HALLOWE'EN
"Never since the world began
Has been such repartee;
And never till the next begins
Will greater things be done by man
Than this same company."
"I'M going to have a party to-night," announced Theodore, coming into
the study on a morning in late October. Mrs. Lee and the two girls
looked up from their work in astonishment. "To-night!" they said in
chorus.
"I think it's about my turn to 'entertain,'" went on Ted in a mock
aggrieved tone. "Father opened the house to the Guild last week,
mother had the Mothers' Meeting here yesterday, Beatrice has company
all the time, and I'm still picking peanut shells, left from Miss
Billy's Lawn Fête, out of the grass. Don't you think that I deserve a
'function' to-night?"
"It seems to me that your arrangements are being made rather late in
the day," laughed Mrs. Lee. "One usually plans for a party a day or
two beforehand."
"Not for this kind of an entertainment," explained Theodore. "This is
a sudden inspiration of mine--planned 'on the spur of the instant,'
as Mrs. Canary would say. If you'll let me use the gasoline range
to-night, that's all I'll ask. I'm going to give a pancake party."
"What's a pancake party?" inquired Miss Billy.
"Hist!" returned Theodore mysteriously. "'Tell it not in Gath,
publish it not in the streets of Ascalon,' is my motto. The ghosts
and the witches walk abroad to-night, and we shall fitly celebrate.
So much you shall know and no more. Miss Billy, if you offer to
make me a rarebit in your chafing dish to-night, I shall courteously
accept; and mother, a bottle of stuffed olives, three bunches of
radishes and a fruit cake would be delicate attentions on your part."
"Whom are you going to invite?" asked Beatrice.
"Oh, Margaret, of course, and Lindsay, and our friend John Thomas,
and I suppose Mary Jane."
"But that won't make enough men to go around."
"Oh, you and Mary Jane can divide Mr. Lindsay," said Ted carelessly.
"He's big enough to make two."
Beatrice left the room, and Ted went to his father's desk, where he
laboured painfully over the following poetical effusion:
"Theodore Lee would like to see you at his home on Friday. Please
come at eight, and do not wait to make yourself too tidy. For spells
and tricks are apt to fix your clothes in sad condition; and folks,
I ween, on Hallowe'en are not on exhibition."
* * * * *
Beatrice, coming downstairs at eight o'clock that evening, to assist
in receiving the guests, found Miss Billy seated on the hearth rug,
while Ted bedecked her hair with an artistic arrangement of feathers
pulled out of the duster.
The elder sister looked disturbed. "Goodness!" she said. "Don't let
Ted do that. I hope you're not intending to wear those things."
"Why not?" said Miss Billy carelessly. "The feather duster's
moulting, anyway."
"It isn't the duster I'm thinking of. It's you. Why _will_ you be so
ridiculous before visitors?"
"Oh, pshaw," exclaimed Miss Billy impatiently. "I'm doing it for fun.
The 'visitors' are only girls and boys."
"Mr. Lindsay is twenty-four," replied Beatrice with dignity, "and I
am not a child."
"Oh, ho!" jeered Ted, "you're both Methusalehs! Lindsay's got more
sense than most people of his age. He's more like sixteen than
twenty-four."
Miss Billy had already removed the towering plumes.
"I love my darling sister so
That I would much for her forego,"
she chanted. "There goes the door bell. Ted, you're the footman?"
"By all the powers above!" exclaimed Ted, as he swung open the door
in mock ceremony. "Mr. Francis Lindsay, in a full suit of evening
clothes! Such splendour! I'm glad now I blacked my shoes. Miss Billy,
don't you wish you'd braved Bea's jeers and worn your ostrich tips?"
"To the horror of all who were present that day
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express,"
quoted Francis. "Am I or am I not to come in? Good-evening, Miss
Billy, good-evening, Miss Lee."
Beatrice looked critically at the tall figure bending over her
sister's hand. In his evening clothes Mr. Schultzsky's grand-nephew
was a fine looking man, she owned to herself, and her voice was
unusually cordial as she added her greeting to Miss Billy's.
