Their Dear Little Ghost
by Elia W. Peattie
THE first time one looked at Elsbeth, one was not prepossessed. She was
thin and brown, her nose turned slightly upward, her toes went in just a
perceptible degree, and her hair was perfectly straight. But when one
looked longer, one perceived that she was a charming little creature. The
straight hair was as fine as silk, and hung in funny little braids down
her back; there was not a flaw in her soft brown skin, and her mouth was
tender and shapely. But her particular charm lay in a look which she
habitually had, of seeming to know curious things—such as it is not
allotted to ordinary persons to know. One felt tempted to say to her:
"What are these beautiful things which you know, and of which others are
ignorant? What is it you see with those wise and pellucid eyes? Why is it
that everybody loves you?"
Elsbeth was my little godchild, and I knew her better than I knew any
other child in the world. But still I could not truthfully say that I was
familiar with her, for to me her spirit was like a fair and fragrant road
in the midst of which I might walk in peace and joy, but where I was
continually to discover something new. The last time I saw her quite well
and strong was over in the woods where she had gone with her two little
brothers and her nurse to pass the hottest weeks of summer. I followed
her, foolish old creature that I was, just to be near her, for I needed to
dwell where the sweet aroma of her life could reach me.
One morning when I came from my room, limping a little, because I am not
so young as I used to be, and the lake wind works havoc with me, my little
godchild came dancing to me singing:
"Come with me and I'll show you my places, my places, my places!"
Miriam, when she chanted by the Red Sea might have been more exultant, but
she could not have been more bewitching. Of course I knew what "places"
were, because I had once been a little girl myself, but unless you are
acquainted with the real meaning of "places," it would be useless to try
to explain. Either you know "places" or you do not—just as you
understand the meaning of poetry or you do not. There are things in the
world which cannot be taught.
Elsbeth's two tiny brothers were present, and I took one by each hand and
followed her. No sooner had we got out of doors in the woods than a sort
of mystery fell upon the world and upon us. We were cautioned to move
silently, and we did so, avoiding the crunching of dry twigs.
"The fairies hate noise," whispered my little godchild, her eyes narrowing
like a cat's.
"I must get my wand first thing I do," she said in an awed undertone. "It
is useless to try to do anything without a wand."
The tiny boys were profoundly impressed, and, indeed, so was I. I felt
that at last, I should, if I behaved properly, see the fairies, which had
hitherto avoided my materialistic gaze. It was an enchanting moment, for
there appeared, just then, to be nothing commonplace about life.
There was a swale near by, and into this the little girl plunged. I could
see her red straw hat bobbing about among the tall rushes, and I wondered
if there were snakes.
"Do you think there are snakes?" I asked one of the tiny boys.
"If there are," he said with conviction, "they won't dare hurt her."
He convinced me. I feared no more. Presently Elsbeth came out of the
swale. In her hand was a brown "cattail," perfectly full and round. She
carried it as queens carry their sceptres—the beautiful queens we
dream of in our youth.
"Come," she commanded, and waved the sceptre in a fine manner. So we
followed, each tiny boy gripping my hand tight. We were all three a trifle
awed. Elsbeth led us into a dark underbrush. The branches, as they flew
back in our faces, left them wet with dew. A wee path, made by the girl's
dear feet, guided our footsteps. Perfumes of elderberry and wild cucumber
scented the air. A bird, frightened from its nest, made frantic cries
above our heads. The underbrush thickened. Presently the gloom of the
hemlocks was over us, and in the midst of the shadowy green a tulip tree
flaunted its leaves. Waves boomed and broke upon the shore below. There
was a growing dampness as we went on, treading very lightly. A little
green snake ran coquettishly from us. A fat and glossy squirrel chattered
at us from a safe height, stroking his whiskers with a complaisant air.
At length we reached the "place." It was a circle of velvet grass, bright
as the first blades of spring, delicate as fine sea-ferns. The sunlight,
falling down the shaft between the hemlocks, flooded it with a softened
light and made the forest round about look like deep purple velvet. My
little godchild stood in the midst and raised her wand impressively.
"This is my place," she said, with a sort of wonderful gladness in her
tone. "This is where I come to the fairy balls. Do you see them?"
"See what?" whispered one tiny boy.
There was a silence. The older boy pulled at my skirt.
"Do YOU see them?" he asked, his voice trembling with expectancy.
"Indeed," I said, "I fear I am too old and wicked to see fairies, and yet—are
their hats red?"
"They are," laughed my little girl. "Their hats are red, and as small—as
small!" She held up the pearly nail of her wee finger to give us the
"And their shoes are very pointed at the toes?"
"Oh, very pointed!"
"And their garments are green?"
"As green as grass."
"And they blow little horns?"
"The sweetest little horns!"
"I think I see them," I cried.
