第 一 章 · THE LITTLE CARRS

. THE LITTLE CARRS

I was sitting in the meadows one day, not long ago, at a place where

there was a small brook. It was a hot day. The sky was very blue, and

white clouds, like great swans, went floating over it to and fro. Just

opposite me was a clump of green rushes, with dark velvety spikes, and

among them one single tall, red cardinal flower, which was bending over

the brook as if to see its own beautiful face in the water. But the

cardinal did not seem to be vain.

The picture was so pretty that I sat a long time enjoying it. Suddenly,

close to me, two small voices began to talk--or to sing, for I couldn't

tell exactly which it was. One voice was shrill; the other, which was a

little deeper, sounded very positive and cross. They were evidently

disputing about something, for they said the same words over and over

again. These were the words--"Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She

didn't." "She did." "She didn't." "Did." "Didn't." I think they must

have repeated them at least a hundred times.

I got up from my seat to see if I could find the speakers; and sure

enough, there on one of the cat-tail bulrushes, I spied two tiny

pale-green creatures. Their eyes seemed to be weak, for they both wore

black goggles. They had six legs apiece,--two short ones, two not so

short, and two very long. These last legs had joints like the springs to

buggy-tops; and as I watched, they began walking up the rush, and then I

saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. In fact, if I

hadn't been too big, I _think_ I should have heard them creak as they

went along. They didn't say anything so long as I was there, but the

moment my back was turned they began to quarrel again, and in the same

old words--"Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She didn't."

As I walked home I fell to thinking about another Katy,--a Katy I once

knew, who planned to do a great many wonderful things, and in the end

did none of them, but something quite different,--something she didn't

like at all at first, but which, on the whole, was a great deal better

than any of the doings she had dreamed about. And as I thought, this

little story grew in my head, and I resolved to write it down for you. I

have done it; and, in memory of my two little friends on the bulrush, I

give it their name. Here it is--the story of What Katy Did.

Katy's name was Katy Carr. She lived in the town of Burnet, which wasn't

a very big town, but was growing as fast as it knew how. The house she

lived in stood on the edge of the town. It was a large square house,

white, with green blinds, and had a porch in front, over which roses and

clematis made a thick bower. Four tall locust trees shaded the gravel

path which led to the front gate. On one side of the house was an

orchard; on the other side were wood piles and barns, and an ice-house.

Behind was a kitchen garden sloping to the south; and behind that a

pasture with a brook in it, and butternut trees, and four cows--two red

ones, a yellow one with sharp horns tipped with tin, and a dear little

white one named Daisy.

There were six of the Carr children--four girls and two boys. Katy, the

oldest, was twelve years old; little Phil, the youngest, was four, and

the rest fitted in between.

Dr. Carr, their Papa, was a dear, kind, busy man, who was away from home

all day, and sometimes all night, too, taking care of sick people. The

children hadn't any Mamma. She had died when Phil was a baby, four years

before my story began. Katy could remember her pretty well; to the rest

she was but a sad, sweet name, spoken on Sunday, and at prayer-times, or

when Papa was especially gentle and solemn.

In place of this Mamma, whom they recollected so dimly, there was Aunt

Izzie, Papa's sister, who came to take care of them when Mamma went away

on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the little ones

kept hoping she might return. Aunt Izzie was a small woman, sharp-faced

and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular about

everything. She meant to be kind to the children, but they puzzled her

much, because they were not a bit like herself when she was a child.

Aunt Izzie had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to sit as

Curly Locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her head

patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl; whereas

Katy tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a button

about being called "good," while Clover and Elsie shied off like

restless ponies when any one tried to pat their heads. It was very

perplexing to Aunt Izzie, and she found it hard to quite forgive the

children for being so "unaccountable," and so little like the good boys

and girls in Sunday-school memoirs, who were the young people she liked

best, and understood most about.

