THE BUSY BEES.
“I’m afraid the head of the firm is very late this morning,” cried
Constance, merrily, as she entered the candy kitchen. Mrs. Carruth had
long since given it the name of the Bee-hive.
“I think the head of the firm has earned the right to arrive late if she
wishes to,” answered Mary Willing, glancing backward over her shoulder
as she stood before the gas range. Her arms were bared to the elbows,
for the waist she wore was made with short sleeves, in order to give her
perfect freedom in her work. They were beautiful arms, strong,
well-rounded and smooth as ivory.
“No, indeed, the head of the firm is a far cry from such indulgences,
let me tell you. She has just heaps and loads to accomplish before she
can arrive at such luxuries. But how goes the candy, Mary? Are you ready
for me yet?”
“Not quite; but I shall be in just a few minutes. See, it is beginning
to rope,” was the reply as the candy-maker lifted a spoonful of the
boiling syrup and let it run back into the kettle, the last drop falling
from the spoon quickly forming into little threads, which wavered in the
hot air rising from the range.
“Better begin beating it now, and let me pop in the nuts; then we’ll
pour it off,” answered Constance, her practiced eye quick to see that
another moment’s boiling might undo a morning’s work.
“Well, you’re the boss! Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Constance, I didn’t
mean that! I mean you’re—” and the girl paused in confusion, her face
coloring a deeper red than the heat and her work had brought there.
“I’ll make believe I didn’t hear,” answered Constance, a softer light
filling her eyes in place of the pained one which for a little instant
had crept into them, as a cloud can cast a momentary shadow upon a
wind-swept, shining October sea.
“You have to make believe so many times,” answered the girl, contritely,
as she lifted the kettle from the range, and placing it upon the marble
table, began to beat vigorously.
“Not nearly so often as I used to,” answered Constance, emptying into
the kettle a great dish of walnuts. Mary again beat vigorously with her
big spoon, shaking her head doubtfully the while. Constance did not look
at her, but, arming herself with a large knife, guided the candy into
the little grooves which would shape it as it was poured upon the table
from the tilted kettle. One end of the table had been blocked out like a
checkerboard, each inch square lined for cutting the candy accurately.
“Now watch me do my stunt,” she cried, standing with knife suspended
over the fast chilling candy, and smiling up at the tall girl at her
side.
“Do you forgive my—my—oh, the things I’m forever saying that must feel
just like a file drawn over your teeth? If you only knew how hard it is
to forget old ways and words and learn the better ones!”
“Do you see that little motto over there?” asked Constance, pointing
with her poised knife to a card, one of several hanging upon the wall of
the kitchen. The one toward which she pointed was in dark blue letters
upon a white ground. It read: “Forget It!”
“Yes, that is just exactly what I am forever doing,” was Mary’s petulant
reply. “If I didn’t forget all the time I’d never _have_ to forget at
all, and if that isn’t the finest bit of Irish you’ve ever heard, please
improve on it if you can.”
The laughter which floated out through the open door greeted Mrs.
Carruth as she entered the packing room.
“May I share the joke?” she asked. “I’m sure it must be a good one, and
rich as the odors floating out to tempt nose and palate. Cut it quickly,
Honey; I know it must be chilled enough and it does smell so good. Mary,
you are a master hand. M—mm—m! A veritable lump of delight, though still
slightly warm,” she ended as Constance dropped into her mouth a square
of the nut fudge she had just cut from the great mass covering the
table.
“Sit down, Mumsey, dear, and be good, consequently happy, while we work
like beavers. How does it chill so rapidly? Quick! Mary, you cut at that
end while I work at this. We’ve pounds and pounds to get done this
morning if we are to fill all the orders.”
For a few moments only the swift swish of the great knives as they cut
the candy could be heard, now and again one girl or the other catching
up a square upon the end of her knife and pausing just long enough to
offer it to Mrs. Carruth. Presently all was cut, and as it lay cooling
they set to work upon the next batch to be made, Mary cleaning the fudge
kettle while Constance got out another for the walnut creams. Each kind
of candy had its special cooking utensils, and no others were ever used
for it. In a few minutes Constance had a second batch of candy bubbling
upon her range, ready to turn over to Mary when she should have finished
washing the kettles and other articles used in making the fudge.
“I came out to be useful; may I prove it?” asked Mrs. Carruth.
“Just sit and watch us work. That helps,” answered Mary, as she relieved
Constance.
“Will you be just a heap happier if I let you help wrap the fudge in
paraffin paper?” asked Constance as she nestled her head for a moment in
her mother’s neck. “Eh? Will you? You busy body. Why can’t you let us do
all the work and so win all the glory? I suspect you’re a terribly
selfish mother; yes, I do. You needn’t protest. You won’t even let your
girls, real own ones or adopted ones, make their sticky marks in this
world in peace. You must come poking out here to buzz around in the hive
and beg honey.”
