GRANDMA'S ATTIC SERIES

by Unknown

  "I was with you when you found it," Uncle Roy said. "I tried to discourage you from taking it home, but you wouldn't listen to me."

  "That's right. You were there, weren't you? I wonder why Ma ever let me into the house with it."

  "Because you were spoiled," Uncle Roy said and he winked at me.

  "What was the matter with it?" I asked. "Why shouldn't you bring it into the house?"

  "Well," Grandma said, "it was a mess. No one in the family had anything good to say about it. But I thought any doll was lovable."

  "Where did you find it?" I asked.

  Grandma got up to clear the table and began the story.

  It was a rainy spring day in my first year of school. Roy and I were walking home together through the woods. I was lagging behind, as usual, and Roy had stopped to tell me to hurry up. He didn't particularly like his little sister tagging along, but he was responsible for me, so he didn't dare let me out of his sight.

  ' "Come on, Mabel," he said. "You can walk faster than that. I've got chores to do before I can play. Just because you never have to do anything."

  "I do so!" I retorted. "I help Ma set the table, and I dry the knives and forks."

  Roy snorted and turned to walk on.

  "Wait a minute, Roy. Look at this."

  Reluctantly he came back to where I stood. "Well, what is it?"

  I bent over to pick something out of the mud. It was a doll—soaked almost beyond recognition. The features were nearly gone, and the clothes were torn and dripping. But to my motherly eye, it was beautiful. I hugged it to me as Roy watched in disgust.

  "Ugh!" he groaned. "Throw it back! That's awful! Wait until Ma sees what you've gotten all over your front!"

  I looked down and saw that I had ruined my dress; mud and water were soaking through my apron. I knew that Ma would not be pleased about that, but I couldn't throw the doll back.

  "I'll take it home and clean it up," I said. "See, I'll hold it way out here." I held the doll at arm's length and began to run for home.

  "It's too late to hold it way out there," Roy called after me. "You're already a mess. If I were you, I'd chuck that thing in the nearest hole."

  I ignored him and continued on my way. When I ran into the kitchen, Ma was horrified.

  "Oh, Mabel! What happened to you? Did you fall down? And what is that?"

  "It's a doll, Ma. I found it in the woods and brought it home to take care of it. It just needs to be washed a little."

  "It needs to be buried," Roy said. "I told her to leave it there, but she wouldn't listen." He put his lunch pail on the table.

  "Where is your lunch pail, Mabel?" Ma asked. "Did you leave it at school again?"

  "No, I had it when I left school. I must have laid it down on the road when I stopped to pick up the doll."

  Ma sighed. "Go back and get her lunch pail, Roy. I don't have anything else she can carry her lunch in."

  "Oh, Ma! Why can't she go back for it? It's her pail!"

  Ma looked at Roy. "I guess I can put her lunch in with yours. You'll have to eat with her tomorrow."

  "I'll go. I'll go."

  "And you," Ma said to me, "take that filthy thing out and wash it in the trough. Then come back and change your clothes."

  I knew then that Ma would let me keep the doll, but I didn't know what a surprise was in store for us. I hurried outside and swished it around in the water until most of the mud was gone, then brought it back to the kitchen.

  "She's awfully heavy, Ma, but I couldn't get any more water out."

  "Put it on the back of the stove to dry. And change your dress. You're a sight."

  When Reuben came in with a load of wood, he poked a finger into the doll. "What's this?" he asked Ma.

  "It's Mabel's doll. She found it on the way home from school."

  "What's it stuffed with—rocks?"

  "It's waterlogged," Ma replied. "It won't be that stiff when it dries out."

  By the time Pa came in for supper, the doll had begun to smell musty.

  "Phew!" Pa's face twisted in mock disgust. "What smells like an old burlap bag? I hope it's not what we're having for supper."

  "Hardly," Ma answered. "It's Mabel's doll. It will probably take all night to dry out."

  Several more comments were made about that doll before I went to bed: Roy offered it a decent burial, and Reuben declared he wouldn't touch it with a stick. Pa thought he'd better sit on the porch after supper and air out, since he smelled like a burlap bag himself after sitting by the stove.

