Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. A Sweet Little Maid by Amy Ella Blanchard (inspiring books for teens .TXT) 📖
- Author: Amy Ella Blanchard
Book online «A Sweet Little Maid by Amy Ella Blanchard (inspiring books for teens .TXT) 📖». Author Amy Ella Blanchard
Mrs. Dallas laughed. "I don't believe we will insist upon that, but you can rig up one for her if you like, when she is out here. Now I must go in."
"Come, Florence, we'll go and invite the company, and get that over with, and then we'll have115 nothing to interrupt us the rest of the day," said Dimple. "Won't it be fine to come out here on rainy days and make all the noise we want. What time shall we tell the children to come?" she called after her mother, who was just stepping off the little porch.
"At four o'clock, I think."
"That's the time Rock had his tea-party," said Dimple. "I am glad we can invite him to our feast, because we had such a nice time over there. I wonder if he knows anything about this being our little house. If he doesn't, won't he be surprised!"
It proved that Rock didn't know, and he was as interested as any one could wish;—so much so, indeed, that he begged to go over at once to see it, and his mother allowed him to do so.
"My! but it's fine," he declared, examining both outside and in. "You might have a pretty little garden out here, and plant some vines to grow over the porch."
"So we might," Dimple responded, "I never thought of that. It will make the little porch so much prettier. Just think, I never dreamed that it was being built for me."116
"Your father is awfully good," returned Rock, adding soberly, "I hope it runs in the family."
Dimple laughed, but looked sober herself, immediately after. "I'm afraid I'll never be as good as papa and mamma, for I do horrid things," she said. She looked at Florence wistfully, then lifted one of her cousin's soft auburn curls, and laid her cheek against it; to which Florence responded by giving her a sudden kiss. They both remembered that day in the garret.
Rock became so interested in the idea of a garden, that, after Mrs. Dallas's consent was gained, he spent most of the day in digging up a little patch in which the children planted a remarkable collection of plants, both wild and cultivated. They even put in some corn, so as to have roasting ears, Dimple said, and a pumpkin seed, because she liked pumpkin pies.
They were so busy all day that they were scarcely willing to go in to prepare for their feast.
Leila and Eugene Clark were properly impressed with the new house; yet, with the others, were quite ready to stop their play that they might do justice to the big cake with its nine117 candles, and its wreath of flowers; while the amount of ice cream eaten showed plainly that the refreshments were quite to the taste of the guests. Leila brought Dimple a box of candy, and Eugene presented her with a bunch of beautiful roses. Rock, too, although he hardly could spare the time to rush home and get his gift for her, had something to donate; an exquisite little fan with carved ivory sticks, that he said was made in China, and which his mother had bought in California. Mrs. Hardy added to the gift a dainty pink sash, and Florence had struggled in secret to make Rubina a new frock, and had succeeded very well. So Dimple felt herself bountifully remembered.
"It's been just the very happiest day I ever had," said the little girl as she stood in her white night gown, ready for bed.
"I ought to be a very, very good girl, mamma; and I have done so many naughty things lately, but I didn't think."
"Didn't Think is a bad enemy to most little girls," said Mrs. Dallas, holding her daughter's fair head against her shoulder.
"Did you have to fight him?"118
"I did, indeed."
"That's a comfort. Perhaps when I grow up, I may be a little weeny, weeny bit like you, darling mamsey. Please give me nine more kisses."
"One on your forehead; one on each cheek; one on each eyelid; one between the eyes; one on your chin; one on your mouth, and where shall I put the other?"
"Here, in the tickley place under my chin. Now say 'my blessed child'; that always makes me feel good, and then I'll pop into bed."
But the head was no sooner on the pillow than it was bobbed up again, and there came the whisper, "Mamma, please kiss Florence more than one time, and call her something nice." And when this was done, two very tired, but very happy, little girls kissed each other, and in a few moments were fast asleep.
"Mamma," said Dimple, with her elbows on the arm of her mother's chair, "what are you thinking about so hard? You have a little puckery frown between your eyes, whenever you look at Florence and me. What have we been doing?"
"Nothing," replied Mrs. Dallas, smiling. "I was wondering if it would be wise to leave you two alone here with Bubbles for a day. Mrs. Hardy wants me to go to the city with her to-morrow, and I promised Sylvy some time ago that she should have the day; she wants to go off on an excursion, and has been making great preparations. I could not have the heart to disappoint her, and your papa will not be at home for another week, so I am very doubtful about leaving you."
"Oh! do go, mamma," cried Dimple, clapping her hands. "We can keep house beautifully, can't120 we, Florence?—and it will be such fun. Do go, there's a darling. We'll be just as grown-up as possible, and do anything you tell us."
"And you will not be afraid?"
"Not in the least. We'll have Bubbles, you know, and she can run awfully fast, if we get ill, and want the doctor," replied Dimple, cheerfully.
"I hope no such effort will be needed on Bubbles' part. You must not turn the house upside down, nor empty all the trunks and chests upon the floor of the attic."
"Now, mamma," exclaimed Dimple, reproachfully, "why do you remind us of that?"
Mrs. Dallas laughed at the woe-begone tone.
