An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa M. Alcott

silly as Trix and the other, girls. She would n’t go sleigh-riding,

though Mr. Frank teased, and she wanted to ever so much. She ‘s

sorry, I know, and won’t forget what you say any more, if you ‘ll

forgive her this once,” cried Polly, very earnestly, when the foolish

little story was told.

“I don’t see how I can help it, when you plead so well for her.

Come here, Fan, and mind this one thing; drop all this nonsense,

and attend to your books, or off you go; and Canada is no joke in

winter time, let me tell you.”

As he spoke, Mr. Shaw stroked his sulky daughter’s cheek, hoping

to see some sign of regret; but Fanny felt injured, and would n’t

show that she was sorry, so she only said, pettishly, “I suppose I

can have my flowers, now the fuss is over.”

“They are going straight back where they came from, with a line

from me, which will keep that puppy from ever sending you any

more.” Ringing the bell, Mr, Shaw despatched the unfortunate

posy, and then turned to Polly, saying, kindly but gravely, “Set this

silly child of mine a good example and do your best for her, won’t

you?”

“Me? What can I do, sir?” asked Polly, looking ready, but quite

ignorant how to begin.

“Make her as like yourself as possible, my dear; nothing would

please me better. Now go, and let us hear no more of this folly.”

They went without a word, and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the

affair; but poor Polly did, for Fan scolded her, till Polly thought

seriously of packing up and going home next day. I really have n’t

the heart to relate the dreadful lectures she got, the snubs she

suffered, or the cold shoulders turned upon her for several days

after this. Polly’s heart was full, but she told no one, and bore her

trouble silently, feeling her friend’s ingratitude and injustice

deeply.

Tom found out what the matter was, and sided with Polly, which

proceeding led to scrape number two.

“Where ‘s Fan?” asked the young gentleman, strolling into his

sister’s room, where Polly lay on the sofa, trying to forget her

troubles in an interesting book.

“Down stairs, seeing company.”

“Why did n’t you go, too?”

“I don’t like Trix, and I don’t know her fine New York friends.”

“Don’t want to, neither, why don’t you say?”

“Not polite.”

“Who cares? I say, Polly, come and have some fun.”

“I ‘d rather read.”

“That is n’t polite.”

Polly laughed, and turned a page. Tom whistled a minute, then

sighed deeply, and put his hand to his forehead, which the black

plaster still adorned.

“Does your head ache?” asked Polly.

“Awfully.”

“Better lie down, then.”

“Can’t; I ‘m fidgety. and want to be ‘amoosed’ as Pug says.”

“Just wait till I finish my chapter, and then I ‘ll come,” said pitiful

Polly.

“All right,” returned the perjured boy, who had discovered that a

broken head was sometimes more useful than a whole one, and

exulting in his base stratagem, he roved about the room, till Fan’s

bureau arrested him. It was covered with all sorts of finery, for she

had dressed in a hurry, and left everything topsy-turvy. A

well-conducted boy would have let things alone, or a moral brother

would have put things to rights; being neither, Tom rummaged to

his hearts content, till Fan’s drawers looked as if some one had

been making hay in them. He tried the effect of ear-rings, ribbons,

and collars; wound up the watch, though it was n’t time; burnt his

inquisitive nose with smelling-salts; deluged his grimy

handkerchief with Fan’s best cologne; anointed his curly crop with

her hair-oil; powdered his face with her violet-powder; and

finished off by pinning on a bunch of false ringlets, which Fanny

tried, to keep a profound secret. The ravages committed by this

bad boy are beyond the power of language to describe, as he

revelled in the interesting drawers, boxes, and cases, which held

his sister’s treasures.

When the curls had been put on, with much pricking of fingers,

and a blue ribbon added, . la Fan, he surveyed himself with

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