Little Friend Lydia

by Ethel Calvert Phillips

Lydia picked out a red and a green and a white pellet, and putting bunny’s head on again, popped the red one into her mouth. She saw Dr. Wolfe unrolling a wide white bandage, and she thought just then she needed the red one most of all. But with Father’s arm about her, and Mother’s hand in both of hers, Lydia bore the pain without crying, and smiled bravely at the slave, whose yellow eyes gleamed sympathetically at her ankle nicely bound in its white bandage.

And in the week that followed, a week that might have been long and tiresome for a little girl who was not used to keeping still, the slave of the Princess-Without-Legs did his work well. As a soft, comfortable bedfellow, he was second only to Lucy Locket. He listened patiently to the long stories Lydia spun for him. And his manners with Miss Puss Whitetoes were truly remarkable, and should have put that rude cat to shame. For though Miss Puss in the country was much more independent than Miss Puss in the city, and not only declined to be cuddled, but often refused to keep company with Lydia when she was all alone, still Miss Puss was jealous of the slave, and could scarcely bear to see him in his place of favor at Lydia’s side. She growled and hissed and arched her back at the sight, and many a good laugh Lydia had at her silly behavior.

And Lydia had great comfort in the slave’s magic pellets. With a red candy in her mouth, she took pride in not crying or wincing when her ankle was bandaged. She tried to remember that the white candies meant, “No grumbling, no complaining, Lydia. Squeeze out a smile, Lydia. Don’t be a snarley-yow, Lydia.” And they helped her over many moments when she wanted to be cross and disagreeable.

But the green candies that brought good luck! Lydia often counted over on her fingers what they had done for her.

“There’s the three picture-puzzles that Friend Morris gave me, that’s one,” she would say. “And the little boy and girl cookies that Friend Deborah makes for me, that’s two. And the boat with the wooden sailor that Alexander whittled, that’s three. Then there’s the afghan for Lucy Locket that Mother showed me how to knit. And Father’s postcard game. Is that number five or six?”

And Lydia would begin all over again counting on her fingers.

Of all these pastimes, Lydia liked best the afghan, and the postcard game. The afghan was a gay striped affair—Roman, Mother called it—pink and blue and yellow and white and black. Before you were tired of working on pink it was time to begin on blue, and so it was always interesting. To be sure, at first, Mother had to be near at hand to pick up dropped stitches, but after a little practice Lydia could knit nicely by herself, with a mishap only now and then.

Mr. Blake’s postcard game was the most fun. One day, in he came with a package of picture postcards, showing the river, the church, the bridge, the schoolhouse, Crook Mountain where the river turned—all the pretty spots in the town of Hyatt. On every one of these he wrote Lydia’s name and address, and put them into an empty box, with a little book of stamps.

“Every day you must choose a card to send to yourself,” said he, “and I will mail it for you.”

So at once, Lydia chose a picture of Friend Morris’s house, and the next morning she was listening for the postman’s whistle, when round the house he came on his bicycle and handed in the postcard. But what do you think sly Father had done? On the back of the card he had drawn a picture, a picture that made Lydia, and the friendly postman, and Mother, and every one who saw it laugh. For there was Lydia, after her fall, being helped up the stairs again by Lucy Locket, while round the top of the stairs peeped the head of the faithful slave. And Lydia’s own head and ankle were wrapped round and round in yards and yards of bandage.