“never had been in love and never would be in love,” stooped to pick it
up.
“Queer now,” he thought, as he gazed long at the beautiful face that
smiled up at him. “Queer now, isn’t it?”
A wind, rising with the setting of the sun and the cool rush of the
waters, was all the reply that he heard, and feeling happier than he had
in many a day, he returned to his camp.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE PRETEND-GAME
The sun had set, but the western sky above the mountains was a glory of
radiant colors when Ken leaped upon the low porch in front of a small
log cabin and knocked eagerly upon the closed door. Instantly it was
opened, and Josephine Bayley, in a blue bungalow apron, appeared. Her
face gladdened at sight of the small lad who was holding up a string of
glistening fish.
“Oh, Ken, did you catch those for me?” The young woman took the
proffered gift and held it up in the soft crimson light that reflected
back from the other side of the cañon.
“No’m, teacher, ’twasn’t me, though how I do wish it had been! It
was-er— Oh, yes, Rattlesnake Sam caught them, and he said he’d like me
to dress them after you’d seen how pretty they are with their scales
on.” For one panicky moment the small boy had forgotten his friend’s
assumed name, and he had been on the verge of saying “Mr. Edrington.”
What a narrow escape that had been! For a second he was hardly conscious
that Miss Bayley was speaking, then he realized that she was asking him
if the “old gentleman” had liked the book she had loaned him. “Oh,
yes’m, teacher, Miss Bayley. Rattlesnake Sam, he said ‘Great!’ when he
saw it, and—and he told me he’d like the snake book, too, if you’d loan
it to him. I’m going up to his camp next Saturday, so I could pack it
along then if you could spare it.”
The girl-teacher laughed. “I can spare it all right until next spring.
Since all of the snakes have hibernated for the winter, I can’t get near
enough to one to see if he looks like his picture.” Then, at the small
boy’s suggestion, she gave him the string of trout and he at once began,
in a manner that showed his skill, to prepare them for the frying-pan.
“Won’t you stay and share them with me, Ken?” the girl-teacher asked,
really hoping that he would accept.
“Oh, no’m, thank you, I couldn’t. Dixie will be expecting me back,
and—and—we’re sort of having trouble over at our house.”
“Ken! Trouble?” anxiously. “Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon and I
would have gone to Dixie at once. I meant to ask you after school why my
little leader-of-songs was absent, but you disappeared so quickly after
the bell for dismissal rang that I could not, and then I looked for
Carol, and saw that she and Jimmy-Boy were running for home as fast as
his chubby legs could go. Tell me, dear, what is wrong? Can I help?”
Ken had finished preparing the small fish, and had placed them side by
side on a platter that his teacher had brought out. He handed the dish
to her, and having wiped his knife, he closed it before he replied.
“It’s a queerish kind of trouble,” he said. Then he told the story,
beginning with Mr. Clayburn’s great kindness to them, and ending with
the favor which he had asked them to do for him. “Of course Dixie’s
right, she always is, but it’s awful uncomfortable having some one in
the house who won’t speak pleasant when she’s spoken to.” Then the
troubled expression vanished as the lad declared brightly, “I shouldn’t
wonder, though, if by now Dixie has won the game.”
Miss Bayley looked puzzled. “What game, dear?” she inquired. The lad
explained the pretend-game which Grandmother Piggins had originated when
Sue had disliked her room-mate. “That blessed old lady,” the young
teacher declared warmly. Then she added: “And that blessed sister of
yours, too. Of course she has won the game, Ken, and I’ll prophesy that
you’ll all be in school to-morrow with your guest. Please tell Sylvia
Clayburn that the teacher of the Woodford’s Cañon school will be so glad
to have her, either as a visitor or as a pupil, just as she may prefer.”
“Thanks, Miss Bayley, Dixie’ll be powerful grateful to you for sending
that message, and now I must be goin’ along. It gets dark awful early,
doesn’t it? Good-by, teacher!”
The lad had not gone far through the deepening dusk when he heard a
sweet voice calling after him, “Ken, do you think your old hermit would
let me go fishing with him some day?”
“I’ll—I’ll ask him,” was the lad’s reply; then he raced off into the
darkness of the cañon.
Here was a new problem, and one which the small boy might have realized
was ahead of him. If his beloved Miss Bayley ever saw Frederick
Edrington, she’d know he wasn’t an “old hermit,” and, worse than that,
she’d know that Ken hadn’t told the square-honest truth.
