CRICKET
[Illustration: HOW CRICKET DELIVERED THE MESSAGE.]
CRICKET
BY
ELIZABETH WESTYN TIMLOW
ILLUSTRATED BY
HARRIET R. RICHARDS
BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1895_,
BY ESTES AND LAURIAT
_Typography and Printing by
C. H. Simonds & Co.
Electrotyping by Geo. C. Scott & Sons
Boston, U. S. A._
TO
My Little God-Daughter,
HELEN MUNN.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CRICKET 11
II. THE QUARREL 22
III. DAMMING THE BROOK 34
IV. THE CONSEQUENCES 43
V. FOURTH OF JULY 50
VI. MAKING ICE-CREAM 61
VII. MOPSIE 71
VIII. WHAT MOPSIE DID 80
IX. THE KITTENS 87
X. ELSPETH 97
XI. IN THE GARRET 104
XII. THE TRAMPS 114
XIII. MAMIE HECKER 124
XIV. LYNCH-LAW 133
XV. GOING TO THE CIDER MILL 144
XVI. THE RUNAWAY 151
XVII. GOING BLACKBERRYING 158
XVIII. COMING HOME 172
XIX. WHAT ZAIDEE AND HELEN FOUND 183
XX. MAMIE’S MESSAGE 195
XXI. THE NEW COW 204
XXII. MAMIE’S REPENTANCE 215
XXIII. WHEN MAMMA WAS A LITTLE GIRL 223
XXIV. MAMMA’S BANK 234
XXV. GOING BACK TO TOWN 242
XXVI. CRICKET’S SHORT MEMORY 254
XXVII. CRICKET’S BOOMERANG 267
XXVIII. KENNETH’S DAY 284
XXIX. A STRAWBERRY HUNT 293
XXX. LEFT BEHIND 309
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
HOW CRICKET DELIVERED THE MESSAGE _Frontispiece_
PAGE
HILDA BY THE BROOK 25
CELEBRATING THE 4TH OF JULY 57
EUNICE AND CRICKET WATCHING THE OTHER CHILDREN 89
CRICKET AND EUNICE THREATEN TO PUNISH MAMIE 135
CRICKET TRYING TO CATCH THE MINNOWS 165
CRICKET FINDS EUNICE UNCONSCIOUS 209
CRICKET AND ’MANDA 317
CRICKET
CHAPTER I.
CRICKET.
Kayuna was the loveliest home in the world. At least, the Ward children
said so. The family usually went out of the city as soon as the
children’s schools closed, in June, and stayed in the country till quite
the first of October.
Kayuna was also the name of a brook that danced gayly through the lower
part of the grounds of the summer home, and that was a never-failing
delight to the children. The house itself was wide, old-fashioned and
roomy, with _such_ a splendid great garret as you never saw before, for
rainy days.
Do you want to know how many Wards there were? Well, let me count. Of
course, first to be mentioned came Doctor papa, and dear, beautiful
mamma, who was never very strong. Then there was Donald, who was
seventeen, and a big fellow, as well, and Marjorie, who was two years
younger, but who already began to give herself grown-up airs. Eunice was
next, nearly twelve. Then came Cricket, the “middleman.” They never knew
whether to take her with the older ones, or leave her at home with the
small fry. Donald would call her “trundlebed trash,” to her great
indignation. Her name was really Jean, but she was such a chirpy, cheery
little soul, that Cricket seemed just to suit her. Below her were the
six-year-old twins; and, lastly, baby Kenneth, everybody’s pet, who was
nearly three.
Wasn’t that a house full? And such a noise as they were equal to when
they set about it! Mamma often said that it was fortunate that the roof
was high and the walls were strong, else surely the house would have
come down about their ears.
This year, to the wild delight of the entire family, papa had decided to
go out into the country very early, on mamma’s account, for she needed
the country air. So the middle of April found them comfortably settled
for a long, lovely summer.
It was so early that papa thought it quite worth while for Eunice and
Cricket, at least, to go to the country school for the rest of the term,
while the older ones had lessons at home with him.
