LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD
"Will you please to go away?
That is all I have to say."
MRS. CANARY was, literally speaking, behind the times. The weekly
edition of that romantic sheet, the _Household Times_, had just
arrived, and the mistress of the house had been unable to resist
the temptation to "lose herself" in its crackling folds for a few
minutes. It was Sunday morning, and the Sabbath to the Canary family
meant the dressing of five children for attendance at a house of
worship. There was a strong odour of soap and sanctity about the
little home, but the mother was reading aloud, totally oblivious to
the noise and confusion surrounding her:
"Si-lunce reigned in the great hall as the Duke faced his quack-ing
vik-tum. The res-o-lute blood of his dough-ty ancest-ers shone in his
deep eyes. 'I little expect-ed this of you, Phil-lup,' he said at
last. The cring-ing slave fell abjeck-ly at his feet, without a word.
The calm un-im-passioned voice per-ceeded. 'Fate has played you a
sorry trick,' it said.
"The man gru-vel-ing at his feet made no reply, but the Duke's keen
eye caught the gleam of a shining blade. 'Traitor, Mis-cre-ant,' he
hissed, 'would you play me false in my own hall?' and he fell upon
the fiendish form."
From the Duke's hall to the Canary kitchen was only a step. In
the latter place the long-suffering Holly Belle was having a
discussion with Fridoline as to the merits of church-going for the
rising generation. Fridoline was determined of chin, and fiery of
disposition, and at the early age of seven had conceived a violent
aversion to the ritual of faith, and the proper observance of
the Sabbath. The following patient monologue floated through the
half-closed door:
"Oh, yes you will, Fridoline. Every one goes to Sunday School....
Here's the blacking all ready for you.... No, you can't wash first.
What's the use of getting clean and then gauming yourself all up
agin?... Black the _heels_ of the shoes. Yes, they do show, too....
No, Friddie dear, please don't put on that clean collar until you
wash your neck. Let me help you wash.... Well, I won't, if you don't
want me to, but you are never pertic'ler about the edges, you know
you ain't.... Stop brushing Mike's hair with that blacking brush!...
Friddie, I'll tell Ma!... No, your neck ain't clean, an' your ears
are a sight. Let me take that rag a minute. No, I won't get your coat
collar wet.... Don't work your face that way, Friddie; it can't be
as stiff as that.... Well, don't _open_ your mouth, _then_ you won't
taste it.... Stop hitting my elbow.... Fridoline Canary!... I hate
to tell on you, but if you don't stop I will.... Ma, make Friddie
stop!"
Mrs. Canary, putting her forefinger between the pages of the Duke's
history, came to the doorway and looked in,--the picture of grieved
amazement.
"Why, Fridoline," she exclaimed. "Why do you hurt that loving sister
of yours? Elbows is tender in ladies. Holly Belle, I wouldn't be too
pertic'ler about the edges. He was washed good last Wednesday."
"Sh'd say I was," growled Fridoline, looking vengefully at his
sister. "They's no need of making me as wet as wash-day agin. Holly
Belle's too doggoned clean."
"Ye look as shiny as a new mirror," said his mother proudly. "There's
nothing like Ivory soap for bringing out all there is in a man. You
look every inch a policeman's son. Now your uncle Weatherby, who
holds a government position at Washington, D.C.----"
"Do I have to go to Sunday School, ma?" whined Fridoline.
"Don't interrupt, Friddie dear," said his mother mildly. "You put me
all out of mind of what I was goin' to say. Certainly you do have to
go to Sabbath School. I ain't goin' to have it said that I ever let
circumstances interfere with religion."
"I hate Sunday School," complained Fridoline; "I don't get no good
going."
"Oh, yes you do, son," encouraged his mother. "You learn lots. Didn't
you get promoted from primary to secondary less'n a month ago?"
"Yes," growled the boy, "en the only difference is that ye put a
nickel in the collection instead of a cent. I'm goin' to be changed
back agin."
"No, ye ain't," said his mother decidedly. "You get that church down
on ye, and ye'll miss the Sunday School picnic. But I'll tell ye what
ye can do, Friddie. After the picnic ye can all make a change and
go to Mr. Lee's church. The Weatherbys have always been Baptists,
but out of compliment to Mr. Lee I'm willin' to let you change. He's
been so nice and neighbourly that I think he's deserved it. We won't
say nothing about it, and some fine day we'll surprise him by five
shinin' faces increasing his aujence."
