It was still raining when Maida got up the next day. It rained all
the morning. She listened carefully at a quarter to twelve for the
one-session bell but it did not ring. Just before school began in
the afternoon Rosie came into the shop. Maida saw at once that
something had happened to her. Rosie’s face looked strange and she
dragged across the room instead of pattering with her usual quick,
light step.
“What do you think’s happened, Maida?” Rosie asked.
“I don’t know. Oh, what?” Maida asked affrighted.
“When I came home from school this noon mother wasn’t there. But
Aunt Theresa was there—she’d cooked the dinner. She said that mother
had gone away for a visit and that she wouldn’t be back for some
time. She said she was going to keep house for father and me while
mother was gone. I feel dreadfully homesick and lonesome without
mother.”
“Oh Rosie, I am sorry,” Maida said. “But perhaps your mother won’t
stay long. Do you like your Aunt Theresa?”
“Oh, yes, I like her. But of course she isn’t mother.”
“No, of course. Nobody is like your mother.”
“Oh, yes; there’s something else I had to tell you. The W.M.N.T.’s
are going to meet at Dicky’s after school this afternoon. Be sure to
come, Maida.”
“Of course I’ll come.” Maida’s whole face sparkled. “That is, if
Granny doesn’t think it’s too wet.”
Rosie lingered for a few moments but she did not seem like her usual
happy-go-lucky self. And when she left, Maida noticed that instead
of running across the street she actually walked.
All the morning long Maida talked of nothing to Granny but the
prospective meeting of the W.M.N.T.’s. “Just think, Granny, I never
belonged to a club before,” she said again and again.
Very early she had put out on her bed the clothes that she intended
to wear—a tanbrown serge of which she was particularly fond, and her
favorite “tire” of a delicate, soft lawn. She kept rushing to the
window to study the sky. It continued to look like the inside of a
dull tin cup. She would not have eaten any lunch at all if Granny
had not told her that she must. And her heart sank steadily all the
afternoon for the rain continued to come down.
“I don’t suppose I can go, Granny,” she faltered when the clock
struck four.
“Sure an you _can_,” Granny responded briskly.
But she wrapped Maida up, as Maida herself said: “As if I was one of
papa’s carved crystals come all the way from China.”
First Granny put on a sweater, then a coat, then over all a
raincoat. She put a hood on her head and a veil over that. She made
her wear rubber boots and take an umbrella. Maida got into a gale of
laughter during the dressing.
“I ought to be wrapped in excelsior now,” she said. “If I fall down
in the puddle in the court, Granny,” she threatened merrily, “I
never can pick myself up. I’ll either have to roll and roll and roll
until I get on to dry land or I’ll have to wait until somebody comes
and shovels me out.”
But she did not fall into the puddle. She walked carefully along the
edge and then ran as swiftly as her clothes and lameness would
permit. She arrived in Dicky’s garret, red-cheeked and breathless.
Arthur and Rosie had already come. Rosie was playing on the floor
with Delia and the puppy that she had rescued from the tin-can
persecution. Rosie was growling, the dog was yelping and Delia was
squealing—but all three with delight.
Arthur and Dicky sat opposite each other, working at the round
table.
“What do you think of that dog now, Maida?” Rosie asked proudly.
“His name is ‘Tag.’ You wouldn’t know him for the same dog, would
you? Isn’t he a nice-looking little puppy?”
Tag did look like another dog. He wore a collar and his yellowy coat
shone like satin. His whole manner had changed. He came running over
to Maida and stood looking at her with the most spirited air in the
world, his head on one side, one paw up and one ear cocked
inquisitively. His tail wriggled so fast that Delia thinking it some
wonderful new toy, kept trying to catch it and hold it in her little
fingers.
“He’s a lovely doggie,” Maida said. “I wish I’d brought Fluff.”
“And did you ever see such a dear baby,” Rosie went on, hugging
Delia. “Oh, if I only had a baby brother or sister!”
“She’s a darling,” Maida agreed heartily. “Babies are so much more
fun than dolls, don’t you think so, Rosie?”
“Dolls!” No words can express the contempt that was in Miss Brine’s
accent.
“What are you doing, Dicky?” Maida asked, limping over to the table.
“Making things,” Dicky said cheerfully.
On the table were piles of mysterious-looking objects made entirely
of paper. Some were of white paper and others of brown, but they
were all decorated with trimmings of colored tissue.
“What are they?” Maida asked. “Aren’t they lovely? I never saw
anything like them in my life.”
Dicky blushed all over his face at this compliment but it was
evident that he was delighted. “Well, those are paper-boxes,” he
said, pointing to the different piles of things, “and those are
steamships. Those are the old-fashioned kind with double
smokestacks. Those are double-boats, jackets, pants, badges,
nose-pinchers, lamp-lighters, firemen’s caps and soldier caps.”
