CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES
Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a
paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously
every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love,
energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite
of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman
fussed, was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like a true Martha,
cumbered with many cares. She was too tired, sometimes, even to smile,
John grew dyspeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungratefully
demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they
went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to
make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would stand impatient
and clumsy fingers any better than hers.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t live
on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished, though she
beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss any
of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his
kiss with the tender inquiry, “Shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner,
darling?” The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a
home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. At
first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like children. Then John
took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his
shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers, put on a big apron, and
fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion.
While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius’s
Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the
problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to
help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately
dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all
eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little Hummels. An evening with
John over the account books usually produced a temporary lull in the
culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor
man was put through a course of bread pudding, hash, and warmed-over
coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude.
Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic
possessions what young couples seldom get on long without, a family jar.
Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with
homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John
was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra
quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were to be attended
to at once. As John firmly believed that ‘my wife’ was equal to anything,
and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should be gratified,
and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use.
Home came four dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a
small boy to pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a
little cap, arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a
coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling
no doubts about her success, for hadn’t she seen Hannah do it hundreds of
times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of
jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg
resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling, straining,
and fussing over her jelly. She did her best, she asked advice of Mrs.
Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left
undone, she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff
wouldn’t ‘jell’.
She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand,
but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their
private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that last
word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, but they had
held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help they did
so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg
wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and
at five o’clock sat down in her topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed
hands, lifted up her voice and wept.
Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, “My husband
shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes. I shall
always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomfort,
but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop
to ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from
me.”
How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear
her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But,
although they had had company from time to time, it never happened to be
unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself
till now. It always happens so in this vale of tears, there is an inevitability
about such things which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we
best can.
If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been
unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to bring
a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a
handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would
be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the
charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to
meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible
satisfaction of a young host and husband.
It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the
Dovecote. The front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was not
only shut, but locked, and yesterday’s mud still adorned the steps. The
parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife
sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her hair, or a
bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest.
Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a sanginary-looking boy
asleep under the current bushes.
“I’m afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I
look up Mrs. Brooke,” said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.
Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and
Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused
discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see and
hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.
In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was
trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning
gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread
and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while
Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.
“My dearest girl, what is the matter?” cried John, rushing in, with awful
visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation
at the thought of the guest in the garden.
“Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I’ve been at it till
I’m all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!” and the exhausted
housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in
every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time
as the floor.
“What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?” asked the
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all
askew.
“Yes,” sobbed Meg despairingly.
“Tell me quick, then. Don’t cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out
with it, love.”
“The… The jelly won’t jell and I don’t know what to do!”
John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the
derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which put
the finishing stroke to poor Meg’s woe.
“Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don’t bother any more about
it. I’ll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven’s sake don’t have
hysterics, for I’ve brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and…”
John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a
tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled
indignation, reproach, and dismay…
“A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you
do such a thing?”
“Hush, he’s in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can’t be
helped now,” said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
“You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to
have remembered how busy I was,” continued Meg petulantly, for even
turtledoves will peck when ruffled.
“I didn’t know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I
met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have
always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if I ever
do again!” added John, with an aggrieved air.
“I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can’t see him, and there
isn’t any dinner.”
“Well, I like that! Where’s the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the
pudding you promised?” cried John, rushing to the larder.
“I hadn’t time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother’s. I’m sorry,
but I was so busy,” and Meg’s tears began again.
John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day’s work to
come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty
table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or
manner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have
blown over, but for one unlucky word.
“It’s a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we’ll pull
through and have a good time yet. Don’t cry, dear, but just exert yourself a
bit, and fix us up something to eat. We’re both as hungry as hunters, so we
shan’t mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread and cheese. We
won’t ask for jelly.”
He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate.
Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom
of patience vanished as he spoke.