  I didn't think any of them were very funny. "Ma, you won't let anyone touch my doll, will you?"

  "No, of course not. You get on to bed now."

  "I'm going to name her Charlotte. Don't you think that's a pretty name?"

  "Lovely. Now go to bed."

  Sometime later that evening, Pa and the boys were sitting in the kitchen. Pa was reading and the boys were doing their homework. Ma came in and found Reuben staring strangely at the stove.

  "Ma, something's the matter with that doll."

  "Is it burning?" Ma said as she ran over to the stove. "No, but I think it's alive!"

  Pa looked up from his book. "Thy learning is turning thee mad," he teased.

  "He's crazy," Roy added.

  Nevertheless they all stared at the doll. Suddenly an arm jerked up; then one of the legs kicked out. Ma jumped back from the stove.

  "Mercy! What's going on?"

  As they watched, the doll became more lively. The head bobbed, and the arms and legs flopped wildly.

  "Throw it on the floor!" Pa ordered.

  "Jump on it!" Roy shouted.

  Ma gingerly picked up the doll and dropped it on the table, where it continued to toss and turn in a most lifelike way.

  "At least it's beginning to smell better," Reuben said. "It smells almost like popcorn!"

  "It is popcorn!" Ma exclaimed. "That's what it's stuffed with."

  And sure enough, that's exactly what was in it. After the doll stopped jumping, Ma ripped it open and dumped out the corn.

  Pa looked at the mess distastefully. "That old rag isn't worth stuffing again, is it?"

  "No," Ma admitted, "it isn't. But I promised Mabel I wouldn't let anyone touch her doll, so I'll have to put something in it."

  "Fill it with catnip," Reuben suggested. "Maybe the cat will drag it off and lose it."

  "Naw," said Roy. "Put pepper in it. Then Mabel will be glad to get rid of it."

  But Ma was more sympathetic. "If this old rag makes Mabel happy, then she can have it. I'll wash it up and fill it with rice." '

  And that's what she did. I played with Charlotte for a long while.

  Grandma looked at my doll, which Uncle Roy had mended as he listened to the story. "You're right. They don't make dolls like they used to."

  The Slate Pencil

  Grandma called me in from the yard. "Would you please go to the store for me? I'm ready to bake rolls, and there isn't enough yeast. Take a quarter from my little change purse."

  I found Grandma's purse and put the quarter in my pocket. As I ran down the lane toward the road, it occurred to me that climbing over the fence and crossing the field would save some time, so I did just that. I was soon in the little general store that served our farming community.

  "Mr. Jenkins," I said, "Grandma needs some yeast."

  Mr. Jenkins set three cakes of yeast on the counter. His eyes twinkled, and he smiled at me. "And what do you need?"

  I knew what he meant. I was always allowed to pick a penny candy when I came to the store with Grandma. But Grandma wasn't here, and she hadn't said anything about spending a penny.

  "How much change do I have from a quarter?" I asked. "Seven cents," Mr. Jenkins replied. "The yeast is six cents a cake."

  I thought that over quickly. I would have a nickel and two pennies back. I was sure Grandma wouldn't care if I spent one penny, and if she were here, she might even say I could have them both. The longer I gazed at the cand display, the
more certain I became that I needed two pennies' worth as a reward for coming to the store alone.

  As Mr. Jenkins handed me the candy and the nickel, a twinge inside me said this was not a really honest thing to do. That wasn't my money, and I hadn't asked if I might spend it. Nevertheless, I put the nickel in my pocket and started home. This time I took the long way around by the road.

  "Thank you," Grandma said when I laid the yeast on the table. "Did you put the change back in my purse?"

  "Yes, Grandma," I replied, and hurried out to the porch. I hadn't really lied to Grandma, I argued with myself. I did put back all the change I had. But I had spent two pennies without permission. The second piece of candy in my pocket didn't sound like a good idea anymore. I knew I had deceived Grandma, and I was miserable about it.

  Later that morning, Uncle Roy came to the house for a glass of cold tea. He sat down beside me on the steps.

