Lolly is not a nice hero for a story, but what can I do? He is all the Lolly Dinks I have,—a “poor thing, but mine own.” And if I can’t make the best of him, I must make the worst; it is “live and Dinks live” with me. All is, Wide Awakes, try to help him with his poor traits; that is, not make use of them on your own account.
Outside his family circle, which is compact though narrow, my Lolly has the reputation of a “perfect gentleman.” Our friends and neighbors invite him to dinner and to lunch. Then they tell how good, how refined, how sweet his manners, how gentle! And this young Dinks hears it all; does he believe so? Why not? He is to these people as he appears; but when I try to present to their view an interior picture, one I am somewhat familiar with, they return a pitying smile, and believe in their hearts that I am describing myself, or, at any rate, that I am solely to blame for all his shortcomings. I even bring up absolute facts. I say, “This morning, when I offered Lolly five cents, he tossed away, because I would not give him ten cents.” Or, “Yesterday, because I refused to go on the beach in a gale of wind to sail his boat, Lolly said, ‘You never do anything for me; you sit in your chair and read and read, and I think you are real mean.’” This, too, when I had trudged a mile into the woods with him, and lugged home a pile of bushes, flowers, and grasses. It is of no use; I am in the minority; they sympathize with him, not with me. I must hold my peace, but I will ask myself the question, so long as I have the spirit of a woman,—not Pilate’s,—whether old people or young people tell the truth; but, is it the young people or the old people who lie?
Whatever Lolly’s aspects are, life is a constant surprise and delight to him. He walks daily among wonders, as Emerson says. Well, as I have said before, this Master Dinks got into the habit of instructing me. His style was more imperative and curt than mine. Here is a sample:—
“Do you wish to know?
Listen, Marmy.
Shall I tell you?”
Of course I have got to know. His lesson begins: “Suppose, Mrs. Marmy, that the moon, being tired of her white color, should wish to borrow a few yellow rays from the sun,—where would she find postage stamps to get it at the sun post office?”
This terrible conundrum floors me, and I sit dismayed.
“Get ’em from the next rainbow!” he shrieks.
“My Lolly,” I reply, solemnly, “I see you understand the eternal fitness of things.”