SHUT UP IN THE OVEN.
You will probably think that it was a dish of pork-and-beans, or an
Indian pudding of the good, old-fashioned kind, which was shut up in
the Oven. Not at all. You are quite mistaken. The thing shut up in the
Oven was Eyebright herself! And the Oven was quite different from any
thing you are thinking of,--cold, not hot; wet, not dry; with a door
made of green sea-water instead of black iron. This sounds like a
conundrum; and, as that is hardly fair, I will proceed to unriddle it
at once and tell you all about it.
The Oven was a sort of cave or grotto in the cliffs, four miles from
Scrapplehead, but rather less than three from the causeway. Its real
name was "The Devil's Oven." Country people, and Maine country people
above all others, are very fond of calling all sorts of strange and
striking places after the devil. If Eyebright had ever heard the whole
name, perhaps she might not have ventured to go there alone as she
did, in which case I should have no adventure to write about. But
people usually spoke of it for shortness' sake as the "Oven," and she
had no idea that Satan had any thing to do with the place, nor, for
that matter, have I.
It was from Mrs. Downs that she first heard about the Oven. Mrs. Downs
had been there once, years before. It was a "natteral curosity," she
said, with all sorts of strange sea-creatures growing in pools, and
the rocks were red and quite beautiful. It wasn't a dangerous place,
either, and here Mr. Downs confirmed her. You couldn't get in after
half-tide, but anybody could stay in for a week in ordinary weather,
and not be drowned. There were plenty of places a-top of the cave,
where you could sit and keep dry even at high water, though it would
be "sort of poky," too. Eyebright's imagination was fired by this
description, and she besought papa to take her there at once. He
promised that he would "some day," but the day seemed long in coming,
as holidays always do to busy people; and June passed, and July, and
still the Oven was unvisited, though Eyebright did not forget her wish
to go.
August came at last,--the delicious north-of-Maine August, with hot,
brilliant noons, and cool, balmy nights, so different from the murky,
steamy August of everywhere else,--and was half over, when one
afternoon papa came in with a piece of news.
"What should you say, Eyebright, if I were to go off for the whole day
to-morrow?" he asked.
"Why, papa Bright, what do you mean? You can't! There isn't anywhere
to go to."
"There's Malachi."
"Oh, papa, not in our little boat!"
"No, in a schooner belonging to Mr. Downs's brother. It has just put
in with a load of lumber, and the captain has offered me a passage if
I like to go. He expects to get back to-morrow evening about nine
o'clock. Should you be lonesome, do you think, Eyebright, if I went?"
"Not a bit," cried Eyebright, delighted at the idea of papa's having a
sail. "I'll do something or other that is pleasant. Perhaps I'll go
and stay all day with Mrs. Downs. Anyhow, I'll not be lonely. I'm glad
the captain asked you to go, papa. It'll be nice, I think."
But next morning, when she had given papa his early breakfast, watched
him across the causeway, and seen the sails of the schooner diminish
into two white specks in the distance, she was not sure that it was
nice. She sang at her dish-washing and clattered her cups and spoons,
to make as much noise as possible; but for all she could do, the house
felt silent and empty, and she missed papa very much. Her plan had
been to go to the village as soon as her work was done, and make Mrs.
Downs a visit, but later another idea popped into her mind. She would
go to the Oven instead.
"I know about where it is," she thought. "If I keep close to the shore
I can't miss it, anyway. Mr. Downs said it wasn't more than two miles
and three-quarters from the causeway. Two miles and three-quarters
isn't a very long walk. It won't be half-tide till after ten. I can
get there by a little after nine if I start at once. That'll give me
an hour to see the cave, and when I come back I'll go down to the
village and stay to dinner with Mrs. Downs. I'll take some bread and
butter, though, because one does get so hungry up here if you take the
least little walk. What a good idea it is to do this! I am glad papa
went to Malachi, after all."
Her preparations were soon made, and in ten minutes she was speeding
across the causeway, which was safe walking still, though the tide had
turned,--her pocket full of bread and butter, and Genevieve in her
arms. She had hesitated whether or not to take Genevieve, but it
seemed too sad to leave her all alone on the island, so it ended in
her going too, in her best bonnet and a little blanket shawl. The
morning was most beautiful, dewy and fresh, and the path along the
shore was scented with freshly cut hay from inland fields, and with
spicy bayberry and sweet fern. A belated wild rose shone here and
there in the hedges, pale and pink. Tangles of curly, green-brown
fringe lay over the clustering Virgin's Bower. The blue lapping waves,
as they rose and fell, were full of sea-weeds of a lovely red-brown
tint, and a frolicsome wind played over the surface of the sea, and
seemed to be whispering something funny to it, for the water trembled
in the sun and dimpled as if with sudden laughter.