  "Well, what have you been doing with yourself this morning?"

  "I went to the store for Grandma. And since then I've just been sitting here."

  Uncle Roy looked down at me shrewdly. "Something on your mind, is there?"

  "I guess so. I'm thinking it over," I replied slowly.

  "If there's something you should tell your grandma, I'd advise you to get busy and do it." He chuckled as he got up to leave. "Chances are she knows about it anyway, and the kinder she is to you, the more miserable you'll be."

  I watched Uncle Roy make his way back to the barn. He, was right. Grandma loved me so much that I couldn't bear to keep anything from her.

  While Grandma took the hot rolls from the oven, I told her about the candy. She nodded when I finished my story.

  "I know just how you feel," she said. "We all feel like that when we've done something deceitful. God is so good to us that we can't help but feel bad when we disobey Him. I'm glad you told me about the pennies, and of course I'll forgive you." Grandma hugged me tight, and suddenly I felt as though a big lump was gone from my stomach.

  "I guess I should tell you about the time I took something that wasn't mine," Grandma said. "I was a pretty sad little girl too before it was straightened out." She buttered a roll

  for me, and we sat down at the table while Grandma told her story.

  "I was still in the primary row at school, which was the first row of seats in our schoolroom. When the different classes recited, the boys and girls came to the front of the room and sat on benches. A lot of the time when I had finished my numbers or letters, I listened to the older ones read or talk about geography.

  One day I happened to be watching when one of the big boys stood up to recite. A slate pencil dropped out of his back pocket and rolled under the bench, but he didn't hear it. I was sure he would miss it when he sat down, and begin to look for it. But he didn't. The class finished reciting and went back to their seats, and the pencil stayed there.

  I wanted that pencil. We only had a new one once a year and I thought it would be a good idea to have another in reserve. I knew that it was wrong to steal, but if I happened to find something, surely that was all right.

  After a few minutes, I slipped out of my seat, picked up the slate pencil, and quickly put it under my pinafore. The rest of the day I kept telling myself that I had found it, so it was mine.

  That evening we sat around the table after supper Reuben and Roy were doing their homework, and I pulled the pencil out of my pocket to write on my slate. Roy's sharp eyes didn't miss anything.

  ' "Where did you get that new pencil, Mabel?"

  "I found it." I glanced at Ma to see if she had heard. Of course she had.

  "Where did you find it?" she asked me.

  "Oh, around school," I replied. I lowered my head and didn't look at the family.

  "Did you ask who lost it?" Ma persisted.

  I shook my head.

  "You must do that," Ma said. "If no one claims what you find, then you may keep it. But you have to try to find the owner."

  I kept my head down, but I nodded to show Ma I understood. What would she think if she found out that I knew who the pencil belonged to?

  The evening seemed to stretch out a long time before Pa reached for the Bible to have prayer. As he often did, this evening he read from Proverbs. I was busy thinking about how I might continue to keep the pencil if I asked only a few children I knew hadn't lost it, when suddenly I heard what Pa was reading. "He who makes a fortune by telling lies runs needlessly into the toils of death."

  I didn't understand all that meant, but I knew what a fortune was, and I certainly understood telling lies. To have

  these things mentioned as running into death caused me to think. I hadn't lied, had I? No, but I had kept back the truth, and I knew Ma considered one as bad as the other.

  All at once the slate pencil didn't seem like such a treasure to me.

  "Ma," I blurted out, "I know who the pencil belongs to." Roy looked at me with horror. "You mean you stole it?"

  I began to cry, and Pa took me on his lap. "Suppose you tell us all about it, Mabel."

  As best I could, I told them about finding the pencil, and even about my plans to keep it. I was sobbing harder with each word I spoke.

  "Don't cry, Mabel," Pa said as he hugged me tighter. "God is ready to forgive us when we are sorry we've done wrong. Would you like to ask Him to forgive you?"

  "Yes," I said, and I knew I would be forgiven.'

  The hardest part was to take the pencil back and ask the big boy to forgive me. But it was worth it to have a clear conscience.

