RHYME AND REASON
A BUDGET OF LETTERS FROM THE CAMP MAIL-BAG
‘The letter of a friend is a likeness passing true.’
OUR friend Polly was seated in a secluded spot whence all but her had
fled; her grave demeanour, her discarded sun-bonnet, her corrugated brow,
all bespoke more than common fixedness of purpose, the cause of which
will be discovered in what follows.
[Picture: Polly was seated in a secluded spot]
I. FROM THE COUNTESS PAULINA OLIVERA TO HER FRIEND AND CONFIDANTE, THE
LADY ELSIE HOWARD. {100a}
_Scene_: _A sequestered nook in the Valley of the Flowers_.
CAMP CHAPARRAL, _July_ 6, 188–.
The countess is discovered at her ommerlu {100b} writing-table. A light
zephyr {100c} plays with her golden locks {100d} and caresses her Grecian
{100e} nose—a nose that carries on its surface a few trifling freckles,
which serve but to call attention to its exquisite purity of outline and
the height of its ambition. Her eyes reflect the changing shadows of
moonlight, and her mouth is one fit for sweet sounds; {100f} yet this
only gives you a faint idea of the beauteous creature whose fortunes we
shall follow in our next number. {100g}
I have given that style a fair trial, my dear darling, but I cannot stand
it another minute, not being familiar with the language of what our cook
used to call the ‘fuddal aristocracy’ (feudal, you know).
I, your faithful Polly, am seated in the card-room, writing with a
dreadful pen which Phil gave me yesterday. Its internal organs are
filled with ink, which it disgorges when _pressed_ to do so, but just now
it is ‘too full for utterance,’ as you will see by the blots.
We have decided not to make this a real round-robin letter, like the
last, because we want to write what we like, and not have it read by the
person who comes next.
I have been badgered to death over my part of the communication sent to
you last week, for the young persons connected with this camp have a
faculty of making mountains out of mole-hills, as you know, and I have to
suffer for every careless little speech. However, as we didn’t wish to
bore you with six duplicate letters, we invented a plan for keeping off
each other’s ground, and appointed Geoff a committee of one to settle our
line of march. It is to be a collective letter, made up of individual
notes; and these are Geoff’s sealed orders, which must be obeyed, on pain
of dismissal from the camp:
No. 1 (Polly) is to amuse!
No. 2 (Phil) . . . inform.
No. 3 (Geoff) . . . edify!!
No. 4 (Madge) . . . gossip.
No. 5 (Bell) . . . versify.
No. 6 (Jack) . . . illustrate.
So, my dear, if you get any ‘information’ or happen to be ‘edified’ by
what I write, don’t mention it for worlds! (I just screamed my fears
about this matter to Jack, and he says ‘I needn’t fret.’ I shall
certainly slap that boy before the summer is over.)
I could just tell you a lovely story about Dicky’s getting lost in the
woods the day before yesterday, and our terrible fright about him, and
how we all joined in the boy-hunt, until Geoff and Bell found him at the
Lone Stump; but I suppose the chronicle belongs to Phil’s province, so I
desist. But what can I say? Suppose I tell you that Uncle Doc and the
boys have been shooting innocent, _tame_ sheep, skinning and cutting them
up on the way home, and making us believe for two days that we were
eating venison; and we never should have discovered the imposition had
not Dicky dragged home four sheep-skins from the upper pool, and told us
that he saw the boys ‘_peeling them off a venison_.’ Perhaps Phil may
call this information, and Margery will vow that it is gossip and belongs
to her; any way, they consider it a splendid joke, and chuckle themselves
to sleep over it every night; but I think the whole affair is perfectly
maddening, and it makes me boil with rage to be taken in so easily. Such
a to-do as they make over the matter you never saw; you would think it
was the first successful joke since the Deluge. (That wasn’t a _dry_
joke, was it? Ha, ha!)
This is the way they twang on their harp of a thousand strings. At
breakfast, this morning, when Jack passed me the corn-bread, I said
innocently, ‘Why, what have we here?’ ‘It is manna that fell in the
night,’ answered Jack, with an exasperating snicker. ‘You didn’t know
mutton, but I thought, being a Sunday-school teacher, you would know
something about manna.’ (_N.B._—He alludes to that time I took the
infant class for Miss Jones, and they all ran out to see a military
funeral procession.) ‘I wish you knew something about manners,’ snapped
I; and then Aunt Truth had to warn us both, as usual. Oh dear! it’s a
weary world. I’d just like to get Jack at a disadvantage once!
