



Produced by Jeff Kaylin, Bruce Albrecht, and Andrew Sly.




[Illustration: That is where we play--I mean it is most pleasant there]


  The
  Very Small Person

By

Annie Hamilton Donnell

Author of "Rebecca Mary"

Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green

New York and London

Harper & Brothers Publishers

MCMVI



Contents

     I.  Little Blue Overalls
    II.  The Boy
   III.  The Adopted
    IV.  Bobby Unwelcome
     V.  The Little Girl Who Should Have Been a Boy
    VI.  The Lie
   VII.  The Princess of Make-Believe
  VIII.  The Promise
    IX.  The Little Lover
     X.  The Child
    XI.  The Recompense


Illustrations

  That is where we play--I mean it is most pleasant there
  Little Blue Overalls climbed into a chair
  'Fore I'd lean my chin on folks's gates and watch 'em!
  She stayed there a week--a month--a year
  It was worse than creepy, creaky noises
  I can't play... I'm being good
  Murray had... seen the vision, too
  Elizabeth




Chapter I

Little Blue Overalls


Miss Salome's face was gently frowning as she wrote.

"Dear John," the letter began,--"It's all very well except one thing.
I wonder you didn't think of that. _I'm_ thinking of it most
of the time, and it takes away so much of the pleasure of the
rose-garden and the raspberry-bushes! Anne is in raptures over the
raspberry-bushes.

"Yes, the raspberries and the roses are all right. And I like the
stone-wall with the woodbine over it. (Good boy, you remembered that,
didn't you?) And the apple-tree and the horse-chestnut and the
elm--of course I like them.

"The house is just big enough and just small enough, and there's a
trunk-closet, as I stipulated. And Anne's room has a'southern
exposure'--Anne's crazy spot is southern exposures. Mine's _it_.
Dear, dear, John, how could you forget _it!_ That everything
else--closets and stone-walls and exposures--should be to my mind but
_that!_ Well, I am thinking of moving out, before I move in. But I
haven't told Anne. Anne is the kind of person _not_ to tell, until
the last moment. It saves one's nerves--heigh-ho! I thought I was
coming here to get away from nerves! I was so satisfied. I really
meant to thank you, John, until I discovered--it. Oh yes, I
know--Elizabeth is looking over your shoulder, and you two are saying
something that is unfit for publication about old maids! My children,
then thank the Lord you aren't either of you old maids. Make the most
of it."

Miss Salome let her pen slip to the bare floor and gazed before her
wistfully. The room was in the dreary early stages of unpacking, but
it was not of that Miss Salome was thinking. Her eyes were gazing out
of the window at a thin gray trail of smoke against the blue ground
of the sky. She could see the little house, too, brown and tiny and a
little battered. She could see the clothes-line, and count easily
enough the pairs of little stockings on it. She caught up the pen
again fiercely.

"There are eight," she wrote. "Allowing two legs to a child, doesn't
that make _four?_ John Dearborn, you have bought me a house next
door to four children! I think I shall begin to put the books back
to-night. As ill luck will have it, they are all unpacked.

"I have said nothing to Anne; Anne has said nothing to me. But we
both know. She has counted the stockings too. We are both old maids.
No, I have not _seen_ them yet--anything but their stockings on the
clothes-line. But the mother is not a washer-woman--there is no hope.
I don't know how I know she isn't a washer-woman, but I do. It is
impressed upon me. So there are four children, to say nothing of the
Lord knows how many babies still in socks! I cannot forgive you,
John."

Miss Salome had been abroad for many years. Stricken suddenly with
homesickness, she and her ancient serving-woman, Anne, had fled
across seas to their native land. Miss Salome had first commissioned
John, long-suffering John,--adviser, business-manager, brother,--to
find her a snug little home with specified adjuncts of trunk-closets,
elm, apple, and horse-chestnut trees, woodbiney stone walls--and a
"southern exposure" for Anne. John had done his best. But how could
he have forgotten, and Elizabeth have forgotten, and Miss Salome
herself have forgotten--it? Every one knew Miss Salome's distaste for
little children. Anne's too, though Anne was more taciturn than her
mistress.

