Late hours did not agree with John Jay. Next morning he felt too tired
to stir. He groaned when he remembered that it was Sunday, for he
thought of the long, hot walk down to Brier Crook church. To his great
surprise, Mammy did not insist on his going with her: she had been
offered a seat in a neighbor's spring-wagon, and there was no room for
him.
So he spent a long, lazy morning, stretched out in the shade of the
apple-tree. A smell of clover and ripening orchards filled the heated
air. The hens clucked around drowsily with drooping wings. A warm breeze
stirred the grasses where he lay.
Ivy dug in the dirt with a broken spoon, while Bud kicked up his heels
beside John Jay, listening to a marvellous account of Miss Hallie's
party. It lost nothing in the telling. For years after, John Jay looked
back upon that night as a John of Patmos might have looked, remembering
some vision of the opened heavens. The lights, the music, the
white-robed figures, and above all, that wonderful fountain looking as
if it must have sprung from some "sea of glass mingled with fire," did
not belong to the earth with which he was acquainted. He repeated some
part of that recollection to Bud every day for a week, always ending
with the sentence uppermost in his thought: "And next Satiddy _I_ has a
buthday."
[Illustration: Under the apple-tree]
Of course he knew that his celebration could be nothing like Miss
Hallie's; but he had a vague idea that something would happen to make
the day unusual and delightful. Every night after he had gone to bed,
and when Mammy was drowsing on the doorstep, he raised himself to his
knees, and looked through a wide hole in the wall where the chinking had
dropped out from between the logs. Through this he could see a strip of
sky studded with twinkling stars. One by one he pointed out the magic
seven, repeating the charm and whispering the wish.
It was a long week, because he was in such a hurry for it to go by. But
Friday night came at last; and, as he counted the stars for the seventh
time, the little flutter of excitement in his veins made them seem to
dance before his eyes.
Early Saturday morning he was awakened by Mammy's stirring around
outside among the chickens, and instantly he remembered that the
long-looked-for day had come. Somehow, a feeling of expectancy made it
seem different from other days. He wanted it to last just as long as
possible, so he lay there thinking about it, and wondering what would
happen first.
As soon as he was dressed, Mammy sent him to the spring for water. He
was gone some time, for he had a faint hope that the birthday Santa
Claus whom he had met at Miss Hallie's party might come early, and he
spent several minutes looking down the road.
Breakfast was ready when he reached the house, and he set the pail down
in such a hurry that some of the water slopped out on his bare toes. His
wistful eyes scanned the table quickly. There was a better breakfast
than usual--bacon and eggs this morning. There was no napkin on the
table under which some gift might lie in hiding, but remembering Miss
Hallie's other experiences, he pulled out his chair. A little shade of
disappointment crept into his face when he found it empty.
After he had speared a piece of bacon with his two-tined fork, and
landed it safely on his plate, he rolled his eyes around the table. "Did
you know this is my buthday, Mammy?" he asked. "I'm nine yeahs ole
to-day."
"That's so, honey," she answered, cheerfully. "You'se gettin' to be a
big boy now, plenty big enough to keep out o' mischief an' take keer o'
yo' clothes. I'll declare if there isn't anothah hole in yo' shirt this
blessed minute!"
The lecture that followed was not of the gala-day kind, but John Jay
consoled himself by thinking that he would probably have had a cuffing
instead had it happened on any other day.
After breakfast Mammy went away to do a day's scrubbing at Rosehaven.
The children spent most of the morning in watching the road. Every cloud
of dust that tokened an approaching traveller raised a new hope. Many
people went by on horses or in carriages. Once in a while there was a
stray bicycler, but nobody turned in towards the cabin.
After a while, in virtue of its being his especial holiday, John Jay
ordered the smaller children to stay in the yard, while he took a swim
in the pond. But the pleasure did not last long. He could only splash
and paddle around dog-fashion, and the sun burnt his back so badly that
he was glad to get out of the water.