At the stroke of eight Margaret appeared, and John Thomas soon
followed, in a high state of collar and excitement. "Mary Jane wasn't
ready to come with me," he announced cheerfully. "She was prinking
before the glass when I went by her room, and she said she couldn't
fix her hair. She'll be along."
His prediction was verified by a faint jingle of the door bell. A
moment later Marie Jean's shrill voice was heard in the hall. "Oh,
thank you, Mr. Theodore, don't mention it, please. I'm _so_ sorry to
have kept you waiting. Where shall I lay my cloak?" The little group,
gathered round the first fall fire, fell apart to permit the entrance
of the last guest.
It was Marie Jean, but transformed. She wore the trailing silk skirt,
and a bodice of showy pink taffeta, but the heavy frizzes were gone.
Her hair was parted as smoothly and evenly as Margaret's own, and
the German braids lent new character to her face. She glanced in
some surprise at Beatrice's simple grey-blue gown, and surveyed
Miss Billy's scarlet waist with disapproval. The plain elegance of
Margaret's tailor suit utterly escaped her, but her eyes brightened
as she beheld Francis' pearl studs. "He's got a genuine swallow
tail," she said to herself. "I'm glad I dressed up."
"Come into the kitchen," announced the host, leading the way to the
rear of the house. "This is the scene of our operations. Lindsay,
how we are to manage such elegance as yours and Miss Marie Jean's,
I don't see. You'll have to be aproned, each one of you." He handed
Marie Jean and Margaret long gingham aprons, and then to the
amusement of all proceeded to array Francis' six foot length in one
of Bea's daintiest and most be-ruffled pinafores.
"The gasoline stove is for the fudge, which you, John Thomas, will
find already mixed, in the pantry," continued Ted. "The range is
ready for the pancakes, which you, Francis, are to bake during your
leisure moments this evening. In the meantime, we will try what fate
has in store for us."
There was a little thrill of expectation as Miss Billy and Theodore
appeared, bearing a tub partly full of water, with a number of
rosy cheeked apples floating on the surface. "Dive for your fate,"
commanded Ted. "The red apples are for the girls, the yellow ones
for the boys. Your intended's name you'll find within." There was
a dashing and splashing after the little buoys of fate, and even
Beatrice and Marie Jean lost their dignity as the apples slipped time
after time from the inviting crunch of their teeth. Margaret secured
the first--a big red apple labelled "The Count," John Thomas drew
"Miss Billy," and Ted made a wry face as he read "Myrtle Blanchard"
on the yellow Baldwin that floated in his clutch.
"Let's try the next test before we go to cooking," said Miss Billy,
producing a tray which held seven miniature ships. Each was made of
the half of an English walnut shell, and held an inch of wax taper in
its tiny hold.
"Choose your colour," directed the hostess, "and launch your ship
on the sea of life. If the light burns steadily till the wax is all
melted, and the boat rides the waves safely, you are assured a long
and happy life. If two boats come together and continue to sail about
side by side their owners will pass much of their life together. Two
boats in collision means a quarrel. A boat that touches frequently at
the sides of the tub predicts many short voyages for the owner, but a
bold vessel that goes to the other side promises a life of adventure
and travel. All aboard!"
One by one the small crafts were launched on the sea, and the owners
hung over the tub awaiting the result with eagerness.
Margaret's capsized early in the course. Francis' and Marie Jean's
crept along side by side, Theodore's and John Thomas' collided,
and Miss Billy's travelled independently and speedily across the
tub despite the sly efforts of Ted to turn its course. There was
much teasing and laughing before the boats dropped their anchors.
Theodore, who carried the tub to the kitchen, returned with a small
iron vessel, a long-handled spoon, and a cup of water.
"This is the truest test of fate," he announced. "The melted lead
dropped into the water will foretell every man's destiny with
neatness and despatch. Strike, while the iron--and lead--is hot. Your
turn first, 'oh rare pale Margaret.'"
The group left the fudge to the mercy of the fire and surrounded
Theodore. The lead dropped into the cup of water, and Ted peeped
cautiously into the bottom. "The fates speak truly," he announced
solemnly. "It's a cabbage--thrown at your first concert, I suppose.
Miss Marie Jean, the next spoonful is for you. Here it is, but I'll
be switched if I know _what_ it is."