We climbed Pico Negro yesterday. Bell, Geoff, Phil, and I had quite an
experience in losing the trail. I will tell you about it. Just as—
(Goodness me! what have I written? Oh, Elsie, pray excuse those
_horizontal evidences_ of my forgetfulness and disobedience. I have
bumped my head against the table three times, as penance, and will now
try to turn my thoughts into right channels. This letter is a
black-and-white evidence that _I_ have not a frivolous order of mind, and
have always been misunderstood from my birth up to this date.)
We have had beautiful weather since—but no, of course Phil will tell you
about the weather, for that is scarcely an amusing topic. I do want to
be as prudent as possible, for Uncle Doc is going to read all the letters
(not, of course, aloud) and see whether we have fulfilled our specific
obligations.
(I just asked Bell whether ‘specific’ had a ‘c’ or an ‘s’ in the middle,
and she answered ‘“c,” of course,’ with such an air, you should have
heard her! I had to remind her of the time she spelled ‘Tophet’ with an
‘f’ in the middle; then she subsided.)
(I just read this last paragraph to Madge, to see if she called it
gossip, as I was going to take it out if it belonged to her topic, but
she said No, she didn’t call it gossip at all—that she should call it
slander!)
You don’t know how we all long to see you, dear darling that you are. We
live in the hope of having you with us very soon, and meanwhile the
beautiful bedstead is almost finished, and a perfect success. (I wish to
withdraw the last three quarters of that sentence, for obvious reasons!!)
Dear, dear! Geoffrey calls ‘Time up,’ and I’ve scarcely said anything I
should. Never, never again will I submit to this method of
correspondence; it is absolutely petrifying to one’s genius. When I am
once forced to walk in a path, nothing but the whole out-of-doors will
satisfy me.
I’m very much afraid I haven’t amused you, dear,—
But when I lie in the green kirkyard,
With the mould upon my breast,
Say not that ‘She did well or ill,’
Only, ‘She did her best.’
Now, do you think that will interfere with Bell, when it’s only a
quotation? Any way, it’s so appropriate that Uncle Doc will never have
the heart to strike it out. The trouble is that Geoff thinks all the
poetry in the universe is locked up in Bell’s head, and if she once
allows it to escape, Felicia Hemans and the rest will be too discouraged
ever to try again! (I can’t remember whether F. H. is alive or not, and
am afraid to ask, but you will know that I don’t mean to be
disrespectful.)
Laura, Anne, and Scott Burton were here for the play, and Laura is coming
down again to spend the week. I can’t abide her, and there will probably
be trouble in the camp.
The flame of my genius blazes high just now, but Geoff has spoken, and it
must be snuffed. So good-bye!
_Sizz-z-z_!! and I’m _out_!
POLLIOLIVER.
II. FROM PHILIP TO ELSIE.
CAMP CHAPARRAL, _July_ 8, 188–.
MY DEAR ELSIE,—I believe I am to inform you concerning the daily doings
of our party, not on any account, however, permitting myself to
degenerate into ‘gossip’ or ‘frivolous amusement.’
They evidently consider me a quiet, stupid fellow, who will fulfil such a
task with no special feeling of repression, and I dare say they are quite
right.
They call me the ‘solid man’ of the camp, which may not be very high
praise, to be sure, as Geoffrey carries his head in the clouds, and Jack
is—well, Jack is Jack! So, as the light of a tallow dip is valuable in
the absence of sun and moon, I am raised to a fictitious reputation.
We fellows have had very little play so far, for the furnishing of the
camp has proved an immense undertaking, although we have plenty of the
right sort of wood and excellent tools.
We think the work will pay, however, as Dr. Paul has about decided to
stay until October, or until the first rain. He writes two or three
hours a day, and thinks that he gets on with his book better here than at
home. As for the rest of us, when we get fairly to rights we shall have
regular study hours and lose no time in preparing for the examinations.
