A RAINY DAY
“Raining!” exclaimed Mary Lee in disgusted tones one morning as she put
her head out between the flaps of the tent. “Now what are we going to
do, I’d like to know?”
“Oh, there’ll be something to do,” returned Jo who was arranging
her hair before the small mirror. She and Daniella were Mary Lee’s
tent-mates. “It will excite our imagination and invention and give us a
little variety. We’ve managed to spend other rainy days to advantage,
why not this?”
“Such a philosopher,” remarked Daniella shaking out her bright locks.
“It’s bound not to be dull where you are, Jo.”
Jo dropped a curtsey and went on with her toilet, talking all the time.
Daniella, having tied her thick braids neatly, went to the door of
the tent. “My, it suttenly do rain, as Mitty would say. We’ll need
umbrellas in order to get to breakfast, which of course will be indoors
on such a morning.”
“Umbrellas, nothing,” responded Jo. “I shall put on my golf cape and
run between the drops. I expect to be out in the rain half the day.”
“Oh, Jo, do you?” This from Mary Lee.
“Of course. What’s the use of being in a free and easy place if you
can’t be free and easy? Where is the use of rubber boots, bloomers and
flannel blouses if you can’t wear them? Me for the dribbling woods,
the squishy paths, the oozy road.” It was on such occasions that Jo
reverted to hilarious slang.
“Then I’m with you,” said Daniella selecting her dingiest and shortest
skirt.
“Count me in, too,” added Mary Lee. “There, I’m ready for the fray,”
she said buckling a leather belt around her trim little waist and
picking up her golf cape. “I’ll run next door and see what Nan is
thinking about.”
“Give my love to her and tell her to study up her fire motive; we’ll
want it later in the day,” said Jo.
Mary Lee found Nan already dressed and hunting around for her rubber
boots. Jean and Jack occupied the tent with her and they, too, were on
hands and knees looking under the cots for the lost articles.
“What are you all doing?” asked Mary Lee.
“Looking for my rubber boots,” Nan told her.
“Sillies! Don’t you remember, Nan, you lent them to Florence Yardley
one day? She probably hasn’t returned them. I’ll go over and get them
as long as I am prepared for wet weather.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Nan gratefully. “That is good of you, Mary Lee.
Never mind, kiddies, they’re probably across the street.”
“It’s a pretty wet street,” said Jean looking out at the drenched path
upon which the drops were steadily pouring from the overhanging trees.
“What are you going to do, Nan, to-day?”
“Oh, sit by the fire and spin, I suppose. It will be a good day in
which to darn stockings, write letters, mend, and read.”
“Goodness!” cried Jack. “Such hateful things, all but the reading, and
one gets tired of that all day. What are you going to do, Jean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t think so crickly. Probably I shall find a
lot of things. I’ve a puzzle picture I’ve been saving.”
“Oh, yes, so have I. I forgot them.”
“And I may write to Mr. St. Nick.”
“Then I’ll write to Carter. That’s two things. We might invent a game,
Jean; we’ve always intended to and now is our chance.”
“Yes, we might do that.”
Here Mary Lee returned with the boots in her hand. “Florence says she
is very sorry she forgot to return them, though it is my opinion she
was about to put them on to wear to breakfast.”
“Oh, Mary Lee, you’re so suspicious!” Nan reproved her.
“Well, why were they right there on the floor?”
“Maybe she was going to bring them over to me as she came by.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Mary Lee expressively. She had not much love for
Miss Yardley, who, a little older than the Corner girls, treated Mary
Lee especially with as magnificent a superiority as her two years’
seniority would allow. “Jo and Danny say they don’t mind the rain at
all,” said Mary Lee after a moment, sitting down on Nan’s trunk to
watch her sister draw on the boots. “So we’re going into the woods just
as usual. We’ve prepared for it and if we get soaking, why, we will
just stand it, and when we get back we can put on dry things.”
“I think that will be fine,” declared Jack. “I’ll do that, too, Jean.”
But Jean was too fastidious to care about getting wet and decided she
would prefer to remain under cover. She tipped along daintily under
an umbrella when the others, regardless of weather, rushed to the log
cabin where breakfast was spread, and she took much satisfaction in
announcing that she didn’t get a bit wet.
“I did,” said Jack triumphantly; “my feet are soaked.”
“You didn’t wear rubbers?” said her mother.
“No, mother, what was the use? I shall get a great deal wetter pretty
soon, and besides my rubber boots have a hole in them, and it makes it
a lot worse than having none at all.”
“But they are quite new, Jack.”
“I know, but I cut them on the rocks, I think, one day when I was
wading in the lake.”
“I really don’t think you should go out then.”
“Oh, never mind,” put in Miss Helen. “It won’t hurt her to get wet if
she doesn’t get chilled, and if she will change her clothes as soon as
she comes in.” So Jack was allowed to go.
