And the one who had passed it off as her own, the one who had been the head performer, and who had recited the verses, was Edith Whiton!
On rushed Nathalie straight towards the dressing room, determined to tell Edith just what she thought of her, but the sight of a crowd of girls of which Edith was the central figure brought her to a standstill. “Of course, Edith, we all recognized you!” “It was a clever Stunt.” “Well, you have shown you are a Pioneer, all right!” Many similar pæans of praise came to Nathalie’s ears.
The girl stood still, inwardly raging with indignation, almost ready to cry with the strife between her outraged sense of right, and a commonplace little monitor who whispered, “It would be mean to accuse Edith of a sneaking act in the very midst of her glorification. And then, too,” continued the whisperer, “you are not really sure that Edith has not some excuse to offer; there was no name on your paper.” Nathalie swallowed hard, then her muscles relaxed, and the hard angry gleam disappeared from her eyes. Well, Edith might be mean and small, but she at least would be above her, she would say nothing!
With a certain pride that she had risen above doing what she would undoubtedly have regretted afterwards, Nathalie hurried into the dressing-room. A few minutes later as the curtain rose it displayed in its completed form the second idea that she had spent so much time in planning.
Around the hearthstone in a Dutch kitchen sat a huys-moeder, busily undressing her two little kinderkins while she sang the crooning nursery rhyme:[[1]]
| “Trip attroup attronjes, De vaarken in de boojes, De koejes in de klaver, De paarden in de haver, De kalver in de lang gras, De eenjes in de water plas, So grootmyn klein poppetje was.” “Colonial Days in Old New York.” Earle. |
Through a window in the back of the cozy kitchen a blanketed squaw was seen dandling her swaddled papoose in her arms, as she peered hungrily in at the glowing fire, and watched the huys-moeder fill the warming pan with coals, thrust it between the sheets of the little trundle-bed, and then give her babies some mulled cider to drink.
The tiny figures in their cosyntjes, or nightcaps with long capes, had just crawled into bed when “tap-toes” sounded, and the honest mynheer and his good vrouw hastened to cover the still glowing embers with ashes for the fire of the morrow. The Dutch curfew had sounded, which meant that all good simple folk must hie to bed.
This fireside scene in old New York won its merited applause, and Nathalie, who had been the Dutch mother, Mrs. Morrow’s kiddies, the kinderkins, and Fred Tyson, the mynheer, were called before the curtain to receive the plaudits of their friends.