  Grandma went back to work, and I thought about her story. I agreed. It was a good feeling to be forgiven.

  What Shall We Write About?

  I had just finished reading a particularly intriguing story to Grandma about a wonderful secret garden and a little girl about my age.

  "Oh!" I sighed. "I wish I could write stories like that. Wouldn't that be fun?"

  "Yes," Grandma replied, "it certainly would. Why don't you try it?"

  "Nothing exciting ever happens to me!" I exclaimed. "There certainly aren't any secret gardens around here. What could I write about?"

  Grandma laughed. "I'm not sure I could tell you what to write about, but I could tell you what not to write about! I almost wrote about something I shouldn't once."

  "Tell me, Grandma. What was it?"

  Grandma leaned back in her chair and dropped her sewing in her lap.

  'We didn't have many books to read when I was young, and even in the books at school, there weren't many stories just for entertainment like you have today. But once in a while we would get a newspaper or magazine that had a story in it. Sarah Jane and I would almost memorize the few there were, then we'd make up more after the story ended.

  Finally one day, Sarah Jane said,

  ' "We ought to write these stories down, Mabel. We could probably even sell them."

  "Sell them!" I scoffed. "Who would buy a story we could write?"

  "My ma would," Sarah Jane replied. "And yours too. And my aunt, and maybe Mrs. Hobbs, and the teacher...."

  "We still need something to write about," I said. "We don't know very much that's interesting."

  "We can make something up. You think about it tonight, and so will I. Then tomorrow we'll write one."

  I thought about it all right. I even asked Ma. "What do you like to read about?"

  Ma thought for a moment. "Well, I like stories about interesting things people do, and I like to read about the lives of people I've heard of. I guess I like biographies."

  I pondered that, and decided I didn't know much about the life of anyone important. Everyday happenings on the farm didn't seem too interesting, and the lives of the people I knew were uneventful. That might have ended my writing career, except for the idea Sarah Jane came up with the next day.

  Before breakfast, she appeared at our door.

  "You're certainly out early this morning, Sarah Jane," Ma said. "Have you had your breakfast already?"

  "Yes, thank
you. Mabel and I have something important to do this morning, so I wanted to get started right away. Is she ready yet?"

  "She's still dressing," Ma said. "Go on up to her room if you like. But she'll have to eat breakfast before you go out to play."

  Sarah Jane burst into my room and closed the door behind her. "I've got it, Mabel! I've got it right here!"

  "You've got what?" I asked. Since I hadn't been awake very long, I thought I had missed something.

  "Our story!" Sarah Jane exclaimed. "I've got our story!" She pulled a leather-covered book out from under her pinafore.

  I stared at it stupidly. "What is it?"

  "It's a diary, my cousin Laura's diary. She left it here the last time she visited. She hasn't said anything about it, so she probably doesn't want it anymore."

  "But would she want you to read it?" I asked doubtfully.

  "I don't think she'd like it if we wrote a story about her diary."

  "We wouldn't use the same names, silly, just the things that happened. And some of them are really good!"

  I was horrified. "You mean you've read your cousin's diary?"

  "Well, not much," Sarah Jane confessed uncomfortably, "just a few little things. Anyway, if she hadn't wanted anyone to read it, why didn't she take better care of it? Or at least ask us to send it to her?"

  I still felt it might be wrong, but Sarah Jane's arguments seemed sound. And Ma had said she liked to read about things people did. Sarah Jane's cousin was a person, wasn't she? We agreed to begin our story as soon as I had finished breakfast.

  "What are you girls going to do today?" Ma asked. "You seem to be in a dreadful hurry to get started. Slow down, Mabel, you'll choke."

  "We're going to write a story," Sarah Jane replied. "A story about a young lady who lives in the city."

  Ma laughed. "You two don't know much about ladies who live in the city, do you?"

  "No," Sarah Jane said, "but we will when we finish reading her . Sarah Jane stopped abruptly and seemed confused.

  Ma looked at us closely. "You're not reading someone else's letters, are you? That wouldn't be right, you know."

  "Oh, no," I said quickly. "We're not going to read anyone's letters."