FIVE YOUNG POETS
Yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow were very much alike in the canyon,
and all alike delightful to The Merry Five. The mornings being usually
cool, breakfast was served in the dining-tent behind the parlor.
After breakfast the boys often went with Captain Bradstreet to shoot
“cotton-tail” rabbits for dinner. Sometimes the girls followed a part
of the way in search of wild-flowers for their herbariums.
“I wonder if the chocolate lilies are gone by, Pauline?” said Molly on
one of these quests.
“Yes, indeed, Molly; ages ago. I don’t think they’re very pretty, do
you?”
“No, not pretty exactly; but they look so--so sort of sensible,
Pauline. They stand up prim and plain like little Quakers.”
“Their clothes won’t show dirt, that’s one good thing,” responded
Pauline, scowling at a mud-stain on her skirt. “Why is it, Molly, that
dirt never sticks to you?”
“O Pauline! I think it does stick to me; but it sticks to Weezy a good
deal worse. Did you ever see such a child for getting soiled and torn?”
Little Miss Weezy had remained behind at the camp to nurse a newly
hatched chicken presented her by Mr. Arnesten.
“What was that, Molly, about Weezy’s losing her stocking?”
“Oh, we were all down on the beach, and nothing would do but Weezy and
Harry must go in wading. I put Harry’s shoes and stockings high and dry
on the shore, and told Weezy to put hers there too. I suppose she gave
them a toss, and they didn’t go far enough. Anyway, when she came out
of the water, one stocking had been washed out to sea.”
“How did the child get home, Molly?”
“How did Hi-diddle-dumpling-my-son-John go to bed, Polly?”
“‘One stocking off and one stocking on,’” quoted Pauline gayly. “And
you mean to say the poor little image had to skip away back to The Old
and New half-dressed like that, Molly?”
“Yes; her gown up to her knees too! It was that navy blue with gilt
braid. It shrunk after she fell into the ocean, and it can’t be let
down.”
“Were there many people around, Molly?”
“Many? The beach was _lined_ with ‘tourers,’ as Weezy calls them; and
everybody saw that little scapegrace running by on one white leg and
one black leg. Oh, it was _killing_!”
“Did Weezy care?” asked Pauline, laughing till the tears came.
“Yes, Polly; I’m happy to say that she did--for about five minutes.”
“I wonder what her ladyship is up to now,” said Pauline, striking into
the homeward path.
“Oh, I suppose she and Olga are still petting that sick chicken.”
Molly had guessed aright. She and Pauline presently surprised the two
children playing hospital, in their favorite retreat under a live-oak.
Dressed as a nurse, with a white kerchief pinned across her shoulders,
Olga was holding the invalid chicken tenderly in her lap, while Weezy,
also in a white kerchief, was trying to tempt its appetite with a
preparation of Mellin’s Food.
“It’ll only eat the leastest bit of a mite, Molly,” said Weezy in a
hopeless voice; “and it won’t open its little eyes.”
“That must be because it is weak, Nurse,” said Molly, joining in the
play. “I think it needs a tonic.”
“Some wine might do it good, Nurse,” added Pauline.
“Oh, yes; some wine. That’s what it is crying for, maybe,” returned
Weezy eagerly. “Please give me four teaspoonfuls for him, Pauline.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Nurse,” answered Pauline dryly; “but the
fact is we don’t keep wine on tap at this inn. Wouldn’t pepper-tea do
as well?”
Weezy shook her head doubtfully.
“Won’t pepper-tea tickle its poor little throat, Pauline, and make it
cough?”
“Not if the tea is well taken before shaken, Nurse,” replied Pauline
solemnly.
“Please put lots of sugar in, then,” said Weezy.
The pepper-tea proved so fine a remedy, that on the arrival of the
boys, half an hour later, Weezy could assure them that her patient had
begun to “take notice.”
After dinner The Merry Five adjourned to the parlor tent to finish
Mèdor’s epitaph. Each one wrote something, though Weezy’s share was
only part of a line.
“However, there’s enough of it, such as it is, and it’s good enough,
what there is of it,” said Paul, repeating a worn-out joke.
When the four stanzas were completed, Paul copied them neatly with his
small type-writer, and passed them to Molly to be admired.
