Maida Is Back! Maida's Little House (Chapter 1 & 2)

Tonight we embark on another enchanting journey as we begin a few chapters from the 2nd book of the beloved Maida Series called "Maida's Little House". We will go on a magical journey with Maida and all of her friends, while they spend a happy summer together in a sweet little house in the country that has everything a child could wish for. So lie back and relax as we continue our journey once more into Maida's little world! Wishing you the sweetest of dreamzzz...

Your friend,
Joanne

Transcript

Welcome back,

Drift Off listeners,

To another cozy evening on the podcast,

Where I whisk you away to the land of dreams with sleepy tales.

I'm your host Joanne,

And tonight we embark on another enchanting journey with the beloved Maida series.

Just a few months ago,

We ventured into Maida's world with Maida's Little Shop by Enos Haynes Irwin,

A tale that warmed our hearts about a wealthy little girl named Maida who is sickly and lame and finds happiness living in an ordinary neighborhood with ordinary children while tending her little shop.

So tonight,

We're continuing that journey with the second installment,

Maida's Little House,

Where we embark on a magical journey with Maida and all of her friends while they spend a happy summer together in a sweet little house in the country that has everything a child could wish for.

Now,

Let's take a moment together to unwind and settle into a state of relaxation.

Close your eyes,

Take a deep breath in,

And exhale slowly.

Feel the tension melting away from your body as you prepare to drift off into a world of wonder and imagination.

My friend,

Just relax and listen as we continue our journey once more into Maida's world,

Where every corner holds a new adventure and every page is filled with the promise of friendship.

And so,

Go ahead and snuggle up under those cozy blankets and enjoy the story.

Chapter One,

The Homecoming I wonder when Maida's coming back,

Said Rosie Brine,

As she approached the trio of children who sat on the lathrop lawn.

The three were Laura Lathrop,

Her brother,

Harold Lathrop,

Their friend,

Arthur Duncan.

Rosie did not join them on the grass.

She seated herself in the hammock behind them and began to swing,

First slowly,

Then so violently that her black curls swept back and forth with her swift progress,

And her speech came in jerks.

I wouldn't mind how long I had to wait,

If I only knew when she was coming.

Nobody answered.

Rosie had only asked a question that they all asked at intervals,

Hoping against hope that somebody would make a comforting guess.

I don't believe she's ever coming back,

Rosie answered herself,

Recklessly swinging almost over their heads.

Arthur Duncan,

A big,

Broad-shouldered boy with tussled thick brown hair beating down over his forehead and almost bailing his eyes as steady as they were black,

Answered this.

Oh,

Maida's coming home sometime.

She promised,

And she always keeps her promises.

When we were going to school,

Put in Laura Lathrop,

It was bad enough,

But we didn't have time to miss her so much then.

But now that school's over and there's nothing to do,

Oh,

How I wish she were here.

Well,

What good would it do?

Harold Lathrop asked.

Harold and Laura looked much alike,

Although Laura was slim and brown-haired,

And Harold flaxen and a little stout,

But both had blue eyes and small,

Regular features.

We wouldn't see anything of her,

Harold continued.

She'd be going away somewhere for the summer,

And we wouldn't have a chance to get to know her until fall.

Maida would never do that,

Rosie Brine declared emphatically.

She'd manage some way to be with us for a while.

She brought the hammock to a stop for a moment,

With the swift kick of a determined foot against a tuft of grass.

There is one thing I am sure of,

And that is that Maida would never forget us or want to be away from us.

She says that in every letter I've got from her.

Well,

What are we going to do today,

Harold demanded.

I should think from the way we sit here that we had not been counting up the days to vacation for a month,

While Laura's even had the hours all numbered out on her calendar,

So she could draw a line through them every night.

I wanted to have the minutes marked out too,

Laura admitted,

But it took too much time.

What are we going to do,

Harold persisted.

Here it is,

The first day of vacation,

And we sit here saying nothing.

You think of something,

Arthur,

You always can.

Arthur Duncan rolled over face downwards on the grass.

I can't think of anything to do this morning,

He admitted.

It's so hot,

And I feel so lazy.

Seems to me I'd just like to lie here all day.

It was hot that late June day in Charleston.

Not a breeze stirred the shrubs of the lathrop lawn.

The June roses drooped.