"Hullo!"

Miss Salome started. In the doorway stood a very small person in blue
jeans overalls.

"Hullo! I want your money or your life! I'm a 'wayman."

"A--_what?_" Miss Salome managed to ejaculate. The Little Blue
Overalls advanced a few feet into the room.

"Robber, you know;--you know what robbers are, don't you? I'm one.
You needn't call me a _high_wayman, I'm so--so low. Just 'wayman 'll
do. Why, gracious! you ain't afraid, are you? You needn't be,--I
won't hurt you!" and a sweet-toned, delighted little laugh echoed
through the bare room. "You needn't give me your money or your life.
Never mind. I'll'scuse you."

Miss Salome uttered no word at all. Of course this boy belonged in a
pair of those stockings over there. It was no more than was to be
expected.

"It's me. I'm not a 'wayman any more,--just _me_. I heard you'd come,
so I thought I'd come an' see you. You glad? Why don't you ask me
will I take a seat?"

"Will I--will you take a seat?" repeated Miss Salome, as if she were
saying a lesson. The Little Blue Overalls climbed into a chair.

[Illustration: Little Blue Overalls climbed into a chair]

"Looks pretty bad here, doesn't it? I guess you forgot to sweep," he
said, assuming social curves in his plump little body. He had the air
of having come to stay. Miss Salome's lips, under orders to tighten,
found themselves unexpectedly relaxing into a smile. The Little Blue
Overalls was amusing.

"_We've_ got a sofy, an' a rockin'-chair. The sofy's new, but
Chessie's broke a hole in it."

"Are there four of you?" Miss Salome asked, abruptly. It was the
Little Blue Overalls' turn to start now.

"_Me?_--gracious! four o' me? I guess you're out o' your head,
aren't-- Oh, you mean _child'en!_ Well, there's five, 'thout
countin' the spandy new one--she's too little to count."

Five--six, with the spandy new one! Miss Salome's gaze wandered from
the piles of books on the floor to the empty packing-boxes, as if
trying to find the shortest distance.

"There are only four pairs on the line," she murmured,
weakly,--"stockings," she added. The Little Blue Overalls nodded
comprehendingly.

"I don't wear 'em summers,--I guess you didn't notice I was in my
bare feet, did you? Well, I am. It's a savin'. The rest are nothing
but girls--I'm all the boy we've got. Boys are tough. But I don't
s'pose you ever was one, so you don't know?" There was an upward
inflection to the voice of the Little Blue Overalls. An answer seemed
expected.

"No--no, I never was one," Miss Salome said, hastily. She could hear
Anne's plodding steps in the hall. It would be embarrassing to have
Anne come in now. But the footsteps plodded by. After more
conversation on a surprising number of topics, the Little Blue
Overalls climbed out of the chair.

"I've had a 'joyable time, an' I'll be pleased to come again, thank
you," he said, with cheerful politeness. "I'm glad you've come,--I
like you, but I hope you'll sweep your floor." He retreated a few
steps, then faced about again and advanced into the enemy's near
neighborhood. He was holding out a very small, brown, unwashed hand.
"I forgot 'bout shakin' hands," he smiled. "Le's. I hope you like me,
too, an' I guess you do, don't you? Everybody does. Nobody ever
_didn't_ like me in my life, an' I'm seven. Good-bye."

Miss Salome heard him patter down the hall, and she half thought--she
was not sure--that at the kitchen door he stopped. Half an hour
afterwards she saw a very small person crossing the rose-garden. If
there was something in his hands that he was eating, Miss Salome
never asked Anne about it. It was not her way to ask Anne questions.
It was not Anne's way to ask her. The letter to John was finished,
oddly enough, without further mention of--it. Miss Salome got the
broom and swept the bare big room carefully. She hummed a little as
she worked. Out in the kitchen Anne was humming too.