The way, as a general thing, lay close by the shore, winding over the
tops of low cliffs covered with dry yellow grasses. Now and then it
dipped down to strips of shingle beach, or skirted little coves with
boundaries of bushes and brambles edging the sand. Miles are not easy
to reckon when people are following the ins and outs of an irregular
coast. Half a dozen times Eyebright clambered to the water's edge and
peeped round the shoulder of a great rock, thinking that she must have
got to the cave at last. Yet nothing met her eyes but more rocks, and
surf, and fissures brown with rust and barnacles. At last, she came on
a group of children, playing in the sand, and stopped to ask the way
of them.
There were two thin, brown little girls in pink-and-gray gingham
frocks, and pink-and-gray striped stockings appearing over the tops of
high, laced boots. They were exactly the same size, and made Eyebright
think of grasshoppers, they were so wiry and active, and sprang about
so nimbly. Then there were three rosy, hearty-looking country
children, and a pair of little boys, with sharp, delicately cut faces,
who seemed to be brothers, for they looked like each other and quite
unlike the rest. All seven were digging holes in the sand with sticks
and shovels, and were as much absorbed in their work as a party of
diligent beavers. When Eyebright appeared, with Genevieve in her arms,
they stopped digging and looked at her curiously.
"Do you know how far the Oven is from here?" asked Eyebright.
"No," and "What's the Oven?" answered the children, and one of the
gray-and-pink little girls added: "My, what a big doll!" Eyebright
scarcely heeded these answers, she was so delighted to see some
children after her long fast from childhood.
"What are you making?" she asked.
"A fort," replied one of the boys.
"Now, Fweddy, you said you'd call it a castle," put in one of the
girls.
"Well, castles are just the same things as forts. My mother said so."
"Is that your mother sitting there?" asked Eyebright catching a
glimpse of a woman and a baby under a tree not far off.
"Oh, dear, no! That's Mrs. Waurigan. She's Jenny's mother, you know,
and 'Mandy's and Peter Paul Rubens's. She's not our mother at all. My
mother's name is Mrs. Brown, and my papa is Dr. Azariah P. Brown. We
live in New York city. Did you ever see New York city?"
[Illustration: When Eyebright appeared with Genevieve in her arms,
they stopped digging and looked at her curiously.--PAGE 172.]
"No, never. I wish I had," said Eyebright.
"It's a real nice place," went on the pink-and-gray midge. "You'd
better make haste and come and see it quick, 'cause it's de-te-rotting
every day; my papa said so. Don't you think Dr. Azariah P. Brown is a
beau-tiful name? I do. When I'm mallied and have a little boy, I'm
going to name him Dr. Azariah P. Brown, because it's the beautifulest
name in the world."
"She's 'gaged already," said the other little sister. "She's 'gaged to
Willy Prentiss. And she's got a 'gagement wing; only, she turns the
stone round inside, so's to make people b'lieve it's a plain gold wing
and she's mallied already. Isn't that cheating? It's just as bad as
telling a weal story."
"No, it isn't either!" cried the other, twirling a small gilt ring
round on a brown finger, and revealing a gem made, apparently, of
second-rate sealing-wax, and about the color of a lobster's claw. "No,
it isn't cheating, not one bit; 'cause sometimes the wing gets turned
round all by itself, and then people can see that it isn't plain gold.
And Nelly's 'gaged, too, just as much as I am, only she hasn't got any
wing, because Harry Sin--"
"Now, Lotty!" screamed Nelly, flinging herself upon her, "you mustn't
tell the name."
"So your name is Lotty, is it?" said Eyebright, who had abandoned
Genevieve to the embraces of Jenny, and was digging in the sand with
the rest.
"No, it isn't. My really name is Charlotte P., only Mamma calls me
Lotty. I don't like it much. It's such a short name, just Lotty. Look
here, you didn't ever see me till to-day, so it can't make much
difference to you, so won't you please call me Charlotte P.? I'd like
it so much if you would."
Eyebright hastened to assure Charlotte P. of her willingness to grant
this slight favor.
