MITT’S TROUBLE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue VI, 10 August 1895, Page 183

MITT’S TROUBLE.

Mitt sat in a corner of the old lounge with one hand thrust hard into her little pocket, and with such a woebegone expression on her spare face that her doggie, Spitzy, noticing her silence, came and sat down before her, watching her with a longing to help her out of her trouble, seemingly. She was indeed a picture of forlorness and dejection. Her hair had escaped its band and fallen over her face, her mouth had a pathetic droop, and now and then a tear stole down in little runs over her cheek.

By and by grandmamma, bustling in from the kitchen, noticed her, too. ‘ Why, child, what ails you ? Are you sick ?’

* N-no, grandmamma,’ faltered Mitt, pushing her band down harder and swinging her foot nervously against the lounge. * Toothache, then ?’ queried grandmama. * Better let me pull out the naughty thing ! *Oh no, no, grandmamma ! I’ve lost my p-pen knife !’ wailed Mitt, with a dry little sob in her throat, as she took up her skirt and displayed to grandmama her small pocket with her brown finger run through a hole in one corner at the bottom.

* Dear ! dear ! That is too bad I’ sympathized grand mamma.

*lt fell through when I was going up the hill this morning, I ’spect!’ sighed Mitt, looking at the hole ruefully. ‘An’ I’ve hunted an’ hunted every inch of the way !’

Of Mitt’s treasures—and they were not many—the little penknife, with a button hook at one end, was the dearest. Every morning for a long time Mitt, kind, sympathetic little girl that she is, bad gone up the hill, through storms and frost, to comb Ma’am Littlehale’s hair; for Ma’am Littlehale had broken her arm, and couldn’t do it for herself; and there were many little children to take care of, and the invalid grandfather, and oh ! I don’t know what else to do ! And Mitt pitied her. This morning a light snow was falling, concealing entirely the half-bare, frozen road ; and through it the little girl had groped and wandered about in her fruitless search alone ; for, to tell the truth, she was ashamed to let anybody, especially grandmamma, know that she had lost the knife through the very hole that the dear old lady had cautioned her to mend omy the day before.

* Wby don’t you get Arty to help you look!’ suggested grandmamma, without a word of reproof. * His eyes are keen’s a hawk’s !'

The trouble was out now, so Mitt started up with new courage, and with broom and rake the children began the search from the kitchen door.

Hake ! Hakel went Arty slowly with his wide blue eyes fixed intently on the ground. Whisht Whisht Mitt’s impatient broom made the snow fly up in little clouds. On they went, around the house, past the reddish-brown bank of primrose bushes, standing stiff and bare beside the wall in the sifting enow, along the flat and on up the first hill.

* What are the children up to <’ cried grandpapa, coming in from the barn with some hens’ eggs. • Here I’ve been waitin' an’ waitin’ for snow, an’ scrapin’ over bare ground till my testh’ (grandpapa didn't have but one) ‘are all on edge, an’ now them children’s sweepin’ it all out o’ the road ! I never did see such crazy work in my life I They must be stopped !' and before grandmamma could explain he had shuffled out of the kitchen.

But just then Arty waved his cap to grandmamma watching them from the back window, and the next moment he came tearing down the hill, shouting and brandishing the rake, with Mitt racing along behind, her broom over her shoulder, her hood in her hand, and the snow falling on her yellow head. They almost ran over grandpapa at the corner of the house in their eagerness to tell the good news. The precious penknife was found, and Mitt sat right down and sewed a little patch on her pocket before she stopped to brush the snow out of her hair. Grandpapa thought she found it again, becanse she lost it while doing so much good. But Arty thought that patience and sharp eyes had something to do with it.