It was one of those late February days, when Nature, after months of frozen
disregard for man, of a sudden smiles, and you see that her face has grown
quite young, and that she is filled with gracious intent towards you. The
bare limbs of the chestnut trees before the house looked shiny against the
dim blue of the sky; they seemed to strain upward toward the light and
warmth. A score of sparrows were busy on the roadway.
After all, it was The Seraph who made the first dash, who took the bit in
his milk-teeth, as it were; and, without a by-your-leave, strutted across
the strip of sod to the road, and so set forth. He carried his head very
high, and he would now and then shake it in that manner peculiar to the
equine race. Angel and I followed closely with occasional caracoles, and
cavortings, and scornful blowings through the nostrils. All three shied at
a lamp-post. It needed no second glance to perceive that we were mettlesome
steeds out for exercise, and feeling our oats.
A very old gentleman with an umbrella and top hat saw us. He rushed to the
curb waving his umbrella and crying, "Whoa, whoa," but we only arched our
proud necks and broke into a gallop. How the pavement echoed under our
flying hoofs! How warmly the sun glistened on our sleek coats! How pleasant
the jingling sound of the harness and the smell of the harness oil!
We left the decorous street we knew so well, and turned into narrow and
untidy Henwood street. Shabby houses and shops were jumbled promiscuously
together, and the pavement was full of holes. From the far end of it came
the joyous tones of a hand-organ, vibrating on the early afternoon air. The
eaves on the sunny side of the street were dripping. A fishmonger's shop
sent forth its robust odour. The scarlet of a lobster caught our eyes as we
flew past.
Could it be possible that the player of the organ was our old friend Tony,
to whose monkey we had often handed our coppers through the palings?
We were horses no longer. Who had time for such pretence when Tony was
grinding out "White Wings" with all his might? Angel and I took to the
side-walk and ran with all speed, leaving the poor little Seraph pumping
away in the rear, not quite certain whether he was horse or boy, but
determined not to be outdistanced.
It was indeed Tony, and his white teeth gleamed when he saw us coming, and
his eyebrows went up to his hat brim at sight of us bareheaded and alone,
who always handed our coppers through the palings. And Anita, the monkey,
was there, looking rather pale and sickly after the long Winter, but full
of pluck, grinning, as she doffed her gold-braided hat.
Angel and The Seraph rarely had any money. The little allowance father gave
us through Mrs. Handsomebody, burnt a hole in their pockets till it was
expended on toffee or marshmallows. But I was made of different stuff, and
by the end of the week, I was the financial strength of the trio. It was I,
who now fished out a penny which Angel snatched from me. He craved the joy
of the giver, and chuckled when Anita's small pink palm closed over the
coin. But I was too happy to quarrel with him. Every one seemed in
good-humour that day. Windows were pushed up and small change tossed out,
or dropped in Anita's cup as she perched, chattering, on the sill. A stout
grocer in his white apron gave her a little pink biscuit to nibble.
Half-grown girls lolled on the handles of perambulators to listen, while
their charges pulled faces of fear at the supple Anita.
We three sat on the curb close to the organ, our small heads reeling with
the melodies that thundered from it. When Tony moved on, we rose and
followed him. At the next corner he rested his organ on its one leg and
looked down at us.
"You betta go home," he admonished, "your mamma not like."
"We're going to run the streets today," I said, manfully, "Mrs.
Handsomebody is away at a funeral."
"A funer-al," repeated Tony, "she know--about dis?"
"No--" I replied, "but Mary Ellen does."
"She a beeg lady--dis Marie Ellen?"
"Oh, yes. She's awfully big. Bigger than you, and strong--"
"Oh, all right," said Tony, "but don' you get los'." We helped him to carry
the organ. It was a new one he said, and very expensive to hire. We asked
him endless questions we had always been wanting to ask--about Italy, and
his parents, and sisters, and we told him about father in South America,
and about the party that night for Mr. Watlin.
From street to street we wandered till we were gloriously and irrevocably
lost. Angel and I helped to grind the organ and The Seraph even presented
himself at doors with Anita's little tin cup in his hand. And either
because he was so little or his eyelashes were so long, he never came back
empty-handed. Tony seemed well content with our company.
So the afternoon sped on. Narrow alleys we played in, and wide streets, and
once we passed through a crowded thoroughfare where we had to hug close to
the organ, and once we met Tony's brother Salvator, who gave us each a long
red banana.
At last Tony, looking down at us with a smile, said:
"Jus' one more tune here, then I tak' you home. See? De sun's gettin' low
and dat little one's gettin' tired. I tak' you home in a minute."
We, remembering the party, were nothing loath. Poor Mary Ellen would be in
a state by now, and our legs had almost given out.
This street was a quiet one. At the corner some untidy little girls danced
on the pavement, while a group of boys stood by, loafing against the window
of a small liquor shop, and occasionally scattering the girls by some
threat of hair-pulling or kissing.
The western sky was saffron. The eaves, that had been dripping all day, now
wore silent rows of icicles. Possibly the little girls danced to keep warm.
The Seraph began to whimper.
"This air stwikes cold on my legs," he murmured.