An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa M. Alcott

blundered through, murdering time and tune at her own sweet will.

The instant it was over Polly rushed away and bought not only the

kids but a bonnet frame, a bit of illusion, and a pink crape rose,

which had tempted her for weeks in a certain shop window, then

home and to work with all the skill and speed of a distracted

milliner.

“I ‘m rushing madly into expense, I ‘m afraid, but the fit is on me

and I ‘ll eat bread and water for a week to make up for it. I must

look nice, for Tom seldom takes me and ought to be gratified

when he does. I want to do like other girls, just for once, and enjoy

myself without thinking about right and wrong. Now a bit of pink

ribbon to tie it with, and I shall be done in time to do up my best

collar,” she said, turning her boxes topsy-turvy for the necessary

ribbon in that delightful flurry which young ladies feel on such

occasions.

It is my private opinion that the little shifts and struggles we poor

girls have to undergo beforehand give a peculiar relish to our fun

when we get it. This fact will account for the rapturous mood in

which Polly found herself when, after making her bonnet, washing

and ironing her best set, blacking her boots and mending her fan,

she at last, like Consuelo, “put on a little dress of black silk” and,

with the smaller adornments pinned up in a paper, started for the

Shaws’, finding it difficult to walk decorously when her heart was

dancing in her bosom.

Maud happened to be playing a redowa up in the parlor, and Polly

came prancing into the room so evidently spoiling for a dance that

Tom, who was there, found it impossible to resist catching her

about the waist, and putting her through the most intricate

evolutions till Maud’s fingers gave out.

“That was splendid! Oh, Tom, thank you so much for asking me

to-night. I feel just like having a regular good time,” cried Polly,

when she stopped, with her hat hanging round her neck and her

hair looking as if she had been out in a high wind.

“Glad of it. I felt so myself and thought we ‘d have a jolly little

party all in the family,” said Tom, looking much gratified at her

delight.

“Is Trix sick?” asked Polly.

“Gone to New York for a week.”

“Ah, when the cat’s away the mice will play.”

“Exactly. Come and have another turn.”

Before they could start, however, the awful spectacle of a little dog

trotting out of the room with a paper parcel in his mouth, made

Polly clasp her hands with the despairing cry: “My bonnet! Oh, my

bonnet!”

“Where? what? which?” And Tom looked about him, bewildered.

“Snip’s got it. Save it! save it!”

“I will!” And Tom gave chase with more vigor than discretion.

Snip, evidently regarding it as a game got up for his special

benefit, enjoyed the race immensely and scampered all over the

house, shaking the precious parcel like a rat while his master ran

and whistled, commanded and coaxed, in vain. Polly followed,

consumed with anxiety, and Maud laughed till Mrs. Shaw sent

down to know who was in hysterics. A piteous yelp from the lower

regions at last announced that the thief was captured, and Tom

appeared bearing Snip by the nape of the neck in one hand and

Polly’s cherished bonnet in the other.

“The little scamp was just going to worry it when I grabbed him. I

‘m afraid he has eaten one of your gloves. I can’t find it, and this

one is pretty well chewed up,” said Tom, bereaving Snip of the

torn kid, to which he still pertinaciously clung.

“Serves me right,” said Polly with a groan. “I ‘d no business to get a

new pair, but I wanted to be extra gorgeous to-night, and this is my

punishment for such mad extravagance.”

“Was there anything else?” asked Tom.

“Only my best cuffs and collar. You ‘ll probably find them in the

coal-bin,” said Polly, with the calmness of despair.

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