The leaves seemed wilting.

Even the blue sky looked thick and sultry.

Huge white clouds moved across it so lazily that it was as though they too felt general anger.

The children looked as children generally look at the close of school,

Pale and a little tired.

Their movements were listless.

Just outside the gate of the lathrop place was Primrose Court,

A little court lined with maples and horse chestnuts,

With shady little wooden houses set behind tiny gardens,

In their turn set within white wooden fences.

At one corner of Primrose Court and Warrington Street,

Set directly opposite a schoolhouse,

Was a little shop,

And over the shop,

Printed in gold letters against a background of sky blue,

Hung a sign which read,

Mada's Little Shop.

In Primrose Court,

The smaller children were playing as briskly as though there was no such thing as weather.

Brown-eyed,

Brown-haired,

Motherly Molly Doyle,

Quick,

Efficient,

But quiet,

Was apparently acting as the wife and mother of an imaginary house.

Smaller and younger,

Timmy Doyle,

Her brother,

A little pop-eyed,

Brownie little boy,

Slow moving and awkward,

Was husband and father.

There were four children in this make-believe household.

Quite frequently,

Little Betsy Hale,

Slim,

Black-eyed and rosy-cheeked,

And a little Delia Dorr,

Chubby and blonde with thick red curls,

Attempted to run away,

Were caught and punished with great thoroughness.

Apparently,

Dorothy and Mabel Clark,

Twin sisters,

One the exact duplicate of the other,

With big,

Round blue eyes and long,

Round golden curls,

Were the grown-up daughters of this make-believe family.

They were intent on household tasks,

Thrusting into an imaginary stove absolutely real mud-pies,

And sweeping an imaginary room with an absolutely real dustpan and brush.

Aside from this active scene,

Everything was quiet.

Farther down the court,

Doves had settled,

Were pink-toeing about,

Feeding busily,

Preening and cooing.

Sometimes,

Laura said thoughtfully,

I feel as though I had dreamed Maeda.

If the little shop were not here with her name over the door,

And all of you talk about her with me,

I should believe I had just waked up.

She stopped a moment.

If it had been a dream,

How mad I should be to think I had waked up.

Do you remember how exciting it was when Maeda first came to live over the little shop?

Rosie exclaimed.

I should say I did.

It was Laura who answered her.

Wasn't it wonderful when all that pretty furniture came for their rooms?

Yes,

And the canaries,

And the great geraniums for the windows,

Rosie added eagerly.

The most wonderful thing,

Though,

Arthur went on,

Was when the sign went up.

It was such a pretty sign,

Maeda's little shop,

In gold painted on blue,

And.

.

.

Gee,

How wild we all were to see Maeda,

Harold said.

I don't know what I expected,

But I certainly was surprised when Maeda appeared.

Lame,

Arthur concluded for her,

Like Dickie.

But they're both alright now.

Dickie certainly is,

And Maeda was when she left for Europe.

I often think,

Harold began again after a little pause,

Of when we first met her,

And she used to talk of the things her father gave her.

We thought she was telling lies.

I never thought she was telling lies,

Rosie expostulated.

I loved her too much for that.

I knew Maeda wouldn't tell lies.

I thought she just dreamed those things.

I remember them all.

Her mother's mirror and brush and comb of gold with her initials and diamonds.

And the long string of pearls that she used to wear that came to her knees.

And a dress of cloth of gold trimmed with roses and a diamond,

Like a drop of dew in the heart of every rose.

Yes,

And the peacocks at her father's place,

Some of them white,

Arthur interrupted.

And don't you remember,

Harold went on,

We all thought she was crazy when she said that once he gave her for a birthday present,

Her weight in twenty dollar gold pieces.

And a wonderful birthday party,

Laura added eagerly,

With a maypole and a doll baby house big enough to go into and live.

I don't wonder why we didn't believe it at all,

Rosie declared with conviction.

It sounds like a fairy tale.

And then it turned out that she was the daughter of a great millionaire,

And every word of it was true.

Do you remember how we asked Mr.

Westerbrook at Maeda's Christmas tree if it was all true,

And he said that it was?

I'd like to see those white peacocks,

Dickie said dreamily.

I'd like to see that doll baby house,

Laura added wistfully.

