A STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY
From the very start the big brick fireplace in the living-room had held
an irresistible fascination for the Terrace girls, accustomed as they
were to the unromantic register. And when five days of their outing had
passed and no fire had been kindled on the blackened hearth, Priscilla
thought they were missing golden opportunities, and said so.
"The last of June isn't the best time in the year for open fires,"
suggested Peggy. "But I do think that to-night seems a little cooler.
Perhaps we might have a fire and not swelter."
"We could roast apples, couldn't we?" Amy cried. "And chestnuts. Only
there aren't any chestnuts."
"And just a few very wormy apples," added Ruth. "But we can tell
stories, and sit around in a circle, and not have any light in the room,
except the light of the fire."
The prospect was so alluring that supper was dispatched in haste, and
one or two of the girls went so far as to suggest letting the dishes
wait over till the next day. But as Peggy expressed horror at this
unhousewifely proceeding, and Amy called attention to the fact that
left-over dishes are doubly hard to wash, the motion failed to carry.
Five pairs of busy hands made short work of the necessary task, and when
the dishes were out of the way, and Peggy was conducting Dorothy
up-stairs to bed, the others made a rush to the woodshed and filled
their gingham aprons with pine knots and shavings.
Dorothy suspecting delights from which she was to be excluded, was
inclined to make slow work of undressing, and relieved the tedium of the
process by frantic demonstrations of affection. "Wish you'd go to bed
with me, Aunt Peggy. 'Cause I love you so awfully."
"Oh, this isn't bedtime for big girls. They won't be sleepy for a long
while yet."
"I won't be sleepy for a long while, either. Won't you sit beside my
bed, Aunt Peggy, 'cause I'm 'fraid. If a bear should come--"
"Oh, Dorothy, don't think so much about bears. Think about the little
angels that watch good children when they are asleep."
Dorothy fell into a fit of musing. "I wish those little angels would
play with me when I was awake, 'stead of watching me when I was asleep.
Say, Aunt Peggy, which would you rather have, wings or roller-skates?"
Peggy steered the conversation away from this delicate question to
Dorothy's prayers, which Dorothy galloped through with cheerful
irreverence. On the "Amen" her eyes flashed open.
"Now, Aunt Peggy, you've got to tack down my eyelids, same as my mamma
does."
"Why, of course." Peggy patiently kissed the long-lashed lids shut,
stimulated by Dorothy's cheerfully impersonal comments on her
performance, and even drove a few extra "tacks," in quite unnecessary
spots, as, for example, the corners of Dorothy's roguish mouth, and the
dimple showing in the curve of her pink cheek. And by that time even
Dorothy could think of no further excuses for detaining her.
Down-stairs the preliminary steps to the realization of the romance of a
real wood fire on a real hearth had proved prosaic enough. In the
beginning the fire had frankly sulked, and instead of blazing up
brightly, had emitted clouds of smoke out of all proportion to its size.
Every one was coughing as Peggy came into the room, and handkerchiefs
were busy wiping tears from brimming eyes, so that outwardly the scene
was anything but joyous. But the draught from the open windows finally
stimulated the lazy chimney to greater exertions, and just as Peggy
crossed the threshold, a brave little flame leaped up from the smoking,
smouldering mass, and a cheery crackle made music plainly audible above
the chorus of coughing.
"Lovely!" cried Peggy, and warmed her hands at the blaze as if it had
been midwinter. "As long as I didn't have any of the trouble of making
the fire, I'll brush up the shavings and things."
"I'm not sure but you've got the worst end of it," remarked Priscilla,
casting a dismayed glance about her. "How in the world did shavings get
scattered over this room from one end to the other?"
As no one had anything to offer in explanation, Peggy went to find the
dustpan and was absent for some minutes. By this time the fire was
blazing merrily, and throwing off an amount of heat quite unnecessary
for a mild June evening. Even while the girls were exchanging
congratulations on their success, it was to be noticed that they did not
form a compact circle about the fireplace, but sat in the most remote
corners of the room, and fanned themselves with newspapers.
"It's the strangest thing," announced Peggy returning, "I can't find the
dustpan high or low."
Amy jumped. "Didn't she bring it back?"
"Who? Not Mrs Snooks?"
"Yes, she came when you'd gone to pay Mrs. Cole, and she said she'd send
her little girl back with it in half an hour or so."