Then Dr. Carr was another person who worried her. He wished to have the

children hardy and bold, and encouraged climbing and rough plays, in

spite of the bumps and ragged clothes which resulted. In fact, there was

just one half-hour of the day when Aunt Izzie was really satisfied about

her charges, and that was the half-hour before breakfast, when she had

made a law that they were all to sit in their little chairs and learn

the Bible verse for the day. At this time she looked at them with

pleased eyes, they were all so spick and span, with such nicely-brushed

jackets and such neatly-combed hair. But the moment the bell rang her

comfort was over. From that time on, they were what she called "not fit

to be seen." The neighbors pitied her very much. They used to count the

sixty stiff white pantalette legs hung out to dry every Monday morning,

and say to each other what a sight of washing those children made, and

what a chore it must be for poor Miss Carr to keep them so nice. But

poor Miss Carr didn't think them at all nice; that was the worst of it.

"Clover, go up stairs and wash your hands! Dorry, pick your hat off the

floor and hang it on the nail! Not that nail--the third nail from the

corner!" These were the kind of things Aunt Izzie was saying all day

long. The children minded her pretty well, but they didn't exactly love

her, I fear. They called her "Aunt Izzie" always, never "Aunty." Boys

and girls will know what _that_ meant.

I want to show you the little Carrs, and I don't know that I could ever

have a better chance than one day when five out of the six were perched

on top of the ice-house, like chickens on a roost. This ice-house was

one of their favorite places. It was only a low roof set over a hole in

the ground, and, as it stood in the middle of the side-yard, it always

seemed to the children that the shortest road to every place was up one

of its slopes and down the other. They also liked to mount to the

ridge-pole, and then, still keeping the sitting position, to let go, and

scrape slowly down over the warm shingles to the ground. It was bad for

their shoes and trousers, of course, but what of that? Shoes and

trousers, and clothes generally, were Aunt Izzie's affair; theirs was to

slide and enjoy themselves.

Clover, next in age to Katy, sat in the middle. She was a fair, sweet

dumpling of a girl, with thick pig-tails of light brown hair, and

short-sighted blue eyes, which seemed to hold tears, just ready to fall

from under the blue. Really, Clover was the jolliest little thing in the

world; but these eyes, and her soft cooing voice, always made people

feel like petting her and taking her part. Once, when she was very

small, she ran away with Katy's doll, and when Katy pursued, and tried

to take it from her, Clover held fast and would not let go. Dr. Carr,

who wasn't attending particularly, heard nothing but the pathetic tone

of Clover's voice, as she said: "Me won't! Me want dolly!" and, without

stopping to inquire, he called out sharply: "For shame, Katy! give your

sister _her_ doll at once!" which Katy, much surprised, did; while

Clover purred in triumph, like a satisfied kitten. Clover was sunny and

sweet-tempered, a little indolent, and very modest about herself,

though, in fact, she was particularly clever in all sorts of games, and

extremely droll and funny in a quiet way. Everybody loved her, and she

loved everybody, especially Katy, whom she looked up to as one of the

wisest people in the world.

Pretty little Phil sat next on the roof to Clover, and she held him

tight with her arm. Then came Elsie, a thin, brown child of eight, with

beautiful dark eyes, and crisp, short curls covering the whole of her

small head. Poor little Elsie was the "odd one" among the Carrs. She

didn't seem to belong exactly to either the older or the younger

children. The great desire and ambition of her heart was to be allowed

to go about with Katy and Clover and Cecy Hall, and to know their

secrets, and be permitted to put notes into the little post-offices they

were forever establishing in all sorts of hidden places. But they didn't

want Elsie, and used to tell her to "run away and play with the

children," which hurt her feelings very much. When she wouldn't run

away, I am sorry to say they ran away from her, which, as their legs

were longest, it was easy to do. Poor Elsie, left behind, would cry

bitter tears, and, as she was too proud to play much with Dorry and

John, her principal comfort was tracking the older ones about and

discovering their mysteries, especially the post-offices, which were her

greatest grievance. Her eyes were bright and quick as a bird's. She

would peep and peer, and follow and watch, till at last, in some odd,

unlikely place, the crotch of a tree, the middle of the asparagus bed,

or, perhaps, on the very top step of the scuttle ladder, she spied the

little paper box, with its load of notes, all ending with: "Be sure and

not let Elsie know." Then she would seize the box, and, marching up to

wherever the others were, she would throw it down, saying, defiantly:

"There's your old post-office!" but feeling all the time just like

crying. Poor little Elsie! In almost every big family, there is one of

these unmated, left-out children. Katy, who had the finest plans in the

world for being "heroic," and of use, never saw, as she drifted on her

heedless way, that here, in this lonely little sister, was the very

chance she wanted for being a comfort to somebody who needed comfort

very much. She never saw it, and Elsie's heavy heart went uncheered.

