January, 1923.
THE MIDGET
Page 7
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SHORT STOR Y SECTION
CINDERILLA—MY CINDERILLA.
(Edna Matthews.)
“I suppose a letter will soon come
* saying to mow the lawn, trim the
hedge, plant the flowers and—there!
I had almost forgotten there is a
leak in the stables to fix. I hope
they will have the same crew of ser
vants this year minus that haughty
French valet of Mr. Vandercross’.’’
Thus spoke father as he, mother and
I were sitting on the porch after sup
per, watching the last bits of snow
fade from the top of Cross Peak.
Little green buds were beginning to
come on all of the trees. Standing
on our porch you could see the shrub
bery around the Vandercross summer
home bursting into bloom.
You see dad, on account of his
health, has to live up here, so he
has a job keeping up the Vander
cross home through the winter. In
the spring, along about April, he al
ways gets a letter from Mr. Vander
cross saying to get the place ready.
I always help plant the flowers for
I like them very much.
The next day, coming home from
a tramp through these dear old Blue
Ridge mountains, I found dad with
the letter he had been expecting. We
three walked over to the place after
supper and saw what was to be
done. A few tears were in mother’s
eyes as we started home. I often
wonder if she doesn’t miss it all, for
she came from a rich New Orleans
family and every old society person
there knows of Cybil Bilkstein, who
ran away with a butler from her
parents’ household staff of servants.
Of course her father had disinherit
ed her and even sent most of her be
longings to her; that is what those
large trunks in the attic hold. Father
is still handsome, honest and kind
so I can’t blame mother one bit. I
am only 19 and it just thrills me
when I think of the romance of my
dear, sweet mother.
The servants have arrived and the
Vandercrosses are coming next week.
Dad says he heard they are bring
ing a crowd of young guests and
are going to have a large house-
party. I’m just bubbling over with
joy, ’cause maybe I’ll get to see
some of the girls and maybe—boys.
I haven’t many friends in the village
because mother, being a graduate of
Vassar, and dad being a college
graduate also, they have taught me
more than the average girl here
knows and somehow I can’t chum
with them.
The guests arrived last night. I
i went to the top of Crois Peak early
this morning on Betsy, and who
should I meet on the way back but
I a crowd of horseback riders. I gave
them most of the road, and all but
j one of them paid no attention to me.
I He was a tall, athletic, young man
with coal black hair and eyes.
That night dad said there were
many wealthy guests. One young
man, heir of the late steel magnate,
John Suthington, multi-millionaire,
i was among the number. I thought
probably he was that proud fellow
with the small mustache and silk
beaver who came that morning; but
my knight of Cross Peak, no not he.
Mother and I cleaned the attic
this morning and just did get through
in time to prepare a little lunch be
fore dad came. We were standing
on our little front porch, which is
shaded by cluster rose vines, when he
came. He had been up on Lone
Tree Mountain looking after some
cattle. He took us both in his
arms and kissed our cobwebby heads,
then said, “I’ve got good news, girls,
which is in the shape of four little
calves. We can ride over tomorrow
and see them if you care to.” We
both answered in the affirmative.
After dinner, when the dust had
settled in the attic, we went back
up there and mother opened two of
those trunks to let the garments air.
Oh! There were some of the most
beautiful clothes; I know mother cer
tainly was an eyeful with them on,
for she is still very pretty. There
were three masquerade costumes
among the garments. One was a
Cinderilla costume. It was the one
mother wore when she first met
father, whose fortune was lost in
some investment. He then took the
butler position so as to be near her.
A great desire arose in me at once,
to wear the Cinderilla costume, but
I managed to banish it as the impos
sible.
Dad came home at supper time
saying he had more good news, and
after supper he told us in this way:
Children Change, But the
Photographs of the Children
Never Grow Up.
i
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