“Yes,” said April; “but you haven’t heard the worst. Think of being suddenly united to such a young body! There was Maria, elderly and dignified, full of wisdom and experience, longing for nothing so much as to be left alone to think over the facts she had learned. And there were her arms and legs always wanting to be in motion. New, impulsive, full of sawdust, it was misery to them to be still. They wanted to dance and frisk all the time, to wear fine clothes, to have other dolls come on visits, to drink tea out of the baby-house tea-set, and have a good time generally. When Maria assured them that she was tired of these things, and had seen the vanity of them, they said they wanted to see the vanity too! And if ever she got a quiet chance, and had fallen into a reverie about old times and friends,—the silk stockings in the wardrobe, for instance, and the touching story they had told her; or the shoe-buckles, who were exiles from their country,—all of a sudden her obstreperous limbs would assert themselves, out would flourish her legs, up fly her hands and hit her in the eye, and the first thing she knew she would be tumbled out on to the floor. Just think what a trial to a lady of fine education and manners! It was enough to vex a saint. She assured me she had lost at least three scruples of wax. But nobody cared in the least about her scruples.”
“And what became of the poor thing in the end?” asked Thekla.
“That I can’t say,” replied April: “I had to come away, you know; and I left her there. One of two things, she told me, was pretty sure to happen: either her arms and legs would sober with time, or she would get so hideous from unhappiness that May’s mamma would buy a new head to match them. ‘Then, ah then!’ said she, ‘I may perhaps be allowed to go back to my beloved top-shelf in the wardrobe. Never, never will I quit it again so long as I live!’ She ended with a sigh. I bade her farewell, but on the way downstairs I met a little girl coming up and calling out, ‘Where dolly? me want dolly!’ And I fear poor Maria was not left any longer in peace in the attic closet.”
April closed her story. She took her moments from the can, poured the dandelions into Thekla’s lap, and rose to go.
“I am late,” she said: “all my violets must be made before midnight. I have none but these few in my hair.”
“Not yet.—stay a little longer!” pleaded the children.
“Ah, no!” said April: “I must go. You won’t miss me long: May is coming, my sister May. Everybody loves her better than they do me,” and she wiped her eyes dolefully as she shut the door.
“What a goose I am!” she cried, flinging it open again, with a merry laugh. “Don’t mind my nonsense. Good-by, dears,—good-by!”
Oh, how cheerful the kitchen seemed now! Where were the colds and the disconsolate looks? All gone; and Max and Thekla laughed gayly into each other’s faces.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Max, “if April didn’t cry so easily, she’d be one of the jolliest girls in the world.”