The Little Black Doll

"The Little Black Doll" is a heartwarming short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that explores themes of love, identity, and compassion. The narrative follows a young girl named "a little black doll," which is cherished by a lonely child, symbolizing the importance of acceptance and understanding across differences. Through the eyes of the characters, Montgomery delves into issues of racial prejudice and the value of friendship, ultimately delivering a poignant message about compassion and the beauty of embracing diversity. The story resonates with readers for its timeless exploration of humanity and connection.

• Short story

								
Everybody in the Marshall household was excited on the evening of the
concert at the Harbour Light Hotel--everybody, even to Little Joyce,
who couldn't go to the concert because there wasn't anybody else to
stay with Denise. Perhaps Denise was the most excited of them
all--Denise, who was slowly dying of consumption in the Marshall
kitchen chamber because there was no other place in the world for her
to die in, or anybody to trouble about her. Mrs. Roderick Marshall
thought it very good of herself to do so much for Denise. To be sure,
Denise was not much bother, and Little Joyce did most of the waiting
on her.

At the tea table nothing was talked of but the concert; for was not
Madame Laurin, the great French Canadian prima donna, at the hotel,
and was she not going to sing? It was the opportunity of a
lifetime--the Marshalls would not have missed it for anything.
Stately, handsome old Grandmother Marshall was going, and Uncle
Roderick and Aunt Isabella, and of course Chrissie, who was always
taken everywhere because she was pretty and graceful, and everything
that Little Joyce was not.

Little Joyce would have liked to go to the concert, for she was very
fond of music; and, besides, she wanted to be able to tell Denise all
about it. But when you are shy and homely and thin and awkward, your
grandmother never takes you anywhere. At least, such was Little
Joyce's belief.

Little Joyce knew quite well that Grandmother Marshall did not like
her. She thought it was because she was so plain and awkward--and in
part it was. Grandmother Marshall cared very little for granddaughters
who did not do her credit. But Little Joyce's mother had married a
poor man in the face of her family's disapproval, and then both she
and her husband had been inconsiderate enough to die and leave a
small orphan without a penny to support her. Grandmother Marshall fed
and clothed the child, but who could make anything of such a shy
creature with no gifts or graces whatever? Grandmother Marshall had no
intention of trying. Chrissie, the golden-haired and pink-cheeked, was
Grandmother Marshall's pet.

Little Joyce knew this. She did not envy Chrissie but, oh, how she
wished Grandmother Marshall would love her a little, too! Nobody loved
her but Denise and the little black doll. And Little Joyce was
beginning to understand that Denise would not be in the kitchen
chamber very much longer, and the little black doll couldn't tell
you she loved you--although she did, of course. Little Joyce had no
doubt at all on this point.

Little Joyce sighed so deeply over this thought that Uncle Roderick
smiled at her. Uncle Roderick did smile at her sometimes.

"What is the matter, Little Joyce?" he asked.

"I was thinking about my black doll," said Little Joyce timidly.

"Ah, your black doll. If Madame Laurin were to see it, she'd likely
want it. She makes a hobby of collecting dolls all over the world, but
I doubt if she has in her collection a doll that served to amuse a
little girl four thousand years ago in the court of the Pharaohs."

"I think Joyce's black doll is very ugly," said Chrissie. "My wax doll
with the yellow hair is ever so much prettier."

"My black doll isn't ugly," cried Little Joyce indignantly. She could
endure to be called ugly herself, but she could not bear to have her
darling black doll called ugly. In her excitement she upset her cup of
tea over the tablecloth. Aunt Isabella looked angry, and Grandmother
Marshall said sharply: "Joyce, leave the table. You grow more awkward
and careless every day."

Little Joyce, on the verge of tears, crept away and went up the
kitchen stairs to Denise to be comforted. But Denise herself had been
crying. She lay on her little bed by the low window, where the glow of
the sunset was coming in; her hollow cheeks were scarlet with fever.

"Oh! I want so much to hear Madame Laurin sing," she sobbed. "I feel
lak I could die easier if I hear her sing just one leetle song. She is
Frenchwoman, too, and she sing all de ole French songs--de ole songs
my mudder sing long 'go. Oh! I so want to hear Madame Laurin sing."

"But you can't, dear Denise," said Little Joyce very softly, stroking
Denise's hot forehead with her cool, slender hand. Little Joyce had
very pretty hands, only nobody had ever noticed them. "You are not
strong enough to go to the concert. I'll sing for you, if you like. Of
course, I can't sing very well, but I'll do my best."

"You sing lak a sweet bird, but you are not Madame Laurin," said
Denise restlessly. "It is de great Madame I want to hear. I haf not
long to live. Oh, I know, Leetle Joyce--I know what de doctor look
lak--and I want to hear Madame Laurin sing 'fore I die. I know it is
impossible--but I long for it so--just one leetle song."

Denise put her thin hands over her face and sobbed again. Little Joyce
went and sat down by the window, looking out into the white birches.
Her heart ached bitterly. Dear Denise was going to die soon--oh, very
soon! Little Joyce, wise and knowing beyond her years, saw that. And
Denise wanted to hear Madame Laurin sing. It seemed a foolish thing to
think of, but Little Joyce thought hard about it; and when she had
finished thinking, she got her little black doll and took it to bed
with her, and there she cried herself to sleep.

At the breakfast table next morning the Marshalls talked about the
concert and the wonderful Madame Laurin. Little Joyce listened in her
usual silence; her crying the night before had not improved her looks
any. Never, thought handsome Grandmother Marshall, had she appeared so
sallow and homely. Really, Grandmother Marshall could not have the
patience to look at her. She decided that she would not take Joyce
driving with her and Chrissie that afternoon, as she had thought of,
after all.

In the forenoon it was discovered that Denise was much worse, and the
doctor was sent for. He came, and shook his head, that being really
all he could do under the circumstances. When he went away, he was
waylaid at the back door by a small gypsy with big, black, serious
eyes and long black hair.

"Is Denise going to die?" Little Joyce asked in the blunt,
straightforward fashion Grandmother Marshall found so trying.

The doctor looked at her from under his shaggy brows and decided that
here was one of the people to whom you might as well tell the truth
first as last, because they are bound to have it.

"Yes," he said.

"Soon?"

"Very soon, I'm afraid. In a few days at most."

"Thank you," said Little Joyce gravely.

She went to her room and did something with the black doll. She did
not cry, but if you could have seen her face you would have wished she
would cry.

After dinner Grandmother Marshall and Chrissie drove away, and Uncle
Roderick and Aunt Isabella went away, too. Little Joyce crept up to
the kitchen chamber. Denise was lying in an uneasy sleep, with tear

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