From the very start the big brick fireplace in the living-room had held an irresistible fascination for the Terrace girls, accustomed as they were to the unromantic register. And when five days of their outing had passed and no fire had been kindled on the blackened hearth, Priscilla thought they were missing golden opportunities, and said so.
“The last of June isn’t the best time in the year for open fires,” suggested Peggy. “But I do think that to-night seems a little cooler. Perhaps we might have a fire and not swelter.”
“We could roast apples, couldn’t we?” Amy cried. “And chestnuts. Only there aren’t any chestnuts.”
“And just a few very wormy apples,” added Ruth. “But we can tell stories, and sit around in a circle, and not have any light in the room, except the light of the fire.”
The prospect was so alluring that supper was dispatched in haste, and one or two of the girlswent so far as to suggest letting the dishes wait over till the next day. But as Peggy expressed horror at this unhousewifely proceeding, and Amy called attention to the fact that left-over dishes are doubly hard to wash, the motion failed to carry. Five pairs of busy hands made short work of the necessary task, and when the dishes were out of the way, and Peggy was conducting Dorothy up-stairs to bed, the others made a rush to the woodshed and filled their gingham aprons with pine knots and shavings.
Dorothy suspecting delights from which she was to be excluded, was inclined to make slow work of undressing, and relieved the tedium of the process by frantic demonstrations of affection. “Wish you’d go to bed with me, Aunt Peggy. ’Cause I love you so awfully.”
“Oh, this isn’t bedtime for big girls. They won’t be sleepy for a long while yet.”
“I won’t be sleepy for a long while, either. Won’t you sit beside my bed, Aunt Peggy, ’cause I’m ’fraid. If a bear should come–”
“Oh, Dorothy, don’t think so much about bears. Think about the little angels that watch good children when they are asleep.”
Dorothy fell into a fit of musing. “I wish thoselittle angels would play with me when I was awake, ’stead of watching me when I was asleep. Say, Aunt Peggy, which would you rather have, wings or roller-skates?”
Peggy steered the conversation away from this delicate question to Dorothy’s prayers, which Dorothy galloped through with cheerful irreverence. On the “Amen” her eyes flashed open.
“Now, Aunt Peggy, you’ve got to tack down my eyelids, same as my mamma does.”
“Why, of course.” Peggy patiently kissed the long-lashed lids shut, stimulated by Dorothy’s cheerfully impersonal comments on her performance, and even drove a few extra “tacks,” in quite unnecessary spots, as, for example, the corners of Dorothy’s roguish mouth, and the dimple showing in the curve of her pink cheek. And by that time even Dorothy could think of no further excuses for detaining her.
Down-stairs the preliminary steps to the realization of the romance of a real wood fire on a real hearth had proved prosaic enough. In the beginning the fire had frankly sulked, and instead of blazing up brightly, had emitted clouds of smoke out of all proportion to its size. Every one was coughing as Peggy came into the room, and handkerchiefswere busy wiping tears from brimming eyes, so that outwardly the scene was anything but joyous. But the draught from the open windows finally stimulated the lazy chimney to greater exertions, and just as Peggy crossed the threshold, a brave little flame leaped up from the smoking, smouldering mass, and a cheery crackle made music plainly audible above the chorus of coughing.
“Lovely!” cried Peggy, and warmed her hands at the blaze as if it had been midwinter. “As long as I didn’t have any of the trouble of making the fire, I’ll brush up the shavings and things.”
“I’m not sure but you’ve got the worst end of it,” remarked Priscilla, casting a dismayed glance about her. “How in the world did shavings get scattered over this room from one end to the other?”
As no one had anything to offer in explanation, Peggy went to find the dustpan and was absent for some minutes. By this time the fire was blazing merrily, and throwing off an amount of heat quite unnecessary for a mild June evening. Even while the girls were exchanging congratulations on their success, it was to be noticed that they did not form a compact circle about the fireplace, but sat in themost remote corners of the room, and fanned themselves with newspapers.
“It’s the strangest thing,” announced Peggy returning, “I can’t find the dustpan high or low.”
Amy jumped. “Didn’t she bring it back?”
“Who? Not Mrs Snooks?”
“Yes, she came when you’d gone to pay Mrs. Cole, and she said she’d send her little girl back with it in half an hour or so.”
“It’s certainly strange,” said Peggy, giving evidences of exasperation, “that when we’ve only one of a thing, that’s exactly what Mrs. Snooks wants to borrow. Of course it’s nice for neighbors to help one another out, especially in a place like this where you are so far from a store. If it was baking-powder, I wouldn’t say a word. But a dustpan.”
“It was baking-powder yesterday,” suggested Amy. “Sweep the shavings into a corner, Peg, and let’s start on the stories. Now, Aunt Abigail, here’s your chance to shine.”
“Oh, yes, Aunt Abigail,” echoed Peggy, for it had early been decided that Amy should not be allowed a monopoly in the use of that affectionate title. “We’ve heard you were the best ever, since the woman in the Arabian Nights–what was hername–Scheherezade,–and we want to know if Amy was exaggerating.”
Aunt Abigail smiled complacently.
“What sort of story do you want?” she asked. “Something pathetic, or a story of adventure, or a humorous story or a ghost story or–”
An approving shout interrupted her. “Oh, a ghost story, Aunt Abigail!”
Priscilla clapped her hands. “Isn’t this simply perfect! The firelight on the wall, and shadows flickering, and then a ghost story to crown everything. Do make it a creepy one, Aunt Abigail.”
Aunt Abigail hardly needed urging along that line. She had been an omnivorous reader all her days, and from books, as well as from what she had picked up on her travels, she had acquired an unsurpassed collection of weird incidents which she now began to recount with dramatic effect. The girls sat spellbound, and when, at the conclusion of the first story, a faint little wail sounded from the distance, the general start was indicative of tense nerves.
But it was only Dorothy, awake and standing at the head of the stairs. “Aunt Peggy!”
“Go back to bed, darling.”
“But, Aunt Peggy, what d’you s’pose those littleangels have done now? They’ve bited me right on my fourhead.”
“Oh, my!” Peggy ran up the stairs, to a justly aggrieved Dorothy, indicating an inflamed lump on her forehead, as a proof of misplaced confidence. Peggy lit the candle and after some search discovered a swollen mosquito, perched on the head of Dorothy’s bed, ready to resume operations at the first opportunity. Gluttony had lessened his natural agility, and at Peggy’s avenging hand he paid the penalty of his crime. Peggy lingered to correct Dorothy’s misapprehension, and then went down-stairs, to find another blood-curdling tale in progress, and the girls sitting breathless, while the firelight threw fantastic shapes upon the wall, and the shadows looked startlingly black by contrast.