“You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I’m too used up to
‘exert’ myself for anyone. It’s like a man to propose a bone and vulgar
bread and cheese for company. I won’t have anything of the sort in my
house. Take that Scott up to Mother’s, and tell him I’m away, sick, dead,
anything. I won’t see him, and you two can laugh at me and my jelly as
much as you like. You won’t have anything else here.” and having delivered
her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately
left the field to bemoan herself in her own room.
What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr.
Scott was not taken ‘up to Mother’s’, and when Meg descended, after they
had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which
filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten “a much, and
greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and
hide the pots.”
Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own short-
comings, of loyalty to John, “who might be cruel, but nobody should know
it,” restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she dressed herself
prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven.
Unfortunately, John didn’t come, not seeing the matter in that light. He
had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as well as
he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the
impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but John was angry, though
he did not show it, he felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. “It
wasn’t fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom,
and when he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave
him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn’t! And
Meg must know it.”
He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over
and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him.
“Poor little thing! It was hard upon her when she tried so heartily to please
me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be patient
and teach her.” He hoped she had not gone home—he hated gossip and
interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought of it,
and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart, and
sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite
firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.
Meg likewise resolved to be ‘calm and kind, but firm’, and show him his
duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and
comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of the
sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally, as she
rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.
John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe, but feeling that
his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came leisurely
in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark, “We
are going to have a new moon, my dear.”
“I’ve no objection,” was Meg’s equally soothing remark. A few other
topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and wet-blanketed
by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to one window,
unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg
went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were
among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both looked quite ‘calm and
firm’, and both felt desperately uncomfortable.
“Oh, dear,” thought Meg, “married life is very trying, and does need
infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says.” The word ‘Mother’
suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with
unbelieving protests.
“John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and
bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will
be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very
accurate, and particular about the truth—a good trait, though you call him
‘fussy’. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the
confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like
ours—one flash and then all over—but the white, still anger that is seldom
stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very careful, not
to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on
keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both
err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words
that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret.”
These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own hasty
speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own
anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such
a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes,
but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up, thinking, “I will
be the first to say, ‘Forgive me’”, but he did not seem to hear her. She went
very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by
him, but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really
couldn’t do it, then came the thought, “This is the beginning. I’ll do my
part, and have nothing to reproach myself with,” and stooping down, she
softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it. The
penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee
in a minute, saying tenderly…
“It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, dear. I
never will again!”
But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both
declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was
preserved in that little family jar.
After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served
him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on which
occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so
charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his
head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home.
In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat
renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at the
little house, or inviting ‘that poor dear’ to come in and spend the day at the
big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. All
were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing to do but sew, or
read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of
gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sallie’s pretty things made
her long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sallie was
very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them,
knowing that John wouldn’t like it, and then this foolish little woman went
and did what John disliked even worse.
She knew her husband’s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her,
not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more—his
money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he
asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a
month, and remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till now she had
done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account books neatly, and
showed them to him monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got
into Meg’s paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with
apples, but with dress. Meg didn’t like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It
irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried
to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie needn’t think
she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things
were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn’t worth
worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping
excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.
But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up
her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her. John
was busy that month and left the bills to her, the next month he was absent,
but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A
few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her
conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one,
just a handsome light one for parties, her black silk was so common, and
thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually
gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year’s. That
was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a
bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John always
said what was his was hers, but would he think it right to spend not only the
prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the
household fund? That was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had
offered to lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted
Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the
lovely, shimmering folds, and said, “A bargain, I assure, you, ma’am.” She
answered, “I’ll take it,” and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had
exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and
driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were
after her.
When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by
spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn’t become
her, after all, and the words ‘fifty dollars’ seemed stamped like a pattern
down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a
new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily
laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg’s heart sank, and for the
first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind,
brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually
merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn’t mean to let her know it.
The house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her,
and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the ‘bank’, when
Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously…
“You haven’t seen my private expense book yet.”
John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and
used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted,
and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a
hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a
bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six
dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her
figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did,
being particularly proud of his prudent wife.
