This is Boston. It is still and quiet. Night is dark all around. Soft and stealthy come footsteps—the Indians! They gather from the shadows of the trees and houses, they wave their tomahawks exultantly, they glide to the wharf. In their path stands a little girl in a blue-checked apron. She falls upon her knees in terror.
“Save me!” she cries. The chief laughs a horrid laugh; he raises his tomahawk—the dog barks loud and the Child nearly drops the peas in her lap, so frightened she is.
“I thought they were real! I thought they were coming!” she whispers to herself.
Let us think of pleasant things! Peas are so small if you count them by ones! If people considered whenever they gobbled peas so quickly that every one had to be shelled by one poor, tired little girl! But no, they eat them without a thought of how she sat in the little tight chair and rattled them into the pan. If they were only rich enough to leave the chair and the peas and the farm and go to a city! What city? Oh, New York or Boston or Persia. In Persia the days are full of richness and the nights are Arabian. Along the streets walk veiled and lovely women—does it matter that to the Child their veils are of the dull blue cotton that wreathes her mother’s hat? By all the Persian monarchs, no!—driving black dogs and white hinds, followed by turbaned slaves and glaring eunuchs, with misty genii hovering in the background. They enter a frowning portal—but let us pretend!
This is Persia. The streets are narrow; the people jostle and crowd to one side a little girl in a blue-checked apron. She walks along unknown, unnoticed. Wait! Who is this? It is a slave in a turban with a scimitar flashing with jewels. He bows low.
“I am bidden to tell you that your presence is desired by my master, lovely maiden!” The lovely maiden looks haughtily at him.
“I will follow you, Slave,” she says. They go on to a low narrow door. The slave says a magic word and the door swings open. Through a long passage and a great hall they go. There bursts upon them a radiance of light. Flowers fill the air with an unearthly fragrance. Golden goblets and ruby pitchers stand on silver salvers with “dried fruit, cakes, and sweetmeats, which give an appetite for drinking.” Lovely slave girls lead the maiden to the bath, and attire her in rich and costly robes. They seat her in a golden chair and give her a bowl of seed-pearls to string. (These are the pearls.) She lifts her lovely head and says in a voice of silver music, “Where is your master?”
“Lady,” says one of the slaves, bowing low, “he comes.” She hears the feet of the approaching prince; she dares not raise her eyes. How will he look? What gift will he bring? She sinks her hands deep in the pearls. Ah, what is that? A great sweet-bough drops in the pan.
“Your gran’ma wants them peas!” says the prince in genial rebuke. Alas! And did Haroun-al-Raschid speak through his nose?
The Child stares at him, dazed.