_Bedelia Becomes Literary._
HE found Bedelia fast asleep and apparently in small need of a
sedative, and, leaving the prescription on her pillow, retired to his
perch in a rather disgusted frame of mind. And none too soon, for
immediately the wheels inside him ceased to go around and he became
dead to the world until someone should come along with a key.
Not until next morning was it discovered the baby cub was missing.
Terrified by the dire result of his heartless prank, and apprehensive
of condign punishment, he had flown no one knew whither, and truth
to tell, nobody appeared to care a nickel, but all declared that the
room of such an ill-behaved little animal was indeed preferable to his
company.
For the alligator had been greatly liked and his untimely and wholly
unnecessary taking off was mourned by a large circle of sorrowing
friends.
To be sure, he had always from the very first insisted upon passing
himself off as the real thing, and would have been mortally offended
had anyone intimated that he was not a stuffed alligator. “When I was
really alive,” and “before I came to be stuffed” had been favorite
prefaces to some of his rather long-winded stories concerning his
former life in Florida.
But as the guinea pig remarked, one meets with so many shams in society
that it really doesn’t pay to be too censorious, even if one does know
alligator hide from papier-mache.
Meanwhile Bedelia, stiff and sore from her ducking was not nearly
as sore and stiff as she made herself out to be. The loss of Little
Breeches had rendered her even more furious than had the disappearance
of the twins. Only in this case she was unable to vent her feelings
on the head of her husband, for which he sincerely thanked his lucky
stars. As long as Bedelia posed as an invalid, he did his best to be
kind and gentle, but it was hard work, for his wife was certainly
past-master in the art of being provoking.
Suddenly seized with a new idea, she declared that she was going into
a decline and took to composing poetry in imitation of Miss Palmer, to
whose verses she had often listened while sitting up stiff and straight
and apparently deaf and dumb in the nursery.
As neither Peter Pan nor Bedelia could write, the embryo poetess had no
means whatever of recording her literary ventures and was obliged to
depend upon her memory for the reproduction of her ideas. And as she
not infrequently forgot the most telling points, the result was often
disastrous. Her newly discovered gift was, of course, no secret to the
society of the nursery and all were anxious to hear some of the verses
which Bedelia had, thus far, kept entirely to herself. It was quite
evident to any casual observer that Bedelia had become possessed of the
divine afflatus. She would sit for hours at a time gazing mournfully
into space, looking at one spot until, as Tim the crow vowed, she
very nearly looked a hole through it. “Bedelia-sit-by-the-hour” he
christened her, being something of a wit himself, although he was too
well-mannered ever to thrust the fact on anyone else.
[Illustration]
At length curiosity became unbearable, and the stuffed guinea pig
who was looked upon as a person of culture, was deputed to request
that Bedelia would give a reading of her own compositions. To which
proposition she readily, not to say delightedly, consented, and it was
at once arranged that the affair should take place that evening in the
nursery, of course.
A platform, consisting of two collar boxes, was erected on the edge of
the window sill where all might hear and see; and at the appointed hour
every seat was taken, to say nothing of those who were obliged to stand.
The fair author was somewhat late, but after some delay the wooden
soldier, who had been appointed manager of the entertainment, announced
that it would commence. And Bedelia, bowing languidly, recited the
following:
EPITAPH ON THE LATE ALLIGATOR P. M.
The Alligator, lo, is dead!
Bereft of his head,
His life breath sped,
And to another sphere his spirit fled.
This was received with great applause, only one rude and irreligious
listener arose in the background and demanded to know where the epitaph
was to be inscribed, adding that the remains of the departed, as they
all very well knew, had been deposited in the kitchen coal scuttle.
Could an epitaph be recorded on a coal hod?
This unkind inquiry, while rather acting as a wet blanket, raised a
storm of discussion which was finally quelled by Tim, who remarked
that it was not absolutely necessary to inscribe it anywhere. He also
suggested that the P. M. (papier mache) be changed to R. T., as the
alligator had always considered himself the Real Thing.
The vexed question having been amicably disposed of, the artist of
the evening proceeded to the second number on the program, which was
entitled
“A PASTORAL.”
The rain was very wet indeed,
The trees were standing still;
The river was running the usual way,
For it never could travel up hill.
