PART II
"Tra la, tra lee, I want my tea!"
Sang Tennessee, as she ran up-stairs. "Oh, Maine, is that you? my dear, my costume is simply too perfect for anything. I've been out in the woods, practising my war-whoop. Three yelps and a screech; I flatter myself it is themostblood-curdling screech you ever heard. I'm going to have a dress-rehearsal now, all by myself. Come and see—why, what's the matter, Maine? something is wrong with you. What is it?"
"Oh! nothing serious," said Maine, trying to speak lightly. "I must get up another costume, that's all, and there isn't much time."
"Why! what has happened?"
"The scarlet leaves are gone."
"Gone! fallen, do you mean?"
"No! some one has cut or broken every branch. There is not one left. The leaves made the whole costume, you see; it amounts to nothing without them, merely a yellow gown."
"Oh! my dear, what a shame! Who could have taken them?"
"I cannot imagine. I thought I would get them to-day, and keep them in water over night, so as to have them all ready to-morrow. Oh, well, it can't be helped. I can call myself a sunflower, or Black-eyed Susan, or some other yellow thing. It's absurd to mind, of course, only—"
"Only, being human, you do mind," said Tennessee, putting her arm round her friend's waist. "I should think so, dear. We don't care about having you canonized just yet. But, Maine, there must be more red leaves somewhere. This comes of living near the sea. Now, in my mountains, or in your woods, we could just go out and fill our arms with glory in five minutes, whichever way we turned. These murmuring pines and—well, I don't know that there are any hemlocks—are all very splendid, and no one loves them better than I do; but for a Harvest festival decoration, 'Ils ne sont pas là dedans,' as the French have it."
"Slang, Tennessee! one cent!"
"On the contrary; foreign language, mark of commendation.
"But come now, and see my war-dance. I didn't mean to let any one see it before-hand, but you are a dear old thing, and you shall. And then, we can take counsel about your costume. Not that I have the smallest anxiety about that; I've no doubt you have thought of something pretty already. I don't see how you do it. When any one says 'Clothes' to me, I never can think of anything but red flannel petticoats, if you will excuse my mentioning the article. I think Black-eyed Susan sounds delightful. How would you dress for it? you have the pretty yellow dress all ready."
"I should put brown velveteen with it. I have quite a piece left over from my blouse. I'll get some yellow crêpe paper, and make a hat, or cap, with a brown crown, you know, and yellow petals for the brim; and have a brown bodice laced together over the full yellow waist, and—"
The two girls passed on, talking cheerfully—it is always soothing to talk about pretty clothes, especially when one is as clever as Maine was, and can make, as Massachusetts used to say, a court train out of a jack-towel.
A few minutes after, Massachusetts came along the same corridor, and tapped at another door. Hearing "Come in!" she opened the door and looked in.
"Busy, Chicago? beg pardon! Miss Cram asked me, as I was going by, to show you the geometry lesson, as you were not in class yesterday."
"Thanks! come in, won't you?" said Chicago, rising ungraciously from her desk, "I was going to ask Miss Cram, of course, but I'm much obliged."
Massachusetts pointed out the lesson briefly, and turned to go, when her eyes fell on a jar set on the ground, behind the door.
"Hallo!" she said, abruptly. "You've got scarlet leaves, too. Where did you get them?"
"I found them," said Chicago, coldly. "They were growing wild, on the public highway. I had a perfect right to pick them."
There was a defiant note in her voice, and Massachusetts looked at her with surprise. The girl's eyes glittered with an uneasy light, and her dark cheek was flushed.
"I don't question your right," said Massachusetts, bluntly, "but I do question your sense. I may be mistaken, but I don't believe those leaves are very good to handle. They look to me uncommonly like dogwood. I'm not sure; but if I were you, I would show them to Miss Flower before I touched them again."
She nodded and went out, dismissing the matter from her busy mind.
"Spiteful!" said Chicago, looking after her sullenly.
"She suspects where I got the leaves, and thinks she can frighten me out of wearing them. I never saw such a hateful set of girls as there are in this school. Never mind, sweet creatures! The 'snake' has got the scarlet leaves, and she knows when she has got a good thing."
She took some of the leaves from the jar, and held them against her black hair. They were brilliantly beautiful, and became her well. She looked in the glass and nodded, well pleased with what she saw there; then she carefully clipped the ends of the branches, and put fresh water in the jar before replacing them.
"Indian Summer will take the shine out of Black-eyed Susan, I'm afraid," she said to herself. "Poor Susan, I am sorry for her." She laughed; it was not a pleasant laugh; and went back to her books.
PART III.
"What a pretty sight!"
It was Miss Wayland who spoke. She and the other teachers were seated on the raised platform at the end of the gymnasium. The long room was wreathed with garlands and brilliantly lighted, and they were watching the girls as they flitted by in their gay dresses, to the waltz that good Miss Flower was playing.
"How ingenious the children are!" Miss Wayland continued. "Look at Virginia there, as Queen Elizabeth! Her train is my old party cloak turned inside out, and her petticoat—you recognize that?"
"I, not!" said Mademoiselle, peering forward. "I am too near of my sight. What ees it?"
"The piano cover. That Persian silk, you know, that my brother sent me. I never knew how handsome it was before. The ruff, and those wonderful puffed sleeves, are mosquito-netting; the whole effect is superb—at a little distance."
"I thought Virginie not suffeeciently clayver for to effect zis!" said Mademoiselle. "Of custome, she shows not—what do you say?—invention."
"Oh, she simply wears the costume, with her own peculiar little air of dignity. Maine designed it. Maine is costumer in chief. The Valiant Three, Maine, Massachusetts, and Tennessee, took all the unpractical girls in hand, and simply—dressed them.Entre nous, Mademoiselle, I wish, in some cases, that they would do it every day."