But he felt better when he recalled that the young engineer very much
disliked girls, and so, of course, he would keep in hiding, and equally
of course it would not be very long before he would leave the mountain
country.
How Ken wished that he had never agreed to let teacher think that Mr.
Edrington was so old. To be sure, he hadn’t really told any lies. What
he had said was that the man who had built the camp-fire had _said_ that
his name was Rattlesnake Sam, and Mr. Edrington _had_ said that, and of
course even teacher knew it was an assumed name. Then, when she had
asked if the camper was old, Ken hadn’t _said_ he was old; he had
replied that Rattlesnake Sam wasn’t a hundred yet. But, after all, he
hadn’t been square-honest. He could hardly wait until Saturday to ask
Mr. Edrington if he might tell teacher the whole truth.
When Ken neared the log cabin, he suddenly stopped and listened as
though he were much surprised at what he heard. Surely that was Dixie
singing, and Carol piping in at the chorus. Then, when the song was
finished, there was a joyful clapping of small hands. What could it
mean, he wondered. Ken had dreaded this home-coming, believing that he
would find the girls both on the verge of tears after a long hard day of
playing the pretend-game.
A bright light streamed out of the cabin window, beckoning the lad to
approach. Before going around to the door, he glanced in, and was truly
amazed at the pretty sight that he saw. His sisters were preparing the
evening meal, Dixie at the stove and Carol placing on the table the best
kept-for-company dishes. This, however, was not what amazed the boy, for
he often beheld a similar scene when he returned home after dark. The
unusual part of the picture was the small girl who sat on a low stool,
holding two kittens, one snow-white and one spotted with black. The
watchful mother-cat was lying on the bear-skin rug near by.
Ken actually blinked his eyes hard, and then opened them wide again to
reassure himself that he was not dreaming. Could that smiling little
girl be the disagreeable and unwelcome guest of but eight hours before?
It was indeed Sylvia. She had awakened from her nap that afternoon
greatly refreshed, and had been eager to again ride upon the
mouse-colored burro. This time she had declared that she was not afraid
to ride alone, and so the little hostess, after starting her down the
road toward the apple-orchard, had returned to her task in the kitchen,
but often she had looked out of the window, when Sylvia, with a merry
halloo, had announced that she was returning.
So courageous did the small girl become that one time she had actually
urged Pegasus to canter, and then, as she rode past the open door, her
shout had been one of triumph. Dixie, skipping to answer the call, had
been glad indeed to see that the pale face of their little guest was
flushed with excitement and real pleasure. When at last Sylvia, weary
but happy, had entered the kitchen, she had exclaimed, as she sank down
in the big chair, “That was the best fun I ever had in my whole life!”
In the heart of Dixie there had been a prayer of gratitude because dear
old Grandma Piggins’s pretend-game had been such a success, but of this
she said nothing. “I’m glad, dear,” had been her quiet reply; “you may
ride every day if you wish, while you are with us.”
Then, when Carol came home from school, Sylvia had at once said that she
wished she could have the snow-white kitten. Almost unconsciously Carol
had asked herself the question, “What would I do if I really loved
Sylvia?” In a burst of generosity which delighted as much as it
surprised Dixie, the small girl replied almost at once, “You may have
Downy-Fluff for your very own pussy if—if you’d like to.”
Then the unexpected happened. The little guest, perhaps for the very
first time in her short life, considered some one else’s wishes. “Why,
Carol Martin,” she exclaimed, “your sister Dixie said you loved that
pussy so much you wouldn’t want to give it away.”
“I do love Downy-Fluff,” the other little girl had replied.
“Then why did you say that I could have her for keeps?” To the small
girl who had never had an unselfish impulse, this act was
incomprehensible.
“Because I want to make you happy, Sylvia,” had been the quiet reply.
Then, before more could be said, Carol had announced that she was going
out to the shed and bring Topsy and her pussy-babies into the cabin.
That had happened about an hour before the return of Ken, and during
that hour there had been a brand-new emotion stirring in the heart of
Sylvia Clayburn, which just before bedtime prompted the small girl to
perform the first unselfish act of her eight years.
Ken was about to take Topsy and the kittens back to the shed when
Sylvia, rising, went to Carol, and, holding out the snow-white kitten,
said: “Here’s Downy-Fluff. She wants you to cuddle her good-night.” Then
stooping, she picked up the less attractive pussy that was rubbing
against her foot. Smiling at the astonished Carol, she said: “I’m going
to have this one for my very own kitten. Dixie said I might, and anyway,
I think Spotty’s kind of lonesome, ’cause nobody loves her nor wants
her, the way they do Downy-Fluff.”