"It is a pleasant little place, especially the stone-wall and the
woodbine," Miss Salome was thinking; "I'm glad I specified woodbine
and stone-walls. John would never have thought. So many other things
are pleasant, too; but, dear, dear, it is very unfortunate about that
one thing!" Still Miss Salome hummed, and after tea she got Anne to
help her move out the empty packing-boxes.

The next day the Little Blue Overalls came again. This time he was a
peddler, with horse-chestnut "apples" to sell, and rose-petal pies.
He said they were bargains.

"You can truly eat the pies," he remarked. "There's a _little_ sugar
in 'em. I saved it off the top o' _her_ bun," indicating Anne's
locality with a jerk of his little cropped head. So it was a fact,
was it? He had been eating something when he crossed the rose-garden?
Miss Salome wondered at Anne.

The next day, and the next,--every day the Little Blue Overalls came,
always in a new character. Miss Salome found herself watching for
him. She could catch the little blue glint of very small overalls as
soon as they got to the far side of the rose-garden. But for Anne, at
the end of the first week she would have gone out to meet him. Dear,
dear, but for Miss Salome, Anne would have gone!

The Little Blue Overalls confided his troubles to Miss Salome. He
told her how hard it was to be the only boy,--how impossible, of
course, it was to play girly plays, and how he had longed to find a
congenial spirit. Mysteriously enough, he appeared confident that he
had found the congenial spirit at last. Miss Salome's petticoats
seemed no obstacle. He showed her his pocketful of treasures. He
taught her to whittle, and how to bear it when she "bleeded." He
taught her to whistle--very softly, on account of Anne. (He taught
Anne, too--softly, on account of Miss Salome.) He let her make sails
for his boats, and sew on his buttons,--those that Anne didn't sew
on.

"Dear John," wrote Miss Salome, "the raspberries are ripe. When you
were a very small person--say seven--did you ever mash them between
raspberry leaves, with'sugar in,' and call them pies,--and eat them?
They are really palatable. Of course it is a little risky on account
of possible bugs. I don't remember that you were a remarkable little
boy. Were you? Did you ever play you were a highwayman, or an
elephant, or anything of that sort? Queer I can't remember.

"Anne is delighted with her southern exposure, but she has never said
so. That is why I know she is. I am delighted with the roses and the
closets and the horse-chestnut--especially the horst-chestnut. That
is where we play--I mean it is most pleasant there, hot afternoons.
Did you use to dote on horse-chestnuts? Queer boys should. But I
rather like them myself, in a way,--out of the way! We have picked up
a hundred and seventeen." Miss Salome dropped into the plural number
innocently, and Elizabeth laughed over John's shoulder. Elizabeth did
the reading between the lines. John was only a man.

One day Little Blue Overalls was late. He came from the direction of
the stable that adjoined Miss Salome's house. He was excited and
breathless. A fur rug was draped around his shoulders and trailed
uncomfortably behind him.

"Come on!" he cried, eagerly. "It's a circus! I'm the grizzled bear.
There's a four-legged girl--Chessie, you know, with stockin's on her
hands,--and a Manx rooster ('thout any tail), and, oh, my! the
_splendidest_ livin' skeleton you ever saw! I want you to be
man'ger--come on! It's easy enough. You poke us with a stick, an' we
perform. I dance, an' the four-legged girl walks, an' the rooster
crows, an' the skeleton skel-- Oh, well, you needn't poke the
skeleton."

The Little Blue Overalls paused for breath. Miss Salome laid aside
her work. Where was Anne?--but the stable could be reached without
passing the kitchen windows. Saturdays Anne was very busy, anyway.