I'd like to see the gold comb and brush and mirror with the diamonds,

Rosie declared,

And that dress with the roses and the diamond dewdrops.

I like to look at precious stones.

I like things that sparkle.

At this thought,

She herself sparkled until her eyes were like great black diamonds in her vivid,

Brilliant face.

I'd like to see that pile of twenty-dollar gold pieces,

Harold said.

Oh,

I wish she'd come back,

Rosie sighed.

The sparkle all went out of her face,

And she stopped swinging.

A door leading into Primrose Court opened with a suddenness that made them all jump.

A boy with big eyes,

Very brown and lustrous,

Lighting his peaked face and straight hair very brown and lustrous,

Framing it,

Came bounding out.

He ran in the direction of the group on the lawn,

And as he ran he waved something white in his hand.

The doves flew away before him in a glittering V.

Hurrah,

He yelled.

Gee,

How Dickie can run,

Arthur Duncan exclaimed.

Who'd ever believe that one year ago he was wearing an iron on his leg?

Oh,

What is it,

Dickie?

Rosie Bryan called impatiently.

Dickie had by this time reached the Lathrop Gate.

A postcard,

From Maida,

He shouted.

Does she say when she's coming home,

Laura asked quickly?

No,

Dickie answered.

He threw himself down among them,

Handed the postcard to Rosie,

Who had leaped from the hammock.

It passed from hand to hand.

Harold,

The last one to receive it,

Read it aloud.

Love to everybody,

And how I wish I could see you all,

Was all it said.

Nothing about coming home,

Exclaimed Rosie.

Oh dear,

How disappointed I am.

Where is it from,

Arthur asked,

As though suddenly remembering something.

London,

Dickie answered.

She told me that when she came home,

She'd sail from England.

Did she?

Rosie asked listlessly.

She never told me that,

But you see,

She says nothing of sailing.

She's probably going to spend the summer there.

I remember that she told me of a beautiful place they lived in one summer in England.

She said that there was a forest not far from the house where Robin Hood and his men used to meet.

Probably she'll go there.

Rosie stopped for a minute,

And then the listlessness in her voice changed to a kind of despair.

I don't believe she'll ever come back.

I know she will,

Dickie announced with decision.

The last thing Maida said was,

I'll come back,

And she always keeps her promises.

I wouldn't be surprised if she came back this summer sometime,

Arthur said.

Anyway,

I know she said they'd sail from England.

Yes,

But by that time we'll all be away,

Laura's voice held a disappointed note.

We're going to Marblehead in a week or two for the whole summer,

And you're going to waymouth Rosie,

Aren't you?

Rosie nodded.

Only for two weeks,

Though.

Where are you going,

Laura,

Asked Arthur.

I don't know.

When my father gets his two weeks vacation,

Maybe we'll take a tramp somewhere.

That is,

If it doesn't come after school has begun.

And where are you going,

Dickie,

Laura went on.

Nowhere.

We're going to stay here in Charleston.

Primrose Court will be my vacation.

Mother says she'll try to take us to City Point or Revere or Nantasket every Sunday.

Now,

What are we going to do today?

We might go upstairs in the cupola and play games,

Harold suggested.

No,

I don't want to stay in the house the first day of vacation,

Rosie announced discontentedly.

Let's play stunts,

Suggested Dickie,

Who,

Since his lame leg had recovered,

Could never seem to get enough of athletic exercise.

Too hot,

Decided Laura.

Hide and go seek,

Suggested Arthur.

Too hot,

Decided Harold.

Follow my leader,

Suggested Dickie.

Too hot,

Decided Rosie.

Hoist the sail,

Suggested Arthur.

Too hot,

Decided Laura.

Prisoner's base,

Suggested Harold.

Too hot,

Decided Rosie.

Tag,

Suggested Arthur.

Too hot,

Decided Harold.

Laura burst out laughing.

Every game anybody proposes is too hot for somebody else.

I say let's all face downwards and think and think and think until somebody gets an idea of something new that we can do.

Everybody adopted her suggestion.

The four on the grass turned over,

Lay like stone images carved there.

Rosie turned over in the hammock.

I wish Maid had come home,

Came from her muffled accents before she,

Too,

Subsided.

A whole minute passed.

Nobody moved.

Even Rosie kept rigid.

Into the silence floated the note of a faraway automobile horn.