And Ken, listening, knew that his sisters had won the “pretend-game.”
Miss Josephine Bayley was not at all surprised the next morning to see
the four little Martins appear above the ridge of the cañon road. Carol
and Dixie were trudging side by side, while Ken, with a stick in his
hand, was walking beside the mouse-colored burro, on which rode no less
a small personage than Sylvia Clayburn, whose thin, sallow face was
beaming above the yellow curls of the four-year-old, who sat in front of
her.
When the schoolhouse was reached, Ken lingered behind to tie the burro
in a grassy spot, and Dixie, taking their guest by the hand, led her
into the little log schoolhouse.
“Miss Bayley,” she said to the young teacher, who at once approached
them, “this is little Sylvia Clayburn. She thought she’d like to come
just as company to-day. She’ll be going back to Genoa in two weeks, so
maybe that wouldn’t be time to really start having lessons.”
“We are very glad to have Sylvia with us as a guest or as a pupil, just
as she prefers,” Miss Bayley said, as she took the frail, claw-like hand
of the child who had never been strong. “Carol, your seat is wide enough
for two little girls, isn’t it? I am sure that Sylvia would rather sit
with you than be alone, wouldn’t you, dear?”
To the surprise of the younger Martin girl, she found that she was
actually pleased when Sylvia somewhat shyly nodded her head and slipped
her hand trustingly into that of the other little maid. She no longer
had to ask herself the pretend-game question, for she really did like
their little guest, and she was even eager to have her for a seat-mate.
As usual the morning session began with singing, and the teacher said:
“Now that it is nearly November, I am going to suggest that we begin to
learn a Thanksgiving song. I have written the words on the board. I will
sing it first, Dixie, that you may get the tune; then we will go over it
all together.”
The pupils read the poem aloud, that they might become familiar with the
words that told the many simple things which small boys and girls had to
be thankful for. Then the teacher sang it, first alone, later with
Dixie. There was a lilting little chorus that even Sylvia soon could
sing, and the girl-teacher smiled as she glanced down at her. It was
plain to note that this new experience—for Sylvia had never before been
in a school-room—was greatly interesting the little guest.
Then the reading-hour began and Miss Bayley suggested the much-loved
story of Cinderella. Each pupil, sufficiently advanced, read two pages,
and, as the special fairy-tale reader was passed about, it at last came
to Carol. When that little maid was seated again, Miss Bayley smilingly
said, “Perhaps our little guest will read a page to us.”
No longer afraid, that small girl willingly read the story, with which
she was familiar, and a flush of pleasure appeared in her pale face when
the kind teacher said encouragingly, “You read very well indeed, Sylvia,
just as though you were telling something that really had happened.”
The old grandfather’s clock was soon chiming ten, and then the pupils
flocked out into the golden October day, where Sylvia, for the very
first time in her short life, found herself actually playing games with
children who were not from the best families.
Maggie Mullet caught her hand in a ring-around game, and at another time
Sylvia actually chose Mercedes Guadalupe for a partner in a
hide-and-seek game.
That noon found the small girl, whose chief diet had been candy and
cake, so hungry that she gladly accepted the thick sandwich offered by
Dixie, and ate it almost as ravenously as did Ken. It was during the
lunch hour that Miss Bayley beckoned to Dixie from the open door of the
log schoolhouse. Excusing herself, the glad-eyed little girl bounded
away from the others, wondering what dear teacher had to tell her,—some
plan, she was sure, for Carol’s birthday “s’prise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
KEN’S TALK WITH TEACHER
A week passed, and what a week crowded with wonderful events it had
been.
November came, in the same golden glory that October had gone out.
“Doesn’t winter ever come to your mountain country?” the teacher asked
Ken one day, and the lad, after searching the soft, hazy blue of the sky
for a threatening cloud, shook his head. “There’ll be winter enough
soon, Miss Bayley,” he said, as one who knew from the experience of
having lived through fourteen of those blizzardous seasons. Then the lad
was silent as he trudged along by the side of the young woman whom he so
admired. It was Friday afternoon, and the boy was “packing” the books
for teacher.
“A bright new penny for your thoughts, Ken,” Miss Bayley suddenly
exclaimed. They had reached her doorstep, and she held out her hand for
the packet he was carrying.
The lad actually flushed. “I—er—I was wondering if—that is, I was hoping
that somebody would be marryin’ soon.”