I suppose you know that you have a full bedroom set in process of
construction. I say ‘suppose you know,’ because it is a profound secret,
and the girls could never have kept it to themselves as long as this.
The lounging-chair is my allotted portion, and although it is a
complicated bit of work, I accepted it gladly, feeling sure that you
would use it oftener than any of the other pieces of furniture. I shall
make it so deliciously easy that you will make me ‘Knight of the Chair,’
and perhaps permit me to play a sort of devoted John Brown to your
Victoria. You will need one dull and prosy squire to arrange your
pillows, so that you can laugh at Jack’s jokes without weariness, and
doze quietly while Geoff and Uncle Doc are talking medicine.
Of course the most exciting event of the week was the mysterious
disappearance and subsequent restoration of the Heir-Apparent; but I feel
sure somebody else will describe the event, because it is uppermost in
all our minds.
Bell, for instance, would dress it up in fine style. She is no
historian, but in poetry and fiction none of us can touch her; though, by
the way, Polly’s abilities in that direction are a good deal underrated.
It’s as good as a play to get her after Jack when he is in one of his
teasing moods. They are like flint and steel, and if Aunt Truth didn’t
separate them the sparks would fly. With a girl like Polly, you have
either to lie awake nights, thinking how you’ll get the better of her, or
else put on a demeanour of gentleness and patience, which serves as a
sort of lightning-rod round which the fire of her fun will play all day
and never strike. Polly is a good deal of a girl. She seems at first to
have a pretty sharp tongue, but I tell you she has a heart in which there
is swimming-room for everybody. This may not be ‘information’ to you,
whom we look upon as our clairvoyant, but it would be news to most
people.
Uncle Doc, Bell, Geoff, Polly, Meg, and I started for the top of Pico
Negro the other morning. Bell rode Villikins, and Polly took a mule,
because she thought the animal would be especially sure-footed. He was;
in fact, he was so sure-footed that he didn’t care to move at all, and we
had to take turns in beating him up to the top. We boys walked for
exercise, which we got to our hearts’ content.
It is only five or six miles from the old Mountain Mill (a picture of
which Jack will send you), and the ascent is pretty stiff climbing,
though nothing terrific. We lost the trail once, and floundered about in
the chaparral for half an hour, till Bell began to make a poem on the
occasion, when we became desperate, and dashed through a thicket of
brush, tearing ourselves to bits, but stumbling on the trail at last.
The view from the top is simply superb. The valleys below are all yellow
with grain-fields and green with vineyards, with here and there the roofs
of a straggling little settlement. The depression in the side of the
mountain (you will observe it in the picture) Polly says has evidently
been ‘bitten out’ by a prehistoric animal, and it turns out to be the
loveliest little cañon imaginable.
We have had one novel experience—that of seeing a tarantula fight; and
not between two, but five, tarantulas. We were about twenty miles from
camp, loping along a stretch of hot, dusty road. Jack got off to cinch
his saddle, and so we all stopped a moment to let our horses breathe. As
I was looking about, at nothing in particular, I noticed a black ball in
the deep dust at the side of the road. It suddenly rolled over on itself
and I called to the boys to watch the fun. We got off, hitched our
horses, and approached cautiously, for I had seen a battle of the same
kind before. There they were—five huge, hairy, dirty, black creatures,
as large as the palm of Dicky’s hand, all locked in deadly combat. They
writhed and struggled and embraced, their long, curling legs fastening on
each other with a sound that was actually like the cracking of bones. It
takes a little courage to stand and watch such a proceeding, for you feel
as if the hideous fellows might turn and jump for you; but they were
doubtless absorbed in their own battle, and we wanted to see the affair
to the end, so we took the risk, if there was any. At last they showed
signs of weariness, but we prodded them up with our riding-whips,
preferring that they should kill each other, rather than do the thing
ourselves. Finally, four of them lay in the dust, doubled up and
harmless, slain, I suppose, by their own poison. One, the conquering
hero, remained, and we dexterously scooped him into a tomato-can that
Jack had tied to his saddle for a drinking-cup, covered him up with a
handkerchief, and drew lots as to who should carry him home to Dr. Paul.
Knowing that the little beasts were gregarious, we hunted about for a
nest, which we might send to you after ousting its disagreeable occupant.
