THE RUNAWAY.
Poor little Kenneth, well-wedged into the corner, was really in danger
of being seriously hurt by a reeling barrel, and gave vent to steady
howls of terror. Zaidee and Helen clung to each other, and screamed in
concert, as they pitched this way and that. The cart bumped and rattled
along over the rough lane that led down to the mill.
Eunice and Hilda and Cricket were still sitting, with their feet
swinging over the tail-board, holding on for dear life.
“Whoa! gee! haw!” shouted Eunice, steadily; but none of them realized
that they were actually in any danger.
Suddenly the cart gave a tremendous lurch over a big stone, and then up
a high “thank-you-ma’am.” The tail-board gave way, and the astonished
girls were jerked violently forward, and then suddenly found themselves
sitting in the dusty road. And on went the oxen.
The little ones, still more frightened when they found themselves alone
in the cart, redoubled their howls. They were badly bruised with the
jolting, drenched with cider, and scared out of their little wits.
“Let’s jump out, too,” screamed Zaidee, wild with terror.
“I’m ’fraid to,” sobbed Helen.
“I’m ’fraid to stay here—we—could—roll—out—just—as—easy,” the words
coming in jerks, as the runaway team turned a dangerously sharp corner,
nearly upsetting the reeling cart.
“I’m going to say my prayers!” said Zaidee, with sudden inspiration.
“Then le’s jump.”
So Zaidee steadied herself on her poor little battered knees, by the
side of the cart, but she could think of nothing but her little evening
prayer. At the top of her lungs, so “God could hear,” she prayed:
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.
And this I ask for Jesus’ sake, Amen!”
“Come on, Helen!”
And before they could have said “Jack Robinson,” out they rolled, a
wretched little mixed-up bundle of bewildered arms and legs and bumped
heads, in the dust. And on went the oxen.
Back in the distance came Thomas’s voice.
“Whoa, thar! ye fool-critters!” his nearest approach to a “swear-word.”
Thomas, himself, came lumbering along as heavily, but much less swiftly,
than the runaway pair.
Cricket and Eunice and Hilda were making the dust fly with their brisk
little heels, as they, too, shouted in steady chorus, “Whoa, Judge!
Whoa, Cap’n! gee! haw!”
Will and Archie came on at a steady run, adding their yells to the
uproar, and making the terrified oxen sure that they were pursued by
demons.
Kenneth’s steady shrieks had not lessened in volume, but he was getting
hoarse, and his sobbing breaths came shorter.
The cart was firm and strong, with closely fitted boards, so the poor
child was now sitting in quite a tossing sea of cider. The fast-emptying
barrel reeled more and more, and the frightened baby beat it with both
hands.
Now the oxen were well on the home stretch. They had reached the short
steep hill by the farmer’s house. The farmer’s wife, hearing the
shrieks, had run out on the little bridge, and now saw the cart come in
sight at the top of the hill.
She caught off her blue checked apron, and ran forward flourishing it,
and screaming to her husband,—
“’Gustus John! ’Gustus John! Jedge and Cap’n are runnin’ away!”
’Gustus John appeared at the bars.
“Wal, ye don’t say! Here! run ’em into the brook, ’Mandy, ’n I’ll stop
’em thar.”
’Mandy—otherwise Mrs. Hecker—waved her blue banner and cried “Whoa!”
“Whoa!” in shrill soprano, heading the oxen off, as they came plunging
down the hill. At the sight of ’Mandy and her apron, they sheered off
into the side-track through the brook; but there stood ’Gustus John,
with a big stick and outstretched arms, barring their way, and shouting
tremendous “Whoas!” in familiar tones.
Whether the oxen were tired with their unusual exercise, or whether they
simply concluded it was time to stop, I do not know, but Judge and
Captain brought up as suddenly as they had started, and, with quivering
sides and tossing heads, they stood stock-still in the brook.
In a moment poor little dirty Kenneth was in ’Mandy’s motherly arms, and
shortly after the whole excited group were gathered on the bridge.
“Nice-lookin’ passel of young uns you air,” commented ’Mandy. “I do vum!
ef you children don’t beat the Dutch. Like as not them oxen would have
run into the brook anyway and upsot the cart, ef I hadn’t hev ben here,
and this little chap would hev ben drownded, sure.”
“Them children’s regular Jonahses,” grumbled Thomas, in short gasps for
breath. “Never takes ’em nowhere thet suthin doesn’t happen onto some on
’em. I never see oxen run away but once before, and there ain’t no
stoppin’ ’em.”
“Wonder is that they hain’t all killed,” said ’Gustus John. “It’s a real
meracle that this ’ere little chap didn’t git his head broke with thet
’ere bar’l, a-rollin’ round like a pea in a pod.”
“Yer ma ’n’ yer pa ’n’ ’Liza hes all ben down here, a-lookin’ fur yer
everywhere,” said Mrs. Hecker. “It’s past seven, an’ they thought you
was lost, sure. Here they be, now;” and down the road came an excited
group of house-people.
“Oh, where have you been, you naughty, naughty children!” cried mamma,
hurrying on ahead. “We have been so frightened about you.”
Papa took Kenneth from ’Mandy’s arms and held him up.
“Well, of all tough specimens! Mamma, this can’t be your young man.”
Poor Kenneth! his broad-brimmed hat hung down his back, held around his
chin by a soaking wet elastic cord, which left inky stains on his
throat. His sticky curls stood up stiffly in plastered masses, all over
his head. His face was begrimed with dirt and cider and tears. His kilts
hung in festoons from his belt. His stockings were down, dropping over
his shoes. His whole attire was soaking wet, and smelling like a
lager-beer saloon, his father said.
“This is not your young man,” repeated papa, holding him at arm’s
length, in spite of his struggles.
“I want my mamma!” wailed Kenneth. “I sought I was a big man, an’ I’se
nossing but a little boy!”
And mamma hugged her bruised and dirty baby close to her dainty cambric
dress, with a heart so filled with thankfulness as she learned of the
real danger that the little fellow had been in, that she could not give
the girls, then, the lecture that they certainly deserved for their
disobedience, and which their father saw that they had, later.