"Are these little boys your brothers, Lot--Charlotte P., I mean?" she
asked.
"Oh, no!" cried Nelly. "Our bwother is lots and lots bigger than they
are. That's Sinclair and Fweddy. They ain't no 'lation at all, 'cept
that they live next door."
"Their mamma's a widow," interposed Charlotte P. "She plays on the
piano, and a real handsome gentleman comes to see her 'most every day.
That's what being a widow means."
"Look here what I've found!" shouted Sinclair, who had gone farther
down the beach. "I guess it's a shrimp. And if I had a match I'd make
a fire and cook it, for I read in a book once that shrimps are
delicious."
"Let me see him! Let me see him!" clamored the little ones. Then, in a
tone of disgust: "Oh, my! ain't he horrid-looking and little. He isn't
any bigger than the head of a pin."
"That's not true," asserted Sinclair: "he's bigger than the head of my
mamma's shawl-pin, and that's ever so big."
"I don't believe he's good a bit," declared Lotty.
"Then you shan't have any of him when he's cooked," said Sinclair.
"I've got a jelly-fish, too. He's in a hole with a little water in it,
but he can't get out. I mean to eat him, too. Are jelly-fish good?" to
Eyebright.
"I don't believe they are," she replied. "I never heard of anybody's
eating them."
"I like fishes," went on Sinclair. "My mamma says she guesses I've got
a taste for nat-nat-ural history. When I grow up I mean to read all
the books about animals."
"And what do you like?" asked Eyebright of the other little boy, who
had not spoken yet, and whose fair baby face had an odd, almost
satirical expression.
"Fried hominy," was the unexpected reply, uttered in a sharp, distinct
voice. The children shouted and Eyebright laughed, but Freddy only
smiled faintly in a condescending way. And now Eyebright remembered
that she was on her road to the cave,--a fact quite forgotten for the
moment,--and she jumped up and said she must go.
"Perhaps Mrs. Waurigan will know where the Oven is," she added.
"I guess so," replied Lotty; "because she does know about a great
many, many things. Good-by!--do come again to-morrow, and bring
Dolly, won't you?" and she gave Genevieve one kiss and Eyebright
another. "You're pretty big to play with dolls, I think.
But then"--meditatively--"she's a pretty big doll too."
Mrs. Waurigan was knitting a blue-yarn stocking. She could tell
Eyebright nothing about the Oven.
"I know it's not a great way off," she said. "But I've never been
there. It can't be over a mile, if it's so much as that; that I'm sure
of. Have you walked up all the way from Scrapplehead? I want to know?
It's a long way for you to come."
"Not so far as New York city," said Eyebright, laughing. "Those little
girls tell me they come from there."
"Yes; the twins and Sinclair and Freddy all come from New York. Their
mother, Mis' Brown, who is a real nice lady, was up here last year.
She took a desprit fancy to the place, and when the children had
scarlet fever in the spring, and Lotty was so sick that the doctor
didn't think she'd ever get over it, she just packed their trunk and
sent them right off here just as soon as they was fit to travel. She
said all she asked was that I'd feed 'em and do for 'em just as I do
for my own; and you wouldn't believe how much they've improved since
they came. They look peaked enough still, but for all that nobody'd
think that they were the same children."
"And did the little boys come with them?"
"Yes. They're neighbors, Miss' Brown wrote, and their mother wanted to
go to the Springs, or somewhere, so she asked mightn't they come, too.
At first, I thought I couldn't hardly manage with so many, but they
haven't been a bit of trouble. Just set them anywheres down on the
shore, and they'll dig all day and be as happy as clams. The only bad
things is boots. Miss' Brown, she sent seven pairs apiece in the
trunk, and, you would hardly believe it, they're on the sixth pair
already. Rocks is dreadful hard on leather, and so is sand. But I
guess their Ma wont care so's they go back strong and healthy."
"I'm sure she won't," said Eyebright. "Now I must be going, or I
shan't be able to get into the cave when I find it."
"You'd better come in and get a bite of something to eat as you come
back," said Mrs. Waurigan. "That's the house just across that pasture.
'T ain't but a step out of your way."
"Oh, thank you. How kind you are!" replied Eyebright. Then she said
good-by and hurried on, thinking to herself,--"Maine is full of good
people, I do believe. I wish Wealthy could come up here and see how
nice they are."
