AUNT MIRANDA COMES TO TOWN
Vacation was slipping away all too rapidly, and the first of September
drawing near to carry Pokey away from her beloved Springdale and back
to the city and school duties. But Pokey was an ambitious little soul,
as well as a very philosophical one, and took her blessings as they
came, making the most of them for the time being, and taking up the
duties with a cheerful face when the time arrived to take them--a
characteristic which followed her through her whole life, and made many
a wearisome burden less wearisome.
But two more weeks remained of that precious vacation, and how to make
those weeks the very best of all was a problem the children were
settling themselves to solve one warm morning, when John appeared
with the mail-bag. Springing from their seats upon the soft grass
under the old apple-tree, and scattering dogs, cats, a goat, and a
pony helter-skelter, the two girls rushed after him to claim any
mail the bag might hold for them. True, their correspondence was not
so overwhelming that they required amanuenses, but a mail-bag has a
wonderful fascination for both old and young folk, and simply to watch
for a possible letter was exciting.
This time there was the usual supply for each member of the family,
and, although there was nothing for either of the children, there was
one letter which held a peculiar, and none too pleasing, interest
for the family. This one came from an aunt who usually visited the
family once a year--an aunt of Mr. Lombard’s, who had seen many, many
summers and winters pass by, and yet had never learned that simplest
of all lessons: to look upon certain situations with other people’s
eyes. No, Aunt Miranda saw things with her _own_ eyes, and why her
range of vision was not the only correct one, or why some one’s else
might not be equally correct, sixty-seven years spent upon this big
globe had utterly failed to convince her. In _her_ day young girls,
young men, middle-aged men, and middle-aged women did thus and so, and
consequently ought to do so at the present day.
It need hardly be added that her annual visit was not anticipated with
enthusiasm, for, from the moment she entered the front door to the
moment it closed upon her, a succession of comments, criticisms, and
commands, issued as only Aunt Miranda could give voice to them, kept
everybody rubbed the wrong way, and made things generally miserable.
“Oh, dear-r-r! Is she really coming day after to-morrow?” wailed
Denise, in a tone very unlike her usual cheery one, for if “coming
events cast their shadows before,” certainly Aunt Miranda’s letter had
already obscured the sun.
“Sweetheart!” said Mrs. Lombard gently.
“Yes, I know what you mean, mamma, and I know it isn’t the proper way
to speak of a guest; and I know you don’t like to have me feel so;
and I know that it’s just hateful to; and I know that Aunt Miranda
is coming, and, oh, me, that means the fidgets for every one of us,
from Beauty Buttons straight down to _you_, or up, just as you want to
count. There! Now I’ve said my hateful things, I’ll set about getting
my mind in shape for saying nice ones, when way down inside myself
I feel like saying horrid ones, and if that is not being a little
hypocrite I’d like to know it,” and Denise gave herself a shake as
though she hated the very thought of doing something which she knew did
not ring true.
Mrs. Lombard was too wise a woman to read her little daughter a lesson
on manners and morals and goody-goody conduct generally, for she
understood human nature too well for that, and realized just how hard
it was for a happy, open-hearted girl, entirely natural in speech
and manner, to control herself when every act, every word, and every
expression of countenance was undergoing the keenest criticism, and
she was being taken to task for the very acts which had always been
considered proper by those who had trained her so carefully. So now,
instead of speaking harshly, or making the situation even more trying
by laying down certain rules to be followed during the coming visit,
she did the one thing best calculated to smooth a ruffled spirit.
Laying down the unwelcome letter, she took Denise’s rather defiant face
in both her hands, drew her gently toward her, and kissed her ever so
softly just under the little curls upon her forehead, saying as she did
so:
“If it were not for the little clouds in the sky we should never half
appreciate the sunshine, darling. We all have obligations, and you
and I will endeavor to meet ours gracefully, even though they are
not as pleasant as they might be. One little week out of our lives
will hardly count, and some day we shall both be old and, possibly,
peculiar ourselves. Then we will be glad to have others tolerant of our
peculiarities. But in the present case we must both fill the rôle of
hostess, and, as the Scots say, ‘Stranger is a holy name.’ Aunt Miranda
is not a stranger to us by any means, but if we substitute the word
‘guest’ for that of ‘stranger,’ we shall hold to the spirit of the old
saying, and that is all we need consider. Shall we try to remember,
Sweetheart?”
“I’d be the crankiest old thing that ever lived if I didn’t, and Aunt
Miranda will find me a perfect saint!” cried Denise, the laugh coming
back to her usually sunny face.
“Not a saint; they are entirely too oppressive for every-day life; just
a ‘creature not too wise or good for human nature’s daily food,’ you
know,” answered Mrs. Lombard, with a final pat upon Denise’s head, and
a smile for Pokey.
In the course of time Aunt Miranda, her baggage, and her whims arrived.
Denise and Pokey drove to the station with John when he went to meet
that estimable lady, and were greeted with:
“My heart and body! how do you ever expect me to get into that carriage
with you in it already? I can’t abide being crushed, and I shall _not_
put my bag and things on the bottom of the carriage.”
