Lakeside Park was fairly a-blossom with children that bright summer morning, babies and babies—chubby little boys in clean jaunty blouses, dainty little girls, fresher than the posies as they skipped about in their spick-and-span frocks—all safeguarded by grown-ups.
Bumpity-bump! Nurses, big sisters, and children turned out in a hurry to make room for Tilda, of the tenement, and baby Maggie in her brand-new coach. Tilda nodded and smiled shyly at the other little boys and girls as she pushed along the gorgeous gocart, a present that very morning from dear, freckled, carrot-headed Pete, of the same crowded tenement. Pete had made it his own self a-purpose for Maggie, out of a nice soap box and a pair of old wheels taken in trade with the rag man. And the red paint—the crowning glory of it all—he had earned doing odd jobs for Michael, the carpenter.
Wee Maggie, scrubbed to a polish, dimpled and babbled as she rumbled along. And what mattered to Tilda any longer the hot mile of dusty city walk—the tiresome journey from the tenement—now at last she had reached her beloved park? Oh, the cool, woodsy, sweet-smelling park! Here you could see such lots of the blue sky above the wavy trees and look as much as you liked at brilliant beds of geraniums and verbenas—so long as you didn’t pick them. And here, down by the ripply water, you could watch the whitest swans gliding along so elegantly, but not too superior to accept the bits of cake tossed from the bank by their young admirers.
By and by Tilda turned into a secluded path and came suddenly upon a lady seated all alone on a rustic bench. She was leaning her head on one hand and paying not a speck of attention to any of the beautiful things about her, not even to Mr. Robin, who was calling “cheer up” so insistently from the tip-toppest twig of the neighboring birch.
Deary me, what could be the matter? Tilda halted for exactly one quarter of a minute, then, dropping the cart handle, tiptoed across the grass, and, gently nudging the lady’s arm, whispered, “Are you sick, missis?”
The stranger started and glanced up, very much surprised to find a small girl in a faded, patched gingham gazing at her with solicitous gray eyes.
“Oh, no, child, I’m not ill, thank you! What made you think—but who is that little one in the wagon?” she asked with a sudden show of interest, interrupting herself.
Deary me, what could be the matter?
“Why, that’s my baby.” Tilda grew tall with pride.
“Your baby!” The sad lady very nearly smiled.
“Yes, isn’t she grand?” Tilda shoved the cart close up to the bench. “She’s Maggie. Open your mouth, Maggie, and show the missis your teeth.”
“She is a dear baby,” agreed the lady wistfully, patting Maggie’s little tow head with tender fingers.
“Maybe you’ve got one at home, too?” ventured Tilda.
“N-no, not now.” The lady’s voice was, oh, so sorry! A big lump came right up into Tilda’s throat and tears had started on their way when a happy idea sent them straight back again.
In less than two shakes of a lambkin’s tail she had snatched wee Maggie from the gocart and landed her pat on the strange lady’s lap.
The lady snuggled Maggie close and held out one hand to Tilda
“I’ll lend you my baby, missis,” she offered softly. “You can take her every day. I’ll fetch her in the gocart and”—Tilda faltered, then continued bravely—“you can make b’lieve she’s yours and not ours at all.”
“Oh, thank you, dear!” Really truly smiles now chased away the lady’s tears. She snuggled Maggie close and held out one hand to Tilda.
“Yes, indeed, I should like to borrow wee Maggie often, and you, too, little mother! You are better than the sunshine. Come sit down here and tell me all about yourself and baby.”
The stray passers-by smiled with friendly interest at the odd trio seated there so cozily on the park bench: cheery little Tilda from the tenement in her faded blue gingham, punctuating the conversation with intermittent bobbings of her funny, homemade Dutch cut; the beautiful young woman known to society as a wealthy banker’s wife—Tilda immediately had dubbed her “Fairy Godmother”—in an immaculate white costume; and wee, rosy Maggie in a pink dotted calico cuddled between them.
Fairy Godmother listened with a strange, new awakening as Tilda, with glowing eyes, went on to enumerate all her riches. First, of course, there was Maggie, the sweetest baby in the world, and dear Mother, who worked so hard to provide for them since Father’s death. Then there were her precious day school and Sunday school, the enchanted park—Tilda loved to pretend it was full of fairies—and there were Pete and the gocart, and now there was Fairy Godmother herself.
“Tilda,” a light struggled bravely through the mist in Fairy Godmother’s eyes, “this is my own baby’s birthday—darling little Anne, who was lent to us for twelve happy months, then taken back by the Father of us all. It was to this same park nurse and I used to bring her, and so I came here today to keep her birthday. But your bright little selves have shown me a better way. Yes, I’m going to borrow you both and take you to my home to help me change this day from the saddest to the gladdest day of all the year.”