Ten o’clock was the sensible bedtime decided on in Dolittle Cottage, but on this occasion the big clock chimed ten unheeded. Apparently Aunt Abigail’s repertoire was far from being exhausted. She had rung the changes on all the familiar horrors in a dozen stories, and yet no one seemed willing to have her stop. It was quarter of eleven when Peggy remarked reluctantly: “Girls, if we’re going to get up any time to-morrow, we’d better-be going to bed.”
The suggestion was not received with enthusiasm. Priscilla declared that she wasn’t a bit sleepy, and the others all echoed the statement. Then Aunt Abigail was appealed to, for just one more, and complied without any pretence of reluctance. Aunt Abigail was enjoying herself hugely, and it was characteristic of her amiable irresponsibility that it never occurred to her that there might be undesirable consequences, from thus stimulating the vivid imaginations of a party of sensitive girls.
It was very near midnight when at last they filed up-stairs to bed. The fire was out, after having played its part so efficiently as to render it necessary to open to its widest extent every door and window in the cottage. It was a rather silent crowd that climbed the stairs. The girls went to their respective rooms without any of the laughter and gay chatter which usually characterized the hour of retiring. Peggy said to herself that they were all too tired to talk.
But Amy knew better. While Peggy shared Dorothy’s quarters, and Priscilla and Claire occupied the room next to Aunt Abigail’s, Amy and Ruth were tucked into a snug little box of a bedroom on the opposite side of the hall. As Amyhastily lighted the candle on the little table at the side of the bed, she turned a perturbed face on her roommate.
“Oh, why did I let her do it?” she exclaimed tragically. “Why did I ever listen? I know I’m not going to sleep a wink to-night.”
“Why, Amy, what nonsense!” Ruth remonstrated, but she was aware that her heartbeats had quickened. It was one thing to listen to Aunt Abigail’s harrowing recitals, in a room made cheerful by firelight and companionship, and another to recall the same horrors in comparative solitude. “You’re not foolish enough to believe in things of that sort,” Ruth remarked, with a brave effort to maintain her air of superiority.
“No, I’m not foolish enough tobelievein them,” Amy acknowledged, “but I’m foolish enough so they scare me dreadfully. Oh, dear! Won’t I be glad when it is to-morrow!”
She repeated the wish a little later, when both girls were in bed, and Ruth answered her a trifle tartly that itwasvery nearly to-morrow, and that she wanted to go to sleep some time before morning, if Amy didn’t. Then for a matter of thirty minutes silence reigned. The hour was late and the girls were tired. In spite of her gloomy prophecy,Amy was surprised and pleased to find a delicious drowsiness creeping over her.
All at once she sat up in bed. “Ruth,” she exclaimed in a frightened whisper, “what was that?”
“What was what?”
“That rustling noise.”
“O, Amy!” Ruth’s whispered exclamation conveyed an extraordinary amount of exasperation for three syllables. And then as Amy remained up-right, staring intently into the darkness, Ruth was conscious of a curious pricking of the scalp. For she herself distinctly heard the sound to which Amy referred, and, truth to tell, it was not unlike the rustling of the unseen garments which had figured so frequently in the stories to which they had lately been listening.
“I can hear it as plain as anything, Amy. Do you suppose it is the maple-tree back of the window?”
“Of course it’s the maple-tree,” Ruth replied in a husky whisper. How she envied Amy. Amy frankly acknowledged to being a coward, and poor Ruth wished that she herself did not have a reputation for courage to sustain. For certainly that sound was not the whisper of the wind in theboughs of the maple. It was in the room, apparently at the foot of the bed.
A long silence followed Ruth’s bravely mendacious assurance. Amy lay down at length and drew the coverlet over her head. The thumping of Ruth’s heart gradually steadied into an ordinary beat. Just as she was telling herself that Amy’s foolish fancies had made her nervous, and she had imagined the peculiar sound, her heart jumped again. Amy’s shivering body suddenly huddled against hers, gave convincing testimony to the fact that Ruth’s ears were not the only ones to catch something unusual.
“What do you suppose it is?” choked Amy.
This time Ruth made no attempt to hold the maple-tree responsible. “I don’t know,” she whispered. The sound that vibrated through the room was such as might be produced if a finger-nail were drawn across the window screen. The thought entered Ruth’s mind, that perhaps some one was trying to enter the room by the window, and supernatural horrors paled beside this possibility.
But this demonstration also was succeeded by a puzzling silence. Gradually the tense muscles of the two frightened girls relaxed, and they ventured to exchange perplexed comments on the mysteriousinterruptions to the peace of the night. “It certainly was the screen,” declared Amy. “Do you suppose that the wind blowing through it could make a noise like that?”
Ruth did not think it likely, but forbore to say so, and after half an hour of quiet, weariness again asserted itself and she began to feel agreeably drowsy. Then Amy caught her arm and with the startled pinch, Ruth’s hopes of sleep were indefinitely postponed.
“There it is again,” said Amy, her teeth fairly chattering. “There’s that rustling.”
“Sh!” Ruth whispered back and her hand found Amy’s in the dark. This time the rustling continued. It was a curiously elusive sound, as difficult to locate as to understand. At one minute it seemed at the foot of the bed, and again off in the corner of the room, and once Ruth was almost sure that it was over her head. And that was the time when it seemed to her that her heart must stop beating.
“Ruth!” Amy snatched away her hand in her consternation. “Ruth–I’m going to sneeze!”
“You mustn’t!” protested Ruth panic-stricken. What appalling consequences were to be apprehended from so rash an act, she herself could nothave told. But she was certain that if Amy sneezed, her own self-control would give way, and she would scream. “Smother it,” she commanded fiercely.
Amy grasped the sheet in a heroic effort to obey, but she was too late. She sneezed, and to poor Ruth’s unstrung nerves, the sound was only to be compared in volume to a peal of thunder. The mysterious rustling ceased, and just outside the door a board creaked.
“Girls!” The tentative whisper stole softly through the half-open door. “Girls, are you awake?”
“Oh, Peggy!” There was untold relief in that brief welcome. Peggy’s presence brought a sense of reinforcement, even against supernatural terrors. Noiselessly Peggy crept into the room, and perched on the edge of the bed. Considering the lateness of the hour, her air was peculiarly alert.
“I knew by Amy’s sneeze that she was awake, too, and I thought I’d come in. I never had such a wakeful night in my life.”
“Have you been hearing things, too?” demanded Amy, with an immediate accession of respect for her own fears if Peggy shared them.
Peggy hesitated. “Well, it hasn’t seemed as quiet as most of the nights,” she replied, evasively.
“Rustling in all the corners, and the screen twanging, that’s what we’ve had,” exclaimed Ruth in an excited whisper.
Peggy’s silence indicated that such phenomena did not surprise her. “I suppose,” she remarked at length, in her most judicial manner, “that we all got nervous over those uncanny stories, and so we’re ready to imagine–Oh!”
