“Mamma, may I take Hilda to see Mosina this morning?” asked Cricket, the next day at breakfast. “The girls are going to the Museum, and we don’t want to go very much, and I do want Hilda to see our cunning Mosina.”
“Oh, I’m rather afraid, dear,” hesitated mamma. “You’ve never been there alone, you know. I’m not quite sure that it’s perfectly safe for you to go by yourselves. Is it, papa?”
“Down in——Street? Why—yes—I think so. Are you sure you know the way, Cricket?”
“Perfectly sure, papa. What harm could come to us? Do let us! I know Mosina is just wild to see us. Oh, Hilda, she is the cutest thing! She’s just like a little roll of butter, with blue buttons for eyes; they’re so round.”
“Hilda, if you ever feel any inclination to adopt a little sister—” began Doctor Ward, with twinkling eyes, but Cricket went straight on:
“She’s the fattest thing you ever saw. She’s all creases. She looks just as if she had strings tied around her legs and arms—regular corduroy arms.”
“I’d love to see her. Do let us go, Mrs. Ward. We’ll be very careful and not get lost.”
“I think I will let you. Keep your wits about you, Cricket, and don’t go wandering off anywhere. And I’ll send a little bundle of things down to Mosina’s mother. By the way, tell her to come up on Saturday, and I’ll have a big bundle ready for her. You can carry a few cookies down in a little box, couldn’t you, Hilda, if Cricket carries the parcel?”
The children set off on their expedition, in great glee, about ten o’clock. To be sure, Cricket had never been there alone before, but the way was very direct and simple, and the neighbourhood where Mosina’s mother lived, though poor, was perfectly respectable. Mrs. Ward had fulfilled her promise to little Mrs. Brummagen—had given her work, and told her friends about her, and moreover, had been to see her, herself, several times. The children still called the baby “Mosina,” and the child had already learned to use the name herself. As the children walked along, Cricket rehearsed, for the third or fourth time, the story of the finding and the temporary adoption of Mosina.
“She’s awfully cunning, but I’m glad we didn’t adopt her,” concluded Cricket. “She would have been a lot of work. Children always are, I guess. I’ve thought, ever since that night, that I wonder how mothers stand it.”
“Oh, mothers are made so!” said Hilda, comfortably.
“I wonder if that makes it really any easier for them,” meditated Cricket, thoughtfully. “Mamma says that I had colic just steadily till I was about six months old, and cried all the time, and would scarcely stay with the nurse at all. Mamma was up with me most every night. Think of it! And one night just used me up.”
“Mothers don’t mind,” repeated Hilda. “Mamma just loves to do things for me, so I always let her,” she added, superbly.
Cricket knit her brows a little, but as they were already at Mosina’s home, she put the question away, to think over at her leisure.
Mosina and her mother were delighted to see their visitors. Mrs. Brummagen was hard at work, washing, and Mosina was tied to the door-knob by a string. This, at first sight, did not seem a necessary precaution, for she was sitting perfectly still, upon the floor, staring into space, when the girls entered. This one little room was the whole of Mrs. Brummagen’s residence. Here she slept and washed clothes and did her bit of cooking, but it was all clean and tidy as Dutch neatness could make it. The girls delivered the box of cookies and the other things, and gave Mrs. Ward’s message.
Hilda stared about her. She had never, before, been in the home of the very poor.
“Why, that’s a bed! Does she sleep in the kitchen?” she whispered to Cricket, as Mrs. Brummagen went back to her washing, and Cricket lifted Mosina in her arms.
“This isn’t the kitchen; it’s all she has,” responded Cricket, in an equally low voice. “Lots of people have only one room.”
“Do they like it? Don’t they want more room?” said Hilda, amazed; for she always found it difficult to realise that people occasionally did things that they did not like to do. Her own experience, in that way, was very limited.
“They have to do it, goosie,” said Cricket, who had often been with her mother to see her poor people. “I like to come here. Isn’t it story-booky? See this cunning thing? Isn’t she clean?”
“She is awfully fat. Can she talk?”
“Just jabbers; you can’t understand her. Say ‘How do you do?’ baby.”
