A VERY wide awake boy lay in bed, hoping each moment to hear the
staircase clock strike six. He had been awake such an enormous time,
and not once had the clock sounded, so he felt sure it must come
directly.
Last year at six o'clock his father had come in from the next room,
had picked up Jock bodily and had carried him off to his mother. And
Jock had chattered happily till seven o'clock, when it had been decreed
that the great business of presents might begin. But this year, being
so much older, he was to jump up and go to her himself, only not until
six. And Jock had promised.
So he waited and waited, and no sound came from beyond the closed door.
Of course she was asleep.
He wondered and wondered what Mum's present would be. One thing he
longed to possess, and that was—a real big man's pocket-book, like
Dad's. But mother did not know this ardent desire of her little son. It
meant so much and went so deep that he had not breathed it even to her.
Perhaps he was afraid of being laughed at. Such a pocket-book could be
of no possible use to a little fellow like him; none the less, he did
want it, vehemently.
Then there was Dad, dear, kind, merry Dad, out in India. Most
"certaintly" he would not have forgotten the birthday. And Grannie
always sent something, and so did Aunt Judith—only from her it was
commonly a book. And though Jock loved reading, there are books "and"
books in the world. Aunt Judith's choice was not always the same that
Jock's would have been.
"Dong—" came suddenly in a deep resounding tone. He lay still, and
counted. "Dong—" that was two. "Dong—" that was three. "Dong—" four.
"Dong—" five. One more—only one. It must "certaintly" be six.
But the one more "dong" failed to sound. He held his breath with
listening, and soon he gave up hope. It was only five. Another whole
long hour to wait. Jock kicked and squirmed and tossed to and fro in
his disappointment, but nothing could alter the fact.
How to get through this terrifically long spell was the question. He
had promised to stay in bed and to make no noise, but of course he
couldn't lie there doing nothing.
First he tried counting. He counted up to a hundred, and then up to
three hundred, and he was as wide awake as ever. Then he shut his eyes,
and tried to see pictures and patterns, and still he was wide awake.
Presently he started saying some of the multiplication-table backwards,
which is no easy task, and even that failed to bring sleepiness.
Getting tired of figures he pranced about under the bed-clothes, and
put his head where his feet were meant to be, while the said feet
kicked about on the pillow.
This made a refreshing change, and he felt happy—till sudden fright
seized him lest, under blankets and counterpane, he might fail to hear
the clock. In a panic, he whirled himself right way round, and wondered
if perhaps it had already struck. The time since five o'clock seemed
enormously long; it almost "must" be past six now. This particular
clock, unlike many big clocks, did not sound the quarters. Dire
temptation arose to creep across the room, to open the door one tiny
crack, and to whisper—"Mummie—are you awake?"
But what if it should be not quite six? And what of his promise?
He sighed like a grampus—if grampuses ever sigh—but he stayed in bed.
And at last even that almost endless hour did come to an end. Again the
deep-toned "Dong" sounded—six strokes. With one bound Jock was out of
bed, racing across in the dark to the door, against which he banged.
"Gently, my boy—don't hurt yourself."
"Mummie—are you awake? May I come?" And in another instant he was
cuddling down within her arms.
"God bless my own dear little son, and make him a good, true, brave
man," she said softly. "Many, many happy returns, my darling."
"Mummie, it's been most awfully hard—waiting all that time. But I
didn't disturb you, did I? Didn't you want my birthday to begin too?"
She held him fast and laughed a little. Had Jock been older, he might
have heard in that soft laughter a note which told of tears not very
far away.
"Must we wait till seven o'clock now?"
"Hadn't we better? You could see nothing yet. Daddy made us wait last
year."
Jock agreed, and talked without a break till seven strokes boomed
solemnly out. It was light enough now for him to see a small table
close by, covered with packages.
"Are all those for 'me'? Oh, I say!"
Supremely happy, he drew the pile over on the bed, and set to work, not
hurrying. With steady fingers he untied and opened one parcel after
another, examining the contents of each with happy little murmurs, and
sometimes a big "Oh!" of joy, glancing again and again at his mother
for sympathy. She lay and watched him in silence.
Delight of delights—here was the very thing he most had wanted. A real
big man's pocket-book, bound in Russia leather, with pockets and blank
pages and pencil, all complete. How "did" Mummie guess? And what did it
matter that he had not one single pocket into which it could go? He had
his wish, and with a pocket-book of this size he felt himself already a
man.
Then he found a grand box of soldiers, beautiful British-made soldiers
in the uniform of the Guards. And a small railway-engine which, when
wound up, would go by itself, drawing a string of little carriages.
Both these were from his father.
A fine box of bricks had arrived from Grannie. Also, he found a puzzle
from Jane, the housemaid, and a picture-book from the cook, and a knife
from one of his school-fellows, and a bouncing india-rubber ball from
another. And lastly, as expected, a book from Aunt Judith. Jock read
the name aloud.
"'Fizzingcall Joggraphy.' What does 'Fizzingcall' mean?"
"'Physical Geography.' That means the part of geography which tells us
about mountains and rivers and earthquakes. You will like to read about
earthquakes."
"I don't like Joggraphy."
"Oh, I think you do—or you will some day. And it is so kind of Aunt
Judith to send this. See—she has written inside the cover—'If Jock is
not old enough yet to care for this interesting book, he will be glad
to have it by-and-by.'"
Jock was quite content to wait for that doubtful future. He shoved
the brown volume aside, and turned to the soldiers and the engine as
much—oh, very much—more interesting. And he could hardly bear to have
the big, lovely pocket-book for one moment out of his hands.
"You will have to write and thank Aunt Judith presently. She likes to
hear quickly. No—I mustn't help you, darling. She always says she would
rather have letters written entirely by yourself."
Jock looked serious, for spelling was not his strong point. Meanwhile
his birthday had begun splendidly, and the rest of it, including a
tea-party of school-fellows, proved a great success. Mrs. Munro seemed
as full of fun as everybody.
And only one day later he did get his letter written to Aunt Judith:
"MY DEAR AUNT JUDITH,
"Thank you awfuly for the book. I think praps Id better read it when
Im older. I had lots of joly things, and we played games, and it was
awfuly joly. Please thank Grannie awfuly for the briks, and Im going to
write. I do like briks, and its awfuly joly having birthdays, and Mum
sends her love.
"Your afecshunit
"JOCK."