We used to cut small models of
clothes out of white paper, and then iron them with the farthing iron.
How nobly that domestic implement did its duty till the luckless day
when Polly became uneasy because we did not "put it down to the fire
to get hot!"
"Nurse doesn't like us to play with fire," I conscientiously reminded
her.
"It's not playing with fire; it's only putting the iron on the hob,"
said Polly.
And to this unworthy evasion I yielded, and--my arm being longer than
Polly's--put the flat iron on the top bar of the nursery grate with my
own hand. Whilst the iron was heating we went back to our scissors and
paper.
"You cut out a few more white petticoats, Regie dear," said Polly,
"and I will make an iron-holder;" with which she calmly cut several
inches off the end of her sash, and began to fold it for the purpose.
Aunt Maria's nursery discipline was firm, but her own nature was
independent, almost to aggressiveness; and Polly inherited enough of
the latter to more than counteract the repression of the former. Thus
all Cousin Polly's proceedings were very direct, and, if necessary,
daring. When she cut her sash, I exclaimed--"My dear Polly!" just as
Uncle Ascott was wont at times to cry--"My dear Maria!"
"I'd nothing else to make it of," said Polly, calmly.
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