CHRISTOPHER GOES FOR THE MAIL
When Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and Letty drove away from Sunnycrest in the
pony carriage, amid a general waving of pocket handkerchiefs and shouts
of farewell, everybody looked at everybody else rather blankly, as if
something had happened and nobody was quite sure just what it was.
“Mrs. Hartwell-Jones said that we had done so much to brighten her
life,” grandmother told grandfather, when they were talking it all over
on the veranda that afternoon. “But it seems to be the other way on. It
is she who has done us all good. We shall all miss her and Letty, each
for different reasons. I enjoyed my talks with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and
the children were perfectly happy with Letty.”
“We shall all of us miss Letty,” agreed grandfather.
“Yes, Jane is disconsolate and Huldah declares that her cake will never
be so good again.”
It really was wonderful how quickly Letty had filled a place in the
simple home life, and how happy she had been. No word or look had ever
reminded her that she was a poor little outcast; every one had welcomed
her with loving kindness.
“Grandmother,” Jane had said one evening when she was saying her
prayers, very soon after Letty’s arrival, “I think Letty must be ‘our
sister in heaven.’ You know the Bible says that everybody is brother and
sister in heaven and that is what Letty must be to us.” And as such Jane
had taken her into her loving child’s heart.
Letty was sorry to leave Sunnycrest; it was so lovely, so quiet and
peaceful. But she loved and admired Mrs. Hartwell-Jones so extremely
that she would have been glad to go anywhere with her. There were
lessons to be studied every day, to prepare for the glorious prospect of
school in the autumn, and little drives to take about the countryside.
Then it was understood, before Mrs. Hartwell-Jones left Sunnycrest, that
the twins were to come into the village nearly every afternoon for a
tea-party, and grandmother was to come with them as often as she could.
And the very next day after Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s departure, Jane
proposed a visit. Grandmother thought it too soon, but Jane and
Christopher were urgent.
“I think we ought to go, to see if Mrs. Hartwell-Jones got home all
right and how her lame foot is,” remarked Jane in a grown-up tone.
“Don’t you think it would be polite, grandmother?”
“And maybe she’ll have some jolly little apple turnovers, like she gave
us once,” added Christopher.
So grandmother gave her consent; Joshua brought round the comfortable
big carryall and grandmother and the twins got in, Jane carrying Sally,
dressed in her best. Christopher got on the front seat with Joshua, to
discuss the prospect of Jo Perkins being allowed enough time off to join
the baseball nine. Christopher had counted on seeing Billy Carpenter in
the village. Billy lived next door to Mr. Parsons, but he was nowhere to
be seen, nor answered Christopher’s shrill whistle.
“I’m going on up to the post-office with Josh,” said Christopher as his
grandmother and Jane descended. “I’ll be back before you get started on
the party.”
“You will have to walk back, Kit,” replied his grandmother. “Joshua is
going to have the horses shod.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a little walk like that,” answered Christopher
loftily. “Besides, if Bill’s there he’ll probably give me a lift back on
the step of his bicycle.”
Christopher thought it likely that Billy Carpenter was at the
post-office helping his father with the letters, and that by going on
there he would not only see his chum but would miss all the “how do you
do’s” and small talk at Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s, arriving in time for the
real pleasure of the occasion—the tea-party.
Jane stood still a moment at the gate and watched the carriage drive off
a bit regretfully. She knew that Christopher wanted to see Billy
Carpenter and she felt a little forlorn.
“We won’t have the party until you get back, Kit,” she called after him.
Then she turned to her grandmother, her lip quivering a little. “Do you
suppose Kit likes that Carpenter boy better than me, grandmother?”
“Of course not, Janey, dear, but—boys will be boys, you know, and girls
girls.”
“But Kit didn’t use to care for boys.”
“Well, he’s getting older,” replied grandmother vaguely.
Mrs. Hartwell-Jones must have been expecting company, for little Anna
Parsons ran out of the front door to meet them, and led them around the
corner of the house, where a wide, shady expanse of velvety lawn invited
rest. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones sat in an easy chair placed on a rug, and
other chairs were grouped nearby, while the sight of a low,
white-covered table would have done Christopher’s heart good, it was so
loaded down with goodies.
“Where is Kit?” was Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s first question, echoed by
Letty.
Grandmother explained that he had gone for the mail and would be back
directly. Then she sat down beside Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and discussed the
question of boys in general and Kit in particular, while Letty told the
story of “Thistledown” over again for Anna Parsons’ benefit, the
children taking frequent peeps at Mrs. Hartwell-Jones in the meantime
and wondering how she could have thought it all out. After which she
told parts of “Prince Pietro,” a story she and her little neighbor Emma
Haines had been very fond of, and she wondered if Mrs. Hartwell-Jones
had written that, too.
In the meanwhile Christopher drove merrily on with Joshua to the
post-office, at the other end of the village, his tongue wagging at its
usual nimble rate. As they reached the post-office he gave a sudden
shrill whistle that made Joshua put his hand over the ear nearest to
Christopher’s mouth.
“For the land’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Do you want to make me plumb deaf,
boy?”
An answering whistle, followed by a whoop, sounded from inside the
building and Billy Carpenter darted out.
“Hi, Bill, bring the mail with you,” called Joshua. “Here you, Kit, you
go in and get it, and get Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s too. You might as well
take hers to her, as you’re going right back there.”
“Not right back,” objected Christopher, scrambling down over the front
wheel.
“Yes, right back,” repeated Joshua sternly, as the horses started to go
on. “Mind you go directly back to your grandma and the girls,” he called
over his shoulder, right into the listening ear of Billy Carpenter.