“Oh, that’s why you buy all that colored paper,” Maida said in a
tone of great satisfaction. “I’ve often wondered.” She examined
Dicky’s work carefully. She could see that it was done with
remarkable precision and skill. “Oh, what fun to do things like
that. I do wish you’d show me how to make them, Dicky. I’m such a
useless girl. I can’t make a single thing.”
“I’ll show you, sure,” Dicky offered generously.
“What are you making so many for?” Maida queried.
“Well, you see it’s this way,” Dicky began in a business-like air.
“Arthur and Rosie and I are going to have a fair. We’ve had a fair
every spring and every fall for the last three years. That’s how we
get our money for Christmas and the Fourth of July. Arthur whittles
things out of wood—he’ll show you what he can do in a minute—he’s a
crackajack. Rosie makes candy. And I make these paper things.”
“And do you make much money?” Maida asked, deeply interested.
“Don’t make any money at all,” Dicky said. “The children pay us in
nails. I charge them ten nails a-piece for the easy things and twenty
nails for the hardest. Arthur can get more for his stuff because
it’s harder to do.”
“But what do you want nails for?” Maida asked in bewilderment.
“Why, nails are junk.”
“And what’s junk?”
The three children stared at her. “Don’t you know what _junk_ is,
Maida?” Rosie asked in despair.
“No.”
“Junk’s old iron,” Dicky explained. “And you sell it to the junkman.
Once we made forty cents out of one of these fairs. One reason we’re
beginning so early this year, I’ve got something very particular I
want to buy my mother for a Christmas present. Can you keep a
secret, Maida?”
Maida nodded.
“Well, it’s a fur collar for her neck. They have them down in a
store on Main street every winter—two dollars and ninetyeight cents.
It seems an awful lot but I’ve got over a dollar saved up. And I
guess I can do it if I work hard.”
“How much have you made ordinarily?” Maida asked thoughtfully.
“Once we made forty cents a-piece but that’s the most.”
“I tell you what you do,” Maida burst out impetuously after a moment
of silence in which she considered this statement. “When the time
comes for you to hold your fair, I’ll lend you my shop for a day.
I’ll take all the things out of the window and I’ll clean all the
shelves off and you boys can put your things there. I’ll clear out
the showcases for Rosie’s candy. Won’t that be lovely?” She smiled
happily.
“It would be grand business for us,” Dicky said soberly, “but
somehow it doesn’t seem quite fair to you.”
“Oh, please don’t think of that,” Maida said. “I’d just love to do
it. And you must teach me how to make things so that I can help you.
You will take the shop, Dicky?” she pleaded. “And you, Rosie? And
Arthur?” She looked from one to the other with all her heart in her
eyes.
But nobody spoke for a moment. “It seems somehow as if we oughtn’t
to,” Dicky said awkwardly at last.
Maida’s lip trembled. At first she could not understand. Here she
was aching to do a kindness to these three friends of hers. And
they, for some unknown reason, would not permit it. It was not that
they disliked her, she knew. What was it? She tried to put herself
in their place. Suddenly it came to her what the difficulty was.
They did not want to be so much in her debt. How could she prevent
that? She must let them do something for her that would lessen that
debt. But what? She thought very hard. In a flash it came to her—a
plan by which she could make it all right.
“You see,” she began eagerly, “I wanted to ask you three to help me
in something, but I can’t do it unless you let me help you.
Listen—the next holiday is Halloween. I want to decorate my shop
with a lot of real jack-o’-lanterns cut from pumpkins. It will be
hard work and a lot of it and I was hoping that perhaps you’d help
me with this.”
The three faces lighted up.
“Of course we will,” Dicky said heartily.
“Gee, I bet Dicky and I could make some great lanterns,” Arthur said
reflectively.
“And I’ll help you fix up the store,” Rosie said with enthusiasm. “I
just love to make things look pretty.”
“It’s a bargain then,” Maida said. “And now you must teach me how to
help you this very afternoon, Dicky.”
They fell to work with a vim. At least three of them did. Rosie
continued to frisk with Delia and Tag on the floor. Dicky started
Maida on the caps first. He said that those were the easiest. And,
indeed she had very little trouble with anything until she came to
the boxes. She had to do her first box over and over again before it
would come right. But Dicky was very patient with her. He kept
telling her that she did better than most beginners or she would
have given it up. When she made her first good box, her face beamed
with satisfaction.
“Do you mind if I take it home, Dicky?” she asked. “I’d like to show
it to my father when he comes. It’s the first thing I ever made in
my life.”
“Of course,” Dicky said.
“Don’t the other children ever try to copy your things?” Maida
asked.