"It's certainly strange," said Peggy, giving evidences of exasperation,
"that when we've only one of a thing, that's exactly what Mrs. Snooks
wants to borrow. Of course it's nice for neighbors to help one another
out, especially in a place like this where you are so far from a store.
If it was baking-powder, I wouldn't say a word. But a dustpan."
"It was baking-powder yesterday," suggested Amy. "Sweep the shavings
into a corner, Peg, and let's start on the stories. Now, Aunt Abigail,
here's your chance to shine."
"Oh, yes, Aunt Abigail," echoed Peggy, for it had early been decided
that Amy should not be allowed a monopoly in the use of that
affectionate title. "We've heard you were the best ever, since the woman
in the Arabian Nights--what was her name--Scheherezade,--and we want to
know if Amy was exaggerating."
Aunt Abigail smiled complacently.
"What sort of story do you want?" she asked. "Something pathetic, or a
story of adventure, or a humorous story or a ghost story or--"
An approving shout interrupted her. "Oh, a ghost story, Aunt Abigail!"
Priscilla clapped her hands. "Isn't this simply perfect! The firelight
on the wall, and shadows flickering, and then a ghost story to crown
everything. Do make it a creepy one, Aunt Abigail."
Aunt Abigail hardly needed urging along that line. She had been an
omnivorous reader all her days, and from books, as well as from what she
had picked up on her travels, she had acquired an unsurpassed collection
of weird incidents which she now began to recount with dramatic effect.
The girls sat spellbound, and when, at the conclusion of the first
story, a faint little wail sounded from the distance, the general start
was indicative of tense nerves.
But it was only Dorothy, awake and standing at the head of the stairs.
"Aunt Peggy!"
"Go back to bed, darling."
"But, Aunt Peggy, what d'you s'pose those little angels have done now?
They've bited me right on my fourhead."
"Oh, my!" Peggy ran up the stairs, to a justly aggrieved Dorothy,
indicating an inflamed lump on her forehead, as a proof of misplaced
confidence. Peggy lit the candle and after some search discovered a
swollen mosquito, perched on the head of Dorothy's bed, ready to resume
operations at the first opportunity. Gluttony had lessened his natural
agility, and at Peggy's avenging hand he paid the penalty of his crime.
Peggy lingered to correct Dorothy's misapprehension, and then went
down-stairs, to find another blood-curdling tale in progress, and the
girls sitting breathless, while the firelight threw fantastic shapes
upon the wall, and the shadows looked startlingly black by contrast.
Ten o'clock was the sensible bedtime decided on in Dolittle Cottage, but
on this occasion the big clock chimed ten unheeded. Apparently Aunt
Abigail's repertoire was far from being exhausted. She had rung the
changes on all the familiar horrors in a dozen stories, and yet no one
seemed willing to have her stop. It was quarter of eleven when Peggy
remarked reluctantly: "Girls, if we're going to get up any time
to-morrow, we'd better-be going to bed."
The suggestion was not received with enthusiasm. Priscilla declared that
she wasn't a bit sleepy, and the others all echoed the statement. Then
Aunt Abigail was appealed to, for just one more, and complied without
any pretence of reluctance. Aunt Abigail was enjoying herself hugely,
and it was characteristic of her amiable irresponsibility that it never
occurred to her that there might be undesirable consequences, from thus
stimulating the vivid imaginations of a party of sensitive girls.
It was very near midnight when at last they filed up-stairs to bed. The
fire was out, after having played its part so efficiently as to render
it necessary to open to its widest extent every door and window in the
cottage. It was a rather silent crowd that climbed the stairs. The girls
went to their respective rooms without any of the laughter and gay
chatter which usually characterized the hour of retiring. Peggy said to
herself that they were all too tired to talk.
But Amy knew better. While Peggy shared Dorothy's quarters, and
Priscilla and Claire occupied the room next to Aunt Abigail's, Amy and
Ruth were tucked into a snug little box of a bedroom on the opposite
side of the hall. As Amy hastily lighted the candle on the little table
at the side of the bed, she turned a perturbed face on her roommate.
"Oh, why did I let her do it?" she exclaimed tragically. "Why did I ever
listen? I know I'm not going to sleep a wink to-night."
"Why, Amy, what nonsense!" Ruth remonstrated, but she was aware that her
heartbeats had quickened. It was one thing to listen to Aunt Abigail's
harrowing recitals, in a room made cheerful by firelight and
companionship, and another to recall the same horrors in comparative
solitude. "You're not foolish enough to believe in things of that sort,"
Ruth remarked, with a brave effort to maintain her air of superiority.