Something had swooped by her, almost brushing her cheek, and stirring her hair with the breeze made by its passing. Peggy’s muffled shriek had two echoes.
“What is it?” demanded Amy, a hysterical catch in her voice. “Oh, Peggy, what has happened?” And Peggy’s only reply was a stern demand for the matches.
The little candle, flaring up at last, showed nothing unusual, unless three girls wide awake at half-past two in the morning could be included under that head. Peggy stared incredulously about the empty room, and then faced her friends.
“Girls, I don’t know what ails us all,” said Peggy honestly, “but I’m pretty sure none of us will go to sleep till daylight. So, if you’ve no objection, I’m going to sit here and talk till the sun’s up.”
Nobody had any objection. In fact, with the little candle flickering on the table, and Peggy sitting at the foot of the bed, discussing commonplace things, Amy and Ruth felt an immediate accession of courage. Luckily their time of waiting was not long. Daybreak comes early on a summer morning, and by the time the candle was burned to the socket, the pale daylight had stolen into the room and all three watchers were certain that they could go to sleep.
It seemed to Peggy that she had barely dozed off, before Dorothy awoke her. Dorothy was standing by the window with one stocking on. When Dorothy’s toilet had progressed to the point of putting on one stocking, she generally thought of something else more interesting.
“Oh, Dorothy dear,” implored poor Peggy, turning on her pillow, “it can’t be time to get up yet.”
Dorothy crossed the room, and stood beside the bed. “Aunt Peggy,” she inquired gravely, “did you ever see a mousie with an umbrella?”
“A mouse–with an umbrella!” repeated Peggy stupidly, wondering if she were too sleepy to understand, or if Dorothy were only talking nonsense. “Of course not.”
“Well, I did. There’s one hanging to our screen.”
Peggy arose with alacrity. Suspended head downward from the screen, was indeed a mouse-like shape, with the folded wings of a gnome, which Dorothy had not unnaturally mistaken for an umbrella. Apparently the little creature had passed an active night, and was now enjoying his well-earned repose. Peggy took one look and crossed the hall with a bound. Amy and Ruth were sound asleep, but Peggy was too excited to be merciful.
“Girls! Girls! Come quick and see our ghost before it wakes up!”
The startling summons brought the sleepers to their feet in a twinkling and when Peggy introduced the explanation of the night’s mystery, there was a good deal of shame-faced laughter. Tacitly the girls agreed that the joke would be more enjoyable if its circulation were strictly limited, and even when at the breakfast-table Aunt Abigail remarked that she never saw such air for producing sound sleep, three heavy-eyed girls exchanged glances, and kept their own counsel.
But a little later Dorothy was anxious for enlightenment on a point in natural history. “Aunt Peggy, what makes you call a mousie a goose?”
“Why, I didn’t, dear. A mouse and a goose aren’t the least bit alike.”
“But I heard you say it, Aunt Peggy. When I showed you the mousie, you ran and said, ‘Here’s our goose.’”
As good luck would have it, Ruth and Amy were the only ones to overhear the remark, and Peggy was not called upon to satisfy more than Dorothy’s curiosity.
“That funny little thing that looks like a mouse, Dorothy, except for its horrid black wings, is called a bat. And the goose was only Aunt Peggy.”
“And Ruth, another,” remarked the owner of that name.
“And I was Number Three. Three gooses instead of three graces,” was Amy’s addition, after which the three laughed in the fashion which Dorothy found so mystifying, and consequently objectionable.
That was not the last of the story-telling evenings by any means. Aunt Abigail had abundant opportunity to display herrepertoire. She told pathetic stories, which brought the tears to the girls’ eyes, and funny stories, which made them laugh until they cried, and the most thrilling tales of adventure.But she was never called upon to duplicate her early success. In the opinion of her entire audience, apparently, one night of ghost stories was enough for the entire summer.
“The three-legged race is what I’m dying to see,” Amy declared. “It sounds so mysterious, you know, like some new kind of quadruped. No, I don’t mean that,” she added hastily, as Peggy laughed. “Quadrupeds have to have four legs, don’t they? Well, anyway, it sounds like something queer.”
The village celebration of the approaching Fourth of July had for some days been the chief topic of conversation in Dolittle Cottage. The idea of a picnic, with the whole community invited, was in itself a startling innovation to girls who were city-bred, and the entertainment promised in the shape of various contests, winding up with a baseball game between the “Fats” and the “Leans” appealed to them all, more or less strongly. Peggy, with that faculty for picking up information which would have made her an unqualified success as a newspaper reporter, was continually announcing new items of interest, that Farmer Cole’s Joe wasto pitch for the “Leans,” or that Jerry Morton had won the potato race the previous Fourth, and meant to enter again, or that Rosetta Muriel disdained the promiscuous appeal of the picnic, but thought she might bring herself to view the fireworks in the evening.
The morning of the third was for the most part given up to preparing the picnic luncheon, and Jerry Morton, who sampled Peggy’s doughnuts still hot from the kettle, carried away a new-born respect for the accomplishments of that versatile young person. Mrs. Snooks, too, arriving when the house was fragrant with the mingled odors of blueberry turnovers, spiced cake and gingersnaps, sniffed appreciatively, and lost no time in expressing her surprise.
“Well, I want to know. I’ve heard tell that city folks most generally bought their cake and stuff, instead of baking it. Dreadful shiftless way, I call it. I just dropped in to see if you could let me have half a pail of lard and a table-spoonful of soda.”
Even the generous Peggy rejoiced that the opportunity to say no had arrived at last.
“I’ve just used up the last of the lard, Mrs. Snooks, and we haven’t thought to get any soda yet.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve been getting along without baking-soda,” exclaimed Mrs. Snooks with unconcealed disappointment. “Well, well! Young folks are certainly thoughtless. And here you’ve used up all your lard, and to-morrow the Fourth, and the store shut.” From all appearances Mrs. Snooks was having something of a struggle to control her irritation at such evidences of short-sightedness. It was clear, however, that her efforts had been crowned with success, when she announced with an explosive sigh, “Well, if you haven’t lard or baking-soda, I’ll take a cup of granulated sugar, and a ball of darning cotton. Yes, black, I guess, though if you’re out of black, ’most any color will do.”
It was certainly disappointing when after such preparations and anticipations, the girls were waked on the morning of the Fourth by the beating of rain on the roof. The most optimistic of weather prophets could have seen no promise of clearing in the lowering sky. The girls had roused a little early, in honor of the occasion, and they came down-stairs with gloomy faces, and over the oatmeal and bacon exchanged condolences. “To think that the first really rainy day had to be the Fourth,” scolded Priscilla. “And whenwe had made up our minds to be so patriotic, too.”
“And that three-legged race,” mourned Amy. “Probably I’ll never get a chance to see another. Peggy, I warn you that when you look so–preposterously cheerful, it makes me feel like throwing something.”
