E-text prepared by Michael Oltz, David Garcia,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
| Note: | This version of The Melting of Molly is a British magazine publication and differs significantly from the illustrated American novel publication, also in the Project Gutenberg library at https://www.gutenberg.org/etext/15817 |
I don't know how all this is going to end, and I wish my mind wasn't ina kind of tingle. However, I'll do the best I can and not hold myself atall responsible for myself, and then who will there be to blame?
There are a great many kinds of good-feeling in this world, from radiantjoy down to perfect bliss; but this spring I have got an attack of justold-fashioned happiness that looks as if it might become chronic.
I am so happy that I planted my garden all crooked, my eyes upon theclouds with the birds sailing against them, and when I became consciousI found wicked flaunting poppies sprouted right up against the sweetmodest clove-pinks, while the whole paper of bachelor's-buttons wassowed over everything—which I immediately began to dig right up again,blushing furiously to myself over the trowel, and glad that I had caughtmyself before they grew up to laugh in my face. However, I got thatlaugh anyway, and I might just as well have left them, for Billy ran tothe gate and called Dr. John to come in and make Molly stop digging uphis buttons. Billy claims everything in this garden, and he thought theywould grow up into the kind of buttons you pop out of a gun.
"So you're digging up the bachelor-buttons, Mrs. Molly?" the doctorasked as he leaned over the gate. I went on digging without looking upat him. I couldn't look up because I was blushing still worse. SometimesI hate that man, and if he wasn't Billy's father I wouldn't be asfriendly with him as I am. But somebody has to look after Billy.
I believe it will be a real relief to write down how I feel about him inhis old book, and I shall do it whenever I can't stand him any longer;and if he gave the horrid, red leather thing to me to make me miserablehe can't do it; not this spring! I wish I dare burn it up and forgetabout it, but I daren't! This record on the first page is enough toreduce me—to tears, and I wonder why it doesn't.
I weigh one hundred and sixty pounds, set down in black and white, andit is a tragedy! I don't believe that man at the weighing machine is sovery reliable in his weights, though he had a very pleasant smile whilehe was weighing me. Still, I had better get some scales of my own,smiles are so deceptive.
I am five feet three inch