It was not as much a call or warning as a gay caroling.

A long level ribbon of sound which unwound itself continuously and,

Drifting on the soft spring air,

Came nearer and nearer.

It stopped for a moment.

Started again.

Continued more and more gaily.

Ran up and down a trilled scale once more.

The stone images stirred uneasily.

The horn grew louder.

In a moment it would pass Primrose Court.

The horn ended in a high,

Swift call.

The car stopped.

The stone images lifted their heads.

A girl,

Lithe but strong-looking with wide-apart big grey eyes gleaming in a little fat face,

Just touched in the cheek with pink,

With masses of feathery golden hair hanging over her blue coat,

Was stepping out of the car.

The images flashed upright,

Leaped to their feet.

It's Maida!

Rosie Brine called as she sped like an arrow shot from a bow towards the automobile.

Oh,

Maida!

Maida!

It's Maida!

The others took it up and raced into the court.

When did you land?

Why didn't you let us know?

How long are you going to stay?

Did your father come too?

Where's Billy Potter?

Maida tried to answer them all,

To hug each of the girls who were hugging her all together,

To hold out a hand to each of the three boys who seemed all to shake both her hands at once,

To manage to kiss Betsy Hale,

Who hearing the name Maida shouted,

Vaguely recalled that there had once been a Maida whom she loved,

And who thereupon hung tight to one of her legs,

To manage to kiss Delia Dorr,

Who had no remembrance of Maida,

Whatever but an imitation of Betsy,

Hung tight to the other leg,

And in addition,

To call to Molly and Timmy and Dorothy and Mabel,

Who remembered her perfectly,

Who danced like little wild Indians on the outskirts of the crowd,

Yelling,

Maida's come back!

Maida's come back!

At the top of their lungs.

All this took much less time to happen than it has taken to describe,

And it was suddenly interrupted by the rapid opening of the door to the dooryard.

A little old Irish woman,

With silvery hair,

And with a face as wrinkled as a nut,

Came rushing out,

Her arms extended,

Calling,

My lamb's come back!

My lamb's come back!

Maida ran to her and hugged her ecstatically.

Oh,

Dear Granny Flynn,

She said,

Dear,

Dear Granny Flynn.

Then there appeared back of Granny Flynn,

Mrs.

Dorr,

Granny Flynn's daughter,

Delia and Dickie Dorr's mother,

Who had to be met in the same affectionate way.

Mrs.

Dorr was a tall,

Brown,

Fresh-complexioned woman.

It was from her that Dickie inherited his brown coloring and Delia her sparkling expression.

I'd never know you for the same child,

Mrs.

Dorr said.

Of course,

The grown people claimed Maida's attention first.

They showered her with questions,

And she answered them every one with her all old-time courtesy and consideration.

Was she well?

Well,

But look at her!

When did she land?

She had landed the day before New York,

Had come on the midnight to Boston.

Where was she living?

At their home,

On Beacon Street.

Would she stay to lunch?

Yes,

Yes,

Yes!

Her father had said that if she were invited,

She could spend the whole rest of the day in Primrose Court.

He would send the car for her late in the afternoon.

Where was she going after that?

Her father would tell them all this afternoon.

He had some plans,

But they weren't worked out yet.

Would she be in Boston for a few days?

Probably.

Then,

During that time,

Wouldn't she like to come back to her own rooms over Maida's little shop?

Would she?

Oh,

Goody!

She could call her father to bring her some clothes.

It went on and on until the older children stood first on one foot and then on the other with impatience,

And the younger ones went back to their housekeeping game and their frequent punishments.

But finally,

The curiosity of this group of grown-ups was satisfied,

And the children claimed their prey.

A clamorous group,

Every one of them telling her some bit of news and all at once.

They made the tour of the court.

They called on Mrs.

Lathrop,

Who,

Mercifully,

Forbore to ask more than five minutes of questions,

And on the Mrs.

Allison,

A pair of middle-aged maiden ladies.

Here,

The confusion doubled itself because of the noisy screams of Tony the parrot.

Tony kept calling at the top of his croaking voice,

What's this all about?

Each of the children tried to tell him,

But he was apparently dissatisfied with their explanations,

For he only called the louder and with greater emphasis.

I say,

What is this all about?

Finally,

In despair,

He exclaimed,

Good night,

Sweet dreams,

And subsided.

