their dainty iron beds, and dreaming of happiness past, and to come.
Nan, her father, and mother, and Mrs. Stevens came in for a last word.
"I shall put on mourning to-morrow," announced Nan in a melancholy
voice, "for I shall be a widow. What makes you go away, Mrs. Rayburn?"
"School and business call us to town, Nan, but we shall come every
summer, and spend Christmas here, too, I hope."
"This has been the best birthday I ever spent or ever expect to," said
Ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. "It is such a good
idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can
do both, as happened this time, it covers everything."
Then they were all quiet for a little while, until Mrs. Rayburn went to
the piano, and touching the keys, sang softly:
"And does thy day seem dark,
All turned to rain?
Seek thou one out whose life
Is filled with pain.
Put out a hand to help
This greater need,
And lo! within thy life
The sun will shine indeed."
_CHAPTER X_
_Beth's Birthday_
The space between our birthdays seems to grow apace,
When we're young they loiter; when we're old they race.
It began with a bad time; and so did the next day, as things sometimes
do, even though they turn out all right at the end, like a rainy morning
that clears off into a blue and gold afternoon. Ethelwyn and Beth did
not fall out very often, but then they didn't have a birthday very
often, nor Christmas, nor any other of the days when the land flows with
ice cream and candy, and is bounded on the next day by crossness and
pitfalls.
That was one reason.
That day early they had decided never to be bad again, never; "because,"
said Ethelwyn, "it is very troublesome getting good again, and makes
mother feel bad."
"Uh huh," said Beth.
They were not up yet, and the door leading into their mother's room was
open.
This was their "present" birthday, but they had not yet begun on their
presents. For fear you shouldn't understand this, I will tell you Beth's
way of explaining it.
"Sister and me is twin children two years all but a month apart, and on
the first birthday which comes in July, we have presents, and on the
second, in August, we have a party, or a trip away, or something, and we
have all the month to choose in."
They generally chose thirty different things. Their mother nearly always
let them have the last one, but once or twice, as when they wanted to go
up in an air ship, she compromised on a steam launch on the river, as
safer, and nearer at hand.
This morning being "present" morning, they were glad to see the
sunshine darting in at their window, and to hear the birds singing
outside something like this--
"Wake up, children: the day is new.
It's full of joy for dears like you."
So they woke up laughing, at least Ethelwyn did, and told Beth what the
birds sang; but Beth was sleepy and uttered her usual "Uh huh."
"You are a very lazy child," said Ethelwyn in a superior tone, "and are
not thinking about your presents at all, nor the making of good
revolutions."
"What's them?" asked Beth, still with her eyes shut.
"Something you need to make very much, for you are not too good a child,
I'm sorry to say. Mother esplained about people making things like that
at New Year's, and birthdays, and so I've been thinking of some
specially for you--"
"I can make my own," said Beth, fully awake now, "and I can help make
yours when it comes to that, I guess."
"Well," said Ethelwyn, "I have been thinking of a few for you to begin
with. One is, never to be late for breakfast, and not to be selfish
about getting the bath first, and never wanting to give up when your
sister wants you to--"
"You can make your own, while I'm getting my bath first now," said Beth,
sliding out of bed. "I'm anxious to see my presents."
Ethelwyn, speechless with rage, hastened her departure with a push, and
then fell asleep until the breakfast bell rang. How mortified she felt
after what she had said to Beth! Sierra Nevada hurried her through her
bath and toilet as quickly as she could, but she would be late for
breakfast anyway. When she came into the dining-room, her mother kissed
her gravely, but she was not allowed to look at her presents until
after she had eaten. She felt very miserable at the shrieks of delight
from Beth, who was dancing around her doll house, with its two floors
beautifully furnished, and dolls of every size, shape, and color living
in it.
No wonder the oatmeal and the muffins lost their flavor!
But Ethelwyn effervesced quickly, and as quickly subsided. Presently she
was glad again, for there were books, candy, games, a walking doll from
Paris that could talk as well, and a camera from Aunty Stevens. The
camera, she told her mother, she had been longing for for years and
years.
Uncle Tom sent each of them some candy, and a five dollar gold piece,
with a note intimating that they were to spend it as they liked. Then
there were two bicycles from Uncle Bob, some more candy, a pony, and
some home-made molasses candy from their grandmother. The pony was a
real live pony, and Joe, a dear friend of theirs, from a near-by livery
stable was to take care of it.
