THE FIRST BREAK.
Persis’s first poetical effusion was found pinned on Lisa’s pin-cushion
a few days after their last frolic. It followed a call from Edwin Carew
and Stephen Boyd, during which Persis, in her snuggery, composed the
following:
There was a little, hopping toad
Lived underneath a tree,
Who breakfasted and dined on flies,
Ate little gnats for tea;
Who found his one excitement this,
In hopping ’cross the walk,
To see a grasshopper who lived
Beside a mullein stalk.
This warty, pop-eyed little toad
Concluded one fine day
That life was very flat indeed,
The world far, far from gay.
So, hopping, hopping, off he went
To Grasshopper Slimleg.
Said Grasshopper, “Come, in, my friend.
Good-day! Come in, I beg.”
“You seem quite blue,”—he meant quite green,—
“Pray, what distresses you?”
“Oh, I’m so bored,” replied the toad,
“I don’t know what to do.
“If you could but suggest some plan
To while the time away,
Your goodness I could ne’er forget,
And never could repay.”
The grasshopper, with thoughtful leg,
Began to scratch his wing,
Hopped forward once, then back again,
And said, “Suppose we sing!”
“Sing! Oh, good gracious, don’t you think
I hear enough of that?
And I’m no vocalist myself,
Fun’s what I’m driving at.”
Then Slimlegs scratched his other wing,
And let his feelers drop,
Then raised them suddenly again,
And said, “Suppose we hop!
“I’ll bet you even flies that I
Can win in ev’ry heat.”
“Done!” said the toad. “I’m very sure
I’ll be the one to beat.”
So off they went. I saw them go,
With energetic hop;
They cleared the walk, they passed the wall,
But never did they stop.
Indeed, I’d really like to tell
Which of them won the bet;
They hopped so far, for aught I know,
They may be hopping yet.
“What a ridiculous girl you are, Persis,” said Lisa putting down the
paper.
“You don’t mean to say the hoppers have gone,” returned Persis. “I
thought you would never get a chance to have any dinner. We have all
finished long ago. I wonder why some persons will be so stupid as to
make calls just at meal-time, and neither go when the meal is ready nor
expect to come to the table.”
“I suppose they don’t know exactly how to get away.”
“I don’t believe it is anything of the kind. It is a pure lack of
consideration,—absolute selfishness; but I suppose you couldn’t expect
common sense of toads and grasshoppers. I remember now how Ned Carew
used to come and call on you in the middle of a hot summer afternoon
before we went away last year. Everybody with any sense knows a girl
hates to rig herself up in the midst of blazing heat. Why couldn’t he
have waited till evening? I used to get so mad.”
“You didn’t have to entertain him.”
“No; but you did, and you used to look so comfortable in your white
wrapper lolling in a cool room. I hated to see you obliged to make
the exertion to go up-stairs and change your dress. Men haven’t very
much sense about some things. I suppose they imagine girls are always
sitting up in some fairy-like toilet ready to smile upon any chance
admirer.”
“Some girls are.”
“Well, I’m not one of them. Where’s Mell?”
“I suppose she has gone to the Milesian’s.” And the two laughed,
knowing Mellicent’s annoyance at having Audrey so termed.
“What grown-up girls we are getting to be,” remarked Persis, after a
short silence. “I am in my eighteenth year, and you are nearly out of
your teens. Isn’t it appalling?”
Lisa looked thoughtful. “Yes,” she answered. “And, Persis, I have
something to tell you. No one knows yet, except mamma. Captain Wickes
is ordered to Japan. Aunt Esther is going to join him there, and she
has invited me to go with her.”
Persis’s eyes grew big with surprise. “Oh, Lisa!” was all she could
ejaculate.
“Mamma has left me to make up my mind. You know Aunt Esther says I
shall not be put to the least expense; that it shall be just as if I
were her own daughter.”
“Oh, Lisa!” exclaimed Persis again. “I am so afraid you might marry a
missionary, and you’d have to live there always in one of those funny
little houses with paper partitions, and it would be so dreadful.”
Lisa laughed. “I can solemnly assure you that I will not marry a
missionary. My one winter in society has shown me that missionary work
served up without the sauce of other diversions would not be to my
liking, so count the missionary out, if you please. I’ve always been
wild to go to Japan—and—and—there are other reasons why I should like
to go away for a while.”
“Then you have really decided to go? Oh, Lisa, I hate to think of a
break in the family.”
“Well,” returned Lisa, “I thought I might be willing to go if Aunt
Esther would promise faithfully that I could come back after three
months if I wanted to. She wants me to stay a year, but I cannot make
up my mind to do that. Just think, Persis, I shall see California,
and just imagine what an experience it will all be! They say nothing
develops one like travel.”
Persis was looking very dubious.
“I’ll bring you the loveliest kimono, and oh, Perse, I’ll get you a
China crêpe in San Francisco for your graduating dress.”
