Excerpt
INTRODUCTION.
While Prudy was in Indiana visiting the Cliffords, and in the midst of her trials with mosquitoes, she said one day,—
“I wouldn’t cry, Aunt ’Ria, only my heart’s breaking. The very next person that ever dies, I wish they’d ask God to please stop sending these awful skeeters. I can’t bear ’em any longer, now, certainly.”
There was a look of utter despair on Prudy’s disfigured face. Bitter tears were trickling from the two white puff-balls which had been her eyes; her forehead and cheeks were of a flaming pink, broken into little snow-drifts full of stings: she looked as if she had just been rescued from an angry beehive. Altogether, her appearance was exceedingly droll; yet Grace would not allow herself to smile at her afflicted little cousin. “Strange,” said she, “what makes our mosquitoes so impolite to strangers! It’s a downright shame, isn’t it, ma, to have little Prudy so imposed upon? If I could only amuse her, and make her forget it!”
“Oh, mamma,” Grace broke forth again suddenly, “I have an idea, a very brilliant idea! Please listen, and pay particular attention; for I shall speak in a figure, as Robin says. There’s a certain small individual who is not to understand.”
“I wouldn’t risk that style of talking,” said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; “or, if you do, your figures of speech must be very obscure, remember.”
“Well, ma,” continued Grace with a significant glance at Prudy, “what I was going to say is this: We wish to treat certain young relatives of ours very kindly; don’t we, now?—certain afflicted and abused young relatives, you know.
“Now, I’ve thought of an entertainment. Ahem! Yesterday I entered a certain Englishman’s house,”—here Grace pointed through the window towards Mr. Sherwood’s cottage, lest her mother should, by chance, lose her meaning,—“I entered a certain Englishman’s house just as the family were sitting down to the table,—festal board, I mean.
“They were talking about mistle-toe boughs, and all sorts of old-country customs; and then they said what a funny time they had one Christmas, with the youngest, about the mizzle, as he called it: do you remember, ma? do you understand?”
“You mean little Harvey? Oh, yes.”
“Pray do be careful, ma! Then Mr. Sherwood said to his—I mean, the hat said to the bonnet, that there were some wonderful—ahem—legends, about genii and sprites and—and so forth; not printed, but written, which the boy liked to hear when he was ‘overgetting’ the measles. A certain lady, not three inches from your chair, ma, was the one who wrote them; and now”—
Prudy had turned about, and the only remnants of her face which looked at all natural—that is, the irises and pupils of her swollen eyes—were shining with curiosity.
“There, now, what is it, Gracie? what is it you don’t want me to hear?”
Grace laughed. “Oh, nothing much, dear: never mind.”
“You oughtn’t to say ‘Never mind,’” pursued Prudy: “my mother tells me always to mind.”
“I only mean it isn’t any matter, Prudy.”
“Oh!...