Polly Oliver's Problem by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

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Here the sentence always ended mysteriously, and the neighbors finished
it as they liked.

The calamity affected Polly, on the other hand, very much like a tonic.
She felt the necessity of "bracing" to meet the fresh responsibilities
that seemed waiting for her in the near future; and night and day, in
sleeping and waking, resting and working, a plan was formulating itself
in the brain just roused from its six months' apathy,--a novel,
astonishing, enchanting, revolutionary plan, which she bided her time
to disclose.

The opportunity came one evening after dinner, when Mrs. Bird, and her
brother, Edgar and herself, were gathered in the library.

The library was a good place in which to disclose plans, or ask advice,
or whisper confidences. The great carved oak mantel held on the broad
space above the blazing logs the graven motto, "Esse Quod Opto." The
walls were lined with books from floor half-way to ceiling, and from
the tops of the cases Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelius, and the Sage of
Concord looked down with benignant wisdom. The table in the centre was
covered with a methodical litter of pamphlets and magazines, and a soft
light came from the fire and from two tall, shaded lamps.

Mr. Bird, as was his wont, leaned back in his leather chair, puffing
delicate rings of smoke into the air. Edgar sat by the centre table,
idly playing with a paper-knife. Mrs. Bird sat in her low
rocking-chair with a bit of fancy-work, and Polly, on the hearth rug,
leaned cosily back against her Fairy Godmother's knees.

The clinging tendrils in Polly's nature, left hanging so helplessly
when her mother was torn away, reached out more and more to wind
themselves about lovely Mrs. Bird, who, notwithstanding her three manly
sons, had a place in her heart left sadly vacant by the loss of her
only daughter.

Polly broke one of the pleasant silences. An open fire makes such
delightful silences, if you ever noticed. When you sit in a room
without it, the gaps in the conversation make everybody seem dull; the
last comer rises with embarrassment and thinks he must be going, and
you wish that some one would say the next thing and keep the ball
rolling. The open fire arranges all these little matters with a
perfect tact and grace all its own. It is acknowledged to be the
centre of attraction, and the people gathered about it are only
supernumeraries. It blazes and crackles and snaps cheerily, the logs
break and fall, the coals glow and fade and glow again, and the dull
man can always poke the fire if his wit desert him. Who ever feels
like telling a precious secret over a steam-heater?

Polly looked away from everybody and gazed straight into the blaze.

"I have been thinking over a plan for my future work," she said, "and I
want to tell it to you and see if you all approve and think me equal to
it. It used to come to me in flashes, after this Fairy Godmother of
mine opened an avenue for my surplus energy by sending me out as a
story-teller; but lately I have n't had any heart for it. Work grew
monotonous and disagreeable and hopeless, and I 'm afraid I had no wish
to be useful or helpful to myself or to anybody else. But now
everything is different. I am not so rich as I was (I wish, Mr. Bird,
you would not smile so provokingly when I mention my riches!), and I
must not be idle any longer; so this is my plan, I want to be a
story-teller by profession. Perhaps you will say that nobody has ever
done it; but surely that is an advantage; I should have the field to
myself for a while, at least. I have dear Mrs. Bird's little poor
children as a foundation. Now, I would like to get groups of other
children together in somebody's parlor twice a week and tell them
stories,--the older children one day in the week and the younger ones
another. Of course I have n't thought out all the details, because I
hoped my Fairy Godmother would help me there, if she approved of my
plan; but I have ever so many afternoons all arranged, and enough
stories and songs at my tongue's end for three months. Do you think it
impossible or nonsensical, Mr. Bird?"

"No," said he thoughtfully, after a moment's pause. "It seems on the
first hearing to be perfectly feasible. In fact, in one sense it will
not be an experiment at all. You have tried your powers, gained
self-possession and command of your natural resources; developed your
ingenuity, learned the technicalities of your art, so to speak,
already. You propose now, as I understand, to extend your usefulness,
widen your sphere of action, address yourself to a larger public, and
make a profession out of what was before only a side issue in your
life. It's a new field, and it 's a noble one, taken in its highest
aspect, as you have always taken it. My motto for you, Polly, is
Goethe's couplet:--

"'What you can do, or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.'"