Cricket, especially, was greatly delighted with this arrangement. Her
little friend, Hilda Mason, of whom she was very fond, of course went to
school, and it was such fun going together. The little girls were
delighted to be with each other, and Hilda always looked forward to the
summer, when Cricket would come out into the country.
Hilda was a year older than Cricket, for she was eleven in June, and
Cricket was ten in August. By reason of this extra year, she always
thought Cricket should do just as she, Hilda, wanted.
Hilda was an only child, and lived with her mother and grandmother, who
thought her perfect. Cricket, on the other hand, was very used to giving
up her own way, as children in a large family generally are. Hilda was a
quiet, demure little girl, with polite, grown-up manners. She always
remembered to say “How-do-you do!” and that mamma sent her love, and she
never forgot any errand she was sent on.
Cricket was a heedless little witch, and rarely, by any chance,
remembered anything she was told to do. Her father always said that any
errand she was given meant two, for she was never known to bring home
both her package and her change at the same time.
Hilda was pretty, with big brown eyes and long, orderly, golden curls.
She was plump and straight, and rather proper.
Cricket had short, brown curls, every one of which took a different
kink, and gray-blue eyes that twinkled like merry little stars. She was
thin and tall for her age, and her papa used to tease her by calling her
long legs “knitting-needles,” and offering them to mamma for her fancy
knitting.
Every morning Hilda called for Cricket on her way to school. If Cricket
had gone off earlier, having been sent on some errand, as often
happened, she left a little red stone on the gate-post, as a sign to her
little friend that she had gone. If Hilda came by early and couldn’t
stop, as seldom happened, she picked up the little red stone from its
hiding-place, and left it for Cricket to see.
But, usually, Hilda turned in at the gates promptly at twenty minutes of
nine, and walked up the long avenue, around to the side piazza. Then she
would open the door, and call gently up the side staircase, “Ready,
Cricket?”
A voice from above would answer, promptly, “I’m coming. Have you got
your sums?” and Cricket would come out of her room at the head of the
stairs, giving a last, smoothing touch to her kinky hair.
Then she would plunge down stairs, usually arriving at the bottom by way
of the bannisters, provided she did not trip at the top and come down
head-foremost. Next would follow a wild search for her hat, until she
remembered she had left it last night in the grape arbour; then her
sacque must be found, and that was probably hanging on some tree,—where
she had taken it off to climb better. Strange to say, her books were
generally at hand, for heedless Cricket loved to study.
Hilda always carried her school-books in a neat little bag, for she said
that a strap bent the edges of the books. Cricket strapped hers as
tightly as possible, for she liked to swing them by the long end as she
walked along. Besides, they made a splendid thing to throw at a stray
cat,—which she never hit.
By the time she was fairly ready, Eunice would appear, fresh and sweet
and unhurried. Then Hilda and Eunice would walk quietly down the piazza
steps, while Cricket would say, “Want to see me jump off the piazza as
far as that stone?” Off she would shoot through the air, and, alighting,
would race down the avenue, to wait panting at the gate till Hilda and
Eunice should come up. Then for two minutes, perhaps, they would keep
side by side, while they talked over those dreadful decimals, which they
hated so.
Hilda and Eunice kept straight along the shady path, but Cricket was
seldom known to walk. She ran, she skipped, she danced, she went
backward, and varied the way still further by betaking herself to the
stone fences, wherever they were smooth enough on top.
When they arrived at school Hilda was orderly, cool and sweet, and as
trim as if she had just left her mother’s hands; Cricket had riotous
looking clothes, hot, tumbled curls, hat hanging off her head, but was
always dimpling and smiling, and serenely sure that every one would
greet her with a shout.
Eunice sat with her particular friend, Edith Craig, but Cricket and
Hilda shared the same desk, to the distraction of the long-suffering
teacher. She was always threatening to separate them, but her heart
would melt, at the last minute, at their beseeching looks and penitent
vows to be good and study hard, and never whisper any more. They usually
did have their lessons, as it happened, for they were both bright, and
both fond of study.
Hilda was not altogether a favourite, for she was apt to be both selfish
and exacting, often a little jealous, and always determined to be first
in everything. She was quick in all her studies but her arithmetic, and
here Cricket excelled, greatly to Hilda’s disgust. Many a time she slyly
rubbed out Cricket’s just completed work, and the surprised child would
presently whisper, “Did you ever! I’ve gone and rubbed out my
to-morrow’s examples by mistake. Did you ever see such a goose?” and by
the time she had done them again, Hilda would have been able to make up
her work.