At length,

The six of them,

Mada,

Rosie,

Laura,

Arthur,

Dickie,

And Harold,

Retired to the Lathrop lawn and plumped down on the grass.

They talked and talked and talked.

How you have grown,

Mada,

Rosie said first.

How tall you are and strong-looking,

She would have added,

And how pretty,

If the boys had not been there.

But shyness kept her from making so personal a comment in their presence.

That's exactly what I was thinking about you,

Mada laughed.

But then you have all grown,

Arthur particularly.

In her candid,

Friendly way,

She surveyed them one after another.

You are taller too,

Laura,

And I believe even your hair has grown.

It certainly has,

Laura admitted.

Laura's hair was extraordinarily long and thick.

It hung in two light brown braids,

Very glossy,

Not a hair out of place,

To below Laura's waist.

At the tip of each braid was a big pale blue bow.

As for you,

Rosie,

You are still taller than I,

I'm afraid.

Let's measure,

Rosie answered,

Springing to her feet.

The two girls stood shoulder to shoulder.

Rosie,

It proved,

Was a little the taller.

Mada continued to look at her after they had resumed their places on the grass.

What a beauty she is,

She thought.

And she too was withheld by shyness and a sense of delicacy from making this comment before the others.

Rosie was certainly handsome.

Tall,

Active,

Proud-looking,

Great black eyes lighted by stars,

A massive black hair breaking into high waves and half curls.

Cheeks as smooth as satin and stained a deep crimson.

Ivory white,

Jet black,

Coral crimson,

That was Rosie.

Mada had always called her Rose Red.

But the greatest change has come in Dickie and me,

Mada ended.

We have both lost our lameness.

You don't limp,

Dickie,

And I don't.

Let's race to the gate and back.

Dickie was on his feet in a minute.

Arthur called.

One to make ready.

Two for show.

At the word go,

They were off.

Dickie was more active,

But Mada was taller.

The race finished a tie.

The blood which Mada's running brought to her cheeks painted roses there.

Not the deep crimson roses which bloomed perpetually in Rosie's face,

But transient blossoms,

Delicately pink.

And under that flush,

Her face,

A healthy ivory,

Looked well.

Her big grey eyes were filled with happiness,

And the torrent of her pale gold feathery hair seemed to gush from her head like living light.

They sat and talked until luncheon,

And immediately after luncheon,

Gathered on the lawn and talked again.

Mada still had questions to ask,

And comments to make.

You have all grown,

She said once,

But somehow I think the little children have grown the most,

And Dorothy and Mabel more than anybody.

Their eyes still look like great blue marbles,

And their hair as though it had been curled over a candlestick.

Isn't it marvelous how they keep exactly the same height?

Twins are magical creatures,

Aren't they?

As for Betsy and Delia,

They are great big girls.

I suppose Betsy still runs away every chance she gets.

On the whole,

I think Molly and Timmy have changed the least.

Does Timmy still fall into all the pud-muddles?

Molly still looks like a darling brown robin,

And Timmy like a brown bogle.

Don't you remember I used to call them Robin and Bogle?

The children answered all her questions.

Yes,

Betsy still ran away.

No,

Bogle had quieted down.

He didn't fall into pud-muddles anymore.

Of course,

They had their questions to ask Meda about her year in Europe,

And she told them of her experiences in Italy,

Switzerland,

France,

And England.

But though she answered them instantly,

And with the fullness of detail which had always been her characteristic,

It seemed at moments as though her mind were not all on what she was saying.

Once or twice,

She even interrupted herself to start something which had nothing to do with her subject.

But apparently,

Both times,

She thought better of it,

And checked a tongue which obviously was yearning to speed on in the interest of that unknown subject.

There's something you want to tell us,

Meda,

Dickie guessed,

But you won't let yourself.

Meda blushed furiously,

But her eyes danced.

She did not answer.

Rosie thereupon continued to watch her closely.

Meda Westabrook,

You're almost bursting over something,

She said once.

You've got a plan of some kind,

And I know it.

Again Meda blushed,

And this time she laughed outright.

Wait and see,

Was all she said,

However.

After they had talked themselves out,

They showed Meda the accumulated treasures of the last year.

The wood carving,

Which was Arthur's accomplishment,

And the paperwork,

Which was Dickie's,

Had improved enormously.

