CRICKET
CRICKET
CRICKET
CRICKET
CHAPTER I.CRICKET.
Kayuna was the loveliest home in the world. At least, the Ward children said so. The family usually went out of the city as soon as the children’s schools closed, in June, and stayed in the country till quite the first of October.
Kayuna was also the name of a brook that danced gayly through the lower part of the grounds of the summer home, and that was a never-failing delight to the children. The house itself was wide, old-fashioned and roomy, withsucha splendid great garret as you never saw before, for rainy days.
Do you want to know how many Wards there were? Well, let me count. Of course, first to be mentioned came Doctor papa, and dear, beautiful mamma, who was never very strong. Then there was Donald, who was seventeen, anda big fellow, as well, and Marjorie, who was two years younger, but who already began to give herself grown-up airs. Eunice was next, nearly twelve. Then came Cricket, the “middleman.” They never knew whether to take her with the older ones, or leave her at home with the small fry. Donald would call her “trundlebed trash,” to her great indignation. Her name was really Jean, but she was such a chirpy, cheery little soul, that Cricket seemed just to suit her. Below her were the six-year-old twins; and, lastly, baby Kenneth, everybody’s pet, who was nearly three.
Wasn’t that a house full? And such a noise as they were equal to when they set about it! Mamma often said that it was fortunate that the roof was high and the walls were strong, else surely the house would have come down about their ears.
This year, to the wild delight of the entire family, papa had decided to go out into the country very early, on mamma’s account, for she needed the country air. So the middle of April found them comfortably settled for a long, lovely summer.
It was so early that papa thought it quiteworth while for Eunice and Cricket, at least, to go to the country school for the rest of the term, while the older ones had lessons at home with him.
Cricket, especially, was greatly delighted with this arrangement. Her little friend, Hilda Mason, of whom she was very fond, of course went to school, and it was such fun going together. The little girls were delighted to be with each other, and Hilda always looked forward to the summer, when Cricket would come out into the country.
Hilda was a year older than Cricket, for she was eleven in June, and Cricket was ten in August. By reason of this extra year, she always thought Cricket should do just as she, Hilda, wanted.
Hilda was an only child, and lived with her mother and grandmother, who thought her perfect. Cricket, on the other hand, was very used to giving up her own way, as children in a large family generally are. Hilda was a quiet, demure little girl, with polite, grown-up manners. She always remembered to say “How-do-you do!” and that mamma sent her love, and she never forgot any errand she was sent on.
Cricket was a heedless little witch, and rarely, by any chance, remembered anything she was told to do. Her father always said that any errand she was given meant two, for she was never known to bring home both her package and her change at the same time.
Hilda was pretty, with big brown eyes and long, orderly, golden curls. She was plump and straight, and rather proper.
Cricket had short, brown curls, every one of which took a different kink, and gray-blue eyes that twinkled like merry little stars. She was thin and tall for her age, and her papa used to tease her by calling her long legs “knitting-needles,” and offering them to mamma for her fancy knitting.
Every morning Hilda called for Cricket on her way to school. If Cricket had gone off earlier, having been sent on some errand, as often happened, she left a little red stone on the gate-post, as a sign to her little friend that she had gone. If Hilda came by early and couldn’t stop, as seldom happened, she picked up the little red stone from its hiding-place, and left it for Cricket to see.
But, usually, Hilda turned in at the gatespromptly at twenty minutes of nine, and walked up the long avenue, around to the side piazza. Then she would open the door, and call gently up the side staircase, “Ready, Cricket?”
A voice from above would answer, promptly, “I’m coming. Have you got your sums?” and Cricket would come out of her room at the head of the stairs, giving a last, smoothing touch to her kinky hair.
Then she would plunge down stairs, usually arriving at the bottom by way of the bannisters, provided she did not trip at the top and come down head-foremost. Next would follow a wild search for her hat, until she remembered she had left it last night in the grape arbour; then her sacque must be found, and that was probably hanging on some tree,—where she had taken it off to climb better. Strange to say, her books were generally at hand, for heedless Cricket loved to study.
Hilda always carried her school-books in a neat little bag, for she said that a strap bent the edges of the books. Cricket strapped hers as tightly as possible, for she liked to swing them by the long end as she walked along. Besides, they made a splendid thing to throw at a stray cat,—which she never hit.
By the time she was fairly ready, Eunice would appear, fresh and sweet and unhurried. Then Hilda and Eunice would walk quietly down the piazza steps, while Cricket would say, “Want to see me jump off the piazza as far as that stone?” Off she would shoot through the air, and, alighting, would race down the avenue, to wait panting at the gate till Hilda and Eunice should come up. Then for two minutes, perhaps, they would keep side by side, while they talked over those dreadful decimals, which they hated so.
Hilda and Eunice kept straight along the shady path, but Cricket was seldom known to walk. She ran, she skipped, she danced, she went backward, and varied the way still further by betaking herself to the stone fences, wherever they were smooth enough on top.
