Cousin Lucy at Play by Jacob Abbott - HTML preview

CHAPTER XI.
 THE DICTIONARY.

ONE evening, Lucy was playing in the parlor where her mother was at work sewing. Lucy was sitting upon a cricket, looking over a book. Presently she found, between the leaves of the book, a small piece of white paper.

“O mother! I’ve found a piece of paper,” said she.

Her mother did not answer.

“I wish I had a pen and ink,” said Lucy again, in a tone intermediate between talking to herself and to her mother; “then I would write a letter on this piece of paper.”

“And what would you do with your letter?” said her mother.

“Why, I would play that I was the postman, and so I would carry it about.”

Just then Lucy happened to recollect that her father was in his room writing; and so she concluded that she would go in and ask him to write her a letter. She accordingly rose from her seat, and went to the door of her father’s room.

The door was open a little way, and Lucy had a great mind to go in without knocking. But, then, she remembered that it was proper for her to knock at her father’s door, and she accordingly did so. Nobody answered. Then Lucy pushed the door a little, so as to open it wider, in order to see whether her father was there.

He was not there. There was nobody there. Lucy pushed the door open farther, and walked in.

There was a lamp burning upon a table which stood against the window. Several books and papers were upon the table. One great book was lying open. There was a round, black inkstand not far from the book. It had a large, conical hole in the middle of it, which led down to the ink; and there were several smaller holes around, near the edge, to put the pen into. There was a pen with its point in one of these holes, the top of it leaning over to one side.

“Now, here’s a pen and ink all ready,” said Lucy; “but where’s my father?”

Lucy walked up to the table, and began to look at the book which was lying open. “What a great book!” she said. “I wonder if I can read in such a great book. Here are some big letters on the top. I can read such big letters as these.”

There were three big letters, in two places, on the top of each page; and Lucy began to read them.

“H-o-n,” said Lucy, reading—“H-o-n spells hon; but I don’t know what hon means. I wonder what this book is about.”

But Lucy could not find out what it was about, and so she thought that, as her father was away, she would take the pen and write herself a letter. She accordingly put her paper down upon the corner of the table, and then, reaching over the great book, she dipped the pen carefully into the conical hole in the middle of the inkstand. She then drew the pen very slowly and cautiously to the paper, secretly feeling, however, all the time, that she was doing wrong.

Lucy made several marks upon her paper, and then the ink in her pen failed. She accordingly reached back to the inkstand to get some more. She thought that she did not dip her pen far enough down before, and that that was the reason why the ink failed so quick. She, therefore, this time, dipped the pen in so far that the point of it touched the bottom of the inkstand; and so, when it came up, it was full of ink.

 It was too full of ink, in fact, so that a little drop hung from the point just ready to fall; and very unfortunately, just as Lucy had got the pen almost across the great book, the drop did fall, and it made quite a large, round spot upon the middle of one of the pages.

Lucy was very much frightened at this occurrence. She put the pen back in its place, and began to walk as fast as she could go out of the room. In a moment, however, she reflected that, as soon as her father came in, he would see the ink spot, and would at once inquire who made it. So she thought that she would come and shut the book up, and that would keep the ugly-looking blot out of sight. She accordingly came back hastily to the table, shut the book up, and then went immediately away.

But, notwithstanding this ingenious precaution, her mind continued in a state of great agitation and alarm. She went back to her cricket, and began to look over her book again; but she felt very wretched. Finally, she came to the very wise conclusion of going back at once, and finding her father, and telling him all about the affair.

She put her book down upon the cricket, and went again towards her father’s room. She found her father just going into the room, with a large book of maps under his arm.

“Well, Lucy,” said her father, “are you coming to see me?”

Lucy walked slowly towards him, with a downcast look, but she said nothing. “What is the matter, Lucy?” said her father.

“Why,—why,” said Lucy, in a very low and timid voice,—“the ink has got on your great book.”

“My great book? What book?” said her father.

“Your great book on the table;—that great book.”

