THE TULIP’S DREAM
Christopher’s request that Jo Perkins might have the use of a horse and
wagon for the afternoon to take him and Billy Carpenter on a picnic was
granted with some hesitation.
“Jane is going to the author-lady’s to have a silly party for her old
doll and I don’t want to go,” he said. “Perk’ll look out for Bill and me
all right. You’ve often let me go fishing with Perk, grandfather.”
“Yes, but then there was no other boy along to suggest mischief.”
Christopher looked a wee bit guilty, remembering the swimming project.
“We aren’t going to get into mischief,” he exclaimed hastily. “It’s just
to be a picnic and do the things boys do; roast potatoes in a fire
and—and all sorts of things.”
“Very well, then,” replied grandfather a little absent-mindedly. “Only
remember that we’ve got to hand you and Janey over, whole and sound, to
your father and mother in less than a month.”
Mr. Baker gave his permission with a little less consideration than he
usually gave to the twins’ requests, perhaps because his mind was busy
with his own affairs. One of the letters which Christopher had brought
from the postoffice had been from the city about some business which
grandfather was afraid he would have to go into town to attend to
himself.
“I can’t bear to think of your tramping about those hot city pavements
in this August weather,” exclaimed grandmother in distress, when he told
her about it. “Can’t you possibly arrange it by letter?”
“No, I must see two or three men personally. If Kit were home” (he meant
his own son, Christopher’s father), “he could attend to it for me, but
as it is, I can’t see anything for it but to go myself. I shall start
to-morrow and get back in three days.”
Christopher was secretly glad that his grandfather was going away for a
few days. When he returned and was told that Christopher had learned how
to swim, he would be very glad, the boy felt sure.
Grandmother felt quite dismayed when she was told that the three boys
were to go off on a picnic. It seemed like a very great responsibility
for her to bear by herself; but as there was no real reason why she
should ask Christopher to put off his excursion she said nothing about
it.
The day of the party arrived and Jane was so impatient to start that she
would have gone without even finishing her dessert if grandmother had
permitted.
“But Mrs. Hartwell-Jones said to come early. Oh, dear!” she groaned as
Christopher passed his plate for a second helping. “If you’re going to
sit there and stuff all day, Kit Baker, we might as well not go at all.
You won’t have any room in your tummy for your picnic, and Huldah has
packed an awful big one.”
It had been arranged that Joshua was to drive the twins into the
village. He had left a horse in the blacksmith’s stable overnight, while
a certain special shoe was made, and he intended to ride it home. Jo
Perkins had not quite finished his work at the stable, so he was to
follow on his bicycle and join the others at Billy Carpenter’s house.
“Now, remember, Kit, you are to go back to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s to get
Janey, and be sure to be there promptly at half-past five; not a minute
later,” exclaimed grandmother for about the twentieth time; and she
proceeded to give the same instructions and many more to Jo Perkins.
Joshua had harnessed the most reliable old horse in his stable to the
wagon that was to be entrusted to Jo Perkins’s care for a whole
afternoon—a horse that had never been known to look twice at any object
and which would have been perfectly content to sleep through the day as
well as the night. He lumbered over the country road at an easy trot,
and when they were only half-way to the village Christopher looked over
his shoulder and spied Jo Perkins speedily overtaking them on his
bicycle.
“Oh, I say, Josh, make him go, Perk’s coming. Don’t let him catch up,”
and he squirmed on his seat with excitement.
Joshua good-naturedly urged the horse into a swifter trot, then into a
clumsy gallop as Jo Perkins bore down upon them over the level road.
Jane clasped Sally tight to her breast with one hand while she hung on
with the other. The road was still level and Perk was gaining steadily.
He was bent double over the handle bars, pedalling frantically. Soon a
long, gently sloping hill gave the horse the advantage, for he kept up
his easy gallop, while Perk dropped far behind, laboring hard.
Christopher sent a derisive yell after him, but he rejoiced too soon.
Jane had more foresight. She remembered the down slope on the other side
of the ridge.
“Perk’s going to beat,” she declared calmly, “’cause Josh won’t let the
horse trot down-hill.”
“Oh, Josh, do, just this once,” urged Christopher, almost falling off
the seat in his excitement. “It won’t hurt his old knees just for once.”
But Joshua was firm.
“I’m not going to abuse your gran’pa’s horses,” he said severely,
permitting the horse to slacken his pace to a walk. “An’ what’s more,
you’ve got to promise me, honest Injun, that you an’ Perk won’t let him
trot down any hills, nor run races.”
