Fanny exerted herself, and won the prize, for Polly helped Maud,
and neglected her own work; but she did n’t care much, for Mr.
Shaw said, looking at the three bright faces at the tea-table, “I
guess Polly has been making sunshine for you to-day.” “No,
indeed, sir, I have n’t done anything, only dress Maud’s doll.”
And Polly did n’t think she had done much; but it was one of the
little things which are always waiting to be done in this world of
ours, where rainy days come so often, where spirits get out of tune,
and duty won’t go hand in hand with pleasure. Little things of this
sort are especially good work for little people; a kind little thought,
an unselfish little act, a cheery little word, are so sweet and
comfortable, that no one can fail to feel their beauty and love the
giver, no matter how small they are. Mothers do a deal of this sort
of thing, unseen, unthanked, but felt and remembered long
afterward, and never lost, for this is the simple magic that binds
hearts together, and keeps home happy. Polly had learned this
secret.
She loved to do the “little things” that others did not see, or were
too busy to stop for; and while doing them, without a thought of
thanks, she made sunshine for herself as well as others. There was
so much love in her own home, that she quickly felt the want of it
in Fanny’s, and puzzled herself to find out why these people were
not kind and patient to one another. She did not try to settle the
question, but did her best to love and serve and bear with each, and
the good will, the gentle heart, the helpful ways and simple
manners of our Polly made her dear to every one, for these virtues,
even in a little child, are lovely and attractive.
Mr. Shaw was very kind to her, for he liked her modest, respectful
manners; and Polly was so grateful for his many favors, that she
soon forgot her fear, and showed her affection in all sorts of
confiding little ways, which pleased him extremely. She used to
walk across the park with him when he went to his office in the
morning, talking busily all the way, and saying “Good-by” with a
nod and a smile when they parted at the great gate. At first, Mr.
Shaw did not care much about it; but soon he missed her if she did
not come, and found that something fresh and pleasant seemed to
brighten all his day, if a small, gray-coated figure, with an
intelligent face, a merry voice, and a little hand slipped confidingly
into his, went with him through the wintry park. Coming home
late, he liked to see a curly, brown head watching at the window;
to find his slippers ready, his paper in its place, and a pair of
willing feet, eager to wait upon him. “I wish my Fanny was more
like her,” he often said to himself, as he watched the girls, while
they thought him deep in politics or the state of the money market.
Poor Mr. Shaw had been so busy getting rich, that he had not
found time to teach his children to love him; he was more at
leisure now, and as his boy and girls grew up, he missed
something. Polly was unconsciously showing him what it was, and
making child-love so sweet, that he felt he could not do without it
any more, yet did n’t quite know how to win the confidence of the
children, who had always found him busy, indifferent, and
absentminded.
As the girls were going to bed one night, Polly kissed grandma, as
usual, and Fanny laughed at her, saying, “What a baby you are! We
are too old for such things now.”
“I don’t think people ever are too old to kiss their fathers and
mothers,” was the quick answer.
“Right, my little Polly;” and Mr. Shaw stretched out his hand to her
with such a kindly look, that Fanny stared surprised, and then said,
shyly, “I thought you did n’t care about it, father.” “I do, my dear:”