The Funny Little Old Woman
by
Little Tilda Tulip had two lips as pretty as any little girl might want. But Tilda Tulip tilted her two lips into a pout, on a moment’s notice. If any thing went wrong–and things had a way of going wrong with her–if any thing went at all wrong, she would go wrong, too, as if it would do any good to do wrong. Some people are always trying to mend crooked things by getting crooked themselves. There are some little girls, and not a few big ones, that seem to think the quickest way of straightening a seam that is puckered is to pucker a face that is straight.
Sometimes her friends would ask what she would do if her face were to freeze in frowns, but her Uncle John used to say that she was always too hot to freeze. One evening she came to Uncle John with the usual frown, showing him her new brocade doll dress. She had put it away carelessly, and it was all in “beggars’ presses.”
“Just see, Uncle John,” she whined; “dear me! I never get any thing nice that it isn’t spoiled somehow or other. Isn’t that too bad? This dress has been wrinkled for a week, and now it will never come smooth at all.”
“That’s bad, surely,” said Uncle John, “but there is something more than that. I know something of yours that is finer than that brocade silk, that is all in ‘beggars’ presses.'”
“Why, no, Uncle John, I haven’t any thing so fine as this, you know, and now this is all puckered and wrinkled and krinkled, and what will I do?”
“Give me your hand,” said Uncle John. “Do you see that skin? There is no silk so fine as that. These chubby cheeks are covered with a skin that is finer. But you have kept this skin puckered about your eyes and your forehead and the corner of your mouth, you have kept it puckered and wrinkled and krinkled as you say, till I am afraid it will never be straight. I don’t think a hot iron would smoothe it. Do you?”
Now Uncle John spoke very kindly, indeed. There were no wrinkles in his voice. Some people have wrinkles in their words. But notwithstanding her uncle’s kindness, naughty little Tilda Tulip went off in a pout, and declared that Uncle John was “real mean. He never feels sorry for a body when they are in trouble.” And so she wrinkled her voice into a whine, and wrinkled and puckered her face up most frightfully.
At last, tired of teasing and talking and troubling, Tilda Tulip tumbled into her trundle-bed and was tucked tightly in. Everybody was glad when she went to sleep. Everybody dreaded the time when she should wake up. She was a good girl when she was asleep.
She dreamed. It was a funny dream. I think she must have remembered what Uncle John said, for she thought she saw a funny little old house, by a funny little old hill, near a funny little old bridge. Out of this house came a funny little old woman, with a funny little old bonnet, carrying a funny little old bag on her back, and with a funny little old cane in her hand. Her face was wrinkled and cross–wrinkled all over, and she stooped dreadfully. But she tossed her funny little old bag on to the back of a funny little old donkey, and climbed up herself. Then she was cross with the funny little old bag, and mad with the funny little old donkey, and she beat him with a funny little old stick, and scolded and scolded with a funny little old cracked, quivering, peevish, hateful voice.
And so Tilda followed her as she rode, and all the rude boys along the road cried out, “There goes the funny little old woman and her donkey!” And a beautiful lady came along, and when she met the funny little old woman, she sat down on a stone and wept, and said, “O Miriam, my daughter!” But the funny little old woman only beat her donkey and scolded more than ever. And Tilda wondered why the beautiful woman called the funny little old woman her daughter. And Tilda dreamed that many days passed, and that every day the funny little old woman rode on the funny little old donkey to the city. And every day the beautiful woman wept and said, “O Miriam, my daughter!” One day Tilda approached the beautiful woman and spoke to her.