The idea of a picnic and a surprise facilitated the dressing, and
a half hour more saw the departure of the five Canarys in all the
splendour of cleanliness and handed-down clothes. Mrs. Canary,
standing in the doorway, viewed them with pride.
"Now mind yerselves," was her parting instruction. "Ye look like a
little herd of white doves, and see that ye act so. Holly Belle,
don't forget to lend Mikey your handkerchief when necessary. And
conduct yerselves right during divine services."
"There goes Miss Billy," she added to herself, as her own little
brood rounded the corner. "As chipper as a sparrer, an' a-carryin'
something to the needy, I should judge by that Haverland chiny dish
in her hand. Land o' love! She's turnin' into old man's Schultzsky's!"
* * * * *
A pudgy little maiden in a large rocking chair sat swinging back
and forth upon Mr. Schultzsky's dilapidated porch as Miss Billy
approached. The stolid Bohemian face was neutralised by the effect of
two blonde pig-tails, which were braided so tightly as to give her a
scared and hunted expression. She looked more frightened than ever as
the visitor ascended the rickety steps.
"Good-morning!" said Miss Billy.
The little girl stopped the motion of the chair and stared at the
newcomer.
"This is a nice place to sit."
The little girl's eyes grew rounder, but she made no reply.
"Does Mr. Schultzsky live here?" went on Miss Billy.
The child caught the familiar name, and nodded.
"Is he in bed?"
"Ja ne rozumim," said the little maid.
"Do you suppose he would see me?"
"Ja ne rozumim."
"Goodness!" said Miss Billy to herself. "This is worse than taking
the census. I wonder what language the child is talking. I'm sure
it's not German or French or Latin or Greek. I might try her on
hog-latin. I never saw a child who couldn't understand that.
May--I--see--Mr.--Schultzsky?" she persisted in the loud and emphatic
way that one always uses with a foreigner.
The little girl stared at her in a frightened way.
"Mr. Schultzsky? In?" asked Miss Billy desperately.
The child looked about her with a hunted and terrified expression.
Then she rose from her rocking chair, and backed hastily down the
steps, keeping a safe distance between herself and the caller. "Ja ne
rozumim," she gasped, and disappeared around the house. Miss Billy
turned to the door. She looked about for a bell, but finding none,
rapped upon the unpainted panel. There was no answer. A second knock
only brought an echo which reverberated through the shell of the
house.
She hesitated a moment, and then stepping timidly inside, found
herself in a tiny box of a hallway which seemed to extend from the
front door to the back. Two doors opened into the hall and Miss Billy
paused irresolutely at one. A sound of heavy breathing came from
within, and she knocked lightly.
"Come in," growled the voice of Mr. Schultzsky, and Miss Billy
entered. The inside of the house proved even more uninviting than
the outside. The room was small and low, with broken plastering, and
soiled hemp carpet on the floor. The only window was closed, and the
ragged green shade drawn tightly down. A musty odour, as of ancient
food and air, pervaded everything.
On a narrow bed in the corner lay Mr. Schultzsky with a ragged
blanket drawn up over his head to exclude even the faint light. Over
the foot board dangled three flat irons at the end of a rope--an
improvised weight for the injured leg. Miss Billy caught her breath
at the sight.
Mr. Schultzsky evidently heard the sigh. He threw his arms out
uneasily, but his head remained in eclipse. His muffled voice came
from beneath the blanket:
"Chvatej, Johanna, Ja mam hlat."
Miss Billy started to speak, but Mr. Schultzsky interrupted.
"Get me something to eat. Quick," he ordered.
The first sentence was unintelligible to Miss Billy, but the command
was clear. A wild plan of propitiating the old man seized her. She
turned to the hall without a word.
The small room adjoining was evidently the kitchen, for a rusty stove
stood at one side, and a few shabby dishes were ranged in a cupboard
on the other. A half loaf of bread, a piece of salt pork, and a cup
partially filled with tea stood on a shelf. There was no other food
in sight. The fire had burned low, but Miss Billy poked the coals
together and added some fuel.
"Ne davej vec nes jeden," called a muffled voice from the next room.
"He's probably advising me to save on fuel," thought Miss Billy,
little guessing how nearly she had arrived at the truth.
She filled the tea-kettle, set it over the blaze, cut a slice of
bread, and found a fork. The soup, which she had brought with her,
she poured into a tin pan and set on the stove to re-heat. Then she
looked about for serving utensils. There was no tray or napkin to be
seen, but she covered the bread board with the fringed doily that had
accompanied the soup.