"I'm ready," laughed Miss Salome. She had never been a
circus-manager, but she could learn. It was easier than whittling.
Together they hurried away to the stable. At the door Miss Salome
came to an abrupt stop. An astonished exclamation escaped her.

The living skeleton sat on an empty barrel, lean and grave and
patient. The living skeleton also uttered an exclamation. She and the
circus-manager gazed at each other in a remarkable way, as if under a
spell.

"Come on!" shouted the grizzled bear.

After that, Miss Salome and Anne were not so reserved. What was the
use? And it was much easier, after all, to be found out. Things ran
along smoothly and pleasantly after that.

Late in the autumn, Elizabeth, looking over John's shoulder one day,
laughed, then cried out, sharply. "Oh!" she said; "oh, I am sorry!"
And John echoed her an instant later.

"Dear John," the letter said, "when you were little were you ever
very sick, and did you _die?_ Oh, I see, but don't laugh. I think I
am a little out of my head to-day. One is when one is anxious. And
Little Blue Overalls is very sick. I found Anne crying a little while
ago, and just now she came in and found me. She didn't mind; I don't.

"He did not come yesterday or the day before. Yesterday I went to see
why. Anne was just coming away from the door. 'He's sick,' she said,
in her crisp, sharp way,--you know it, John,--but she was white in
the face. The little mother came to the door. Queer I had never seen
her before,--Little Blue Overalls has her blue eyes.

"There were two or three small persons clinging to her, and the very
smallest one I ever saw was in her arms. She looked fright--" The
letter broke off abruptly here. Another slip was enclosed that began
as abruptly. "Anne says it is scarlet-fever. The doctor has been
there just now. I am going to have him brought over here--you _know_
I don't mean the doctor. And you would not smile, either of you--not
Elizabeth, anyway, for she will think of her own babies--"

"Yes, yes," Elizabeth cried, "I am thinking!"

"--That is why he must not stay over there. There are so many babies.
I am going over there now."

The letter that followed this one was a week delayed.

"Dear John," it said,--"you must be looking out for another place. If
anything should--he is very sick, John! And I could not stay here
without him. Nor Anne. John, would you ever think that Anne was born
a nurse? Well, the Lord made her one. I have found it out. Not with a
little dainty white cap on, and a nurse's apron,--not that kind, but
with light, cool fingers and a great, tender heart. That is the
Lord's kind, and it's Anne. She is taking beautiful care of our
Little Blue Overalls. The little mother and I appreciate Anne. But he
is very very sick, John.

"I could not stay here. Why, there isn't a spot that wouldn't remind
me! There's a faint little path worn in the grass beside the
stone-wall where he has been'sentry.' There's a bare spot under the
horse-chestnut where he played blacksmith and'shoe-ed' the
saw-horse. And he used to pounce out on me from behind the old elm
and demand my money or my life,--he was a highwayman the first time I
saw him. I've bought rose-pies and horse-chestnut apples of him on
the front door-steps. We've played circus in the barn. We've been
Indians and gypsies and Rough Riders all over the place. You must
look round for another one, John. I can't stay here.

"Here's Anne. She says he is asleep now. Before he went he sent word
to me that he was a wounded soldier, and he _wished_ I'd make a red
cross and sew it on Anne's sleeve. I must go and make it. Good-bye.
The letter will not smell good because I shall fumigate it, on
account of Elizabeth's babies. You need not be afraid."

There was no letter at all the next week, early or late, and they
were afraid Little Blue Overalls was dead. Elizabeth hugged her
babies close and cried softly over their little, bright heads. Then
shortly afterwards the telegram came, and she laughed--and
cried--over that. It was as welcome as it was guiltless of
punctuation:

"Thank the Lord John Little Blue Overalls is going to get well."