Peggy laughed, and helped herself to toast. “I was only thinking that if we were going to keep the Fourth of July indoors, we’d have to have a flag of some sort.”
“You don’t mean you’d go three miles in this rain after a flag, Peggy. And, anyway, the store would be closed for the Fourth.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to buy one. I thought we’d make it.”
“Make a flag!” exclaimed Claire Fendall. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“Betsy Ross did it,” Peggy reminded her. “Let’s us hurry through the dishes and see if we can’t do as much.”
Even though the prospect of emulating Betsy Ross was an unsatisfactory substitute for the anticipated excitements of the day, Peggy’s suggestion was noticeably successful in raising the drooping spirits of the crowd. The work of the morningwas dispatched in haste, and the girls flocked to the living-room where a fire less ambitious than their first attempt had been kindled on the hearth. Peggy had produced a large-sized white towel from her trunk, and she at once began to explain her plan.
“This will do for a foundation, girls. It’s soft and it will drape nicely. Now all we need is a blue patch in one corner, and red stripes. Who’s got any red ribbon?”
“I’ve got that red ribbon I use for a sash,” responded Amy. “But I’d hate to have it cut.”
“Oh, we won’t need to cut it. You see, this flag is going to be draped over the fireplace, so its shortcomings won’t be in evidence, and we’ll turn the ribbon on the side that doesn’t show. Bring me all the red ribbons in the house. Amy’s sash won’t be enough.”
So with much animated discussion, the flag grew apace. Nobody was exactly sure whether the outer stripe should be red or white, and for economical reasons, Peggy decided on the latter. “We’ll begin with white, girls, for that will make seven white stripes and only six red ones. And we’ve got plenty of white towel, while red ribbon is a little scarce.”
Another perplexing question arose when Peggy had sacrificed the dark blue sailor collar of an old blouse, to form the blue field in the upper corner of the flag. “Now we can cut white stars out of paper and sew them on,” exclaimed Peggy, standing back to admire her handiwork. “How many are there, anyway?”
Nobody was able to answer. Peggy gazed around the circle with a mingling of indignation and incredulity.
“What! All of us high school girls and not know how many states there are in the Union! This is really awful. Aunt Abigail,youmust know.”
“Dear me, child,” replied Aunt Abigail serenely, “I have an impression that there were in the neighborhood of thirty-six at the time of the Centennial Exposition. And since then I’ve lost track.”
“I wonder if we could count them up,” mused Peggy, wrinkling her forehead. “Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont–”
“What’s the use?” protested Amy. “Who counts the stars on the flag, anyway? We’ll crowd in forty or fifty, enough to pretty well cover the blue, and it will look all right.”
Ruth had a suggestion to offer. “As long as this is a sort of Betsy Ross flag, why not have thirteen stars, just as she had?”
As this proposal afforded a satisfactory solution to the difficulty, the thirteen stars were promptly cut from white paper and sewed in place, and the finished flag was draped above the fireplace. Peggy’s anticipations in regard to its shortcomings had been realized. The red stripes were not of uniform width, or of the same shade, and the blue field was a trifle small in proportion to the size of the flag, owing to the limitations of the original sailor collar. Yet when it was in place, with the stripes composed of Dorothy’s hair-ribbons drawn up artistically, so that the wrinkles didn’t show, the effect was most impressive. And along with their pride in their success, the girls experienced that indescribable thrill which is the heart’s response to the challenge of our national emblem.
“Now, girls,” Peggy was looking at the clock, “we’ve got time for just one thing more before we start to get dinner. Each one of us must write a patriotic conundrum, and then we’ll put them around at each other’s plates, and we’ll have to guess them before we can eat a mouthful.”
The girls groaned in a dismay half real, halfassumed. “I don’t see how a conundrumcanbe patriotic,” objected Claire.
“Oh, if it’s about your native land, or George Washington, or the flag, it’ll do,” conceded Peggy, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when Amy made a dart for the writing desk. “Oh, let me have a pencil, quick,” she begged, “before I forget it.”
“You don’t mean that you’ve thought of one already!” Ruth cried, but the radiant satisfaction on Amy’s countenance was answer enough. With an expression of mingled wonder and envy, Ruth found a pencil and scrap of paper, and set to work to produce her own conundrum in the allotted half hour. With the exception of Amy, none of the girls could boast of any inspiration for the task. Every face wore an expression of stern and relentless absorption, in striking contrast to Amy’s air of carefree content.
The ample provision made for a picnic dinner the previous day rendered the preparation of the midday meal unusually easy, and the girls gathered at the dinner-table less eager to sample the pressed meat and potato chips than to examine the folded slips of paper placed under each plate. Peggy was the first to unfold hers.
“Why is Peggy like Betsy Ross?” she read aloud. “Oh, Amy Lassell! No wonder it only took a half minute.” Her tone was reproachful, but Amy beamed upon the company with no decrease of complacency.
“That’s what I call a good conundrum,” she declared; “it’s patriotic, and it’s easy to guess. The trouble with most conundrums is that nobody can guess them except the people who make them.”
“That’s the case with this one, I think,” said Aunt Abigail, scrutinizing her conundrum through her lorgnette. “What do you make of this? At the top of the paper are the letters W. P. H. and underneath is the question ‘Why are these letters like the Father of his country?’”
It was some time before any ray of light was thrown on this dark mystery. “Whoever made it up will have to explain it,” Amy declared for the tenth time. “It’s Peggy, of course, for she hasn’t helped in the guessing. Now, my conundrum–”
“Wait,” cried Priscilla, sitting up suddenly, “I know. First in war–”
“To be sureWis first in war, andPfirst in peace. A little far-fetched, but not bad for a beginner,” said Aunt Abigail patronizingly, while Ruth patted Priscilla’s tall head, not without difficulty,and Amy read aloud. “‘What is the most important of the United States?’ New York, I suppose, though of course I like my own state lots better.”
“No, it’smatrimony.” In her haste to explain, Ruth forgot to wait for the guesses that might come nearer the mark. “But I can’t see that it’s particularly patriotic, though it is about our native land, and I’m dreadfully afraid it’s not so very original.”
“Original enough. Even in Solomon’s time there was nothing new under the sun,” Peggy consoled her. “Now, Priscilla.” But Priscilla had colored fiercely on unfolding her paper and crumpled it in her hand. Even if she had not instantly recognized the handwriting she would have had no difficulty in ascribing the sentiment to its rightful source.
“Who is it that I love better than my native land? Can my dearest Priscilla guess?”
