Back Aa

Courage (Dramatic Reading)

Close

<h2> CHAPTER I.—NAMED AT LAST. </h2> If one has a fairy tale in mind, why then, of course, the more mystery the better; but when you have a story to tell about people who cannot fly from hill-top to hill-top, and who to live at all must have food more substantial than rose-leaves and honey-dew, why then, say I, the less mystery the better. Therefore, let me tell you at once that the Courage of this story is not at all the sort of thing you might at first imagine. Auburn-haired, brown-eyed, and rosy-cheeked was this particular Courage; in point of fact, as charming a little maiden as you would meet on a long day's journey, and with Courage for her name. An odd name no doubt you think it. Courage herself did not like it, but the suns of a half-dozen summers and winters had risen for the little lady in question before she could so much as lay claim to any name whatsoever. All that while she was simply known as Baby Masterson. Her father, Hugh Masterson, was foreman in a machine shop over on the west side of the city, and “a very queer man,” people said. Probably they were right about it. He was unquestionably a very clever man, and queerness and cleverness seem to go hand-in-hand the world over. He was the author of at least three successful inventions, but, as often happens, others made more money out of them than he. Hugh, nevertheless, did not seem inclined to grumble at this state of affairs. Having a wife whom he loved devotedly and a comfortable home of his own, he felt thoroughly contented and happy. Then when, one bright June morning, Hugh found himself the father of a lovely baby daughter, happy was no name for it, and he was quite beside himself with joy. But, sadly enough, the joy was soon over, for scarcely three months after the baby-life came into the little home the mother-life went out of it, and then it seemed to poor Hugh as though his heart would break. He hired a kind-hearted woman named Mary Duff to care for his baby, and plunged harder than ever into his work, hoping by delving away at all sorts of difficult problems to grow less mindful of his great sorrow; but do what he would, there was always a sense of irreparable loss hanging over him. However, between his work and his sorrow he did often succeed in altogether forgetting his baby. Still the little daughter grew and flourished, apparently none the worse for this neglect. Mary Duff was love and tenderness itself, and it were well for the children if every mother in name were just such a mother at heart. But at last there came a time when Hugh Masterson could no longer fail to notice his baby's charms. She had taken it into her wise little head to grow prettier and prettier, and more and more cunning with every day, till there was no more forgetting of her possible; and first thing her father knew, he found himself thinking of her right in the midst of his work, and then hurrying home through the crowds of laboring people at night, fairly longing for a sight of her. And so it happened that the little girl grew to fill a larger and still larger place In his life, till on her sixth birthday he decided that she really ought to have a name, that little woman beginning strongly to resent the fact that she was known only as Baby Masterson to the small world in which she lived. So when Sunday came, Hugh carried her in his arms up to St. Paul's to be christened. But the name that he gave her! Well, it was not in the least like other little girls' names, as you know. No wonder Mary Duff, who was standing godmother, was more than surprised when she heard it, having simply taken for granted that Baby would be named for her mother. Baby herself was naturally greatly mystified at the whole proceeding. <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG src="images/0012.jpg" alt="0012 " width-obs="100%" /> </div> <h5> <ANTIMG src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </h5> “What did you say I had been, papa?” she asked, as with her hand held fast in his she trudged home beside him. “I said you had been christened, darling.” “Christened!” she repeated softly, wondering just what the word might mean. “And did you say I had a name now, papa?” “Yes, dear; and you think it was time, don't you?” “I have wanted one for a very long while,” she said, with a little half sigh; “but did you say my name was Courage?” “Yes, Courage; it's a pretty name, isn't it?” “I don't know,” rather doubtfully. “Do other little girls have it?” “No, I believe not; but probably they don't deserve it.” “I would like to have been named Arabella,” she replied, somewhat aggrieved. “Why did you not let me choose, papa?” “Why, I never thought of that, Baby; besides, it isn't customary to consult children about what names they shall have—is it, Mary?” turning to Mary Duff, who, because of the narrow flagging, was walking just behind them. “No, I believe not, Mr. Masterson,” said Mary; “but then, sir, no more is it customary to delay a naming of them till they're old enough to be consulted.” “Well, I reckon Mary's right about that, Baby, and perhaps I ought to have talked matters over with you; but I can tell you one thing, I never should have consented to Arabella—never in this world. I should say Arabella was a regular doll name, and not at all suited to a sturdy-limbed little girl like you.” “But there are other beautiful names, papa—Edith and Ethel and Helen! I love Helen.” Then suddenly coming to a standstill and eagerly looking up to her father's face, she exclaimed: “Papa, if we hurried back perhaps the minister would un-un-christen me”—proud to have remembered the proper word and evidently comprehending that the rite was a binding one. “No, I fear not,” laughed her father; “but take my word for it, you'll like Courage after a while; it's just the name for you.” “Does it mean something, papa?” “Yes, something fine. Why, when you grow up, Baby” (for the new name was quite too new for use), “you'll discover that there's nothing finer than courage.” “Is courage something that people have? Have I got it?” “Some people, dear, and I hope that you have it.” “But why am I named it, if you are not sure, papa?” “Because then perhaps the name may help you to get it; but the best reason of all is this, that the sight of you, darling, always puts new courage into me and although she did not in the least understand it, Baby felt somehow that that was a beautiful reason, and as her father lifted her up in his arms, gave him a tight little hug and was perfectly satisfied. “How do you like my new name?” she said, looking over her father's shoulder at Mary. “Faith, darling.” said Mary, taking hold of her little extended hand, “I thought it some queer at the first, but now that I've learned the reason, I think it's an elegant name.” It may be that you do not agree with Mary Duff in this, and yet you must know that it was just because Courage proved to be so well named that there is this little story to tell about her. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2