LEFT BEHIND.
The children’s voices died away in the distance. Presently the door
opened carefully, and ’Manda came in, with a big pillow and a tumbler.
“There, now, dearie,” she said, setting down her tumbler, and slipping
the big, soft pillow under Cricket’s head. “That’s a sight better. That
sofy pillow, ’taint very soft. I’d hev taken you right into my room an’
put you to bed, but it’s awful hot there now, being right off the
kitchen so, ’n’ upstairs is hot, too. You’re a little mite sick to your
stomick, too, ain’t you? I thought so. Now drink this lemonade, an’ it
will kinder stop that gnawin’ feeling quicker nor a wink.”
“Lemonade?” repeated Cricket, lifting her heavy eyes in surprise. “When
I’m sick?” for she associated, naturally, any illness with medicines.
“Won’t it hurt me?”
“Bless your little heart, no. It won’t hurt you a mite. It’ll settle
your stomick wonderful, that’s all. ’Taint very sweet.”
’Manda slipped her hand under the pillow and raised the aching head so
gently that Cricket scarcely felt it move. She drained the tumbler
obediently, though the lemonade _was_ rather sour. Then she nestled down
into the soft pillow with a sigh of relief. ’Manda sat by her, waving a
big palm-leaf fan, with a slow, even motion. The silence and the
darkness soon began to soothe the throbbing pain, and Cricket at last
dropped into a fitful doze, that soon became a sound sleep.
An hour passed, and ’Manda heard the children’s voices as they came
across the field again. She tiptoed softly from the room,’sh-ing them
all, with uplifted finger.
“She’s jest dropped asleep, poor little mite,” she said, in answer to
their anxious, whispered inquiries. “Yes, Miss Marjorie, you jest leave
her to-night, an’ ’Gustus John, he’ll fetch her in town in the mornin’,
all right.”
“Sha’n’t I stay with her?” asked Eunice.
“There ain’t no need, Miss Eunice, I’d be proper glad to hev you, but
there ain’t no need, ’less you particular wish it. I’ll jest admire to
hev Cricket stay, and take care of her myself. La, suz! there won’t be
no need of anybody’s takin’ care, I rather guess, for like’s not, when
she wakes up, her headache’ll be all gone, an’ prob’bly by six o’clock
she’ll be wantin’ to go after the caows. No, Miss Eunice, you kin jest
as well as not go right along with the others, an’ be sure an’ tell your
ma that I jest _admire_ to hev Cricket stay.”
“I know you’ll take good care of her,” said Marjorie, hesitating. “I
only hope Cricket won’t feel lonely or homesick when she wakes up.”
“Oh, law! no; don’t you worrit now, Miss Marjorie. She needs her sleep
out, thet’s all. The hot sun an’ the berries was too much for her. What
a sight of berries you’ve got! Never wuz a better crop than this year.
Pity yer missin’ the season.”
The party looked with much satisfaction at the result of their labours.
Four six-quart pails overflowing with luscious fruit stood in a row on
the steps, and besides that, their lunch baskets were filled to the
brim.
“I’m real sorry you told ’Gustus John that you wasn’t goin’ to stop to
have a bite of victuals with us, for here he comes now with the team.
Must you go?”
“It’s after five,” answered Marjorie, “and it will be nearly seven
before we got home now. Yes, we must go. Well, we are so much obliged,
’Manda.”
“Well now, I’m sure you’ve no call to be. You dunno how I’m goin’ to
miss yer all this summer. Don’t know what we’ll do without you an’
Cricket an’ all your pranks,” added ’Manda, turning to Eunice.
’Gustus John and his big wagon came round from the barn just then.
“Pile in, young folks,” he said, cheerily. “Tain’t a very handsome
kerridge, but I guess you’ll find it considerable better than walkin’
over to Porter’s Inn, when you’re dead beat out. All in? Oh, ’Mandy,
give us some ginger-cakes or sumthin’ to eat goin’ along, bein’ as they
won’t stay to set by.”
“Yes, I’ve a basket full all ready,” said ’Manda, producing one, amid
the protests of the children—even the “accordion” boys—that they
couldn’t eat another mouthful of anything.
“But I can’t go without seeing Cricket,” exclaimed Marjorie, suddenly
stopping.
