Rensselaer Union, Volume 11, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 April 1879 — TODDLES. [ARTICLE]

TODDLES.

I felt like a lady that morning. I was a lady, i thought, after all; quite as much so as Mrs. Jones, who lived in the great cupola house on the hill. Quite as much of a lady, I said to myself, briskly, as I dusted up my little shop, and arranged the sheeny ribbons and gay-striped goods in the window. The window was - hung with pretty lace curtains, and there was a globe of goldfish iu it that sailed about as courteously and busily as though they were getting their living as head clerks. It was a sweet, soft autumn morning; the village street was grassy and quiet, and I hummed a tune as I glanced cheerily out at little Toddles, flitting about in her scarlet ribbons under the old willow outside. Bless her little rosy face! why shouldn’t* I be happy when I’ve her to look afterP I was happy, and I hummed again that old snatch of a tune, and nodded gayly to Toddles, wondering vaguely to myself what was going to happen that I felt so uncannily bright. Nothing —simply nothing; things were done happening me long since. My way was straight and narrow, my days quiet and uneventful. As I sippedTny coffee that morning I remember that I held the cup up so the light, and felt a certain sense of satisfaction in the translucence of the rare bit of china. It is so pleasant to know that one’s own election may keep one aloof from the ugliness and squalor of poverty.

it doesn’t take much to keep one person, of .course, and I don’t count Toddles for anything. It needs but the odds and ends of things—a bowl of bread and milk, a cup of coffee, with now and then a lively bit of ribbon — to keep the little one going famously. Yes,* I always wanted to be a lady. And as I sat in my bright little room I felt half-inclined to forgive Richard Gray the heart-break he gave me long ago. And, O God! it wm a heartbreak. But if he had me, perhaps he would have shut me up in some gloomy city house, to be a lady after his fashion, to stiiie for want of a bit of fresh air, to walk softly under a thousand petty conventionalities, and to cease being my own mistress. Ah! that I never could endure. So it is, perhaps, as well that Richard left me and went off somewhere—God knows where. You see, l-iike it—my little sliod. There is something so delightful in seeing the pretty girls of the village, with now and then a fine lady, hanging Over my dainty wares, and trying the tints of scarlet, and blue, ana orange, with many a laugh and many a glance in the mirror. I call it my reception when they pour in of a holiday afternoon. I love colors; I lovo grace and beauty; and perhaps I might have been a bit of an artist, in my way, if ■l’d ever had tho opportunity. Richard used to say so. But ah! he said many a flattering thing and many a false in those old days. And if I ever dreamed of any higher life than contents me now—well, I’ve given up dreaming. For there’s Toddles, so round, and sweet, and soft, and real. She leaves me little time for building air*castles. You see, I love the Child as if she were my very own. For she came to me onfe day, about four years ago, a • wee little baby thing, curled up in a heap on my door-step when I went to open theshutters. Wherever she came from I never knew. Toddles never explained; she just stretched up her little fat arms to me and gurgled “Tod-od-doddlo,” and that was her sole introduction. It was surmjsed that the child had been dropped by some traveling circus passing through tho town, and I had excellent neighborly advice about putting the treasure in the Foundling Hospital. But one seldom takes good advice, and I didh’t. To tell the truth, I grew so attached to the child that 1 should even have beqn wicked enough, I fear, to regret any one’s.turnlng up to claim It. But that’s not at all likely now, after so many years-no, not at all likely; no more likely than that Richard and I should ever meet again in this world. And s hat —that is among the things that never can happen. It was qq this wise, our parting: Richard’s mother was old and feeble and miserly. She’d spent a good deal of money on him—sent him to oollege, and expected, folks said, to “make something of him.” She always expected to get her money’s worth out of her transactions. Richard held her in sort of awe, somehow, though she was little- wizened old- woman that be p could have lifted with his Jpft hand.

