St. Nicholas/Volume 41/Number 5/The Deacon's Little Maid
“Priscilla! Priscilla!” Mistress Abbott’s voice carried all too well, and Priscilla dared not pretend not to hear. Slow and unwilling, she dragged up to the house where her hated sampler was waiting, for she knew that she should have done her stint before going out to play. Silently her mother handed her the square of linen where, already, stiff, cross-stitched roses bloomed in the border, and neat and clear stood out:
X1789X
XPriscilla Abbott is my nameX
XAmerica my nationX
XAndover town my dwelling-placeX
XAnd Christ is my salva
Priscilla sat down on the door-step and began her work, but the thread would tangle, and the needle would prick her finger, and she hated to sew anyway. In the garden, the early November sun shone warm and bright, dead leaves whirled in the breeze, and the corn-stalks rustled tantalizingly. The little maid was only ten years old, and her feet ached to run about.
Finally, however, a crooked, straggling it was done. How Mistress Abbott frowned when she saw it.
“Priscilla, that must come out. What kind of a needlewoman will you become if you do such work? Cousin Elizabeth Osgood has already hemmed her father's ruffles. My daughter should do as well. Take out that letter, every stitch.”
“Won’t!” answered Priscilla, stamping her foot. Such disobedience was unheard of, and her mother could scarcely believe her cars. But, “Won’t!" Priscilla repeated.
Before she had a chance to say more, Mistress Abbott gathered up the sampler and work-box in one hand, while with the other she grasped the little maid’s arm and led her up-stairs to her own chamber.
“Stay here until you can be good and have finished the whole word as it should be done! Then you may come to me.”
The door shut, and Priscilla was alone. Downstairs she heard the clatter of kettles: outside the bare branches of the cherry-tree tapped against the window, the crows called over the fields, “Come! come!” She looked at the sampler.
“I hate you! I hate you! I won’t learn to sew! I wish Mother would n’t make me. Mothers may like to sew, but girls don’t. Well, Cousin Elizabeth may, but she is different; she never wants to play. She is always so good! Well, I ’m not Cousin Elizabeth! I hate to sew!”
The unfortunate sampler was kicked under the bed, and Priscilla flung herself down on the floor in a storm of angry tears. The cherry-tree brushed against the window. She lifted her head. She climbed upon the sill. One foot slipped out onto a limb, the other followed, and, in a moment, down the tree slid the child.
An hour later, Mistress Abbott heard a clear, shrill voice singing the song that the Andover men had brought back from camp:
“Ye that reign masters of the serf,
Shake off your youthful sloth and ease;
We ’ll make the haughty Tories know
The tortures they must undergo
When they engage their mortal foe!
Huzza, brave boys!”
There was Priscilla running through the garden, quite forgetful of her misdeeds. Her mother was very, very angry, and Priscilla was again shut up, this time in a room with no convenient tree, with many Bible verses to learn about the punishment of disobedience, and a coarse, hard seam to sew. Then she was sorry, and, next morning, in all Massachusetts no better, busier little maid might be found than the deacon’s daughter as she sat in the great room of Abbott's Tavern in Andover town, and none made neater, fairer stitches.
Suddenly, there was a great stir and a hurrying hither and yon, as several men on horseback drew up before the door. Deacon Abbott himself rushed to help the tall stranger on the gray horse to dismount, never so much as noticing Master Phillips, who was president of the Massachusetts Senate, and who rode with him. Mistress Abbott curtseyed in the doorway, and men and maids bobbed and bowed. Priscilla looked on in wonder until she caught the magic name, “General Washington.” This tall man, all dusty and travel-stained, with the tip of his finger showing through his torn riding-glove, was General Washington, her hero!
Her head drooped shyly over her sampler when he entered the room. Then a kind voice said to her, “Art the deacon’s little maid?”
She slipped from the great settle to greet him, and her sampler fell at his feet. There it lay, each letter clear and plain, each stitch straight and neat. General Washington himself quickly picked it up. How glad she was, then, that she had taken out that crooked t, and made another, quite perfect!
The great man smiled as he looked at it. “The little maid i1s indeed a fine needlewoman, Mistress Abbott. Many an older person might be proud of these stitches. My glove has ripped. child; will you mend it for me with such fair sewing while I breakfast?”
Her heart was so full of joy at the praise that she could not speak, but only nodded and took the glove. Stitches firm and even, the very best she had ever made, Priscilla set in the glove.
Just as the men came out to ride away again. the work was done. General Washington took the glove. “I thank thee, little maid,” he said. and he lifted her in his arms and kissed her.
Priscilla could dream of no greater honor. But suppose she had never learned to sew? She never saw him again, after he vanished around the turn of the road, but for a whole week she would not wash the cheek he had kissed, and to the end of her life she was proud to tell, again and again, the story of the day when General Washington kissed the deacon’s little maid.
“‘MY GLOVE HAS RIPPED, CHILD: WILL YOU MEND IT FOR ME WITH SUCH FAIR SEWING?’” (SEE NEXT PAGE.)