The beautiful box of tools that Mr.

Westabrook had presented to the one,

And the big box of paints that he had given the other,

Were of course important factors in the improvement.

Laura still danced beautifully,

And she danced her latest dance for Meda,

A Spanish Fandango.

Harold was raising rabbits,

And he showed his entire family to Meda.

At the urge of all this work,

Rosie,

Who hated the sight of a needle,

Had taken in despair to knitting.

She could endure knitting,

She told Meda,

Because the work grew so fast.

She herself said,

Though,

That the less said about the results of her labor,

The better,

And Meda frankly agreed with her when she examined some of it.

After this,

The group returned to the yard for more talk.

Somehow,

They didn't feel like playing games.

Late in the afternoon,

They sprinkled the flowerbeds and hosed the lawn for Mrs.

Lathrop.

Then,

As this made further sitting on the grass impossible,

They retired to the tiny dooryard with its amusing little flowerbed and its one patch of grass.

There was just about room for their group there.

They sat down.

Again,

They asked Meda about her travels,

But now Meda was truly absent-minded.

Suddenly,

In the midst of a description of Pompeii,

There sounded a long,

Faint,

Faraway call of an automobile horn.

It broke,

Like a fire rocket,

Into a flurry of star notes,

Then dropped a long,

Liquid jet of sound which,

Again,

Like a fire rocket,

Dropped another shower of notes.

The effect on Meda was electric.

She came upright,

Quivering.

That's father,

She said.

Now I can tell you what I've been biting my lips all morning to keep back.

I didn't want to tell you until he was here to talk to your fathers and mothers.

But,

Oh,

We've got such a beautiful plan for the summer.

Oh,

It's so wonderful that it seems like a fairy tale.

The long jet of sound lengthened,

Came nearer.

Father wants you all to come to spend the summer with us,

At Setuit.

He's going to do the most beautiful thing you've ever heard of in your life.

Just as he gave me Meda's little shop,

He's going to give me Meda's little house.

He is going to live in the big house,

Where he can have all the grown-up company he wants.

And we are going to live in the little house.

The little house is so far away from the big house,

That nobody would ever guess we were there.

Oh,

But it's all so beautiful,

And there are so many things to tell about it,

That I don't know where to begin.

For one thing,

He's going to let us all help in.

We girls are to do our part in the.

.

.

And the boys are to take care of the.

.

.

Oh,

It's such a duck of a house,

Built very near a big pond,

And not so very far off the ocean.

And there's a wood,

And house rock,

And the bosky dingle,

And.

.

.

Oh,

I don't know how to tell you all about it.

She stopped for breath.

The horn came nearer and nearer.

The five faces stared at her.

For one astounded instant,

Nobody could speak.

Oh,

Meda,

At last Rosie breathed.

The two girls threw themselves upon her.

Arthur rose,

And then suddenly sat down again.

But Dickie kept quite still,

His eyes full of stars.

I knew you'd have some plan,

Meda,

He said.

Harold,

Unexpectedly,

Turned a somersault.

I know I'm dreaming,

Laura almost whispered.

The horn stopped.

A grey car turned into Primrose Court.

A man,

Middle-aged,

Tall,

Massive,

And with a pronounced stoop to his shoulders,

Stepped out.

He turned ahead,

Big and shaggy as a buffalo,

In the direction of Meda's little shop.

The piercing eyes,

Fierce and keen as an eagle's,

Seemed to penetrate its very walls.

This was Jerome Westerbrook,

Whom the world called Buffalo Westerbrook.

Meda dashed out of the yard,

The children trailing her.

Oh,

Father,

Father,

I've told them,

I've told them,

I couldn't keep it any longer after I heard the horn.

Sweet dreams,

My friend.

Sleep well.

Reviews

I’m going to love this story i just know it. Fabulous narrative as always.

Thankyou so much.💓 How fun it is to hear the beginning of this new tale about Maida's Little 🏠, Joanne I was so looking forward to it. x5 🌟s for sure. Léna 😘👌🏼🤗🐈‍⬛🐆 HNY 🥳🎉 🥂🍾 Blessings for 2025.

How exciting! Missed all these sweet people… thank you!!❤️🙏🏼

I’m looking forward to more chapters! Thank you! 😊