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St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, September 1878
How Lily-Toes Was Caught in a Shower
by Emily H. Leland
Lily-toes, though quite a pet, was the fourth baby, and, consequently, was
not so great a wonder in the eyes of her family as she might have been. She and
her mamma were on a visit to her grandma's, in the country. As she had been
there a week, the excitement attendant on her arrival had so far subsided that
grandma was beginning to turn her attention to cheese-making, her two aunties to
sew vigorously on their new cambric dresses, and grandpa and the big hired man
to become so engaged in the "haying" that they scarcely saw Lily-toes except at
supper-time.
Lily-toes, as if to make amends for being the fourth, was a lovely chubby baby
of eight months, so full of sunshine and content and blessed good health, that
although her two first teeth were just grumbling through, she would sit in her
high chair by the window or roll and wriggle about on the floor, singing
tuneless songs and telling herself wordless stories, an hour at a time, without
making any demands on anybody, so that grandma and the aunties declared that
half the time they would not know there was a baby in the house. Perhaps it is
sometimes a fault to be too good-natured; for there came a certain afternoon
when Lily-toes would have been pleased if somebody had remembered there was a
baby in the house.
It happened in this way. There was company at grandma's. Not the kind of city
company that comes to dine after babies are in bed for the night, but country
company,—that comes early in the afternoon and stays and talks over whole
life-times before tea. Grandma, mamma, and the aunties were enjoying it all very
much; and Lily-toes, who was, if possible, more angelic than ever, had wakened
from a blessed nap, lunched on bread and milk and strawberries, and was
stationed in her high chair on the back piazza where she could admire the
landscape and watch the cows and sheep feeding upon the hill-sides. A
honeysuckle swung in the breeze above her head, and little chickens, not big
enough to do harm to grandma's flower-beds, ran to and fro in the knot-grass,
hunting for little shiny green bugs, and fluttering and peeping in a way that
was very interesting to Lily-toes. No baby could be more comfortably situated on
a hot summer day; at least, so her mamma thought, as she tied Lily-toes securely
in her chair with a soft scarf, and went back to the sitting-room and the busy
sewing and talking with her dear old girlhood friends. I presume if Lily-toes
had been a first baby, her mamma would have hesitated about leaving her there.
She would have feared—may be—that the chickens would eat her up or that she
might swallow the paper-weight. As it was, she only kissed the little thing with
a sort of mechanical smack and left her alone, as coolly as if lovely Lily-toe
babies were an every-day affair.
Meanwhile, and for many days before, great distress was going on in the fields
and gardens for lack of rain. The young corn was drooping, the vines fainting,
the sweet red roses opening languidly, the grasses growing dry and brittle to
the bite of the patient cows and nibbling sheep. Everything, except Lily-toes,
was expressing a desire for rain. In fact, all through the night before this
story of a wronged baby opens, the hills, woods, fields, and gardens, had been
praying for rain according to their individual needs, the maples and elms
desiring a "regular soaker," while the lowly pansies lifted their fevered little
palms to the stars and begged but a few drops.
And the rain came. Slowly up the western skies rose a solid cloud. No attention
was paid it for some time, it came on so quietly and serenely. But, by and by,
the cows came sauntering down to the barn-yard bars as if they thought it was
milking-time, and the sheep huddled together under the great elms. Grandpa and
his big man commenced raking the hay together vigorously, and a sudden, cool,
puffy breeze began to ruffle the little rings of hair on Lily-toes' head, and
send the small chickens careening over the knot-grass in such fashion that the
careful mother-hen put her head out of her little house and called them in. And
still in the cool, pleasant sitting-room, with its cheerful talk and laughter,
the approach of the storm was hardly noticed. Grandma, the most thoughtful body
present, remarked that she believed it was "clouding up a little," and mamma
said she hoped so. And then the talk went on about making dresses and the best
way to put up strawberries and spiced currants. But when big drops came suddenly
plashing against the windows and a lively peal of thunder rolled overhead, then
there was a scattering in the sitting-room. The aunties scampered out through a
side door to snatch some clothes from the grass-plot, and to gather up the
bright tin pans and pails that had been sunning on the long benches. Grandma,
throwing her apron over her head, ran to see that some precious young turkeys
were under shelter. The visitors hurried to the door, bewailing the windows they
had left open at home, and hoping their husbands would have sense enough to see
to things. And the mamma ran upstairs to close the windows and potter over some
collars and ruffles that had blown about, never thinking of baby on the
uncovered piazza.
Lily-Toes in the Shower
Oh, how it poured! Grandpa and his man got as far as the wagon-shed just as the
worst came, and they stayed there. Grandma was weather-bound along with her
young turkeys in the granary. And Lily-toes!—no one will ever know what her
reflections were for a few moments. I imagine she rather liked the first drops;
for she was always fond of plashing about in her bath-tub, and had no fear of
water in reasonable quantities. But when the wind began to dash the rain in her
face, probably she first gasped in astonishment, and then kicked, and,
eventually, as everybody knew, screamed! Yes; aunties, visitors, and mamma, as
they met in the hall and shrieked to each other about the storm, heard, at last,
in the lull of the gale, a sound of indignant squalling.
Then there was another scamper. Lily-toes was snatched in-doors and borne along
amid a tempest of astonishment and pity, until one visitor burst out laughing;
and then all laughed except the mamma, who kept a straight face until baby
stopped crying and smiled around on them like wet sunlight.
Before grandma could reach the house, Lily-toes had been rubbed very dry and put
into dry clothes; but her wrapper and petticoats and stockings and blue shoes,
lying in a sopping heap on the floor, told the tale to grandma and grandpa and
the hired man, who all agreed it was a burning shame to forget Lily-toes, even
for five minutes; and the hired man went so far as to remark that, "If there had
been a few more women-folks in the house, she'd most likely been drown-ded." And
Lily-toes looked at him gratefully, as if he had spoken the very words she had
longed to say.
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