on. The Three Bears wandered through the legendary forest and Sammy
shook his head at the empty porridge bowls. Little Red Riding Hood
escaped from the wicked wolf and Sammy rejoiced. This was easy. This
was much less strenuous than a ball game. She told of the adventures of
Little Black Sambo and Snow White. Sammy was like a lamb.
“More story, Janie,” he begged. “More Three Bears, Little Red Riding
Hood.”
Janie laughed and patted his hand. “Now I’m going to tell you about
Pinocchio. ‘Once upon a time there was a stick of wood.’” Sammy
listened. He marveled at the stick that could talk. He laughed at
the ridiculous nose. He laughed when Pinocchio ran away. When poor
Pinocchio returned from his wanderings and sat down at the fire to dry
his feet, he looked expectant. When she told how the wooden feet burned
off he rolled on the grass in glee.
Janie was indignant. “Why Sammy, you heartless little wretch. It hurts
to have your feet burned off. You mustn’t laugh at anything so sad.”
Obligingly, Sammy’s face fell. “Poor Pinocchio,” he said, and the
tears started down his fat cheeks. Janie hastened to soften his grief.
“Geppeto will make him some new feet.” But Sammy was determined to
mourn if mourning was called for. In vain Janie tried to change the
subject. Sammy wept. He cried until his face was wet with tears and
looking up Jane saw her brother Bill at the gate.
“Oh, Billy,” she exclaimed. “I never was so glad to see you. I can’t
cheer this child up.”
Billy wore his most impish expression, “I thought you didn’t need any
help.”
Janie’s eyes flashed, “Bill Murray,” she exploded. “If you think this
is funny, if you think this is any time for one of your jokes....”
Bill entered the yard and gathered the sobbing Sammy up in his arms.
“Easy, old girl, easy,” he said. “Remember your temper.”
Janie bit her lip, then she rose up grimly, put one foot in back of
her and gave a tremendous kick that sent her shoe flying up in the
air. Coming down it lodged in the rain gutter and Billy roared with
laughter. Sammy was reminded once more of the ball game.
“More ball, Janie,” he cried. “More ball.”
Janie quickly diverted his attention. “Bed time for little boys,” she
said. “Sammy is going to put his pajamas on, brush his teeth, say his
prayers, and go to bed.” Billy helped get his shoe laces untied, but he
wanted to wash his face and hands by himself, and he dawdled for ten
minutes brushing his teeth. He made quite an issue of wearing a certain
pajama suit with a rabbit embroidered on the pocket, instead of the
one his mother had laid out, but at last everything was settled to his
satisfaction, and he said his prayers and climbed into bed.
It was quiet for a while. Billy worked at a crossword puzzle and Janie
read, but she could hear the creak, creak of the springs as Sammy
walked around on his bed. She looked at the instruction sheet once
more, as if to draw inspiration from the written words. Mrs. Peters had
written: “Bed at 7:30,” and here it was half past eight and Sammy still
awake.
“What will I do, Bill? He won’t go to sleep.”
Billy took the matter in hand.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Sam,” he said. “If you’ll lie down on your
bed and go to sleep, I’ll stand on my head.”
Sammy looked interested, and he lay down expectantly watching his
entertainers. Janie sat down on a rocking chair, and Billy proceeded to
stand on his head. The performance was a great success.
“More, more,” cried bright-eyed Sammy. “More stand on head!”
Billy rubbed his noggin and went back to work, but this time one hand
slipped on the rug. As he struggled for his balance one heel caught in
a pedestal holding a large Boston fern, and down came Billy, pedestal
and fern with a great crash.
Sammy laughed and clapped his hands, but Janie rushed over to where he
lay. “Billy! Oh Billy! Are you hurt?”
He shook his head groggily, and bits of jardiniere clattered to the
floor. “No,” he said. “I’m all right, but I surely made a mess.” He
started downstairs to get a broom and a dust pan, pulling Boston fern
out of his hair as he went.
Sammy tried to climb out of bed, but Janie persuaded him to lie down
again. “Go to sleep now,” she said gently, and she started to leave the
room, but Sammy had another idea.
“Sammy want a drink.”
“I’ll get one for you right away,” promised Jane, and returned with a
small glass of water.
“Sammy want a big drink.”
“Try this first, and if you’re still thirsty, I’ll bring some more.”
Jane held the glass to his lips, but he bobbed as he stepped forward
on the mattress, and part of the drink dribbled on the front of his
pajamas.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Sit down for a moment while I get something dry for
you to sleep in.”
