THE INDIAN CALLER
THE veranda at Hilarity Hall was a most attractive place. Hammocks,
rockers, and wicker settees abounded, and pillows were as sands of the
sea-shore for multitude.
Marjorie threw herself into a hammock, and declared that she should just
stay there.
The Matron settled her small person in the biggest rocking-chair, and,
with an air of weighty responsibility, frowned over her account-books.
Nan appropriated a wicker couch, and announced that she was going to
dream dreams and see visions.
Betty and Jessie sat together in another hammock, swinging themselves by
vigorous kicks, which scratched much paint off the piazza floor.
Hester sat bolt upright in a small straight-backed chair, and crocheted
lace from a gently bobbing spool of thread.
Helen was trying to write a letter, but was much hampered by Millicent’s
teasing.
It pleased the ingenious Lamplighter to substitute various articles in
place of Helen’s inkstand, and that preoccupied scribe had dipped her
pen successively into an apple, a hat, a slipper, and, finally, into
Millicent’s own curly topknot.
Long-suffering Helen smiled good-naturedly at each prank, and patiently
set her inkstand in place again. So Millicent declared it was no fun to
tease her, and transferred her attention to Timmy Loo.
Taking a sheet of Helen’s paper, she made a cocked hat for him, and,
with a paper-cutter for a sword, he posed successfully as Napoleon.
The applause at this performance was so great that it caused Aunt Molly
to appear at her window.
“Come over,” called Marjorie.
“Yea, come, Fairy Godmother,” chimed in Millicent; and well pleased,
Aunt Molly trotted over and joined the merry group.
They had a good time telling her all about their most recent fun, for
what is nicer than a really interested listener? Marjorie read the
“Whitecap” to her, which she declared was the work of genius.
“Why,” said the Duchess, as she reached the end of what they had written
the night before, “here’s another page. Who wrote it?”
“Read it,” said Betty, and Marjorie read:
“There’s something gone wrong in Hilarity Hall,
There’s something awry, I guess;
For the Scullery-maid to the parlor has strayed,
And the Stoker is mending her dress!
“The Wandering Minstrel is cooking the soup,
The Peeler is writing a pome;
The Lamplighter’s painting a ‘Sunrise at Sea,’
Resplendent with madder and chrome.
“The dignified Duchess is washing the hearth,
The Matron’s embroidering a scarf;
While the Peeler is writing this lyrical ode
In hopes that the others will larf.
“Why, that’s fine, Betty; I’m proud of you!” cried Marjorie; but Betty
only said, “Pooh, that’s nothing; read the next page.”
So Marjorie read:
“TO NAN
“Our poet writes such clever verse,
I’m sure no one writes prettier;
And though some poets have done Moore,
I know that she is Whittier.
“Of course our poet fair is Young,
Although she is not quite a Child;
And if in years to come she’s Gray,
She never, never will be Wilde.
“She almost always is all Smiles,
And of her kind Harte I speak highly;
But on occasions she is Sterne,
And when she’s nervous she is Riley.
“Our poet wants to be a Cook
And turn her mind to Ruskin jelly;
She’s very, very fond of Crabbe—
Indeed, of anything that’s Shelley.
“She yearns for Browning, fears not Burns,
And for a Piatt times has sighed;
But yesterday she had a Payne,
And day before an Akenside.
“She scorns the Wordsworth of her brain,
Though she’s as wise as forty owls;
But when her muse once gets a start,
Look out! for, great Scott, Howitt Howells!”
“Who wrote it? Who wrote it?” queried the girls in chorus; and then each
one tried to blush and pretended to look conscious, and Hester said
suddenly:
“Oh, look at that queer man coming up the road!”
The queer man, who carried a large pack on his back, came nearer, turned
in at the cottage gate, and paused at the foot of the veranda steps. He
was evidently a foreigner, a great, gaunt creature with a swarthy skin,
coarse black hair, and black, beady eyes. He wore a long mantle heavy
with embroidery, and on his head was a gay-colored turban-like
arrangement.
“He looks like a supplement to an art magazine,” whispered Millicent to
Marjorie.
“He has something to sell,” returned Marjorie, and indeed he had.
Beautiful Oriental fabrics were quickly spread out before the eyes of
the delighted girls. Scarfs, handkerchiefs, embroidered jackets, and
spangled sashes were shaken out one after another by the long bony
fingers of the East Indian. He had, too, a lot of fancy baskets and some
hideous little idols.
His talk was a queer kind of half-foreign jargon, and he addressed
himself principally to Aunt Molly.
But Jessie and Marguerite were so dazzled by the glory of his wares that
he turned his attention to them as more likely purchasers.
“Ach, mees, ver’ fine, ver’ fine,” he would say, clasping his not
overclean hands and rolling his eyes.
Then, catching up a white-and-gold scarf, he deftly twisted it into a
turban, which he placed on Marguerite’s curly head and then struck an
attitude of mute adoration.
“Ver’ fine, ver’ fine,” he repeated, which phrase seemed to be his
entire stock of English.
Then, seeing Millicent’s eyes wander toward the grotesque images, he
picked up a snake, which uncoiled itself in such a realistic way that
the girls squealed. This seemed to amuse him very much, and he began to
tell a horrible snake story. Only a few words were intelligible, but his
gestures were so dramatic that he was easily understood, and the girls
were thrilled at the pantomimic relation of his fearful encounter with a
rattlesnake in the wilds of his own country.
