life, that she flew about like a distracted butterfly, and hardly knew
what happened, till she found herself seated before the great green
curtain in the brilliant theatre. Old Mr. Bird sat on one side, Fanny
on the other, and both let her alone, for which she was very
grateful, as her whole attention was so absorbed in the scene
around her, that she could n’t talk.
Polly had never been much to the theatre; and the few plays she
had seen were the good old fairy tales, dramatized to suit young
beholders, lively, bright, and full of the harmless nonsense which
brings the laugh without the blush. That night she saw one of the
new spectacles which have lately become the rage, and run for
hundreds of nights, dazzling, exciting, and demoralizing the
spectator by every allurement French ingenuity can invent, and
American prodigality execute. Never mind what its name was, it
was very gorgeous, very vulgar, and very fashionable; so, of
course, it was much admired, and every one went to see it. At first,
Polly thought she had got into fairy-land, and saw only the
sparkling creatures who danced and sung in a world of light and
beauty; but, presently, she began to listen to the songs and
conversation, and then the illusion vanished; for the lovely
phantoms sang negro melodies, talked slang, and were a disgrace
to the good old-fashioned elves whom she knew and loved so well.
Our little girl was too innocent to understand half the jokes, and
often wondered what people were laughing at; but, as the first
enchantment subsided, Polly began to feel uncomfortable, to be
sure her mother would n’t like to have her there, and to wish she
had n’t come. Somehow, things seemed to get worse and worse, as
the play went on; for our small spectator was being rapidly
enlightened by the gossip going on all about her, as well as by her
own quick eyes and girlish instincts. When four-and-twenty girls,
dressed as jockeys, came prancing on to the stage, cracking their
whips, stamping the heels of their topboots, and winking at the
audience, Polly did not think it at all funny, but looked disgusted,
and was glad when they were gone; but when another set appeared
in a costume consisting of gauze wings, and a bit of gold fringe
round the waist, poor unfashionable Polly did n’t know what to do;
for she felt both frightened and indignant, and sat with her eyes on
her play-bill, and her cheeks getting hotter and hotter every
minute.
“What are you blushing so for?” asked Fanny, as the painted sylphs
vanished.
“I ‘m so ashamed of those girls,” whispered Polly, taking a long
breath of relief.
“You little goose, it ‘s just the way it was done in Paris, and the
dancing is splendid. It seems queer at first; but you ‘ll get used to
it, as I did.”
“I ‘ll never come again,” said Polly, decidedly; for her innocent
nature rebelled against the spectacle, which, as yet, gave her more
pain than pleasure. She did not know how easy it was to “get used
to it,” as Fanny did; and it was well for her that the temptation was
not often offered. She could not explain the feeling; but she was
glad when the play was done, and they were safe at home, where
kind grandma was waiting to see them comfortably into bed.
“Did you have a good time, dear?” she asked, looking at Polly’s
feverish cheeks and excited eyes.
“I don’t wish to be rude, but I did n’t,” answered Polly. “Some of it
was splendid; but a good deal of it made me want to go under the
seat. People seemed to like it, but I don’t think it was proper.”
As Polly freed her mind, and emphasized her opinion with a
decided rap of the boot she had just taken off, Fanny laughed, and
said, while she pirouetted about the room, like Mademoiselle
Therese, “Polly was shocked, grandma. Her eyes were as big as
saucers. her face as red as my sash, and once I thought she was
going to cry. Some of it was rather queer; but, of course, it was