"I feel thankful that we are a large family of relatives," said Beth,
after a long and speechless period of rapture.
Their mother, being a wise woman, put away some of the candy, all but
grandmother's molasses, and a box or two for friends. Then came little
Nora, the niece of their dressmaker, Mrs. O'Neal, with a quart of
pecans, for the birthday. She went home with a box of candy, and told
her little sister Katie about it.
"O I wanted to go too," wailed Katie.
"You were asleep, dear, when I went, but I told them the nuts were from
you, too."
"But I wanted to hear them say, 'thank you!' Take me now."
"I have to go down town for auntie. But she'll let you go."
"Yes, indeed," said their busy aunt when asked.
So Katie went up-stairs to make herself tidy.
"It's mesilf wants to take a 'silvernear,'" she said as she scrubbed
herself; and then in an evil moment, she beheld a small plate with a
bunny on it, which Nora owned and loved.
"It's just the thing," thought Katie, "and kind of partly mine because
it's in our room."
So she took it with her when she went, and it burned her little hand
like fire.
Ethelwyn and Beth were preparing a tea party in the doll house.
"O Katie, how nice!" said Ethelwyn. "We'll put it in the tea party. We
were coming over to get you and Nora to come; there are some beautiful
iced cakes coming up in a minute."
"I can't stay," said Katie feebly, "I feel kind of sick inside."
So saying she rushed home, but it was no use; poor Katie's conscience
grew worse all the time, and presently she came back.
"I--I--know you won't like me any more," she said, red and miserable,
"but it's Nora's plate I gave you, and I'm no better than a thafe."
But Ethelwyn and Beth put their arms around her, and comforted her dear
little sore heart.
"I know just how you feel," said Ethelwyn. "I took mother's gold dragon
stick-pin for my dolly's blanket one day, because I was in a hurry, and
lost it of course, and felt so mizzable, as if nothing could ever be
nice again. Now take the plate and go and get Nora, dear, and we'll have
the best tea party."
And they did, and the guests had each another box of candy for their
"silvernears," besides, but Ethelwyn and Beth ate far too much, and
that's the reason their next day good time began by being a bad time
too.
_CHAPTER XI_
_The Day After_
In the lovely playtime, life seems always gay.
In the sober worktime, sometimes it grows gray.
Mother was superintending the strawberry jam in the kitchen, giving
orders to the grocery boy, and paying Mrs. O'Neal for sewing, all at
once.
You can't do this unless you are a mother, but mothers can do almost
everything at once.
"It's a fortunate thing that the Bible says everybody mustn't work on
Sunday. It says man-servant, maid-servant, cattle, stranger within thy
gates, but nothing at all about mothers, though, because they positively
have to," said Ethelwyn, after a profound season of thought in the
hammock.
"When our mother rests, she darns stockings," said Beth, who was
dressing her doll near by.
"Not on Sunday, child!" said Ethelwyn scandalized.
"Well nobody said she did, I guess. She tells us Bible stories then. I
always think they sound so pretty, against her Sunday clothes," said
Beth.
"Pooh!" said Ethelwyn who was cross. She was going down to the grocery
presently on her wheel to get some eggs, but she was putting it off as
long as she could.
She started after awhile, and unluckily had the groceryman tie the eggs
on the wheel. She came along safely, until within view of Beth lying
comfortably in the hammock; then with a desire to show off, she spurted,
or tried to, and her wheel ran off the walk, and tipped her off upon the
grass on top of two dozen eggs!
Her mother picked her up, and after stilling Beth's laughter, and her
crying, washed her, and put her in the hammock, all in so short a time
that only a yellow stain on the grass showed that a tragedy had
happened.
Then mother went back to her jam.
Beth snickered at intervals, however, though Ethelwyn sternly bade her
be quiet.
"You were so yellow and funny, sister," said Beth, giggling.
Ethelwyn opened her mouth for a reply that would do justice to the
subject, when Bobby, their next door neighbor came along. "Hullo,
Bobby," they cried.
"Hullo," said Bobby at once.
"Come in and see our birthday presents," said Ethelwyn, and Bobby at
once trotted up the walk.
He was a round-faced little chap, with small freckles on his button of a
nose.
His family had just moved into town from a farm.
"Where have you been, Bobby?" asked Ethelwyn as they went towards the
house.
