Black-Eyed Susan

by Ethel Calvert Phillips

Phil carried a tray of fat snub-nosed little animals back to Madame Bonnet to find out what they were.

“Land sakes!” exclaimed Madame Bonnet. “Don’t you know what they are? They’re dogs, pug dogs. Didn’t you ever see one? Susan, didn’t you ever see a pug dog? Well, I don’t know as they are as common as they used to be. Ladies used to like them for pets.” And Madame Bonnet shook her head over the way times had changed since she was a girl.

The children wandered round and round, entranced afresh at each table and shelf.

There was a small wooden clock, like the timepiece in Susan’s kitchen at home, whose pendulum swung gayly to and fro if only you helped it a little with your finger. There were dolls’ hats made by Madame Bonnet herself, that varied in style from a knitted tam-o’-shanter to a strange turban-like affair with a jaunty chicken feather in the top. There was sheet after sheet of paper dolls that surely belonged to the days of long ago, for the ladies wore their hair in a way that Grandmother would have recognized as a waterfall, and the little girl dolls had droll pantalettes hanging below their skirts.

There was a beautiful sawdust and china doll, whose wavy black china hair was piled high upon her head, whose strapped china boots gracefully took “first position” when she was held upright, and whose rosy lips smiled sweetly in spite of the fact that her bright green silk dress was neatly pasted on, so that it wouldn’t come off, no matter what the emergency. Perhaps the fancy gilt paper trimming on dolly’s frock kept her cheerful. Perhaps Susan’s open admiration warmed her chilly little china heart and helped her to forget any discomfort she might suffer.

At any rate, Susan passed reluctantly from her side to view the doll’s furniture, and there she entered into such a delightful wilderness of chairs, beds, tables, and sofas as would be difficult to describe. Parlor sets with red and blue velvet trimmings; bedroom sets quite complete, down to the cradle rocking comfortably away beside the mother’s big bed; rocking-chairs; baby’s high chair; a bookcase filled with tiny paper books; a stove with lids that really lifted off.

“Oh, I can’t go home!” cried Susan, when Grandfather opened the door and, stooping low to save his head, came into the shop.

“Five minutes more,” said Grandfather, as he sat down for a little talk with his old friend Madame Bonnet.

“Oh, Phil, only five minutes more.” And in that five minutes Susan flew around like a distracted hen, making up her mind what her purchase should be.

Phil had been absorbed for some time in a pile of paper books with gay red-and-white pictured covers, and he now came forward with his selection. “The Story of Naughty Adolphus,” read Grandfather, and gazed with interest upon the picture of Adolphus, to whom “naughty” seemed a mild word to apply. For not only was Adolphus dancing up and down in a fit of temper, and all but striking his meek and shrinking little nurse who stood terror stricken close by; but it was very evident that Adolphus refused to have his hair brushed, his face washed, or finger nails trimmed. All this the picture showed quite plainly, and innocent Phil gazed at it with a virtuous air, for, in his worst moments, he felt sure he had never even approached “Naughty Adolphus.”