“Oh, Pokey and I will sit on the front seat of the surrey with John,
Aunt Miranda, and you can put all your things on the seat beside you,”
cried Denise, remembering her mother’s gentle words, and doing her best
to overcome the spirit of rebellion which this “dash of cold water”
instantly summoned up within her, for Aunt Miranda had not taken the
slightest notice of her greeting, but, pushing her to one side, had
sailed straight for the surrey, and the opening remark had been her
first words.
“And crowd him up so that he can’t manage the horses? Not if I know
it! I never risk _my_ life with fractious horses.”
“Oh, Sunshine and Flash are _never_ fractious!” cried Denise, prompt to
defend her favorites. “They are only spirited, and John can manage them
perfectly.”
Aunt Miranda turned upon her like a whirlwind. “Young lady, will you be
good enough to let _me_ have an opinion of my own? I’ve ridden behind
those animals more than once, I can assure you, and I think that I know
a thing or two about them which even you, with all your wisdom, may not
have learned yet. Elizabeth Delano, come right out of that surrey! You
and Denise (where on earth your father and mother ever found _that_
heathenish name I can’t conceive) may walk home. ’Twon’t hurt you one
mite. Then I’ll put my things on that seat and set Lorenzo on this seat
beside me; he can’t bear to be away from me a moment,” and she held
forth to John, who was already seething inwardly, a bag and bundle of
shawls, while she firmly grasped a huge cage which held the idolized
“Lorenzo,” a parrot of many accomplishments and diabolical temper.
Pokey came meekly forth, and Aunt Miranda stalked into the place she
had vacated. The cage was settled beside her, her traps beside John,
and her orders issued.
“Now, don’t you children come tearing home as though your lives
depended upon your getting there within the next five minutes. It’s
only eleven o’clock now, and your luncheon won’t be ready for two
hours. So take your time, do you understand?”
“Wait here, Miss Denise, and I’ll drive back for you and Miss Pokey,”
said John, for he was wroth with the elderly maiden who would make his
young mistress tramp nearly a mile through the sultry August heat.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort! My heart and body, do you suppose it is
going to kill two perfectly healthy girls to walk that distance? In
_my_ time girls walked or stayed home, I can tell you. No such nonsense
as teams being sent for them. Now you girls come right along behind;
do you understand?” and Aunt Miranda wagged a lisle-covered finger at
the bewildered pair upon the platform. But before further orders could
be issued, John adroitly drew the long whip-lash gently across Flash’s
flanks, and that sagacious horse needed no broader hint to put a
quietus to Aunt Miranda’s tirade. It was all fun and good spirits, but
when Flash “arose to the occasion” by rearing upon his hind feet and
then making a dash forward, which Sunshine was not slow in following,
Aunt Miranda had all she wished to attend to.
“My heart and body! My heart and body!” she screamed, grasping the
front seat with one hand and holding on to Lorenzo for dear life
with the other. “Look out for those demons! Didn’t I say they were
fractious? I shall do all in my power to persuade Lewis to sell them
at once. They are not fit to be driven by any one! Vicious brutes!”
“Oh, that’s jist the tickle in their fate, ma’am,” said John, doing
his best not to smile, and sending at the same time a silent message
along the reins all too well understood by those sagacious beasts. That
ride of three-quarters of a mile was a wild one, for if John could not
speak his mind to the lady behind him, he certainly held a means of
retaliation which worked to a charm, and when he finally whisked her up
to the door=step, both she and Lorenzo had experienced a very lively
five minutes, and a more flustered bird, or more flustered elderly
lady, it would have been difficult to find.
“Emilie Lombard, if you ever send those horses for me again I shall
refuse to ride behind them!” was the greeting Mrs. Lombard heard as she
hastened to welcome her guest. “They are perfect demons; just nothing
but demons! Here, let me get out before they kill me outright! Never,
never again shall I ride in this carriage! There, there! Be careful
how you handle Lorenzo, Mary. He has been nearly shaken to death as it
is, and I dare say will be ill from the fright. No, don’t touch that
bag! It has my camphor and smelling-salts, to say nothing of several
other things, which I never permit any one to touch, in it. Emilie, you
hold this while I get out, and John, get straight down and hold those
beasts’ heads. I sha’n’t stir one step from this carriage unless you
do, and I don’t know but what I’ll die of fright if I stay in it. My
heart and body, why people can want to drive such fractious animals is
entirely beyond my understanding.”
John obediently dismounted, and, going to the horses’ heads, began
the little freemasonry which he and they so well understood, with the
result that they nosed and mumbled him like a pair of kittens, and
no kittens could have shown more coyness than they while their irate
passenger was removing herself and her belongings from the carriage,
and fussing and bustling herself into the house.
“Faith, we fixed her well that toime, didn’t we now, me dandies?”
said John with a knowing laugh, as he gave a final pat to the pretty
creatures, and sprang back into the surrey. “And now we’ll spin back
for the young ladies, that we will, and never turn a hair for the spin.
Walk home is it they will? Faith, I’d loike to see thim doin’ the loiks
of it if me and you knows what we’re about! Now, thin! Off wid yees!”