want to hear him preach again."
"Grace," came a call from the floor above, "you can have your turn at the basin and the looking-glass if you'll come this minute. Hurry, dear, I'm keeping Eva off by strategy. You have your hair to do, and I want you to hook my collar. You must have finished in mother's room, and it's my belief you two are just chattering. Harry, please, dear!"
"Yes, Miriam, I'm coming. But let Eva go on. It takes only a second for me to slip into my jacket. I never dress for church," she explained to her mother. "This little black gown is what I always wear on Sundays."
"I wish you could have a room of your own, daughter. It's hard after you've had independence so long to be sandwiched in between Miriam and Eva. But we could not manage another room just now." The mother looked wistful.
"I'm doing very well, mamma. Never give it a thought. Why, it's fun being with my sisters as I always used to be. Miriam is the one entitled to a separate room, if anybody could have it."
Yet she stifled a sigh as she ran up to the large ill-appointed chamber which the three sisters used in common.
When you have had your own separate individual room for years, with every dainty belonging that is possible for a luxurious taste to provide, it is a bit of a trial to give it up and be satisfied with a cot at one end of a long barnlike place, with no chance for solitude, and only one mirror and one pitcher and basin to serve the needs of three persons. It can be borne, however, as every small trial in this world may, if there is a cheerful spirit and a strong loving heart to fall back on. Besides, most things may be improved if you know how to go about the task. The chief thing is first to accept the situation, and then bravely to undertake the changing it for the better.
"Doctor," said the mother, as her husband brushed his thin gray hair in front of his chiffonier, while the merry sound of their children's voices came floating down to them through open doors—"Doctor, thank the dear Lord for me in my stead when you sit in the pew to-day. I'll be with you in my thoughts. It's such a blessed thing that our little middle girl is at home with us."
The Doctor sighed. That bill in his pocket was burning like fire in his soul. He was not a cent nearer meeting it than he had been on Friday, and to-morrow was but twenty-four hours off. Yesterday he had tried to borrow from a cousin, but in vain.
"I fail to see a blessing anywhere, Charlotte," he said. "Things couldn't well be worse. This is a dark bit of the road." He checked himself. Why had he saddened her? It was not his custom.
"When things are at the very worst, Jack, I've always noticed that they take a turn for the better. It may not be my way; it may not be thy way; but yet in His own way the Lord will provide." Mrs. Wainwright spoke steadily and cheerfully. Her thin cheeks flushed with feeling. Her tones were strong. Her smile was like a sun-beam. Doctor Wainwright's courage rose.
"Anyway, darling wife, you are the best blessing a man ever had." He stooped and kissed her like a lover.
Presently the whole family, Grace walking proudly at her father's side, took their way across the fields to church.
Perhaps you may have seen lovely Sunday mornings, but I don't think there is a place in the whole world where Sunday sunshine is as clear, Sunday stillness as full of rest, Sunday flowers as fragrant, as in our hamlet among the hills, our own dear Highland. Far and near the roads wind past farms and fields, with simple happy homes nestling under the shadow of the mountains. You hear the church-bells, and their sound is soft and clear as they break the golden silence. Groups of people, rosy-cheeked children, and sturdy boys and pleasant-looking men and women pass you walking to church, exchanging greetings. Carriage-loads of old and young drive on, all going the same way. It makes me think of a verse in the Psalm which my old Scottish mother loved:
"I joyed when to the house of God
'Go up,' they said to me,
'Jerusalem, within thy gates
Our feet shall standing be.'"
"Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!" hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and sisters. The storm of the two previous days had newly brightened the landscape. Every twig and branch shone, and the red and yellow maple leaves, the wine-color of the oak, the burnished copper of the beech, were like jewels in the sun.
"If it were not Sunday I would dance," said Amy, subduing her steps to a sober walk as she saw approaching the majestic figure of Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes.
"THIS BEING BEHIND TIME IS VERY REPREHENSIBLE, MY LOVE."
"You are late, Amy Raeburn," said this lady. "Your father went to church a half-hour ago, and the bell is tolling. Young people should cultivate a habit of being punctual. This being a few minutes behind time is very reprehensible—very rep-re-hen-sible indeed, my love."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Amy, meekly, walking slowly beside the also tardy Mrs. Barnes.
"I dare say," continued Mrs. Barnes, "that you are thinking to yourself that I also am late. But, Amy, I have no duty to the parish. I am an independent woman. You are a girl, and the minister's daughter at that. You are in a very different position. I do hope, Amy Raeburn, that you will not be late another Sunday morning. Your mother is not so good a disciplinarian as I could wish."
"No, Mrs. Barnes?" said Amy, with a gentle questioning manner, which would have irritated the matron still more had their progress not now ceased on the church steps. Amy, both resentful and amused, fluttered, like an alarmed chick to the brooding mother-wing, straight to the minister's pew. Mrs. Barnes, smoothing ruffled plumes, proceeded with stately and impressive tread to her place in front of the pulpit.
Doctor Raeburn was rising to pronounce the invocation. The church was full. Amy glanced over to the Wainwright pew, and saw Grace, and smiled. Into Amy's mind stole a text she was fond of, quite as if an angel had spoken it, and she forgot that she had been ruffled the wrong way by Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes. This was the text:
"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."