It seemed more than a mile to the Oven, but she made the distance
longer than it was by continually going down to the water's edge to
make sure that she was not passing the cave without knowing it. It was
almost by accident that in the end she lighted upon it. Strolling a
little out of her way to pick a particularly blue harebell which had
caught her eye, she suddenly found herself on the edge of a hollow
chasm, and, peeping over, perceived that it must be the place she was
in search of. Scrambling down from her perch, which was about half-way
up one side, she found herself in a deep recess, overhung by a large
rock, which formed a low archway across its front. The floor ran back
for a long distance, rising gradually, in irregular terraces, till it
met the roof; and here and there along these terraces were basin-like
holes full of gleaming water, which must be the pools Mrs. Downs had
talked about.
Eyebright had never seen a cave before, though she had read and played
about caves all her life, so you can imagine her ecstasy and
astonishment at finding herself in a real one at last. It was as good
as the "Arabian Nights," she thought, and a great deal better than the
cave in the "Swiss Family Robinson." Indeed, it was a beautiful place.
Cool green light filled it, like sunshine filtered through sea-water.
The rocky shelves were red, or rather a deep rosy pink, and the water
in the pools was of the color of emerald and beautifully clear. She
climbed up to the nearest pool, and gave a loud scream of delight, for
there, under her eye, was a miniature flower-garden, made by the
fairies, it would seem, and filled with dahlia-shaped and
hollyhock-shaped things, purple, crimson, and deep orange; which were
flowers to all appearance, and yet must be animals; for they opened
and shut their many-tinted petals, and moved and swayed when she
dipped her fingers in and splashed the water about. There were green
spiky things, too, exactly like freshly fallen chestnut burrs,
lettuce-like leaves,--pale red ones, as fine as tissue-paper,--and
delicate filmy foliage in soft brown and in white. Yellow snails clung
to the sides of the pool, vivid in color as the blossom of a
trumpet-creeper; and, as she lay with her face close to the surface of
the water, a small, bright fish swam from under the leaves, and darted
across the pool like a quick sun ray. Never, even in her dreams, had
Eyebright imagined any thing like it, and in her delight she gave
Genevieve a great hug, and cried:--
"Aren't you glad I brought you, dear, and oh, isn't it beautiful?"
There were several pools, one above another, and each higher one
seemed more beautiful than the next below. The very biggest "dahlia"
of all--Anemone was its real name, but Eyebright did not know
that--was in the highest of these pools, and Eyebright lay so long
looking at it and giving it an occasional tickle with her forefinger
to make it open and shut, that she never noticed how fast the tide was
beginning to pour in. At last, one great wave rolled up and broke
almost at her feet, and she suddenly bethought herself that it might
be time to go. Alas! the thought came too late, as in another minute
she saw. The rocks at the side, down which she had climbed, were cut
off by deep water. She hurried across to the other side to see if it
were not possible to get out there; but it was even worse, and the
tide ran after as she scrambled back, and wetted her ankles before she
could gain the place where she had been sitting before she made this
disagreeable discovery. That wasn't safe either, for pretty soon a
splash reached her there, and she took Genevieve in her arms and
climbed up higher still, feeling like a hunted thing, and as if the
sea were chasing her and would catch her if it possibly could.
It was a great comfort just then to recollect what Mr. Downs had said
about the cave being safe enough for people who were caught there by
the tide, "in ordinary weather." Eyebright worried a little over that
word "ordinary," but the sun was shining outside, and she could see
its gleam through the lower waves; the water came in quietly, which
proved that there wasn't much wind; and altogether she concluded that
there couldn't be any thing extraordinary about this particular day. I
think she proved herself a brave little thing, and sensible, too, to
be able to reason this out as she did, and avoid useless fright; but,
for all her bravery, she couldn't help crying a little as she sat
there like a limpet among the rocks, and realized that the Oven door
was fast shut, and she couldn't get out for ever so many hours. All of
a sudden it came to her quite distinctly how foolish and rash it was
to have come there all alone, without permission from papa, or letting
anybody know of her intention. It was one comfort that papa at that
moment was in Malachi, and couldn't be anxious about her; but, "Oh
dear!" Eyebright thought, "how dreadfully he would feel if I never did
get out, and he came back and found me gone, and nobody could tell him
where I was. I'll never do such a bad, naughty thing again, never,--if
I ever do get out, that is--" she reflected, as the water climbed
higher and higher, and again she moved her seat to avoid it, still
with the sense of being a hunted thing which the sea was trying to
catch.