"I went down to the grocery for mother; I thought I knew the way but I
got mixed up, and stopped under a lamp-post, to think. Pretty soon a
woman came along and put a white letter in a box; so I thought I'd save
trouble if I put mother's grocery list in, and I did. A man in gray
clothes came along, and unlocked it, and took the letters all out. I
told him 'bout my list, and he laughed, and gave it to me, and asked me
if I didn't know 'bout letter boxes? I didn't, so he told me, and took
me along with him down town."
"Sister--" began Beth, giggling, "went to the grocery--"
"Let's play in the house," said Ethelwyn frowning at Beth. "You can stay
awhile, can't you, Bobby?"
"I guess I'd better ask, first," said Bobby. He trotted home and soon
came back with his face shining from soap and water, and his hair
brushed straight up so that it looked like a halo around the full moon.
Then Nan, the minister's daughter, came in. She had also come to live in
their town and was the same funny, outspoken Nan, as always.
"It's a very convenient thing that I know you children," she had said,
"for it's a great trouble to have to find out, and learn to know
everybody in a town."
They were playing games in the nursery, when mother came up-stairs,
having finished the jam, ordered the groceries, and paid Mrs. O'Neal.
She was going to combine resting and mending, as usual, so she came to
the nursery, just as they were beginning a temperance lecture.
Bobby was selling tickets, and mother cheerfully paid a penny, and sat
in her low rocker near the window.
Nan had chosen to be lecturer, so Ethelwyn, Beth, and Bobby made a
somewhat reluctant and highly critical audience. Besides, there were the
dolls in various uncomfortable attitudes, but very amiable nevertheless.
And to them all, Nan now came forward and made a profound bow.
"My subject is Temperance, ladies and gentlemen," she began, "and I hope
you'll pay attention, because it's a true subject, as well as a useful
one.
"I wish men wouldn't get drunk. It's dreadful smelly even going by a
saloon, so I don't see how they can. I think it would be very nice if
pleecemen would think once in a while about stopping such things as
drunkers, but they probably like to have saloons around for themselves.
A nice thing would be, to have ladies, like your mother and me, for
pleecemen. Then we'd scrub things up, and pour things out, till you
couldn't smell or taste a thing. But men are meaner than women"--Bobby
looked dubious--"some men aren't though"--he looked relieved. "The
reason we are so nice and 'spectable, is because my father is a
minister, and doesn't dare do disgraceful things, and your mother
doesn't get time. So we should be thankful, instead of wishing we had a
candy store in the family, and being sorry we have to set examples for
other kids. No! No! No! children, I mean. That's all, and I hope you
won't forget all I've told you."
"Let's play church now," said Ethelwyn promptly, "and I choose to be
preacher, because I know about Moses and Abiram. The choir will please
sing Billy Boy."
So they put on nightgowns for surplices.
"What can I do?" said Beth, who was tired of always being an audience.
"Take up the collection," said Ethelwyn, "we need some more pennies."
"'The sermon, beloved," said Ethelwyn after the singing, and a little
preliminary ritual, "is about Moses and Abiram, who both wanted to be
boss of the temple.
"'I will be boss,' said Moses.
"'Not much,' said Abiram, standing on his tippest toes.
"Then they fit, and I've forgotten which one whipped, 'cause we haven't
got that far yet; anyway it's lunch time, so do hurry and take up the
collection."
_CHAPTER XII_
_Sunday_
No matter how bad we are through the week,
When Sunday comes 'round we grow very meek.
"I hope, Beth," said Ethelwyn, who always woke up first, "you will
remember to-day is Sunday, and not quarrel with your sister," But Beth
cuddled down in the pillows and refused to answer a word. After a while,
Ethelwyn, watching the sunbeams dancing on the pink wall, went to sleep
herself, and opened her eyes only when her mother kissed her awake.
Sierra Nevada, being a devout Roman Catholic, always went to early mass
on Sunday mornings, and their mother gave them their baths, to their
great delight and comfort. The bath was all ready for them now, crystal
clear with the jolly sunbeams dancing on its silver disk.
"We'll get a sunshine bath," said Beth, trying to catch the golden
drops.
"Inside and outside," said mother smiling.
"You look so pretty, motherdy," said Ethelwyn approvingly, "So much
prettier than black, cross old 'Vada, who always rolls her eyes at me
and says, 'Miss Effel, you is de troublesomest chile dat ebba was bown.'
