DOROTHY GETS INTO MISCHIEF
The experiment which had marked such an advance in the education of Mrs.
Snooks had proved equally beneficial to Ruth's health. There is no
panacea like laughter. Since Ruth had been spared the ordeal of
requesting the loan of any of Mrs. Snooks' belongings, her enjoyment of
the situation had been unqualified and she had laughed most of the day,
and even waked once or twice during the night to find herself still
chuckling. By morning her manner had lost every trace of lassitude and
her assurance that she felt as well as ever was accepted by the
household without question.
The final obstacle in the way of the boys' long deferred tramp was now
removed. Still another last day was celebrated with fitting ceremonies,
and the Snooks' roof sheltered the wanderers for positively the last
time. Graham and Jack had made their farewells the previous evening, as
they were to start early, and Ruth's suggestion of rising to see them
off was immediately vetoed by her brother.
"You won't do any such thing. Why should you miss two or three hours of
sleep for the sake of saying good-by to-morrow morning, when you can
just as well say it to-night?" Yet for all his masculine assumption of
superiority to sentiment Graham was conscious of a little pang of
disappointment as he and Jack passed Dolittle Cottage, in the dewy
freshness of the summer morning. He had more than half expected to see a
hand or two flutter at a window, in token that their departure was not
unnoticed.
"'How can I bear to leave thee,'" hummed Jack under his breath, and his
smile was a little mischievous. Graham regarded him disdainfully, and
Jack, breaking off his song, hastened to say: "Well, they're as nice a
crowd of girls as we'd find anywhere, if we tramped from here to the
Pacific coast."
"You're right about that," Graham returned, mollified, and then the
boys, turning the bend of the road, halted as abruptly as if a
highwayman had checked their advance. For hidden from sight by a tangled
thicket of underbrush and vines, five girls in white shirt-waists and
short skirts were waiting their arrival. The girls shrieked delightedly
at the amazement depicted on the countenances of the two knights of the
road.
"Now, don't try to pretend that you were expecting this all the time.
You know you never thought of it," Ruth cried, slipping her hand through
her brother's arm, and giving it a fond squeeze.
"Of course I never thought of it. Only a girl could originate such a
brilliant idea." The assumed sarcasm of Graham's rejoinder could not
conceal his pleasure, and Ruth flashed a satisfied glance at Peggy, who
met it with a twinkle of understanding.
"We're only going to walk about a mile," explained Peggy, as the
procession moved forward. "We know you want to make a record, your first
day out. And, besides, we haven't had a real breakfast yet, only
crackers and milk."
It was a long mile that they traversed before parting company, as the
girls found when they came to retrace their steps. Familiar as they
thought themselves with the vicinity, the sunrise world was full of
delightful surprises. There was magic in the air, and the winding road
lured them ahead, as if it had been an enchanted path leading to
fairyland.
"I wish somebody'd go away early every morning," Amy sighed from a full
heart, "and give us an excuse for getting up early. To think of sleeping
away hours like this."
"It's a pity we didn't leave long ago," suggested Jack Rynson, between
whom and Amy there existed a sort of armed truce, "so that you could
discover what a country morning was like." But before Amy could form a
sufficiently withering reply, a tiny bird, perched on the topmost bough
of a neighboring tree, had burst into such music that the little party
stood silenced, and even playful bickering was forgotten.
Something of the magic of the morning vanished, it must be confessed,
when the farewells could no longer be postponed, and the girls turned
their faces toward Dolittle Cottage. "The worst of nice things," said
Ruth crossly, "is that you miss them so when they stop."
"It's only half-past six now," announced Priscilla, consulting her
watch. "Goodness! What are we going to do with a day as long as this?"
"I know what I'm going to do with part of it," said Peggy. "I'm going to
give Lucy Haines a good boost on her algebra. There's been so much going
on since the boys came, that she's felt shy about dropping in. Afraid of
interfering, you know. But I sent word to her by Jerry, yesterday, that
I should expect her this afternoon."
As it proved, it was not a difficult matter to occupy the long day,
since each hour brought its own occupation and a little to spare. At the
threshold of the cottage they were met by startling news, Dorothy
hurrying out importantly to make the announcement.
"One of your little chickens has goned to Heaven, Aunt Peggy. A big bird
angel took it."
"What on earth does she mean?" Peggy demanded in a perplexity not
unnatural, considering the highly idealized character of Dorothy's
report. It was left to Aunt Abigail to translate the catastrophe into
prose. The Dolittle Cottagers were not the only early risers that fine
morning. A big hawk, up betimes, and looking for his breakfast, had
selected as a choice tit-bit, one of the yellow hen's fast diminishing
brood. Peggy felt that she could have borne it better had it not been
for the unimpaired cheerfulness of the yellow hen's demeanor.