“Now, then, Miss Marjorie, I ain’t a-goin to hev you disturbin’ the
child,” said ’Manda, hastily, who down in her heart was dreadfully
afraid that Cricket might wake up and want to go home with the others,
when she had set her heart on having her stay. “She’ll sleep a good
spell yet, if she’s let to. You couldn’t do her no good ef you did see
her, an’ it might jest spile her nap.”
“Perhaps it’s better not,” Marjorie said, reluctantly. “I suppose that
she will be all right to-night anyway, though she scarcely ever had a
headache before in her life. And you’ll bring her in to-morrow, ’Gustus
John? I do hope that she won’t mind being left.”
“Now don’t you fuss about that,” said ’Gustus John. “’Manda, she thinks
it’s a real Godsend, bein’ as Mamie’s away. ’Mandy sets great store by
Cricket, you know. All ready now? Off we go!”
’Gustus John had promised to bring all the big pails of berries in town
when he went in the next morning, so the children had only their little
baskets with them. Everybody was in place now, and with many good-bys
and thanks to ’Manda, the merry party started.
It was after five when ’Manda went bustling back into the house to
prepare supper. There was no sound from the parlour yet, and she
concluded that Cricket was still sleeping.
“I’ll jest take a peek at the little dear,” she said, presently. “Like’s
not she’s awake by this time, and will want some supper.”
’Manda had always been devoted to Cricket. She had lived with Mrs. Ward
as nurse when Cricket was a baby, and the little girl was more than a
year old when ’Manda married ’Gustus John, the doctor’s farmer. So
Cricket had always been her especial pet.
She opened the parlour door gently and looked in. Cricket opened her
eyes with a smile.
“Oh, ’Manda! my head is ever so much better. It doesn’t ache scarcely at
all. Have the others come in from the strawberry field yet?”
“La, suz! yes, dear heart. They come and went, mebbe half an hour ago.
You wuz a sleepin’ so nice that we didn’t like to wake you up.”
“Gone!” exclaimed Cricket, feeling for the first moment as if she were
deserted on a desert island. “Why, what am I going to do?”
“You’re goin’ to stay with ’Manda to-night, my pretty. That won’t be
bad, will it?”
“No,” faltered Cricket, but she felt very forlorn and homesick,
nevertheless.
She loved kind ’Manda dearly, and since Mamie was not there it was not
quite so bad, but she scarcely ever spent a night away from home without
her mother in her little life. Cricket was such a “mother child.”
She sat up, but she found that her head still felt a little faint and
dizzy when she moved. Two little tears crept up into her eyes. How could
she go to bed without mamma!
“I want my mother!” real sobs now.
“There, there, my pretty! don’t cry!” soothed ’Manda, much distressed,
as she gathered her nursling into her motherly arms.
“Mommer ain’t here, but ’Mandy will take such _good_ care of you, an’
it’s jest fur to-night. To-morrow mornin’, ’Gustus John, he’s got to be
off real early, an’ you’ll hev to be up with the birds, I guess, an’
you’ll hev a bee-you-tiful ride in town. An’ then,” ’Mandy went on,
forgetting that Cricket was not a baby, as she settled her head more
comfortably on her broad bosom, “after tea, to-night, if your’s feelin’
reel smart, there ain’t nuthin’ to hender our takin’ a little walk down
to the village to see Hilda Mason. She’s goin’ to miss you a sight this
summer.”
Cricket began to feel that the situation had its advantages, after all.
’Manda’s lap was very comfortable, her shoulder very soft and plump, and
her arms very loving, so that Cricket could not stay forlorn long,
especially when there was the thought of seeing Hilda Mason so soon. So
she obeyed ’Manda’s advice to “chirk up,” and soon felt like going out
on the little front porch to sit, while ’Manda finished getting supper.
Then ’Gustus John and the two “hired men” came in, and with Sarah, the
rosy-cheeked “hired girl,” they all sat down to the cosey, homely meal.
’Manda would not let Cricket sit with the others, but she had put her in
state at a little square table near by, all by herself. The little table
was spread with ’Manda’s best china, to do honour to her little guest,
and special dainties in the way of preserves and cake were set for her.
Cricket enjoyed her supper, with the “warmed-over” potatoes, great
slices of fresh bread and butter, dried beef, cottage cheese and
pickles, cold meat, two kinds of preserves, berries and three kinds of
cake. Such a mixture, you will say; but Cricket was hungry enough now to
taste a little of everything, and she enjoyed it all.
[Illustration: CRICKET AND ’MANDA.]