When they arrived at school Hilda was orderly, cool and sweet, and as trim as if she had just left her mother’s hands; Cricket had riotous looking clothes, hot, tumbled curls, hat hanging off her head, but was always dimpling and smiling, and serenely sure that every one would greet her with a shout.
Eunice sat with her particular friend, EdithCraig, but Cricket and Hilda shared the same desk, to the distraction of the long-suffering teacher. She was always threatening to separate them, but her heart would melt, at the last minute, at their beseeching looks and penitent vows to be good and study hard, and never whisper any more. They usually did have their lessons, as it happened, for they were both bright, and both fond of study.
Hilda was not altogether a favourite, for she was apt to be both selfish and exacting, often a little jealous, and always determined to be first in everything. She was quick in all her studies but her arithmetic, and here Cricket excelled, greatly to Hilda’s disgust. Many a time she slyly rubbed out Cricket’s just completed work, and the surprised child would presently whisper, “Did you ever! I’ve gone and rubbed out my to-morrow’s examples by mistake. Did you ever see such a goose?” and by the time she had done them again, Hilda would have been able to make up her work.
Altogether their friendship was just on this basis: Hilda always wanted her own way, and Cricket was willing she should have it; so they got on swimmingly.
Nevertheless, one day they quarrelled. It happened in this wise:
Playing charades was one of the children’s favourite amusements. At Kayuna there was a fine, large nursery, opening off the wide hall, which gave a splendid field for action, and the good-natured nurse was always ready to help them out with their plans.
One rainy Saturday the whole troop were indoors, and after luncheon charades were voted for. There were Eunice and her little friend, Edith Craig, Hilda, Cricket, the twins, Helen and Zaidee, and Kenneth.
Kenneth was a star, by the way. He was always willing to be pulled about like a rag-doll, and really seemed to enjoy it. They would roll him up for a caterpillar, and stand him up straight for a post, and sprawl him out for a spider. He would take any position they put him in, as if he were wax, and would inquire anxiously, after the scene was over, “Did I do zat all right?”
On this particular day, for some reason, none of them were quite as good-natured as usual. Perhaps they had been together rather too long, for Edith and Hilda had both arrived quiteearly, and had stayed to luncheon. Perhaps, also, the unusual confinement in the house made them all a little irritable.
The children usually divided themselves into actors and audience, by turns. Cricket and Hilda had the stage now, with Kenneth as support. Eunice and Edith, with the twins, therefore, were audience.
The little actors were searching their brains for a new word to act. “Penobscot,” and “connundrum,” and “goldsmith,” and “antidote” had already been used, with dozens of others.
“I know,” cried Cricket, brightening up. “Let’s takesecure.”
“Secure?Well, how shall we do it?” questioned Hilda.
“Why, sick-cure, of course,” answered Cricket, promptly. “Won’t that do? In the first scene, Kenneth would be sick—”
“And I’d be the doctor,” put in Hilda.
“And I’d be his mother,” went on Cricket.
“And I’d come and see him and give him some pills—”
“And in the next scene we’dcurehim.”
“I ’on’t tate any pills,” announced the baby behind them, unexpectedly, and very decidedly.
“Oh, yes, you will,” said Hilda, impatiently, “they won’t taste bad—just little make-believe pills.”
“I don’t lite ’em,” wailed the baby, rebelling, for the first time, against his elders. He was tired, poor little fellow, for he had gone through many experiences that afternoon. He had been wound on to a lap-board with shawls, to represent an Esquimau baby. He had been placed on a very insecure table, with newspaper wings tied on his bare shoulders, to pose as a Cupid. Besides this, he had been Daniel in the lion’s den, with Zaidee and Helen as lions, growling and spitting so frightfully around him, and making such an alarming pretence of eating him up, that he had fled, in sudden dismay, to the audience, to take refuge behind Cricket, who was always his protection in times of trouble.
Now, the suggestion of pills was more than the little fellow could stand.
“Just pretend, baby dear,” coaxed Cricket. “See, I’ll sit down here with this funny old cap on, and this shawl over my shoulders, and I’ll play I’m your mamma,” dressing herself as she spoke. “And then,” she went on, “you can lie on my lap, this way, and Hilda will put onDonald’s overcoat and those big spectacles. Just see how funny she looks! and she’ll put that fur cap on her head, and she’ll come in and feel your pulse, and say, ‘Very sick child, marm.’ And then, she will only justpretendto give you some pills.”
Kenneth still looked doubtful, but Cricket caught up a shawl and wrapped it around him, and drew his head down.
“That’s a good boy. Put your head down on mamma’s arm,” she said, still coaxingly.
“I doesn’t ’ant to,” fretted Kenneth, but, nevertheless, he stretched himself obediently on Cricket’s lap. As his head dropped back, he shut his eyes very tightly, as he was told, and opened his mouth very wide, as he always did, in the funniest way, whenever he shut his eyes to order.