The discussion of the tragedy delayed breakfast, and when the household
finally gathered about the round table, it was a little after the
regular breakfast hour rather than earlier. And, as sometimes happens,
dinner seemed to follow close on the heels of breakfast, and directly
after dinner, came Lucy Haines. Lucy's manner of accepting a kindness
always betrayed a little hesitancy, as if her independent spirit dreaded
the possibility of incurring too heavy a weight of obligation. But
usually after a little time in Peggy's society, that air of constraint
disappeared, greatly to Peggy's satisfaction.
That afternoon session was a protracted one. Lucy's attempt to master
algebra without a teacher, had been not unlike the efforts of a mariner
to navigate without a chart. Lucy's little craft had struck many a reef,
and was aground hard and fast, when the tug "Peggy" steamed up
alongside. The fascination of discovering a key to mysteries seemingly
impenetrable rendered Lucy as oblivious to the flight of time as Peggy
herself. When the girls on the porch called in to ask the time, and
Peggy glancing at the clock in the corner, replied that it was half-past
four, Lucy let her book drop in her consternation. Instantly her face
was aflame.
"Oh, it can't be," she said in dismay. "I can't have been here three
hours. What must you think of me?"
Peggy looked at her in a surprise more soothing to the girl's sensitive
pride than any amount of polite protest.
"Why, I've enjoyed every minute," she said simply. "And I think we're
beginning to see daylight, don't you?"
"Indeed I do. I didn't believe that such puzzling things could get so
clear in one afternoon. And I can't begin to thank you." Lucy gathered
up her belongings and made a hasty exit, while Peggy followed her out
upon the porch.
"Hasn't Dorothy come yet, girls? Then wait a minute." This last to Lucy.
"I'll get my hat and walk part way with you. I told Dorothy she might
play with little Annie Cole this afternoon but it's time she was home."
The two girls had covered about half the distance to the farmhouse, when
they were met by Rosetta Muriel who nodded, cordially to Peggy, and
stiffly to her companion. "We thought it was time Annie was coming
home," she explained. "Ma said you folks would get tired having her
'round. So I was just going for her."
The color had receded from Peggy's face in the course of this
explanation. "Annie! Why, I thought--"
"Ma told her she could go over to play with Dorothy. Didn't she come?"
"Why, I haven't seen her. I told Dorothy she might go to play with
Annie."
There was a frightened catch in Peggy's voice. Rosetta Muriel hastened
to reassure her, though with a distinct touch of patronage.
"It's nothing to get fidgety about. Those young ones are up to some
mischief, that's all. Our Annie's a whole team all by herself as far as
cutting up goes, and I guess your Dorothy is another of the same kind."
"But where can they be?" faltered poor Peggy, too engrossed with that
all-important question to be concerned as to the implied criticism of
her small kinswoman.
"Oh, they're about the farm somewhere, I s'pose. You needn't worry. That
Annie of ours is always getting into the awfulest scrapes, but, you see,
she hasn't been killed yet."
With this modified comfort, Rosetta Muriel led the searching party.
Peggy followed, looking rather white in spite of repeatedly assuring
herself that the children were sure to be safe. Lucy Haines brought up
the rear, because she could not bear to go her way till Peggy's anxiety
was relieved.
The investigation of several of Annie's favorite haunts proved
fruitless, and Rosetta Muriel began to show signs of temper. "Looks like
they've gone down to the pond. That's a good quarter of a mile, and I've
got on satin slippers." She held out an unsuitably clad foot for Peggy
to admire, but Peggy was thinking of other matters than French heeled
slippers. "The pond! Is it very deep?"
"No, indeed. But ma don't like--"
Lucy Haines interrupted the explanation by a stifled cry, which from a
girl so self-controlled meant more than a fit of hysterical screaming on
the part of one differently constituted. Peggy whirled about.
In the adjoining pasture separated from them by a low stone wall, was a
fantastic spectacle, worthy a midsummer night's dream. Down the slope,
snorting as he ran, galloped a full sized boar, his formidable tusks
grotesquely emphasizing his terrified demeanor. The fairy-like figure
perched on his back and holding fast by his ears, was Dorothy. And
behind ran Annie, plying a switch and shouting commands intended to
hasten the speed of the frightened charger.
As if she were in a dream, Peggy heard behind her the horrified whisper
of Rosetta Muriel. "They'll be killed!" gasped the girl. "Why, that
boar's dangerous!" Then her fear found voice and she screamed. At the
sound Annie looked up, and halted in her tracks. Dorothy, too, lifted
her eyes and straightway fell off her flying steed. And the boar,
apparently uncertain as to what might happen next, lost no time in
putting space between himself and his late tormentors. He turned and
galloped up the slope in a frenzy of fear highly ludicrous under the
circumstances. Unluckily none of the lookers-on were in a mood to
appreciate the humor of the situation.