The prices of his goods were exorbitant, but Aunt Molly had dealt with
his kind before, and by reason of her sagacious hints of the girls’
limited means he was induced to accept about half of what he at first
asked, and the bargains were finally concluded to the satisfaction of
all concerned.
Then the picturesque peddler departed with gestures of respectful
admiration and regretful leave-taking.
Jessie had bought a scarf of exquisite embroidery on pale-blue gauze,
which was very becoming to her pretty girlishness.
Hester and Betty bought baskets of bright-colored sweet-grass, and
Hester put hers at once to use by dropping her crochet work into it.
Millicent bought a bolero jacket, which she put on at once, and catching
up the red fez which was Marjorie’s purchase, she perched it sidewise on
her saucy head and began to dance a fandango, while Helen played a
tinkling air on her banjo.
“He was a funny old chap,” said Nan, looking at the curious little idol
she had bought; “let’s write him up in the ‘Whitecap.’”
“Do,” said Millicent, “and I’ll draw his portrait to illustrate it. He
looked like the Ancient Mariner.”
The hint was enough for Nan, and while Millicent drew a
startling-looking sketch which the girls declared was exactly like him,
the club Poet produced the
RIME OF THE INDIAN PEDDLER
Ye Indian intervieweth ye maids
It is an Ancient In-di-an,
And he stoppeth here by we;
“By thy swarthy face and coal-black hair,
Now wherefore loiter ye?”
He displayeth his wares
He takes his pack from off his back,
Displaying costly wares;
The while the girls his movements watch
With interested stares.
He seeth snakes (all see snakes)
Then many a creepy tale he tells
Of snakes and sich-like cattle,
Dramatically showing forth
Their snaky curve and rattle.
Ye maidens buy his wares (75 cents reduced from $1.50)
Ye maidens buy his gaudy wares,
His prices crying down;
And slowly and reluctantly
He wends his way to town.
This was hailed with enthusiasm, and Betty declared they really ought to
write an account of Hester’s dinner. Seizing the “Whitecap,” she began a
fresh page with a grand flourish reading as she wrote:
“On Friday the Hilarious Populace gathered round their festal
board and partook of a dinner which was most successfully served
by the Stoker and the Wandering Minstrel, et al.”
“We didn’t eat all,” said Helen, laughing.
“That’s Latin,” said Betty, “and it means that Marguerite helped you.”
Then she proceeded to write:
THE DINNER
MENU
_Soup_
(Nota Bene) Tomato Soup à la Deficit
_Fish_
Fish à la Nun
_Roast_
Beef (Cost $2.10)
_Salad_
Tomatoes (Peeled by the Peeler)
Mayonnaise (Stirred by the Stoker)
Dressed by the Matron
_Dessert_
Fruit à la Kerosene
Dressed by the Lamplighter
“Girls,” said Hester, suddenly, “there’s a fine light just now. I’ll
take your pictures if you like.”
This speech had seven different answers all at once, but they were all
acquiescent, so Hester went to get her camera.
“But let’s go down to the beach,” she said, returning; “it’s so much
more picturesque than the piazza.”
In a moment of inspiration Betty seized the “Whitecap” and wrote a
stanza:
THE CAMERA FIEND
The Camera Fiend is abroad in the land;
Her tripod beareth she;
And she lureth us all with a beckoning hand
Toward the blue and shining sea.
’Tis little we reck of the fate that impends
As we follow her hurrying feet,
Till she catches the crowd with a kodak snap,
And the photograph is complete.
“Of course,” said Hester, after they had laughed at Betty’s effort, “I
can’t be in the picture, because I’ll have to take it, you know.”
[Illustration: TIMMY LOO.]
“Oh, then it’s no fun if we can’t have the eight together,” said Helen.
“Let me snap it off,” said Aunt Molly, kindly. “I don’t know anything
about a camera, but couldn’t you show me?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hester; “that will be jolly of you—and I’ll take
your picture afterward.”
So they all went down to the beach, and pictures were taken of most
fantastic groups and duets and solitaires, as Millicent called them.
Last but not least, they took a very fine solitaire of Timmy Loo in one
of his fits of good behavior, and then Hester declared she must save the
rest of her plates for another day.
“Do you know,” said Nan, in her slow, dreamy way, “if Marguerite and I
are to get supper to-night, I really believe it’s time we began to think
about it.”
“Oh, do something more than think about it,” groaned Betty. “I’m as
hungry as if I hadn’t attended that grand and elegant dinner.”
“Are you, dear?” said Marguerite, with mock-solicitude. “Well, you shall
soon be fed. Come on, Nan; the path of glory leads up to our cottage,
and we must tread it like the brave heroes that we are.”
“When may we hope supper will be ready?” called out Jessie, as the
Matron and the Poet wandered off.
“’Twill be served at six-thirty precisely,” replied Marguerite, with one
of her unsuccessful attempts at a dignified mien. “Brush your hair and
put on clean pinafores, and be prompt when the bell rings.”
“Aye, aye,” called out Hester; and the group on the beach watched the
departing pair, and chuckled as they wondered what the two rattlepates
would give them to eat.