A STRAWBERRY HUNT.
The winter in town slipped by quickly. The children were counting
impatiently the weeks that must pass before they should be at dear old
Kayuna again, when all plans for the summer were very suddenly changed.
Mamma grew no stronger as the spring came on, and papa and other doctors
thought that she ought to have a sea-voyage. Papa decided to go abroad
for two or three months and see what the air in the Swiss mountains
would do for her. At first mamma insisted on taking all the children,
for she could not make up her mind to leave one of her dear little flock
behind, but papa knew that she ought to have no care at all. Finally,
after much discussion, it was settled in this way: Marjorie and Donald,
who were old enough to be of some help and comfort to mamma, should go,
and the other children should be sent to Marbury, a dear old seaport
town, where grandmamma lived, for the summer. Mamma begged for Kenneth,
her baby, but the doctors all said no. Eliza was perfectly devoted to
him and the twins, and she promised not to let them out of her sight all
summer, and besides, Auntie Jean would be at grandma’s also. So mamma
had to be content.
Kayuna was to have an addition built on this summer, since they were all
to be away, for, as the family grew, they needed more room, and much
repairing was to be done also.
Papa and mamma were to sail the last of June. One day, about the middle
of the month, papa went out to Kayuna, to give his final directions
about the work to be done there.
“Children,” he said at dinner, that night, “I saw that the strawberry
beds at Kayuna were in prime condition to-day. The vines are laden with
fruit. Would you like to make a picnic out there in a day or two, and
gather some? You won’t see Kayuna strawberries this summer, you know.”
“I don’t think they need that argument,” said mamma, smiling at the
exclamations of delight that greeted this proposal.
“How shall we go, papa?” asked Marjorie, who was always practical.
“Take the street-cars out to Porter’s Inn,” said papa, “and then walk
the rest of the way. You won’t mind the two miles. Or you can go by
rail, and get out at East Wellsboro’, only you can’t get there very
early that way.”
The children voted for the street-cars and Porter’s Inn.
“Shall the kidlets go?” asked Eunice. This was Donald’s name for the
twins, for Eunice and Cricket were the kids.
“No,” said Marjorie, decidedly. “It’s too far altogether for the twins.”
Zaidee and Helen immediately set up a wail, at being thus put aside.
“It’s really much too far for you, my pets,” said mamma. “You and
Kenneth shall go to the park with Eliza and have a fine time. You can
sail around the pond, and feed the swans.”
“And we’ll bring you lots of strawberries,” added Cricket, comfortingly.
“Yes, do; and be as successful as you were last summer with the
blackberries,” began papa, with a twinkle, but Cricket pinched him under
the table till he begged for mercy.
“Couldn’t we ask two or three boys and girls to go with us?” asked
Marjorie. “I’d like to have May Chester and the Gray boys.”
“Yes, certainly. Ask Jack Fleming, too. Cook shall put you up some
luncheon, and you can take my keys and go into the house, if you like.”
“Let’s go to-morrow. Things always happen if you put things off,” said
Eunice, not very clearly.
“Very well, my dear. I’m of your opinion myself,” said papa. “Marjorie,
I’ll take you round to see May Chester, after dinner, and while you’re
there, I’ll look up the boys.” Papa would take any amount of trouble for
the happiness of his flock.
Everybody proved to be delighted with the idea. The next day was
wonderfully fine, even for June. At nine o’clock the party were all
gathered at the Wards’. Each little person had a wicker-basket, now
containing luncheon, but which were to come home full of the biggest
berries they could find. If they wished, they were to get some big pails
at the farm-house, and ’Gustus John, who was coming into town with fresh
vegetables, would bring them in for the children.
Papa took them himself to the street-cars, to see the merry party safely
off.
“Don’t stay too late,” cautioned papa. “On the other hand, you need not
come home at noon,” with a sly glance at Cricket.
“Papa!” said that young lady, “if you say any more about that, I won’t
come to-night, and then you’ll be sorry.”