You have sense, and in that blue gown, white apron, and cap, you are
pretty. You get prettier all the time you are getting old, mother.
You'll be a beautiful angel when you are very old."
"Thank you," said her mother laughing. "Come on now, do you know your
verse?"
"I did," said Ethelwyn, "but the verse hasn't any sense: it's about St.
Peter's wife's mother being sick with the fever--"
"And St. Peter cut off the priest's right ear, and then he went out and
crew bitterly," said Beth, jumping up and down to see how high she could
splash.
"Elizabeth!" said her mother, going off into spasms of laughter. "You
are a heathen! Can't you ever get things right? I will say, though, I
think the verses they select for infant classes are anything but
suitable, but for pity's sake don't say the one you told me, you will
disgrace me. I will hear you after breakfast."
But Aunt Mandy the cook was sick with the toothache, which she called a
"plum mizzery" in her face, and mother was so busy, that 'Vada, who had
returned and was more solemn than ever, dressed them and took them to
Sunday-school.
The infant class sat on seats that began close to the floor, and
gradually rose to the top of the room. Ethelwyn and Nan sat high up,
while Beth was a little way below. Bobby sat near her, and had grinned
all over his round face when she came in.
"I've brought my white mouse in my pocket; I'm going to stay for church,
and I get lonesome," he whispered.
"Uh huh," said Beth nodding, "I've brought my paper dolls." But sister
punched her in the back with her parasol to be quiet, and just then the
teacher asked her verse.
Beth thought hard. "Mother said I mustn't tell you about the priest
crewing about his cut off ear," she said thoughtfully, "but I know
another verse about St. Peter, it's easier to merember than the other
one, 'cause it's poetry."
"Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her--"
"Next!" said the teacher with a face red, and then she coughed.
The next was Bobby, who cheerfully took up the refrain, where Beth left
off.
"--Put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well,"
he concluded promptly.
The older pupils, with two scandalized exceptions,--Ethelwyn and
Nan--laughed, and the younger ones turned around and looked interested.
The teacher coughed again and changed the subject.
But the adventures of Bobby and Beth were by no means over, for when
they came out into the large room where the hundreds of scholars sat,
the infant class was marshaled up into the choir seats to sing "Precious
Julias" as Beth still called it. The upright of the front seat was
standing unfastened from the floor, waiting for repairs, but no one knew
it, Beth and Bobby least of all. They, and six other infants pressed
close up against it, and sang with all their might.
Unfortunately they pressed too hard on the loose back. All at once it
went over, and eight unfortunate infants sprawled flat on their faces,
hats rolling off, and books tumbling down.
Everybody stopped singing to laugh, but it changed to little shrieks of
dismay, as a poor frightened white mouse, thrown out of Bobby's pocket
by the shock, went running down the aisle.
Bobby ran after it in hot pursuit.
Beth followed loyally, for she had seen where it went.
They caught the trembling little creature at the door, and then they
looked at each other.
"Let's go home," said Bobby.
"Uh huh, let's," said Beth.
They met Beth's mother on the way to church. "We'll stay at home to-day,
mother," said Beth, "we've had just all we can stand."
So they went home and played church in the front yard, until Ethelwyn
and Nan came home just before the sermon.
Those young ladies had fully intended solemnly to lecture the two at
home, but it was very pleasant under the trees, with the birds, and
Bobby and Beth singing lustily, so they joined in, and Ethelwyn then
preached. "I choose to," she said, "because I went to an awfully dry
lecture on art or clothes or something, with mother. I slept some,
'cause it was almost as hard to understand as a sermon, but when I was
awake I heard a good deal that will do you good.
"Clothes," she went on after this introduction, "will ruin your health
if you don't look out, and study statoos and things for some kind of
line, clothes-line, I guess. So when you see a lot of white
statoos--which aren't as interesting as the circus but more good for
learning, which is always the way in this life--learnified things are
likely to be dry--you'll learn something. But I went to sleep before I
found out what or why statoos is the thing to study; but they are so
cold-looking, from being undressed, that I think it would be a kind act
to make pajamas for them, and trousers for our dolls so they will live
longer--"
"_I_ will not," said Beth firmly, from the congregation. "It wouldn't be
fun to have all boy dolls, and you know it, sister, and besides wasn't
Billy Boy the first doll we broke after Christmas? and he's up-stairs
now waiting for his funeral."