Afternoon came, and nothing unusual had happened, but John Jay kept up
his courage and looked around for something to do to occupy the time. A
wide plank leaned up against the little shed at one side of the cabin.
It made him think of Uncle Billy's cellar door, where he had spent many
a happy hour sliding.
"I'm goin' to have a coast," he said to Bud. A smooth board which he
found near the woodpile furnished him with a fine toboggan. By the help
of an overturned chicken-coop, which he dragged across the yard, he
managed to climb to the top of the shed. Squatting down on the board, he
gave himself a starting push with one hand. The downward progress was
not so smooth or so rapid as he desired.
"Needs greasin'," he said, looking at the plank with a knowing frown. A
rummage through the old corner cupboard where the provisions were kept
provided him with a wide strip of bacon rind, such as Uncle Billy used
to rub on his saw. John Jay carried it out of doors and carefully rubbed
the plank from one end to the other. Then he greased the underside of
the little board on which he intended to sit. The result was all he
could wish. He slid down the plank at a speed that took his breath. Up
he climbed from the coop to the shed, carrying his board with him, and
down he slid to the ground, time and again, yelling and laughing as he
went, until Bud began to be anxious for his turn. When the little fellow
was boosted to the shed, he did not make a noise as John Jay had done;
he slid in solemn silence and unspoken delight.
Over an hour of such sport had gone by when Bud remarked, "Ivy's
a-missin' all the fun."
"She's too little to go down by herself," answered John Jay; "but if I
had another little board I'd take her down in front of me."
He began looking around the wood-pile for one. Then he caught sight of
the big dish-pan, which had been set outside on the logs to sun.
"That's the ve'y thing!" he exclaimed. "It'll jus' hole her." The bacon
rind was nearly rubbed dry by this time, but the pan, heated by sitting
so long in the sun, drew out all the grease that remained. It took the
united strength of both boys to get Ivy to the top of the shed, but at
last she was seated, with John Jay just behind her on his little board,
his legs thrown protectingly around the pan. They shot down so fast that
Ivy was terrified. No sooner was she dumped out of the pan on to the
ground than she retired to a safe distance, and stuck her thumb in her
mouth. Nothing could induce her to get in again.
"I'm goin' down in the dish-pan by myself," announced Bud from the shed
roof. "It jus' fits me."
John Jay grinned, and stood a little to one side to watch the
performance. "Go it, Brer Tarrypin!" he shouted.
Maybe Bud leaned a little too much to one side. Maybe the pan missed the
guiding legs that had held it steady before. At any rate something was
amiss, for half-way down the plank it spun dizzily around to one side,
and spilled the luckless Bud out on the chicken-coop. Usually he made
very little fuss when he was hurt, but this time he set up such a roar
that John Jay was frightened. When he saw blood trickling out of the
child's mouth, he began to cry himself. He was just about to run for
Aunt Susan, when Bud suddenly stopped crying, and turned toward him with
a look of terror.
"Aw, I done knock a tooth out!" he exclaimed, and began crying harder
than before, feeling that he had been damaged beyond repair.
John Jay laughed when he found that nothing worse had happened than the
loss of a little white front tooth, and soon dried Bud's tears by
promising that a new one would certainly fill the hole in time.
"Keep yoah mouf shet much as you can when Mammy comes home to-night," he
cautioned; "for I sut'n'ly don't want to ketch a lickin' on my buthday.
It's mighty lucky the pan didn't get a hole knocked in her."
Mammy came home just before dark. The children were on the fence waiting
for her. John Jay felt sure that if Miss Hallie knew that it was his
birthday she would send him something. He wondered if Mammy had told
her. The basket on the old woman's head was always interesting to these
children, for it never came back from Rosehaven empty. The cook always
saved the scraps for Sheba's hungry little charges. This evening John
Jay kept his eyes fixed on it expectantly, as he followed it up the
walk. He had thrown one foot up behind him, and rested the toes of it in
his clasped hands as he hopped along on the other. Maybe there might be
a birthday cake in that basket, with little candles on it. He didn't
know, of course,--but--_maybe_.