“I don’t have to beg, for it is voluntarily given,” laughed Mrs.
Carruth, kissing the soft cheek so close to her lips. “This kind I mean,
and I know of none sweeter.”
“Gross flattery! Now I _know_ you are scheming, so ’fess right off,”
cried Constance, whirling around to peer into her mother’s face, and
break into a merry laugh.
Mrs. Carruth pursed up her lips into a derisive pucker, and looked into
the merry eyes of this sunshiny daughter.
“And if I am, what then?” she asked.
“I knew it!” was the triumphant retort. “But I dare not waste time
bringing you to order now. Yes, you may help wrap. If anything will
wheedle you into being good, letting you get busy will,” ended
Constance, turning to the table and deftly lifting the squares to the
flat pans upon which they were to be carried to the packing room.
“Shoo along in there and get busy if you must, and while you are getting
sticky enough to satisfy even yourself, you will tell me what is
simmering. And mind, Mary can hear, too; so if it is too anarchistic she
will come to the rescue. Oh, you can’t do as you used to. Whyfor do I
make candy by the pounds innumerable? Whyfor do I send it to tickle many
palates? Whyfor do I take in dollars galore? All, _all_ to keep you from
running off on some wild project whereby you shall earn as many more
dollars to my utter undoing, lost glory and disgrace appalling to
contemplate in a girl who has a tendency to grow fat—yes, fat!”
As she rattled on with her nonsense Constance worked busily getting out
her paraffin paper, the necessary boxes and the dainty ribbons with
which to tie them. Then seating herself beside her mother, who was
already busy wrapping the fudge in its little squares of paraffin, she
began packing the candy in its boxes.
“Now, what is it?” she asked, looking quizzically into the sweet,
lovable face. Mrs. Carruth laughed a low, little laugh as she asked:
“Why are you so sure that it is anything?”
“I know the signs. They have periodical simmerings, sort of seismic
rumblings, so to speak,” nodded Constance, working swiftly.
“I feel such a drone in a busy hive—” began Mrs. Carruth, then
hesitated.
“I knew it! Mary, it has bubbled to the surface again,” Constance called
into the kitchen, where brisk footsteps testified to the occupant’s
industry.
“Shall I come to your rescue?” was the laughing question.
“Not yet; I’m still able to handle her, though there is no telling how
soon she will get beyond me. I’ll call you if I see signs,” was called
back. “Now go on, you incorrigible woman, and tell your long-suffering
child what bee you have buzzing in your bonnet now. A brand new fall
bonnet, too! It’s outrageous to so misuse it after all the trouble I’ve
been put to to induce you to indulge in it at all, and not sneak off to
Madame Elsie with a lot of old finery to be made over into a creation
warranted (by her) to deceive the keenest eye. Oh, I know your sly ways,
and have to lie awake nights to think how to thwart them. You sly,
wicked woman, to deprive me of my sorely needed rest and beauty sleep.
Why, I’m growing thin—”
“Alas for consistency!” interrupted Mrs. Carruth, derisively. “A moment
ago you assured me you were growing fat. That scores me one, and
entitles me to have my little say-so and hold my own against this
conspiracy of—how many shall I say? Six. Yes, think of the outrageous
odds brought against one weak woman.”
“Weak! Weak! Why, it requires all the energy and shrewdness the combined
force can bring to bear upon her to keep her within bounds, doesn’t it,
Mary?”
“And we don’t always do it then,” was the bantering reply.
“No, we do not,” was the emphatic agreement. “Neither Mammy, Charles,
Eleanor, Jean, Hadyn, you, nor I can feel sure that we have settled her
vaulting ambitions at once and for all time. Is your candy ready for me
yet?—Don’t need me? Very well, I’ll keep at this job, then; it’s a
co-operative job, and the hardest part of it is to hold down my rival.
There, those boxes are all packed, and now, Madame busy-body, I’m ready
to listen. No, you are not going to tie bows while you talk, it gives
you too great an advantage. Look right straight into my eyes, and while
you confess your desires to transgress you shall keep up a sub-conscious
train of thought along this line: ‘This is my second daughter, Constance
Blairsdale Carruth. She is past nineteen years of age. She weighs one
hundred and eighteen pounds. She still possesses all her faculties
unimpaired. Is endowed (I hope!) with the average degree of intelligence
and common sense. She has never been ill a day in her life (whistle and
knock wood when you think that), and she is taking mighty good care of
the health she enjoys. She has been at work four years transmuting
syrups and sugars into dollars and cents, in which undertaking she has
met with rather amazing success, and is going to meet with even greater.
