'Yes, dear; my honored father. I did up his frills to the day of his death; and the first money I ever earned was five dollars which he offered as a prize to whichever of his six girls would lay the handsomest darn in his silk stockings.'
'How proud you must have been!' cried Polly, leaning on the old lady's knee with an interested face.
'Yes, and we all learned to make bread, and cook, and wore little chintz gowns, and were as gay and hearty as kittens. All lived to be grandmothers and fathers; and I 'm the last, seventy, next birthday, my dear, and not worn out yet; though daughter Shaw is an invalid at forty.'
'That 's the way I was brought up, and that 's why Fan calls me old-fashioned, I suppose. Tell more about your papa, please; I like it,' said Polly.
'Say 'father.' We never called him papa; and if one of my brothers had addressed him as 'governor,' as boys do now, I really think he 'd have him cut off with a shilling.'
Madam raised her voice in saying this, and nodded significantly; but a mild snore from the other room seemed to assure her that it was a waste of shot to fire in that direction.
Before she could continue, in came Fanny with the joyful news that Clara Bird had invited them both to go to the theatre with her that very evening, and would call for them at seven o'clock. Polly was so excited by this sudden plunge into the dissipations of city life, that she flew about like a distracted butterfly, and hardly knew what happened, till she found herself seated before the great green curtain in the brilliant theatre. Old Mr.
Bird sat on one side, Fanny on the other, and both let her alone, for which she was very grateful, as her whole attention was so absorbed in the scene around her, that she could n't talk.
Polly had never been much to the theatre; and the few plays she had seen were the good old fairy tales, dramatized to suit young beholders, lively, bright, and full of the harmless nonsense which brings the laugh without the blush. That night she saw one of the new spectacles which have lately become the rage, and run for hundreds of nights, dazzling, exciting, and demoralizing the spectator by every allurement French ingenuity can invent, and American prodigality execute. Never mind what its name was, it was very gorgeous, very vulgar, and very fashionable; so, of course, it was much admired, and every one went to see it. At first, Polly thought she had got into fairy-land, and saw only the sparkling creatures who danced and sung in a world of light and beauty; but, presently, she began to listen to the songs and conversation, and then the illusion vanished; for the lovely phantoms sang negro melodies, talked slang, and were a disgrace to the good old-fashioned elves whom she knew and loved so well.
Our little girl was too innocent to understand half the jokes, and often wondered what people were laughing at; but, as the first enchantment subsided, Polly began to feel uncomfortable, to be sure her mother would n't like to have her there, and to wish she had n't come. Somehow, things seemed to get worse and worse, as the play went on; for our small spectator was being rapidly enlightened by the gossip going on all about her, as well as by her own quick eyes and girlish instincts. When four-and-twenty girls, dressed as jockeys, came prancing on to the stage, cracking their whips, stamping the heels of their topboots, and winking at the audience, Polly did not think it at all funny, but looked disgusted, and was glad when they were gone; but when another set appeared in a costume consisting of gauze wings, and a bit of gold fringe round the waist, poor unfashionable Polly did n't know what to do; for she felt both frightened and indignant, and sat with her eyes on her play-bill, and her cheeks getting hotter and hotter every minute.
'What are you blushing so for?' asked Fanny, as the painted sylphs vanished.
'I 'm so ashamed of those girls,' whispered Polly, taking a long breath of relief.
'You little goose, it 's just the way it was done in Paris, and the dancing is splendid. It seems queer at first; but you 'll get used to it, as I did.'
'I 'll never come again,' said Polly, decidedly; for her innocent nature rebelled against the spectacle, which, as yet, gave her more pain than pleasure. She did not know how easy it was to 'get used to it,' as Fanny did; and it was well for her that the temptation was not often offered. She could not explain the feeling; but she was glad when the play was done, and they were safe at home, where kind grandma was waiting to see them comfortably into bed.
'Did you have a good time, dear?' she asked, looking at Polly's feverish cheeks and excited eyes.
'I don't wish to be rude, but I did n't,' answered Polly. 'Some of it was splendid; but a good deal of it made me want to go under the seat. People seemed to like it, but I don't think it was proper.'
As Polly freed her mind, and emphasized her opinion with a decided rap of the boot she had just taken off, Fanny laughed, and said, while she pirouetted about the room, like Mademoiselle Therese, 'Polly was shocked, grandma. Her eyes were as big as saucers. her face as red as my sash, and once I thought she was going to cry. Some of it was rather queer; but, of course, it was proper, or all our set would n't go. I heard Mrs.
Smythe Perkins say, 'It was charming; so like dear Paris;' and she has lived abroad; so, of course, she knows what is what.'
'I don't care if she has. I know it was n't proper for little girls to see, or I should n't have been so ashamed!' cried sturdy Polly, perplexed, but not convinced, even by Mrs.
Smythe Perkins.
'I think you are right, my dear; but you have lived in the country, and have n't yet learned that modesty has gone out of fashion.' And with a good-night kiss, grandma left Polly to dream dreadfully of dancing in jockey costume, on a great stage; while Tom played a big drum in the orchestra; and the audience all wore the faces of her father and mother, looking sorrowfully at her, with eyes like saucers, and faces as red as Fanny's sash.
2. New Fashions
'I 'M going to school this morning; so come up and get ready,' said Fanny, a day or two after, as she left the late breakfast-table.
'You look very nice; what have you got to do?' asked Polly, following her into the hall.
'Prink half an hour, and put on her wad,' answered the irreverent Tom, whose preparations for school consisted in flinging his cap on to his head, and strapping up several big books, that looked as if they were sometimes used as weapons of defence.
'What is a wad?' asked Polly, while Fanny marched up without deigning any reply.
'Somebody's hair on the top of her head in the place where it ought not to be;' and Tom went whistling away with an air of sublime indifference as to the state of his own 'curly pow.'
'Why must you be so fine to go to school?' asked Polly, watching Fan arrange the little frizzles on her forehead,