They all crowded around, as Sheba put the basket on the table and took
out some scraps of boiled ham, a handful of cookies, and half of an
apple pie. That was all. John Jay looked at them a moment with misty
eyes, and turned away with a lump in his throat. He was beginning to
grow discouraged.
Mammy was so tired that she did not cook anything for supper, as she had
intended, but set out the contents of the basket beside the corn bread
left from dinner. Before they were through eating somebody called for
sis' Sheba to come quick, that Aunt Susan was having one of her old
spells.
"Like enough I won't get back for a good while," said Mammy, as she
hurriedly left the table. "Put Ivy to bed as soon as you wash her face,
John Jay, an' go yo'self when the propah time comes. Be a good boy now,
and don't forget to close the doah tight when you go in."
When Ivy was safely tucked away among the pillows, the two boys sat down
on the door-step to wait once more for the birthday Santa Claus. John
Jay repeated what the thoughtless fellow had said:
"If I don't get there by noon, it'll be because something has happened;
anyway, somebody'll be prancing along about sundown." In the week just
passed, Bud had come to believe in the birthday Santa Claus as firmly
as John Jay.
"Wondah wot he's doin' now?" he said, after a long pause and an anxious
glance down the darkening road.
Ah, well for those two trusting little hearts that they could not know!
He was sitting on the steps of the porch at Rosehaven with a guitar on
his knee, and smiling tenderly into Sally Lou's blue eyes as he sang,
"Oh, yes, I ever will be true!"
It grew darker and darker. The katydids began their endless quarrel in
the trees. A night-owl hooted dismally over in the woods. The children
stopped talking, and sat in anxious silence. Presently Bud edged up
closer, and put a sympathetic arm around his brother. A moment after, he
began to cry.
"What you snufflin' for?" asked John Jay savagely. "'Tain't yo'
buthday."
"But I'm afraid you ain't goin' to have any eithah," sobbed the little
fellow, strangely wrought upon by this long silent waiting in the
darkness.
"Aw, you go 'long to bed," said John Jay, with a careless, grown-up air.
"If anything comes I'll wake you up. No use for two of us to be settin'
heah."
Bud was sleepy, and crept away obediently; but the day was spoiled, and
he went to bed sore with his brother's disappointment.
John Jay sat down again to keep his lonely tryst. He looked up at the
faithless stars. They had failed to help him, but in his desperation he
determined to appeal to them once more. So he picked out the seven
largest ones he could see and repeated very slowly, in a voice that
would tremble, the old charm:
"Star-light, star bright,
Seventh star I've seen to-night;
I wish I may and I wish I might
Have the wish come true I wish to-night."
Then he made his wish again, with a heart felt earnestness that was
almost an ache. Oh, surely the day was not going to end in this cruel
silence! Just then he heard the thud of a horse's hoofs on the wooden
bridge, far down the road. Nearer and louder it came. Somebody was
prancing by at last. He stood up, straining his eyes in his smiling
eagerness to see. Nearer and nearer the hoof-beats came in the
starlight. "_Bookity book! Bookity book!_" The horseman paused a moment
in front of Uncle Billy's.
John Jay hopped from one foot to the other in his impatient gladness.
Then his heart sank as the hoof-beats went on down the road, _Bookity
book! Bookity book!_ growing fainter and fainter, until at last they
were drowned by the voices of the noisy katydids.
He stood still a moment, so bitterly disappointed that it seemed to him
he could not possibly bear it. Then he went in and shut the door,--shut
the door on all his bright hopes, on all his fond dreams, on the day
that was to have held such happiness, but that had brought instead the
cruelest disappointment of his life.
The tears ran down his little black face as he undressed himself. He sat
on the edge of the trundle-bed a moment, whispering brokenly, "They
wasn't anybody livin' that cared 'bout it's bein' my buthday!" Then
throwing himself face downward on his pillow, he cried softly with long
choking sobs, until he fell asleep.