THE BELLE OF HAZELNOOK
Gay awoke the next morning, feeling that something delightful was in
prospect.
"What is it, I wonder?" questioned the sleeper, just summoned from
dreamland. "Oh, I know, it's the ball-game!"
Gay sprang out of bed and ran to the window to see if the weather was
clear. Yes; the sun was up, smiling his most charming welcome, and Gay
began to dress with the reckless haste of one who must be up and away.
Such haste was unnecessary; the ball-game was not to be played until
afternoon, but having something to look forward to adds impetus to
one's movements.
"I must put on a strong waist; I don't want my clothes to fall apart on
the diamond!" said Gay to himself. "That's the worst of being a girl;
it's such a bother to keep picking out dresses. Yesterday I wore this
white dress, but I can't put it on to-day. No, I have to hunt through
the closet for something else. This flannel blazer will be just the
thing to wear with this flannel skirt; it's ripped a little but I
guess it will hold. I don't dare to say anything about it for fear Aunt
Beulah will make me mend it! I wonder if I can run in skirts. I guess
I'll take a turn in the back yard and find out!"
No one was astir but Margery, who was at work in the kitchen when Gay
came in.
"Good morning, Margery."
"What are ye up so early for? Ain't ye tired after your party?"
"Not a bit. Nice party, wasn't it, and aren't those splendid boys,
particularly Lyman?"
"Ye-es, they ain't bad boys for common folks, but there are ever so
many nicer boys in the village, Miss May; real, little fine gentlemen,
an' their fathers and grandfathers before them were gentlemen."
"They are not anything but boys, are they?"
"No, I suppose not; but they are different from that stuff that was
here last night."
"Boys are boys, that's all they are. There are two kinds, perhaps;
cads, cowards, tell-tales and mean boys are one kind; the splendid
fellows are the other kind. There are poor cads and rich cads; rich
splendid fellows and poor splendid fellows; white cowards and black
cowards, and white mean fellows and black mean fellows. You see,
Margery, you can't tell a bit by a fellow's father what he'll be;
you've got to judge by the fellow himself. If he is all right he is
and that's the end of it. If he isn't right, why, that's the end of
it, too, for everybody jumps the cad or the coward just as quick as he
shows his colors."
"It's a mystery how you know so much about boys, Miss May."
"I play with boys all the time."
"I shouldn't think your ma and pa would like that."
"They do like it."
"Well, it's a mystery! It's all along o' them higher edication notions,
Miss Linn says, but I don't understand it. Times have changed since
your ma was brought up fifteen or twenty years ago. I don't know what
they'll be twenty years from now when maybe you'll be a ma yourself."
"And maybe not!" laughed Gay, leaving the kitchen and going out into
the shady backyard, for his morning practise. Exercises were about to
commence when Lyman came into the yard.
"Game's off, Brown," said he.
"What's up?" asked Gay, anxiously.
"We were going to play the Plainvilles but their captain is off his
base and we'll have to put it off till Saturday or maybe Monday. We'll
let you know of course if you still think you'd like to come."
"Well, I should smile!"
Lyman laughed when this slang cameo fell from Gay's lips. "You are the
greatest girl I ever saw!" said he.
"I dare say I am," said Gay.
"And the nicest," said Lyman, thinking his first remark not very
complimentary. "You're not a bit like other girls; you're so square and
such sport. Are there any more like you in New York?"
"Lots," said Gay, thinking what fun it would be when Lyman found out
the truth. "I've a sister—we call her Brownie—she's twice as good as
I am. She is as square as a brick and full of fun. She isn't quite as
handy with her fists as I am, but she's quick, I can tell you! She can
swim like a fish, she can play a fine game of tennis, and she's just
the best girl going. You can't put her anywhere that she doesn't come
to time."
"She must be a daisy! How old is she?"
"About my age; I hope you'll see Brownie some day—you'd like her.
She——" Gay paused abruptly. How was it faring with that absent sister?
Well or ill? Well, of course, he reasoned, it was so easy to be a boy!
Easy for a boy, certainly, but at that very moment the little girl in
Cedarville was finding it exceedingly difficult to be a boy. While
Gay was the heroine of Hazelnook May was the hero of Cedarville, but
with what varying degrees of success and pleasure were their positions
attended. Gay was popular and happy; May was unhappy and in disgrace.
Their even exchange had not worked evenly.
"I must be off; I've got to work haying to-day," said Lyman.
"I'd love to work in a hay-field—to ride on a big rake, or do you use
the little ones with long handles?" asked Gay, with eager interest.
"Both; little and big horse rakes. They wouldn't let you come, would
they?" said Lyman, meaning the aunts by "they."
"I suppose not."
"If you can come I'll tell you the way. Keep right on past the post
office till you come to a big meadow—you'll see me there."
"I'll show up if I can."
"Some of the other fellows will be there and they will be glad to see
you. I'll tell you what it is, Brown, there isn't one of us but would
do anything for you, for there isn't another swell young miss in the
place that would have acted as you have right along."
"Drop the swell, can't you? There's only one kind of a swell worth
mentioning—the square one—and I'm not that. You wouldn't think so if
you knew me."