By nine o’clock he was back in bed, and Janie was sitting in the room
with him rocking and singing lullabies. It was warm and quiet, and
Janie was very sleepy, but not Samuel. Whenever she faltered he urged
her on. “More Humpty Dumpty, Janie. More Rockaby Baby.” Wearily Jane
complied.
Billy had been reading downstairs and holding a wet towel to his head.
Now, thinking that Sammy had dropped off to sleep, he tiptoed up the
stairs. “Creak!” went a loose board. Sammy sat bolt upright.
“Mommy!” he cried. “Mommy’s home.”
Billy’s round face appeared at the top of the stairs and Sammy screamed
in disappointment.
“Oh!” he cried. “I want my Mommy,” and he turned on his guardians with
infantile rage. “Go home Janie. Billy, go home!”
Janie tried to quiet him, but he was over tired and over stimulated,
and he threw his pillow on the floor and sobbed.
“I’ll go home,” said Bill. “I guess I wasn’t much help. Good-by, Sammy,
old fella. Good-by, Jane.”
Jane gathered Sammy up in her arms and smoothed his bed. All the fight
was out of him. He snuggled up against her with a tired sigh, and was
asleep almost as soon as she put him back on the pillow.
Mom looked up curiously as Billy walked in. He had a bump on his head,
and bits of fern and plant dirt still stuck to his hair.
“What in the world happened to you?”
“I’ve been down at the Peters helping Jane take care of Sammy, but I
was thrown out.”
“Did Jane send you home?”
“No, Sammy did.”
Mom was on her feet in an instant, all concern. “Why that poor child,”
she said. “Down there all alone taking care of him.” She reached for a
sweater and started out the door. Billy trotted along at her side.
“I helped her, Mom. I did everything I could think of.”
Arriving at the Peters’ cottage, Mom pushed the gate open and hurried
up the walk. She knocked and Janie appeared, completely unruffled.
“Janie,” cried Mom. “What happened? What’s wrong with little Sam. Is he
feverish?”
“No, Mom,” Jane answered calmly. “It was just a tantrum. I put him back
to bed and he’s fast asleep.”
Standing there, one step below her daughter on the steps Mom suddenly
felt completely inadequate.
“You run along home, Mom,” said Jane, much as she would have spoken to
one of the children. “I’ll be all right.”
Billy and Mom started back home, and Janie sank down on one of the
big chairs. She looked at the inviting stacks of magazines that she
had planned to read during the evening. It was cold and she was very
sleepy. Mrs. Peters had said that she should find a lunch in the
refrigerator, but she was too tired to be hungry. A hoot owl shrieked
in the trees outside, and shivering, she wished that she hadn’t been so
lofty in refusing Mom’s offer of company and assistance.
It was ten-thirty. How the time dragged. She went upstairs and peeked
in at Sammy. He was sound asleep. Back down stairs again, she tuned in
the radio, but there was nothing but the blare of dance bands, strident
and unfamiliar. Her jaws ached with yawning. Would they never come
home? She curled up at one end of the davenport, and pulled the afghan
around her. It was so quiet she could almost hear the lapping of the
waves on the shore. One by one, a few late cars whizzed by, but still
the Peters didn’t come. Her head dropped lower and lower, and then with
a jerk, she was awake again.
“Mustn’t go to sleep, Janie,” she said aloud. “Remember, you’re
responsible here.”
She walked up and down for a while, but it made echoing sounds.
“Oh, dear. I wish I had let Mom stay.”
At last a car slowed down for the curve, and coasted into the Peters’
entrance. Janie flew to the door.
“Hello!” she called eagerly. “Hello!”
“Hi,” called the Peters pleasantly. “How is everything?”
“Fine, just fine,” said Janie in her relief to see them again.
“Get your sweater, dear,” said Mrs. Peters, “and I’ll take you home.
How did you get along? Is Sammy asleep?”
“Oh yes, he went to sleep. I sang to him and told him stories,” and
then she remembered the Boston fern.
“Oh, Mrs. Peters,” she choked, and all the strain of the evening hit
her at once and she was crying.
“Billy stood on his head, and broke your fern!”
Mrs. Peters looked puzzled, amused, and sympathetic all at once. She
patted Janie on the shoulders as they started out the door. “Accidents
will happen,” she said, “and boys will be boys, but I’m glad that you
didn’t have any trouble with Sammy. He’s such a dear, good boy. I
looked in at him sleeping just now. He looked just like an angel.”