John Thomas peered over his shoulder. "It's a hand glass," he
announced.
"So it is," assented Ted. "I suppose you'll be a professional beauty
like Mme. de Staël or Maxine Elliott. You may take the lead for a
memento. Beatrice, step up to the front. Hail, all hail, you have
won--a man,--a nice big fellow with a football."
"That must be you, Francis," said John Thomas, looking up at the tall
athlete at his side.
Beatrice looked annoyed, and Francis' usually calm face reddened
suddenly. Miss Billy's quick wits detected confusion in the air, and
she stepped forward hastily. "Now me," she said.
Theodore dropped a spoonful of lead in the water, and it sank with a
heavy thump.
"The man with a hoe! Or perhaps it's Mr. Schultzsky with his crutch
instead," announced Ted. "This is for you, John Thomas--a nice round
dollar. That means that one of these days you'll have money instead
of lead to put in the fire.... Now Mr. Lindsay, leave your griddle
and behold."
"A lead maiden!" said Margaret, as the metal hardened into a graceful
shape in the bottom of the cup. "A bride, I declare! See her bouquet."
"Last but not least," announced Ted cheerfully, "is the fate of Mr.
Theodore Somers Lee, one of the most charming and delightful members
of our little circle. He deserves the best that the gods can provide.
What have we here? A book! I bet it's a Bible. I have always had
a secret longing for the life of a missionary. There's a cry from
Macedonia, and I shall turn out immediately."
"It's more likely to be a bed than a Bible," announced Miss Billy
witheringly. "Then you'll turn in, not out."
"Why is a boy pigeon-toed at night?" improvised Theodore. "Because he
turns in."
There was a chorus of groans in reply. "That is the way we roast
chestnuts on Hallowe'en," said Francis wickedly.
"Isn't it time to put on the pancakes?" said John Thomas. "The fudge
is almost done."
"That's my work," said Francis. "Miss Billy, did you say there was a
ring in the batter? What is it for?"
Miss Billy had brought out a bag of chestnuts, and was placing them
in a long row on the top of the stove.
"The one who gets the ring is to be married first," she said. "But
we'll try the chestnut charm before the cakes are ready,--if you can
stand the smoke."
"What is the test?" asked Margaret.
"Name the two nuts," explained Ted, "one for yourself and one for
'your steady.' If they roast quietly and gently your affair will be
long and tranquil; if they burst or fly apart, there will be troubles
in the family."
The circle of young people gathered closer, and watched the little
emblems of friendship. The fire crackled and burned brighter, and a
silence fell upon the room. One by one the chestnuts popped and flew
off, until only the two named by Miss Billy were left. They burned
quietly side by side until Francis pushed them, fully roasted, into
the owner's lap.
"You are the happy one," he said. "For whom were they named?"
"I shall never tell," declared Miss Billy.
Four great stacks of smoking cakes were carried into the dining room,
where Miss Billy's chafing dish was already burning. Mrs. Lee had
evidently lent her assistance, for added to Theodore's menu was a
large plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of hot chocolate.
The hungry people gathered around the table; and the brown pancakes,
covered with butter and smothered in maple syrup, received much
commendation. While they were at the table the doorbell rang. Mrs.
Lee, who had answered the bell, came into the dining room with a
large basket in her hand, and a puzzled expression on her face.
"There was no one at the door," she said. "Only this basket. It has
your name on it, Wilhelmina."
Miss Billy lifted the cover and peered in. "What on earth!" she
began. She lifted out a curious little package labelled "Miss
Margaret Van Courtland." "This is evidently for you," she said as
she peered in again. "But there are a whole lot of others. One for
each of us." She distributed the parcels to the party, while Margaret
dubiously opened the square bundle that had been handed to her.
A small pasteboard box labelled "Burke's Peerage" was exposed to
view. The following poem accompanied it:
"A maiden named Peggy Van C----
Sailed far from New York State and me!
And she played the pianner,
And won prize and banner,
In ev'ry conservato-ree.
"But my honest American name
She spurned to my sorrow and shame,
For she said 'I shan't marry
With Tom, Dick and Harry,
I'm looking for much higher game.
