Mother's Wardrobe by Susan Coolidge

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Oct 16, 1884

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 10, No. 39.

Mother's Wardrobe.

By Susan Coolidge

It was a tall wardrobe, made of deep-red polished mahogany. The corners were fluted pillars, on to which the doors turned back when they were opened. Inside were two divisions—one a closet with hooks for hanging dresses, the other filled with shelves, set in at irregular intervals, in the middle of which was a small drawer with two brass handles.

The Allen children were always glad when their mother unlocked this wardrobe. They were very curious about it, partly because they were not often permitted to peep inside. Mrs. Allen used to say that the children might overrun all the rest of the house, but one place she must keep for herself, and that place was her wardrobe. There the Christmas and birthday presents were stored away, sometimes weeks beforehand. The little ones would catch glimpses of the paper parcels, and guess in whispers what they were. They longed to touch them—a finger can make discoveries which a pair of eyes cannot make—but they were never allowed to go near enough to touch.

All sorts of delightful looking things lived upon those shelves. There was an Indian basket of birch-bark, embroidered with quills and beads, which some one had given to Mrs. Allen. She never used or allowed any one else to use it; but year after year it stood there, and the children invented stories about it. In it lay a green velvet needle-book shaped like a grape-leaf; the veins were imitated in stitches of floss-silk—it had even a little stem. Beside it was a pin-cushion made of white velvet, and painted with flowers, by the nuns in Montreal; the children thought those the most beautiful objects in the world. There was another basket of fine white splints, lined with blue; and a third, small and brownish, which often held a paper of lemon-drops; also a little box with a picture on the lid, where Mrs. Allen kept bright pennies and small change. The silver tea-set lived in the wardrobe too. In short, there was no end to the treasures which it contained, and all fairy-land could hardly have been more exciting to the imaginations of the Allen children.

Elsie's idea of perfect bliss was to be allowed to take the key, open the door herself, and rummage, rummage, rummage to her heart's content, and till not a secret or a lemon-drop should be left. But the reason why she and the others cared so much about the wardrobe was because they were not allowed to rummage. Children love mysteries, and where there are no real ones, they invent them to satisfy this desire.

Of all the Allen children, Elsie best loved the old wardrobe. She was quick to hear the jarring sound which the heavy doors made when opened, and instantly her bright eyes would be at mamma's elbow, peering, prying, seeing all they could while the brief chance lasted. "O mamma, what is that? O mamma, mayn't I just look at that lovely thing?" And the little head would bob to and fro, trying to see. And mamma in her hurry would bump it with her elbow. In vain she ordered, "Run away, dear, there's nothing here you would care about;" no entreaties or authority could send Elsie away until the doors again grated on their hinges, and the click of the lock showed that there was no farther hope of seeing anything more of the contents of the wardrobe that day.

Mrs. Allen was justified in her objections to having Elsie get too near her possessions; for the little girl was a born meddler. She really could not keep her fingers out of things. You could trace her about the house by the work-baskets overturned, tangled spools, and raveled knitting. Once, when she was almost a baby, a whole batch of pumpkin-pies had been found, dented all over with small holes, made by little finger-tips; and when accused, Elsie had burst into tears, and said, "I only just felt of them." She had gone on ever since "feeling" of things; and as her meddling almost always resulted in mischief, it is not strange that Mrs. Allen should have been so particular about turning her key.

"Such a trifling fault," some one may say, "and so natural; we can hardly blame a child for it." Yes, but trifling faults sometimes bring about serious results. It is part of the rightful discipline of character to learn to overcome them. And while we would not be too hard on childish errors, they are more easily cured than if they are allowed to grow. Pull up the weeds while they are little; that is a good rule for parents as well as for gardeners.

Mrs. Allen was standing at her wardrobe one day, counting out some teaspoons, when a sudden call from downstairs startled her. Little Jimmy Underhill, a neighbor's son, had been kicked by a horse. He was a good deal hurt, and what between soothing his mother, sending for the doctor, and getting the poor boy comfortably settled in bed, it was quite an hour before Mrs. Allen came back to her interrupted work.

Satan finds mischief for idle hands to do, Dr. Watts assures us. Elsie had been very idle all that morning. Time hung heavy on her hands, as it usually does with idle people, and she was just wishing for some pleasant new thing to amuse herself with, when, passing the door of mamma's room, she spied the open wardrobe. Here was a chance, indeed.

