Chapter 9 No.9

The Little Dressmaker

It must not be imagined that Beth always romped. Although she was a tomboy, she was a very industrious little girl. She did not go to school the first year she was in Florida, and on rainy days she learned how to sew.

Mr. Davenport started a bank in Jacksonville, and soon after was elected president of the State's fair. He was a liberal-minded citizen, and therefore accepted the position, wishing to advance the standard of Florida exhibits.

Beth became interested in the undertaking. She asked to enter the lists herself and compete for prizes.

Mr. Davenport thought it an excellent idea that children should be encouraged to exhibit, and therefore offered prizes for juvenile displays.

Beth decided to make a dress all by herself. Her mother suggested that she was rather young for such a big undertaking, and that, perhaps, she had better first dress a doll, but Beth would not listen to such a thing.

Mrs. Davenport, therefore, bought the material and a pattern, and gave them to Beth. She offered to cut out the dress, but Beth thought that this would not be honorable nor fair. She must do it all by herself. Mrs. Davenport admired the spirit, and encouraged it in her, although she feared she might make a failure.

Beth, however, had one great quality of success,-perseverance. She would never give up anything in which she was interested, until she had succeeded. For the next three days, she could not be enticed from her work.

"Beth, please, come with me," begged Harvey, who came quite regularly to persuade her from her undertaking. But she was deaf to all persuasion. Julia had no better success, and it ended by Beth infecting Julia with the sewing fever. Julia brought material for a dress over to the Davenports' and went to work on it. She sewed faithfully for an hour or two, and then jumped up in disgust.

"Oh, botheration, Beth; I can't get the horrid thing right, and I'm not going to try."

"Let me help you, Julia. Maybe we'll get prizes."

"Oh, bother prizes. Let's quit."

"No, I'm going to finish this dress. Please stay and sew with me."

"If I do, what will you do for me?"

"Anything you want me to."

"All right then, I'll stay, but when you've finished, you have to go up in a tree with me and spend the night. We'll be like the captive princess."

They had just finished a fairy tale of a princess confined in a tower which she never left during many years. The tower was well provisioned so that she did not starve.

"It'll be great fun," continued Julia. "We'll take plenty of food up with us. I'm so glad you promised to go."

"May I tell mamma about it?"

"No."

"Then I won't go. I know mamma wouldn't like it, Julia, and it's wrong to worry her."

"And it's downright wicked to break one's word. You aren't going to be wicked, are you?"

Beth looked worried. "Please don't ask me to play princess, Julia."

"But you just have to, Beth; that's all there is about it."

This was Julia's ultimatum. She persisted in remaining with Beth until the dress was finished, although, she, herself, did comparatively little sewing. She even stayed nights at the Davenports for fear Beth would betray her secret.

Beth worked so steadily that Mrs. Davenport feared that she would make herself sick, and was glad when finally Beth jumped up and said:

"There, mamma, it's finished. Buttonholes and all. I guess it's all right, isn't it?"

The dress was very creditably made for so young a girl. Mrs. Davenport was justly proud of it and of Beth.

"Mrs. Davenport," began Julia, "can't Beth stay all night with me?"

"Yes, I'll be glad to have her out of doors. Run along, Beth."

Beth, however, held back. "I'd rather stay with you, mamma."

"Why, child, what is the matter?"

"Oh, she's just tired from this everlasting sewing, Mrs. Davenport;" and then Julia whispered to Beth, "You're not going to be wicked and break your word, are you? I'll never speak to you again if you don't come."

Thus pressed, Beth reluctantly kissed her mother and departed.

"We'll go over to my house, and get enough food for supper and breakfast."

Away they hurried to the Gordons. Julia robbed the larder to quite an extent.

"Mamma, I'm going back to Beth's. You don't mind, do you?"

"No."

Thereupon, avoiding observation, they ran back to Beth's. They selected a grand water oak with immense spreading branches that would effectually screen them from view. Besides, it was quite a ways from the house, which suited Julia's purpose.

Julia, carrying the provisions, scrambled up into the tree as nimbly as a squirrel, crying:

"Isn't this the grandest fortress you ever did see?"

Beth was too busy climbing to answer. She was a natural born climber, but she lacked practice. Besides, her plumpness would prevent her from ever being quite as agile as Julia.

"This will be my bedroom. See, I do not have to build any bed. These branches and leaves make a perfect resting-place," declared Julia.

"Yes, but suppose you fell asleep and rolled out. You'd break your neck."

"I don't roll out of bed at home, and I'm not going to here."

"But I do, and I don't want to break my neck. I guess I'll stay awake all night, but I'll lie down."

As Beth spoke, she lay back on some inviting looking branches. Their appearance, however, proved deceitful. They were not as strong as they looked, and she came very near having the tumble that she dreaded. Luckily, however, she caught on to a strong branch, and with Julia's assistance was soon in comparative safety.

"I guess I'd better sit up all the time."

"I reckon you'll do nothing of the sort. I'll tell you what: You may have my bedroom, and I'll find another higher up."

Although Beth was still trembling from the narrowness of her escape, she did not wish to take advantage of Julia's generosity, but the latter insisted.

