"THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM'S EARTHQUAKE"
There were only ten days in which to prepare for the play called
"Granny's Quilting." The children met Wednesday morning in Aunt Vi's
room, all but Bab, who was off riding. So unfortunate, Lucy thought; for
how could any plans be made without Bab?
The play was very old-fashioned, requiring four people, all clad in the
style of one hundred and fifty years ago. Uncle James would wear a gray
wig and "small clothes" and personate "Grandsir Whalen"; Kyzie Dunlee,
Grandsir's old wife, in white cap, "short gown," and petticoat, was to
be "Granny Whalen" of course.
A grandson and granddaughter were needed for this aged couple. Edith
would make a lovely granddaughter and pretend to spin flax. Who would
play the grandson and shell the corn? Jimmy thought Nate Pollard was
just the one, he was "so good at speaking pieces." They decided to ask
Nate at once, and have that matter settled.
Aunt Vi showed a collection of articles which "the knitting-woman" had
kindly offered for their use; a three-legged light stand, two
fiddle-backed chairs, and a very old hour-glass.
"I should call it a pair of glasses," said Edith, as they watched the
sand drip slowly from one glass into the other.
Aunt Vi said it took exactly an hour for it to drain out, and our
forefathers used to tell the time of day by hour-glasses before clocks
were invented.
"What _are_ forefathers?" Lucy asked Edith.
"Oh, Adam and Eve and all those old people," was the careless reply.
"And didn't they have any clocks?"
"Of course not. What do you suppose?"
There was a knock at the door. Nate had come to find Jimmy and go with
him to see the blind canary.
"We were just talking about you," said Aunt Vi. "Are you willing to be
Katharine's grandson in the play?"
Nate replied laughing that he would do whatever was wanted of him, and
he could send home and get some knee-buckles and a cocked hat.
Aunt Vi said "Capital!" and gave Jimmy a look which said, "Everything
seems to be going on famously for our new play."
Jimmy led the way to Mrs. McQuilken's room, his face wreathed with
smiles.
"Ah, good morning; how do you all do?" said the lady, meeting the
children with courteous smiles. "I see you've brought your kitten,
Edith."
"Yes, ma'am; will you please look at her wounds again?"
"They are pretty well healed, dear. I've never felt much concerned about
Zee's wounds. She makes believe half of her sufferings for the sake of
being petted."
"Does she, though? I'm so glad."
"Yes; that 'prize tail' will soon be waving as proudly as ever. But I
suppose you all came to see the canary. Mag, you naughty girl," she
added, turning to the magpie, "hide under the bed. They didn't come to
see you. Here, Job, you are the one that's wanted."
Little Job, the canary, was standing on the rug. He came forward now to
greet his visitors, putting out a foot to feel his way, like a blind
man with a cane. Then he began to sing joyously.
"Don't you call that good music?" asked his mistress, knitting as she
spoke. "He came from Germany; there's where you get the best singers.
Some canaries won't sing before company and some won't sing alone; they
are fussy,--I call it _pernickitty_. Why, I had one with a voice like a
flute; but I happened to buy some new wall-paper, and she didn't like
the looks of it, and after that she never would sing a note."
"Are you in earnest?" asked Kyzie.
"Yes, it's a fact. But Job never was pernickitty, bless his little
heart!"
She brought a tiny bell and let him take it in his claws.
"Now, I'll go out of the room, and you all keep still and see if he'll
ring to call me back."
She went, closing the door after her. No one spoke. Job moved his head
from side to side, and, apparently making up his little mind that he was
all alone, he shook the bell peal after peal. Presently his mistress
appeared. "Did you think mamma had gone and left you, Job darling? Mamma
can't stay away from her baby."
The cooing tone pleased the little creature, and he sang again even more
sweetly than before.
"Let me show you another of his tricks. You see this little gun? Well,
when he fires it off that will be the end of poor Job!"
The gun was about two inches long and as large around as a lead pencil.
Inside was a tiny spring; and when Job's claw touched the spring the gun
went off with a loud report. Job fell over at once as if shot and lay
perfectly still and stiff on the rug. Lucy screamed out:---
"Oh, I'm so sorry he is dead!"
But next moment he roused himself and sat up and shook his feathers as
if he relished the joke.
The children had a delightful half hour with the captain's widow and her
pets; only Lucy could not be satisfied because Bab was away.
"Too bad you went off riding yesterday," said she as they sat next
morning playing with their dolls. "You never saw that blind canary that
shoots himself, and comes to life and rings a bell."
"But can't I see him sometime, Auntie Lucy?"
"You can, oh, yes, and I'll go with you. But, Bab, you ought to have
heard our talk about the play! Kyzie is going to be as much as a hundred
years old, and I guess Uncle James will be a hundred and fifty. And
they've got a pair of old glasses with sand inside--the same kind that
Adam and Eve used to have."