The little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg
got behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his
tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with
every word…
“John, dear, I’m ashamed to show you my book, for I’ve really been
dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things, you
know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year’s money
will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew you’d
think it wrong in me.”
John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly,
“Don’t go and hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots.
I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and don’t mind if she does pay eight or
nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.”
That had been one of her last ‘trifles’, and John’s eye had fallen on it as
he spoke. “Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars!”
thought Meg, with a shiver.
“It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk dress,” she said, with the calmness of
desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
“Well, dear, what is the ‘dem’d total’, as Mr. Mantalini says?”
That didn’t sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with
the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and answer
with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at the same
time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the
fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room
was very still, then John said slowly—but she could feel it cost him an
effort to express no displeasure—. . .
“Well, I don’t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows
and notions you have to have to finish it off these days.”
“It isn’t made or trimmed,” sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden recollection
of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
“Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,
but I’ve no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat’s when she gets it
on,” said John dryly.
“I know you are angry, John, but I can’t help it. I don’t mean to waste
your money, and I didn’t think those little things would count up so. I can’t
resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me because I
don’t. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I’m tired of being poor.”
The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but
he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many
pleasures for Meg’s sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute
she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up, saying with a
little quiver in his voice, “I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg.” If he had
scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not have broken her heart like
those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant
tears, “Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy. I didn’t mean it! It was
so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I
say it!”
He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach, but
Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be forgotten
soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had promised to love
him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had reproached him with his
poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly. It was dreadful, and the
worst of it was John went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had
happened, except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she
had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick,
and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new
greatcoat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He
had simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, “I
can’t afford it, my dear.”
Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with
her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would break.
They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him, given
him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender
patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of
those he loved.
Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth,
and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat
willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it
immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and when
John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown.
One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and
what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home early, Meg gadded
no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy
husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year
rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience, the
deepest and tenderest of a woman’s life.
Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday,
with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for
Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the
other.
“How’s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn’t you tell me
before I came home?” began Laurie in a loud whisper.
“Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of ’em is upstairs a worshipin’.
We didn’t want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I’ll
send ’em down to you,” with which somewhat involved reply Hannah
vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a
large pillow. Jo’s face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was
an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.
“Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,” she said invitingly.
Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him
with an imploring gesture. “No, thank you. I’d rather not. I shall drop it or
smash it, as sure as fate.”
“Then you shan’t see your nevvy,” said Jo decidedly, turning as if to go.
“I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.” and obeying
orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his
arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John
caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with two
babies instead of one.
No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough
to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious
innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that Jo sat down on
the floor and screamed.
“Twins, by Jupiter!” was all he said for a minute, then turning to the
women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, “Take
’em quick, somebody! I’m going to laugh, and I shall drop ’em.”
Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm,
as if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while Laurie
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
“It’s the best joke of the season, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have told you, for I
set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I’ve done it,” said Jo,
when she got her breath.
“I never was more staggered in my life. Isn’t it fun? Are they boys? What
are you going to name them? Let’s have another look. Hold me up, Jo, for
upon my life it’s one too many for me,” returned Laurie, regarding the
infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland looking at a pair of
infantile kittens.
“Boy and girl. Aren’t they beauties?” said the proud papa, beaming upon
the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.
“Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?” and Laurie bent
like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.
“Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion,
so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss
them, Uncle Teddy,” said wicked Jo.
“I’m afraid they mightn’t like it,” began Laurie, with unusual timidity in
such matters.
“Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!”
commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.
Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little
cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.
“There, I knew they didn’t like it! That’s the boy, see him kick, he hits
out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch into a
man of your own size, will you?” cried Laurie, delighted with a poke in the
face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
“He’s to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother
and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs, and
I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name,” said Amy,
with aunt-like interest.
“Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short,” said Laurie.
“Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it,” cried Jo
clapping her hands.
Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were ‘Daisy’ and
‘Demi’ to the end of the chapter.