After much searching, we found a group of them—quite a tarantula village,
in fact. Their wonderful little houses are closed on the outside by a
circular, many-webbed mesh, two or three inches across, and this web
betrays the spider’s den to the person who knows the tricks of the trade.
Directly underneath it you come upon the tiny circular trap-door, which
you will notice in the nest we send with these letters. You will see how
wonderfully it is made, with its silken weaving inside, and its bits of
bark and leaves outside; and I know you will admire the hinge, which the
tarantula must have invented, and which is as pretty a bit of workmanship
as the most accomplished mechanic could turn out. We tore away the web
and the door from one of the nests, and then poured water down the hole.
The spider was at home, came out as fast as his clumsy legs would carry
him, and clutched the end of the stick Jack held out to him. Then we
tumbled him into the tomato-can just as he appeared to be making for us.
The two didn’t agree at all. One of them despatched the other on the way
home—the same hero who had killed the other four; but, on hearing his
bloody record, Aunt Truth refused to have him about the camp; so we gave
him an alcohol bath, and you shall see his lordship when you come. As
Dr. Paul says they have been known to clear fourteen feet at a jump,
perhaps you will feel happier to know that he is in alcohol, though their
bite is not necessarily fatal if it is rightly cared for.
The girls have been patronising the landscape by naming every peak,
valley, grove, and stream in the vicinity; and as there is nobody to
object, the names may hold.
We carry about with us a collection of strong, flat stakes, which have
various names painted on them in neat black letters. Jack likes that
kind of work, and spends most of his time at it; for now that Dr. Paul
has bought a hundred acres up here, we are all greatly interested in its
improvement.
Geoff has named the mountain Pico Negro, as I told you, and the little
cañon on its side is called the Giant’s Yawn. Then we have—
Mirror Pool,
The Lone Stump,
Field of the Cloth-of-Gold,
Cosy Nook,
The Imp’s Wash-Bowl,
Dunce-Cap Hill,
The Saint’s Rest, and
Il Penseroso Fall (in honour of Dicky, who was nearly drowned there).
If anybody fails to call these localities by their proper names he has to
pay a fine of five cents, which goes towards beautifying the place. Dr.
Paul has had to pay two fines for Bell, three for Aunt Truth, and seven
for Dicky; so he considers it an ill-judged arrangement.
Our encampment is supposed to be in the Forest of Arden, and Jack has
begun nailing verses of poetry on the trees, like a second Orlando, save
that they are not love-poems at all, but appropriate quotations from
Wordsworth or Bryant. And this brings me to our thrilling rendition of
the play ‘As You Like It,’ last evening; but it is deserving of more than
the passing notice which I can give it here.
One thing, however, I must tell you, as the girls will not write it of
themselves—that, although Bell carried off first honours and fairly
captivated the actors as well as the audience, all three of them looked
bewitching and acted with the greatest spirit, much better than we
fellows did.
Of course we didn’t give the entire play, and we had to ‘double up’ on
some of the characters in the most ridiculous fashion; but the Burtons
helped out wonderfully, Scott playing Oliver, and Laura doing Audrey.
They were so delighted with the camp that Aunt Truth has invited them to
come again on Saturday and stay a week.
At the risk of being called conceited I will also state that we boys
consider that the stage management was a triumph of inventive art; we
worked like beavers for two days, and the results were marvellous, ‘if I
do say so as shouldn’t.’
Just consider we were ‘six miles from a lemon,’ as Sydney Smith would
say, and yet we transformed all out of doors, first into an elegant
interior, and then into a conventional stage forest.
A great deal of work is available for other performances, and so we do
not regret it a bit; we propose doing ‘As You Like It’ again when you are
down here, and meanwhile we give diversified entertainments which Jack
calls variety shows, but which in reality are very chaste and elegant
occasions.
The other night we had a minstrel show, wearing masks of black cambric,
with red mouths painted on them; you should have seen us, all in a dusky
semicircle, seated on boards supported by nail-kegs: it was a scene
better imagined than described. This is certainly the ideal way to live
in summer-time, and we should be perfectly happy and content if you could
only shake off your troublesome cough and come to share our pleasure. We
feel incomplete without you; and no matter how large our party may grow
as the summer progresses, there will always be a vacant niche that none
can fill save the dear little Saint who is always enshrined therein by
all her loyal worshippers, and by none more reverently than her friend,
PHILIP S. NOBLE.