Her seat was now too far from the pools for her to note how the
anemones and snails were enjoying their twice-a-day visit from the
tide, how the petals quivered and widened, the weeds grew brighter,
and the fish darted about with renewed life and vigor. I don't believe
it would have been much comfort to her if she had seen them. Fishes
are unfriendly creatures; they never seem to care any thing about
human beings, or whether they are feeling glad or sorry. Genevieve,
for all her being made of wax, was much more satisfactory. What was
particularly nice, she lent Eyebright her blanket-shawl to wear, for
the cave had begun to feel very chilly. The shawl was not large, but
it was better than nothing; and with this round her shoulders, and
Dolly cuddled in her arms, she sat on the very highest ledge of all
and watched the water rise. She couldn't go any higher, so she hoped
_it_ couldn't, either; and as she sat, she sang all the songs and
hymns she knew, to keep her spirits up,--"Out on an Ocean," "Shining
Shore" (how she wished herself on one!), "Rosalie, the Prairie
Flower," "Old Dog Tray," and ever so many others. It was a very
miscellaneous concert, but did as well for Eyebright and the fishes as
the most classical music could have done; better, perhaps, for Mozart
and Beethoven might have sounded a little mournful, and "songs without
words" would never have answered. Songs _with_ words were what were
wanted in that emergency.
The tide halted at last, after filling the cave about two-thirds full.
Once sure that it had turned and was going down, Eyebright felt
easier, and could even enjoy herself again. She ate the bread and
butter with a good appetite, only wishing there was more of it, and
then made up a delightful story about robbers and a cave and a
princess, in which she herself played the part of the princess, who
was shut in the cave of an enchanter till a prince should come and
release her through a hole in the top. By the time that this happened
and the princess was safely out, the uppermost pool was uncovered, and
Eyebright clambered down the wet rocks and took another long look at
it, "making believe" that it was a garden which a good fairy had
planted to amuse the princess; and, indeed, no fairy could have
invented a prettier one. So, little by little, and following the
receding sea, she was able at last, with a jump and a long step, to
reach the rocky pathway by which she had come down, and two minutes
later she was on top of the cliff again, and in the sunshine, which
felt particularly warm and pleasant. The sun was half-way down the
sky; she had been in the cave almost six hours, and she knew it must
be late in the afternoon.
Neither Mrs. Waurigan nor the party of children was visible as she
passed the house. They had probably gone in for tea, and she did not
stop to look them up, for a great longing for home had seized upon
her. The tide delayed her a little while at the causeway, so that it
was past six when she finally reached the island, and her boots were
wet from the soaked sand; but she didn't mind that a bit, she was so
very glad to be safely there again. She pulled them off, put on dry
stockings and shoes, made the fire, filled the tea-kettle, set the
table, and, after a light repast of bread and milk, curled herself up
in the rocking-chair for a long nap, and did not wake till nearly
nine, when papa came in, having been set ashore by the schooner's boat
as it passed by. He had a large codfish in his hand, swung from a loop
of string.
"Well, it has been a nice day," he said, cheerfully, rubbing his
hands. "The wind was fair both ways. We did some fishing, and I caught
this big fellow. I don't know when I have enjoyed any thing so much.
What sort of a day have you had, little daughter?"
Eyebright began to tell him, but at the same time began to cry, which
made her story rather difficult to understand. Mr. Bright looked very
grave when at last he comprehended the danger she had been in.
"I shan't dare to go anywhere again," he said. "I thought I could
trust you, Eyebright. I supposed you were too sensible and steady to
do such a wild thing as this. I am very much surprised and very much
disappointed."
These words were the heaviest punishment which Eyebright could have
had, for she was proud of being trusted and trustworthy. Papa had sat
down and was leaning his head on his hand in a dispirited way. All his
bright look was overclouded,--the pleasant day seemed forgotten and
almost spoiled. She felt that it was her fault, and reproached herself
more than ever.
"Oh, please don't say that, papa," she pleaded, tearfully. "I _can_ be
trusted, really and truly I can. I won't ever go to any dangerous
place alone again, really I won't. Just forgive me this time, and
you'll see how good I'll be all the rest of my life."
So papa forgave her, and she kept her promise, and never did go off on
any thoughtless expeditions again, as long as she lived on Causey
Island.