CHOOSING A BIRTHDAY
“Monday’s child is fair of face;
Tuesday’s child is full of grace;
Wednesday’s child is happy and glad;
Thursday’s child is sour and sad;
Friday’s child is loving in giving;
And Saturday’s child must work for its living.
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is blithe and bonnie and good and gay.”
“I was born on Tuesday. What day were you born on, Granny?” Hazel asked.
“What day was I born on, sugar? I don’t know the year I was born on
much less the day.”
“Why, Granny,” said Hazel, startled, “Haven’t you a birthday?”
“I suppose I has, child. But I knows no more when I come into the
world than I knows when the Lord ’ll take me out of it. You see, I was
sold down here when I was about four year old. That I knows. I can
recollect when I first come here. The violets were blooming, and my
mistress clapped her hands when she see me picking the little blossoms.
That were in the spring of ’46. But whether I were just four, or most
five, or only three maybe, I don’t rightly know.”
Granny saw the tears standing in Hazel’s eyes. “Your mother?” the child
said.
“We never found one another; and there’s thousands like that. Every
day in the year there was children sent from their folks to the bottom
lands. But don’t think about it, sugar. It ain’t no use fretting about
what’s past. Howsomever, that’s why I can’t tell whether I’s a Monday
or a Tuesday or a Saturday child. The Lord alone can reckon my days.”
When Hazel had finished the dishes she went out-of-doors to think over
what she had heard. The story of the past stirred her deeply, but had
it not also a present import? Granny had never had a birthday, had
never known what it was to be the centre of a birthday party, to have a
cake with candles, most of all to have the proud feeling that here was
a day that belonged to her alone. Could nothing be done about it?
Hazel looked up at the clear blue sky and about her at the riot of
flowers. What a beautiful time of year for a birthday! So much better
than her month of November. Why not give Granny a birthday now?
“Scip,” Hazel called excitedly as he met her on the hillside that
afternoon. “I’m going to give Granny a birthday party. Will you help?”
And she explained Granny’s condition.
Scipio listened attentively, only half understanding, for birthdays had
never been celebrated in the Lee household. But, of course, he promised
to help if Hazel would show him the way; and before they went to their
books ways and means were already devised by Hazel’s active mind.
That afternoon the little girl was a long time writing her home letter.
Some explanation was necessary, and then the admonition to please send
them, quick, quick, and as many dozen as she thought right. “Pink and
green and blue and yellow and white, please, like the candles I have.”
The next question was, who should come to the party?
“Only children, I think, Scip,” Hazel said as she discussed it with
him. “If I didn’t ask all the grown people those left out would be
offended, wouldn’t they?”
“I reckon there might be trouble,” Scip answered.
“There’ll be you and Tom and Theora--”
“That’s enough for we-all,” said Scip as he saw Hazel hesitate. “Jule
can stay home and work.”
Hazel sighed, but felt relieved. It would be well to have the guests
very young so that she could handle them.
“And Mammy Smith’s little girl, and Carrie and Johnnie Hunt, that will
be enough, and I’ll teach them songs and games.”
There were busy days next week. Hazel drilled the little country
children, who looked shyly at her and understood nothing of what
she was saying. Hazel called them stupid many times in her heart and
sometimes with her lips, but they were only unfamiliar with all that
she was trying to put into their lives. But one thing was sure. They
could sing the birthday verse.
“Here’s a little box for you, honey,” Granny said one morning, handing
Hazel a package. “Come by the post,” and she eyed it curiously.
“It’s--it’s a secret just now,” Hazel stammered.
“A secret? Well, child, don’t you tell it until you is good and ready,”
and Granny went to her work in the garden.
In her room Hazel opened the box. It contained six dozen little
candles, pink and green and blue and yellow and white. Just what she
wanted. Mother always did exactly right.
But now, most difficult of all, to make the cake!
Granny loved to cook in the old way over the fire, but she had a stove
in an outhouse which she used now that the warm weather had come. If
Hazel could get access to this, without Granny’s knowing it, she would
make and try to bake the cake. At home she did the mixing and her
mother the baking. But would Granny go away long enough for her to do
her work? There was the great difficulty.
On the day after the candles came, however, it was solved.
“Aunt Ellen,” a breathless boy called, rushing into the cabin in the
morning, “Ma’s sick and wants you.”
And Aunt Ellen went at once and left Hazel alone.
When the cake was baked and frosted Hazel looked at it with mingled
delight and distrust. It had risen, but had it not fallen since? She
must not taste it to find out. It was made of sugar and flour and eggs
and it had been beaten until her hand and arm were first prickly, and
then stiff with fatigue. It ought to be light. And anyway it was round
and had white icing; certainly it was a beautiful _looking_ birthday
cake.
Hazel put it carefully in the bottom of her trunk. The party she
decided should be on the morrow.
“What is the matter with you, child?” Granny said the next day as they
sat down to dinner. “You’s as restless as a bird, and you ain’t eating
more’n a bird would eat.”
“Ain’t you going to teach Scip?” she said later, when Hazel failed to
take her books and papers and climb the hill.
“Scip can’t come to-day, Granny, he said so. Let me help you.” And
Hazel began to straighten things in the room. “Can’t we sweep a little?”
The old woman was clearly puzzled but she helped Hazel with the work.
“Let’s dress up and pretend it’s Christmas,” Hazel exclaimed when three
o’clock came. “I’ll put on my white dress and you put on your new
calico.”
“I’s got to work, child,” Granny said a little severely.