"'With my excellent banking account
To royalty's height I may mount.'
She ran into her fate,
But discovered too late
He was called in Burke's book--no (a) count."
"Congratulations, Ted," said Margaret. "I recognise your dainty touch
in this."
Ted looked innocent.
"Why should all blame and anger dread
Fall straight upon my luckless head?"
he murmured. "John Thomas, I see you drew a prize. What is it?"
John Thomas had been examining his parcel, and his face was very red.
He held up two scarlet hearts impaled on a long tin arrow.
"I don't want to read the po'try," he said bashfully.
"Oh, yes," begged Miss Billy. "Go on, John Thomas. What do _you_
care? It's all in fun."
The boy unfolded the paper obediently.
"He lives next door to Billy Lee,
He smiles at her incessantly,
His name they say is Hennes-sy,
And John.
"He little knows her temper bad,
He's never seen her when she's mad.
Misguided youth! His lot is sad,----
Poor John."
"Nonsense," said Miss Billy. "Your sentiments are as bad as your
poetry, Ted. What's yours, Bea?"
Beatrice had a pair of huge scarlet carpet slippers, ornamented with
a large bow of ribbon. Theodore read the verses:
"A pair of red slippers hung high in a shop,
Sing hey for the slippers so red!
And a maid passed that way and I saw the maid stop,
'I'll buy me the slippers,' she said.
"The pair of red slippers came down from the shelf,
Sing hey for the slippers so small!
And the maiden remarked, undertone, to herself,
'They'll look awful swell at a ball.'
"The pair of red slippers were jaunty and low,
Sing hey for the slippers so gay!
'But I don't want buckles, I wanted a bow,'
I heard the maid woefully say.
"The pair of red slippers were wrapped up and tied,
Sing hey for the pocketbook low!
And a youth who was near sauntered home at her side,
So the maid got the slippers and beau."
Marie Jean unwrapped her package with an expectant expression. A
large beet, cut in half, and carefully stuck together with toothpicks
surrounded the following verse:
"There's a secret in my heart, Sweet Marie,
A tale I would impart, love, to thee.
Every lad in Cherry Street
Kneels in ardour at thy feet,
You've a face that can't be beet, Sweet Marie."
"I never heard such wretched puns," declared Margaret. "There's one
consolation,--there _can't_ be anything worse than that. What's
yours, Mr. Francis?"
Francis bowed gallantly to Miss Billy. "Ladies first," he said.
A small green watering pot was unrolled from a newspaper, and several
verses tumbled out.
"Mistress Billy,
Pray don't be chilly!
How does your garden grow?
With beautiful posies
And lilies and roses,
And sunflowers all in a row.
"Mistress Billy
I must rhyme--willy nilly,--
How does your garden grow?
With small smiling faces
All found in their places
And little ones all in a row.
"Mistress Billy,
Don't think me silly
Thus does your garden grow,
With hard work and duty
And sweetness and beauty,
And faith, hope, and love in a row."
Miss Billy's voice shook a little as she finished reading, and there
was something suspiciously shiny in her eyes as she glanced at her
brother. But Ted was looking serenely the other way.
Francis' package held a fat pocketbook labelled:
"Sing a song of sixpence.
Pocketful of mon.,
Rent day Francis has it all,
Cherry Street has none.
Never mind! His praises loud
Cherry Street doth sing--
Francis may not be a count,
But he is a king."
"Goodness!" said the reader, "I don't know whether I dare eat another
cake after that. I'm already bursting with _pride_; Miss Billy,
won't you share this with me?" He held out the last pancake on the
plate invitingly. Miss Billy's knife divided it evenly and a slender
circlet tinkled out on the dish.
"The ring!" said Marie Jean. "You'll have to draw lots."
"Or else share your fate," suggested Margaret.
"Now me," said Ted in a tone of mock anticipation. "You haven't seen
my souvenir yet." He unrolled a box of French bonbons, and passed it
around the table, as he read:
"There was a young person named Ted.
'I'll write some fine doggerel,' he said.
But his verse read aloud
In the midst of the crowd
Was all pronounced mongrel instead."
"And that's the truest one of all," said Margaret.