Peggy reached Dorothy about the time that the fallen equestrienne was
picking herself up, her face rueful, for she realized that the hour of
reckoning had come. A moment later Rosetta Muriel had pounced on Annie,
and, as an indication of sisterly authority, was boxing both ears
impartially.
"You little piece! You might have been killed, and it would have served
you right. I don't believe you'll ever be anything better than a tomboy
as long as you live. If I was ma, I'd lick these tricks out of you, you
bet."
The frantic child, between her sister's blows and angry words, was more
like a furious little animal than a human being. Struggling in Rosetta
Muriel's grip, her face crimson with passion, she showed herself ready
to use tooth and nail indiscriminately in order to free herself. For all
her advantage in size and strength, Rosetta Muriel was unable to cope
with so ferocious an antagonist. She solved the problem by giving Annie
a violent push, as she released her hold. The child struck the ground at
some distance and with a force which brought Peggy's heart into her
mouth. But immediately Annie scrambled to her feet, her face scratched
and bleeding, and started toward home, screaming as she went, though
less from pain than from anger.
"That brat!" cried Rosetta Muriel breathing fast. Then her eyes fell on
Peggy, standing in disdainful quiet, and her expression showed
uncertainty. Rosetta Muriel was hardly capable of appreciating that for
one in a fit of passion to attempt to correct a child is the height of
absurdity, but she recognized the indignation Peggy took no pains to
hide.
"Does seem sometimes," observed Rosetta Muriel with an unsuccessful
effort to regain the air of languor which she imagined the badge of good
breeding, "as if nothing I could do would make a lady out of that young
one."
"I should think not," replied Peggy, and it was not her fault if Rosetta
Muriel thought the remark ambiguous. "Good night," she added hastily and
turned away, fearful that a longer interview would bring her to the
point of speaking her mind with a plainness hardly allowable on slight
acquaintance. Like many people noted for tact and consideration, Peggy,
when driven to frankness, left nothing unsaid that would throw light on
the situation.
Dorothy walked at her aunt's side with chastened step. In the chaos of
feeling into which Rosetta Muriel's unwise discipline had plunged her
small sister, there was little chance for the voice of Annie's
conscience to make itself heard. But Dorothy, on the other hand, was the
prey of conscientious qualms. She had been naughty. Annie's angry big
sister had said they might have been killed, which, from Dorothy's
standpoint, was censurable in the extreme.
"Aunt Peggy," she began at last, in such a forlorn little pipe that
Peggy was forced to steel herself against an immediate softening of
heart. "Aunt Peggy, I guess you'd better whip me. If you send me to bed
'thout any supper it wouldn't make me a good girl a bit, 'cause me and
Annie ate lots of cookies and I don't want any supper, anyway."
Peggy studied the sunset earnestly before she could trust herself to
reply.
"Dorothy, how often have you and Annie done what you did to-day?"
Dorothy was not certain, but it was evident that the diversion had been
tried on several occasions and Peggy's heart almost stood still,
realizing the peril to which the children had exposed themselves.
Without doubt their immunity was due to their very audacity. Apparently
the boar had not connected these fearless mites with human beings whom
he knew to be vulnerable, but had fancied them sportive elves, against
whom his tusks would be powerless. Peggy registered a vow not to let
Dorothy out of her sight again while the summer lasted.
"Why didn't you tell Aunt Peggy what you and Annie were playing?"
The candid Dorothy had an instant reply. "'Cause I didn't want you to
make me stop." It was clear that the sin had not been one of ignorance.
Peggy resolved to act upon Dorothy's counsel.
After the two reached home, the story had so many tellings that there
seemed a little danger of Dorothy's penitence evaporating in
self-importance. "I had the last turn, anyway," she boasted; "and he
runned faster with me on his back, too."
"Oh, if I'd only been there with my camera," lamented Amy. "Think what a
snap-shot it would have made." Then as Peggy frowned at her behind
Dorothy's shoulder, she subsided with a grimace of comprehension.
As Dorothy climbed the stairs to bed, it was understood that the hour of
retribution had arrived. Dorothy wept softly while undressing, and
uttered agonizing shrieks as she underwent her chastisement. Down-stairs
the girls looked at one another aghast, and Hobo whined uneasily, as if
asking permission to interfere. Then the uproar ended abruptly, and
Dorothy climbing upon Peggy's knee, pledged herself solemnly never again
to ride boar-back, a promise which stands more than an even chance of
being religiously kept.
Altogether Peggy was inclined to regard her methods of discipline as
highly successful. It was not till a penitent and altogether adorable
Dorothy had been tucked into bed, and kissed uncounted times, that doubt
assailed her. She was moving toward the stairs, when a small voice
arrested her steps.
"Aunt Peggy," Dorothy said dreamily, "you don't spank as hard as my
mamma does. You whipped me just the way Hobo whips himself with his
tail."