PUNS AND POEMS
Fred and Artie hurried to let down the bars as Mr. Williamson directed,
and then, not without some shouting and a wild rush after an obstinate
beast or two, the cows were driven into the field and the bars replaced.
Some of the automobilists did not wait for the last cow to get out
of the road before they started off, anxious to make up for the lost
time. The Larue and Williamson cars were the last to leave, and, to the
surprise of the children, Mr. Williamson drove ahead while Mr. Larue
turned around and went back in the direction from which they had just
come.
"I don't believe even the Riddle Club can solve that," said Mr.
Williamson teasingly, as six pairs of eyes stared at him in amazement.
"Where are they going?" Margy asked. "Back home?"
"You see, we want to find the owner of the cows," her father explained.
"We can't leave them to eat their heads off among the alfalfa. But who
knows where the farmer lives? He may be in that house we passed a mile
or so back, or he may live on ahead. This way we'll make sure."
A half mile further on they came to a farm that looked as though it
might be a dairy farm. As Artie observed, it had a barn and most farms
had barns. Better still, there were two large silos. That meant there
were cows to be fed through the winter. And Mr. Williamson said that
the owner of two silos would plant alfalfa to go in them. So they
turned up the winding road that brought them to the great white-washed
barns.
"Good morning," Mr. Williamson greeted the man who came out of the barn
with a pitchfork in his hand. "Have you missed any cows lately?"
"Haven't seen 'em since we drove them out to pasture this morning," the
man replied. "Have they broken through the fence again?"
All the children nodded silently before Mr. Williamson could speak.
"I'll go get 'em. Where are they?" said the man, as though he was used
to getting the cows.
"They had blocked the road till another five minutes would have meant
a detour," Mr. Williamson told the farmer. "Cars were held up both
ways, and we did the only thing we could do--drove them into an alfalfa
field."
"You've more than done your part, driving up to tell me," the farmer
declared. "I'll send the boys right down. And wouldn't the kids like
some cold buttermilk to drink?"
In another minute he had sent two tall lads flying down the lane after
the cows and his wife had come out and was asking them all to "stay for
dinner."
"We have our lunch," Polly explained. "We're going to the
seashore--Sunrise Beach."
"Then you let me get you some of my cookies," Mrs. Marshall--she had
told them her name--insisted. "I'll bet those pesky cows gave you a lot
of trouble. My husband keeps his fences up, but he has a neighbor who
won't do his share on the line."
She hurried into the house and in five minutes came back with a box
which she told Polly not to open till lunch time.
"It's my baking day, and I just had some little pies handy," she said.
"The boys like to take a little pie out in the field with them and eat
it while they're at work."
Artie had spied a well, and nothing must do but he must pull up the
bucket and have a drink.
"I read about a boy once who dropped his mother's teapot down the
well," he announced, when he had had his drink and Polly was holding on
to him as he leaned over the curb.
"That isn't so bad as dropping your brother down the well," Polly
informed him. "And if you don't come away this minute, you're likely to
go in--I can't hold you another minute."
"All aboard!" called Mr. Williamson, and three loud blasts from a horn
told them that Mr. Larue's car was waiting at the foot of the lane.
Mr. and Mrs. Marshall waved to them till the tops of the orchard trees
hid them from sight.
"We found the farmer!" called Ward, as he caught a glimpse of his
father. "We found the man who owns the cows."
"They were driving them out of the field as we came past," said Mr.
Larue. "The boys told us you had notified them. Now I suppose we
continue our journey?"
"Unless we find another blockade," Mrs. Marley smilingly answered.
"Mother, you wouldn't call that a catastrophe, would you?" inquired
Artie, who could use words "as long as himself" his father sometimes
declared.
"Huh, that was a cowtastrophe," Fred said placidly.
"I never thought you'd do a thing like that, Fred," said Mr.
Williamson. "Never. I am more shocked than grieved."
"What did he do?" clamored Ward and Jess, for the other car had shot on
ahead. "What did Fred do?"
"He made a pun, and that is worse than a riddle," Mr. Williamson
answered.
"He just did it for fun," said Polly, half-believing that Fred's father
was displeased.