About half a dozen or more girls started off for a walk in the rain
after breakfast, Jack the most enthusiastic of them all. She returned
barefooted and joyous, though drenched to the skin, as were the others,
who declared they had never enjoyed anything more.
“It was just like being an animal,” Jack told her mother; “a fox or a
duck or something, for you didn’t have to think of your clothes and you
didn’t care how wet you got. It was lovely to feel the rain in your
face and trickling down your back.”
“It must have been,” laughed Mrs. Corner, “though the trickles down
the back don’t appeal to me materially. That part doesn’t sound very
delightful.”
“It was though,” maintained Jack, spreading out her toes to the blaze
of her mother’s open fire. “And another thing is,” she went on; “when
you get so very wet it’s so nice to be getting dry, just like when you
are tired it is nice to get rested, or when you are hungry it is nice
to eat. We had a lovely time, Jean. We hollered just as loud as we
could, and we saw another porcupine.”
“What was he doing?” asked Jean, immediately interested.
“He was down by a little black pool. Nan said it was ink that was in it
and that he had gone there to write a letter with one of his quills.
She said he would dip it in and write on a big leaf.”
“How could he when the leaves were all wet?”
[Illustration: “IT WAS JUST LIKE BEING A DUCK.”]
Jack threw back her head and laughed joyously. “Of course he
couldn’t do it at all, wet leaves or dry, you silly little goose. Nan
just said that, but he did roll himself into a funny ball, all spikey,
when he saw us. We were going as far as the beaver dam but most of the
girls wanted to come back, so we came.”
“Where are they all?”
“Over in the big living-room, I think. They were all going there.
Let us go, too, Jean. Maybe they will be having some fun we might be
missing.”
Jean quickly agreed, and Jack having donned dry clothes was content to
seek the big cabin under shelter of an umbrella.
In the big living-room with its huge stone fireplace, most of the
campers were congregated. A fine log fire leaped and snapped cheerily.
Around the large table half a dozen girls were seated writing; some
others were reading near the windows, while on the skins spread upon
the floor before the hearth were those who had been Jack’s companions
during the walk to the woods. As usual, Jo had the floor, and was
making them all laugh by an account of some of her exploits at school.
Jack seated herself on the outskirts of the group and picked up a
dictionary which Daniella had carried over. She turned the pages
thoughtfully and presently said to Jean, “If I had another dictionary
I could invent a game.”
“Here’s another one,” said Jo, handing over a small black volume. “I’m
never safe without it. Tell us about your game, kiddie. Perhaps we’ll
all take a hand. Fire ahead.”
“Well, but you see you would all have to have dictionaries.”
“Perhaps we can scare up enough. Go on and tell us first and then we’ll
see.”
“Well,” began Jack, “it’s this way: You choose a letter of the alphabet
and then you take a certain number of the hardest words you come to,
say ten words; they must be awfully hard that the others aren’t liable
to know the meaning of, and then you write something using the words in
what you write, then the rest have to guess what the words mean. The
one who guesses the greatest number gets the game.”
“Oh, I see,” said Nan thoughtfully. “That’s not bad, kitten. Suppose we
try it just to see how it goes. Dictionaries! Dictionaries! Who has a
dictionary, or two? Don’t all speak at once.”
By dint of inquiry and search as many as eight dictionaries were
discovered and handed around to those who cared to try the game.
“Now,” said Nan, “the letters will have to be chosen or allotted, or
something.”
“You begin, then, Nan, with A,” proposed Jo. “I’ll take B, next fellow
C, and so on down the line.”
“That’s a good plan. We’ll adopt your suggestion, Miss Keyes.”
“We must have paper and pencils, of course,” Jo went on. “I’ll go see
what I can scare up.”
“Aunt Helen has pencils galore, and writing pads, too,” Nan sang out
after her.
“Very well,” responded Jo, and she was off in a twinkling to return
directly with the necessary articles.
Nan had been thinking over the game. “There is another way we could
do,” she said. “We could begin by having one person do the writing,
incorporating the ten words, as it were; each person could then have a
copy and all guess the same words so that it would give an equal chance
to all. In that case one dictionary would do the work. How is that,
Jack?”
“I think that is better. Let’s try that way first, and the one who wins
the game can write the next set.”
“Dear, oh, me,” groaned Daniella, “then I hope I may not guess the
greatest number of words, for I could never compose anything.”
“I don’t believe I could, either,” admitted Jean.
“Oh, there’s nothing like trying,” said Nan. “Who shall begin, girls?”
“You do it, Nan. You have the pen of a ready writer,” said Jo.
“I think you have the same brand of pen yourself,” Nan declared.
“Never mind, you begin, and when you have written the thing, hand it
down the line.”