Janie heard it all in a daze of weariness. “Oh yes,” she agreed
drowsily. “A little angel.”
As they reached the Murrays’ gate, Mrs. Peters thanked her again, and
pressed a dollar bill into her hand. Janie said “Goodnight” and walked
wearily down the stone steps through the rock garden, and then up the
brick steps to the porch.
Mom was waiting up for her. “Come in, baby,” she said. “I have your bed
open and your pajamas laid out. You can sleep late tomorrow morning.”
Janie thanked her, and then sank down on her bed, almost too tired
to take off her shoes, but in her right hand she grasped a crisp
one-dollar bill.
She reached for her piggybank, and patted his sleek flower-decorated
sides. “Piggy,” she said, “if you knew how hard it was for me to earn
this money, you’d be really grateful.” She stuffed the dollar in the
slot. “Here you are,” she whispered. “I promised I’d feed you, and
don’t say that Janie doesn’t keep her promises.”
_Chapter Eleven_
_The Front Seat on the Bus_
[Illustration]
The storm was followed by three weeks of clear, hot weather. The lake
was soft and clean, like rain water. The garden thrived in the heat,
and the little rabbits grew sleek and fat, and kept everyone busy
gathering clover for them.
One morning Janie awoke to hear the clop-clop of the farmer’s horses
as they walked down the road. They were drawing an elaborate machine
painted bright red and yellow, like a circus wagon. The farmer, all in
faded blue, looked drab by comparison.
“Mom,” she called. “Look at the fancy wagon the farmer has this
morning. What is he going to do with that?”
Mom raised her shade, and the boys popped their heads out of the
upstairs windows.
“That is a brand new reaper,” she answered. “My, doesn’t it glisten!
This must be the first time he’s had it out. That machine cuts the
grain, then ties it into sheaves. He’ll stack them in yellow shocks all
over the field, and Aunt Claire will sunburn her nose while she puts it
all on canvas.”
Janie wriggled her way back to the middle of the bed, and reached down
to the floor for her slippers. Harvesting meant August, and August
meant hayfever. Hayfever meant going to town to the doctor’s office for
_shots_. She made a face, but it wasn’t so bad, really. Just a quick
little pinch, like getting caught with a pin.
“Mom,” she called again. “When do I go to town for my shots?”
Mrs. Murray was brushing her teeth, and the answer sounded a little
bubbly at first. “You can start any time now,” she answered. “How would
you like to go in tomorrow morning?”
Jane looked puzzled. “Daddy won’t be here. Who would take me?”
“You can go in on the bus, and come back with Daddy.”
All by herself on the bus! Janie glowed. Billy asked if he couldn’t
go along, but Mom said, “Not this time, Billy. I need you to help cut
grass.”
Janie thought about the trip all day. She washed her hair, and put it
up in pin curls all over her head, pressed her blue dress, and brushed
her hat. She put some pink polish on her fingernails. Mom offered to
let her take one of her prettiest handkerchiefs, but what Grandma
loaned her was the best of all.
“Come here, Janie,” she said, and she unfastened her wrist watch.
“You’ll be needing a watch to tell the time, what with having to meet
a bus, and keep an appointment at the doctor’s and all. I want you to
take my watch.” Janie’s eyes popped.
“But, mind you take good care of it, and don’t let it drop.”
“Oh, thank you, Grandma,” said Jane, kissing her. “Thank you. I’ll take
ever so good care of it. I’ll be just as careful as I know how.” She
slept that night with the little watch near her ear. It seemed to talk
to her in a fast small voice. “Going to town on the bus,” it said over
and over again. “Going to town on the bus.”
She slept late the next morning. By the time she was dressed the boys
were off fishing, and Grandma and Mom were finishing their coffee on
the porch.
“Hurry up, sleepy head,” Mom said. “It’s nine o’clock now, and the bus
leaves at ten minutes after ten. You’ll just about have time to eat
your breakfast and gather your things together before it’s time to
leave.”
Janie drank her milk and decided against the cereal. She reached for a
piece of coffee cake, all crumbly with powdered sugar on the top, but
Grandma changed her mind for her.
“If I were you, Lady Jane,” she said, “I’d eat my cereal. You have a
long day ahead of you, and besides, how would a fashionable creature
like you look with powdered sugar all over the front of her dress?”
Jane giggled and dug into her corn flakes.
“Is there anything I can buy for you, Grandma? Do you want me to
telephone for you while I’m in town?”
