The Little Colonel's Holidays Part 7

The Island of Cake With fish from Sweet Lake.

Mary gave the signal when everything was ready, a long toot on an old tin whistle that sounded like a fog-horn. She blew it through the keyhole of the parlour door, expecting a speedy answer, but was not prepared for the sensation her summons created. The door flew open so suddenly that she was nearly taken off her feet, and the boys fell all over each other in their race for the table. When they were all seated, Norman, standing up at the foot of the table, repeated the rhyme which Joyce had carefully taught him:

"Heave ho, my hearties, let these boats Sail down the Red Sea of your throats."

"They're surely obeying orders," said Mary, mournfully, a few minutes later, when she hurried into the kitchen for another Sandwich Island.

"They're swallowing up those boats quicker'n the real Red Sea swallowed up old Pharaoh and all his chariots. There'll be nothing left for us but the rinds and the broom-straws."

"Oh, yes, there will," said Joyce, cheerfully, opening the pantry door and showing her three plates on the lower shelf. "There is our supper. I put it aside, for boys are like gra.s.shoppers. They'll eat everything in sight. I didn't take time to put sails in my boats or in mother's, but you've got one of every kind just like the boys, even to a menu-card with a fish-hook in it."

There was a broad smile on Mary's beaming little face as she surveyed her part of the feast, and popping one of the fat raisin-turtles into her mouth, she hurried back to her duties as waitress. Joyce followed to pa.s.s around the birthday cake, telling each boy to blow out a candle as he took a slice, and to make a birthday wish.

Just as she finished there was a click of the gate-latch, and one of her schoolmates came up the path. It was Grace Link, one of her best friends, yet Joyce wished she had not happened in at that particular time.

Grace had a way of looking around her with a very superior air. It may have been due to her effort to keep her eye-gla.s.ses in position, but Joyce found it irritating at times. The glances made her feel how shabby the little brown house must look in comparison to the Links' elegant home, and she resented Grace's apparent notice of the fact.

"In just a minute, Grace," she called, thinking she would pa.s.s the cake around once more, and leave the boys to finish quietly by themselves.

But she did not have a chance to do that. With a whoop as of one voice, each boy started up, grabbing another slice of cake in one hand as he pa.s.sed the plate, and all the candy fish he could scoop up with the other, and was off for a noisy game of hum-b.u.m in the back yard.

"My gracious! what a noisy lot," exclaimed Grace, recognising her own small brother among them, and making mental note of a lecture she meant to give him after awhile.

"Oh, you ought to have seen how beautiful everything looked when they sat down," cried Mary, noticing Grace's critical glances, as she surveyed the wreck they had made of the table. "They've eaten up the lighthouse all but the lantern and the flag, and the watermelon s.h.i.+p was _so_ pretty. Here's what the little boats looked like." She dashed into the pantry for her own gay little fleet of egg and orange and pickle boats with their many-coloured sails.

"How cunning!" said Grace, looking admiringly from the boats to the row of raisin-turtles. "But what a lot of time and trouble you all must have taken for those kids. Do you think boys appreciate it? I don't."

"My brothers do," said Joyce, stoutly. "We can't afford to have ices and fine things from the confectioner's, so we have to think up all sorts of odd surprises to take their place. Mother began it long ago when Jack and I were little, and she gave us our first Valentine tea. She said it was no more trouble to cut the cookies and sandwiches heart-shaped than to make them round, and it took very little time to decorate the table to look like a lace-paper valentine, but it made a world of difference in our enjoyment. Jack and I have dozens of bright spots to remember because she made gala days of all our birthdays and holidays, and it's no more than right that we should do it for Mary and Holland and the baby, now that she is so busy."

"We have something for every month in the year," chimed in Mary, "counting our five birthdays and Was.h.i.+ngton's, and New Year and Decoration Day and Christmas and Hallowe'en and Valentine and Thanksgiving."

"There are more than that," added Joyce, "for there's always the Fourth of July picnic, you know, and the eggs and rabbits and flowers at Easter."

"Yes, and April fool's day," Mary called out triumphantly after them, as the two girls walked slowly toward the house. "That makes fifteen."

"Can't you go over to Elsie Somers's with me, Joyce?" asked Grace.

"That's what I stopped by for. It is only half-past five. I want to look at the centrepiece she is embroidering before I begin mine, and ask her about the st.i.tch. Then I can begin it this evening after supper."

"Oh, I don't believe I can," answered Joyce, sitting wearily down on the doorstep, and making room for Grace beside her. "There's all that mess to clean up, and the boys will be coming in soon when it begins to get dark, for their bonfire stories. Do you see that enormous pile of leaves over there? We're going to have a jolly big bonfire after awhile, and sit around it telling stories. That is Holland's idea, and part of our way of keeping birthdays is to let the one who celebrates choose what he would like to do."

"_Hum, b.u.m! Here I come!_" shouted several voices from the stable roof and alley fence, and Jack repeated it at the top of his voice, as he dashed around the corner of the house.

"Here, Joyce," he cried, pitching a letter toward her. "It came in the last mail, and I forgot to give it to you when I came back from the post-office. Just thought of it," and off he went again.

