The Phoenix and the Carpet, E. Nesbit [good inspirational books .txt] 📗

stall. Her large, solid foot stood firmly on the small, solid hand of Robert and who can blame Robert if he did yell a little?

A crowd instantly collected. Yells are very unusual at bazaars, and everyone was intensely interested. It was several seconds before the three free children could make Mrs. Biddle understand that what she was walking on was not a schoolroom floor, or even, as she presently supposed, a dropped pincushion, but the living hand of a suffering child. When she became aware that she really had hurt him, she grew very angry indeed. When people have hurt other people by accident, the one who does the hurting is always much the angriest. I wonder why.

“I’m very sorry, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Biddle; but she spoke more in anger than in sorrow. “Come out! whatever do you mean by creeping about under the stalls, like earwigs?”

“We were looking at the things in the corner.”

“Such nasty, prying ways,” said Mrs. Biddle, “will never make you successful in life. There’s nothing there but packing and dust.”

“Oh, isn’t there!” said Jane. “That’s all you know.”

“Little girl, don’t be rude,” said Mrs. Biddle, flushing violet.

“She doesn’t mean to be; but there are some nice things there, all the same,” said Cyril; who suddenly felt how impossible it was to inform the listening crowd that all the treasures piled on the carpet were mother’s contributions to the bazaar. No one would believe it; and if they did, and wrote to thank mother, she would think⁠—well, goodness only knew what she would think. The other three children felt the same.

“I should like to see them,” said a very nice lady, whose friends had disappointed her, and who hoped that these might be belated contributions to her poorly furnished stall.

She looked inquiringly at Robert, who said, “With pleasure, don’t mention it,” and dived back under Mrs. Biddle’s stall.

“I wonder you encourage such behaviour,” said Mrs. Biddle. “I always speak my mind, as you know, Miss Peasmarsh; and, I must say, I am surprised.” She turned to the crowd. “There is no entertainment here,” she said sternly. “A very naughty little boy has accidentally hurt himself, but only slightly. Will you please disperse? It will only encourage him in naughtiness if he finds himself the centre of attraction.”

The crowd slowly dispersed. Anthea, speechless with fury, heard a nice curate say, “Poor little beggar!” and loved the curate at once and forever.

Then Robert wriggled out from under the stall with some Benares brass and some inlaid sandalwood boxes.

“Liberty!” cried Miss Peasmarsh. “Then Charles has not forgotten, after all.”

“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Biddle, with fierce politeness, “these objects are deposited behind my stall. Some unknown donor who does good by stealth, and would blush if he could hear you claim the things. Of course they are for me.”

“My stall touches yours at the corner,” said poor Miss Peasmarsh, timidly, “and my cousin did promise⁠—”

The children sidled away from the unequal contest and mingled with the crowd. Their feelings were too deep for words⁠—till at last Robert said⁠—

“That stiff-starched pig!”

“And after all our trouble! I’m hoarse with gassing to that trousered lady in India.”

“The pig-lady’s very, very nasty,” said Jane.

It was Anthea who said, in a hurried undertone, “She isn’t very nice, and Miss Peasmarsh is pretty and nice too. Who’s got a pencil?”

It was a long crawl, under three stalls, but Anthea did it. A large piece of pale blue paper lay among the rubbish in the corner.

She folded it to a square and wrote upon it, licking the pencil at every word to make it mark quite blackly: “All these Indian things are for pretty, nice Miss Peasmarsh’s stall.” She thought of adding, “There is nothing for Mrs. Biddle;” but she saw that this might lead to suspicion, so she wrote hastily: “From an unknown donna,” and crept back among the boards and trestles to join the others.

So that when Mrs. Biddle appealed to the bazaar committee, and the corner of the stall was lifted and shifted, so that stout clergymen and heavy ladies could get to the corner without creeping under stalls, the blue paper was discovered, and all the splendid, shining Indian things were given over to Miss Peasmarsh, and she sold them all, and got thirty-five pounds for them.

“I don’t understand about that blue paper,” said Mrs. Biddle. “It looks to me like the work of a lunatic. And saying you were nice and pretty! It’s not the work of a sane person.”

Anthea and Jane begged Miss Peasmarsh to let them help her to sell the things, because it was their brother who had announced the good news that the things had come. Miss Peasmarsh was very willing, for now her stall, that had been so neglected, was surrounded by people who wanted to buy, and she was glad to be helped. The children noted that Mrs. Biddle had not more to do in the way of selling than she could manage quite well. I hope they were not glad⁠—for you should forgive your enemies, even if they walk on your hands and then say it is all your naughty fault. But I am afraid they were not so sorry as they ought to have been.

It took some time to arrange the things on the stall. The carpet was spread over it, and the dark colours showed up the brass and silver and ivory things. It was a happy and busy afternoon, and when Miss Peasmarsh and the girls had sold every single one of the little pretty things from the Indian bazaar, far, far away, Anthea and Jane went off with the boys to fish in the fishpond, and dive into the bran-pie, and hear the cardboard band, and the phonograph, and the chorus of singing birds that was done behind a screen with glass tubes and glasses of water.

They had a beautiful tea, suddenly presented to them by the nice curate, and Miss Peasmarsh joined them before they had had more than three cakes each. It was a merry party, and the curate