Then the car came, and they were off.
“Isn’t this larks?” beamed Eunice. Picnics in the country were every-day
affairs, but to start right out from town, to be gone all day, was
particularly fine and grown-up.
Fortunately, when they were only half-way there, they were the only
occupants of the cars, and they seemed to fill it full. Each one tried
every corner, and each seat between. They read the advertisements
carefully, and tried the effect of reading them backwards. Then they
read a line from each one, and each reading seemed funnier than the
last.
“Marjorie,” asked Cricket, who had been studying one advertisement
carefully, “what does _Ware_ mean?”
“Wear?” repeated Marjorie; “why, to put on anything—to wear it.”
“No, I don’t mean that kind of wear. Look up there. What kind of a ham
is a Wareham?”
“Where is it? oh, that!” and Marjorie went off in a fit of laughter.
“That doesn’t mean a ham at all. It’s just one word—Wareham. It’s a
place,—Wareham Manufactory.”
“Oh,” said Cricket, meekly. “I thought it was a new kind of ham.”
In spite of their fun, it was a long ride to Porter’s Inn, which was the
end of the line. They were glad enough to scramble out and stretch their
limbs. It was a warm morning, and as the white stretch of country road
was unshaded for a long distance, it was a hot, tired little party that
reached Kayuna. As they pushed back the heavy gates, and went up the
avenue, how delicious seemed the cool, green shade of the great beech
trees, and how soft to their feet was the fine turf, along which they
scampered!
How strange it seemed to the Wards to look up at those shuttered
windows, and see no signs of life about the house!
“Seems as if I _must_ see Dixie come racing down to meet us,” said
Cricket, “and hear his little ‘row! row!’” But Dixie had been sent to
the rectory to spend the summer, and Mopsie and Charcoal had gone over
to Marbury, so that the children could have them there.
The workmen had not begun their work yet, so there were no signs of life
about the place. Marjorie had been intrusted with papa’s keys. She felt
very grand, drawing them from her pocket with a flourish, and inserting
one in the door. It swung back with a startlingly loud clang, and a rush
of close, shut-up air came out. The great, echoing hall looked so large
and so lonely that for a moment the children hesitated to enter it.
Jack found his courage at the sight of the broad, smooth balustrade.
“Hooray!” he shouted. “My eye! what a boss place to slide down!”
He dashed off up the stairs, and came bolting down the balustrade again,
sweeping a fine lot of dust before him. The spell was broken, and the
children entered laughing. Once inside, the Wards soon lost the sense of
strangeness, and raced all over the house in great delight, showing
their favourite places to their friends.
“Do let’s rest,” begged May Chester, at last. “I’m nearly dead!”
“Let’s go into the library and sit down. It’s always cool and lovely
there,” began Marjorie, leading the way. “Oh, I forgot! The chairs are
all tied up, and it’s so gloomy with the shutters closed. We might sit
down on the stairs.”
Dusty stairs are not very soft places to rest on, when one is really
tired, however, and they soon decided to go out and sit on the grass.
In their interest in exploring the house, they had quite forgotten the
strawberries, till Alex Gray suddenly remembered as they stood on the
piazza.
“Hallo! where are our strawberries? I quite forgot to look and see in
which of the rooms the strawberry bed is placed.”
“Don’t try to be funny,” said Marjorie, “it’s too hot.”
“I know where the strawberry bed isn’t,” said Jack, “it isn’t down
cellar,” as he appeared with smutty streaks across his face, showing
where he had been exploring.
“Let’s rest a few minutes longer under these lovely trees,” pleaded May.
“It will be so hot out in the garden.”
“Well, I’ll show you,” said Cricket, running down the steps. “I won’t
keep you in suspicion.”
“In _suspense_,” put in Marjorie.
“Well, I meant suspense. It’s all the same,” said Cricket, cheerfully.
“Come on, boys! Oh, you _dear_ old trees!”
“I suppose we might as well all go, then,” said Marjorie, getting up.