"That you may remember not to do it again," she replied; then she added, "Well, I'll think about it a little longer. I promised to let Mrs. Hardy know this afternoon. Now run along and let me think."
"You will tell us as soon as you make up your mind," said Dimple, as she left the room with Florence.
"Yes, yes; don't keep me any longer from my 'think.'"
"Don't you hope she will go?" asked Florence.121 "I think it would be lots of fun to have the house all to ourselves for a whole day. What shall we do, Dimple?"
"Oh, there will be lots to do," replied Dimple, importantly. "There will be the beds to make, and the house to put in order, and dinner to get. Oh, Florence! What shall we have for dinner? What should you like?"
"I don't know, exactly; baked custards are nice."
"Yes," assented Dimple, doubtfully, "but I'm afraid we couldn't manage to make them just right; they seem sort of hard; and you don't like huckleberry pudding."
"Then let's have apple 'cobbler;' we both like that."
"Yes, and it is easy, at least I think it is, just crust and apples. Well, we'll have that. I do wish mamma would hurry up and tell us."
The two established themselves on the lowest step, as near as possible to the library, where Mrs. Dallas was sitting.
"Don't make such a noise," said Dimple, as Florence, to while away the time, began to sing; "you will keep mamma from thinking. Just122 let's whisper." So for a half hour or more a little whispering sound went on, interspersed by stifled laughter. Then at the noise of Mrs. Dallas' hand upon the door knob, the two girls sprang to their feet.
"Hurry up, mamma, tell us," cried Dimple, as the door opened.
"When you give me a chance," replied Mrs. Dallas, smiling. "I am going. Does that please you?"
"Oh! oh!" cried the two, dancing up and down.
"How flattering you are," said Mrs. Dallas, laughing; "I never had pleasure so fully shown for such a cause. So you will be delighted to get rid of me?"
"Now mamma! Now auntie!" came in chorus. "It isn't that at all, but it will be such fun, and we are going to make an 'apple cobbler' for dinner."
"Are you! Who said so?"
"Why, mayn't we?" asked Dimple, somewhat taken aback.
"Who will make it?"
"Why, we will, of course. I've seen Sylvy do it123 often, and I know exactly how. Do, do let us, mamma."
It seemed too bad to dampen their ardor, and Mrs. Dallas, rather dubiously, consented, but charged them not to eat under cooked dough, or raw apples.
Every one was up betimes the next morning. Sylvy had set everything in readiness for breakfast, and had taken an early departure, and Mrs. Dallas was to leave on the nine o'clock train.
"I shall be back by eight o'clock," she told the children. "Don't set the house afire, and don't make yourselves ill."
"Now, don't worry over us," said Dimple, loftily; "we shall do finely."
But she did feel a little sinking of heart as her mamma's form was lost to view, and the two girls turned from the gate.
"I wish Rock were not going with them," remarked Dimple. "It would be nice to have him here."
"I don't think it would," replied Florence; "we'd have to entertain him, and maybe he doesn't like 'apple cobbler.'"
"That is true," returned Dimple, her spirits124 rising at the suggestion of some active employment. "Now let us go and make the beds, while Bubbles does the dishes." And they set to work, with much chattering, to follow out this duty.
"There, now, it looks as neat as possible," pronounced Dimple, as she closed the shutters to keep out the glaring sun. "Just hang up that towel that has fallen down, Florence, and then we'll go downstairs and shut up the rest of the house; by that time Bubbles will be through her work, and we can all play till it is time to get dinner."
Bubbles had just emptied her dish-pan and was about to scour the knives when they entered the kitchen.
"Hurry up, Bubbles," said Dimple, "so we can all go out and play. We want you to take care of Celestine and Rubina, while we go out shopping. Mamma said we might use the pieces in this," holding out a calico bag. "That is, we are just going to roll them up and have them for dry goods. The dry goods shop is to be at the end of the porch, where the bench is. We have cut out a great big newspaper man to sell the125 goods. We'll have to pin him against the railing, Florence, or he won't stand up, he is so limp. Isn't he fine and tall? His name is Mr. Star, because we cut him out of the Evening Star."
Their play proved to be so very interesting that it was after twelve o'clock before the little housekeepers remembered that they had a dinner to prepare, and that the making and baking of their apple pie would take some time. Then it appeared that Bubbles, in her haste to join the play, had forgotten the fire, which was nearly out.
"Never mind, we'll put in some wood," concluded Dimple, cheerfully. "I've seen Sylvy do it lots of times, to hurry up the oven. Run, Bubbles, and get some wood. Then you can pare the apples, while I make the crust."
"Let me pare the apples," suggested Florence; "it is such fun to put them on that little thing and turn the crank, while the skin comes off so easily."
"Well, you do that," agreed Dimple. "And Bubbles can set the table."
"Why doesn't this apple go right?" said126 Florence. "It wabbles around so and—there!—it has gone bouncing off to the other side of the kitchen; how provoking!"
"It is a sort of 'skew-jawed' one," pronounced Dimple. "I can never do anything with those on the parer. Pick out the ones that are perfectly round and smooth, and they will go all right. I wonder how much shortening I ought to put in. Does that look like enough to you?"
Florence viewed the pan critically. "I don't know," she replied, doubtfully.
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