"You can deny it," said Lyman earnestly, "but you'd feel as we do if
you had lived in a country town all your life and no one looked at
you except they wanted some work done at Christmas or Easter or a
Sunday-school picnic, and then somebody that people thought a swell
should come and take you by the hand and treat you like—anybody. That's
what you did."
"I took you under the ear, first," remarked Gay.
This unfeminine, if playful, rejoinder did not disconcert Lyman. "Well,
wasn't that treating me like an equal?" he asked, triumphantly.
"I think I understand it. All the talk about being equal is bosh, I
think, but it is enough to make one act like sin to be treated as if
one was of no account. But you boys ought to brace up and show what you
call swells that you are better than they are. That's the way to get
even with such people; be really nicer than they are."
Lyman looked admiringly at Gay. "You'd make anybody try," said he, "I
never heard the minister say anything half as brightening-up like."
"What minister? The one that hangs out here all the time?"
"Yes."
"Of course he never said anything but his prayers! And I'll bet he
says them looking in the glass. Why, he doesn't know the boys in his
congregation—what kind of a father would a man be if he didn't know the
children in his family? And a congregation is just a large family,
that's all."
"But people say he's going to marry your Aunt Celia."
"That milk and water—mostly water—man? Not much, my boy! Aunt Celia's
head is too level for that."
When Lyman was gone away Gay wondered if the gossip about his aunt and
the minister was true. "If it is," he said to himself, "I'll never
call him uncle; not even to please Aunt Celia. When they ask me I'll
say—politely, of course, but so they'll know I mean it—'Do you think
I'll call him uncle? Not much!'"
It was not until afternoon that Gay had an opportunity to join his
friends in the hay-field. Once there he soon became the centre of
attraction; the boys clustered round and were so delightfully cordial
in their manners—Lyman had duly reported the conversation of the
morning—that Gay was quite overcome and felt like telling the truth
and having some kind of a real boy's game to knock the edge off their
compliments. He did so far forget himself as to suggest leap frog, but
the boys declined the honor, possibly from a sense of propriety. The
boys were occasionally surprised by the freedom of Gay's manner, but as
Robert said, later, when the subject was under discussion, "It isn't
altogether Brown's manners that we're stuck on; it's her friendliness
and because we know she is true blue."
Gay was introduced to the men in the fields, who showed their
appreciation of the supposed "she" by inviting her to ride on the load
of hay. Gay not only accepted the invitation but helped put the hay in
the stable-driver's barn. It was a charming afternoon and the youthful
haymakers enjoyed it.
"Making hay knocks spots out of parties!" said Gay. "I never had such
fun in my life."
Ethel Payne, her brother Ned, and the minister, of course, were on the
porch when Gay came home.
"Where have you been?" said Miss Linn. "We have looked everywhere for
you, dear."
"I've been helping Mr. Carver get his hay in. It was fun. I drank
molasses and water out of a stone jug and I got almost all of it in my
mouth; a little of it went down my neck, but not much."
The minister tried not to look disgusted; jolly Ethel tried not
to laugh; Ned tried not to stare; the aunts tried not to look
displeased—and all did precisely what they tried not to do.
"But you didn't ask permission, dear," said Miss Celia, reproachfully.
This sudden relapse into evil ways after the excellent behavior of
yesterday was mortifying to the lady.
"I know it, auntie," said Gay, stealing his arm around Miss Celia's
neck. "If I had asked permission you wouldn't have let me go."
Miss Celia smiled at this reasoning, and Ned and Ethel laughed.
"It must have been fun on the hay," said Ethel. "Mustn't it, Ned?"
"Yes, I'd have liked it myself," said Ned, graciously.
"Come with me to-morrow morning, won't you?" asked Gay. "Mr. Carver has
another load to get in and the boys would be glad to see you."
"I'm not sure of that," said Ned. "They are always firing stones at us
Academy fellows."
"What did you Academy boys do first? Something, I'll bet."
"May, you must try not to use slang," murmured Miss Linn.
"Uncle George says slang is picturesque English," laughed mischievous
Gay. "I try not to use it, for mother says she doesn't like too much of
it, but it slips in. It's such handy stuff, you always find it when you
want it, and sometimes when you don't, and that's more than you can say
of proper words. But, Ned, what have the Academy fellows done?"
"We may have called them a name or two," admitted Ned.
"And they answered with a stone about as hard as your name. Well, I
don't see much to choose between stones and names," said Gay.
"Perhaps not," said Ned. He was not insensible to Gay's reasoning, but
he was not quite ready to admit its truth.
"I fear, Miss May," began the minister, endeavoring to speak
pleasantly, although feeling an un-Christian desire to shake this
terrible child, "I fear that your parents would not approve of
your intimacy with these boys; they are uncultivated and otherwise
undesirable acquaintances."
"Excuse me, sir," said Gay, with exasperating politeness, "you said
you didn't know the boys; if you don't how do you know that they are
uncultivated and undesirable?"
"I know the class they represent," explained the minister, not without
impatience, for he did not like to be argued with by a child.
"If they are uncultivated I should think a good way to keep them so
would be for cultivated people to avoid knowing them," Gay said, slowly.
"I fear you are a hopeless radical, Miss May," the minister said with a
desire to bring the conversation to an end.
"Radical" was a new word to Gay, but he grasped its meaning after
a moment's thought. "I am afraid I am," said he, "if radical means
somebody who thinks one person should be treated as well as another."