"Make way for the story-teller!" cried Edgar. "I will buy season
tickets for both your groups, if you will only make your limit of age
include me. I am only five feet ten, and I 'll sit very low if you 'll
admit me to the charmed circle. Shall you have a stage name? I would
suggest 'The Seraphic Sapphira.'"

"Now, don't tease," said Polly, with dignity; "this is in sober
earnest. What do you think, Fairy Godmother? I 've written to my dear
Miss Mary Denison in Santa Barbara, and she likes the idea."

"I think it is charming. In fact, I can hardly wait to begin. I will
be your business manager, my Pollykins, and we 'll make it a success,
if it is possible. If you 'll take me into your confidence and tell me
what you mean to do, I will plan the hows and whens and wheres."

"You see, dear people," continued Polly, "it is really the only thing
that I know how to do; and I have had several months' experience, so
that I 'm not entirely untrained. I 'm not afraid any more, so long as
it is only children; though the presence of one grown person makes me
tongue-tied. Grown-up people never know how to listen, somehow, and
they make you more conscious of yourself. But when the children gaze
up at you with their shining eyes and their parted lips,--the smiles
just longing to be smiled and the tear-drops just waiting to
glisten,--I don't know what there is about it, but it makes you wish
you could go on forever and never break the spell. And it makes you
tremble, too, for fear you should say anything wrong. You seem so
close to children when you are telling them stories; just as if a
little, little silken thread spun itself out from one side of your
heart through each of theirs, until it came back to be fastened in your
own again; and it holds so tight, so tight, when you have done your
best and the children are pleased and grateful."

For days after this discussion Polly felt as if she were dwelling on a
mysterious height from which she could see all the kingdoms of the
earth. She said little and thought much (oh, that this should come to
be written of Polly Oliver!). The past which she had regretted with
such passionate fervor still fought for a place among present plans and
future hopes. But she was almost convinced in these days that a
benevolent Power might after all be helping her to work out her own
salvation in an appointed way, with occasional weariness and tears,
like the rest of the world.

It was in such a softened mood that she sat alone in church one Sunday
afternoon at vespers. She had chosen a place where she was sure of
sitting quietly by herself, and where the rumble of the organ and the
words of the service would come to her soothingly. The late afternoon
sun shone through the stained-glass windows, bringing out the tender
blue on the Madonna's gown, the white on the wings of angels and robes
of newborn innocents, the glow of rose and carmine, with here and there
a glorious gleam of Tyrian purple. Then her eyes fell on a memorial
window opposite her. A mother bowed with grief was seated on some
steps of rough-hewn stones. The glory of her hair swept about her
knees. Her arms were empty; her hands locked; her head bent. Above
stood a little child, with hand just extended to open a great door,
which was about to unclose and admit him. He reached up his hand
fearlessly ("and that is faith," thought Polly), and at the same time
he glanced down at his weeping mother, as if to say, "Look up, mother
dear! I am safely in."

Just then the choir burst into a grand hymn which was new to Polly, and
which came to her with the force of a personal message:--

"The Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar--
Who follows in His train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in His train."

Verse after verse rang in splendid strength through the solemn aisles
of the church, ending with the lines:--

"O God, to us may strength be given
To follow in His train!"

Dr. George's voice came to Polly as it sounded that gray October
afternoon beside the sea; "When the sun of one's happiness is set, one
lights a candle called 'Patience,' and guides one's footsteps by that."

She leaned her head on the pew in front of her, and breathed a prayer.
The minister was praying for the rest of the people, but she needed to
utter her own thought just then.

"Father in heaven, I will try to follow; I have lighted my little
candle, help me to keep it burning! I shall stumble often in the
darkness, I know, for it was all so clear when I could walk by my
darling mother's light, which was like the sun, so bright, so pure, so
strong! Help me to keep the little candle steady, so that it may throw
its beams farther and farther into the pathway that now looks so dim."

* * * * *

Polly sank to sleep that night in her white bed in the Pilgrim Chamber;
and the name of the chamber was Peace indeed, for she had a smile on
her lips,--a smile that looked as if the little candle had in truth
been lighted in her soul, and was shining through her face as though it
were a window.

CHAPTER XVII.

POLLY LAUNCHES HER SHIPS.

There were great doings in the Birds Nest.

A hundred dainty circulars, printed in black and scarlet on Irish linen
paper, had been sent to those ladies on Mrs. Bird's calling-list who
had children between the ages of five and twelve, that being Polly's
chosen limit of age.

