When I was your age

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

“Be as wings, tiny things,
To my butterfly;
In the flowers, hours on hours,
Let my darling lie.

“Shine ye must, in the dust,
Twinkle as she runs,
Threading a necklace gay,
Through the summer suns.

“Stringing days, borrowing phrase,
Weaving wondrous plots,
With her eyes blue and wise
As forget-me-nots
. . . . . . . . . .
“Cinderel, grown a belle,
Coming from her ball,
Frightened much, let just such
A tiny slipper fall.

“If men knew as I do
Half thy sweets, my own,
They’d not delay another day,—
I should be alone.

“Come and go, friend and foe,
Fairy Prince most fine!
Take your gear otherwhere!
Maud is only mine.”

But it was not all singing, of course. Our mother read to us a great deal too, and told us stories, from the Trojan War down to “Puss in Boots.” It was under her care, I think, that we used to look over the “Shakspere book.” This was a huge folio, bound in rusty-brown leather, and containing the famous Boydell prints illustrating the plays of Shakspere. The frontispiece represented Shakspere nursed by Tragedy and Comedy,—the prettiest, chubbiest of babies, seated on the ground with his little toes curled up under him, while a lovely, laughing lady bent down to whisper in his ear; and another one, grave but no less beautiful, gazed earnestly upon him. Then came the “Tempest,”—oh, most lovely! The first picture showed Ariel dancing along the “yellow sands,” while Prospero waved him on with a commanding gesture; in the second, Miranda, all white and lovely, was coming out of the darksome cavern, and smiling with tender compassion on Ferdinand, who was trying to lift an impossible log. Then there was the delicious terror of the “Macbeth” pictures, with the witches and Banquo’s ghost. But soon our mother would turn the page and show us the exquisite figure of Puck, sitting on a toadstool, and make us shout with laughter over Nick Bottom and his rustic mates. From these magic pages we learned to hate Richard III. duly, and to love the little princes, whom Northcote’s lovely picture showed in white-satin doublet and hose, embracing each other, while the wicked uncle glowered at them from behind; and we wept over the second picture, where they lay asleep, unconscious of the fierce faces bending over them. Yes, we loved the “Shakspere book” very much.

Sometimes our mother would give us a party,—and that was sure to be a delightful affair, with charades or magic lantern or something of the kind. Here is an account of one such party, written by our mother herself in a letter to her sister, which lies before me:—

“My guests arrived in omnibus loads at four o’clock. My notes to parents concluded with the following P. S.: ‘Return omnibus provided, with insurance against plum-cake and other accidents.’ A donkey carriage afforded great amusement out of doors, together with swing, bowling-alley, and the Great Junk. [I have not mentioned the Junk yet, but you shall hear of it in good time.] While all this was going on, the H.’s, J. S., and I prepared a theatrical exhibition, of which I had made a hasty outline. It was the story of ‘Blue Beard.’ We had curtains which drew back and forth, and regular footlights. You can’t think how good it was! There were four scenes. My antique cabinet was the ‘Blue Beard’ cabinet; we yelled in delightful chorus when the door was opened, and the children stretched their necks to the last degree to see the horrible sight. The curtain closed upon a fainting-fit, done by four women. In the third scene we were scrubbing the fatal key, when I cried out, ‘Try the mustang liniment! It’s the liniment for us, for you know we must hang if we don’t succeed!’ This, which was made on the spur of the moment, overcame the whole audience with laughter, and I myself shook so that I had to go down into the tub in which we were scrubbing the key. Well, to make a long story short, our play was very successful, and immediately afterward came supper. There were four long tables for the children; twenty sat at each. Ice-cream, cake, blancmange, and delicious sugar-plums, also oranges, etc., were served up ‘in style.’ We had our supper a little later. Three omnibus-loads went from my door; the last—the grown people—at nine o’clock.”

In another letter to the same dear sister, our mother says:—

“I have written a play for our doll theatre, and performed it yesterday afternoon with great success. It occupied nearly an hour. I had alternately to grunt and squeak the parts, while Chev played the puppets. [Chev was the name by which she always called our father; it was an abbreviation of Chevalier, for he was always to her the ‘knight without reproach or fear.’] The effect was really extremely good. The spectators were in a dark room, and the little theatre, lighted by a lamp from the top, looked very pretty.”