Shortly they were spinning along in the trolley, the gocart on the rear platform
Shortly they were spinning along in the trolley, with the precious gocart on the rear platform. And before Tilda had a chance to really “come to,” Fairy Godmother was saying, “Here we are.” The car stopped, the jolly conductor helped them out, gocart and all, and in a moment more Tilda found herself entering the “stylishest” house she had ever seen. She followed on tiptoe into the grand hall, up the wide stairs, and stepped straight into fairyland. It wasn’t any dream kind, either, that you wake up from right in the most exciting place. Tilda made sure of that by biting her finger hard—and it hurt.
Fairy Godmother deposited Maggie on the lovely blue center of the loveliest-of-all rugs—Tilda’s feet were loth to tread on any of them. Then she touched a funny little button, and, presto! it was just like Arabian Nights, excepting it wasn’t one of the genii that appeared—only a pretty, rosy-cheeked woman, in the tiniest white cap and apron. She stood in the doorway, looking so surprised at the little strangers that Tilda became suddenly conscious of the patches in her gingham frock, and the places where there should have been patches in her shoes.
“Norah,” reminded Fairy Godmother gently, “this is little Anne’s birthday, and these dear children have come to spend it with me and help to make it glad.”
“Yes, marm,” responded Norah. And Tilda followed her glance to the life-sized portrait of a wee blue-eyed baby as sweet—yes, as Maggie herself. Fairy Godmother had a little tête-à-tête with Norah, who soon left the room, turning as she went to send an assuring smile to the now welcome visitors.
Then Tilda and Maggie went to a wonderful concert—all the time staying just where they were. Ladies and gentlemen they couldn’t see at all came and sang to them, and whole orchestras and bands, all from the same mysterious little box, played music that set delicious thrills shivering down Tilda’s back, and her feet to beating time. Sousa’s band had just finished “El Capitan” when some sweet little chimes tinkled out in the hall.
“Come, Tilda.” Fairy Godmother picked up Maggie and led the way downstairs, out to the honeysuckle porch overlooking the garden.
Tilda and Maggie went to a wonderful concert—all
the time staying just where they were
There, as if the fairies had been at work, stood the dearest little table that ever was, on land or sea, with rosebuds in the middle and set for just three, with little rosebud dishes. My! but that was a party for any royal princess, cocoa with a lovely white foam on top, tiny three-cornered chicken sandwiches, ice cream and strawberries—two plates if you wanted them—frosted cake and candy besides, and milk for Maggie from a real silver cup! The only sorry part of it was baby Anne could not be there, too, for her own birthday. Probably heaven was just as nice, though Tilda could scarcely believe it.
After the “party” Maggie was tucked up cozily on the veranda couch for a nap, and Tilda was escorted to the garden to meet General Jack, Lady Gay, Baltimore Belles, American Beauties, and other celebrities, to say nothing of the pert little Pansy folk, who turned up their saucy faces at her. And Fairy Godmother said she might pick all the roses she wanted, her own self. Fancy it—dozens of them—red, white, and pink, like the grandest lady of the land! And every now and then, as Tilda stole a shy glance at Fairy Godmother’s glad face, her own beamed brighter than ever.
Fairy Godmother said she might pick all the roses she wanted
An hour flew by as hours only can in Fairyland gardens.
“Honk, honk!” Tilda jumped to one side quicker than pop, it sounded so near, and Fairy Godmother, standing on the porch with wide-awake Maggie in her arms, laughed outright.
“It is talking to us, Tilda,” she explained, “and says, ‘Come out front.’”
There by the curb stood a splendid great, shiny auto, waiting for Tilda and Maggie.
Out from the front seat hopped a nice big man with a nice big smile to match, to help them all in and get them settled.
“This is ‘Fairy Godfather,’ Tilda,” introduced Fairy Godmother. “He’s heard all about you and Maggie over the ’phone.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Tilda and Maggie,” he said in a nice big voice as he held out his hand, and Tilda felt almost too magnificent to live.
Norah now came flying out with a mysterious box, which she handed right over to Tilda. Then Fairy Godfather packed in the gocart and away they whizzed for the tenement—by way of the shore.
Two hours later, when tired Mother came home from her long day’s work, a radiant and breathless Tilda met her at the door and invited her to a royal spread.
“Do have some more cake and another cup of tea,” insisted the little hostess gayly. “And just think, Mother, a trip to the country for all of us for two whole weeks! Isn’t it grand? And there’ll be cows and chickens and green grass and flowers, and the rent paid all the while we’re gone! But most the wonderfulest part of it all”—Tilda’s eyes grew starry—“was how Fairy Godmother kept getting gladder ’n’ gladder all the time. And she said ‘thank you’ to me, Mother, and Fairy Godfather did, too, ’s if I’d done anything, when you know positive sure I never did one single thing ’cept lending Maggie.”
“I’m not so sure about that, dear.” And Mother patted the scraggly Dutch cut tenderly, smiling into Tilda’s questioning eyes.