A STRAW-RIDE
"Then, mother," said Marjorie, as she started for school next morning,
"you'll call on Mrs. Spencer this morning and ask her to let Delight go
on the straw-ride with us this afternoon. Will you, Mother, will you?"
"Yes, my Midget, I told you I would. But I doubt if she'll let the little
girl go."
"So do I, but you coax her. Good-bye, Mother."
With a kiss and a squeeze, Marjorie was off, swinging a strap-full of
books till they all tumbled on the ground, and then picking them up
again.
"I'll help you, Mops," said King, who had followed her down the path.
"What a tumble-bug you are!"
"Yes, I am. Say, King, do you believe Delight will go with us?"
"Don't know and don't care. She's a Flossy Flouncy, anyway. Too dressy
and fiddle-de-dee for me!"
"Oh, you don't know her. I think she's going to be real nice."
"All right. You can have her. Hi! there's Bunny Black; let's run."
Run they did, and Marjorie flew over the ground quite as fast as Kingdon
did.
"Hey, Bunny, wait a minute!" So Bunny waited, and then all three trudged
on to school; Marjorie in the middle, while they talked over the fun of
the coming sleigh-ride.
Mr. Adams, who was the father of Dorothy, Kitty's chum, took the young
people on a straw-ride every winter, if the sleighing happened to be
good just at the right time.
The trip was always made out to Ash Grove, the pleasant farm home of Mr.
Adams' aunt, and the old lady heartily welcomed the crowd of laughing
children that invaded her quiet abode.
After school, Marjorie and King and Kitty ran home to eat a hearty
luncheon, and get ready for the great event.
It was a perfect winter day; crisp, clear air, bright sunshine, fine
sleighing, and no wind.
"Mothery," called Marjorie, as she entered the house, "where are you?"
"Here I am, dear, in the library. Don't come a like a whirlwind."
"No'm. I'll come in like a gentle summer breeze," and Midget tripped
lightly in, waving her skirts as she side-stepped, and greeting her
mother with a low bow.
"What about Delight?" she asked, at once, "can she go?"
"Yes, she's going," answered Mrs. Maynard, "but I don't think her mother
wants her to go very much. I went over there this morning, and after
making my call on the lady, I delivered the invitation for the daughter.
Delight was most anxious to go, and coaxed her mother so hard, that Mrs.
Spencer finally said yes, though I'm sure it was against her will."
"Is Delight's cold well?"
"I think so, or her mother wouldn't let her go. She'll be more or less in
your charge, Marjorie, so do look after her, and don't be thoughtless and
heedless."
"How do you like Mrs. Spencer, Mother?"
"She's a very pleasant lady, my dear, and Delight is a beautiful child."
"Yes, isn't she pretty! I'm so glad she's going with us."
The straw-ride was of the real old-fashioned sort.
A big box-sleigh, well filled with clean straw, and with plenty of warm
robes, made a cosy nest for a dozen laughing children.
Except for Delight, the Maynards were the last ones to be picked up, and
when the jingling sleigh-bells and the chorus of voices was heard, they
ran out and were gaily greeted by the others.
"Hop in, Kitty; here, I'll help you. In you go, Midget!" and genial Mr.
Adams jumped the girls in, while King climbed over the side by himself.
Then Mr. Adams went back to his seat beside the driver, and they crossed
the street to call for Delight.
She was watching at the window, and came out as the sleigh drove up.
She was so bundled up in wraps and scarfs and veils, that they could
scarcely see her face at all, but Marjorie introduced her to the others,
and then Delight cuddled down in the straw close to Marjorie's side.
"Isn't it strange?" she whispered. "I never saw a sleigh before without
seats in it. Won't we fall out?"
"No, indeed!" answered King, heartily; "that's just what we won't do.
Unless when we strike a bump."
Just then they did "strike a bump," and Delight was almost frightened at
the jounce she received.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "it--it takes your breath away,--but--but I think
it's very nice."
"Plucky girl!" said King, and as that was the highest compliment he could
pay a girl, Marjorie felt a thrill of pleasure that King was going to
like Delight after all.
"I think you'd like it better without that awful thick veil over your
face," King went on. "You can't see the snow through that, can you?"
"No, I can't," said Delight, and she pulled off her veil, leaving her
roseleaf face, with its crown of golden curls exposed to view. A hood of
white swansdown was tied under her chin with white ribbons, and her
smile, though shy, was very sweet.
"That's better!" cried King, approvingly. "Now we can see what you say.
Whoo-oo!!"
King blew a sudden blast on a tin horn which he drew from his pocket, and
as all the boys in the sleigh, and some of the girls did the same, the
noise was deafening.
Delight looked startled, and no wonder, but Marjorie reassured her by
saying:
"Don't let that scare you. It's the signal that we've crossed the city
limits. They always toot when we cross the line. I don't, 'cause I hate
to blow a horn, and anyway, there's noise enough without me."
"I should say there was!" said Delight, for the boys were still tooting
now and then, and there was gay laughter and shouting.