“Goodness, Ken!” said the young teacher, her eyes showing surprise. “I
didn’t suppose that small boys were ever match-makers. Is there any one
around here who is contemplating matrimony? Sue Piggins is too young,
isn’t she? I have seen her driving on Sunday afternoon with Ira Jenkins
of late, but—”
“Oh, no’m, Miss Bayley,” the small boy hastened to say. “I wasn’t
thinking of Sue and Ira. Mis’ Piggins wouldn’t hear of her daughter
marrying a blacksmith’s boy. I—er—I was thinking of a rich girl in the
South; I guess she lives there, and I was a-wishing as how she’d marry
the Lord of Dunsbury.”
After a puzzled moment, Josephine Bayley laughed merrily. “Boy,” she
said, shaking a finger at him, “you’ve been reading one of Mrs.
Jenkins’s yellow-covered novels. Mrs. Enterprise Twiggly tells me that
the blacksmith’s wife reads novels even while she pares potatoes or
scrubs the floor, and there is always a rich girl marrying a lord in one
of them.”
Ken grinned rather sheepishly.
“I don’t wonder that you think I’m loony, Miss Bayley,” he acknowledged.
“I—er was hoping that Rattlesnake Sam could come down from the mountains
before the blizzards set in.” Then, fearing that he would have to reveal
his friend’s secret if he said another word, he started to run back down
the trail, calling over his shoulder: “Good-night, Miss Bayley. I’ll see
you at the party to-morrow. The girls are terribly excited.”
“Gee,” he thought, as he went more slowly after entering the dusk of the
cañon that was caused by the sheltering pine-covered stone wall that
shut out the sun, although it was still golden in the valley and on the
far peaks. “I ’most spilled the beans that time. I’d hate awful to have
Miss Bayley find out that Rattlesnake Sam isn’t an old, old ‘fossil,’
whatever that may be. An’ I’d hate to have Mr. Edrington think I
couldn’t keep his secret, but it came over me so all of a sudden that
to-morrow will be November sixth, Carol’s birthday, and last year we had
an awful storm that day, though often the real blizzards don’t set in
till Christmas.” Then, as he thought of something more joyful, he began
to whistle. “Gee, but I’ll sure be glad when the snow does come, for
then Mr. Edrington’s coming down to live with us, and hide up in our
loft, if his aunt should prowl around trying to find him to make him
marry that girl he doesn’t want. Aunts are queer!” the lad continued to
soliloquize as he sauntered along more slowly, swinging a stick he had
cut from a tree as he passed. “There’s our great-aunt now. Dixie says
she’s rich as anything, and that she lives in such a big house in the
South that she could put four little children like us in it and not miss
the room we’d take the least mite.” Then, as he turned into the trail
that led down toward their own picturesque log cabin, the boy’s heart
warmed with a sense of pride and ownership. “Far as I’m concerned,” he
decided, “I’d heaps rather live right here than I would with our
mother’s priggish Aunt Judith, even if she does own acres and acres, and
live in a sort of a mansion with white pillars.”
A moment later Dixie appeared in the open door for she had heard a
familiar whistle and the tune was one they both loved— “Be it ever so
humble, there is no place like home.”
“Be careful, Ken, that you don’t even hint about the party,” the older
girl whispered. “Carol hasn’t an inkling of an idea, and we want to
s’prise her.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CAROL’S BIRTHDAY S’PRISE
“Happy birthday!” Dixie cried the moment that she was sure that the
pretty violet eyes of her sister were really open.
“Oh, goodie! I’m nine years old to-day. Sylvia, are you awake?” Carol
then called to the little guest who was sleeping on a cot bed in another
part of the big loft room over the kitchen of the log cabin.
That small maiden sat up and nodded. Although she was still thin, a
remarkable change had taken place in the one week that she had lived
with “poor folks.” She actually looked interested and happy, and there
was a flush in the sallow cheeks, for even in seven days plenty of
porridge and cream, hours of riding on the mouse-colored burro, and no
candy and cake had begun to transform her from a sickly, spindling child
to one who, were the pleasant simple ways continued, would soon be rosy
and robust.
“Happy birthday, Carol,” Sylvia called gleefully. Then she added.
“There’s a s’prise coming to-day.”
“Oh, goodie, what is it?” The younger of the Martin sisters was already
dressing, for Dixie had said that “whatever you do on your birthday you
will do all the year,” and so great had been the change in Carol that
she now actually wished to be down-stairs in time to help her older
sister prepare breakfast.