“Read yours, Claire,” Peggy said hastily, interrupting Amy who was about to protest against the suppression of a single conundrum, and Claire read obediently, “Why was Martha Washington like the captain of a ship?” It was Peggy who distinguished herself by suggesting, “BecauseWashington was her second mate,” and Priscilla, whose flushed cheeks were rapidly regaining their natural hue, pronounced the answer correct. “Rather suspicious,” Amy declared. “Priscilla guesses Peggy’s, and Peggy, Priscilla’s. Looks as if it was all fixed up beforehand. Well, Ruth, yours is the last.”
The last conundrum proved to be the most puzzling. “What battle of the Revolution is like a weather-cock?” Various explanations of the mysterious affinity were offered, and each in turn rejected. Aunt Abigail, the author, was finally appealed to.
“Why, dear me!” Aunt Abigail smiled upon the circle of interested faces. “I haven’t the slightest idea, but I was sure that ifanybattle of the Revolution was the least bit like a weather-cock, one of you smart young folks would find it out.”
After this auspicious beginning, the cheeriness of the midday meal was in pleasing contrast to the gloom of breakfast. Even Amy forgot to mourn over missing the three-legged race, and Ruth, who, under Graham’s tutelage, had become an ardent devotee of baseball, was reconciled to her failure to witness the unique contest between the Fats and the Leans. The morning had passed so rapidly,and so pleasantly on the whole, that every one was inclined to be hopeful regarding the remainder of the day, and to wait with tranquillity the further unfoldment of Peggy’s plans.
When dinner was over, the dining-room in order, and the last shining dish replaced on the cupboard shelves, expectant eyes turned in Peggy’s direction, as if to ask “What next?” And Peggy, as was her custom, promptly rose to the occasion.
“Now for this afternoon–”
A reverberating rap immediately behind her, caused Peggy to turn with a start and throw open the door, whereupon the figure on the step entered without waiting for an invitation. It was Jerry Morton, but a Jerry startlingly unlike his every-day self. Even the fact that he was dripping with rain could not obscure the magnificence of his toilet, including very pointed tan shoes, and a hand-painted necktie. Under his coat was partially concealed some bulging object which gave him an appearance singularly unsymmetrical.
Peggy was the first to recover herself. “Why, good afternoon, Jerry. But I guess we shan’t want any fish to-day.”
“You don’t suppose I’d sell fish on the Fourth, do you?” demanded Jerry with the impressive scornof a patriot misjudged. “I thought maybe you’d like–like a little music, seeing it’s raining cats and dogs.” He had thrown apart his soaked coat as he spoke, and the bulging object proved to be a banjo, in a little flannel case, which Jerry hastily removed, twanging the strings of the instrument in his anxiety to ascertain the effect of the dampness on their constitution.
“Music! Why, that’s very nice of you, Jerry. Come into the next room and let me introduce you to Mrs. Tyler.” Peggy was a little in doubt as to the light in which Aunt Abigail would regard this unceremonious call from the youthful fish-vender. But the shrewd old lady was familiar with the customs of too many lands, not to be able to accommodate herself to the democratic simplicity of a country community. She gave Jerry her hand, insisted that he should take a seat by the fire, where his damp clothing would gradually dry, and forthwith called for “Dixie.” And hardly was the stirring melody well under way before the girls were keeping time with toes and fingers, and a general animation was replacing the temporary frigidity induced by Jerry’s advent. Jerry really played surprisingly well, and on a stormy day such an accomplishment stands its possessor in good stead.
But it was not left to Jerry to uphold the reputation of the community for sociability. The ringing of the front-door bell interrupted “The Suwannee River,” and Peggy, who was nearest the door, jumped up to answer the summons, while Hobo, a little ahead of her as usual, stood with his nose to the crack, gravely attentive, as if to satisfy himself as to the intentions of the new arrival. This time the open door revealed Rosetta Muriel, struggling to lower a refractory umbrella, with her hat tipped rakishly over one eye.
“Why, how do you do?” exclaimed Peggy, attempting to conceal her surprise under an effusive cordiality. “Come right in.” But Rosetta Muriel was not to be hurried. She closed her umbrella, righted her hat, and began fumbling in a little beaded bag which dangled from her wrist. All the heads were turned wonderingly toward the open door before she produced the object of her search, a gilt-edged card, upon which was written with many elaborate flourishes, “Miss Rosetta Muriel Cole.”
Peggy gazing upon this work of art, began to realize the importance of the occasion. Rosetta Muriel was making a call. “Will you walk in?” Peggy repeated, this time with proper decorum,and the caller entered and was presented to each of the company in order.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Rosetta Muriel, primly, in acknowledgment of each introduction, but when Jerry’s turn came, both she and Peggy varied from the usual formula. “Of course you know Jerry Morton,” Peggy said, and Rosetta Muriel admitted the impeachment, with the stiffest of bows. If not pleased at meeting Jerry, it was evident that she was surprised to find him in Dolittle Cottage, and apparently quite at home.
The music ceased temporarily and conversation took its place. Rosetta Muriel, invited to lay aside her hat, declined with dignity and commented on the weather. After full justice had been done to that serviceable theme, Peggy introduced another.
“We’ve met such a nice girl several times when we’ve been picking berries. I suppose you know her?–Lucy Haines.”
“I know who you mean,” replied Rosetta Muriel coldly. “She ain’t in society, you know.”
“Not in–”
“Not in society,” firmly repeated Rosetta Muriel. “She used to come to my house sometimes, but that was before I came out. After you come outyou’ve got to be more careful about who you associate with.”
An awestruck silence followed the enunciation of this social law, and Rosetta Muriel addressed herself to Priscilla, whose aristocratic bearing seemed to impress her favorably. “Do you know Mrs. Sidney Dillingham?”
Priscilla stared at this familiar mention of one of the society leaders in her own city. “Why, I never met her, if that’s what you mean. I know her by sight. I’ve seen her at several concerts.”
“I suppose you know she’s entertaining Sir Albert Driscoll at her Newport house this summer. Quite a feather in her cap, ain’t it?”
Priscilla replied with a gasp that she supposed it was, and looked appealingly at Peggy. Peggy’s responsive attempt to bring the conversation back to normal levels, proved quite unsuccessful. Rosetta Muriel was determined to impress her new acquaintances with her knowledge of customs of the Four Hundred, and indeed it was evident that she had studied the society columns of the New York papers, with an industry worthy a better cause. Peggy at length grew desperate.
“As long as it’s Fourth of July, wouldn’t it benice to sing some patriotic songs? You can play ‘America,’ can’t you, Jerry?”
“Well, I guess,” said Jerry, with unfeigned relief, and he struck a resounding chord. After Rosetta Muriel, and the atmosphere of tawdry pretense surrounding her, it was a relief to every one to launch into the splendid words,
“My country, ’tis of thee.”
“My country, ’tis of thee.”
Amy, who did not know one tune from another, sang at the top of her voice. Aunt Abigail hummed the air in a cracked soprano, with traces of bygone sweetness. Priscilla’s silvery notes soared flute-like above the others, and even Rosetta Muriel joined after a brief hesitation, probably due to her uncertainty as to whether this was customary in the best society, on the occasion of a formal call.