“Huh!” jeered that youth, “here comes the boy that’s tied to a girl’s
apron-strings! Howdy, Miss Kitty.”
Christopher was ready to cry with mortification, but his pride held him
steady.
“They’re going to have a tea-party at the author-lady’s, and they’re
waitin’ for me,” he announced grandly. “You know in the city we fellows
have to be polite to the ladies.”
“We’re polite to the ladies too,” answered Billy sullenly. It always
made him angry when Christopher made remarks which suggested that city
ways were superior to those of the country.
“Oh, I dare say you are,” admitted Christopher graciously, “but it’s
different in the city, you know. Say, are you going home? Let’s walk
back together. Wait till I get the mail and I’ll treat to sour balls.”
In addition to his light duties as postmaster of the little village, Mr.
Carpenter sold knitting worsted and sweeties kept in glass jars.
Christopher, with the manner of a millionaire, pulled the last five-cent
piece of his week’s “’lowance” out of his pocket, handed it over the
counter and received in return ten large, semi-transparent yellow sugar
balls, striped in red, and done up in a paper bag.
“Here’s another of those pesky special delivery letters for the
author-lady at Mr. Parsons’, Bill,” said Mr. Carpenter as he handed out
a thick budget; “you’d better take it along with the others. Now run
along, both of you, for I’m busy.”
“The author-lady must be awful rich, by the way she spends money on
postage stamps,” observed Billy, as the boys strolled along the village
street, each with one of the big red and yellow balls of sweet stuff
tucked comfortably in his cheek. “She buys dad out sometimes. And she
gets stacks and stacks of letters. I wonder what they’re all about?”
He surveyed the bundle he carried with a good deal of curiosity.
“Oh, people who write books always get lots of letters; from magazine
editors, asking for stories and all that sort of thing,” replied
Christopher airily. “And they pay big prices for stories, so of course
Mrs. Hartwell-Jones is rich. Say, Letty was telling us a story the other
day—it was an awfully hot day and there wasn’t anything else to do so I
lay on the grass and couldn’t help hearing what the girls were talking
about—well, Letty told this story that she had read once years before at
school and what do you suppose? Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had written it. She
hollered down to us about it out of her bedroom window when Letty’d got
through. Funny, wasn’t it? And she said she’d write another story some
time, just for the girls. They were immensely tickled.”
“You have pretty good times, don’t you?” said Billy enviously. “I guess
you won’t care to play with us boys much.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” exclaimed Christopher hastily. “I’ve got a fine scheme
that I wanted to talk to you about to-day. Let’s you and Perk and me go
off on a lark some time together. We’ll go into the woods.
Grandmother’ll give us a lunch and we’ll build a fire to cook potatoes.
Maybe we can catch some fish to fry.”
“Oh, say, that would be great!” exclaimed Billy enthusiastically. “Let’s
go to-morrow!”
“Well, I don’t know about to-morrow. I was going to ask grandfather to
let us have a horse and wagon, and we’ll have to wait till one can be
spared from the farm work. But we’ll go soon.”
“Can you swim?” asked Billy suddenly.
“No, not exactly,” confessed Christopher reluctantly. “I had some
lessons at a swimming school in town, but somehow I couldn’t seem to get
just the hang of it by myself.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve got a start Perk an’ I’ll soon teach you,” Billy
promised patronizingly. “I know of a bully swimming hole, safe as
anything.”
“I don’t know whether grandfather would let me go in swimming,” said
Christopher slowly, feeling that the expedition was growing more serious
than he had intended. Yet he found it unbearable to have Billy think him
lacking in any manly sport. “But if it’s a perfectly safe place I guess
he’ll say——”
“Oh, pshaw, what do you want to tell him for? I guess your grandfather
doesn’t want you to be a sissy-boy, does he?”
“Of course not!” answered Christopher indignantly.
“Well, then, he must want you to learn to swim. If you should just go
home some fine afternoon and say, ‘Gran’pa, I know how to swim,’ why,
he’d be as pleased as—as a pup.”
“But I do know how—almost—already,” boasted Christopher.
They discussed the new plan with great gusto. Billy was for making a
huge mystery out of it all, like the meeting of some secret society. He
proposed smuggling a luncheon out of the Carpenter and Baker pantries
and to keep the spot they were to visit a secret. But Christopher did
not see the charm of this. He preferred to tell straight out that the
three boys wished to go on a picnic. He knew that he would have a much
better time if he “had it out” plainly with Jane, instead of slipping
away from her, and that Huldah would certainly put up a much better
lunch—if she were asked politely—than he and Billy could ever get
together by stealth. The swimming was the only part of the programme he
did not care to discuss openly.
“Well, we’ll do it as soon as we can,” he concluded, as they reached Mr.
Parsons’ gate. “I’ll send you word by Perk when he comes in for the
mail, or mebbe you’d better ride out to the farm on your bike and we’ll
talk it over.”
“All right,” replied Billy, lingering a moment as Christopher walked up
the path. “I can go any time. I don’t have to scheme to get away from
the girls.”
With which parting thrust he vaulted the fence into his own garden. He
would have liked to be invited to the tea-party, too, but Christopher
never dreamed of suggesting such a thing. He believed that Billy was
laughing at him for joining the girls and his cheeks grew very red. He
stopped and for a moment was tempted to turn back and sit on the fence
with Bill, and talk of swimming, baseball and other manly topics until
his grandmother was ready to go home. But just then he looked around—he
had reached the corner of the house—and caught sight of the
white-covered table, loaded with goodies. He went on.