Her plan is to make one dear, blessed little mother quite independent,
and—please God—(these words were spoken in a mere whisper)—she will
compass it. Now, are you going to let her do all this quite untrammeled,
or are you going to worry her by suggesting all manner of wild plans for
doing things for yourself?”
Constance had risen from her chair while speaking, and dropped upon her
knees before her mother to clasp her arms about her waist and look into
the face she loved best on earth. The girl’s expression was half grave,
half merry, though wholly sweet and winning.
Mrs. Carruth took the upraised face in both her hands, bent toward it,
rested her lips upon the soft, silky hair, and said gently:
“Dear heart, dear heart; my dauntless little daughter. Yes, you _are_
doing all and far more than you have said, and that is exactly the
reason I wish to contribute my share. Can’t you see, dear, that I feel
such a dull, dull drone in this busy hive?”
“Dull?—when you keep the hive in such running order that we never even
suspect where the machinery which runs it is located. Dull?—when you
keep our home as charming in every detail as it was when you had ample
means at your command to conduct it. Dull?—when you are here every
moment as its sweet and gracious head to make it such a home as few know
in this northern world, where homes for the most part mean simply a roof
to cover one, and under which food is served three times daily. Mother,
can’t you see and feel what you are doing for us girls? How you are
surrounding us with an atmosphere so beautiful, so exceptional in these
days of hurry and bustle that its influence must bide with us all our
days and remain a dear memory all our lives? We may leave it sooner or
later, other duties may call us away, but nothing, nothing can ever
deprive us of all this—” Constance raised one arm to sweep it
comprehensively over the room in which they sat and all-embracingly
beyond. “So please let all rest as it is. Let Nonnie work away at
college, and later—” here a merry twinkle filled the girl’s eyes—“let
her, well, let her take up the co-ed plan, if she likes. Things seem
shaping that way if the signs can be trusted. Let me boil a way to fame
and fortune. Let Jean—if Fate so decrees—though by the same token I’ve a
notion she won’t, follow in Nonnie’s footsteps. Alack! Jean’s energies
do not point toward the campus of —— college. I misdoubt,” and Constance
smiled. Then, turning serious again, she resumed: “Will you promise me
something?”
“Will you first listen to my little plan?” was her mother’s counter
question.
“Yes, I’ll listen.”
“You know how I delight in fancy work, dear, and there is such a field
for embroidery and other kinds I do so well. The Woman’s Exchange, you
know.”
“You may do all you want to—yards, pounds, dozens, heaps—however it is
described—but you must do it for _our_ home, not other people’s. I’ll
tell you what you may do, all against the coming climax, for it is
coming, you mark my words: You begin right now and make dozens of the
daintiest pieces of underwear imaginable—”
“Oh, Constance!” cried Mrs. Carruth, reproachfully, the softest rose
creeping into her cheeks.
“Can’t help it!” protested Constance. “I know that co-ed plan will
develop. My heart! Do you think I’m blind as a bat? When a man bids a
girl good-bye at a railway station and helps her on board the
smoking-car instead of the Pullman, and neither of them knows the
difference—well. You just wait till spring, my lady. It is a case of ‘I
smell a mouse, I feel him in the air,’ etc., get busy, Mumsey, get busy.
The entire winter won’t be too long, I tell you; for when that explosion
takes place it will be with a bang, you mark my words.”
“Connie, Connie, this is dreadful!”
“May be,” answered Constance, wagging her head dubiously; “but I’m
afraid we must resign ourselves to it. Mercy only knows how she will
come home at Thanksgiving. I believe he is to meet her. I’m prepared for
a box car or even a flat car. Yes, it is dreadful, you are quite right.
Wonder how it will affect me if I ever succumb? But take my advice, get
busy, Mumsey, and, dear, remember this—” Swiftly the tone changed from
the jesting one to the tenderest as the girl rested her head upon her
mother’s shoulder: “You represent _home_ to us girls. Without you it
would be the harp without its strings, the organ without its pipes. It
would disintegrate. Keep it for us. Try to feel that you are doing far
more in our busy hive by just being our Queen Bee than you ever could by
going abroad in the land to gather the honey. Let _us_ do that, and
remember this—I read it not long ago and I’ll never forget it:—
“‘The beautiful gracious mother,
Wherever she places her chair,
In the kitchen (this one) or the parlor,
The center of home is there.’
“Ready for me in there, Mary? Mother is perishing for occupation, and
I’ve scolded her as much as I dare,” and, with a tender kiss upon her
mother’s cheek, the girl ran swiftly into the next room.