As she stepped lightly about her work her spirits rose higher than
they had since the news of the landlord's accident. She hugged to
herself the grim retribution she was receiving as she scorched her
face, as well as the bread, over the coals.
"I can forgive myself, if he forgives me," she thought.
There was no butter or milk in the cupboard, and the tableware seemed
to be in all stages of decrepitude. The Haviland bowl looked most
incongruous in company with the cracked cups and plates on the tray,
but Miss Billy was forced to be content. She covered the stove,
and turned the drafts in a way she felt sure Mr. Schultzsky would
approve, and then, leaving the improvised tray on the shelf, with
fear and trembling approached the door of the bedroom. The old man
seemed to be asleep. Fearful of disturbing him, Miss Billy stood
hesitating in the doorway. Then she cautiously opened the window,
and pulled up the shade a few inches. The light showed a dirty room
in a great state of disorder. On a chair beside the bed was an array
of bottles, dishes, and the remains of a meal. Old clothes were
strewn about the floor, dust lay in great rolls everywhere, and the
cobwebs under the bed had only been disturbed by the motley pile of
shoes and clothing which was thrust underneath. A broken harness was
suspended from a hook on one side of the room, and on the opposite
wall, crooked and high, hung the picture of a beautiful woman.
Miss Billy went quietly to work to remedy things. She hung up the
clothes that littered the place, and arranged the medicine bottles.
Just as she was debating with herself as to the advisability of
rousing the invalid, the old man moved painfully. "Are you coming,
Johanna? Hurry up," he called from beneath the bed clothes. Miss
Billy made haste to obey. She brought the tray from the kitchen, and
quietly approached the bedside. Mr. Schultzsky lifted the blanket
from his face. He looked greyer and older than ever, his hair was
matted and towsled, and in the dim light he was a ghostly and
forbidding object. Even bold Miss Billy's hands shook as she helped
to raise him, and prop him a few inches higher with a pillow. As she
took up the tray again the old man glanced at her for the first
time. Instead of the stolid Bohemian face he had been expecting to
see, Miss Billy's sunny grey eyes, more tender and earnest than
usual, looked down into his stony grey ones.
There was a moment's silence in the room. Then Mr. Schultzsky spoke:
"Who are you?" he said.
[Illustration: "Who are you?" he said.]
"Don't you know?" answered the girl. "I'm Miss Billy--Wilhelmina
Lee--the girl at No. 12. I came to see if there was anything I could
do for you."
"Huh," growled the man. The syllable seemed to be forced through his
set teeth.
Miss Billy, trembling inwardly, went on bravely with her
recital:--"Don't you remember? You fell on our sidewalk. It was that
day when you wouldn't do anything about the repairs, and I went out
to try to mend it myself. And oh, Mr. Schultzsky, I said I hoped
you'd fall through the rotten planks! I was only half in earnest, you
know, but you _did_ come along and fall. And I feel as though it were
my fault. I'm so sorry--so very sorry." Her voice faltered. The old
man looked at her unwinkingly.
"Go away," he said.
"But you'll let me help you," entreated the girl, bringing the chair
nearer to the side of the bed.
"Go away," repeated the old man.
"I can't go away and leave you in this condition," pleaded Miss
Billy, bent on restitution.
Mr. Schultzsky tried to raise himself from the pillow, but fell back
with a groan. He regarded her vindictively, and his face was more
sinister than ever as he repeated savagely--"Go away! Go away!"
Miss Billy set down the tray on the chair and withdrew quickly. The
burning tears filled her eyes as she felt her way along to the gate.
"He was cruel," she said bitterly to herself. "I didn't deserve it."
A calmer mood took possession of her before she reached the door of
her home. "Well, he didn't strike me," she said stoutly. "And I know
I did my duty. But I shan't try to make friends with him again, and
I shall never never let Ted hear of this."
But her brother's quick wits had already anticipated and made ready
for her home coming. As she flung off her hat, and threw herself into
the big chair in the study, the sermon board thrust a black and white
message before her eyes. It had been empty when she left the house.
Now it bore a rude sketch of a nondescript animal, a cross between
a bear and a wolf, arrayed in a huge night cap. An unmistakable
Little Red Riding Hood stood at the side of the beast. And below was
scrawled in Theodore's hand:
Some bears have got two legs,
And some have got more;
Be lessons right severe,
If they've two legs or four!