Mosina was a fine plaything, for she was exactly like a big wax doll. The children could do anything they pleased with her.
“You wouldn’t think this child could be such a torment at night,” said Cricket, feelingly. “In the daytime she is just like a lump of dough. She stays just where you put her. But at night—oh, goodness! she was just as if she had yeast in her. I was black and blue for a week after she slept with me that night. Oh, weren’t you bad!” addressing Mosina, with uplifted finger.
Just then a sharp knock came at the door, and Mrs. Brummagen, drying her hands on her apron, hurried to open it. A messenger stood there, saying that she was wanted immediately for a little extra work at the house of one of her regular employers. Some servant had unexpectedly left, and company was expected, and Mrs. Brummagen was requested to come back with the messenger for a few hours’ work.
“Ach, himmel!” cried little Mrs. Brummagen, uncertainly. “What I do? Mine vash in ze wassa iss, und mine leetle babby alone vill be. I cannot.”
“But you must,” said the boy, impatiently. “She tole me not to come back widout yer. Leave de kid wid de naybors. Yer’ll be back at four o’clock, she said.”
“Oh, Mrs. Brummagen,” said Cricket, eagerly, “you go, and I’ll stay with the baby. I can as well as not. Mrs. Whitby lives near us, and you just stop and tell mamma about it, please. We’d like to, wouldn’t we, Hilda?”
Poor little Mrs. Brummagen, overwhelmed by the thought of the young ladies staying and taking care of her baby, and distracted by the boy, who instantly urged the plan, hardly knew which way to turn. Cricket and Hilda both insisted loudly, the boy announced that she must go anyway, and so, before she really knew what she was about, she had on her bonnet and shawl, and was borne away triumphantly by the boy, protesting, all the time, that she mustn’t leave the clothes in soak.
Hilda and Cricket looked at each other, with broadly smiling faces, when they were left in possession.
“Isn’t this fun?” beamed Cricket. “I’ve always wondered how it would seem to live in one room. Just like a baby-house, isn’t it?” executing a war-dance around the solemn little Mosina, who watched the proceedings with calm interest.
“Lots of fun!” assented Hilda. “What will we do about lunch?”
“Lunch!” replied Cricket, blankly, at this practical suggestion; “I forgot about lunch. Oh, I guess there’ll be something to eat in the ice-box. Why, there isn’t any ice-box! Well, in the cupboard then! We’ll find something and cook it! Oh, ‘wot larks!’ as Archie says;” and Cricket danced gaily around Mosina again.
“Let’s play we live here all the time,” she added, stopping, with one foot up. “I’ll be Mrs. Brummagen. No, I won’t; I can talk Irish better than Dutch, so I’ll be Mrs. O’Flanagan, sure. You can be—let me see—you can be my daughter or my sister.”
“No, I won’t be either,” said Hilda with dignity. “I’ll be your mother, and wear a cap, and say ‘Arrah go bragh,’ and all those things.”
“Oh, splendid! you always do the old lady parts so well,” said Cricket, approvingly. “Let’s see what we can find for a cap. See! here’s a little white skirt of Mosina’s; guess it’s her best one. Have you any pins? We can pin the belt together and double the skirt, and here’s a beautiful cap with a ruffle and all, and so becoming!” adjusting the big cap, admiringly, and tucking up Hilda’s long curls.
“Now pin this funny little shawl around your shoulders. What a lovely grandma you always make!”
No wonder Hilda got on so well with Cricket, who always made things easy for her, and loved and admired her with all her unselfish little soul.
“You must pin up your skirts like a washerwoman,” said the old lady, quite delighted with her own appearance. “Now roll your sleeves up. Mosina is your baby, you know, and I’m her grandma. Now, what let’s do?”
“I wonder what Mrs. Brummagen does when she isn’t washing? Do you s’pose she reads? Why, Hilda, there isn’t a book around! Don’t you s’pose she ever reads?” with the greatest astonishment.
“Probably she gets books from the public library,” suggested Hilda. “Anyway, I dare say she hasn’t much time to read. I shouldn’t think washerwomen people would have. Perhaps she sews.”