Chapter II

The Boy


The trail of the Boy was always entirely distinct, but on this
especial morning it lay over house, porch, barn--everything. The
Mother followed it up, stooping to gather the miscellany of boyish
belongings into her apron. She had a delightful scheme in her mind
for clearing everything up. She wanted to see how it would seem, for
once, not to have any litter of whittlings, of strings and marbles
and tops! No litter of beloved birds' eggs, snake-skins,
turtle-shells! No trail of the Boy anywhere.

It had taken the whole family to get the Boy off, but now he was
gone. Even yet the haze of dust the stage-coach had stirred up from
the dry roadway lingered like a faint blur on the landscape. It could
not be ten minutes since they had bidden the Boy his first good-bye.
The Mother smiled softly.

"But I did it!" she murmured. "Of course,--I _had_ to. The idea of
letting your Boy go off without kissing him good-bye! Mary," she
suddenly spoke aloud, addressing the Patient Aunt, who was following
the trail too, picking up the siftings from the other's apron--"Mary,
did you kiss him? There was really no need, you know, because you are
not his mother. And it would have saved his feelings not to."

The Patient Aunt laughed. She was very young and pretty, and the
"patient" in her name had to do only with her manner of bearing the
Boy.

"No, I didn't," she said. "I didn't dare to, after I saw him wipe
yours off!"

"_Mary!_"

"With the back of his hand. I am not near-sighted. Now _why_ should a
well-meaning little kiss distress a Boy like that? That's what I want
to know."

"It didn't once," sighed the Mother, gently. "Not when he was a baby.
I'm glad I got in a great many of them then, while I had a chance. It
was the trousers that did it, Mary. From the minute he put on
trousers he objected to being kissed. I put his kilts on again one
day, and he let me kiss him."

"But it was a bribe to get you to take them off," laughed the Patient
Aunt, wickedly. "I remember;--I was there. And you took them off to
pay for that kiss. You can't deny it, Bess."

"Yes, I took them off--and after that I kissed _them_. It was next
best. Mary, does it seem very _awful_ quiet here to you?"

"Awful. I never heard anything like it in my life. I'm going to let
something drop and make a noise." She dropped a tin trumpet, but it
fell on the thick rug, and they scarcely heard it.

The front gate clicked softly, and the Father came striding up the
walk, whistling exaggeratedly. He had ridden down to the corner with
the Boy.

"Well, well, well," he said; "now I shall go to work. I'm going up to
my den, girls, and I don't want to be called away for anything or
anybody lower than a President or the minister. This is my first good
chance to work for ten years."

Which showed how old the Boy was. He was rather young to go off alone
on a journey, but a neighbor half a mile down the glary white road
was going his way, and would take him in charge. The neighbor was
lame, and the Boy thought he was going to take charge of the
neighbor. It was as well. Nobody had undeceived him.

In a little over half an hour--three-quarters at most--the trail of
the Boy was wiped out. Then the Patient Aunt and the Mother sat down
peacefully and undisturbed to their sewing. Everything was very
spruce and cleared up. The Mother was thinking of that, and of how
very, very still it was. She wished the Patient Aunt would begin to
sing, or a door would slam somewhere.

"Dear me!" she thought, with a tremulous little smile, "here I am
wanting to hear a door slam already! Any one wouldn't think I'd had a
special set of door nerves for years!" She started in to rock
briskly. There used to be a board that creaked by the west window.
Why didn't it creak now? The Mother tried to make it.

"Mary," she cried, suddenly and sharply--"_Mary!_"

"Mercy! Well, what is it, my dear? Is the house afire, or anything?"

"Why don't you talk, and not sit there as still as a post? You
haven't said a word for half an hour."

"Why, so I haven't,--or you either, for that matter. I thought we
were sitting here enjoying the calm. Doesn't it look too lovely and
fixed-up for anything, Bess? Seems like Sunday. _Don't_ you wish
somebody would call before we get stirred up again?"