Ten minutes later they were all in the kitchen. Carol’s pretty face was
flushed with excitement. “If there’s a s’prise for me,” she said, “why
can’t I have it now?”
The others shook their heads. Ken, who had come in with a pail brimming
with creamy milk, looked up at the clock, and then began to count. “Oh,
it’s hours and hours before the real surprise is to begin,” he said to
tease.
“But I can’t wait hours and hours. I just can’t. I’ll burst with
curiosity! I know that I will,” the small girl declared as she brought
Baby Jim from his crib and began to dress the little fellow.
Only a few months before, as Dixie could easily recall, this same little
maid had pouted and felt very much abused if she had been asked to
perform this loving service for her small brother. What gratitude there
was in the heart of the little mother of the brood that glorious sixth
of November.
Ken was straining the milk. Sylvia was setting the table. “Let’s use the
best kept-for-company dishes all day,” Dixie said. “Birthdays are very
special.”
This was done. Then, while the five children sat about the board, eating
the porridge and cream, on which bananas had been sliced to make it
“extra better,” as Ken declared, Carol began to tease first one and then
another. “Sylvia,” she accused, “I know, by a sort of laughing look in
your eyes, that you know just what the s’prise is to be.”
“Of course she knows, and so do we all,” Dixie put in, “but we won’t any
of us tell, not until the clock strikes two. Then it’s going to happen.”
Carol clapped her hands. “Oh! Oh! It’s something that’s going to happen,
is it?” Then, whirling unexpectedly and facing her big brother, she
challenged: “Ken Martin, I never knew you to tell a lie in your whole
life, and so I’m going to ask you. Is the surprise going to happen here
in this house?”
“Don’t you tell, brother,” Dixie warned.
The laughing lad sprang up. “I’m off for the Valley Ranch. Won’t be back
till lunch.” Then, seizing his hat, he darted away, stopping in the door
to say, “Now, if Carol finds out, it won’t be from me.”
Such a merry morning as those three girls had. Jimmy-Boy was too young
to understand what the laughter and bantering was all about. At last
lunch was over; Ken had returned, and the excitement in that old log
cabin was tense, for the two older Martins and their guest were
preparing for the surprise trying all the time to hide even the simplest
of these preparations from the curious gaze of the one most interested.
At last it was half-past one and time to dress. The three small girls
had climbed the ladder to the loft, and Dixie looked often at her small
sister, who was donning the very best gingham and buttoning it down the
front. Now and then the violet eyes glanced across the room to where
Sylvia Clayburn stood arrayed in her pretty pink silk dress, but the
sigh of yearning that arose to Carol’s lips was quickly changed to a
song.
Tears sprang to the eyes of the little mother, and, kissing the flushed
cheek of the small girl who was nine that day, she said softly: “Carol,
dearie, how long and beautiful your curls are this year. They hang
almost down to your waist now, and they’re so shimmery and silky.”
The younger sister, knowing that Dixie was trying to help her count her
blessings, smiled up beamingly, and little Sylvia crossed the room, and,
taking one of the truly beautiful curls in her frail hand, she said:
“You’d ought to be so happy ’cause you have them, hadn’t she, Dix? My
hair looks as though the color’d been all washed out, and it’s straight
as anything.”
Carol glanced at the head of her little friend. The pale yellow hair
wasn’t a bit pretty, but Dixie was saying: “Sylvia, don’t you mind a
thing about it yet. Lots of times hair grows darker. I’ve heard Sue
Piggins say that hers was nearly like yours when she was eight and now
look at it, a heap of sunny gold.”
“Somebody’s driving in,” Carol exclaimed. “Who do you suppose it is?”
“Go down and see,” Dixie suggested.
The smaller girl, having heard the clock strike two, was sure that the
“s’prise” was about to take place, and so she scrambled down the ladder
that led from the loft to the kitchen. Skipping to open the door, she
beheld on the porch no less a personage than Miss Josephine Bayley, and
with her was Sue Piggins, while behind them loomed a tall youth who was
Ira Jenkins, the blacksmith’s good-natured, very shy, and much-overgrown
son.
Miss Bayley held out both hands and kissed Carol first on one cheek and
then on the other. “Happy birthday, dear,” she exclaimed, “and may you
have many more, and all as happy as I am sure that this one is.”
The flushed little girl looked up at the young teacher with glowing
eyes. “Oh! Oh!” she cried, “Now I know what the s’prise is. It’s a
party!” She whirled to find Dixie, Sylvia, and Ken standing back of her
in the big sunny kitchen. Jimmy-Boy was taking his nap.