Persis looked pleased, but her face fell directly, as she said, “Then
you won’t be here for class-day.”
“No. We are to go almost immediately,—as soon as we can get ready.
Uncle Wickes is already on his way, and Aunt Esther wants to stop a
little while in California before we sail. We shall probably be at
Yokohama, or some such port, wherever the captain is stationed, and
you know what lovely times they have—dances and such things—on board a
man-of-war.”
“Well,” replied Persis, “I don’t say but that it is a delightful chance
for you, but oh, Lisa, we shall miss you so.”
“Don’t Perse,” Lisa besought her, putting her arms around her; “I shall
not be able to stand it. I shall give in at once if you do that; and
indeed it is better for me to go. It is, truly. I can’t tell you all
the whys and wherefores that decide me; but mamma knows, and she thinks
it is best.”
Persis therefore said no more, but lent herself to the task of helping
her sister to prepare for her long journey. Soon nothing else was
talked of; even Persis’s anticipations of class-day dwindled into
insignificance before Lisa’s wonderful trip, and early in May she was
on her way.
A few evenings after her departure, Mr. Danforth called and was told of
the breach made in the family circle. Mrs. Holmes watched him narrowly
as she gave the information; but, although he was much interested and
said he quite envied Lisa her good fortune, there was no shadow of
regret in his words. On the contrary, he seemed quite pleased, and was
really more concerned in Persis’s preparations for class-day; and Mrs.
Holmes, when she wrote to her absent daughter that evening, said, “We
miss you sorely, dear child; but I am glad this opportunity has come
for you to see the world.” And then she wrote of Mr. Danforth’s call in
such a way that Lisa, reading, felt a few hot tears come to her eyes as
she crumpled the letter in her hand. But she smoothed it out and kissed
it directly after. “Dearest, dearest mother,” she said, “there is no
friend like you, for even when you give a bitter pill you smother it in
honey.”
“You’ll come to the commencement, won’t you, Mr. Dan?” asked Persis.
“We’re going to have something quite different from the conventional
plan this year. We are going to have a regular Greek setting, and all
the graduates are going to wear Greek costumes. Basil is going to show
me about mine. We are going to have our themes written on long scrolls
and everything as much in keeping as possible. It will be when roses
are in bloom, and we can have such lovely rosy decorations.”
“I shall be delighted to come,” Mr. Danforth assured her, with evident
heartiness.
“We are going to bury our Cæsar under a big rose-bush. You know Miss
Adams’s grounds are beautiful, and some of the rose-bushes are perfect
trees. We are going to find a tall urn to put on the bier for the
ashes, so it will be real Greecey. No,” and the girl rippled out a
little laugh, “I don’t mean that. I mean it will be truly Grecian. What
a difference one little word makes. I like to study the value of words.”
Mr. Danforth responded appreciatively. “Yes; I heard you were a
specially good student in your English.”
“That speech of mine sounded like it. Who told you,—Miss Adams?”
“Herself. She said you had a very nice critical sense, and she thought
you would really do well in some direction where your literary analysis
would be required.”
“It is very nice of you to tell me such complimentary things. You don’t
usually believe in compliments, do you?”
“That depends. I believe in encouraging those who deserve it. Do you
know that I am thinking of turning newspaper man?”
“Really?” And Persis clasped her hands interestedly. “Then you’ll be
just the one to tell me all about it. What are you going to do?”
“I have been writing for one or two papers lately, and I have been
offered a position on the staff of a new weekly.”
“Shall you like it better than ‘professing,’ as Lisa and I call it?”
“Much better. I never intended to teach except while I should be making
the way for something else.”
“Oh, I always thought you meant to be a professor.” And Persis looked
thoughtful.
“I never intended any such thing. I am much fonder of journalism.”
Persis’s face took on a new expression of interest. “How nice it will
be!” she declared. “I always said I meant to be an editor.”
Mr. Danforth smiled, and later on this ingenuous avowal came back to
him.
It did seem very lonely indeed without Lisa, and when in due time the
China crêpe arrived, Persis shed tears over it, even while she was
admiring the soft clinging folds of the beautiful stuff.
Basil was charmed with the idea of helping Annis and Persis to design
their graceful costumes. Lisa had chosen a pale pink for Persis, and
her slender, girlish figure, with her round white arms and delicate
throat, her dusky hair bound with a silver fillet, never showed
to better advantage than when, clad in the costume, she stood for
criticism. Annis, in pale green, was like a dainty bit of decoration
for spring.
“I think it is ever so much nicer for some of us to dress in colors,”
said Persis. “We must thank you for the suggestion, Basil. You always
see the artistic side of things. What’s the matter?” for Basil was
gazing at her intently. “Is there anything wrong?” And Persis looked
down uneasily.
“No; on the contrary, you never looked so stunning. You’re a perfect
picture, Persis.”
“Oh, am I?” said Persis, delightedly. “Thank you, Basil. I am so glad I
look nice.”