“That went splendidly,” declared Peggy, her face aglow, when the last verse had filled the room with melody. “Now, what about ‘The Star Spangled Banner?’ Can you play that, Jerry? It’s a lot harder than the other.”
“You bet it’s harder, but I can play it all right.” Jerry instantly proved his boast by striking the introductory chords, winding up with an ambitious flourish. “Now,” he said, with a nod, and thechorus burst out lustily, Priscilla’s voice leading.
“O, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light,What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.”
“O, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light,What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.”
The chorus, strong on the first line, weakened on the second. Priscilla sang through the third alone, and then came to a full stop. Jerry drummed a few further chords, and broke off to demand, “What’s the matter?”
“Why, I’ve forgotten just how that goes,” cried Priscilla. “What is the next, anyway?”
After a protracted struggle, in which each girl racked her memory and contributed such fragments as she could recall, four lines were patched into comparative completeness. But, beyond this, their allied efforts could not carry them. For the second time that day, Peggy included herself in her stern denunciation.
“It’s perfectly appalling. We didn’t know how many states there were, we didn’t know about the stripes on the flag, and now we don’t know ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ It’s a disgrace. Not a single person in this room knows ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’”
“I do,” said Jerry Morton.
“Oh, all right. You can teach it to the rest of us, then,” declared Peggy, and for the next hour the drilling went forward relentlessly. The company repeated each verse in chorus till there was no sign of doubt or hesitation, and then sang it through. When the verses had been mastered separately, the entire song was rendered with telling effect. Aunt Abigail clapped her hands.
“I’ve often wondered why the English and the Germans were so much better posted on their national songs than we are. If all patriotic young Americans took this sensible way of spending a rainy Fourth of July, our critics would have one less arrow in their quiver.”
The afternoon was well advanced, and Rosetta Muriel rose to make her farewells, expressing an enjoyment which was perhaps a concession to her sense of propriety, rather than a perfectly spontaneous expression of feeling. Rosetta Muriel found the girls of Dolittle Cottage strangely puzzling. She had prepared herself to meet these city visitors on their own ground, and instead of holding her own, she had it all her own way. Apparently she was the only one of the company who could claim with any show of reason,to be an authority on the doings of the smart set.
After supper, while the rain still pounded unweariedly on the roof, Aunt Abigail told the story of a high-spirited young ancestress, who had lived back in the colonial times, and in the stirring days of ’76 had pitted her wits against one of King George’s officers, and won from him a concession which was perhaps equally a tribute to her beauty and her brains. It was one of the stories which cannot be re-told too often, full of the audacious courage of gallant youth, and the listening girls felt a vicarious pride in the daring of their countrywoman of bygone days. As for Amy, she straightened herself so as to give the effect of having grown suddenly taller.
“Myancestress,” she observed with fitting pride. “How many times my great-grandmother was she, Aunt Abigail? It’s no wonder I’m a little out of the ordinary.”
In spite of a disheartening beginning, it had been a very satisfactory Fourth. Up-stairs, as the girls made ready for bed, Ruth voiced the general opinion. “For a safe and sane Fourth, it hasn’t been half bad.”
Peggy who had crossed the hall, to combine sociabilitywith the ceremony of taking down her hair, brushed her refractory locks with energy.
“I wish they’d never tacked that on to the Fourth of July,” she said. “So many things are safe and sane, darning stockings, for instance. The Fourth of July ought to be a lot more. It ought to be jolly, and to teach you something, and make you think. And this Fourth has come pretty near all three.”
Though the Fourth of July picnic had failed to materialize, it was responsible for turning the thoughts of the girls in a new direction. In the beginning of their stay the cottage porch with its shading vines and inspiring view, had satisfied them completely, but the magic of the word “picnic” had awakened a longing to come a little closer to the heart of things.
“I’m tired of eating off a table,” Amy declared. “I want to sit on the grass, and pick ants out of my sandwiches, and feel as if I was really in the country. What’s the matter with a picnic?”
As far as could be gathered, nothing was the matter with this time-honored festivity, and plans and preparations began. The latter were on a somewhat less elaborate scale than those undertaken in honor of the Fourth, partly because Peggy, who easily ranked as chief cook, had undertaken to find a desirable picnic-ground and secure a suitable vehicle for transporting the party. The double responsibilityproved engrossing, and the cooking which went on in her absence was less inspirational in its character, and certainly less successful, than when Peggy was at the helm.
As Farmer Cole’s carry-all could not accommodate the party, a farm wagon with three seats, and abundant space for baskets, was put at their disposal, along with two horses of sedate and chastened mien. But Peggy looked at them askance. Peggy laid no claim to skill in horsemanship, and though lack of confidence was not one of her failings, she would almost as readily have undertaken to manage a team of giraffes, as this stolid pair, with their ruminative eyes, and drooping heads.
“I–I don’t suppose they’re likely to run away, are they?” questioned Peggy, making a brave effort to speak with nonchalance.
Joe, to whom the question was addressed, grinned broadly.
“If you can make ’em run,” he replied, “by licking ’em or scaring ’em or anything else, I’ll see you get a medal. Why, Bess here is twenty-three years old.” He struck the animal a resounding smack upon the flank which demonstration caused Bess to prick one ear reflectively. “Her frisky days areover,” continued Joe, “and Nat ain’t much better. A baby in arms could drive ’em.”
In spite of such encouraging assurances, Peggy did not feel at all certain of her ability to manage the double team on hilly country roads. Priscilla’s father kept a horse, it was true, but he was a rather spirited animal, and neither Priscilla nor her mother ever attempted to drive him. “They’ll all insist on my driving,” thought Peggy, as she turned her face toward Dolittle Cottage. “And what if I should drive into a gully and spill them out? I’ve half a mind to go back and see if Mr. Cole can possibly spare Joe.”
But before Peggy had time to retrace her steps, a somewhat familiar figure came into view at the turn of the road, a girl in a sunbonnet, with a tin pail in either hand. Peggy hurried forward to greet her, rejoicing in a possible solution of her problem.
“Oh, good afternoon. Do you know how to drive?”
Lucy Haines looked as surprised as if she had been questioned as to her ability to button her own shoes. “Why, of course,” she answered staring.
“I thought so. Then don’t you want to go on a picnic with us to-morrow and drive the horses?Joe says a baby could manage them, but I don’t feel equal to it, and I’m sure the other girls won’t. If you’ll come,” added Peggy with sudden inspiration, “we’ll have a berry-picking bee, and all fall to and help you, to make up for your squandering a day on us.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have to do that,” protested Lucy; “I’d love to go if I could really help you.”