But I liked him for respecting his mother. • One day we two were sitting at twilight talking of the future dreamily, as was our wont “My little one,” said Richard, putting his arm about me, “it half seems too bright to ever bo.” • “ Ever be!” I echoed. “ Oh, Richard, if you talk that way, it will never be.” Riehard smiled, but his face grew overcast. I felt tnftt a storm was coming. “ WellP” I queried, seeing that he sat brooding and silent. • “Darling,” ho said, soothingly, “I knew it would come hardly to you; but how can Igo against my mother? Her poor old noart 1b bound up in me, Jeanetto, and she will never hear to—to anything that—” “That seems to lower you,” I added, in a steely voice that seemed to cut its way out Of my heart like a keen cold knife. “Oh, lam a ooward—a poltroon!” cried Richard, wringing his hands. “ 1 was born to bring trouble on those I love. Who, who sball 1 leave to suffer for me now, Jeanette P” “ The one who will say least about it,” I answered, hardily. My heart was throbbing heavily, like a clock that ticks the hour of execution, but I made no outcry, and we parted in that final parting silently. And I have lived silently ever since. One vear after that I heard that Richard's mother was dead, and then that he had married; who, I knew not —who, I cared not. He had married another woman while my last words were yet ringing in his ears—right there, before the face of the living Heaven, married another woman, and swore to love and cherish her, as he had often vowed to love and cherish me! „, . But I did not seem to feel this blow as 1 had felt our parting. I just fluug him out of my heart there and then, and my love and my silence v&nifhed. I looked into the face of my misery with a smile, and 1 took this little shop in the village, and worked early and late, and made it thrive. Then, two years later, came my little Toddles to me, sitting like a lily on my doorstep, as if some angel of peace bad dropped her there. I have named her Theresa, but Toddles has always been her own pet name for herself, and I like it because it is hers. Tbo child has brought me peace. And I feel no vengeance against anyone now. Nor do I rejoice that Richard’s wife is said to have turned out ill, and spent the wealth she brought him. But 1 had forgotten the shop ia all this reverie and reminiscence. There was a sharp twang of the lit. tic boll, and I heard a heavy step in the doorway. 1 setdown my coffee-cup hastily, and hurried in to confront a great muscular fellow with a big beard and a slouched hat, whose presence seemed fairly to wipe out the little shop. This was a rather different type from my usual customers, and I was a little shy of him. He hesitated, and seemed bewildered when I spoke to him—men never do get used to shopping—and it was some time before l quite made out what he wanted. It was some sort of woolen goods—a scarf or a kerchief, I think. These were not very salable stoqk just now, and I had put the box containing them out of sight somewhere. While I rummaged about, the stranger stood in the doorway, watching me in a way I did not like; perhaps he wanted to steal something. He looked needy enough and shabby enough.

“ Oh, here they are at last,” said I, eagerly, handing down the package from a high and dusty shelf. The man did not seem to hear me. He was looking at Toddles, darting about like a butterfly outside. "Whose child is that?” said he, abruptly. V It was an impudent question, and I felt my blood flush up hotly for a moment. But I reflected that this man looked wayworn and weary; perhaps he had conic a long” journey, and left a little child liko this at home. “It is my child,” I said, pleasantly. “Yours!” he repeated. “Or at least,” said I T “if not mine, it was left with mo to be cared for.” ■ Left with you,” echoed the stranger. “ Ay, so I have hoard. Left with you by the wretched man. the outcast, the degraded, who knew none else on whom to thrust his burden when his tinselled wife fell from the tight-rope, and died there, grovelling in the sawdust—knew none other of whom to seek charity than the woman who had loved him.” I listened as one stupefled with opium. What did this man know or guess concerning me and mine P What object had he in view in lingering about the shop? But I said, coolly, “ That is a story that needs to be proved.” The stranger stooped and looked keefilyATiß'er "Verily,” said he, with a low, sardonic laugh, *he has reaped his reward, it seems: he is both dead and forgotten.” I began to feel afraid of this man, who seamed bent upon insulting or alarming me. I pointed sternly to the door. “ Sir,” said I, “if you are satisfied with the foods, I beg you will take them away, have other things to attend to.” For a moment after the great hulking -figure disappeared through the doorway of my little shop I covered my face with ray hands, and all the past of my life rushed entirely over me. 41 httd not outlived It yet, after all. Suddenly 1 remembered Toddles, and hastened to the door to look after her. My customer had disappeared; the huge willow trunk hid the road from view, but I felt relieved, for there was my little one swinging back and forth with the long pendants of the willow. Only one instant I saw her in the sunlight—one instant. There came a rushing, tearing and tramping, a terrible sound in the air, and a great bull, tossing his horns furiously, and with eyes glaring madly before him, came snorting and bellowing up the .street The great willow was in his course, and, O God! my little Toddles! Then 1 know not whether I fainted or whether I screamed for help. I saw a tall figure leap out from somewhere in the very pathway of the mad animal, and the next moment Toddles, hulllaughing, half crying, was nestling in ■my aratarr The man whom I*had sent csr my door a few minutes since stood looking on us yearningly*—tho man who had snatched my darling from its terrible peril. i “ Both dead and forgotten,” he said. “Oh, Jeanette! Jeanette! do youliot know meP” \ The rainbow ribbons in the little shop-window spun diszilv round, and all things grew dim before my* eyes. For I knew thft, Richard Gray was come back to me. Poor and degraded and d«Bertedy ,hftd„ come back to me.

He lifted his hat, and, stooping, kissed the little one, who did not resist him. “I brought yon my motherless little one years agone. A beggar and a sinner though I was, I dared to pray yonr charity to ray child, whom its mother, flying from her home, would have left to perish among the gewgaws and clowns in whose company she died. Yea, verily, my punishment has been bitter. And' shall I leave you now, Jeanette, you and my child, and depart forever,, hateful in your eyes for all years to come—hateful when not forgotten P” But something filled my heart just then, like the rush of a mighty river. I looked back at my quiet life, my bright little shop, the years of silence and of sorrow. I felt Toddles’ warm heart beating against mine. He had saved her. Anal looked at Richard Gray, and my hand in his. Since then I have tried whst it is to be a lady in the far West- a lady in a log-cabin, without china, or carpet, or neck ribbons, and Richard says I have succeeded.— Harper's Weekly.