Frances Hodgson Burnett—
The Girl Who Loved Stories And Wrote Them
From under the sitting-room table came strange whispers, but Mrs. Hodgson was not at all surprised. Beneath the long overhanging cover she could see a chubby, curly-headed little girl seated on the floor talking in low earnest tones to her wax doll, braced against the table leg.
Frances, the little girl under the table, would have described the scene very differently. What she saw was not an ordinary center table, but an Indian wigwam; not a speechless doll, but a squaw to whom she, as the chief, was telling tales of the war-trail and the happy hunting grounds.
“Frances is pretending again,” said Mrs. Hodgson to herself as she went out of the room, a bit puzzled at this little daughter’s way of playing.
The chubby little girl and her doll had many an adventure together. They took mad gallops on coal-black steeds that seemed to ordinary eyes nothing but the arms of the nursery sofa. As survivors from a sinking ship they drifted on a raft that Frances’ two sisters would have called the green arm chair. These experiences seemed very real to this little girl.
Something within little Frances’ curly head helped her to transform the sitting-room cupboard into a temple in Central America and the stiff doll into Mary Queen of Scots. It was the gift of imagination. How surprised her family would have been at that time had they known that this gift was one day to make her a famous storywriter.
In the smoky factory town of Manchester, England, Frances Eliza Hodgson was born, November 24, 1849. When she was about four years old, her sweet, gentle mother was left a widow.