The senior Mrs. Murray cocked her head and thought. “Not unless it
would be some embroidery cotton,” she said. She searched through
a large paper box that must have contained hundreds of skeins of
bright-colored embroidery cotton. “Here, this is it.” She extracted a
few strands of salmon colored thread. “Put this in your purse, and see
if you can match it for me. Here,” she added, pressing a coin into the
palm of Janie’s hand, “buy something for yourself.”
“Grandma! That’s too much money.”
“Well then, buy an extra hair ribbon to match your yellow sweater.”
Janie laughed. She dropped the money and the thread into her purse,
and ran to get her hat. She was driving over to the station with Mrs.
Williams. When Mrs. Williams took her husband down to the bus station
in the morning, everyone who wanted to go to town that day seemed to be
jammed into the car with her. She tooted at the gate, and Janie kissed
her mother and Grandmother hastily, and ran up the garden steps.
“Hello, Mrs. Williams,” she said, a little out of breath. “Do you think
we’ll be on time?” Mrs. Williams smiled as she eased the shiny, dark
car into second gear. “Of course we’ll be on time,” she said. Her voice
was deep and rich, and when she said “of course”, it sounded like “of
coss.” Janie never tired of looking at her and listening to her talk.
She was so pretty, and she could play the piano just like someone
you’d hear at a concert. She had crossed the ocean half a dozen times.
She had gone to the opera in Paris, and she had climbed a mountain in
Switzerland. She had flown to South America. It was no wonder she said
“Of coss” about meeting a bus. Janie sighed with joy, and shifted a
little on the seat.
They came to the place where the railroad used to be, and then they
turned onto the main highway, and Mrs. Williams faced the direction
from which the bus would come. There were other people waiting to go
to town. A young woman carried a little baby on one arm, and a black,
oilcloth covered bag on the other. The day was warm, but the baby was
wrapped from head to foot in a thick pink blanket. Even his little face
was pink. When I have a baby, Jane thought, I’ll let him stay uncovered
in the summer. Poor little fellow. He looks like a boiled shrimp.
A stout lady in a summery print dress held a parasol over her head, and
squinted down the road every so often to see if the bus was coming. A
boy, about fourteen years old, sat on a large stone at the roadside. He
was dressed in a Boy Scout uniform, and he carried a shoe box, which he
handled gingerly. I’ll bet it’s eggs, thought Jane. I’ll bet it’s two
dozen eggs that he’s taking into town for someone.
Mrs. Williams looked out of the window. “Here it comes,” she cried. “It
will be here in just a minute.” Jane hugged her purse. The fifty cents
in her hand made a sharp red ring where she held it tight.
Jane was out of the car and over at the side of the road with the
others before she knew it. “Good-by, Mrs. Williams,” she called. “Thank
you for the ride.”
The boy scout waited for the lady with the pink baby to get on ahead
of him. The stout lady with the parasol came next. Janie clutched her
purse and her hat and climbed the rubber covered steps, and the boy
scout was right behind her, still balancing his eggs. She dropped her
fifty cents into the glass box, and looked around for a seat. “That
will be fifty-five cents, Miss,” said the driver. “Oh dear,” said
Janie, and she searched quickly through her purse for a nickel. She
found one, and the bus began to roar and tremble as it turned out on
the highway.
The seats were pretty well taken by the time it came to Oak Lake, but
there was one seat that Janie had always wanted, and glory be, it was
vacant now. Perhaps none of the grown folks wanted that seat. It was
right up in front, across from the driver. It faced the aisle instead
of facing forward the way the others did, but Janie didn’t mind. She
sat side ways and leaned her arms on the window sill. It was glorious.
They gained speed as they rolled along through the gentle Wisconsin
hills. Farmers were at work everywhere, busy with harvesting the grain.
It would be a fine day for playing White Horse.
Now the houses were much closer together. They were nearing the city.
Janie knew every landmark well. She had been traveling this road ever
since she was a baby, but things looked different from the front seat
of the big bus, just as the trees in the yard looked different when
you crawled up and sat on the roof, and then they rolled down a busy
shopping street.
They passed through the outskirts of the city. They stopped near
a ladies’ dress shop to wait for the light to change. There was a
woman in the show window, busily draping a manikin. The figure was
beautifully gowned and had an expression of great hauteur. Everything
was perfect, except her head, and that was shining bald. At her feet
lay a carefully arranged blond wig. The woman was still draping the
skirt as the bus started on through the intersection. Janie grinned to
herself. “I must remember,” she thought, “never to go out without my
wig.”