"You are a hateful, wicked girl, Amy," said Amy to herself. "Why, when you have so much to make you happy, are you so easily upset by a fretful old lady, who is, after all, your friend, and would stand by you if there were need?"
Amy did not know it, but it was Grace's sweet and tranquil look that had brought the text to her mind. One of the dearest things in life is that we may do good and not know that we are doing it.
When the Sunday hush fell on the house of which Mrs. Wainwright had spoken Grace came softly tapping at the door.
"Yes, dear," called her mother; "come right in."
"Mamma," said Grace, after a few minutes, "will you tell me plainly, if you don't mind, what is worrying papa? I don't mean generally, but what special trouble is on his mind to-day?"
"Potter's bill, I have no doubt," said the mother, quietly. "Other troubles come and go, but there is always Potter's bill in the background. And every little while it crops up and gets into the front."
"What is Potter's bill, dear mamma, and how do we come to owe it?"
"I can't fully explain to you, my child, how it comes to be so large. When Mr. Potter's father was living and carrying on the business, he used to say to your father: 'Just get all you want here, doctor; never give yourself a thought; pay when you can and what you can. We come to you for medical advice and remedies, and we'll strike a balance somehow.' The Potters have during years had very little occasion for a doctor's services, and we, with this great family, have had to have groceries, shoes, and every other thing, and Potter's bill has kept rolling up like a great snowball, bit by bit. We pay something now and then. I sold my old sideboard that came to me from my grandparents, and paid a hundred dollars on it six months ago. Old Mr. Potter died. Rufus reigns in his stead, as the Bible says, and he wants to collect his money. I do not blame him, Grace, but he torments poor papa. There are two hundred dollars due now, and papa has been trying to get money due him, and to pay Rufus fifty dollars, but he's afraid he can't raise the money."
Grace reflected. Then she asked a question. "Dear mamma, don't think me prying, but is Potter's the only pressing obligation on papa just now?"
Mrs. Wainwright hesitated. Then she answered, a little slowly, "No, Grace, there are other accounts; but Potter's is the largest."
"I ask, because I can help my father," said Grace, modestly. "Uncle Ralph deposited five hundred dollars to my credit in a New York bank on my birthday. The money is mine, to do with absolutely as I please. I have nearly fifty dollars in my trunk. Uncle and auntie have always given me money lavishly. Papa can settle Potter's account to-morrow. I'm only too thankful I have the money. To think that money can do so much towards making people happy or making them miserable! Then, mother dear, we'll go into papa's accounts, and see how near I can come to relieving the present state of affairs; and if papa will consent, we'll collect his bills, and then later, I've another scheme—that is a fine, sweet-toned piano in the parlor. I mean to give lessons."
"Grace, it was an extravagance in our circumstances to get that piano, but the girls were so tired of the old one; it was worn out, a tin pan, and this is to be paid for on easy terms, so much a month."
Grace hated to have her mother apologize in this way. She hastened to say, "I'm glad it's here, and don't think me conceited, but I've had the best instruction uncle could secure for me here, and a short course in Berlin, and now I mean to make it of some use. I believe I can get pupils."
"Not many in Highland, I fear, Grace."
"If not in Highland, in New York. Leave that to me."
Mrs. Wainwright felt as if she had been taking a tonic. To the lady living her days out in her own chamber, and unaccustomed to excitement, there was something very surprising and very stimulating too in the swift way of settling things and the fearlessness of this young girl. Though she had yielded very reluctantly to her brother's wish to keep Grace apart from her family and wholly his own for so many years, she now saw that there was good in it. Her little girl had developed into a resolute, capable, and strong sort of young woman, who could make use of whatever tools her education had put into her hands.
"This hasn't been quite the right kind of Sunday talk, mother," said Grace, "but I haven't been here three days without seeing there's a cloud, and I don't like to give up to clouds. I'm like the old woman who must take her broom and sweep the cobwebs out of the sky."
"God helping you, dear, you will succeed. You have swept some cobwebs out of my sky already."
"God helping me, yes, dear. Thank you for saying that. Now don't you want me to sing to you? I'll darken your room and set the door ajar, and then I'll go to the parlor and play soft, rippling, silvery things, and sing to you, and you will fall asleep while I'm singing, and have a lovely nap before they all come home."
As Grace went down the stairs, she paused a moment at the door of the big dining-room, "large as a town-hall," her father sometimes said. Everything at Wishing-Brae was of ample size—great rooms, lofty ceilings, big fire-places, broad windows.
"I missed the sideboard, the splendid old mahogany piece with its deep winy lustre, and the curious carved work. Mother must have grieved to part with it. Surely uncle and aunt couldn't have known of these straits. Well, I'm at home now, and they need somebody to manage for them. Uncle always said I had a business head. God helping me, I'll pull my people out of the slough of despond."
The young girl went into the parlor, where the amber light from the west was beginning to fall upon the old Wainwright portraits, the candelabra with their prisms pendent, and the faded cushions and rugs. Playing softly, as she had said, singing sweetly "Abide with me" and "Sun of my soul," the mother was soothed into a peaceful little half-hour of sleep, in which she dreamed that God had sent her an angel guest, whose name was Grace.