“We aren’t going down any hills,” answered Christopher sulkily.
He looked over his shoulder again and saw Perk appear at the top of the
hill, red-faced and panting. With a hoot of triumph, the boy cocked his
knees over the handle bars and whirled down the hill, letting the pedals
take care of themselves.
“Yah!” wailed Christopher, “he’s coasting! He’ll pass us like greased
lightning.” And as he spoke, Perk flashed by them, an exultant grin on
his face.
“Ah, you think you’re smart!” jeered Christopher in a vexed tone.
But pride always has a fall. As Perk reached the bottom of the hill he
glanced back to see how much of a gain he had made, and the wheel of his
bicycle struck a large stone in the road. Over toppled Perk on his head,
tumbling into a heap by the roadside. Jane screamed and even Joshua was
startled. He urged the horse into a trot again.
“Oh, Perk’s not hurt!” declared Christopher scornfully. “A fellow can
stand lots worse croppers than that.”
And Perk was not hurt. By the time they reached him he had scrambled to
his feet and was examining his bicycle to see if any harm had come to
it. But he rode quietly behind the wagon all the rest of the way into
the village.
Billy Carpenter was standing in front of his gate, watching for them,
and the impatient Christopher could hardly wait while Perk stowed his
bicycle in Mr. Carpenter’s barn and Joshua escorted Jane to Mrs.
Parsons’ front door.
“You’re in an awful hurry to have me go,” Jane exclaimed to Christopher,
a bit jealously.
For a moment she forgot Sally’s birthday party, and wished she was going
on the picnic too. It hurt to think that perhaps Christopher did not
want her—was glad she was not going. He really acted as if he were!
But her disappointment soon vanished—vanished the moment she set foot in
Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s sitting-room. The party planned was so perfect! In
the first place, there was the present for Sally—a dainty little bed in
which to take her rest when visiting the lady who wrote books. Mr.
Carpenter had found the small wooden bedstead stowed away in a loft over
the post-office, left over from a stock of Christmas toys. Letty, with
deft fingers, had painted the dingy, dust-grimed wood white with tiny
pink rosebuds (difficult to recognize, perhaps, as rosebuds, but very
pretty) and had made, with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s help, a dainty white
canopy, tied back with pink ribbons. There were sheets and pillow-cases
and even a little kimono made of a scrap of white cashmere and edged
with pink ribbon.
“Where is Christopher?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartwell-Jones as Jane mounted
the stairs alone. “I had a surprise for you all.”
“Kit has gone on a picnic with the boys. He didn’t want to come to
Sally’s birthday,” replied Jane with a catch in her voice.
“Never mind, dear. Boys seem to like to get off by themselves now and
then, don’t they, dear? We’ll have a little dove party. But I have
answered a question of Kit’s, however, which now he will miss hearing,”
she added, glancing at a pile of closely written pages on her writing
desk.
“Oh!” exclaimed Jane, looking from Mrs. Hartwell-Jones to Letty, her
cheeks growing crimson. “You’ve written the story you promised—just for
us!”
“Yes,” laughed Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, “just for you. I got my idea from
Letty’s song and Christopher’s questions about it. Shall I read it now,
while we are waiting until it is time for the party?”
“Oh, yes, please! And I can be putting Sally to bed.”
Letty, who had been in a flutter of excitement all day as she watched
those pages of story growing, flew over to the table for the manuscript,
and bustled about, making Mrs. Hartwell-Jones more comfortable and
arranging the light.
“Oh, perhaps Anna might like to hear the story, too! Might she come?”
she asked impulsively.
Mrs. Hartwell-Jones said yes, graciously, feeling secretly proud of
Letty’s thoughtfulness.
“Now,” she said, when shy little Anna Parsons had been brought up-stairs
and everything was ready, “we must have Letty’s song first, as a sort of
introduction.”
So Letty sang the “Winter Lullaby” again, sweetly, simply, without any
thought of herself or how she was doing it, but evidently enjoying the
soft, plaintive melody. When she had finished Mrs. Hartwell-Jones took
up her paper and read:
“The Tulip’s Dream
“Once upon a time a little tulip lived in a lovely big garden. It was
the middle blossom of the front row of a bed of beautiful, pale yellow
tulips, whose petals shone like the softest velvet. But alas for this
poor little front tulip! It had broad red streaks running down the
middle of each of its petals, making them seem bold and flaunting and
common. And none of the other tulips in the bed would speak to it;
they had not even a word of sympathy to offer.