These notes of invitation read as follows:--

"Come, tell us a story!"

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

Mrs. Donald Bird requests the pleasure of your company from 4.30 to
5.30 o'clock on Mondays or Thursdays from November to March inclusive.

FIRST GROUP: Mondays. Children from 5 to 8 years.
SECOND GROUP: Thursdays. " " 8 " 12 years.

Each group limited in number to twenty-four.

Miss Pauline Oliver will tell stories suitable to the ages of the
children, adapted to their prevailing interests, and appropriate to the
special months of the year.

These stories will be chosen with the greatest care, and will embrace
representative tales of all classes,--narrative, realistic, scientific,
imaginative, and historical. They will be illustrated by songs and
black-board sketches. Terms for the Series (Twenty Hours), Five
Dollars.

R.S.V.P.

Polly felt an absolute sense of suffocation as she saw Mrs. Bird seal
and address the last square envelope.

"If anybody does come," she said, somewhat sadly, "I am afraid it will
be only that the story hour is at your lovely house."

"Don't be so foolishly independent, my child. If I gather the groups,
it is only you who will be able to hold them together. I am your
manager, and it is my duty to make the accessories as perfect as
possible. When the scenery and costumes and stage-settings are
complete, you enter and do the real work, I retire, and the sole
responsibility for success or failure rests upon your shoulders; I
should think that would be enough to satisfy the most energetic young
woman. I had decided on the library as the scene of action; an open
fire is indispensable, and that room is delightfully large when the
centre-table is lifted out: but I am afraid it is hardly secluded
enough, and that people might trouble you by coming in; so what do you
think of the music-room upstairs? You will have your fire, your piano,
plenty of space, and a private entrance for the chicks, who can lay
their wraps in the hall as they pass up. I will take the large Turkish
rug from the red guest-chamber,--that will make the room look
warmer,--and I have a dozen other charming devices which I will give
you later as surprises."

"If I were half as sure of my part as I am of yours, dear Fairy
Godmother, we should have nothing to fear. I have a general plan
mapped out for the stories, but a great deal of the work will have to
be done from week to week, as I go on. I shall use the same programme
in the main for both groups, but I shall simplify everything and
illustrate more freely for the little ones, telling the historical and
scientific stories with much more detail to the older group. This is
what Mr. Bird calls my 'basic idea,' which will be filled out from week
to week according to inspiration. For November, I shall make autumn,
the harvest, and Thanksgiving the starting-point. I am all ready with
my historical story of 'The First Thanksgiving,' for I told it at the
Children's Hospital last year, and it went beautifully.

"I have one doll dressed in Dutch costume, to show how the children
looked that the little Pilgrims played with in Holland; and another
dressed like a Puritan maiden, to show them the simple old New England
gown. Then I have two fine pictures of Miles Standish and the Indian
chief Massasoit.

"For December and January I shall have Christmas and winter, and frost
and ice and snow, with the contrasts of eastern and Californian
climates."

"I can get the Immigration Bureau to give you a percentage on that
story, Polly," said Uncle Jack Bird, who had strolled in and taken a
seat. "Just make your facts strong enough, and you can make a handsome
thing out of that idea."

"Don't interrupt us, Jack," said Mrs. Bird; "and go directly out, if
you please. You were not asked to this party."

"Where was I?" continued Polly. "Oh yes,--the contrast between
Californian and eastern winters; and January will have a moral story or
two, you know,--New Year's resolutions, and all that. February will be
full of sentiment and patriotism,--St. Valentine's Day and Washington's
Birthday,--I can hardly wait for that, there are so many lovely things
to do in that month. March will bring in the first hint of spring.
The winds will serve for my science story; and as it chances to be a
presidential year, we will celebrate Inauguration Day, and have some
history, if a good many subscribers come in."

"Why do you say 'if,' Polly? Multitudes of names are coming in. I
have told you so from the beginning."

"Very well, then; when a sufficient number of names are entered, I
should like to spend ten dollars on a very large sand-table, which I
can use with the younger group for illustrations. It is perfectly
clean work, and I have helped Miss Denison and her children to do the
loveliest things with it. She makes geography lessons,--plains, hills,
mountains, valleys, rivers, and lakes; or the children make a picture
of the story they have just heard. I saw them do 'Over the River and
through the Wood to Grandfather's House we go,' 'Washington's Winter
Camp at Valley Forge,' and 'The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.' I have
ever so many songs chosen, and those for November and December are
almost learned without my notes. I shall have to work very hard to be
ready twice a week!"