"It is from the Little Colonel," said Joyce, in a pleased tone. "Don't you want to hear it?"

Grace, who had heard so much about the happenings at the house party that she almost felt as if she had been one of the guests, promptly settled herself to listen, and at Joyce's call, Mrs. Ware, who was still st.i.tching beside the dining-room window, laid down her sewing, and came out to be part of the interested audience.

"Oh, goody! Betty has written, too," said Joyce, as she unfolded the closely written pages. "I've wondered so often what Lloyd would think of life at the Cuckoo's Nest, and if it would seem the same to Betty after her visit at Locust."

But there was nothing of the Little Colonel's experience, in either letter. Not a word about Aunt Jane's illness, or the game of barley-bright, or the trap-door accident. They had just come from listening to Molly's pitiful story, and both letters were full of it.

The story-telling gift, that was to make Betty famous in after years, showed in the pathetic little tale she wrote Joyce, and so real did she make the scene that Joyce could scarcely keep a tremble out of her voice as she read it aloud.

"Wouldn't you love to see the picture that looks so much like Molly's little lost sister?" asked Mary, drawing a deep breath when the letter was done.

"Maybe we've got it at home," said Grace, eagerly. "We've taken the _Harper's Weekly_ for years, and there is a pile of them in the attic.

Some of them have been lost or torn up, but if I can find the picture I'll bring it over. What did Betty say is the date of that number?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE PICTURE Pa.s.sED AROUND THE CIRCLE."]

"December twenty-fifth, ninety-seven," said Joyce, referring to the letter.

"Well, as you can't go over to Elsie's with me now, I'll wait till some other time. I'll go home now and look for that picture before dark."

"Come back in time for the bonfire," said Joyce cordially. "We have some fine stories ready."

"All right," responded Grace. "I'd love to."

"In the meantime we'll clear away the wreck, and eat our supper," said Joyce, as Grace went down the path and Mary followed the little mother into the pantry. They had just hung up the last tea towel and called Jack to light the bonfire, when Grace came back. She had the picture with her, and they looked long and earnestly at the little bunch of misery, sobbing in the corner.

"What if Dot's father has brought her out West!" exclaimed Mary, impulsively, as she continued to gaze at the forlorn little figure.

"What if she should come to our house begging some day, and we should find her! Wouldn't it be grand? and wouldn't Molly and the girls be glad?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE PICTURE Pa.s.sED AROUND THE CIRCLE."]

"It makes me want to cry," said Joyce. "If I were rich I'd go out and hunt for all the poor little children like this that I could find, and do something to make them happy. Surely somebody of all the thousands who have seen that picture must have been moved to pity by it. No telling how much good that artist has done, by making people see some of the misery in the world that they can help. That is the kind of an artist I hope to be some day."

There were many stories told that evening around the birthday bonfire, which Jack kept ablaze, not only with leaves, but with pine cones and hickory knots. Giants and ghosts and hobgoblins, Indians and burglars and wild beasts, took their turns in the thrilling tales. But none made such a profound impression as the story of Molly's little lost sister, who perhaps at that very moment was locked in a dark closet by a drunken father, or sobbing herself to sleep, bruised and hungry. For one reason, it was real, and for another, the picture pa.s.sed around the circle in the light of the glowing bonfire appealed to every child heart there.

"I wish the Giant Scissors were real," said Holland, referring to his favourite tale. "They'd find her. Joyce, what would you have to say to them to make them go in search?"

"Giant Scissors, rise in power!

Find little Dot this very hour!

And then they would go rus.h.i.+ng away over mountains and dales," continued Joyce, who knew how greatly Holland enjoyed these variations of his favourite story. "Through streets and through alleys they'd go, through mansions and tenements until they found her and brought her back to Molly. Then, hand in hand, the big sister and the little one would follow the Scissors back to the home of Ethelred, because, like him, the only kingdom that they crave is the kingdom of a loving heart and a happy fireside. There would be feasting and merrymaking for seventy days and seventy nights, with the Scissors keeping guard at the portal of Ethelred, so that only those who belong to the kingdom of loving hearts and gentle hands might enter in."

Strangely moved by the story, little Norman got up from his seat and ran to Joyce, burying his head in her lap. "I hope I'll never be losted from _my_ big sister," he cried, his voice quivering, despite the fact that he no longer wore kilts.

"Me, too," said Holland, sliding along the bench a little closer to her.

"Fellows that haven't got any sisters to get up birthday parties for 'em and everything don't know what they miss."

Joyce looked over at Grace with a smile that seemed to say, "What did I tell you? These kids, as you call them, do appreciate what their sisters do for them."

Long after the bonfire was out and the birthday guests had departed, Holland turned restlessly on his pillow. The many boats he had eaten may have had something to do with his restlessness, but the thought of the lonely little child for whom Molly was grieving was still in his mind, when his mother looked in an hour later, to see if all was well for the night.

"I'm thankful for the party," he announced unexpectedly, as she bent over him, "and I'm thankful for most everything I can think of, but I'm most thankfullest because we aren't any of us in this house lost from each other."

"Please G.o.d you may say that on all your birthdays," whispered his mother, kissing him. Then she went away with the light, and silence reigned in the little brown house.