“The lady who owned the garden had taken great pains to have this
particular tulip bed planted with just the shade of flowers that she
wanted, and it was such a disappointment to have had the very front
blossom of all turn out to be so different and ordinary. She used to
visit the garden every day with her little daughter. Standing in front
of the bed they would discuss the ugly little tulip.
“‘I have half a mind to pluck the flower,’ she said one day. ‘It looks
so horrid that it quite spoils the effect of the bed. But all the
other blossoms are out and if I took this one away it would leave such
a gap.’
“‘The flower can’t help having red streaks in it, mother,’ replied the
little girl. ‘P’rhaps it feels bad at being different from all the
rest! But it is ugly,’ she added.
“The poor little tulip drooped its head and pined. It is very, very
hard to be thought ugly and different; and harder still not to be
wanted. So the tulip drooped and faded and dropped its petals long
before any of the other flowers in the bed.
“And when the lady found the red and yellow petals lying on the ground
she exclaimed:—‘Why, how odd that this tulip should have died first. I
always thought that those common, hardy varieties lasted longest!’
“Her little girl picked up one of the scattered petals and stroked it.
“‘See, mother, it is really very pretty,’ she said. ‘I wonder if the
flower was not nicer than we thought after all?’
“Although the lady had spoken of the tulip as dead, because the
blossom was gone, of course we all know that it was not dead. But that
down, down in its brown little root, or bulb, under the warm, moist
earth, its life was throbbing as strong as ever. The tulip heard the
little girl’s words, therefore, and was somewhat comforted by them.
But it still mourned over the red streaks down the middle of its
petals, for it was quite sure that it had not meant to be that way,
but soft, pale yellow like all the other tulips in the bed.
“‘You ought not to take it so to heart,’ whispered a gentle shower to
the falling petals, and it bathed them in soft, warm drops. ‘Your
petals are red because the sun has kissed them.’
“But the tulip would not be comforted. It shed its satiny petals and
crept down inside its bulb-nest to sleep away its sorrow and
disappointment.
“After a time the tulip bulbs were dug up by the gardener and carried
away to the cellar to make room for other flowers that would bloom
during the summer. In the autumn they were brought out and planted in
their bed again, and as it happened, the little red and yellow tulip
was put exactly where it had been before. The warm, dark earth
snuggled it close to her fragrant bosom and whispered: ‘Sleep well,
little tulip, and dream that you are the most beautiful, pale yellow
tulip in the world.’
“So the little tulip fell asleep and lo, at the first call of the
spring robin it waked, feeling very, very happy.
“‘Go, tell the sky your dream,’ whispered Mother-Earth, and pushed the
bulb upward. The tulip shot up a delicate, whity-green stalk through
the dark clods,—up, up, until it saw the great, deep-blue sky far
above it. The air was sweet and warm and a few early birds were
singing. Becoming more and more happy and excited, the little tulip
pushed upward and spread its petals to the smiling sky. And lo, they
were of the loveliest pale yellow, and shone like the softest velvet!”
Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had ceased her reading for quite a full minute
before the children realized that the story was ended.
“Oh!” sighed Jane. “I am so glad that the tulip was happy at last!”
“But what do you suppose made the petals turn?” asked Mrs.
Hartwell-Jones.
“Blossoms do change colors, different years. I’ve seen ’em in our own
garden,” said Anna Parsons practically.
“Oh, it was because the tulip wanted it so much!” exclaimed Letty.
“Yes, it was because the tulip wanted it; but there are different kinds
of wants, Letty, dear. Some people want things selfishly, just because
the things would give them pleasure. But the little tulip felt that it
had disappointed some one by being the color it was—and so felt that it
was not doing its real duty in the world. So, by wishing and hoping and
waiting patiently, it got what it wanted. If it had been a person
instead of a flower, of course just hoping and waiting would not have
been enough. There would have been work to do, as well.
“But if whatever we want is right, and of some benefit to the rest of
the world, we are pretty sure to get it in the end.”
“Oh, do you think so?” cried Letty eagerly; looking as if she had some
particular thing in her mind.
Mrs. Hartwell-Jones smiled and patted her hand.
“Yes, I really think so, dear child. But it is time for the tea-party
now,” she said.