"I made a pun--just for fun," Fred chanted. "Gee, that's poetry."
"It was bum," sang Artie. "That makes more poetry."
"More truth than poetry, you mean," Margy put in. "'Bum' doesn't rhyme
with 'pun.'"
"It does, too," Artie insisted. "Doesn't it, Polly?"
"No, it doesn't," the honest Polly admitted.
Then Artie wanted to know what would rhyme with "pun" and they told him
"gun" and "run" and "sun" and half a dozen other words.
"I'll make up some poetry," Artie announced brightly, and forthwith
he occupied himself with the poetic muse, paying not the slightest
attention to the chatter and noise that went on about him.
They passed through Wickware and drove out on the country highway
again. It was hot and dusty for perhaps another half mile, and then
they came to a group of magnificent willow trees, growing close to a
little white bridge that spanned a creek. The water was low in the
creek now, but the grass was thick and green on either bank and the
shade offered by the trees was delightful.
"Here's our hotel," said Mr. Larue, as they came up with him. "That is,
if we haven't lost the lunch."
"Why, Polly, what is that?" asked Mrs. Marley, as the children climbed
out of the car. "I didn't put that box in."
"It's lunch. Mrs. Marshall gave it to us," Polly explained.
"More lunch!" groaned Mrs. Larue. "We have more now than we can eat."
"I never heard of Mrs. Marshall--who is she?" said Mrs. Williamson
curiously.
"She owns the cows," Margy told her mother. "She gave Polly the box
because Daddy came and told her the cows were eating the alfalfa."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Williamson. "But what is the matter with Artie?"
Artie still sat in the car, though every one else was glad to be
sitting under the trees in the shade.
"I'm writing a poem," he announced. "I'll be through in a minute."
So the lunch was unpacked and it was discovered that nothing had been
forgotten--the chicken sandwiches were there and the boiled eggs and
even the salt--Mr. Marley said it was the first picnic he had really
enjoyed in fifteen years, because usually some one forgot the salt.
"Artie!" called Mrs. Marley, when everything was ready. "If you do not
come this minute, you can't have your share of Mrs. Marshall's box."
The poet hopped down quickly. He said his poem was finished anyway. But
to tell the truth, he was anxious not to miss the picnic lunch. He said
it made him hungry to write poems.
Mrs. Marshall had put six beautiful rhubarb saucer pies in her box,
two dozen sugar cookies and half a chocolate layer cake. As the three
mothers had counted on hearty appetites, they had packed generous
boxes, too, and Mr. Larue said that they could probably live the rest
of the summer on what was left over. But, to everyone's surprise, there
was very little left.
"We must all be poets," said Mr. Marley, pulling Artie over backward
and tickling him. "For look what we have done to the party--the birds
are lucky if they get a few crumbs."
"Tell us your poem, Artie?" coaxed Jess, when the waxed paper and the
remains of the picnic--except the food scattered for the birds--had
been neatly buried in a hole dug by Mr. Williamson. "Tell us what you
wrote?"
"Well, I don't mind," agreed Artie unexpectedly.
He stood up and gazed at them calmly.
"Fred made a pun,
And called it fun.
I took my gun
And made him run,
Which seemed to stun
Him."
"Is that a poem?" asked Fred doubtfully.
"Of course it is," the indignant poet retorted. "Don't you know poetry
when you hear it?"
That rather discouraged further criticism, though Jess whispered to
Margy as they climbed back into their seats that she thought it "ended
queer."
"Lots of poems do," said Margy.
The grown-ups were anxious to reach Sunrise Beach in time for dinner,
and the two cars made excellent time in the hour that followed.
"We'll soon be there now," Mr. Williamson had just remarked when
Ward's sharp eyes saw the car ahead stop.
"Daddy's stopped! He's standing up and shouting to us," said Ward. "I
wonder if there are any more cows?"
"The road is blocked--What on earth can that be?" Mr. Williamson
frowned a little.
"It must be an automobile house," contributed Artie. "I read about one
in a book. It is a regular house, except that it is on wheels, and
people live in it."
"Well, what do you know about that!" Mr. Williamson said blankly, as
they came abreast of the other car and for the first time could see
clearly what it was that blocked the roadway.