CAMP COMFORT.
“BUTTONS,” said Lucy to her cousin Preston, “you’ll have to go to the
door.”
“Yes,” said Sadie, “as Buttons is the only servant we keep, he must
answer the bell.”
Preston obeyed, laughing. A droll little image of dirt and rags stood
at the door, holding a ten-quart tin pail.
“Good morning,” said Preston, surprised at the shrewd, unchildlike
expression of her face, for she was perhaps twelve years old and looked
forty. The little girl seemed equally surprised. “What’s them things?”
said she, pointing to Preston’s spectacles. “What do you wear ’em for?”
“Do you want anything, little girl?” asked he, frowning, or trying to
frown.
“I say, what do you wear glasses for? _You_ ain’t an old man.”
“No matter what I wear them for—” very sternly. “Do you want anything,
child?”
“Yes, I came to ax you for some swifts.”
“What do you mean by swifts?”
“Lor now, don’t you know what swifts is? Swifts is something folks
reels yarn on.”
“Well, we haven’t any in this house, little girl, and if that’s all you
came for, you’d better run home.”
“Hain’t got no swifts?” shuffling forward with her small, bare feet,
and peeping into the house through her straggling locks of hair. “Well,
you’ve got a spin-wheel, hain’t ye?”
“No, we’ve nothing you want. You’d better go.”
By that time Mary and Fanny were at the sitting-room door, curious to
see the stranger.
“How d’ye do? Do you children live here all alone? Guess I’ll come
in,” said the waif, brushing past Preston, who did not choose to
keep her out by main force, and entering the sitting-room where the
breakfast-table was spread. “I live over t’other side of Bluff. My
name’s Pancake.”
“Oh, I know who you are then,” said Fanny, not very cordially; for she
had heard her father speak of a poor, half-starved, vagrant family of
that name; harmless, he believed, but not very desirable neighbors.
“My name’s _Pecy_ Pancake,” added the waif obligingly, and bent her
snub nose to sniff the burnt trout.
“_Peace_, probably,” said Preston, aside.
“No, _Pecielena_. Hain’t you got no lasses cake? Oh, what cunning
little sassers;” handling the salt glasses. “Where’s the cups to ’em?
How came you children to come here alone?”
“We came because we _chose_,” said Mary, with crushing emphasis.
“We _wished_ to come,” said Fanny, trying to be as dignified as Mary,
though she felt her inferiority in this respect always.
In no wise disconcerted, Miss Pecielena Pancake started on a tour of
observation about the room.
“You look like you’d been burnt out or somethin’. Who does your work?
Got any cow? Oh, you hain’t? Well, _I’ve_ got a cow. This here is my
milk bucket. I’ll fetch ye some milk.”
“No, no, no,” exclaimed Lucy, in alarm. “Our milk is to be brought from
town.”
“Is, hey? Well, I’ll fetch you some sour milk; five cents a quart.”
“Don’t take the trouble,” said Sadie mildly; “we are not fond of sour
milk.”
After a long inspection of the room, Pecy gazed observantly out of the
window.
“Look here! What’s them things hanging up in the trees? Look like
fish-nets. I’ve seen folks in Rosewood swing in just such; be they
swings?—Well, I reckon I must be a-goin’. But we paster our cow this
side the river, and I’ll call agin when I come to milk.”
“Is it possible that creature is really gone?”
“Hope she stayed just as long as she wished to,” said Lucy, shutting
the door forcibly.
“Oh, she’s only half civilized, and doesn’t know any better,” returned
the more charitable Sadie.
“Young ladies,” said Preston, flourishing his arms preparatory to
a speech, “it seems you have settled in a refined and cultivated
neighborhood—_very!_ I never knew before why you couldn’t stay at home;
but I now see that Laurel Grove is unworthy of you. You pined for the
advantages of elevated, intellectual society, such as can be found only
at Old Bluff.”
“Buttons,” said Lucy, shaking the broom at him, “we permit no
impertinence from servants. Go, pump a pail of water directly, and then
you may wipe the dishes.”
Preston “struck an attitude” again.
“Honored ladies, there’s a limit to all things. Buttons will cook, he
will answer door-bells, he will scrub, if need be; but wipe dishes
he will not, _no_, not if you flay him alive! Farewell! Once again,
farewell!”
“Don’t go, Preston,” entreated Mary, as her brother mounted his
“steed,” the bicycle; “do stay to dinner.”
