A TALE OF HALF-HOURS by Susan Coolidge

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Mountain View, California · Aug 9, 1905

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 31, No. 32.

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A TALE OF HALF-HOURS.

By Susan Coolidge

"MOLLY, what have you been doing?"

"Nothing, mama."

"What do you mean by nothing? I left you sitting by this window half an hour ago. Where have you been since then?"

"Nowhere, mama. I was watching the kitten."

"Watching the kitten for half an hour! O Molly! And you promised to help me this morning."

Molly Lester was naturally an indolent child. The blood did not dance in her veins as a child's blood should; she felt no quick impulses toward action and movement. But none of us are sent into the world to do only the things we feel like doing; and the fact that we have naturally a bias against what is right or dutiful, is but a reason for fighting hard and steadily, and making ourselves do the duty.

Molly was not fighting with her indolence. She made faint resolutions to do so once in a while; but when the moment came for the effort she was too apt to indulge herself, "just this once," or to reflect that "only twenty minutes more" or "only half an hour" could make no difference, unmindful of the fact that life is made up of minutes and half hours, and that to waste them means to waste life.

There was another girl in the house who was exactly the opposite of Molly. Her name was Lucy. She was Molly's cousin, and about the same age. Her father and mother had died within a few weeks of each other, and Molly's father had taken her home to live with him, and be a sister to Molly, who had none of her own. The boys—there were three—had not been at all glad to have Lucy come. "Girls are no fun," they said; "they are always staying about in bedrooms, and saying they don't want to do anything; and one is enough in a house anyhow."

The boys judged all girls by Molly, but they soon found that Lucy was of a different sort. She didn't "stay in bedrooms;" she liked to go rowing, to walk in the woods, and ride on the haycart, as much as the boys themselves; and, tho she was always busy, she could generally take time to mend gloves, cover balls, and be useful and obliging.

The girls were too unlike in character to understand each other very well, or to grow intimate. Lucy had been carefully trained by an energetic mother, who believed in "system," and Molly's dawdling ways were always irritating to her. Molly seldom began any new piece of work, and never finished what she began. Lucy had been taught that she must finish.

Before she went to sleep each night, Lucy had pretty much decided in her own mind what she meant to do with every hour of the next day. So much time for this, so much for that, each following each in regular sequence. And tho a space was always left for "fun," Lucy knew in advance what she meant the fun to be.

Molly, on the contrary, began her days with no idea whatever as to how she should employ them, except the unconscious resolve not to do any more than she must. She was always late to breakfast; and while Lucy helped her aunt wash the breakfast-cups, Molly sat at the table idly balancing a spoon over the edge of hers. Too often she went upstairs and lay on her bed half asleep, when she should have been waking herself up with fresh air.

"Molly, come and have a good swing," Lucy would cry; "Molly, the boys want us to go to the Duck Brook after buttercups." But "I don't want to, I'm tired," would be Molly's answer. She was not really tired, and she knew in her heart that, if she chose, she could perfectly well jump up and go.

Every now and then she roused, as indolent people do, with a sort of wonder at the result of Lucy's industry.

"I can't think how you find time to do so many things," she would say; "I should like a sofa cover like yours for my room, but I never could make such a big thing."

"O, yes! you could. You could do it in odd minutes, and never know that it took any time at all," declared Lucy. "There's all that bit after breakfast, when you are waiting for Miss Allen—"

"Only three-quarters of an hour."

"I know—because you are almost always late. But, Molly, you can do lots in three-quarters of an hour."

"Nonsense! I should just get out my things, and then have to stop."

"Well, there's the time after your music practise, and—"

"I can't begin to get to work in little bits of time like those," declared Molly. "And I am always tired after practising, and don't feel like doing anything."

So it went on year after year. "I wish I had things like Lucy," Molly would say; or, when an injured feeling came over her, "I wish the boys didn't like Lucy better than me. It isn't fair, for I'm their own sister, and she is only a cousin."

And now the two girls are grown up, and are women. I went to the Lester's home the other day. Jim, the oldest boy, is soon to be married. He came in while I was there. He spoke to us all, but he sat down near Lucy, and had a long, low-voiced talk with her about the little home he is furnishing. It struck me curiously, and I couldn't help looking at Molly, who sat by the window with her hands folded, and took little part in the conversation.

Mrs. Lester has grown older of late years, and looks rather feeble. When the clock struck twelve, I saw Lucy get up, and lay down her work—a table-cover which she was embroidering for Jim's bride. She went out, and presently returned with a glass of milk and a biscuit. "Aunty must have her lunch," she said. Again I glanced at Molly, and wondered that she should leave this daughterly office to Lucy.

Ned, the second son, came in after that. He was in trouble with a difficult sum in algebra, and he took his book to Lucy, who again laid down her work to help him. Mr. Lester put his head into the room, and called out, "Lucy, will you come here a moment?" Next I saw her having a whispered conference with the maid.

After dinner, I went upstairs to get my bonnet, which had been left in Molly's room. She was lying on her bed, half asleep, and I couldn't help giving her a little hint as to what I had been thinking of.

"I know it," she answered plaintively. "They always did prefer Lucy; they don't care at all for me."

I tied my bonnet on silently; when I turned from the glass, Molly was fast asleep!

Now, girls, which would you rather be like—Molly or Lucy?—Susan Coolidge.