"Haven't you ever been on a straw-ride before?" asked Ethel Frost, who
sat the other side of Delight.
"No, I never have. I've always lived in the city."
"Stuck-up!" thought Ethel, but she said nothing. It was a peculiar but
deep-seated notion among the Rockwell children, that any one from the
city would look down on them and their simple pleasures, and they
foolishly, but none the less strongly resented it.
And so, poor Delight had unwittingly said the worst thing she could say
by way of her own introduction.
"Do you like the city best?" said Harry Frost, who sat opposite the
girls.
"I don't know yet," said Delight, honestly; "it's all so different here."
This was not helping matters, and Harry only said "Huh!" and turned to
talk to King.
Ethel, too, seemed uninterested in the city girl, and as Marjorie felt
herself, in a way, responsible for the little stranger, she spoke up,
loyally:
"Of course she can't tell yet, but of course she will like Rockwell as
soon as she gets more used to it, and if she doesn't like the Rockwell
boys and girls, it'll be their own fault. So there, now!"
"I do like them," said Delight, with her shy little smile; "and I think I
can get used to those awful horns that they blow."
"Good for you, Flossy Flouncy!" cried King, and the nickname so suited
the pretty, dainty little girl, that it clung to her ever after.
But though she tried, Delight couldn't seem to adopt the ways of
the other children. They were a hearty, rollicking crowd, full of
good-natured chaff, and boisterous nonsense, and Delight, who had
lived much alone, was bewildered at their noise and fun.
But she slipped her hand from her pretty white muff, and tucked it into
Marjorie's, who gave her a squeeze that meant sympathy and encouragement.
Midget was beginning to realize that the more she saw of Delight, the
better she liked her. And the brave way in which the little girl met the
coolness and indifference that were shown her, roused Marjorie's sense of
justice, and she at once began to stand up for her.
And when Marjorie Maynard stood up for anybody, it meant a great deal to
the youthful population of Rockwell. For Midget was a general favorite,
and since Gladys was gone there were several girls who would gladly have
stepped into her place in Marjorie's affections. They had begged to share
her desk at school, but Midget didn't want any one to do that, so she
still sat alone each day.
And now, she had this new girl under her wing, and she was beginning to
make it felt that she was Delight's champion, and the others could act
accordingly.
"Do you like coasting?" said Ethel Frost, as they passed a fine hill
dotted with boys and girls and sleds.
"Yes, I love it!" replied Delight, her blue eyes sparkling as she watched
the sleds fly downhill.
"Why, Flossy Flouncy!" cried King; "you couldn't go coasting! I don't
believe you've ever tried it!"
"I never did but once," said Delight, "and then the hill wasn't very
good, but it was fun. I'd love to go on a hill like that."
"Would your mother let you?" said Marjorie doubtfully.
"No, I don't believe she would. But I'd coax her till she had to."
"That's right," said King. "We'll go to-morrow, and then you'll see what
real coasting is."
It was not a very long ride to their destination, and at last the sleigh
turned in at a farm entrance and passed through a long winding avenue of
trees to the house.
It was an old yellow farmhouse, big and capacious, and in the doorway
stood a smiling-faced little old lady awaiting them.
This was Miss Adams, Dorothy's grand-aunt, and called Auntie Adams by all
the children who visited her. They all tumbled out of the sleigh, and ran
laughing into the house.
Each was greeted by Miss Adams, and cries of "Where's Ponto?" and "Oh,
here's Polly!" and "Hello, Tabby," were heard.
"This is Delight Spencer," said Marjorie, as she presented her to Miss
Adams; "she's a new friend of mine, and Mr. Adams said I might bring
her."
"I'm very glad to see you, my dear," said Miss Adams, kissing the wistful
little face; "you are welcome to the old farm."
"I've never seen a farmhouse before," said Delight, as she glanced round
at the old mahogany furniture and brass candlesticks shining in the
firelight from the big fireplace; "and, oh, isn't it beautiful!"
Miss Adams was much pleased at this honest compliment to her old home,
and she patted Delight's shoulder, as she said: "I'm sure we shall be
great friends, you and I. Run away now, with Marjorie, and lay off your
wraps in the north bedroom."
The girls went up the short turning staircase, and into a quaint
old-fashioned bedroom, with four-poster bed, chintz hangings, and fine
old carved furniture.
"Isn't it strange?" said Delight, looking about. "I suppose the ladies
who used to live here are dead and gone. I mean, the old ancestors of
Miss Adams. Let's play we're them, Marjorie. You be Priscilla and I'll be
Abigail."
"Not very pretty names," said Midget, doubtfully.
"Oh, yes, they are. I'll call you Prissy and you call me Abby. I'll be
knitting, and you can be spinning on that spinning-wheel."
The others had gone downstairs, but forgetting all about them, Delight
sat herself stiffly in one of the high-backed old chairs, and knitted
industriously, with invisible yarn and only her own slender little
fingers for needles.
Always ready for make-believe play Marjorie sat at the
spinning-wheel,--on the wrong side, to be sure, but that didn't matter.