“You’ve printed the epitaph beautifully, Paul--on cardboard too. Oh, I
do hope the Wassons won’t call it doggerel!”
“If it isn’t doggerel, it’s _real doggy_,” put in Kirke, and was
promptly scolded for his levity.
“We ought to take this out to the bee-ranch by to-morrow, Pauline,”
said Molly, reading the composition over again after peace had been
restored. “You know Kirke and Weezy and I must go back to Santa Luzia
Saturday.”
“I wish I didn’t know it, Molly.”
“And in two weeks more we shall all be at home again, Pauline. I wish
we could stay away till Thanksgiving.”
“Only I wouldn’t miss of being at Silver Gate City on Admission Day,”
cried Paul, covering his type-writer. “The streets will be trimmed, and
there’ll be arches, and bands of music, and a procession long enough to
reach around a dozen squares and tie.”
“I think the street masquerade that comes off the night before
Admission Day is the better fun,” returned Pauline. “I like dressing up
like somebody else, and wearing a mask.”
“But I always know you, whatever you put on, my lady. You never can
cheat me,” replied Paul.
“Nor you me, Twinny dear,” retorted Pauline.
When Pauline wished to tease her brother she often called him “Twinny.”
“We’ll see if I can’t cheat you this year, though, little sister,”
rejoined Paul, with a sly wink at Kirke.
For as it happened the boys had already decided on their costumes
for the masquerade, and that very morning they had made Auntie David
promise to help in getting these up. Mr. Davidson would be detained
some weeks longer in the East, and Mrs. Davidson was to go to Silver
Gate City with the Bradstreets when they broke camp.
“It’s always nice to have Auntie David with us,” remarked Pauline
the next day as The Merry Five were walking to the bee-ranch; “but
this fall it will be nicer than usual, because Mrs. Cannon isn’t well
enough yet to come back to work, and Auntie David can teach the new
housekeeper.”
Kirke’s brown eyes twinkled.
“Mrs. Cannon went off, did she, Pauline? That’s the way with
cannons;--they’re always going off.”
“I hope our epitaph will go off well,” returned Pauline, as they drew
near the bee-hives where Mr. Wasson was at work.
“Remember, Polly, you are the one to speak about it,” whispered Molly
diffidently. “You and Paul know the Wassons.”
Mr. Wasson greeted them all cordially; and as soon as Mrs. Wasson had
changed her dress she greeted them cordially too, and treated them to
fresh buttermilk and gingerbread. This light repast ended, Pauline
moved restlessly in her chair, uncertain how to begin her little
speech. But little Miss Weezy presently relieved her embarrassment by
saying,--
“We’ve brought you some beautiful poetry, Mr. Wasson; some we made all
by ourselves.”
“Some poetry, little girl?”
Mr. Wasson arched his eyebrows till they looked more like bows than
like overturned canoes.
“Yes; it’s an _epithet_, Mr. Wasson. We’ve written a lovely _epithet_
for your dog.”
With a mirthful glance toward Molly, Pauline hastened to explain; and
as soon as everybody was duly serious she read aloud the stanzas.
At the beginning of the second one, Weezy could not refrain from
exclaiming, “I wrote that, I wrote, ‘he carried the basket;’” but
Pauline finished the epitaph without further interruption.
“It’s elegant--just like a book,” cried Mrs. Wasson, drying her eyes.
“You were real kind to write it.”
“You were _so_,” echoed Mr. Wasson with a gratified smile at the five
young poets. “Will you see me nail it up?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wasson,” answered Weezy. And the children followed
him to Mèdor’s grave, and waited with Mrs. Wasson while the cardboard
was being fastened to the wooden headstone.
Here is a copy of the epitaph:--
TRIBUTE TO A DUMB FRIEND.
The noble dog Mèdor, whose death we deplore,
Had lived and was famous for twelve years or more;
Was raised up in ’Frisco, on Telegraph Hill,
Where Mèdor, the spaniel, is spoken of still.
His eyes gleamed with knowledge; was true to the core,
He carried the basket to market or store;
The crack of the shotgun he loved to obey,
And thousands of ducks he brought home in his day.
At the bee-ranch in the canyon where romancers jog,
Poor Mèdor lies buried, that faithful old dog;
Around him wild-flowers will bloom in the spring,
And sweet trilling warblers forever will sing.