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Dickory Dock
by
‘Of course, we won’t go back,’ said Flossie. ‘The stale bread’s ‘licious, and I’m so hungry. O Peter, do look! Dickory is stretching herself, and rubbing her little fat hands into her eyes; and I know she’s going to wake, and I’m afraid she’ll cry.’
‘Give her to me,’ said Peter, with the air of a practised nurse. ‘I’ll hold her, and you can feed me while I’m doing so, Flossy.’
But notwithstanding all Peter’s efforts, notwithstanding his singing, and even shouting, for the baby’s benefit, notwithstanding the admiring cheers of a little street mob that collected round him, the baby cried, not a loud cry, but a weak, broken-hearted wail. The fact was, the indifferent milk Flossy had fed her with had made her ill, and her little frame was already sadly chilled by the damp shawl which she wore about her. Poor Dickory scarcely ever got any air or exercise, and in consequence was very susceptible to cold.
‘She is sneezing,’ said Flossy. ‘Oh the poor, poor darling! Peter, I think we’d better see about our night’s lodging soon; it doesn’t agree with Dickory to keep her out so long.’
‘We’ll go at once,’ said Peter, rising to his feet. ‘There’s another black cloud coming up, and there’ll be a shower again before long. We’ll get a nice room for us four, and then we’ll be as happy as possible.’
Accordingly the little party again moved forward, and whenever Peter or Flossy saw a card up in a window they stopped and rang the house-bell, and inquired for lodgings for themselves and their baby. Of course, they were repulsed in all kinds of ways–some people merely laughing, and shutting the door in their faces; some scolding them, and calling them tiresome, impertinent little brats; and some even threatening to tell the police about them; but no one ever hinted at the possibility of taking them in. Presently they left the more respectable streets, and wandered into very poor quarters. Here, doubtless, they could have found accommodation were they able to pay for it, but everybody laughed at Peter’s pennies, and no one dreamt of offering them a shelter. Then the rain which had threatened came down, and baby was again wet through, and now she looked ill, as well as fretful, and refused some fresh milk which Flossy bought for her. She was not the least like the bright little Dickory who used to laugh and show her dimples in the old attic-nursery at home.
‘Look here,’ said Peter, ‘what are we to do? ‘T will be night soon, and we haven’t found no hiding-place for Dickory, and no one will take us in.’
‘Baby is not at all well, either,’ said Flossy; ‘her head is quite hot, like fire, when I touch it.’
‘What are we to do?’ asked Peter. ‘We can’t get home, but it seems to me, Floss, that this is worse for poor Dickory than the workhouse.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Flossy suddenly, raising her bright half-humorous face to Peter’s, ‘let’s take baby to the lady what cried.’
‘The lady who cried?’ repeated Peter. ‘I don’t know nothing about her, Floss.’
‘O Peter, you do know; it was that day our Uncle David took us a long walk, and we went to the cemetery with him, you know, the place with the flowers and the trees, and where they put the pretty little children when they die–there was a little baby being put there, and there was a lady crying very, very bitter. I never saw no one cry so dreadful bitter as that lady, and they said she was putting her baby in the ground. I’m sure she must want another baby, and I think perhaps it would be right for us to give her Dickory.’
Peter’s face became very sad. ‘I don’t know,’ he said; ‘I don’t want to give Dickory away. I’m quite dreadfully fond of her; it seems to me she makes a lot of difference in the house, and you know, Floss, it used to be very dull before she came.’