While Prudy was in Indiana visiting the Cliffords, and in the midst of
her trials with mosquitoes, she said one day,--
"I wouldn't cry, Aunt 'Ria, only my heart's breaking. The very next
person that ever dies, I wish they'd ask God to please stop sending
these awful skeeters. I can't bear 'em any longer, now, certainly."
There was a look of utter despair on Prudy's disfigured face. Bitter
tears were trickling from the two white puff-balls which had been her
eyes; her forehead and cheeks were of a flaming pink, broken into
little snow-drifts full of stings: she looked as if she had just been
rescued from an angry beehive. Altogether, her appearance was
exceedingly droll; yet Grace would not allow herself to smile at her
afflicted little cousin. "Strange," said she, "what makes our
mosquitoes so impolite to strangers! It's a downright shame, isn't it,
ma, to have little Prudy so imposed upon? If I could only amuse her,
and make her forget it!"
"Oh, mamma," Grace broke forth again suddenly, "I have an idea, a very
brilliant idea! Please listen, and pay particular attention; for I
shall speak _in a figure_, as Robin says. There's a certain small
individual who is not to understand."
"I wouldn't risk that style of talking," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling;
"or, if you do, your figures of speech must be _very_ obscure,
remember."
"Well, ma," continued Grace with a significant glance at Prudy, "what
I was going to say is this: We wish to treat certain young relatives
of ours very kindly; don't we, now?--certain afflicted and abused
young relatives, you know.
"Now, I've thought of an entertainment. Ahem! Yesterday I entered a
certain Englishman's house,"--here Grace pointed through the window
towards Mr. Sherwood's cottage, lest her mother should, by chance,
lose her meaning,--"I entered a certain Englishman's house just as the
family were sitting down to the table,--_festal board_, I mean.
"They were talking about mistle-toe boughs, and all sorts of old-country
customs; and then they said what a funny time they had one Christmas,
with the youngest, about the _mizzle_, as he called it: do you remember,
ma? do you understand?"
"You mean little Harvey? Oh, yes."
"Pray do be careful, ma! Then Mr. Sherwood said to his--I mean, the _hat_
said to the _bonnet_, that there were some wonderful--ahem--legends,
about genii and sprites and--and so forth; not printed, but _written_,
which the boy liked to hear when he was 'overgetting' the measles. A
certain lady, not three inches from your chair, ma, was the one who wrote
them; and now"--
Prudy had turned about, and the only remnants of her face which looked
at all natural--that is, the irises and pupils of her swollen
eyes--were shining with curiosity.
"There, now, what is it, Gracie? what is it you don't want me to
hear?"