Stealthily and on tiptoe she went across the room, looking over her shoulder every moment to see if mamma were coming. But pretty soon she forgot all about mamma, so interesting was it to be able to touch the objects which till now she had only seen. She lifted down the big tea-pot, but it was too heavy for her hand, and she was glad to set it on the floor. She balanced the spoons and forks on her finger—what a nice click and rattle they made! After that, she counted the pennies and ten-cent pieces in the little box, wishing that she might have a few of them to spend as she liked, and she pulled and pinched the folds of her mother's best gown, and tried on her Sunday bonnet.

There were two bundles pinned up in towels which much excited her curiosity. With eager fingers she pulled out the pins. One of the bundles held a white silk shawl, yellow with age. It had belonged to Elsie's grandmother. She wrapped it round her shoulders, and laughed with pleasure, for it was soft and pleasant to the touch, and had a sweet smell of vanilla beans. The other towel held a fine old scarf of India muslin with embroidered ends. This, Elsie knotted round her waist like a sash. Mamma's bonnet was still on her head, and, presently, coming upon a pair of long jet earrings, she hung them over her small ears. She then pinned a large Mosaic brooch in the front of her white apron, and, walking deliberately across the room, climbed a chair in order to see the effect of these adornments in the looking-glass. It was a beautiful moment!

She was still smirking and smiling at her own reflection in the mirror, when a voice behind her remarked, "Why, Elsie, how funny 'ou do look!" Elsie gave a guilty jump, and got down from the chair. But it was only Willy, the youngest baby but one. "What are oo doing?" he went on. "I want to see too." And he marched straight to the wardrobe and seized the tea-pot. "Oh no, Willy! you mus'n't touch mamma's things," said Elsie, trying to take it out of his hand. "'Es I shall. Oo touched 'em," replied Willy, defiantly. He held fast to the handle of the tea-pot, and in the midst of the scuffle which ensued, a long rip was heard. Willy had trodden on the end of the muslin scarf; it was badly torn.

"O you bad baby; see what you have done!" cried Elsie. With trembling fingers, she snatched off the sash, and began to hurriedly fold it up. As she was thus busied, Willy reached up to the shelf, and got hold of something else,—a paper parcel, full of small crystals, white and glittering. "Tandy! tandy!" he cried with delight; and before Elsie could snatch the paper away from him, he had crammed a handful of the crystals into his mouth. But it was not candy. It was something bitter and sharply acid, which Willy did not like at all. He began to splutter, and to spit the crystals out of his mouth, and wherever they fell they made a yellow stain. Alas for the silk gown, the best bonnet, and alas for Willy! for with all his splutterings he had swallowed some. At that moment Mrs. Allen hurried in. "Children," she began, and then stopped short in dismay. Her eyes fastened on the paper in Elsie's hand. "O Elsie, you haven't let him eat that!" she exclaimed. "It's oxalic acid! It's poisonous." Willy began to cry, but Elsie cried harder still. "I didn't mean to," she kept protesting, while her mother washed out Willy's mouth, and hastily sent for the doctor. Fortunately, only a very little of the acid had found its way down Willy's throat. And though it made him ill and uncomfortable for a while, it did no lasting harm. Not till the alarm was over did Mrs. Allen find time to miss Elsie, who had fled from the room as the doctor entered. She found her curled up under the nursery-bed, her hair all in a tumble, and her cheeks glazed with crying. "Is Willy dead, mamma?" she asked in an awe-struck voice when Mrs. Allen came in. "No; he is better," her mother replied. She had meant to punish Elsie, but the little girl looked so ill and miserable that, instead, she took her on her knee, washed the tear-stained face, and brushed out the tangled curls. Elsie was tired and worn out, and very glad to be allowed to rest her aching head against mamma's shoulder. "How kind you are, mamma!" she whispered. "How can you be so kind when I am so naughty?" "That's what mammas are for," said Mrs. Allen, "to love their children even when they are naughty, and forgive them when they are sorry." Later, she talked to Elsie very gently and gravely about her fault.

"Beside it's being wrong to disobey me," she said, "it is dishonorable to meddle and interfere with other people's things. Everybody has a right to private places of their own; it is mean to pry into them. I know you want to be an honest, honorable child. You didn't think of this, did you, Elsie?" No. Elsie had never thought of that, and it made a great impression on her mind. With many tears she promised mamma, never, never to do so again; and she kept her promise so well that a year later mamma gave her the painted velvet pin-cushion to be her very own, and remind her of the day when Willy ate the oxalic acid; and she made a good resolution—and kept it.