"O, let's have it now," said Nan, who didn't like sermons unless she
preached them.
"No, here's mother and we'll have to have dinner now, so we will have
the funeral to-morrow," said Ethelwyn.
_CHAPTER XIII_
_The Four Together_
Begins with a funeral and ends with a feast.
Sorrow is drowned for this time at least.
It fell out that there were _two_ doll funerals the next day.
Beth lost Ariminta, her composition doll, and she went down into the
garden early to find her. She looked in Bose's kennel, but it wasn't
there; then she saw a robin in the path digging worms, and he looked so
wise that she followed him to the early harvest apple-tree, and sure
enough! there was Ariminta on a lower branch where she had put her the
night before. She was very wet, for it had rained, and her wig was quite
soaked off. So, filled with remorse, Beth went after the glue-pot.
"I never knew such a mean mother as I am," she said, "I haven't any
thinkery at all, worth mentioning. If your grandmother, my dear, should
leave me out, till my hair soaked off--say, sister," she broke off
suddenly to ask--"what keeps our hair on?"
Ethelwyn never at a loss for an answer, said promptly, "Dust, child"
"I haven't any," said Beth, feeling her short brown curls cautiously for
fear they would come off.
"It's small in small persons, and big in big persons," said Ethelwyn,
with a patient air of having given much thought to the subject.
"Ho!" said Beth. "Well if Ariminta's going to be dry for Billy Boy's
funeral, I'll have to dry her in the oven."
But alas! for Beth's "thinkery not worth mentioning!" In her haste to
get back to prepare herself and family for the funeral, she forgot to
tell Aunt Mandy, who was going to make cake, and so started a fire in
the stove. When she opened the oven door to put in the cake, she took
out Ariminta's remains, and that is why there were two subjects for a
funeral instead of one.
Beth was exceedingly sorry, and wept a few real tears over Ariminta.
"I'm a double widow, and a orphing to-day," she said, "and I don't
reserve a single child to my name!"
Nan and Bobby came to the funeral, and Bobby chose to be undertaker,
while Nan insisted on preaching the sermon.
"You preached yesterday," she said to Ethelwyn, who also wished to.
"And you did the day before--"
"I think I ought to," said Beth, "because it's my fam'ly."
"That's why you shouldn't, child," said Nan. "Would my father enjoy
preaching my funeral sermon, do you think?" she asked triumphantly. And
while they were doubtfully considering this, she began the service.
Beth attired in Aunt Mandy's large black shawl was very warm and
mournful.
The family, especially Billy Boy's widow, were wrapped in black calico
swaddling garments, and looked more stiff than ever, but still smiling.
The remains were in cigar boxes, all but Billy's wig and eyes which Beth
had thoughtfully saved for another doll.
"I am sorry I have to preach this sad sermon," said Nan.
"Might have let me, then," said a voice from the congregation.
"The mourners will please keep quiet," said the preacher sternly, "and
if the widow and orphans wouldn't grin so, I'd be glad. You'd better be
thinking about how you'd feel to be buried, and you are likely to be in
this family," she continued with an offensive accent on _this_.
"Let's hurry up, I'm hot," said the chief mourner.
So they went down and buried the boxes, singing "Billy Boy" as a
requiem. Bose watched their departure with interest, and dug up both
boxes without delay.
Bobby and Nan were invited to stay to lunch, and they accepted with
cheerful alacrity.
"I asked mother, for fear you'd ask me if I could stay, and she said yes
indeed I _could_, and she'd be glad to have me," said Nan. Bobby yelled
his request over the fence, and was told he could stay too.
They had strawberry jam, hot biscuit, fried chicken, and little frosted
spice cakes, for which Mandy was famous.
"Just supposing your mother and mine had said no, about this luncheon,"
said Nan to Bobby. "I never could have gotten over the loss of these
cakes."
"You've eaten four. I'm glad Mandy made a good many," said Beth calmly.
"Why Beth!" said her mother horrified.
"Yessum, she has," continued Beth. "I've passed them four times, and she
took one every time. I've had five!" she concluded.
In the afternoon the postman brought them a letter from their Cousin
Gladys, who was in Paris with her father and mother. So they all
gathered around mother to hear it.
"DEAR E. AND B.," it began.
"This is a silly city.
"They talk like babies. No one can understand them. I'd like them
better if they'd talk plain American.