“Couldn’t; might starve.”
“Fie, Buttons,” cried the older girls, “you’re no gentleman!”
“A servant is not expected to be a gentleman.”
“But do dine with us, _Mr. Gray_.”
“Thank you, not to-day. Good-by, I’ll send Abbott to watch to-night.”
Preston and his cousin Bert Abbott, being in college together, called
each other by their surnames, to the no small amusement of Bert’s
sister Lucy.
“He calls sleeping here ‘watching,’” laughed Sadie, as Preston glided
away, bowing and waving his hand. “But here comes our grocer. Why, who
is that with him?”
For as the wagon stopped at the gate, Mr. Fowler lifted a little girl
over the wheels.
“Kittyleen! Kittyleen Garland! Dear me, where did you pick _her_ up,
Mr. Fowler?”
For it was not to be supposed that Kittyleen came from home. She was
an innocent little truant, whose mother never objected to her straying
about the streets.
“Glad to see you, Kittyleen; you can go and play in the barn with
Flaxie and Fanny,” said Lucy hospitably; and then, turning to Sadie,
“Now, what shall we order for dinner?”
Sadie looked helpless.
“What would _you_ advise, Mr. Fowler? Our fathers said we might have
_anything_, and they’d settle the bills; but I——”
“Lemons,” struck in Lucy, ashamed of Sadie’s weakness.
“A dozen, and some fresh butter. Lard,—perhaps ten pounds, for pies.”
“Anything else,” asked the grocer, deferentially, as he jotted these
orders into a notebook. “I’ll bring them to-morrow—a real pretty
situation here. What do you call it? Old Maid’s Hall?”
“No, a convent,” said Sadie quickly, “for we shall have to fast if
you’re not coming back with our groceries till to-morrow.”
“Why, Miss Sadie, it’s all of two miles, and it won’t pay to come twice
a day,” said the grocer, wiping his heated brows.
“Well, we shall have to fast, then. This is a convent, as I told you,
and we are nuns—_Capuchin_ nuns—for you know Capuchin nuns are famous
for fasting.”
“So they be,” laughed Mr. Fowler, though it was the first time in
his life he had ever heard of a Capuchin nun; “so they be,” and rode
away laughing, to tell Dr. Gray and Major Patten, whom he met in the
village, “that those children were having a high old time down there
at the cottage, and were bright as pins, every one of ’em.”
“They forgot to order meat, but hadn’t I better take down some Cape Cod
turkey to keep off starvation?” He meant salt codfish.
“How do you suppose they’ll make way with ten pounds of lard, though?”
“Never mind,” replied Dr. Gray, throwing his head back to laugh; “they
beg not to be interfered with, and we’ll let them have their own way
for a while.”
Starvation was not likely to ensue for some days, as the young campers
had been bountifully supplied by their mothers with bread, pies, cake,
and cold meats.
“Oh, housekeeping is just play and takes no time at all,” said Sadie
Patten; “now let’s get up some charades and rehearse for to-morrow
night, and invite the three boys—Kittyleen must be amused, you know.”
The charade which follows was their first attempt of the sort at Camp
Comfort, the music between the acts being supplied by Jack Townsend’s
cornet and Sadie Patten’s harmonica.
A PANTOMIME.
The stage was out of doors. Two posts were driven into the ground, and
between them hung the red table-cloth suspended from a fish-line. This
was the drop-curtain.
The audience, in chairs, or on the ground, were directly in front of
the stage. At a whistle from the invisible depths the drop-curtain
was raised by Blanche Jones, revealing the manager, Preston Gray, who
made a low bow, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with profound
pleasure that I present to you the two stars of tragedy, Madame
Graylocks, of the Tuscarora Opera Company, and Don Albertus of the
Cannibal Islands.”
The two “stars” then step forward, to be greeted by the audience with
deafening cheers. Miss Graylocks (alias Mary Gray), her face and hands
well stained with walnut-juice, is clad in blue jacket, gray skirt
and red-topped boots (Sadie Patten called them “galligaskins”), with
a stove-pipe hat on her head. An ounce of black worsted floats down
her shoulders for hair. She makes a deep courtesy, Don Albertus (Bert
Abbott) a low bow.
He is an Indian chief, clad in a red and green dressing-gown, with
a feather duster on his head for a war-plume. His face, like Madame
Graylocks’, is a fine mahogany color.
Their “unrivalled performance,” announces the manager, “is to be a
charade in two syllables.”