III. THE KNIGHT OF THE SPECTACLES TAKES THE QUILL.
This paper is writ unto her most Royal Highness, our beloved Gold Elsie,
Queen of our thoughts and Empress of all hearts.
You must know, most noble Lady, that one who is your next of kin and high
in the royal favour has laid upon us a most difficult and embarrassing
task.
In our capacity as Director of the Court Games, we humbly suggested the
subjects for the weekly bulletin which your Highness commanded to be
written; but, alas, with indifferent success; for the Courtiers growled
and the Ladies-in-waiting howled at the topics given them for
consideration.
On soliciting our own subjects from the Privy Councillor and Knight of
the Brush, Lord John Howard, he revengefully ordered me to ‘edify’ your
Majesty with wise utterances; as if such poor, rude words as mine could
please the ear that should only listen to the singing of birds, the
babbling of brooks, or the silvery tongue of genius!
When may your devoted subjects hope to see their gracious Sovereign again
in their midst?
The court is fast drifting into dangerous informalities of conduct. The
Princess Bell-Pepper partakes of the odoriferous onion at each noon-day
meal, so that a royal salute would be impossible; the hands of the
Countess Paulina look as if you might have chosen one of your attendants
from ‘Afric’s sunny fountains, or India’s coral strand’; and as for the
Court Chaplain, Rev. Jack-in-the-Pulpit, he has woefully forsaken the
manners of the ‘cloth,’ and insists upon retaining his ancient title of
Knight of the Brush; the Duchess of Sweet Marjoram alone continues
circumspect in walk and mien, for blood will tell, and she is more Noble
than the others.
In our capacity of Court Physician we have thrice relieved your youthful
page, Sir Dicky Winship, of indigestion, caused by too generous
indulgence in the flowing bowl—of milk and cherries; we have also
prescribed for his grace the Duke of Noble, whose ducal ear was poisoned
by the insidious oak leaf.
Your private box awaits you in the Princess’ Theatre, and your Majesty’s
special interpreters of the drama will celebrate your arrival as
gorgeously as it deserves.
The health of our dearly beloved Sovereign engages the constant thought
of all her loyal and adoring subjects; they hope ere long to cull a
wreath of laurel with their own hands and place it on a brow which needs
naught but its golden crown of hair to affirm its queenly dignity. And
as for crown jewels, has not our Empress of Hearts a full store?—two
dazzling sapphires, her eyes; a string of pearls, her teeth; her lips two
rubies; and when she opens them, diamonds of wisdom issue therefrom!
Come! and let the sight of thy royal charms gladden the eyes of thy
waiting people! Issued under the hand of
SIR GEOFFREY STRONG, Bart.,
_Court Physician and Knight of the Spectacles_.
IV. MARGERY’S CONTRIBUTION.
COSY NOOK, _July_ 11, 188–.
MY OWN DEAR ELSIE,—Your weekly chronicle is almost ready for Monday’s
stage, and I am allowed to come in at the close with as many pages of
‘gossip’ as I choose; which means that I may run on to my heart’s content
and tell you all the little things that happen in the chinks between the
great ones, for Uncle Doc has refused to read this part of the letter.
First for some commissions: Aunt Truth asks if your mother will kindly
select goods and engage Mrs. Perkins to make us each a couple of Scotch
gingham dresses. She has our measures, and we wish them simple,
full-skirted gowns, like the last; everybody thinks them so pretty and
becoming. Bell’s two must be buff and pink, Polly’s grey and green, and
mine blue and brown. We find that we haven’t clothes enough for a three
months’ stay; and the out-of-door life is so hard upon our ‘forest suits’
that we have asked Mrs. Perkins to send us new ones as soon as possible.
We have had a very busy and exciting week since Polly began this letter,
for there have been various interruptions and an unusual number of
visitors.
First, there was our mountain climb to the top of Pico Negro; Phil says
he has written you about that, but I hardly believe he mentioned that he
and the other boys worried us sadly by hanging on to the tails of our
horses as they climbed up the steepest places. To be sure they were so
awfully tired that I couldn’t help pitying them; but Uncle Doc had tried
to persuade them not to walk, so that it was their own fault after all.