"Are you going to the ball at Squire Harding's?" said Delight, in a prim
voice.
"Yes, that I am," said Marjorie. "Half the county will be there. I shall
wear my blue brocade, with collar of pearls."
"How fair thou wilt look! I have but my crimson taffeta turned and made
over. But I have a new wimple."
"What is a wimple, Delight?"
"I don't know exactly, but they wore them once. We're not sisters you
know, I'm just calling on you; I'm quite poor. Ah, Prissy, I would I
could achieve a new gown for the ball. My lady Calvert will be there, and
she is of the quality, forsooth."
"Aye, Abby, but thou art more beautiful in thy ragged garb, than she in
her stiff satins."
"Sayest thou so? Thou dost but flatter. But among all my noble ancestors,
the Adamses, there was never a woman aught but fair; or a man aught but
brave!"
Delight said this in a high, stilted voice, and as she sat primly in the
straight-backed old chair, knitting away at nothing, she presented a
funny, attractive little picture.
Miss Adams, who had come in search of the girls, paused at the door, and
heard Delight's words.
"You dear child!" she cried; "you dramatic small person! What are you two
doing?"
"We fell to playing, Miss Adams," said Marjorie, "and we forgot to go
downstairs."
"We couldn't help it," supplemented Delight. "This old room and dear old
furniture just made me think I really was a Colonial Dame, so we played
we were."
"You're a treasure!" said Miss Adams, clasping Delight in her arms. "As
for Midget, here, she's always been my treasure, too. I think some day
you two little girls must come and visit me, all by yourselves, will
you?"
"Yes, indeed we will."
"But now, come downstairs, and join the games down there."
Down they went, and found the gay party playing Fox and Geese.
Marjorie was an adaptable nature, and equally well pleased with any game,
so she flung herself into the circle, and ran about as gaily as any one.
But Delight shrank away from the frolic, and asked to be allowed to look
on.
"No, indeed, Flossy Flouncy!" cried Harry Frost. "You must play our
games, if you want us to like you. Come on, we won't hurt you."
"Come on in, the water's fine!" called King, and Delight reluctantly took
the place assigned her.
She tried to do as the others did, but long practice had made them alert
and skillful, while she was inexperienced at such sports. She became
bewildered at the quick changes of position, and as a result was soon
caught, and had to be the "Fox."
Then the situation was hopeless, for it was impossible for Delight to
catch any of the quick-witted and quick-moving "geese," who darted in and
out, tapping her shoulder, when she should have tapped theirs, and
teasing her for being slow.
They were not intentionally rude, these gay-spirited young people, but a
girl who couldn't play Fox and Geese seemed to them a justifiable butt
for ridicule. Determined to succeed, Delight ran from one to another,
arriving just too late every time. The unfamiliar exercise wearied her,
her cheeks glowed pink with mortification at her repeated failures, and
her breath came quickly, but she was plucky and kept up her brave
efforts.
Kingdon saw this, and admired the spirit she showed.
"Look here, Flossy Flouncy," he said, not unkindly, "you've been Fox long
enough; now I'll be Fox, and you sit down on the sofa and get rested."
Delight looked at him gratefully, and without a word she went and sat on
the sofa and Miss Adams came and sat by her and put her arm round the
trembling child. Soon after this, the game was stopped because supper was
announced.
Delight sat between Marjorie and King, and though she ate but little she
enjoyed seeing the delicious country viands that were served.
Little chicken pies, a whole one to each person; flaky biscuits, and
golden butter; home-made ice cream and many sorts of home-made cakes and
jellies and preserves. The hungry children disposed of an enormous
quantity of these pleasant things, but Miss Adams was not surprised at
their appetites, for this was an annual experience with her.
After supper, they sang songs. Miss Adams sat at her old-fashioned square
piano, and played some well-known songs in which they all joined.
"I heard a song on a phonograph, the other day," said Harry Frost; "it
was about a bonnie lassie. Do you know that, Miss Adams?"
"No, dear boy, I don't. I'm sorry. Can't you sing it without the piano?"
"No, I don't know it. But I'd like to hear it again."
"I know it," said Delight, timidly. "If you want me to, I'll sing it."
She looked so shy and sweet, that there was nothing forward about her
offer, merely a desire to please.
"Do, my dear," said Miss Adams, giving her place to the child.
Delight sat down at the piano, and striking a few chords, began: "I know
a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie," and sang it through in a sweet,
childish voice.
"That's it!" cried Harry, as she finished. "Jiminy! but you're a singer,
all right."
There was much applause, and requests for more songs, but Delight,
overcome by attracting so much attention, turned bashful again and
couldn't be persuaded to sing any more.
However, it was time to go home, so they all bundled into their wraps
again, and clambered into the sleigh.
Delight was quiet all the way home, and sat with her hand clasped close
in Marjorie's.
"Good-night," she whispered, as she got out at her own house.
"Good-night, Marjorie dear. I thank you for a pleasant time, but I don't
believe I want to go again."
"Oh, yes, you will," Marjorie whispered back. "Don't be so easily
discouraged."