Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch
Copyright© 2024 by Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice
Chapter 10: Australia’s Mishap
“‘T is one thing to be tempted,
Another thing to fall.”
THROUGH the long, sunny afternoon Mrs. Wiggs sang over her ironing, and Asia worked diligently in her flower-bed. Around the corner of the shed which served as Cuba’s dwelling-place, Australia and Europena made mud-pies. Peace and harmony reigned in this shabby Garden of Eden until temptation entered, and the weakest fell.
“‘T ain’t no fun jes’ keepin’ on makin’ mud-pies,” announced Australia, after enough pastry had been manufactured to start a miniature bakery.
“Wish we could make some white cakes, like they have at Mr. Bagby’s,” said Europena.
“Could if we had some whitewash. I’ll tell you what’s let do! Let ‘s take some of Asia’s paint she’s goin’ to paint the fence with, an’ make ‘em green on top.”
“Ma wouldn’t like it,” protested Europena; “besides, I don’t want my little pies green.”
“I’m goin’ to,” said Australia, beginning her search for the paint-can. “It won’t take but a little teeny bit; they’ll never miss it.”
After some time the desired object was discovered on a shelf in the shed. Its high position enhanced its value, giving it the cruel fascination of the unattainable.
“Could you stand up on my soldiers, like the man at the show?” demanded Australia.
“I’d fall off,” said Europena.
“‘Fraid-cat!” taunted her sister, in disgust. “Do you reckon you could hol’ the chair while I climbed up on the back?”
“It ain’t got no bottom.”
“Well, it don’t need to have no bottom if I’m goin’ to stand on its back,” said Australia, sharply. Leaders of great enterprises must of necessity turn deaf ears to words of discouragement.
“You might git killed,” persisted Europena.
“‘T wouldn’t matter,” said Australia, loftily; “‘t wouldn’t be but the seventh time. I got three more times to die. ‘Fore you was borned I was drowned out in the country, that was one time; then I fell in the ash-bar’l and was dead, that’s two times; an’—an’ then I et the stove-polish, that’s four times; an’ I can’t ‘member, but the nex’ time will be seven. I don’t keer how much I git killed, till it’s eight times, then I’m goin’ to be good all the time, ‘cause when you are dead nine times they put you in a hole an’ throw dirt on you!”
Australia had become so absorbed in her theory of reincarnation that she had forgotten the paint, but the bottomless chair recalled it.
“Now, you lay ‘crost the chair, Europena, an’ I’ll climb up,” she commanded.
Europena, though violently opposed to the undertaking, would not forsake her leader at a critical moment. She had uttered her protest, had tried in vain to stem the current of events; nothing was left her now but to do or die. She valiantly braced her small body across the frame of the chair, and Australia began her perilous ascent.
Cuba looked mildly astonished as the plump figure of the little girl appeared above his feed-box.
“I ‘ve ‘most got it!” cried Australia, reaching as high as possible, and getting her forefinger over the edge of the big can.
At this juncture Cuba, whose nose had doubtless been tickled by Australia’s apron-string, gave a prodigious sneeze. Europena, feeling that retribution was upon them, fled in terror. The ballast being removed from the chair, the result was inevitable. A crash, a heterogeneous combination of small girl, green paint, and shattered chair, then a series of shrieks that resembled the whistles on New Year’s eve!
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.