"Why-ee! Did Adam and Eve wear glasses? 'Tisn't in their pictures; _I_
never saw 'em with glasses on!"
"No, no, I don't mean glasses _wear_! I said glasses with sand inside;
_that's_ what Uncle James has got. Runs out every hour. Sits on the
table."
"Oh, I know what you mean, auntie! You mean an _hour-glass!_ Grandpa
Hale has one and I've seen lots of 'em in France."
Lucy felt humbled. Though pretending to be Bab's aunt, she often found
that her little niece knew more than she knew herself!
"Seems queer about Adam and Eve," said she, hastening to change the
subject; "who do you s'pose took care of 'em when they were little
babies?"
"Why, Auntie Lucy, there wasn't ever any _babiness_ about Adam and Eve!
Don't you remember, they stayed just exactly as they were made!"
"Yes, so they did. I forgot."
Lucy had made another mistake. This was not like a "truly auntie"; still
it did not matter so very much, for Bab never laughed at her and they
loved each other "dearilee."
"You know a great many things, don't you, Bab? And _I_ keep forgetting
'em."
"Oh, I know all about the world and the garden of Eden; _that's_ easy
enough," replied the wise niece.
And then they went back to their dolls.
Half an hour later Kyzie Dunlee was standing in the schoolhouse door
with a group of children about her when Nate Pollard appeared. As he
looked at her he remembered "Jimmy's play," and the parts they were
both to take in it; and the thought of little Kyzie as his poor old
grandmother seemed so funny to Nate that he began to laugh and called
out, "Good morning, grandmother!"
He meant no harm; but Kyzie thought him very disrespectful to accost her
in that way before the children, and she tossed her head without
answering him.
Nate was angry. How polite he had always been to her, never telling her
what a queer school she kept! And now that he had consented to be her
grandson in Jimmy's play, just to please her and the rest of the family,
it did seem as if she needn't put on airs in this way!
"Ahem!" said he; "did you hear about that dreadful earthquake in San
Diego?"
There had been a very slight one, but he was trying to tease her.
"No, oh, no!" she replied, throwing up both hands. "When was it?"
"Last night. I'm afraid of 'em myself, and if we get one here to-day you
needn't be surprised to see me cut and run right out of the
schoolhouse."
The children looked at him in alarm. Kyzie could not allow this.
"Oh, you wouldn't do that!" said she, with another toss of the head.
"Before I'd run away from an earthquake! Besides, what good would it
do?"
By afternoon the news had spread about among the children that there was
to be a terrible earthquake that day. They huddled together like
frightened lambs. The little teacher, wishing to reassure them, planted
herself against the wall, and made what Edith would have called a
"little preach."
She pointed out of the window to the clear sky and said she "could not
see the least sign of an earthquake." But even if one should come they
need not be afraid, for their heavenly Father would take care of them.
"And you mustn't think for a moment of running away! No, children, be
quiet! Look at me, _I_ am quiet. I wouldn't run away if there were fifty
earthquakes!"
Strange to say, she had hardly spoken these words when the house began
to shake! They all knew too well what it meant, that frightful rocking
and rumbling; the ground was opening under their feet!
Kyzie, though she may have feared it vaguely all along, was taken
entirely by surprise, and did--what do you think? As quick as a flash,
without waiting for a second thought, she turned and jumped out of the
window!
Next moment, remembering the children, she screamed for them to follow
her, and they poured out of the house, some by the window, some by the
door, all shrieking like mad.
It was a wild scene,--the frantic teacher, the terrified children,--and
Kyzie will never cease to blush every time she recalls it. For there was
no earthquake after all! It was only the new "colonel" and his men
blasting a rock in the mine!
Of course this escapade of the young teacher amused the people of Castle
Cliff immensely. They called it "the little schoolma'am's earthquake";
and the little schoolma'am heard of it and almost wished it had been a
real earthquake and had swallowed her up.
"Oh, Papa Dunlee! Oh, Mamma Dunlee!" she cried, her cheeks crimson, her
eyelids swollen from weeping. "I keep finding out that I'm not half so
much of a girl as I thought I was! What does make me do such ridiculous
things?"
"You are only very young, you dear child," replied her parents.
They pitied her sincerely and did their best to console her. But they
were wise people, and perhaps they knew that their eldest daughter
needed to be humbled just a little. It was hard, very hard, yet
sometimes it is the hard things which do us most good.
"O mamma, don't ask me to go down to dinner. I can't, I can't!"
"No indeed, darling, your dinner shall be sent up to you. What would you
like?"
"No matter what, mamma--I don't care for eating. I can't ever hold up my
head any more. And as for going into that school again, I never, never,
never will do it."
"I think you will, my daughter," said Mr. Dunlee, quietly. "I think
you'll go back and live this down and 'twill soon be all forgotten."
"O papa, do you really, really think 'twill ever be forgotten? Do you
think so, mamma? A silly, disgraceful, foolish, outrageous,
abominable,--there, I can't find words bad enough!"