Maid Sally

by Harriet A. Cheever

But the little girl knew exactly where to worm her thin little body past the hedge, take a twist or two, and there she was, all the more completely hidden that the screen was so thick near her seat. It never occurred to her that perhaps she ought not to listen. Too untaught a child was Sally to know that, and, oh! the delight and comfort of it all!

It has been said that Sally was imaginative, and a great thing it was for her, too. Because, don't you see, no matter how hard she might be working, she could fancy, or imagine herself, floating off to Dreamland in a Fairy's arms, even like the child in the story. Or, in her poor little attic room, she could imagine herself dressing up before a great, grand mirror, and getting ready for a party at Ingleside.

Now, it has also been said that Sally was not pretty to look at, but here is the truth of the matter: Sally had dull red hair, and a great deal of it. It was the kind of red that turned to ruddy gold when the sun shone on it. Her features were fine, straight, and what are called "well cut." Her eyes were a dark reddish brown, growing darker when she was troubled or excited, hazel eyes, getting darker with every year of her life. Then, strangely enough, both eyebrows and eyelashes were almost black, and the lashes long and curling.

But what child, pray, ever looked pretty, no matter how fine her features, who was only half clean, wore poor, ill-fitting, unbecoming clothes, and whose matted hair might indeed have been a disordered wig merely thrown on to her head?

Sally's teeth had "come in" very evenly, and had she not been brown as a little Indian from being out bareheaded in nearly all weathers, her skin would have been white and rosy red.

So, see you can, that although the child looked plain, and even homely, she yet had "points," as we say, of great beauty. And then, although Sally did not look like a brilliant child, she yet was "bright as a dollar." That must mean a new silver dollar, which you know is very bright and sparkles in the light. Just as maid Sally would have brightened and sparkled had she been in the light of a good home, with kind parents to teach her as a child needs to be taught.

Oh, but not a word has yet been said about her heart, her dear, childish heart. Very well; it was a kind, warm, want-to-do-right kind of heart. And this it was that made the people of Slipside Row like poor little Sally; it was the good heart beating under her shabby little gown.

It was a very sad thing that Sally could read only the smallest words, for her father had but taught her her letters when he was called away. She could neither write nor spell, and saddest of all,—Sally did not care! This shows how little she knew about life, or what she needed most to fit her for the right kind of a life.

But the angels watch over good children, and Sally was soon to have her young eyes opened to things she did not see as yet. And after all, there is an old, old saying that "blood will tell," and we do not know much yet about the kind of blood that was running through Sally's veins.

Now all her heart was bent on hearing the rest of the Fairy story, and finding out what the happy child saw and did in Fairy Town. And soon as she had eaten her supper, tried to coax down her thick, rumply hair, and smooth her dress into some shape, off darted Sally for Ingleside, and taking care that no one should see her enter,—she was ever careful about that,—like a rabbit she plunged through a thin spot in the hedge, and was soon on her rocky seat well up by the wall.