So saying, Lucy pointed to the book upon the table; for by this time they had got into the room where they could see the table and the book upon it.

“Where?” said her father. “Where is the ink?”

“Somewhere in the middle of it,” said Lucy. “But I don’t suppose I can find it now.”

Her father took up the great book, and began turning over the leaves; but he did not find the ink spot.

“But, Lucy,” said he, “how did you get the ink upon my book?”

 “Why, father,” said Lucy, “you see, I was going to write me a letter, and the ink wouldn’t stay in the pen.”

“Now, Lucy, that was very wrong. You ought not to come to my table, and to take my pen and ink without leave. How big was the blot?”

“’Twas pretty big,” said Lucy, timidly.

“I can’t find the place,” said her father. “O, now I remember. It must have been at horizon. I was looking horizon, to see how it was accented.”

“No, sir, it was at hon. I remember now myself; it was at hon.”

Her father made no reply, but, after turning over a few leaves, he came at once to the place, and there, to Lucy’s utter astonishment, there were two blots, instead of one; there was one on each page. They were very large, too, much larger than the one which Lucy had seen.

“Now, there are two blots,” said Lucy; “how came that other one there?”

“Why, that was made by shutting up the book,” said her father. “How came the book shut up?”

“Why, I shut it, sir,” said Lucy.

“What did you shut it for?” said her father.

“Because,” said Lucy, speaking in a very timid voice again, “I did not want you to see the blot.”

“Then what did you come and tell me for?” said her father.

“Why, I thought it would be better to come and tell you,” said Lucy.

“You first shut the book in order to conceal it, and then you altered your mind, and so came and told me; was that it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lucy.

“Well,” said her father, “that was honest, at any rate. And the blot, I see, is on the very word honesty. What a curious coincidence!”

“I don’t know what you mean by coincidence,” said Lucy.

“Why, you were honest in coming to tell me of the blot, and the blot happens to be upon the word honesty. That’s a coincidence. I am glad you were honest; but, then, you did very wrong to come and attempt to write with my pen. You have done me a great deal of mischief.”

“Can’t you get the blots out, any possible way?” asked Lucy.

“No, I presume not,” he replied. “I might try an acid, however,” he added, in a low voice, as if talking to himself.

 “I wish you would, father,” said Lucy. “Do try an acid, father.”

Lucy did not know what an acid was, nor how her father was going to attempt to remove the ink stains by means of it; but she was very eager to have him try any thing which promised any chance of success.

“I don’t think I can take the spots out entirely,” said her father; “but perhaps I can change their color, so that they will not be quite so conspicuous.”

As he said this, he took the lamp and went away, Lucy following him. He went to a closet which was in another room, and took down a small phial, and poured out a few drops of the liquid which was in it, into a tea-cup. Then he got some water, and poured about a spoonful into the tea-cup too. Then he came back with Lucy into his own room.

“First,” said he, “we will try it upon another piece of paper.”

So saying, he took a small piece of newspaper, and made a blot upon it about as large as those which Lucy had made in the book. Then he held the newspaper to the fire until the blot was dry.

“Now I must make a little brush,” said he.

 “How can you make a brush?” said Lucy.

Her father only said in reply, “You will see.” He went to his closet, and took a quill out from a bunch which was there. He cut off the top, and put the quill back, and then brought the top to the table. Then he stripped off all the feathers except a small tuft at the end, and that, he said, was his brush.

This brush he dipped into the tea-cup, and then very carefully washed over the ink spot upon the newspaper. Lucy saw that it made the spot look much more dim. Then her father washed over the spots in the book in the same way. The spots grew faint, and turned of a reddish color; but he could not get them out entirely.

“It looks a great deal better,” said her father, “but I cannot get them out entirely. There they must stay forever. I shall see them a great many times, for they are in my dictionary, and I am often turning over the leaves. And always when I see them I shall remember how they came there. One of them will remind me of your heedlessness, and the other of your honesty.”

THE END.