With all her powers of intuition, Peggy was far from guessing what her impulsive invitation meant to this ambitious girl whose life had been pathetically bare of pleasure. The girls of Dolittle Cottage would have been vastly surprised had they known how carefree and opulent they seemed to Lucy, whose rapt absorption in the task of realizing her ambition involved the danger that she would forget how to enjoy herself. Had Peggy’s invitation come in any other way, the chances are that Lucy would have declined it, her sensitive pride rendering her suspicious of kindnesses uncalled-for, from her point of view. It was quite another matter when she was asked to do a favor.
A team and a responsible driver having been secured for the morrow, Peggy returned to the cottage highly elated over her success, and lent her aid to the disheartened cooks. When Joe drove theplodding team up to the cottage on the following morning, the array of baskets on the porch promised satisfaction for the appetites of double the number awaiting his coming. Lucy Haines sat in the hammock beside Peggy, her sunbonnet replaced by a little black hat, which had done service through the dust of many summers, and originally was better suited for a woman of fifty than a girl of seventeen. Peggy studying this new friend’s clear-cut profile and fresh coloring, could not help wondering how Lucy would look in a really girlish costume. She was of the opinion that under such circumstances she would be actually pretty.
“Fine morning for your shindig,” remarked Joe, who had long before lost all traces of bashfulness in Peggy’s presence. “Don’t you get them horses to speeding, now, so’s you’ll be arrested for fast driving.” He chuckled gleefully over this thunder-bolt of wit, and bethought himself to add, “How’s your chickens coming on?”
“Why, it isn’t time for them to hatch for ten days yet. The old hen has broken three of the eggs. Don’t you think that is pretty clumsy?”
“Clumsy, if it ain’t worse. You’d better keep an eye on her. Sometimes they break their eggs a-purpose just to eat ’em.” And having openedPeggy’s eyes to the dark perfidy possible to the nature of the yellow hen, Joe departed whistling, and the gay party climbed aboard. Peggy sat on the front seat with Lucy, Dorothy snuggling between them, and reflected on the surprising distance from the seat to the ground, and on the appalling size of the clumsy hoofs of the farmhorses. She was glad Lucy was on hand to take up the lines with such a business-like air, and that the responsibility of driving did not devolve on herself.
The picnic-grounds Mrs. Cole had especially recommended were several miles away, though the winding road on either hand gave such charming glimpses of shady groves, with sunlight filtering through the leaves, and of a placid river, with silver birches all along its bank, like nymphs who had come down to the water to drink, that it really seemed as if almost any place where they cared to stop would be an admirable picnic-ground. But Lucy appealed to, agreed with Mrs. Cole, that Day’s Woods were worth the drive, and the horses plodded on, now stimulated to a trot, by Lucy’s exertions, but dropping into a walk again as soon as she relaxed her efforts.
As the day had all of July’s brightness with an exhilarating tang in the breeze, not always characteristicof this sultry month, nobody was in a hurry. And, in spite of the deliberate progress of the team, and the fact that the springs of the wagon left something to be desired, it was hardly a welcome surprise when Lucy suddenly turned the horses up a rough bit of road, climbing the hill with such ambitious directness that several muffled screams sounded from the rear of the wagon, and Dorothy clutched Peggy’s arm, evidently under the impression that she was likely to go over backward.
“It’s all right,” Lucy explained hastily, suppressing a smile at indications of alarm so unaccountable from her standpoint. “It’s a little steep, but we’ll be at the top in a minute.” Indeed, Bess and Nat, laying aside the lassitude which throughout the drive had momentarily suggested the possibility of their deciding to lie down, struggled bravely up the slope.
“Here we are,” announced Lucy, as the wagon jolted over a stump still standing in the road, and turned to the left under a sentinel oak whose low-growing branches seemed to be reaching for trophies in the shape of hats or locks of hair. “This is the place at last.” As a matter of fact, Day’s Woods needed no voucher. Now that they wereon the spot, the girls were positive that no other place would have satisfied them.
The wagon had halted on a stretch of partially cleared pasture where the early summer flowers were much in evidence. Not far away was a splendid grove, chestnuts mingling with oak and maple, and the trees far enough apart so that the grass had a chance to flourish at their roots. The pleasant sound of running water, without which no landscape is complete, rose from a ravine to the right, its rocky sides feathered with delicate ferns. With little shrieks of rapture, the girls ran from one point of beauty to another, while Lucy unharnessed, her efforts supplemented by willing, though awkward assistance on Peggy’s part.
Contrary to the habit of most picnic parties, which eat on arriving at their destination, regardless of the hour, the delights of exploration for a time rendered these picnickers oblivious to the clamorous voice of appetite. It was Dorothy who first turned the thoughts of the company in the more practical direction by announcing plaintively, “My stomach is so hungry that it hurts, Aunt Peggy. I wish I had the teentiest bit of a sandwidge.”
“Poor dear,” cried Peggy, “I believe I’m hungry myself.” And then with surprising unanimity, eachpicnicker from Aunt Abigail down, declared herself on the verge of starvation. The big baskets were taken from the wagon, a red and white checked table-cloth spread upon the grass, and various appetizing viands set out in order. From one of the springs which sent a trickling tribute down the sides of the ravine to the brook below, water was brought for the lemonade.
Lucy Haines, who had lent deft assistance, had barely seated herself upon the grass, before she was on her feet again. “The sun’s got at poor old Bess already,” she said, as Peggy glanced up inquiringly. “I’ll have to tie her in the shade, or I can’t enjoy my luncheon.”
Bess, who was gazing on the landscape with lack-lustre eyes, submitted to be led into the shade of a big maple, without evidencing any especial appreciation of Lucy’s thoughtfulness. Lucy tied the halter to the snake fence, and returned to the group on the grass, who were already justifying their claims regarding their appetite by an indiscriminate slaughter of sandwiches.
“After we’ve eaten–I don’t want you to look like a row of Indian famine sufferers–I’m going to take a picture of the crowd,” announced Amy. “Don’t you think it’s nice to have little souvenirsof such good times? Pass the stuffed eggs to Lucy, somebody. She hasn’t eaten anything.”
“I’ve made a pretty good beginning, I think,” said Lucy with the grave smile which made her seem a score of years older than her light-hearted companions. She helped herself to an egg, and immediately dropped it on the table-cloth and sprang to her feet. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed in a tone of consternation.
The others rose as hastily. Farmer Cole’s Bess was stamping frantically, and pulling on her halter in a way that bore eloquent testimony to the stability of Lucy’s knots.
“I’ve tied her close to a hornets’ nest,” explained Lucy, her voice still indicating dismay. “She’s stamped about and stirred them up. Well, there’s only one thing to do. She’s got to be untied before things are any worse.”
“Wait!” Peggy had seized her arm. “If you go over there you’ll get stung.”
“But if we leave her alone, she’ll plunge around, and as likely as not she’ll be stung to death.”
