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