By seven o’clock Cricket felt quite as well as ever, and skipped and
pranced, just as usual, along the road that led to Hilda’s home, while
’Manda followed, one broad smile of content.
Hilda was more than delighted to see Cricket, of course, and the little
girls had a lovely time together. Hilda had been invited to go over to
Marbury to stay for a week in August, with Cricket, at grandma’s, and,
of course, the children were delighted to make arrangements for that
important visit.
It was nine o’clock when Cricket and ’Manda returned to the farm-house,
in the moonlight. It seemed odd enough not to go on up the hill when
they came to the little bridge, but instead to turn in at the white
gate, and Cricket felt a little spasm of homesickness, which increased
when she was fairly inside the house, and ’Manda lighted the candle for
her to go upstairs. How she did want mamma and Eunice! Fortunately, she
was really too tired now, to think very much about anything but getting
to bed.
The funny little spare-room had a huge bedstead in it, an old-fashioned
one, with four posts and curtains, and an immense feather bed on it.
When ’Manda lifted her up and swung her over into it, she sank so far
down, that the sides rose on each side of her like billows, and the
sheet, spread across, did not touch her at all. But she was in the Land
of Nod almost before she could say a sleepy “Good-night” to kind ’Manda,
and she knew nothing more.
It was six o’clock, and broad daylight, of course, when ’Manda came in
to awaken her. Sleepy Cricket could hardly realize that there had been
any night at all. She rubbed her drowsy eyes open with much difficulty,
and ’Manda helped her through her toilet. ’Gustus John had to start for
town by seven o’clock, and the wagon already stood in the yard, loaded
up with vegetables and things for the market. ’Gustus John, himself, and
one hired man, were coming to the house with pails of foaming milk, and
another man was harnessing the big, black horses to the wagon.
Breakfast was over at last. The pails of strawberries were snugly tucked
away under the front seat, and everything was ready to start. ’Manda
gave her little guest many a parting hug and kiss, and said she didn’t
see how she ever _was_ going to stand it, not to have the doctor’s
family at Kayuna, and the children junketin’ around, just the same as
usual. Cricket hugged and kissed her in return, and then ’Gustus John
swung her up on the high front seat, where she sat, holding on to the
back, with her feet swinging above the pails of strawberries.
It always seemed delightfully dangerous on that front seat where there
was no dash-board, and where there seemed to be nothing to prevent her
lurching down on the horses’ broad backs if the wagon pitched over
“thank-you-marms.” ’Gustus John, in his blue blouse and broad-brimmed
hat, climbed heavily up beside her, gave a final glance over his load,
cracked his whip, and off they started with a sudden jerk that brought
Cricket’s toes very unexpectedly on a level with her head, and nearly
sent her pitching back into the spring peas and asparagus.
It was a very different trip from the one they had taken last fall.
’Manda’s parting word to ’Gustus John was that he must be careful and
not lose Cricket out, at which ’Gustus responded,—
“Sho!”
He never liked to be reminded of that accident. The horses settled down
to their farm-work jog, not in the least like the brisk trot they had
when they were harnessed to the light wagon. They knew quite well that
they had a load behind them and a long pull before them, and took it
easily.
The air was fresh and sweet, the birds twittered and chirped, the
morning dew lay like diamonds on the grass, and Cricket, who, as we
know, had a special delight in rising early, drew a long breath of
pleasure. She chattered gayly away, and ’Gustus John, in turn, told her
exciting tales of that wonderful time of long ago—“When I was a little
boy.”
It was not yet nine when the wagon clattered over the long bridge, and
they were fairly in town. They had to go more slowly then. They drove to
May Chester’s first to leave her strawberries, Cricket pointing out the
way, then to Jack Fleming’s and the Grays’. Then they turned into the
home-street and drew up before her own door. Cricket felt, as ’Gustus
John lifted her down from her high perch, that she must have made a trip
to Europe, for it seemed so long since she had left there, yesterday
morning.
“I’m so much obliged to you for this lovely ride, ’Gustus John,” she
said, as they went up the steps, ’Gustus carrying her berries. “I’ve had
the elegantest time riding in this morning and having you tell me
stories.”
“Wal, now, I tell you,” said ’Gustus John, “I’d give considerbul down,
ef I had yer to ride in with me every time I come to the city. We’d hev
purty snug times, wouldn’t we, eh? Good-by. Remember me to yer pa and
ma. Good-by.”
And Cricket, throwing him a kiss from the tips of her fingers, vanished
in the house.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.