Thus persuaded, Beth, cautiously this time, tried reclining on the branches. She found that they really made a delightful bed.

"It is beautiful, Julia. Why, I don't believe I should be afraid to sleep here. These limbs would keep me from falling."

"And here is another bed just as good. You see I'm right across the hall from you. I didn't have to go to the next floor as I feared at first. It's nicer being near each other, isn't it, Beth?"

"Yes, much nicer, but wouldn't you rather have this room, Julia? It is so lovely."

"No, it isn't. Mine is best. I can look way up to the sky."

"Why, that isn't nice at all. I wouldn't sleep in a room without a roof. Mine has a roof painted green."

"I don't care, mine's nicer."

"No, it isn't. Mine is."

Whereupon they had a fuss, such as all children sometimes have. They declared that "they didn't like each other," and that one was "hateful" and the other "too mean to live," and that "they'd never speak again."

In a minute or two after, they were talking as lively as two young magpies. They had figuratively kissed and made up.

"Now," said Julia, "I'm going to draw the portcullis so we can never go down unless some one comes to release us."

"I don't care to stay here always."

"We're only playing, goosie, but you have to stay until morning because you promised."

After that one thrust, Julia relented and tried to be as nice as she possibly could, and Beth had such a good time that her conscience stopped troubling her.

The minutes passed so quickly that they both were surprised to see how low the sun was. The captive ladies decided it was time to eat supper, so they divided supplies, using their laps as tables.

Beth, the unfortunate, had not taken a mouthful when a great pinching bug dropped on her head. She jumped to her feet screaming, and her supper was all scattered to the ground. She decided to go after it.

"Where are you going, Beth?"

"After my supper."

"But the portcullis is drawn."

"I'm going to have my supper, portcullis or no portcullis."

Already it was growing so dark that objects were becoming indistinguishable. Suddenly Beth uttered a cry.

"What's the matter?"

"I,-I thought it was a bear. It's only Don, however, and he's eaten up all my supper, the mean thing, and now he's run away."

"Never mind, Beth. You can have half of mine."

They ate their scanty meal in silence. It was growing so dark that immediately after supper they went to bed.

Neither of the children felt comfortable, but neither would own it.

"Isn't this heaps of fun, Beth?"

"Yes, heaps, Julia."

Then each of them let a great sigh escape. Silence prevailed for awhile. All the world seemed asleep. Such stillness was terrifying to the children.

"Are you asleep, Julia?"

"No, but I thought you were."

Again they were quiet until it had grown pitch dark.

"I can't sleep."

"Neither can I, but it's fun, isn't it?"

"It's a sperience, Julia."

Again two great sighs, and then quiet once more.

Suddenly, there was a hoot right above them. Julia and Beth both gave such a start that they almost tumbled out of the tree. Then two scared whispers were heard:

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

Another hoot.

"I wish we were together, Julia."

"So do I. Say, Beth, I believe there's room for you here with me. Let's try it."

"I'm afraid to come."

"Don't be a 'fraid cat."

"I'm not, only--" For the third time that melancholy hoot above them.

"Julia, come to me."

"I won't do it. I spoke first You come here."

Solitude was so terrifying that Beth risked the trip across for companionship. Fortunately, the hoot did not occur during her trip to Julia, or she would probably have landed on the ground.

The space proved rather narrow, and rather perilous for two, but Beth and Julia snuggled together very close.

Soon the hooting began again, and continued at regular intervals.

"I believe it's a hoot-owl."

"So it is."

Although they knew it was only an owl, the melancholy cry was neither conducive to sleep nor to high spirits. The children found it decidedly depressing. They talked awhile in whispers. The sound of one's own voice even is startling in such a situation. Very often they sighed, and sometimes there was a pensive quietness broken only by the hoot-owl.

"What time do you s'pose it is, Julia?"

"I think it must be twelve at least. They're not coming for us to-night. They've forgotten us."

Their parents had not forgotten them, but when meal-time came and they did not appear, the Davenports supposed they were over at the Gordons', and the Gordons thought they were at the Davenports'. The children often stayed for meals without asking, and so neither family worried.

About half-past eight the Gordons decided to go and bring Julia home. When they walked in at the Davenports, the first question asked them was:

"Why did you not bring the children with you?"

"The children? Why, they are here, are they not?"

Anxiety immediately possessed every one present. Mrs. Davenport's first thought was of the river, and her heart became leaden. She gave voice to her fear.

"Nonsense," answered Mr. Davenport decidedly, although he himself was not so sure as he seemed; "they are not drowned."

With lanterns to aid them, a search was begun through the grounds.

Two scared little girls presently saw lights flitting like fireflies below them.

"Perhaps it's burglars."

"Or-or the Prince to rescue us."

"I don't want any Prince; Julia. I want my mamma. I'm tired of being a Princess. I want to go home. Let's call."

"But what if they are burglars."

"Burglars don't carry lights, do they?"

Then they heard voices calling:

"Julia, Beth."

"Here we are, papa. Here, up in this big tree."

This answer brought relief to many hearts. Even Julia was not sorry to descend again to earth, and be once more an ordinary girl. Romance is not always as pleasant as being practical. Let children who are inclined to run away from home, remember this.