"Too hard, I fear," said Mrs. Bird anxiously.

"Oh, no; not a bit too hard! If the children are only interested, I
shall not mind any amount of trouble. By the way, dear Mrs. Bird, you
won't let the nurses or mothers stand in the doorways? You will please
see that I am left quite alone with the children, won't you?"

"Certainly; no mothers shall be admitted, if they make you nervous; it
is the children's hour. But after two or three months, when you have
all become acquainted, and the children are accustomed to listening
attentively, I almost hope you will allow a few nurses to come in and
sit in the corners,--the ones who bring the youngest children, for
example; it would be such a means of education to them. There 's
another idea for you next year,--a nurses' class in story-telling."

"It would be rather nice, would n't it?--and I should be older then,
and more experienced. I really think I could do it, if Miss Denison
would help me by talks and instructions. She will be here next year.
Oh, how the little plan broadens out!"

"And, Polly, you have chosen to pay for your circulars, and propose to
buy your sand-table. This I agree to, if you insist upon it; though
why I shouldn't help my godchild I cannot quite understand. But
knowing you were so absorbed in other matters that you would forget the
frivolities, and remembering that you have been wearing the same two
dresses for months, I have ventured to get you some pretty gowns for
the 'story hours,' and I want you to accept them for your Christmas
present. They will serve for all your 'afternoons' and for our home
dinners, as you will not be going out anywhere this winter."

"Oh, how kind you are, Mrs. Bird! You load me with benefits, and how
can I ever repay you?"

"You do not have to repay them to me necessarily, my child; you can
pass them over, as you will be constantly doing, to all these groups of
children, day after day. I am a sort of stupid, rich old lady who
serves as a source of supply. My chief brilliancy lies in devising
original methods of getting rid of my surplus in all sorts of odd and
delightful ways, left untried, for the most part, by other people. I
've been buying up splendid old trees in the outskirts of certain New
England country towns,--trees that were in danger of being cut down for
wood. Twenty-five to forty dollars buys a glorious tree, and it is
safe for ever and ever to give shade to the tired traveler and beauty
to the landscape. Each of my boys has his pet odd scheme for helping
the world to 'go right.' Donald, for instance, puts stamps on the
unstamped letters displayed in the Cambridge post-office, and sends
them spinning on their way. He never receives the thanks of the
careless writers, but he takes pleasure in making things straight.
Paul writes me from Phillips Academy that this year he is sending the
nine Ruggles children (a poor family of our acquaintance) to some sort
of entertainment once every month. Hugh has just met a lovely girl who
has induced him to help her maintain a boarding establishment for sick
and deserted cats and dogs; and there we are!"

"But I 'm a young, strong girl, and I fear I 'm not so worthy an object
of charity as a tree, an unstamped letter, an infant Ruggles, or a
deserted cat! Still, I know the dresses will be lovely, and I had
quite forgotten that I must be clothed in purple and fine linen for
five months to come. It would have been one of my first thoughts last
year, I am afraid; but lately this black dress has shut everything else
from my sight."

"It was my thought that you should give up your black dress just for
these occasions, dear, and wear something more cheerful for the
children's sake. The dresses are very simple, for I 've heard you say
you can never tell a story when you are 'dressed up,' but they will
please you, I know. They will be brought home this evening, and you
must slip them all on, and show yourself to us in each."

They would have pleased anybody, even a princess, Polly thought, as she
stood before her bed that evening patting the four pretty new waists,
and smoothing with childlike delight the folds of the four pretty
skirts. It was such an odd sensation to have four dresses at a time!

They were of simple and inexpensive materials, as was appropriate; but
Mrs. Bird's exquisite taste and feeling for what would suit Polly's
personality made them more attractive than if they had been rich or
expensive.

There was a white China silk, with belt and shoulder-knots of black
velvet; a white Japanese crepe, with purple lilacs strewed over its
surface, and frills of violet ribbon for ornament; a Christmas dress of
soft, white camel's hair, with bands of white-fox fur round the
slightly pointed neck and elbow-sleeves; and, last of all, a Quaker
gown of silver-gray nun's cloth, with a surplice and full undersleeves
of white crepe-lisse.