FIRST SYLLABLE.
The stage is now observed to be strewn with sticks and twigs, to
resemble the outskirts of a forest. No word is spoken; but as a tin
pail hangs on a pole over something that looks like a fireplace, it
would seem that the worthy couple are keeping house, and that the squaw
is preparing dinner. But as yet there is no fire. The squaw collects
branches and twigs, lays them crosswise under the tin pail. Her lord
and master seats himself on the ground, watching her in scowling
silence. The soup must boil; but how can she make a fire? She rubs
two stones together Indian-fashion, but cannot strike a spark. She
tries with all her might, dancing up and down and shaking her head
dolefully. The chief laughs at her, offering no help, till she points
in despair to the tin pail, reminding him that at this rate they
must starve. He rises then, pushes her aside, and flashing his white
teeth at her, seizes the two stones, rubs them just once together,
and they instantly ignite (of course this is done by means of a match
hidden in his sleeve.) The twigs are soon crackling under the pail. He
points his finger disdainfully at the poor squaw, who cannot make a
fire. She looks so brow-beaten and discouraged at this, so unlike the
spirited Flaxie Frizzle of real life, that the audience laugh. Then the
drop-curtain falls.
SECOND SYLLABLE.
The soup has boiled, the chief has dined, and now sits with hands
folded, looking good-natured. The pail is empty and lying bottom upward
on the grass. Enter his meek wife; takes the empty pail; returns with
it full of water, slopping it as she walks. The thirsty chief points
to his mouth. She produces a large iron spoon, fills it and gives him
to drink, afterwards helping herself. They sit and sip from the spoon
alternately, when a “pale face” (Preston) enters, with a jug. The chief
starts up with eager delight. Pale Face swings the jug slowly, to show
that it is full. The chief, smiling and obsequious, advances to shake
hands. The squaw looks alarmed; shakes her head at the jug, and insists
on giving Pale Face some water. Pale Face declines it; takes stopper
out of jug and presents it to chief’s nose with an eloquent gesture,
which means, “Now _isn’t_ that good?”
It is evidently whiskey, for the chief sniffs the stopper, laughs and
dances, pointing to his mouth.
Squaw weeps; is evidently a good temperance woman; holds the pail to
her husband’s lips. He pushes her away, and begs in dumb show for the
whiskey.
Faithful squaw shakes her stovepipe hat, wrings her worsted hair,
chases Pale Face around and around the stage, trying to make him give
up the fatal jug. In vain; chief is allowed to get it; raises it
joyfully to his lips.
Faithful squaw, becoming frantic, seizes the pail, and, overdoing her
part, pours all the water over Pale Face, drenching him completely.
“Oo! Oo!” he gurgles. “If that isn’t just like you, Flaxie Frizzle!”
Blanche hurries down the drop curtain. Scene closes.
* * * * *
“I thought there was no talking in a pantomime,” laughed the audience.
THIRD SCENE.
_The Whole Word._
It now appears that the whiskey which Pale Face mischievously brought
has wrought its dreadful work. The proud war-plume of the chief dangles
ignominiously over his left ear; his copper-colored cheeks and nose are
blazing red (painted with Chinese vermilion). He tries to walk; reels
like a ship in a storm.
His devoted wife has certainly tried her very best to save him from
this degradation; but, like any bad husband, he only hates her for it,
and has made up his drunken mind to kill her. Seizing her by the yarn
of the head, he is actually scalping her with the lemon-squeezer, when
little Kittyleen, who can bear no more, cries out,—
“Stop, stop, you shan’t hurt my Flaxie!”
This timely interference does not save the squaw’s life, however,—or
not entirely. Her head comes off,—or at any rate, the hat and the
ounce of worsted. But ere she falls to rise no more, she turns—with
remarkable presence of mind for a dying woman—and points to the
whiskey-jug, scowling furiously at it, as if to assure the audience
that it is the jug and _not_ the lemon-squeezer that has caused her
death.
_Curtain falls._
Before any one had time to say, “Now guess the word,” Jack Townsend,
known by the campers as “the Electric Light,” on account of his red
head, exclaimed, “It’s _Fire Water_, isn’t it? That’s the Indian name
for whiskey. I guessed it by the waterfall in the second syllable.”
“No wonder you did; there was water enough in that syllable to put out
all the fire in the first one!” exclaimed Preston, springing for his
bicycle, to fly home and change his wet clothes.