“I’m going with you. Perhaps I can keep the hornets off while you untie her. What can I fight them with? Oh, look! This box cover will be just the thing.”
“I’m going, too,” said Priscilla quietly. Claire uttered a stifled shriek and caught her friend’s arm protestingly. Priscilla shook her off.
“Don’t be silly,” she said sharply. “Do let me alone, Claire. Now where’s that other box cover?” She snatched it up and ran in pursuit of the intrepid pair advancing toward the animated scene under the maple-tree.
“I really think we ought to get further away,” said Ruth in alarm. “Oh, hush, Dorothy!” For Dorothy who had felt the contagion of the general excitement, and whose fears were complicated by a harrowing uncertainty as to whether a hornet might not be distantly related to a bear, had burst into noisy weeping.
The desirability of retreat had presented itself forcefully to the others. Claire, in spite of her anxiety over Priscilla’s fate, was not averse to getting further away from the scene of the combat, and Aunt Abigail was already hurrying toward the woods, with an agility which discredited her claim to having long passed the prescribed three-score years and ten.
“Aren’t you coming, Amy?” Ruth cried, seizing the weeping Dorothy by the hand. “What are you waiting for?” She turned her head, and for amoment stood transfixed, as if astonishment had produced a temporary paralysis.
“Amy Lassell,” she choked, “I–I think you’re just heartless.”
Instead of joining in the retreat, or lending aid to the attacking party, Amy had snatched up her camera, and was bending over the finder in an absorption which rendered her quite oblivious to Ruth’s denunciation. She was, indeed, excusable for thinking that the scene under the maple would make a spirited and unusual photograph. Old Bess was rearing and plunging with a coltish animation quite inconsistent with the dignity of her twenty-three years. Priscilla and Peggy, armed with the tin covers of the boxes which had contained the cake and sandwiches, were striking wildly at the advance guard of the hornet army. And Lucy, in her efforts to get at the halter, without coming in contact with Bess’s heels or being seriously stung, was dodging about in a fashion calculated to awaken despair in the breast of a photographer.
“If only they would stand still a minute,” groaned Amy, too absorbed in her undertaking seriously to consider the consequences of a literal fulfilment of her wish. But apparently nothing was further from the thought of those participating inthe pantomime than standing still. The hornets, stirred to activity by Bess’s incautious stamping close to their quarters, were rising like sparks from a bonfire. Bess was making a spectacular though not altogether successful effort to stand on her head, while the agility displayed by Peggy and Priscilla would have gratified their teacher of gymnastics in the high school, had she been present to witness the performance.
Before Lucy was able to reach the fence, the hitching strap had given away under the unusual strain, sending old Bess to her knees. But with no trace of the stiffness of age, she was up in an instant and galloping across the pasture, a number of enraged hornets in hot pursuit. At the crucial moment Amy’s finger pressed the button, thus preserving a record of a fact which needed to be substantiated by even more convincing evidence than the testimony of eight disinterested witnesses. Now that it was no longer a question of Bess’s safety, the courageous trio who had gone to her rescue, betook themselves to flight.
At the edge of the woods they reconnoitred. The hornets had apparently given up the pursuit and were circling about their endangered castle, ready to sound the alarm in case of hostile approach.Considering that they had advanced into the enemy’s camp, so to speak, the girls had come off very well. Lucy had been stung twice, to be sure, and Peggy once, while Priscilla’s right eye was rapidly closing in testimony to the effectiveness of the dagger thrusts of the vindictive little warriors. But it might easily have been much worse.
Claire, who had rushed forward to greet the returning heroines, put her hands before her eyes at the sight of Priscilla’s unsymmetrical countenance. “You’re hurt,” she shrieked. “Oh, do you suppose you’ll be blind?”
“Blind! What nonsense,” returned Priscilla brusquely. “The sting is right over my eyebrow.” But the reassuring statement failed to appease Claire’s apprehensions. After inquiring hysterically of each of the company in turn, as to the probability that Priscilla would lose her sight, Claire succumbed to tears, and for twenty minutes absorbed the attention of the picnic party. Priscilla, it must be confessed, stood somewhat aloof, confining her assistance to remarking at intervals that something, not defined, was too silly for words. But the others were more sympathetic and in course of time Claire’s sobs became gradually less violent, and leaning against Peggy’s shoulder, she was able tosay faintly that she was sorry to be so foolish and upset everything.
“Where’dyouget stung?” demanded Dorothy, who, now that her earlier fears were assuaged, was inclined to look upon the excitement as a pleasing variation on the hackneyed forms of entertainment. Then, without waiting for an answer, “Aunt Peggy, do you s’pose those hornets have eated up all that nice gingerbread?”
“Oh, our luncheon!” Peggy cried. “I’d forgotten that we hadn’t more than started. Let’s bring everything up here and finish in peace.”
Leaving Claire to the ministrations of Dorothy and Aunt Abigail, the others started off to put Peggy’s suggestion into execution, Lucy walking at Peggy’s side. “I’m awfully sorry I spoiled your picnic,” she said in a constrained voice.
“Spoiled the picnic? You?”
“Yes, it was all my fault, for tying Bess so near that hornets’ nest. I suppose I should have been more careful, but the bushes were thick all around it, and I never noticed.”
Peggy patted her arm reassuringly. “It wasn’t your fault a bit, and the picnic isn’t spoiled. We’ve time for lots of fun yet, and besides, little exciting things like this rather add spice. When we go homeand tell about the good times we’ve had, we’ll mention that hornets’ nest one of the first things.”
It was a cheerful view to be taken by a girl with a painful lump on her arm–still swelling–as Lucy was in a position to appreciate. Yet Peggy’s confidence was comforting, and Lucy helping to remove the remnants of the picnic feast, to a safe distance from the restless hornets, was conscious of an appreciable rise in spirits.
The remainder of the day justified Peggy’s optimism. Bess was captured at the further end of the pasture, where she was grazing placidly amid the stumps, with nothing in her demeanor to suggest her brief relapse into youthful agility. The girls picked flowers and ferns, explored the ravine and made friendly advances to a family of gray squirrels who chattered angrily at them from the boughs overhead, apparently under the impression that they were the owners of the wood which these noisy human creatures were invading. Then they drove home in the golden light of the sunset, and sang all the way. And Lucy Haines carried into her dreams a memory of cheery friendliness and wholesome fun which was a novelty in her staid and often sombre recollections.
Joe only grinned when Peggy announced herselfas a candidate for the medal he had promised. It was not till a week later, when the print which chronicled old Bess’s display of spirit was exhibited, that he was convinced. He stood with mouth open, and eyes distended, incredulity slowly giving way to conviction.
“Well, itisold Bess, galloping off like a two-year-old. You must have fired off a cannon at her heels. Think of old Bess, legging it in that style! That there picture had ought to be framed.”