There was such unaffected surprise in her tone that little Annis smiled.
“Persis, you’ve the dearest way of being unconscious,” she said. “I
don’t believe you ever admire yourself.”
Persis looked around at her in wonder. “Of course I don’t, when I have
Lisa and Mellicent to admire. They are the beauties.”
Annis gave a merry look to Basil, who was smiling quietly. He shook his
head at her, and Persis, perfectly unaware that none of Miss Adams’s
graduating class would look more attractive than she, began to admire
Annis and to speak of the honors about to be given.
“Annis and I are at swords’ points,” she told Basil. “This is the time
truly ‘when Greek meets Greek.’”
“Is that meant for a joke?”
“No, unless you prefer it to poetry. You know we are to hear to-morrow
who is to be first-honor girl. I say Annis, and Annis says I will be.”
“Perhaps it will be neither.”
“Then it will be Nellie Hall.” And Persis went up-stairs to lay aside
her costume.
The next day the great question was settled, and Persis was quite
overpowered when it was announced that first honors were hers, that
Nellie Hall stood second, and Annis third. Annis was of course
disappointed. She had always been very confident of Persis’s place,
and declared that it was only the rivalry between herself and Nellie
that was the question at issue. And she was in reality very happy over
her cousin’s success.
Class-day dawned with fair skies and balmy breezes. “‘What is so
rare as a day in June?’” quoted Persis, as she appeared at the
breakfast-table. “Did you ever see such a gem of a day? It is just
perfection. Oh, I am so happy! Just think of having blue skies and
roses, delicious odors, a picturesque costume, and first honors all at
once. There is only one flaw in my perfect happiness.”
“And that is——?” queried her father.
“Lisa is not here. If I could only see her dear, beautiful face I
should be so glad.”
“You’d get into a fuss before the day was over,” Porter observed,
sagely.
“No, we wouldn’t. I think Lisa and I are both getting more sense as
we grow older. Annis has done me a lot of good,” admitted Persis,
candidly. “She is so sweet, and has shown me that persons need not be
simply good-naturedly meek to keep out of fusses. Annis has lots of
firmness of character, and she can show a disapproving silence. And
then, Basil—oh, yes, Basil is a fine example of how one can disapprove
silently. I’d rather he’d ‘sass me back’ at any time.”
“You still have a great deal to learn not found in school-books,” said
Mr. Holmes, “although you think you are to be graduated to-day.”
“Yes, I know, ‘sermons in stones, books in the running brook,’ and all
that, and I still have an ambition for more book l’arnin’, papa.”
“You’d better learn that you will need something to eat before noon,”
interposed Mrs. Estabrook, looking at the scarce-touched food on the
girl’s plate.
“Oh, no, grandma, I can’t eat anything more. I shall not need much
breakfast, for the Juniors are going to give us a luncheon, and I
shall want to save up for that. We are going to pass around the staff
or wand, or whatever you call it, and each one who receives it is to
respond a sort of toast, you know. I’ve written an effusion, and it’s
very witty, I assure you.”
“In the sense that Prue uses witty?” inquired Mrs. Holmes, slyly.
Persis laughed, and Porter, seeing a possible joke, asked how Prue
utilized the word.
“She uses witty for witless,” Persis explained. “Come, boys, help me
gather the roses; and, Basil, you know you promised to arrange the bier
for poor Cæsar. Nellie has written a fine parody on the famous oration,
and it is to be delivered at the grave. Come, boys!” And the girl in
the exuberance of her youthful spirits danced from the room as if she
hardly felt the ground under her feet.
It was truly a beautiful sight to the looker-on, the young graduates,
in classic attire, marching slowly down the long school-room and into
the open air, the first six carrying, uplifted, the bier, upon which
a tall Grecian urn, lightly draped and strewn with white flowers, was
held. Into the summer-garden the little procession passed, all eyes
following, and as the rose-petals fell softly from the vine above the
young heads. Cæsar was buried, Nellie Hall delivering her oration with
much effect.
The luncheon was pronounced a great success, and after the reception,
which took place in the evening, Persis felt that this had been the
happiest day of her life. All had done her honor; the sunshine of
praise had shone upon her; she had been at her best all day; Mr.
Danforth, Basil, Wilson Vane, had been sedulously attentive during the
evening. “I know how Lisa used to feel,” thought the girl as she felt
herself the centre of an admiring group. “It is nice to have attention.”
But late as it was when she reached home, she stopped at her
grandmother’s door, knowing that the dear old lady would lie awake till
her return.
“My heart is so full, grandma,” she whispered. “The brook and river
meet to-day, and I don’t know what course the river means to take; it
looks a very winding way.”
“‘He leadeth me,’” whispered back grandma. And Persis, for answer,
said,—
“Let me sleep with you, grandma, to-night; I don’t want to be all
alone.”
And grandma was only too glad to say, “Yes, my darling.”
[Illustration: Decoration]