"There's time enough. We sha'n't get stirred up again for a week,"
sighed the Mother. She seemed suddenly to remember, as a new thing,
that weeks held seven days apiece; days, twenty-four hours. The
little old table at school repeated itself to her mind. Then she
remembered how the Boy said it. She saw him toeing the stripe in the
carpet before her; she heard his high sweet sing-song:

"Sixty sec-unds make a min-it. Sixty min-its make a nour. Sixty hours
make--no; I mean twenty-four hours--make a d-a-a-y."

That was the way the Boy said it--God bless the Boy! The Mother got
up abruptly.

"I think I will go up and call on William," she said, unsteadily. The
Patient Aunt nodded gravely. "But he doesn't like to be interrupted,
you know," she reminded, thinking of the Boy's interruptions.

Up-stairs, the Father said "Come in," with remarkable alacrity. He
looked up from his manuscripts and welcomed her. The sheets, tossed
untidily about the table were mostly blank ones.

"Well, dear?" the little Mother said, with a question in her voice.

"Not at all;--_bad_," he answered, gloomily. "I haven't written a
word yet, Bess. At this rate, how soon will my new book be out? It's
so confoundedly still--"

"Yes, dear, I know," the Mother said, hastily. Then they both gazed
out of the window, and saw the Boy's little, rough-coated, ugly dog
moping under the Boy's best-beloved tree. The Boy had pleaded hard to
be allowed to take the dog on the journey. They both remembered that
now.

"He's lonesome," murmured the Mother, but she meant that they two
were. And they had thought it would be such a rest and relief! But
then, you remember, the Boy had never been away before, and he was
only ten.

So one day and one more after it dragged by. Two from seven leaves
five. The Mother secretly despaired. The second night, after the
others were asleep, she stole around the house and strewed the Boy's
things about in all the rooms; but she could not make them look at
ease. Nevertheless, she let them lie, and, oddly enough, no one
appeared to see them next morning. All the family made fine pretence
of being cheerful, and spoke often of the quietude and peace--how
restful it was; how they had known beforehand that it would be so,
without the whooping, whistling, tramping, slamming Boy.

"So relieving to the nerves," the Patient Aunt said.

"So soothing," murmured the Mother, sadly.

"So confoundedly nice and still!" the Father muttered in his beard.
"Haven't had such a chance to work for ten years." But he did not
work. The third day he said he must take a little run to the city
to--to see his publishers, you know. There were things that needed
looking after;--if the Mother would toss a few things into his grip,
he'd be off;--back in a few days, of course. And so he went. It was a
relief to the Mother, and a still further one when, on the fourth
day, the Patient Aunt went away on a little visit to--to some
friends.

"I'm glad they're gone," nodded the little Mother, decisively, "for I
couldn't have stood it another day--_not another day!_ Now _I'm_
going away myself. I suppose I should have gone anyway, but it's much
pleasanter not to have them know. They would both of them have
laughed. What do _they_ know about being a Mother and having your
little Boy away? Oh yes, they can laugh and be relieved--and
rested--and soothed! It's mothers whose hearts break with
lonesomeness--mothers and ugly little dogs." She took the moping
little beast up in her lap and stroked his rough coat.

"You shall go too," she whispered. "You can't wait three days more,
either, can you? It would have killed you, too, wouldn't it? We are
glad those other people went away, aren't we? Now we'll go to the
Boy."

Early the next morning they went. The Mother thought she had never
been so happy before in her life, and the ugly little beast yelped
with anticipative joy. In a little--a very little--while, now, they
would hear the Boy shout--see him caper--feel his hard little palms
on their faces. They would see the trail of the Boy over everything;
not a make-believe, made-up trail, but the real, littered, _Boy_
thing.

"I hope those other two people are enjoying their trips. _We_ are,
aren't we?" cried the happy Mother, hugging the little ugly dog in
her arms. "And they won't know;--they can't laugh at us. We'll never
let them know we couldn't bear it another minute, will we? The Boy
sha'n't tell on us."

The place where the Boy was visiting was quite a long