Excerpt
CHAPTER I. HOW THE LITTLE PRINCESS MADE SUNSHINE.
t was raining fast, and it had rained for two days. This was the third. Flora had become tired of the leaden sky and the wet earth. She had watched the moving clouds and the swaying branches of the trees long enough, and now she was ready for fair weather. But it seemed as if fair weather would never come, and she looked in vain for a bit of blue sky. There was not even a light streak. It was stormy without and it was stormy within. The gray side of the sky was all that could be seen, and the gray side of Flora's temper was out also. There was a sunny side to both, but that was carefully hidden by the sober clouds.
Flora was tired of the big drops that chased each other down the pane. She was tired of trying to look abroad through the wet glass and the mist. When she did get a glimpse of the outer world there was nothing to see, and that was the worst of it. There was nothing but muddy roads, pools of water and little patches of green grass. It was not to be borne.
Flora crept down from her high chair to the lowly footstool, leaned her head upon her hand and sighed. Sister Amy had gone to school, and Charley and Bertie were big boys. Of course they could go anywhere in any weather, with "yubber" boots. How she envied them! Only she the youngest of the flock, the Baby Pitcher, was forced to stay at home because it rained. So she sighed. Mamma heard the sigh and said inquiringly, "Well?"
"If I was a lady," said Flora, "a certain true lady, I wouldn't stay in for the weather. I would put on my water-prooth and go a-fishing."
"In the rain?"
"I would."
Mamma laughed. Now Flora was not in a mood to be laughed at, so she shut her eyes to keep back the tears, for she knew they would come if she did not shut the covers down tightly. She did not keep them all back however, for mamma saw two or three rolling slowly down her little girl's cheek.
"Wouldn't go fishing without a water-prooth," she added, petulantly; "might fall in and get wet."
Mamma did not laugh now. She was very grave. She had not had an easy time of it since falling weather set in. She could do nothing right. All her efforts had failed to amuse Flora. So mamma sighed.
Flora, forgetting that she must keep the covers shut down tightly, opened wide her eyes and was astonished. Mamma looked so very sober. Was she too going to cry because the pleasant sunshine staid away so long?
"I wouldn't," she said, earnestly. Mamma looked up. "I never would cry for the rain," hastily brushing the moisture from her own cheek. "Ladies don't, nor good children; only cross ones."
"I am glad to hear it," said mamma; but she did not smile.
"It will be pleasant when it clears off, I guess; don't you?"
"It generally is," said mamma, quietly; and then she went on with her work and paid no more attention to Flora. Now that was unusual conduct. What did mamma mean? In thinking about it, Flora forgot her own troubles, and forgot all about the rain, though at that moment it was beating fiercely against the window, and the cold wind was begging to come in....