People were beginning to leave the bus now. Janie was going all the way
down to the terminal. They had to travel much more slowly, now that the
traffic was heavy, and once they had to stop while a bridge went up,
and a long coal boat slid through on its way up the river. Once over
the bridge, they threaded their ponderous way down a hill and over a
lot of railroad tracks, and then the driver turned and turned at his
wheel, and they cut sharply into the long dark tunnel at the terminal
building. There were other big busses lined up, and they nosed into the
ramp just as a boat eases up to a pier.
By now Jane felt like a seasoned traveler. She picked up her purse and
walked into the waiting room with the others. She made straight for
the public telephones, and put her purse on the little shelf in front
of her. She put a nickel in the slot, and dialed the doctor’s number
slowly and carefully. “This is Jane Murray,” she said as the office
girl answered. “What time would you like to have me come out?”
“The doctor can see you at four, Jane.”
“Thank you, Miss Clark. Good-by.”
The little watch said half past eleven. She left the terminal, and
walked slowly down the busy street. The shop windows were fascinating.
There were stores that sold wallpaper and paint, and there were shops
that sold nothing but baby clothes. One little place, about the
size of the pantry at home, sold nothing but nuts. There was a pan
of fresh-roasted nuts slowly revolving in the window. An imitation
squirrel looked at them greedily out of his imitation eyes.
A newsboy shouted at the corner, something about “Wuxtra, Wuxtra!” He
shouted so that he got red in the face. Just as Janie got close to him,
he stopped to draw a breath, and she looked at him in surprise. He
wasn’t excited at all. His eyes were as matter of fact as her own. Only
his voice was wrought up so. Pigeons circled far overhead. They lived
in the balconies and towers at the top of the tall buildings.
A policeman blew his whistle at the street crossing near a big
department store, and Janie marched across with the crowd. She pushed
on the revolving door until her little cubicle swung her right into
the store. My, but it smelled good. No wonder, she was in the perfume
department. She walked to the notions department, and bought the skein
of salmon colored thread for Grandma. Notions department ... what a
funny name, she thought. I wonder if they call it that because ladies
say: “I have a notion to buy this, or I have a notion to buy that.” I
must remember to ask someone about it sometime.
A river ran close to the building, and Jane walked over to the windows
to look out. A sign read:
_Eat Your Lunch In Our Sky Room_
DINE ABOVE THE CLOUDS.
Jane squinted up. It wasn’t above the clouds, really, but something
in her imaginative heart responded to the invitation. She looked in
her purse. There was the one dollar bill she had earned taking care of
Sammy, and Mom had given her thirty-five cents for lunch and car fare.
“That’s where I’m going to eat my lunch,” she said. “That’s how I’ll
spend my dollar.”
She walked over to the row of elevators. A pretty lady in a neat gray
uniform clicked a little snapper that she had in her hand, and that
was a signal for the elevator to climb. They went up, up, and up, past
dresses and hats and chairs and mixing bowls. They passed long rolls
of carpeting that looked like giant crayons laying side by side on the
floor. “Call your floor please,” the operator sang out, and at each
stop people would squeeze out, and new people would squeeze in. They
passed dress materials and lamps and luggage.
At last they came to the top floor, and Janie stepped out into what was
called a lounge. It looked like a large living room, and people sat on
the chairs and davenports waiting to meet their friends, or perhaps
they were just resting.
A tall lady who seemed to be the hostess stood at the entrance and
smiled and bowed as the people came in. She smiled very sweetly at
Jane. “Good afternoon,” she said. “Where would you like to sit?” The
large room seemed crowded, but along one side of the room ran a sort
of porch, a long narrow balcony overlooking the river. It had a curved
glass roof, like a conservatory.
“Oh,” said Jane eagerly. “Could I sit out there?”
“Yes, you could,” said the lady. “Come along with me,” and she led
Jane to a small table next to one of the windows. The river was eight
stories straight down, and on all sides the buildings rose even higher
than Jane’s balcony. From where she sat, she could see three bridges.
It was interesting to see that they crossed the river at an angle
instead of in a businesslike straightforward way. Then she remembered a
story that Grandma used to tell. It seemed that over one hundred years
ago, when the city was first founded, it was really three separate
towns. The people on the west side of the river quarreled with the
people on the east bank, and vowed never to have anything to do with
them. When the streets were laid out they were careful to see that they
did not line up with the streets across the river. They wanted to make
it inconvenient ever to build a bridge. Now there were many bridges, a
little askew perhaps, but happily making one big friendly town out of
the little squabbling villages.