“Of course it couldn’t,” remarked the guinea pig. “Why should it?
And how about the trees? One never sees them running around. And why
shouldn’t the rain be wet? Did one ever hear of dry rain except the
Raines law?”
As these remarks were uttered in a loud voice, they were perfectly
audible to all the audience. Immediately a hubbub of criticisms,
pro and con, arose, in the midst of which the two collar boxes that
constituted the platform became so energetic that they suddenly parted
company, precipitating Bedelia to the ground.
In the confusion that followed it would be but reasonable to conclude
that the entertainment was ended. Peter Pan lugged off his wife, after
having applied a smelling bottle in the usual place, and the cause of
all the disaster marched off to bed singing at the top of its shrill
voice:
“See them in the windows,
See them everywhere;
Shapeless little creatures
Called the Teddy bears.”
This verse, which had been picked up from a local paper, was
immediately adopted by the faction unfriendly to Bedelia, and for a
time her life was made miserable by hearing it on every side. For it
must be confessed that Bedelia was particularly proud of her figure,
and to be called shapeless was more than her strength could well bear.
[Illustration]
The crisp days of Autumn had come and already Bob was talking of
nutting parties. The spirit of Hallowe’en was in the air and the brisk
weather sent roses to Sally’s cheeks and a frosty sparkle to her
dancing eyes. Bob remarked that the tip of her little nose resembled a
bachelor’s button. But Sally took all his teasing good naturedly in the
spirit in which it was sent.
Dr. North’s residence was situated well uptown in the Forest City and
almost directly opposite stood a small park, presented by one of the
wealthy residents in memory of a little daughter who had died in years
long gone by. “Grace Park” was one of Sally’s favorite haunts and here
she spent many delightful hours feeding the pigeons, the guinea hens
and the gray squirrels.
To be sure, she was not very fond of the guinea hens, although she
rather enjoyed them when roasted. They were ugly, awkward creatures,
and made such a horrible clacking noise. And the pigeons were no
rarity; Bob had a whole coop full of them. But the squirrels were dear,
cosy, furry, gray creatures, with their fluffy, feathery tails and
their sharp bright eyes, and little paws clasped across their breasts
as they sat up on their haunches, snuffing the air. So tame they were,
for nobody thought of molesting them, that they were ready to spring on
Sally’s knee at the mere sight of a nut and take the morsel from her
hand.
How still the child sat while her furry friend cracked nut after nut,
picking out the kernels and devouring them with relish. And then, when
he could eat no more, scampering off to bury the rest of his plunder,
first carefully biting off the blossom end in order that it might not
germinate when covered up in the ground.
The child thought the wisdom of the furry folk very wonderful indeed
and wondered if the little fellows ever found the hiding places of
their treasures in after days.
Chip, as Sally had named her favorite squirrel, was so tame that he
often followed her out of the park and across the street to the kitchen
door, which he was not slow to enter, for well he knew that cook kept a
generous store of nuts in the pantry for his especial benefit.
[Illustration]
On one beautiful afternoon Sally was sitting on her favorite bench in
the Park under a spreading maple, whose gorgeous foliage of crimson and
fine gold cast strange moving shadows on the grass as the west wind
gently swayed the branches.
Perched on her knees was Chip, busily engaged in demolishing a fine
walnut. Having finished it and thrown away the shell, he sat up gravely
with his little paws crossed on his breast, as is the fashion with
squirrels at attention, and gently closed his eyes while Sally softly
stroked his soft fur and scratched his round ears, a process which he
enjoyed luxuriously.
After a few moments he opened his bright eyes and looking up into the
child’s face remarked: “Sally, do you know what night this is going to
be?”
“Hallowe’en,” responded Sally promptly. “And Bob and I are going to
have jack-o’-lanterns, and duck for apples and have lots of fun.”
“So will we see lots of fun,” replied Chip with an important air. Sally
fancied there was something significant in his glance. But as it was
growing late she gently placed him on the bench and trotted home, while
Chip frisked away to his cosy little cottage in the branches of the
maple tree.
At the front door of the house the child met Peter Pan. He hurried
toward her, evidently bursting with suppressed excitement.
[Illustration]