You cannot imagine what a dreadful feeling it gives one to be climbing a
slippery, rocky path, and know that a great heavy boy is pulling your
horse backwards by the tail. Polly insisted that she heard her mule’s
tail break loose from its moorings, and on measuring it when she got back
to camp she found it three inches longer than usual.
The mule acted like original sin all day, and Polly was so completely
worn-out that she went to bed at five o’clock; Jack was a good deal the
worse for wear too, so that they got on beautifully all day. It is queer
that they irritate each other so, for I am sure that there is no lack of
real friendship between them; but Jack is a confirmed tease, and he seems
to keep all his mischief bottled up for especial use with Polly. I have
tried to keep him out of trouble, as you asked me; and although it gives
me plenty to do, I am succeeding tolerably well, except in his dealings
with Polly. I lecture him continually, but ‘every time he opens his
mouth he puts his foot in it.’
Polly was under a cloud the first of the week. Villikins was sick, and
Dr. Winship sent her to Aunt Truth for a bottle of sweet oil. Aunt Truth
was not in sight, so Polly went to the box of stores and emptied a whole
quart bottle of salad oil into a pail, and Villikins had to take it,
_wheel or whoa_ (Jack’s joke!). Auntie went to make the salad dressing
at dinner-time, and discovered her loss and Polly’s mistake. It was the
last bottle; and as we can’t get any more for a week, the situation was
serious, and she was very much tried. Poor Polly had a good cry over her
carelessness, and came to the dinner-table in a very sensitive frame of
mind. Then what should Jack do but tell Dicky to take Villikins a head
of lettuce for his supper, and ask Polly why she didn’t change his name
from Villikins to Salad-in! Polly burst into tears, and left the table,
while Dr. Paul gave Jack a scolding, which I really think he deserved,
though it was a good joke. The next morning, the young gentleman put on
a pair of old white cotton gloves and his best hat, gathered her a
bouquet of wild flowers, and made her a handsome apology before the whole
party; so she forgave him, and they are friends—until the next quarrel.
On the night before the play, Laura and Scott Burton arrived on
horseback, and the next morning the rest of the family appeared on the
scene. We had sent over to see if Laura would play Audrey on so short
notice, and bring over some odds and ends for costumes. We actually had
an audience of sixteen persons, and we had no idea of playing before
anybody but Aunt Truth and Dicky.
There were three of the Burtons, Pancho, Hop Yet, the people from the
dairy farm, and a university professor from Berkeley, with eight
students. They were on a walking tour, and were just camping for the
night when Scott and Jack met them, and invited them over to the
performance. Geoffrey and Phil were acquainted with three of them, and
Uncle Paul knew the professor.
Laura, Anne, and Scott went home the next morning, but came back in two
days for their week’s visit. The boys like Scott very much; he falls
right into the camp ways, and doesn’t disturb the even current of our
life; and Anne, who is a sweet little girl of twelve, has quite taken
Dicky under her wing, much to our relief.
With Laura’s advent, however, a change came over the spirit of our
dreams, and, to tell the truth, we are not over and above pleased with
it. By the way, she spent last summer at the hotel, and you must have
seen her, did you not? Anyway, Mrs. Burton and Aunt Truth were old
school friends, and Bell has known Laura for two years, but they will
never follow in their mothers’ footsteps. Laura is so different from her
mother that I should never think they were relations; and she has managed
to change all our arrangements in some mysterious way which we can’t
understand. I get on very well with her; she positively showers favours
upon me, and I more than half suspect it is because she thinks I don’t
amount to much. As for the others, she rubs Polly the wrong way, and I
believe she is a little bit jealous of Bell.
You see, she is several months older than the rest of us, and has spent
two winters in San Francisco, where she went out a great deal to parties
and theatres, so that her ideas are entirely different from ours.
She wants every single bit of attention—one boy to help her over the
brooks, one to cut walking-sticks for her, another to peel her oranges,
and another to read Spanish with her, and so on. Now, you know very well
that she will never get all this so long as Bell Winship is in camp, for
the boys think that Bell drags up the sun when she’s ready for him in the
morning, and pushes him down at night when she happens to feel sleepy.