"No, I'm not foolish enough to _believe_ in them," Amy
acknowledged, "but I'm foolish enough so they scare me dreadfully. Oh,
dear! Won't I be glad when it is to-morrow!"
She repeated the wish a little later, when both girls were in bed, and
Ruth answered her a trifle tartly that it _was_ very nearly
to-morrow, and that she wanted to go to sleep some time before morning,
if Amy didn't. Then for a matter of thirty minutes silence reigned. The
hour was late and the girls were tired. In spite of her gloomy prophecy,
Amy was surprised and pleased to find a delicious drowsiness creeping
over her.
All at once she sat up in bed. "Ruth," she exclaimed in a frightened
whisper, "what was that?"
"What was what?"
"That rustling noise."
"O, Amy!" Ruth's whispered exclamation conveyed an extraordinary amount
of exasperation for three syllables. And then as Amy remained up-right,
staring intently into the darkness, Ruth was conscious of a curious
pricking of the scalp. For she herself distinctly heard the sound to
which Amy referred, and, truth to tell, it was not unlike the rustling
of the unseen garments which had figured so frequently in the stories to
which they had lately been listening.
"I can hear it as plain as anything, Amy. Do you suppose it is the
maple-tree back of the window?"
"Of course it's the maple-tree," Ruth replied in a husky whisper. How
she envied Amy. Amy frankly acknowledged to being a coward, and poor
Ruth wished that she herself did not have a reputation for courage to
sustain. For certainly that sound was not the whisper of the wind in the
boughs of the maple. It was in the room, apparently at the foot of the
bed.
A long silence followed Ruth's bravely mendacious assurance. Amy lay
down at length and drew the coverlet over her head. The thumping of
Ruth's heart gradually steadied into an ordinary beat. Just as she was
telling herself that Amy's foolish fancies had made her nervous, and she
had imagined the peculiar sound, her heart jumped again. Amy's shivering
body suddenly huddled against hers, gave convincing testimony to the
fact that Ruth's ears were not the only ones to catch something unusual.
"What do you suppose it is?" choked Amy.
This time Ruth made no attempt to hold the maple-tree responsible. "I
don't know," she whispered. The sound that vibrated through the room was
such as might be produced if a finger-nail were drawn across the window
screen. The thought entered Ruth's mind, that perhaps some one was
trying to enter the room by the window, and supernatural horrors paled
beside this possibility.
But this demonstration also was succeeded by a puzzling silence.
Gradually the tense muscles of the two frightened girls relaxed, and
they ventured to exchange perplexed comments on the mysterious
interruptions to the peace of the night. "It certainly was the screen,"
declared Amy. "Do you suppose that the wind blowing through it could
make a noise like that?"
Ruth did not think it likely, but forbore to say so, and after half an
hour of quiet, weariness again asserted itself and she began to feel
agreeably drowsy. Then Amy caught her arm and with the startled pinch,
Ruth's hopes of sleep were indefinitely postponed.
"There it is again," said Amy, her teeth fairly chattering. "There's
that rustling."
"Sh!" Ruth whispered back and her hand found Amy's in the dark. This
time the rustling continued. It was a curiously elusive sound, as
difficult to locate as to understand. At one minute it seemed at the
foot of the bed, and again off in the corner of the room, and once Ruth
was almost sure that it was over her head. And that was the time when it
seemed to her that her heart must stop beating.
"Ruth!" Amy snatched away her hand in her consternation. "Ruth--I'm
going to sneeze!"
"You mustn't!" protested Ruth panic-stricken. What appalling
consequences were to be apprehended from so rash an act, she herself
could not have told. But she was certain that if Amy sneezed, her own
self-control would give way, and she would scream. "Smother it," she
commanded fiercely.
Amy grasped the sheet in a heroic effort to obey, but she was too late.
She sneezed, and to poor Ruth's unstrung nerves, the sound was only to
be compared in volume to a peal of thunder. The mysterious rustling
ceased, and just outside the door a board creaked.
"Girls!" The tentative whisper stole softly through the half-open door.
"Girls, are you awake?"
"Oh, Peggy!" There was untold relief in that brief welcome. Peggy's
presence brought a sense of reinforcement, even against supernatural
terrors. Noiselessly Peggy crept into the room, and perched on the edge
of the bed. Considering the lateness of the hour, her air was peculiarly
alert.
"I knew by Amy's sneeze that she was awake, too, and I thought I'd come
in. I never had such a wakeful night in my life."