The strawberry beds quite fulfilled Dr. Ward’s accounts of them. The
children fell eagerly to work, their fatigue all forgotten. Such great,
luscious berries as drooped their rosy faces under the leaves would make
everything forgotten but themselves. For a while there were constant
shouts of “Oh, what a beauty!” “My! look at this bunch!” “See these
bouncers!” till beauties and bouncers were an old story.
“I couldn’t eat another berry to save my life, I do believe!” sighed
Eunice, at last, looking very sad.
“Eat them, then, to save the berries,” answered Jack, popping a very big
one into her mouth.
“Now for my part,” said Alex, “I was just going to inquire about
luncheon.”
The girls, in chorus, protested that they couldn’t eat a mouthful.
“Well, I like that!” returned Alex. “As if we’d be filled up by a few
berries.”
“A _few_ berries? oh!” laughed Marjorie.
“They are soft and not filling,” answered Alex. “What do you think boys
are made of, ma’am?”
“I know,” answered Cricket, quickly. “They are made like accordiums—to
stretch out.”
“Accord_ions_,” corrected Marjorie, with a laugh. “Oh, Cricket, you’re
the worst child about long words!”
“I don’t care,” answered Cricket, comfortably. “People know what I
mean.”
“Never mind, Spider,” said Alex, “you’re my friend, I see. Come and give
this accordion something to stretch on.”
“I ought to remember that boys are hollow,” said Marjorie, straightening
up, “after all my experience with Donald and Will and Archie Somers.
Let’s go into the orchard near the old well. It’s always so cool there.”
When lunch was all spread it looked so tempting that the girls concluded
that they could manage to eat a few mouthfuls, and before long there
wasn’t a morsel of anything left. After luncheon they sat awhile under
the dear old apple-trees, which were of the high, old-fashioned kind, so
that the grass grew thick and soft beneath. The sunlight flecked the
grass with gold, the sky was deeply blue, and a slight breeze had sprung
up. Even the boys felt the quiet, peaceful beauty of the wide, old
orchard, and were quite willing to rest for an hour, while Marjorie and
her sisters told merry tales of their many escapades in dear old Kayuna.
“Three o’clock,” yawned Jack Fleming, at last. “We ought to go and see
if those strawberries are drying up, don’t you think?”
“We ought to be about it, if we’re going to take any home,” assented
Marjorie; and they all rose slowly and strolled to the garden again. The
berries were so large and so plentiful, that in a very few minutes every
basket was filled to the brim.
“Eunice, you and Cricket run down to the farm-house and ask ’Manda for
some big pails,” ordered Marjorie, in true, older-sisterly fashion.
“All right,” answered Eunice, obediently. “Come on, Cricket. Where is
she? Crick-et!”
“Here I am,” answered a forlorn little voice.
“Here,” was in the grape arbour near by. Cricket was discovered sitting
huddled up in a little bunch, with her head on her knees.
Marjorie hurried across to her.
“Why, poor little Cricket! What is the matter?”
“Nothing, I guess, ’cept my head aches so,” Cricket replied, rather
dismally. Her sunny little face was very pale and her eyes looked heavy
and dark.
“Poor child!” said Marjorie, sympathetically, sitting down beside her.
“It’s the hot sun, I think. Come down to the farm-house with me, and
’Manda will let you lie down for a while.”
Cricket looked doubtfully out into the sunlight. From the garden it was
not very far across the field down to the farm-house, but the sun looked
very hot.
“I’d rather stay here, I think, Marjorie,” she said, doubtfully, “my
legs feel so wobbly.”
“What’s the matter with the kid?” asked Harold Gray, who was a big boy
of fourteen, and very fond of sunny little Cricket.
“Nothing’s the matter, only my head aches so,” Cricket tried to smile,
but it was a very watery attempt. She so seldom had a headache that it
seemed a very serious thing to her.
“I want her to go down to the farm-house and lie down, but she doesn’t
feel like walking there,” explained Marjorie.