We, who have known Bell always, cannot realise that any one can help
loving her, but there is something in Laura which makes it impossible for
her to see the right side of people. She told me this morning that she
thought Bell had grown so vain and airy and self-conscious that it was
painful to see her. I could not help being hurt; for you know what Bell
is—brimful of nonsense and sparkle and bright speeches, but just as open
as the day and as warm as the sunshine. If she could have been spoiled,
we should have turned her head long ago; but she hasn’t a bit of silly
vanity, and I never met any one before who didn’t see the pretty charm of
her brightness and goodness—did you?
And yet, somehow, Laura sticks needles into her every time she speaks.
She feels them, too, but it only makes her quiet, for she is too proud
and sensitive to resent it. I can see that she is different in her ways,
as if she felt she was being criticised. Polly is quite the reverse. If
anybody hurts her feelings she makes creation scream, and I admire her
courage.
Aunt Truth doesn’t know anything about all this, for Laura is a different
girl when she is with her or Dr. Paul; not that she is deceitful, but
that she is honestly anxious for their good opinion. You remember Aunt
Truth’s hobby that we should never defend ourselves by attacking any one
else, and none of us would ever complain, if we were hung, drawn, and
quartered.
Laura was miffed at having to play Audrey, but we didn’t know that she
could come until the last moment, and we were going to leave that part
out.
‘I don’t believe you appreciate my generosity in taking this thankless
part,’ she said to Bell, when we were rehearsing. ‘Nobody would ever
catch you playing second fiddle, my dear. All leading parts reserved for
Miss Winship, by order of the authors, I suppose.’
‘Indeed, Laura,’ Bell said, ‘if we had known you were coming we would
have offered you the best part, but I only took Rosalind because I knew
the lines, and the girls insisted.’
‘You’ve trained the girls well—hasn’t she, Geoffrey?’ asked Laura, with a
queer kind of laugh.
But I will leave the unpleasant subject. I should not have spoken of it
at all except that she has made me so uncomfortable to-day that it is
fresh in my mind. Bell and Polly and I have talked the matter all over,
and are going to try and make her like us, whether she wants to or not.
We have agreed to be just as polite and generous as we possibly can, and
see if she won’t ‘come round,’ for she is perfectly delighted with the
camp, and wants to stay a month.
Polly says she is going to sing ‘Home Sweet Home’ to her every night, and
drop double doses of the homoeopathic cure for home-sickness into her
tea, with a view of creating the disease.
Good-bye, and a hundred kisses from your loving
MARGERY DAW.
V. THE CAMP POETESS ADDS HER STORE OF MENTAL RICHES TO THE GENERAL FUND.
MY DARLING,—I have a thousand things to tell you, but I cannot possibly
say them in rhyme, merely because the committee insists upon it. I send
you herewith all the poetry which has been written in camp since last
Monday, and it has been a very prosy week.
I have given them to papa, and he says that the best of my own, which are
all bad enough, is the following hammock-song.
I thought it out while I was swinging Margery, and here it is!—
To—fro,
Dreamily, slow,
Under the trees;
Swing—swing,
Drowsily sing
The birds and the bees;
Sleep—rest,
Slumber is best,
Wakefulness sad;
Rest—sleep,
Forget how to weep,
Dream and be glad!
Papa says it is all nonsense to say that slumber is best and wakefulness
sad; and that it is possible to tell the truth in poetry. Perhaps it is,
but why don’t they do it oftener, then? And how was he to know that
Polly and Jack had just gone through a terrible battle of words in which
I was peacemaker, and that Dicky had been as naughty as—Nero—all day?
These two circumstances made me look at the world through blue glasses,
and that is always the time one longs to write poetry.
I send you also Geoff’s verses, written to mamma, and slipped into the
box when we were playing Machine Poetry:—
I know a woman fair and calm,
Whose shining tender eyes
Make, when I meet their earnest gaze,
Sweet thoughts within me rise.
And if all silver were her hair,
Or faded were her face,
She would not look to me less fair,
Nor lack a single grace.
And if I were a little child,
With childhood’s timid trust,
I think my heart would fly to her,
And love—because it must!