“They try to,” Arthur answered, “but they never do so well as
Dicky.”
“You ought to see their nose-pinchers,” Rosie laughed. “They can’t
stand up straight. And their boxes and steamships are the wobbliest
things.”
“I’m going to get all kinds of stuff for things we make for the
fair,” Maida said reflectively. “Gold and silver paper and colored
stars and pretty fancy pictures for trimmings. You see if you’re
going to charge real money you must make them more beautiful than
those for which you only charged nails.”
“That’s right,” Dicky said. “By George, that will be great! You go
ahead and buy whatever you think is right, Maida, and I’ll pay you
for it from what we take in at the fair.”
“That’s settled. What do you whittle, Arthur?”
“Oh, all kinds of things—things I made up myself and things I
learned how to do in sloyd in school. I make bread-boards and
rolling pins and shinny sticks and cats and little baskets out of
cherry-stones.”
“Jiminy crickets, he’s forgetting the boats,” Dicky burst in
enthusiastically. “He makes the dandiest boats you ever saw in your
life.”
Maida looked at Arthur in awe. “I never heard anything like it! Can
you make anything for girls?”
“Made me a set of the darlingest dolls’ furniture you ever saw in
your life,” Rosie put in from the floor.
“Say, did you get into any trouble last night?” Arthur turned
suddenly to Rosie. “I forgot to ask you.”
“Arthur and Rosie hooked jack yesterday, in all that rain,” Dicky
explained to Maida. “They knew a place where they could get a whole
lot of old iron and they were afraid if they waited, it would be
gone.”
“I should say I did,” Rosie answered Arthur’s question. “Somebody
went and tattled to my mother. Of course, I was wet through to the
skin and that gave the whole thing away, anyway. I got the worst
scolding and mother sent me to bed without my supper. But I climbed
out the window and went over to see Maida. I don’t mind! I hate
school and as long as I live I shall never go except when I want
to—never, never, never! I guess I’m not going to be shut up studying
when I’d rather be out in the open air. Wouldn’t you hook jack if
you wanted to, Maida?”
Maida did not reply for an instant. She hated to have Rosie ask this
question, point-blank for she did not want to answer it. If she said
exactly what she thought there might be trouble. And it seemed to
her that she would do almost anything rather than lose Rosie’s
friendship. But Maida had been taught to believe that the truth is
the most precious thing in the world. And so she told the truth
after a while but it was with a great effort.
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said.
“Oh, that’s all right for _you_ to say,” Rosie said firing up. “You
don’t have to go to school. You live the easiest life that anybody
can—just sitting in a chair and tending shop all day. What do you
know about it, anyway?”
Maida’s lips quivered. “It is true I don’t go to school, Rosie,” she
said. “But it isn’t because I don’t want to. I’d give anything on
earth if I could go. I watch that line of children every morning and
afternoon of my life and wish and _wish_ and WISH I was in it. And
when the windows are opened and I hear the singing and reading, it
seems as if I just couldn’t stand it.”
“Oh, well,” Rosie’s tone was still scornful. “I don’t believe, even
if you did go to school, that you’d ever do anything bad. You’d
never be anything but a fraid-cat and teacher’s pet.”
“I guess I’d be so glad to be there, I’d do anything the teacher
asked,” Maida said dejectedly. “I do a lot of things that bother
Granny but I guess I never have been a very naughty girl. You can’t
be very naughty with your leg all crooked under you.” Maida’s voice
had grown bitter. The children looked at her in amazement. “But
what’s the use of talking to you two,” she went on. “You could never
understand. I guess Dicky knows what I mean, though.”
To their great surprise, Maida put her head down on the table and
cried.
For a moment the room was perfectly silent. The fire snapped and
Dicky went over to look at it. He stood with his back turned to the
other children but a suspicious snuffle came from his direction.
Arthur Duncan walked to the window and stood looking out. Rosie sat
still, her eyes downcast, her little white teeth biting her red
lips. Then suddenly she jumped to her feet, ran like a whirlwind to
Maida’s side. She put her arms about the bowed figure.
“Oh, do excuse me, Maida,” she begged. “I know I’m the worst girl in
the world. Everybody says so and I guess it’s true. But I do love
you and I wouldn’t have hurt your feelings for anything. I don’t
believe you’d be a fraid-cat or teacher’s pet—I truly don’t. Please
excuse me.”
Maida wiped her tears away. “Of course I’ll excuse you! But just the
same, Rosie, I hope you won’t hook jack any more for someday you’ll
be sorry.”
“I’m going to make some candy now,” Rosie said, adroitly changing
the subject. “I brought some molasses and butter and everything I
need.” She began to bustle about the stove. Soon they were all
laughing again.