“If we had a blackboard I could write it on that and all could see it,
but failing a blackboard there will be copies. I’ll underline the words
to be guessed.” She set to work and in a few minutes had produced the
following:
“The king put on his _abacot_, left his study of _abiogeny_, and called
his _abacist_ from his _abacus_. ‘Calculate,’ he said, ‘how many
_abele_ trees it would take to form an _abatis_ one quarter of a mile
long. May I be struck with _ablepsy_ if I do not _absterge_ my kingdom
of those pestilent invaders who swarm in as thickly as _acarids_ on an
_Abraham-man’s_ shin.’”
“Whewee!” cried Jo. “You certainly have done it, Nan. I’m blest if I
know one of the words, but I’m good at guessing, and perhaps I shall
strike one or two. Hand over.”
Nan passed the paper along and Jo began to scribble. “I call this an
extremely intellectual game,” she remarked, as she wrote the last
word. “Jack, you are a dabster. I don’t see how you ever thought of it.
I am sure it does credit to an older and wiser head than yours. We’ll
do this often and enlarge our vocabularies. Here’s your paper, and may
you make good use of it.”
Jack, much elated, took the paper and set to work, but could guess
very few of the words, though Jean did much less well. Language was
not Jean’s strong point. No one was allowed to examine her own paper
till all were provided with copies, and then they were given a certain
length of time for their guessing.
“Time’s up,” cried Nan, who had been watching the clock.
“Oh, dear,” came sighs from all quarters.
“How many have you, Jo?” asked Nan.
“Seven,” was the reply, “though of course I haven’t an idea whether
they are right. I’ve written the definitions below, as you will see.”
She handed over her paper.
“Pretty fair,” said Nan, looking over the list. “I will allow you the
six at least. Jack, what have you to say?”
Jack confessed to three, though she couldn’t be sure they were correct.
She, too, handed over her paper, and Nan went down the line to discover
that Mary Lee had guessed four, Jean two, and poor Daniella but one.
So Jo was declared winner and was presented with a stale ginger cookie
as a prize.
“I don’t feel myself worthy of this great honor,” declared Jo, “and
I trust you ladies will agree with me when I say that I consider
the distinguished author of this delightful pastime should be the
recipient of your royal prize. Miss Jacqueline Corner, allow me, as a
committee of one, on behalf of this enthusiastic company here gathered,
to present you with this mark of their approval, appreciation, and
esteem.” And resting the cookie upon the fire-shovel, she advanced with
it to Jack, who, overcome with laughter, snatched the cookie and took a
bite.
“A crumb! A crumb!” cried Nan. “I, too, shared in the devising of this
wonderful game. Just one crumb, fair lady, from your feast.” Then she
fell upon Jack, the rest followed suit, and in a few minutes not even a
crumb remained of the prize. Then dinner was announced and all trooped
out.
The afternoon was given over to letter writing by many, but Jo and
her cronies were seen whispering and giggling together, and when
supper was over the result of their conference was discovered, for
first Jo appeared in a startling costume, big hat decked off with all
the ribbons and ornaments she could collect, a remarkable bodice, a
trained skirt, long gloves, and many chains and bracelets. She carried
a red umbrella, and though she couldn’t sing a note, she gave a
nonsensical song in a sort of recitative to Nan’s banjo accompaniment,
the refrain being: “I was never so put out in all my life.” There were
references to the rainy day, to the little foibles of this or that one,
the incidents of their camp life, and so on, so she easily carried
off the honors, and was called on for an encore with such enthusiasm
that she gave what was described as “Jo’s special stunt.” She was an
excellent mimic, and her monologue won for her peals of laughter. Mary
Lee and Daniella followed with a dance, which the Corners had learned
in Spain and which Mary Lee had taught Daniella, who did it very well.
Then Jo announced: “The great event of the evening. I bring before you
the wonderful musical prodigy, Miss Nannette Corner, aged only eight,
and already one of the world’s foremost musicians, whose performances
bring tears to the eyes of her audience upon every occasion of her
appearance.” Then was led up tall Nan, clad in one of Jean’s white
frocks which came up to her knees. Her hair hung down her back and was
tied with blue ribbons. She wore slippers and short stockings, and
looked, as Jack said, “a sight.” She performed “Home Sweet Home” upon
a comb, and was presented with a bunch of onions tied with pink ribbons.
“It was a great success,” every one declared.
“Who says a rainy day isn’t fun?” asked Jo, as they went to their tents.
“It has certainly been mighty jolly,” acknowledged Mary Lee.
“But I haven’t darned a single stocking,” said Nan.
“What are you talking about, girl?” said Jo. “You can darn stockings
any time, but when are we inspired as we have been to-day? Answer me
that.”
“Oh, don’t you believe but that I was glad of an excuse to get out of
it,” confessed Nan. So they parted for the night, and in a little while
the only sound to be heard was the gentle rain pattering on the leaves.
[Illustration: CHAPTER VIII
AN EARLY DIP]