Hazel

It was raining, and Hazel Tyler had not been allowed to go out all day. As she sat looking out of her window into the narrow Boston street she would have made a pretty picture but for the woe-begone expression on her brown face. Her hair was soft and curly, her eyes dark and clear, her mouth full, but delicate. Usually it was happy in expression; but this afternoon it drooped at the corners. Four o’clock! Two hours more before supper. Oh, this stupid, stupid Saturday!

She got up and walked from the tiny parlor, where she had been sitting, into a tiny bedroom where a large baby doll lay on the bed she and her mother shared. Hazel took the doll up, shook it severely, and put it down again. She was growing to care very little for dolls; they were not warm and dimpled and you had to do all the talking for them. She left the tiny bedroom and stepped into a tiny kitchen thus making the tour of the apartment.

“Mother,” she said to a slender woman who stood at an ironing-board, “may I go around and play with the McGinnis’s baby? It’s such a little way.”

Mrs. Tyler looked up. Her face like Hazel’s was gentle and delicate, but the features were finer and the skin lighter in shade. She was ironing an elaborate pink tea gown, and she seemed ill-fitted for such taxing work.

“No, Hazel,” she replied. “I’ve told you that you can’t go out in the rain while you have a cold. There is no use in teasing.”

Hazel knew this to be true, and for a time was silent, watching her mother. She ran her slender finger along the tucks of the pink gown.

“What pretty clothes Mrs. Hollingsworth always has,” she said. “I wish I could have something pretty. I’ve nothing to wear but this blue serge.”

Hazel’s mother looked at her a second and the child felt abashed. She knew very well that since her father’s death--her dear, dear father--her mother had had to support them both, and how hard she had worked at whatever would bring in money--at sewing, hairdressing, and even this tiring laundry. She knew, too, that when the rent was paid, and the grocer’s and butcher’s bills settled, the little money left went first to her and her wants. Why, only last week she had had pretty hair ribbons; and her mother’s black dress was growing shabby. She bent over and kissed the hand that was patting the pink wrapper into place.

“I’ll go into the parlor and make my picture-puzzle,” she said.

“That’s right, dear,” Mrs. Tyler answered.

The little girl worked for a time at the elaborate puzzle spread out on the parlor table; but its green trees were perplexing, and she soon returned to the kitchen to find the pink dress finished and on the top of a pile of speckless linen in the laundry basket. Her mother stood with hat and coat on.

“I’m going to run out to make sure that John comes to-night to get the clothes,” Mrs. Tyler said. “Now, don’t look so woe-begone, dear. I’ll cook waffles for supper, and we’ll have the maple syrup that Mrs. Brown brought us from the country.”

Hazel’s face brightened. “May we eat off the pretty china?” she asked.

“Yes, you may set the table with it when I get back.” And Mrs. Tyler went out into the narrow hall, down the dark stairs and into the narrow street.

She could hardly have reached the corner when Hazel heard a knock at the door, and opened it to a little black girl who at once stepped gaily into the room.

“Where you been all day, Hazel?” she asked.

She was a jolly little girl of ten, a year younger than Hazel, with plump arms and legs and a sturdy body. Her crinkly hair was tied with a bright red ribbon, and she wore a gay bandanna about her neck. Her black eyes shone with good will.

“How do you do, Charity?” Hazel said, a little hesitatingly.

She liked this new neighbor and had played with her the rare afternoons that she had been allowed on the street; but she knew her mother scarcely approved of Charity. But then her mother did not approve of any of the girls and boys on Hammond Street and one must play with some one.

“Your mother’s out,” said Charity. “I know, for I saw her go. Where you been all day, Hazel?”

“Here at home,” Hazel answered. “I’ve got a sore throat, and I’m not allowed to go out, and there’s nothing to do in this poky place.”

“Let’s play,” said Charity, “you shut your eyes and I’ll hide.”

“Pooh,” Hazel replied contemptuously, “you know, Charity, there isn’t a single place here big enough for a cat to hide in.”

“Well, let’s, let’s,” Charity looked about for inspiration, and her glance fell on the doll in the adjoining room, “let’s play house.”

“No, you would just beat the baby. Let’s play a new game, something brand new that we never played before.”

Charity began jumping about on one foot, and on into the little parlor, but she had no suggestion to offer. Hazel followed her and as her eye fell on the family Bible, her face lighted with excitement.

“I know,” she declared, “let’s play a Bible game. Let’s act a Bible story the way we act history at school.”

Charity stood on her two feet. “George Washington?” she asked.

“No, not George Washington, but like that. A Bible story. We can’t be Joseph and his Brethren,” Hazel went on musing, “there’re too many of them. I don’t like Jacob--”

“I’ll be King Solomon,” Charity exclaimed quite suddenly.

She sat in the arm chair and held herself erect. Taking her bandanna she wreathed it in a turban about her head.

“That’s splendid, Charity,” Hazel said heartily. “That’s your crown and you’re sitting on your throne. Now who shall I be?”

“You? Why, of course, you’ll be the Queen of Sheba.”

Hazel laughed gleefully. “I’ll be a real queen, won’t I? What’ll I do, Charity?” Her friend’s knowledge of Bible history was evidently greater than her own.

“You ask me questions,” Charity explained, “all sorts of questions, and I answer them.”

“But what do I wear?”

“Let me recollect.” Charity shut her eyes to think the harder. “The Queen of Sheba she come to Jerusalem, with, with a very great train. You must wear a train, Hazel.”

“There isn’t a thing with a train here,” Hazel replied mournfully.

Looking into the kitchen her eyes fell upon the laundry basket with the pink dress on top. “I could borrow Mrs. Hollingsworth’s tea gown,” she said.

Now Charity might make slips in grammar and slap unoffending dolls, but the laundry was sacred to her. Once the pile of muslin was ironed and placed in the basket it was not to be tampered with.