Altogether their friendship was just on this basis: Hilda always wanted
her own way, and Cricket was willing she should have it; so they got on
swimmingly.
Nevertheless, one day they quarrelled. It happened in this wise:
Playing charades was one of the children’s favourite amusements. At
Kayuna there was a fine, large nursery, opening off the wide hall, which
gave a splendid field for action, and the good-natured nurse was always
ready to help them out with their plans.
One rainy Saturday the whole troop were indoors, and after luncheon
charades were voted for. There were Eunice and her little friend, Edith
Craig, Hilda, Cricket, the twins, Helen and Zaidee, and Kenneth.
Kenneth was a star, by the way. He was always willing to be pulled about
like a rag-doll, and really seemed to enjoy it. They would roll him up
for a caterpillar, and stand him up straight for a post, and sprawl him
out for a spider. He would take any position they put him in, as if he
were wax, and would inquire anxiously, after the scene was over, “Did I
do zat all right?”
On this particular day, for some reason, none of them were quite as
good-natured as usual. Perhaps they had been together rather too long,
for Edith and Hilda had both arrived quite early, and had stayed to
luncheon. Perhaps, also, the unusual confinement in the house made them
all a little irritable.
The children usually divided themselves into actors and audience, by
turns. Cricket and Hilda had the stage now, with Kenneth as support.
Eunice and Edith, with the twins, therefore, were audience.
The little actors were searching their brains for a new word to act.
“Penobscot,” and “connundrum,” and “goldsmith,” and “antidote” had
already been used, with dozens of others.
“I know,” cried Cricket, brightening up. “Let’s take _secure_.”
“_Secure?_ Well, how shall we do it?” questioned Hilda.
“Why, sick-cure, of course,” answered Cricket, promptly. “Won’t that do?
In the first scene, Kenneth would be sick—”
“And I’d be the doctor,” put in Hilda.
“And I’d be his mother,” went on Cricket.
“And I’d come and see him and give him some pills—”
“And in the next scene we’d _cure_ him.”
“I ’on’t tate any pills,” announced the baby behind them, unexpectedly,
and very decidedly.
“Oh, yes, you will,” said Hilda, impatiently, “they won’t taste bad—just
little make-believe pills.”
“I don’t lite ’em,” wailed the baby, rebelling, for the first time,
against his elders. He was tired, poor little fellow, for he had gone
through many experiences that afternoon. He had been wound on to a
lap-board with shawls, to represent an Esquimau baby. He had been placed
on a very insecure table, with newspaper wings tied on his bare
shoulders, to pose as a Cupid. Besides this, he had been Daniel in the
lion’s den, with Zaidee and Helen as lions, growling and spitting so
frightfully around him, and making such an alarming pretence of eating
him up, that he had fled, in sudden dismay, to the audience, to take
refuge behind Cricket, who was always his protection in times of
trouble.
Now, the suggestion of pills was more than the little fellow could
stand.
“Just pretend, baby dear,” coaxed Cricket. “See, I’ll sit down here with
this funny old cap on, and this shawl over my shoulders, and I’ll play
I’m your mamma,” dressing herself as she spoke. “And then,” she went on,
“you can lie on my lap, this way, and Hilda will put on Donald’s
overcoat and those big spectacles. Just see how funny she looks! and
she’ll put that fur cap on her head, and she’ll come in and feel your
pulse, and say, ‘Very sick child, marm.’ And then, she will only just
_pretend_ to give you some pills.”
Kenneth still looked doubtful, but Cricket caught up a shawl and wrapped
it around him, and drew his head down.
“That’s a good boy. Put your head down on mamma’s arm,” she said, still
coaxingly.
“I doesn’t ’ant to,” fretted Kenneth, but, nevertheless, he stretched
himself obediently on Cricket’s lap. As his head dropped back, he shut
his eyes very tightly, as he was told, and opened his mouth very wide,
as he always did, in the funniest way, whenever he shut his eyes to
order.