"I 'm going to be vain, Mrs. Bird!" cried Polly, with compunction in
her voice. "I 've never had a real beautiful, undyed, un-made-over
dress in my whole life, and I shall never have strength of character to
own four at once without being vain!"

This speech was uttered through the crack of the library door, outside
of which Polly stood, gathering courage to walk in and be criticised.

"Think of your aspiring nose, Sapphira!" came from a voice within.

"Oh, are you there too, Edgar?"

"Of course I am, and so is Tom Mills. The news that you are going to
'try on' is all over the neighborhood! If you have cruelly fixed the
age limit so that we can't possibly get in to the performances, we are
going to attend all the dress rehearsals. Oh, ye little fishes! what a
seraphic Sapphira! I wish Tony were here!"

She was pretty, there was no doubt about it, as she turned around like
a revolving wax figure in a show-window, and assumed absurd
fashion-plate attitudes; and pretty chiefly because of the sparkle,
intelligence, sunny temper, and vitality that made her so magnetic.

Nobody could decide which was the loveliest dress, even when she had
appeared in each one twice. In the lilac and white crepe, with a bunch
of dark Parma violets thrust in her corsage, Uncle Jack called her a
poem. Edgar asserted openly that in the Christmas toilet he should
like to have her modeled in wax and put in a glass case on his table;
but Mrs. Bird and Tom Mills voted for the Quaker gray, in which she
made herself inexpressibly demure by braiding her hair in two discreet
braids down her back.

"The dress rehearsal is over. Good-night all!" she said, as she took
her candle. "I will say 'handsome is as handsome does' fifty times
before I go to sleep, and perhaps--I only say perhaps--I may be used to
my beautiful clothes in a week or two, so that I shall be my usual
modest self again."

"Good-night, Polly," said the boys; "we will see you to-morrow."

"'Pauline,' if you please, not 'Polly.' I ceased to be Polly this
morning when the circulars were posted. I am now Miss Pauline Oliver,
story-teller by profession."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR: REPORTED IN A LETTER BY AN EYE-WITNESS.

It was the last Monday in March, and I had come in from my country home
to see if I could find my old school friend, Margaret Crosby, who is
now Mrs. Donald Bird, and who is spending a few years in California.

The directory gave me her address, and I soon found myself on the
corner of two beautiful streets and before a very large and elegant
house. This did not surprise me, as I knew her husband to be a very
wealthy man. There seemed to be various entrances, for the house stood
with its side to the main street; but when I had at last selected a
bell to ring, I became convinced that I had not, after all, gone to the
front door. It was too late to retreat, however, and very soon the
door was opened by a pretty maid-servant in a white cap and apron.

"You need n't have rung, 'm; they goes right in without ringing
to-day," she said pleasantly.

"Can I see Mrs. Bird?" I asked.

"Well, 'm," she said hesitatingly, "she 's in Paradise."

"Lovely Margaret Crosby dead! How sudden it must have been," I
thought, growing pale with the shock of the surprise; but the pretty
maid, noticing that something had ruffled my equanimity, went on
hastily:--

"Excuse me, 'm. I forgot you might be a stranger, but the nurses and
mothers always comes to this door, and we 're all a bit flustered on
account of its bein' Miss Pauline's last 'afternoon,' and the mothers
call the music-room 'Paradise,' 'm, and Mr. John and the rest of us
have took it up without thinkin' very much how it might sound to
strangers."

"Oh, I see," I said mechanically, though I did n't see in the least;
but although the complicated explanation threw very little light on
general topics, it did have the saving grace of assuring me that
Margaret Bird was living.

"Could you call her out for a few minutes?" I asked. "I am an old
friend, and shall be disappointed not to see her."

"I 'm sorry, 'm, but I could n't possibly call her out; it would be as
much as my place is worth. Her strict orders is that nobody once
inside of Paradise door shall be called out."

"That does seem reasonable," I thought to myself.

"But," she continued, "Mrs. Bird told me to let young Mr. Noble up the
stairs so 't he could peek in the door, and as you 're an old friend I
hev n't no objections to your goin' up softly and peekin' in with him
till Miss Pauline 's through,--it won't be long, 'm."

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