Dorry and Joanna sat on the two ends of the ridge-pole. Dorry was six

years old; a pale, pudgy boy, with rather a solemn face, and smears of

molasses on the sleeve of his jacket. Joanna, whom the children called

"John," and "Johnnie," was a square, splendid child, a year younger than

Dorry; she had big brave eyes, and a wide rosy mouth, which always

looked ready to laugh. These two were great friends, though Dorry seemed

like a girl who had got into boy's clothes by mistake, and Johnnie like

a boy who, in a fit of fun, had borrowed his sister's frock. And now, as

they all sat there chattering and giggling, the window above opened, a

glad shriek was heard, and Katy's head appeared. In her hand she held a

heap of stockings, which she waved triumphantly.

"Hurray!" she cried, "all done, and Aunt Izzie says we may go. Are you

tired out waiting? I couldn't help it, the holes were so big, and took

so long. Hurry up, Clover, and get the things! Cecy and I will be down

in a minute."

The children jumped up gladly, and slid down the roof. Clover fetched a

couple of baskets from the wood-shed. Elsie ran for her kitten. Dorry

and John loaded themselves with two great fagots of green boughs. Just

as they were ready, the side-door banged, and Katy and Cecy Hall came

into the yard.

I must tell you about Cecy. She was a great friend of the children's,

and lived in a house next door. The yards of the houses were only

separated by a green hedge, with no gate, so that Cecy spent two-thirds

of her time at Dr. Carr's, and was exactly like one of the family. She

was a neat, dapper, pink-and-white-girl, modest and prim in manner, with

light shiny hair, which always kept smooth, and slim hands, which never

looked dirty. How different from my poor Katy! Katy's hair was forever

in a snarl; her gowns were always catching on nails and tearing

"themselves"; and, in spite of her age and size, she was as heedless and

innocent as a child of six. Katy was the _longest_ girl that was ever

seen. What she did to make herself grow so, nobody could tell; but there

she was--up above Papa's ear, and half a head taller than poor Aunt

Izzie. Whenever she stopped to think about her height she became very

awkward, and felt as if she were all legs and elbows, and angles and

joints. Happily, her head was so full of other things, of plans and

schemes, and fancies of all sorts, that she didn't often take time to

remember how tall she was. She was a dear, loving child, for all her

careless habits, and made bushels of good resolutions every week of her

life, only unluckily she never kept any of them. She had fits of

responsibility about the other children, and longed to set them a good

example, but when the chance came, she generally forgot to do so. Katy's

days flew like the wind; for when she wasn't studying lessons, or sewing

and darning with Aunt Izzie, which she hated extremely, there were

always so many delightful schemes rioting in her brains, that all she

wished for was ten pairs of hands to carry them out. These same active

brains got her into perpetual scrapes. She was fond of building castles

in the air, and dreaming of the time when something she had done would

make her famous, so that everybody would hear of her, and want to know

her. I don't think she had made up her mind what this wonderful thing

was to be; but while thinking about it she often forgot to learn a

lesson, or to lace her boots, and then she had a bad mark, or a scolding

from Aunt Izzie. At such times she consoled herself with planning how,

by and by, she would be beautiful and beloved, and amiable as an angel.

A great deal was to happen to Katy before that time came. Her eyes,

which were black, were to turn blue; her nose was to lengthen and

straighten, and her mouth, quite too large at present to suit the part

of a heroine, was to be made over into a sort of rosy button. Meantime,

and until these charming changes should take place, Katy forgot her

features as much as she could, though still, I think, the person on

earth whom she most envied was that lady on the outside of the

Tricopherous bottles with the wonderful hair which sweeps the ground.