The Mill on the Floss Read Free

Tulliver, accepting the last
proposition entirely on its own merits; "he's wonderful for liking
a deal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's way, and my
father's before him."
    "It seems a bit a pity, though," said Mr. Tulliver, "as the lad
should take after the mother's side instead o' the little wench.
That's the worst on't wi' crossing o' breeds: you can never justly
calkilate what'll come on't. The little un takes after my side,
now: she's twice as 'cute as Tom. Too 'cute for a woman, I'm
afraid," continued Mr. Tulliver, turning his head dubiously first
on one side and then on the other. "It's no mischief much while
she's a little un; but an over-'cute woman's no better nor a
long-tailed sheep,–she'll fetch none the bigger price for
that."
    "Yes, it
is
a mischief while she's a little un, Mr.
Tulliver, for it runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clean
pinafore two hours together passes my cunning. An' now you put me
i' mind," continued Mrs. Tulliver, rising and going to the window,
"I don't know where she is now, an' it's pretty nigh tea-time. Ah,
I thought so,–wanderin' up an' down by the water, like a wild
thing: She'll tumble in some day."
    Mrs. Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and shook her
head,–a process which she repeated more than once before she
returned to her chair.
    "You talk o' 'cuteness, Mr. Tulliver," she observed as she sat
down, "but I'm sure the child's half an idiot i' some things; for
if I send her upstairs to fetch anything, she forgets what she's
gone for, an' perhaps 'ull sit down on the floor i' the sunshine
an' plait her hair an' sing to herself like a Bedlam creatur', all
the while I'm waiting for her downstairs. That niver run i' my
family, thank God! no more nor a brown skin as makes her look like
a mulatter. I don't like to fly i' the face o' Providence, but it
seems hard as I should have but one gell, an' her so comical."
    "Pooh, nonsense!" said Mr. Tulliver; "she's a straight,
black-eyed wench as anybody need wish to see. I don't know i' what
she's behind other folks's children; and she can read almost as
well as the parson."
    "But her hair won't curl all I can do with it, and she's so
franzy about having it put i' paper, and I've such work as never
was to make her stand and have it pinched with th' irons."
    "Cut it off–cut it off short," said the father, rashly.
    "How can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? She's too big a gell–gone
nine, and tall of her age–to have her hair cut short; an' there's
her cousin Lucy's got a row o' curls round her head, an' not a hair
out o' place. It seems hard as my sister Deane should have that
pretty child; I'm sure Lucy takes more after me nor my own child
does. Maggie, Maggie," continued the mother, in a tone of
half-coaxing fretfulness, as this small mistake of nature entered
the room, "where's the use o' my telling you to keep away from the
water? You'll tumble in and be drownded some day, an' then you'll
be sorry you didn't do as mother told you."
    Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirmed
her mother's accusation. Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her daughter to
have a curled crop, "like other folks's children," had had it cut
too short in front to be pushed behind the ears; and as it was
usually straight an hour after it had been taken out of paper,
Maggie was incessantly tossing her head to keep the dark, heavy
locks out of her gleaming black eyes,–an action which gave her very
much the air of a small Shetland pony.
    "Oh, dear, oh, dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin'of, to throw
your bonnet down there? Take it upstairs, there's a good gell, an'
let your hair be brushed, an' put your other pinafore on, an'
change your shoes, do, for shame; an' come an' go on with your
patchwork, like a little lady."
    "Oh, mother," said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, "I don't
want
to do my patchwork."
    "What! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counterpane for your
aunt Glegg?"
    "It's foolish work," said Maggie, with a toss