“There isn’t a sign of a work-basket,” said Cricket, looking around with increased astonishment. “Do you suppose this is all she sews with?” pointing to a spool of coarse white thread with a big needle sticking in it, and a brass thimble standing by it.
“It must be. No books and no sewing! What do you suppose she does in the evening?” exclaimed Hilda.
“It’s very queer,” said Cricket, thoughtfully.
Neither child, of course, had much more idea of the life of the very poor than they had of the habits of a kangaroo.
“But we must do something. We can’t sit around all day,” added Cricket briskly. “Oh, let’s finish the washing!”
“Do you think that’ll be fun?” asked Hilda, doubtfully. “The clothes are all wet.”
“Well, Hilda, of course they are! Who ever heard of washing clothes in dry water? Come on! We needn’t splash much, if we’re careful. Yes, I really think we ought to do it. You know she didn’t want to go and leave her clothes in the water. Perhaps they would get rancid, or mildewed, or something.”
“I don’t believe I want to,” objected Hilda. “Ugh! think of putting your hands into that messy water! I wouldn’t do it for anything!” peering into the tub disgustedly.
“It doesn’t look very—appetising,” said Cricket, hesitating for a word. “But see! here’s the wringer on this tub. She was ready to wring them out. That’s fun, anyway. We can fish up the things with this stick, and poke them in, and turn the handle and they come out dry. Then we could iron them, and they’ll be all done when she comes home.”
Hilda still looked doubtful about this form of amusement, and, with her ruffled cap very much to one side, she silently watched Cricket experiment with a stick.
“These clothes are the funniest! They don’t seem to have any ends; they’re all muddly,” she said, fishing, vainly, to bring something out of the wet mass. “Oh, I see! They’re sheets,” bringing one up slowly. “Shouldn’t you think it was for a giant’s bed? Look!” raising the sheet on the stick as far up as she could stretch, while some of its slippery folds still lay in the water. “Doesn’t it make a good banner?” waving it slightly, to and fro.
“Look out, Cricket! you’re spattering me! Ow! look out!” and Hilda dodged hastily, for the big banner overbalanced itself, and the heavy sheet fell, with a splash, outside the tub on the floor.
“Just like me!” lamented Cricket. “Oh, Hilda, pick up the baby! she’ll be drowned in all this water. How can I get this thing up?” struggling with the stick to raise the unwieldy mass. This proving impossible, she picked it up in her arms, getting herself delightfully wet, and bundled it back into the tub.
“Your dress is a perfect mess,” remarked Hilda, who had put the baby on the table, and was sitting on a chair beside it, with her feet tucked under her, to get out of the way of the water.
“I know it,” said Cricket, cheerfully. “Can’t help it. Hilda, you’ll have to sit there till the water dries on the floor, for there isn’t anything to wipe it up with. Anyway, I’ve found the end of this sheet, now, and I’m going to wring it. Isn’t this fun! It’s just like a hand-organ;” and Cricket turned the handle gaily.
It was fun till the heavy folds were suddenly all drawn up in a bunch in the wringer, and the machine stuck.
“Come and help me, Hilda. Tiptoe over here. Oh, you can’t leave the baby. Well, I’ll scatter it out a little.”
“Scattering the sheet out” was effective, and Cricket turned the crank with all her might, not noticing that the long squeezed end was piling up on the floor till the last corner slipped through and fell down.
“It’s all on the floor,” observed Hilda from her perch. “Won’t it get all dirty and wet again?”
“So it has,” cried Cricket, disappointedly, picking the sheet up. “Won’t it brush off?” rubbing at the dirt that had collected on it, and thereby making it ten times worse. “I should have put something there to catch it. Why do I always think behindhand better than beforehand? How can people think of everything at once? Never mind; I guess it will come off when I iron it. I’ll squeeze another; there’s a pan for it to go into. Don’t you want to come and help me? Tie Mosina to that chair over in that corner; it’s dry over there.”
Fishing out the ends of the sheets and turning the wringer was really great fun, and in their zeal the children quite forgot Mosina for a time. Suddenly a roar, behind them, startled them. Mosina seldom cried, but when she did it was with a ponderousness that was quite in keeping with her plump body.