“Is that all? That’s easily fixed. Here, Jack, make a lady’s chair with
me, to carry this young lady in. Now, Marjorie, help my lady up.”
Cricket stood up and the boys lowered their hands.
“Now, then, put your arms around our shoulders,” said Harold, as they
raised the little girl gently. “That’s right. Put your head down on
mine, if it ‘wobbles’” for Cricket’s throbbing head refused to stay
upright, and bobbed helplessly down on Harold’s. Marjorie ran ahead.
’Manda saw them coming, and stood at the door ready to greet them.
“I do declare, I’m proper glad to see you!” she exclaimed, hospitably,
to Marjorie. “’Gustus John he was up to the stables a spell ago, and he
seen you all there a-pickin’ berries, ’n’ he sez when he come in,
‘’Mandy,’ sez he, ‘I ruther guess the children will be along down
bime-by.’ You see yer pa stopped here yesterday, an’ he said that he
’lowed you’d kinder enjoy comin’ out here to pick them berries, an’ here
ye be. La! what’s the matter with Cricket? I ’lowed she wuz bein’
carried thet way fur fun.”
The motherly soul was warmly welcoming the children, while her kind
tongue ran on.
“Cricket has a bad headache, ’Manda,” answered Marjorie; “will you let
her lie down here for a while?”
“Why, for the land’s sake! Poor little dear! lie down on my sofy? why,
of course she shall,” and she had Cricket in her arms in a moment. “You
all sit right down here for a spell and make yourselves perfectly to
home, while I fix up this poor little critter.”
“No, we won’t stay now, thank you,” said Marjorie. “Could you let us
have some large pails to fill with berries? Papa says that ’Gustus John
offered to bring our extra berries to town for us to-morrow.”
“Certain, sure, he did, my dear. You jest go right in the but’try and
git some of them big pails a-settin’ right along side o’ the
flour-barrel. You know where ’tis, _I_ guess. An’ Miss Marjorie, git
some o’ them fresh ginger-cakes I baked this mornin’, they’re on the
but’try shelf, an’ find some milk, an’—”
“Oh, dear, no, thank you,” protested Marjorie, laughing, “we’ve had
plenty of luncheon, and have filled up all the corners with berries. We
only want some pails.”
“Now, Madge, Madge, young lady, speak for yourself. I want to test Mrs.
Hecker’s ginger-cakes and milk, for my accordion’s began to close,” said
Alex.
“Dear me!” cried Marjorie, in despair. “We’ll have to feed you on dried
apples and water. They’ll fill you up, if nothing else will.”
“Not any, I thank you,” returned Alex, quickly. “I’ve no desire to be a
howling swell.”
’Manda, meanwhile, had bustled off with Cricket, into the cool, dark,
little best-parlour, and had laid her on the slippery hair-cloth sofa,
with its round, bolster-like pillow, about as downy as if it were
stuffed tight with sawdust. But any place, quiet and dark, was grateful
to the poor little aching head, whose temples throbbed in jerks that
brought tears to the blue eyes.
Marjorie tiptoed in, presently, to see if she were comfortably fixed,
before they went back for their berries.
Cricket opened her eyes in answer to Marjorie’s inquiry. ’Manda had gone
out of the room for a moment.
“Where’s Mamie Hecker?” whispered Cricket.
“Don’t worry about her, dear. She’s gone to spend a week with her Aunt
Jane. You’re safe.”
“Oh!” Cricket closed her eyes in great relief, then opened them as she
said, miserably, “I can’t walk a step now, and I don’t believe I could
sit up in the car. I don’t see how I’m going to get home.”
“That’s all right,” said Marjorie, soothingly, “for ’Gustus John is
going to drive us to Porter’s Inn, and if you’re well enough you will go
then, but if you don’t feel able, ’Manda wants you to stay all night.
They’ll send you to town in the morning, with ’Gustus John. You wouldn’t
mind staying, would you?”
“Oh, no,” said Cricket, feeling much too badly to care about anything
but lying still.