"Have you been hearing things, too?" demanded Amy, with an immediate
accession of respect for her own fears if Peggy shared them.
Peggy hesitated. "Well, it hasn't seemed as quiet as most of the
nights," she replied, evasively.
"Rustling in all the corners, and the screen twanging, that's what we've
had," exclaimed Ruth in an excited whisper.
Peggy's silence indicated that such phenomena did not surprise her. "I
suppose," she remarked at length, in her most judicial manner, "that we
all got nervous over those uncanny stories, and so we're ready to
imagine--Oh!"
Something had swooped by her, almost brushing her cheek, and stirring
her hair with the breeze made by its passing. Peggy's muffled shriek had
two echoes.
"What is it?" demanded Amy, a hysterical catch in her voice. "Oh, Peggy,
what has happened?" And Peggy's only reply was a stern demand for the
matches.
The little candle, flaring up at last, showed nothing unusual, unless
three girls wide awake at half-past two in the morning could be included
under that head. Peggy stared incredulously about the empty room, and
then faced her friends.
"Girls, I don't know what ails us all," said Peggy honestly, "but I'm
pretty sure none of us will go to sleep till daylight. So, if you've no
objection, I'm going to sit here and talk till the sun's up."
Nobody had any objection. In fact, with the little candle flickering on
the table, and Peggy sitting at the foot of the bed, discussing
commonplace things, Amy and Ruth felt an immediate accession of courage.
Luckily their time of waiting was not long. Daybreak comes early on a
summer morning, and by the time the candle was burned to the socket, the
pale daylight had stolen into the room and all three watchers were
certain that they could go to sleep.
It seemed to Peggy that she had barely dozed off, before Dorothy awoke
her. Dorothy was standing by the window with one stocking on. When
Dorothy's toilet had progressed to the point of putting on one stocking,
she generally thought of something else more interesting.
"Oh, Dorothy dear," implored poor Peggy, turning on her pillow, "it
can't be time to get up yet."
Dorothy crossed the room, and stood beside the bed. "Aunt Peggy," she
inquired gravely, "did you ever see a mousie with an umbrella?"
"A mouse--with an umbrella!" repeated Peggy stupidly, wondering if she
were too sleepy to understand, or if Dorothy were only talking nonsense.
"Of course not."
"Well, I did. There's one hanging to our screen."
Peggy arose with alacrity. Suspended head downward from the screen, was
indeed a mouse-like shape, with the folded wings of a gnome, which
Dorothy had not unnaturally mistaken for an umbrella. Apparently the
little creature had passed an active night, and was now enjoying his
well-earned repose. Peggy took one look and crossed the hall with a
bound. Amy and Ruth were sound asleep, but Peggy was too excited to be
merciful.
"Girls! Girls! Come quick and see our ghost before it wakes up!"
The startling summons brought the sleepers to their feet in a twinkling
and when Peggy introduced the explanation of the night's mystery, there
was a good deal of shame-faced laughter. Tacitly the girls agreed that
the joke would be more enjoyable if its circulation were strictly
limited, and even when at the breakfast-table Aunt Abigail remarked that
she never saw such air for producing sound sleep, three heavy-eyed girls
exchanged glances, and kept their own counsel.
But a little later Dorothy was anxious for enlightenment on a point in
natural history. "Aunt Peggy, what makes you call a mousie a goose?"
"Why, I didn't, dear. A mouse and a goose aren't the least bit alike."
"But I heard you say it, Aunt Peggy. When I showed you the mousie, you
ran and said, 'Here's our goose.'"
As good luck would have it, Ruth and Amy were the only ones to overhear
the remark, and Peggy was not called upon to satisfy more than Dorothy's
curiosity.
"That funny little thing that looks like a mouse, Dorothy, except for
its horrid black wings, is called a bat. And the goose was only Aunt
Peggy."
"And Ruth, another," remarked the owner of that name.
"And I was Number Three. Three gooses instead of three graces," was
Amy's addition, after which the three laughed in the fashion which
Dorothy found so mystifying, and consequently objectionable.
That was not the last of the story-telling evenings by any means. Aunt
Abigail had abundant opportunity to display her _repertoire_. She
told pathetic stories, which brought the tears to the girls' eyes, and
funny stories, which made them laugh until they cried, and the most
thrilling tales of adventure. But she was never called upon to duplicate
her early success. In the opinion of her entire audience, apparently,
one night of ghost stories was enough for the entire summer.