A Beautiful “Clear-up-er” by Annie Hamilton Donnell

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jun 18, 1908

A Beautiful “Clear-up-er”

By Annie Hamilton Donnell

LEA came slowly out of the house and sat down in a chair on the piazza. She chose the farthest chair a little round the corner and hidden by the vines. Lea’s heart ached, and hearts ache best in solitude.

“I’m the only un-show-off-able Quimby there is,” she sighed, rocking ashamedly. “Or ever, ever was,” she added, as memories and tales of little Quimby aunts and uncles, cousins and even far-back grand-Quimbys recurred to her.

In the parlor back of the vines some one was playing a stirring march on the piano. It was Barbara—Barby could play beautiful music. Pretty soon somebody would say, “Won’t you sing for us, Sylvy?” and Sylvy would sing. Then if she sat there in the veranda rocker long enough, Lea knew she should hear Luther declaim with splendid, big inflections “Horatio at the Bridge,” or, “The Black Horse and His Rider.” He would do it so beautifully,—everybody did things, sing-things and play-things and speak-things, so beautifully.

“Except me,” sighed Lea.

She stopped rocking suddenly, and gazed despairingly about her. In her gentle, sore little soul rankled a dreadful feeling. Lea did not know its name was Envy. She thought it was a shame because she was a Quimby, and could do nothing to help entertain her friends.

Over the piazza floor were strewn blocks and odd-shaped bits of dissected pictures. Lea got up and went stooping painfully about picking them up. Jeffy and Mig were so scattery—and so dear! How many, many times a day folks had to clear them up!

Lea did not remember that it was almost always she who did it. To her order-loving little mind things lying about out of their places were an offense; she had a way of stooping to pick them up as she went by. It was a beautiful habit, Lea’s mother thought. Every Quimby—and in the family there were nine—liked to have Lea clear them up. But, oddly, it never occurred to them to praise her for it. No one ever said, “Won’t you clear up for us now, Lea?”

The march came to an end with several mighty, inspiring thumps on the lower keys. The sad little fingers gathering up blocks outside the window heard a soft clapping. Then, after a few moments, a clear, sweet little voice began to sing. Sylvy’s voice—Lea listened admiringly. It sang something beautiful about birds and flowers and brooks. The soft clapping began as soon as it stopped.

“Now, Luther, ‘Won’t you speak the “Black Horse” for us, Luther?’” murmured Lea outside.

But Luther chose another “piece.” His big oratorical voice came out through the window impressively:— “Girt round by rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance lies.”

He had chosen the “Legend of Bregenz” instead of “Horatio” or “Black Horse.” Lea knew it by heart, and followed him anxiously. Suppose he forgot! For the honor of the Quimby name he musn’t! At a dreadful little pause she crept to the window to prompt him through the blinds, but he picked himself up and went on without assistance. Luther spoke pieces splendidly. Lea was proud of Luther—of Barbara, of Sylvia. But she was not proud of herself.

“I can’t do a single thing!” she mourned, and went on sorrowfully clearing up.

When the company by and by came out on the piazza to go away, the delighted eyes of the Quimby mother saw that it had been set in order, and she need not blush for the little disorderly litter as she had a while ago. “Lea,” thought lovingly the Quimby mother. But no Lea was in sight.

In the parlor, after the impromptu little exhibition, confusion reigned. The chairs were moved about tipsily, sheets of music were scattered over the piano and floor, empty cups stood about.

They had been the “company” and that was the explanation of the exhibition. The Quimby mother did not believe in showing off to persons out of the family; but she always yielded to Miss Getty and Miss Ann Mary, because they were lone, little, old sisters from the Old Ladies’ Home, and asked in such dear, eager old voices. They deserved to be entertained, reasoned the Quimby mother.

Lea went in through the rear door, through the library into the empty parlor. Empty! It looked running over full to Lea! She began at once to set it in order, and by the time the two little old women had succeeded in tearing themselves away, and the procession of Quimbys came back into the house, the room was spic-and-span again. But no Lea—she was hurrying out to the kitchen with the empty cups and the sugar bowl. She could not know that the tired Quimby mother said, “Bless her,” and meant her.

That night, after the different “stages” of little Quimbys had all gone to bed—Jeffy and Mig at seven, Luther and Sylvy at eight, and Barby and Lea at half-past—the Quimby father and the Quimby mother and the baby, who refused to go to bed at all, sat under the nursery lamp and softly talked. Lea could hear them through her half-opened door—the Quimby baby loudest of all. He was showing off, thought Lea, laughing to herself in the dark. The little beloved, singing and speaking his little foreign pieces!

Thinking of the baby made her for a minute forget the sore place in her heart. But she felt it again presently.

“Sylvy’s voice grows sweeter and stronger, William.” The Quimby father was William.

“That so?” he said. “Good! I must get her to sing for me.”

“And Barby to play for you—and Luther Boy to declaim!” laughed the Quimby mother with a tender little undernote. “They all performed for Miss Getty and Miss Ann Mary this afternoon. I couldn’t refuse the little old ladies, William. The children did beautifully; but, William—”

Lea’s wet face, burrowed deep in the pillow, came up quickly at the next thing the Quimby mother said. It was so very unexpected and so good sounding! Lea could hardly believe her ears.

“But, William, our little Lea has the most beautiful talent of them all, did you know it?”

No, the Quimby father did not know it, and while he waited for the rest, Lea waited too. She sat up perfectly straight and held her breath. What could it be the Quimby mother was going to say? “The most beautiful talent of them all”—not the most beautiful one! She must have heard wrong, Lea thought. Still, her ears were such good hearers—

“She has the talent of helping people—mothers,” the tender voice explained out there to the Quimby father. The tenderness was a new kind that sent a little sob upward into Lea’s throat, and made her feel like getting up into the Quimby mother’s lap and hiding her happy face. It was different from the other kind that had been a pride-tenderness. This was the—the love-kind.

“She is all the time doing beautiful little things to help me. You can’t think, William! She picks up the babies’ play-things, and clears up the rooms. If that isn’t a beautiful talent——”

“It is,” the Quimby father nodded. Lea could hear him nod. “It’s the best

kind of talent, Mary. I’ve a good mind to go in and kiss the child!”

“I’ll go with you!”

They were coming. Lea sank down in a little heap and waited. She shut her eyes because she thought they wanted to find her asleep. Very quietly she lay in the darkness. There was no sore place now in her heart. She had a talent, too! It was a beautiful one! She was a good clear-up-er and they were coming in to kiss her for it. Why, that would be like clapping. People clapped when Barby and Sylvy had talents—and Luther.

Lea held her breath and waited in a little transport of happiness. Her small, expectant face was uplifted and ready.

“Bless her,” the Quimby father said, and kissed it softly in the dark.

“Bless her!” whispered the Quimby mother, and kissed it again and again. Mothers are not satisfied with once. Lea felt her smooth cheek against her own and the happiness grew bigger and bigger. In her heart was a great desire to get up and go downstairs and clear somebody up right now for this dear Quimby mother. But wait till to-morrow—O, wait till to-morrow!—Annie Hamilton Donnell.