"We think we see them too," said the tiny boys, laughing in perfect glee.
"And you hear their horns, don't you?" my little godchild asked somewhat
"Don't we hear their horns?" I asked the tiny boys.
"We think we hear their horns," they cried. "Don't you think we do?"
"It must be we do," I said. "Aren't we very, very happy?"
We all laughed softly. Then we kissed each other and Elsbeth led us out,
her wand high in the air.
And so my feet found the lost path to Arcady.
The next day I was called to the Pacific coast, and duty kept me there
till well into December. A few days before the date set for my return to
my home, a letter came from Elsbeth's mother.
"Our little girl is gone into the Unknown," she wrote—"that Unknown
in which she seemed to be forever trying to pry. We knew she was going,
and we told her. She was quite brave, but she begged us to try some way to
keep her till after Christmas. 'My presents are not finished yet,' she
made moan. 'And I did so want to see what I was going to have. You can't
have a very happy Christmas without me, I should think. Can you arrange to
keep me somehow till after then?' We could not 'arrange' either with God
in heaven or science upon earth, and she is gone."
She was only my little godchild, and I am an old maid, with no business
fretting over children, but it seemed as if the medium of light and beauty
had been taken from me. Through this crystal soul I had perceived whatever
was loveliest. However, what was, was! I returned to my home and took up a
course of Egyptian history, and determined to concern myself with nothing
this side the Ptolemies.
Her mother has told me how, on Christmas eve, as usual, she and Elsbeth's
father filled the stockings of the little ones, and hung them, where they
had always hung, by the fireplace. They had little heart for the task, but
they had been prodigal that year in their expenditures, and had heaped
upon the two tiny boys all the treasures they thought would appeal to
them. They asked themselves how they could have been so insane previously
as to exercise economy at Christmas time, and what they meant by not
getting Elsbeth the autoharp she had asked for the year before.
"And now—" began her father, thinking of harps. But he could not
complete this sentence, of course, and the two went on passionately and
almost angrily with their task. There were two stockings and two piles of
toys. Two stockings only, and only two piles of toys! Two is very little!
They went away and left the darkened room, and after a time they slept—after
a long time. Perhaps that was about the time the tiny boys awoke, and,
putting on their little dressing gowns and bed slippers, made a dash for
the room where the Christmas things were always placed. The older one
carried a candle which gave out a feeble light. The other followed behind
through the silent house. They were very impatient and eager, but when
they reached the door of the sitting-room they stopped, for they saw that
another child was before them.
It was a delicate little creature, sitting in her white night gown, with
two rumpled funny braids falling down her back, and she seemed to be
weeping. As they watched, she arose, and putting out one slender finger as
a child does when she counts, she made sure over and over again—three
sad times—that there were only two stockings and two piles of toys!
Only those and no more.
The little figure looked so familiar that the boys started toward it, but
just then, putting up her arm and bowing her face in it, as Elsbeth had
been used to do when she wept or was offended, the little thing glided
away and went out. That's what the boys said. It went out as a candle goes
They ran and woke their parents with the tale, and all the house was
searched in a wonderment, and disbelief, and hope, and tumult! But nothing
was found. For nights they watched. But there was only the silent house.
Only the empty rooms. They told the boys they must have been mistaken. But
the boys shook their heads.
"We know our Elsbeth," said they. "It was our Elsbeth, cryin' 'cause she
hadn't no stockin' an' no toys, and we would have given her all ours, only
she went out—jus' went out!"
The next Christmas I helped with the little festival. It was none of my
affair, but I asked to help, and they let me, and when we were all through
there were three stockings and three piles of toys, and in the largest one
was all the things that I could think of that my dear child would love. I
locked the boys' chamber that night, and I slept on the divan in the
parlor off the sitting-room. I slept but little, and the night was very
still—so windless and white and still that I think I must have heard
the slightest noise. Yet I heard none. Had I been in my grave I think my
ears would not have remained more unsaluted.
Yet when daylight came and I went to unlock the boys' bedchamber door, I
saw that the stocking and all the treasures which I had bought for my
little godchild were gone. There was not a vestige of them remaining!
Of course we told the boys nothing. As for me, after dinner I went home
and buried myself once more in my history, and so interested was I that
midnight came without my knowing it. I should not have looked up at all, I
suppose, to become aware of the time, had it not been for a faint, sweet
sound as of a child striking a stringed instrument. It was so delicate and
remote that I hardly heard it, but so joyous and tender that I could not
but listen, and when I heard it a second time it seemed as if I caught the
echo of a child's laugh. At first I was puzzled. Then I remembered the
little autoharp I had placed among the other things in that pile of
vanished toys. I said aloud:
"Farewell, dear little ghost. Go rest. Rest in joy, dear little ghost.
That was years ago, but there has been silence since. Elsbeth was always
an obedient little thing.