And if I were an earnest man,
With empty heart and life,
I think—(but I might change my mind)—
She’d be my chosen wife!
Isn’t that pretty? Oh, Elsie! I hope I shall grow old as beautifully as
mamma does, so that people can write poetry to me if they feel like it!
Here is Jack’s, for Polly’s birthday; he says he got the idea from a real
poem which is just as silly as his:—
A pollywog from a wayside brook
Is a goodly gift for thee;
But a milk-white steed, or a venison sheep,
Will do very well for me.
For you a quivering asphodel
(Two ducks and a good fat hen),
For me a withering hollyhock
(For seven and three are ten!).
Rose-red locks and a pug for thee
(The falling dew is chill),
A dove, a rope, and a rose for me
(Oh, passionate, pale-blue pill!).
For you a greenery, yallery gown
(Hath one tomb room for four?),
Dig me a narrow gravelet here
(Oh, red is the stain of gore!!).
I told Jack I thought it extremely unhitched, but he says that’s the
chief beauty of the imitation.
I give you also some verses intended for Polly’s birthday, which we shall
celebrate, when the day arrives, by a grand dinner.
You remember how we tease her about her love for tea, which she cannot
conceal, but which she is ashamed of all the same.
Well! I have printed the poem on a card, and on the other side Margery
has drawn the picture of a cross old maid, surrounded by seven cats, all
trying to get a drink out of her tea-cup. Then Geoff is going to get a
live cat from the milk ranch near here, and box it up for me to give to
her when she receives her presents at the dinner-table. Won’t it be fun?
OWED TO POLLY
BECAUSE OF HER BIRTHDAY.
She camps among the untrodden ways
Forninst the ‘Mountain Mill’;
A maid whom there are few to praise
And few to wish her ill.
She lives unknown, and few could know
What Pauline is to me;
As dear a joy as are to her
Her frequent cups of tea.
A birthday this dear creature had,
Full many a year ago;
She says she is but just fifteen,
Of course she ought to know.
But still this gift I bring to her,
Appropriate to her age,
Regardless of her stifled scorn,
Or well conceal-ed rage!
She smiles upon these tender lines,
As you all plainly see,
But when she meets me all alone,
How different it will be!
Now comes Geoff’s, to be given with a pretty little inkstand:—
There was a young maiden whose thought
Was so airy it couldn’t be caught;
So what do you think?
We gave her some ink,
And captured her light-winged thought.
Here is Jack’s last on Polly:—
There’s a pert little poppet called Polly,
Who frequently falls into folly!
She’s a terrible tongue
For a ‘creetur’ so young,
But if she were dumb she’d be jolly!
I helped Polly with a reply, and we delivered it five minutes later:—
I’d rather be deaf, Master Jack,
For if only one sense I must lack,
To be rid of your voice
I should always rejoice,
Nor mourn if it never came back!
And now good-night and good-bye until I am allowed to write you my own
particular kind of letter.
The girls and boys are singing round the camp-fire, and I must go out and
join them in one song before we go to bed.
Yours with love, now and always,
BELL.
_P.S._—Our ‘Happy Hexagon’ has become a sort of ‘Obstreperous Octagon.’
Laura and Scott Burton are staying with us. Scott is a good deal of a
bookworm, and uses very long words; his favourite name for me at present
is Calliope; I thought it was a sort of steam-whistle, but Margery thinks
it was some one who was connected with poetry. We don’t dare ask the
boys; will you find out?
VI.
CAMP CHAPARRAL, _July_ 13, 188–.
STUDIO RAPHAEL.
DEAR LITTLE SIS,—The enclosed sketches speak for themselves, or at least
I hope they do. Keep them in your private portfolio, and when I am
famous you can produce them to show the public at what an early age my
genius began to sprout.
At first I thought I’d make them real ‘William Henry’ pictures, but
concluded to give you a variety.
Can’t stop to write another line; and if you missed your regular letter
this week you must not growl, for the sketches took an awful lot of time,
and I’m just rushed to death here anyway.
Love to mother and father.
Your loving brother.
JACK
_P.S._—Polly says you need not expect to recognise that deer by his
portrait, should you ever meet him, as no one could expect to get a
_striking_ likeness at a distance of a half-mile. But, honestly, we have
been closer than that to several deer.