Maida had never pulled candy before and she thought it the most
enchanting fun in the world. It was hard to keep at work, though,
when it was such a temptation to stop and eat it. But she persevered
and succeeded in pulling hers whiter than anybody’s. She laughed and
talked so busily that, when she started to put on her things, all
traces of tears had disappeared.
The rain had stopped. The puddle was of monster size after so long a
storm. They came out just in time to help Molly fish Tim out of the
water and to prevent Betsy from giving a stray kitten a bath.
Following Rosie and Arthur, Maida waded through it from one end to
the other—it seemed the most perilous of adventures to her.
After that meeting, the W.M.N.T.’s were busier than they had ever
been. Every other afternoon, and always when it was bad weather,
they worked at Maida’s house. Granny gave Maida a closet all to
herself and as fast as the things were finished they were put in
boxes and stowed away on its capacious shelves.
Arthur whittled and carved industriously. His work went slower than
Dicky’s of course but, still, it went with remarkable quickness.
Maida often stopped her own work on the paper things to watch
Arthur’s. It was a constant marvel to her that such big,
awkward-looking hands could perform feats of such delicacy. Her
own fingers, small and delicate as they were, bungled surprisingly
at times.
“And as for the paste,” Maida said in disgust to Rosie one day,
“you’d think that I fell into the paste-pot every day. I wash it off
my hands and face. I pick it off of my clothes and sometimes Granny
combs it out of my hair.”
Often after dinner, the W.M.N.T.’s would call in a body on Maida.
Then would follow long hours of such fun that Maida hated to hear
the clock strike nine. Always there would be molasses-candy making
by the capable Rosie at the kitchen stove and corn-popping by the
vigorous Arthur on the living-room hearth. After the candy had
cooled and the pop corn had been flooded in melted butter, they
would gather about the hearth to roast apples and chestnuts and to
listen to the fairy-tales that Maida would read.
The one thing which she could do and they could not was to read with
the ease and expression of a grown person. As many of her books were
in French as in English and it was the wonder of the other
W.M.N.T.’s that she could read a French story, translating as she
went. Her books were a delight to Arthur and Dicky and she lent them
freely. Rosie liked to listen to stories but she did not care to
read.
Maida was very happy nowadays. Laura was the only person in the
Court who had caused her any uneasiness. Since the day that Laura
had made herself so disagreeable, Maida had avoided her steadily.
Best of all, perhaps, Maida’s health had improved so much that even
her limp was slowly disappearing.
In the course of time, the children taught Maida the secret language
of the W.M.N.T.’s. They could hold long conversations that were
unintelligible to anybody else. When at first they used it in fun
before Maida, she could not understand a word. After they had
explained it to her, she wondered that she had ever been puzzled.
“It’s as easy as anything,” Rosy said. “You take off the first sound
of a word and put it on the end with an _ay_ added to it like
MAN—an-may. BOY—oy-bay. GIRL—irl-gay. When a word is just one sound
like I or O, or when it begins with a vowel like EEL or US or OUT,
you add _way_, like I—I-way. O—O-way. EEL—eel-way. US—us-way.
OUT—out-way.”
Thus Maida could say to Rosie:
“Are-way ou-yay oing-gay o-tay ool-schay o-tay ay-day?” and mean
simply, “Are you going to school to-day?”
And sometimes to Maida’s grief, Rosie would reply roguishly:
“O-nay I-way am-way oing-gay o-tay ook-hay ack-jay ith-way
Arthur-way.”
Billy Potter was finally invited to join the W.M.N.T.’s too. He
never missed a meeting if he could possibly help it.
“Why do you call Maida, ‘Petronilla’?” Dicky asked him curiously one
day when Maida had run home for more paper.
“Petronilla is the name of a little girl in a fairy-tale that I read
when I was a little boy,” Billy answered.
“And was she like Maida?” Arthur asked.
“Very.”
“How?” Rosie inquired.
“Petronilla had a gold star set in her forehead by a fairy when she
was a baby,” Billy explained. “It was a magic star. Nobody but
fairies could see it but it was always there. Anybody who came
within the light of Petronilla’s star, no matter how wicked or
hopeless or unhappy he was, was made better and hopefuller and
happier.”
Nobody spoke for an instant.
Then, “I guess Maida’s got the star all right,” Dicky said.
Billy was very interested in the secret language. At first when they
talked this gibberish before him, he listened mystified. But to
their great surprise he never asked a question. They went right on
talking as if he were not present. In an interval of silence, Billy
said softly:
“I-way onder-way if-way I-way ought-bay a-way uart-quay of-way
ice-way-eam-cray, ese-thay ildren-chay ould-way eat-way it-way.”
For a moment nobody could speak. Then a deafening, “es-yay!” was
shouted at the top of four pairs of lungs.