KENNETH’S DAY.
Like most days, this particular day of Kenneth’s began in the morning.
He slept in a crib in mamma’s large room, for the twins and Eliza had
the nursery all to themselves.
Every morning, as soon as it was dawn, Kenneth would begin to stir like
a little bird in his white nest, and then, half asleep as he was, he
would scramble quietly out of his crib, gather up his long, white
nightie, and steal softly over to the big bed across the room.
Then came the never-failing joke of clapping his little fat hands over
papa’s sleepy eyes, with a chirping,—
“Dess who’s here, papa!” and papa, of course, never could guess, and
always named over the whole flock, from seventeen-year-old Donald down,
till the baby called out, gleefully,—
“It’s you’ Tennet, papa!” and scrambled like a little monkey into his
arms. He was such a sunny little creature, always beaming on the world
in general, with such radiant good-temper, that it was no wonder he was
everybody’s pet.
This particular morning was the seventh of November, just before the
Presidential election. Kenneth was astir earlier than usual, for some
reason, and it was still dark when he crept with unusual caution across
the floor, and stuck his little fists into papa’s eyes.
He lifted him up, without his customary frolic, saying, sleepily,—
“Be a good baby, Kenneth, and let papa have another snooze.” So the
little fellow cuddled down in his father’s arms, and lay as still as a
mouse, with his arms tight around papa’s neck, and his golden curls
drifting across his face and getting dreadfully in his way. At last papa
was aroused by a patient little sigh.
“Now, then, Kenneth,” he said, suddenly hoisting him up in the air, “do
you know that papa must go and vote to-day?”
“Let Tennet do, too, papa?” he suggested, coaxingly.
“Not to-day, my little man. You’ll have to wait for eighteen years.”
“Tan I do res’day?” this was as near as his crooked little tongue could
come to yesterday, which was his name for any indefinite period.
“We’ll see, my son. By-the-way, what are your politics?”
Kenneth sat up on papa’s chest and looked wise. He knew quite well when
papa was teasing him.
“You are a Republican, I suppose, you monkey?”
Kenneth shook his head till his sunny curls fell over his eyes.
“What! not a Republican? You don’t mean to tell me you’re a Democrat, do
you?”
Kenneth considered.
“Es, I is. I is a Democrack,” he said, decidedly, conquering the c’s, as
he sometimes did, with a mighty effort.
“Very well, then,” said papa, with equal decision, “then you must go
away from me. I can’t have any little Democracks in my bed.”
To his surprise, the baby slowly slipped from his arms and slid down to
the floor without a word. Papa watched him with amusement; never
thinking he would hold out.
“Change your mind, baby,” he said, coaxingly. “You’re not a Democrack
now, are you?”
Kenneth looked back, wistfully. He was half-way across the floor.
“I _is_ a Demo-crack—” he answered, without wavering.
“Then you’ll have to get into your own crib,” said papa, teasingly.
Without a word the baby went on, climbed up on a chair and tumbled head
over heels into his own nest.
Fifteen minutes later, when papa got up to dress, he found his little
son cuddled down in a forlorn little ball, with his thumb tucked into
his mouth, and his blue eyes grave and wide.
Kenneth hid his head on papa’s shoulder, when he lifted him up and
petted him; but he had nothing to say. By-and-by he wriggled away from
him and crept up to mamma, who was sitting before the dressing-table,
brushing her hair, as bright as baby’s own.
“Mamma,” he whispered, very softly, “I isn’t a Demo-crack now, but I
don’t want papa to see me chain my mind.”
Kenneth’s mind was destined to give him more trouble that very day, for,
with all his sweetness, he was very persistent.
That afternoon he was in the library, all alone with mamma. The elder
girls were all off, and the twins were out with Eliza, and papa was
making his daily rounds among his patients, so Kenneth and mamma had the
blazing wood fire—for the early autumn days were chilly—and the sunny
library all to themselves.
Mamma was sewing on some dainty white material, and Kenneth was amusing
himself in his usual quiet fashion. There was a lower shelf, close to
the floor, where the children’s books were kept, and there stood a long
line of attractive, red-bound Rollo books, fourteen of them. These
always had a special fascination for Kenneth. He would pull them all
out, and build houses with them, or turn over the leaves, looking at
pictures, talking busily to himself all the time.