“Oh, don’t work this afternoon,” Hazel cried jumping up and down. “Play
with me, won’t you please play with me? I do want you to play with me,
Granny, just one day.” And before four o’clock Hazel had her way and
the two were sitting in their best gowns. “Much like fools,” Granny
said.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Hazel cried suddenly, and ran from the
cabin door down the road. Granny waited a minute or two and then went
to the porch to look out. Coming up the road was a little procession
led by Hazel, with Scipio in the rear; between were three little girls
and two little boys. They all marched solemnly to the porch where
Granny stood.
“Now,” commanded Hazel, and the children sang:
“Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday, Aunt Ellen,
Happy birthday to you.”
Granny looked the children over; but she did not ask them in.
“It’s your birthday, Granny,” Hazel said, her voice shaking with
excitement. “I chose to-day for your birthday.”
The old woman glanced at Hazel without smiling and held herself very
erect. She felt that they were making game of her.
“It’s a pretend party,” Hazel tried to explain; but as she looked into
Granny’s eyes she suddenly wanted to cry.
The little children stood quietly, waiting to be told what to do next.
Then Scipio stepped forward.
“Aunt Ellen,” he said in his slow way, “it’s like this; you’s been kind
to we-all here. There’s many of us as you’s helped into the world like
you did Mrs. Brown’s baby yesterday. We wants to do something for you,
so we’s just come and we’s brought you some flowers.”
The five waiting children looked at Hazel. She nodded, and they stepped
forward and each gave a bouquet to Granny.
The old woman’s face softened as Scipio spoke, and now she smiled
kindly and asked the children in. As they entered she noticed that each
one was decked out a little, and she glanced at her own dress and then
at Hazel’s.
“She’s a smart one,” she thought.
“May we play a game, Granny?” Hazel asked hesitatingly. Scipio had
seemingly saved the day, but she must make no further mistakes.
“Yes, child.”
“Then you sit here by the hearth, Granny, and Scip with you, and we’ll
act a charade.”
She took the children out on the porch and presently they came in, each
on hands and feet, and meowed with persistence if not with fervor.
“That’s meant to be a word, Granny and Scip, can you guess what it is?”
“Cats,” said Granny.
“That’s right,” Hazel cried, clapping her hands. “_Cat._ You guessed
right the first time, didn’t you? Now we act the next word.”
She skipped out of the room with the children onto the porch. She was
beginning to feel like herself. Granny smoothed her dress complacently.
Presently two boys came in and stood across the room each holding
the end of a long string. A third child, a girl with an apron on,
walked solemnly forward and fastened a towel to the string with a
clothes-pin. Immediately Hazel, with a dark shawl stretched out at
arms-length to look like wings, hopped up and nipped off the nose of
the maid, who gave a very creditable sob.
“Along came a black-bird and nipped off her nose,” the two boys said.
“That’s a little word,” explained Hazel, “and if you put it with cat it
makes a longer word.”
Granny and Scip listened in silence; a charade seemed outside their
mental horizon.
But Hazel and her troupe acted the whole word with studied care, and
five little cats rolled about ecstatically in the green stuff Hazel
threw to them.
“I knows it, Hazel,” Scipio cried suddenly. “It’s _Catnip_. You make it
like you learn me words.”
Hazel beamed at him. He had pleased his little teacher to-day more than
he could ever have hoped to please her in all his life. This might be
Granny’s pretend birthday, but it was a real day of triumph for Hazel’s
pretend brother.
“And now, Granny,” Hazel said, still a little tremulously, “would you
go on the porch with the children for just a few minutes and shut the
door and leave Scipio and me here?”
Granny went willingly enough. She was beginning to enter into the
spirit of the game.
“Darken the room as much as you can, Scip. Well put it in the middle of
the table, and the candles on it and around it, and the flowers about
them. We must light them, quickly, quickly. Oh, Scip, Scip, see! It’s
the beautifulest kind of a birthday cake when you have seventy candles.”
“Let her come in right now,” Scipio said.
Granny with the children entered the room. On the table was a big white
cake. Candles were in it and candles were around it, two rows deep.
Each little flame twinkled as it rose from the bright-colored wax. It
was a lovely sight.
“What you done do, sugar?” Granny gasped.
“It’s a birthday cake for you, Granny. I wanted you so to have a
birthday cake. I’ve had five that I can remember, but they’re
prettiest when you’re seventy. I wanted you so to have a birthday that
I chose one for you; and April is a nice time, don’t you think? You do
like it, don’t you, Granny?” and Hazel ran to her grandmother’s side.
“Baby,” Granny said holding her tight. “It’s the most beautiful thing
as ever was. It’s the prettiest sight these eyes has ever seen.
Scip,” she called suddenly, “don’t you let those candles burn down.
Everybody’s got to see my cake.”
“And now, Granny,” Hazel said when the candles were blown out, “you
must cut the cake for the children.”
“Cut the cake for them tricks,” Granny cried excitedly. “No, indeed.
The children can have corn-pone. Everybody has got to see my birthday
cake. Where did you buy it, honey?”
“I made it,” Hazel answered, and that completed Granny’s amazement and
Hazel’s happiness.
The children had their corn-pone, with jelly on it, and the cake was
left on the table. News of this wonder soon reached the community,
and the first visitors came that evening. For one week the sight
lasted. Twelve times did the candles, for a brief space, shine out on
the white icing and brighten the flowers. The cake was not moved from
the table, but remained there day and night, and the kitten was kept
rigidly indoors to frighten away any possible mouse. At length, when
the candles had burned to their sockets, Granny cut through the icing
and gave a slice to Hazel and one to herself.
Hazel ate and said nothing, but she was glad it had not been cut
before. Staleness might seem to account in part for the very heavy
character of the half-cooked dough.
But Granny ate her piece as if it had been ambrosia, the food of the
gods.
“That are splendid cake,” she exclaimed. “That icing are as sweet as
you are, sugar, and I can’t say more.”
And she took another slice.