"Et moi aussi!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, nodding eagerly.
"Maine herself is lovely," said Miss Cram. "I think hers is really the prettiest costume in the room; all that soft brown and yellow is really charming, and suits her to perfection."
"Yes; and I am so glad of it, for the child was sadly disappointed about some other costume she had planned, and got this up almost at the last moment. She is a clever child, and a good one. Do look at Massachusetts! Massachusetts, my dear child, what do you call yourself? you are a most singular figure."
"The Codfish, Miss Wayland; straight from Boston State-House. Admire my tail, please! I got up at five o'clock this morning to finish it, and I must confess I am proud of it."
She napped her tail, which was a truly astonishing one, made of newspapers neatly plaited and sewed together, and wriggled her body, clad in well-fitting scales of silver paper. "Quite a fish, I flatter myself?" she said, insinuatingly.
"Very like a whale, if not like a codfish," said Miss Wayland, laughing heartily. "You certainly are one of the successes of the evening, Massachusetts, and the Mosquito is another, in that filmy gray. Is that mosquito-netting, too? I congratulate you both on your skill. By the way, what does Chicago represent? she is very effective, with all those scarlet leaves. What are they, I wonder!"
Massachusetts turned hastily, and a low whistle came from her lips. "Whew! I beg pardon, Miss Wayland. It was the codfish whistled, not I; it's a way they have on Friday evenings. I told that girl to ask Miss Flower about those leaves; I am afraid they are—oh, here is Miss Flower!" as the good botany teacher came towards them, rather out of breath after her playing.
"Miss Flower, what are those leaves, please? those in Chicago's hair, and on her dress."
Miss Flower looked, and her cheerful face grew grave.
"Rhus veneneta" she said; "poison dogwood."
"I was afraid so!" said Massachusetts. "I told her yesterday that I thought they were dogwood, and advised her to show them to you before she touched them again."
"Poor child!" said kind Miss Flower. "She has them all about her face and neck, too. We must get them off at once."
She was starting forward, but Miss Wayland detained her.
"The mischief is done now, is it not?" she said. "And after all, dogwood does not poison every one. I have had it in my hands, and never got the smallest injury. Suppose we let her have her evening, at least till after supper, which will be ready now in a few minutes. If she is affected by the poison, this is her last taste of the Harvest Festivities."
They watched the girl. She was receiving compliments on her striking costume, from one girl and another, and was in high spirits. She glanced triumphantly about her, her eyes lighting up when they fell on Maine in her yellow dress. She certainly looked brilliantly handsome, the flaming scarlet of the leaves setting off her dark skin and flashing eyes to perfection.
Presently she put her hand up to her cheek, and held it there a moment.
"Aha!" said Massachusetts, aloud. "She's in for it!"
"In for what?" said Maine, who came up at that moment. Following the direction of Massachusetts' eyes, she drew her apart, and spoke in a low tone. "I shall not say anything, Massachusetts, and I hope you will not. Don't you know?" she added, seeing her friend's look of inquiry. "Those are my scarlet leaves."
"No!"
"Yes. I have found out all about it. Daisy lingered behind the rest of us the other day, when I had been telling you all about the leaves, to pick blackberries. She saw Chicago come out of the wood a few minutes after we left, looking black as thunder. Don't you remember, I thought I heard a rustling in the fern, and you laughed at me? She was hidden there, and heard every word we said. Next day the leaves were gone, and now they are on Chicago's dress instead of mine."
"And a far better place for them!" exclaimed Massachusetts, "though I am awfully sorry for her. Oh! you lucky, lucky girl! and you dear, precious, stupid ignoramus, not to know poison dogwood when you see it."
"Poison dogwood! those beautiful leaves!"
"Those beautiful leaves. That young woman is in for about two weeks of as pretty a torture as ever Inquisitor or Iroquois could devise. I know all about it, though there was a time when I also was ignorant. Look! she is feeling of her cheek already; it begins to sting. Tomorrow she will be all over patches, red and white; itching—there is nothing to describe the itching. It is beyond words. Next day her face will begin to swell, and in two days more—the School Birthday, my dear—she will be like nothing human, a mere shapeless lump of pain and horror. She will not sleep by night or rest by day. She will go home to her parents, and they will not know her, but will think we have sent them a smallpox patient by mistake. Her eyes—"
"Oh, hush! hush, Massachusetts!" cried Maine. "Oh! poor thing! poor thing! what shall I do? I feel as if it were all my fault, somehow."
"Your fault that she sneaked and eavesdropped, and then stole your decoration? Oh! come, Maine, don't be fantastic!"
"No, Massachusetts, I don't mean that. But if I had only known, myself, what they were, I should never have spoken of them, and all this would never have happened."
"The moral of which is, study botany!" said Massachusetts.
"I'll begin to-morrow!" said Maine.
"And what is to be the end of the dogwood story, I wonder!" said Tennessee, meeting Massachusetts in a breathless interval between two exercises on the School Birthday, the crowning event of the Harvest Festivities at Miss Wayland's. "Have you heard the last chapter?"
"No! what is it?"
"Maine is in a dark room with the moaning Thing that was Chicago, singing to her, and telling her about the speeches and things last night. She vows she will not come out again to-day, just because she was at chapel and heard the singing this morning; says that was the best of it, and she doesn't care much about dancing. Maine! and Miss Wayland will not let us break in the door and carry her off bodily; says she will be happier where she is, and will always be glad of this day. I'll tell you what it is, Massachusetts, if this is the New England conscience I hear so much about, I'm precious glad I was born in Tennessee."
"No, you aren't, Old One! you wish you had been born in Maine."
"Well, perhaps I do!" said Tennessee.
THE END.