At last he tired of them, and ran away to something else.
“Put up the Rollo books, darling,” said mamma.
“’Es, I put zem up,” said Kenneth, but he kept on pursuing some belated
flies.
“See, mamma!” he cried, “I dust pote ’em, so, and zey all fall down.”
“Poor flies,” said mamma, pitifully. “Don’t kill them. That is not
kind.”
“All right, I won’t,” Kenneth answered. Presently mamma, attracted by
the stillness, turned around. Kenneth was still standing by the window,
with his little forefinger pointed at a poor, weak fly.
“F’y, f’y,” he said, half-aloud, “does you want to do to heaven? Do
zere, zen!” and down came his plump finger, crushing the fly.
“Kenneth,” said mamma, to draw off his attention, “come now and pick up
the books you had.”
Kenneth, for a wonder, looked very unwilling. Sending flies to heaven
was much more interesting. However, he got up slowly, and went across
the room, looking at mamma from under his long lashes.
“Pick them all up, baby,” said mamma, cheerily, “and then come and sit
in mamma’s lap and watch for papa. It’s almost time for him to come.”
Kenneth stood by the scattered pile of books. Somehow he felt very
unwilling to put them back in their places.
“Come, little son, pick them up,” repeated mamma. To her intense
surprise, Kenneth suddenly whipped his hands behind his back.
“Tennet won’t!” he announced, standing as straight on his two fat legs
as a little drummajor. If one of the pet doves had flown in her face,
mamma could scarcely have been more surprised. She had never before had
to tell Kenneth twice to do anything.
For a moment she scarcely knew what to do.
“See if you can’t get all the books in order, Kenneth, before papa
comes,” she said, after a moment, as if she had not heard.
“Tennet won’t!” in tones more decided, as he gained courage.
“Then,” said mamma, slowly, “Kenneth must go in the corner for five
minutes.”
Kenneth, looking very serious, but quite determined, immediately took up
his station in the corner formed by the tall old clock and a book-case,
while mamma waited while the moments ticked off. An unending time it
seemed to the naughty baby, who stood gravely watching his mother, as if
he were not at all concerned.
Then mamma said,—
“Will Kenneth pick up the books now?”
“Tennet won’t.”
This time there was a gleam of mischief that at once resolved mamma to
sterner measures.
“Very well, then I must spat baby’s hands hard,” and she took up one of
the soft bits of velvet that served Kenneth for hands, and bestowed a
decided spat upon it. Kenneth winked and swallowed. He put his reddened
fingers behind his back, and promptly offered the other hand, which
mamma spatted also.
Straightway he went through the same performance, producing hand number
one. It was difficult to keep from laughing, for the baby was so sober
and so determined. He never moved his eyes from mamma’s face.
Fully half a dozen times, mamma slapped the hands of her rebellious
little man. Then, suddenly remembering baby’s speech in the nursery, she
said,—
“Now, Kenneth, mamma is going into the hall for a few minutes, and there
will be nobody to see you change your mind, so you can pick up the
books, and—”
“Tennet _won’t_!” came with such determined emphasis that mamma almost
jumped.
“Then, when I come back,” mamma went on, looking very grave, “I will
bring a little switch with me, and whip my baby’s hands hard. Kenneth
must not say ‘won’t’ to mamma.”
Kenneth’s eyes looked very serious indeed, as his mother left the room.
Such a long, long time she was gone!
Kenneth looked at the books, and then at his red fingers. Papa might
come and find him in the corner. He began to want to go and put the
books back now, but somehow his legs would not carry him there. Then
mamma appeared, and, oh, dreadful! she had a little lilac switch, that
to baby’s frightened eyes looked like a club. Very slowly she came
towards her little son, looking, oh, so sad! and suddenly Kenneth’s
stubbornness melted away.
“Tennet will! Tennet will!” he cried, and flew past mamma, and with
breathless haste scrambled up the red-bound Rollo books, stowing them in
their places with much eagerness, if not very carefully.
Mamma sat awaiting him with open arms, and as Kenneth nestled up to her
shoulder, he put his arms around her neck and whispered,—
“Please don’t tell papa zat I had to chain my mind aden.”