AN AFTERNOON'S FUN
If the writer of these veracious chronicles knows anything about
boys--and he has been accused of having that knowledge--he is sure
that his boy readers, and his girl readers, too, for that matter, will
expect an account of that famous farmhouse dinner. Well, we can not
delay the story by merely describing what people eat; yet it was a
gorgeous feast for our friends. The enjoyment was greatly enhanced by
the complete unexpectedness of it all. Not the least part of this
enjoyment was the hearty, extraordinary welcome given to a troop of
boys who had never been to the house before and were entire strangers
to the good people who entertained them so royally.
A few minutes after two o'clock the farmer took from a shelf in the
common living-room a large seashell and went to the porch and sounded
it lustily, much to the astonishment of George McLeod, who had never
seen a shell put to such a use before.
"How did you do it?" he asked.
"Just blew into it. Try it yourself," said the farmer. McLeod tried
and tried again, but could not produce a sound.
"What is it for?" he inquired.
"To call the hands to dinner. We have no bells or whistles out here in
the country, so we use a horn, or a big shell, which is the next best
thing, and I believe it sounds farther. On a still day I have heard
this shell five miles away."
"Come, boys; wash for dinner," called the motherly housekeeper. They
were not allowed in the kitchen while the maids were dishing the
dinner. They were taken to a side porch and there shown a rain-barrel
and several tin pans and soap. A large round towel hung on a nail
close by. The boys enjoyed this primitive method of performing their
ablutions.
The dinner was a surprise even to those boys who were not unused to
occasional big dinners at home. George McLeod said that never in his
life had he seen so large a turkey, but it was found none too large
after it had passed the guests and traveled to the end of the table.
And the stuffed ham! And the mince pies, and tarts, and rosy apples
and nuts, and that old-fashioned plum-pudding! Well, we must stop: it
is not fair.
There were two wings in the rear of the house which the boys had not
noticed when descending the hill in front of the dwelling. To one of
these all the maids of the large household retired after dinner, and
the farmhands went to the other, where they spent the rest of the
afternoon in smoking and enjoyment until it was time to feed and water
the stock, milk the cows, and do the other necessary daily farm
chores.
Roy Henning and his companions, after the dinner, were invited to sit
around the blazing yule log. The old lady sat in the center of the
group in an old-fashioned armchair whose back reached some twelve
inches above her head, and which had large, broad, comfortable arms.
It was well padded and comfortable, and was covered with a serviceable
chintz of a soft green color. She sat in the midst of her guests,
before the blazing logs, a very picture of content and matronly
dignity. Her husband sat next to her, and their guests were arranged
on either side.
With fine tact she drew out each boy and made him appear at his best.
Although, owing to the generous welcome given them, all reserve and
bashfulness had vanished long before the dinner, yet the coziness of a
winter afternoon indoors made them chatty and even confidential. They
told her of the play the night before and of its success. They found
interested listeners in host and hostess.
"I should so like to have been there," said the old lady. "I am so
fond of good dramatic productions. Providing the tone is correct there
is no more elevating form of amusement than the drama."
"Hold on there, mother," said the husband, "grand opera is finer. In
that we get all that dramatic presentation gives, with the addition of
excellent music."
"You know, my dears," said Mrs. Thorncroft, for that was the old
lady's name, "my husband is an enthusiast in matters musical."
"So is Ernie Winters," said his friend George McLeod.
"Is that so?" said Mr. Thorncroft, enthusiastically. "Is that so?
Well, well! Now I wonder, mother, whether these young gentlemen could
not sing some songs for us. Wouldn't that be fine, eh?"
"Jack Beecham can sing, ma'am," said George again.
"Oh! you keep quiet, youngster," said Jack.
"I won't. He sings first rate, sir."
"Capital! Anybody else?"
"Yes," said Beecham, "George McLeod there, who is so fond of getting
other people into difficulty, can sing, too."
McLeod shook his fist at Jack. But it was well known that he had a
good voice.
Then, to the infinite delight of the musical farmer, songs and glees
and madrigals and rounds were sung. It was an impromptu concert, but
of no mean order, for the lads were well trained and had a good stock
of songs. They wished, properly, to make a return in some way for the
kindly treatment they had received and were still receiving. "Holy
Night" was given, and "Good King Wenceslaus," and "God Rest You, Merry
Gentlemen," "Angels We Have Seen and Heard," and many others. Then
followed the college songs, and the concert was closed with the old
favorite of St. Cuthbert's, the "O Sanctissima."
When the singing had ceased there was a momentary silence, during which
the six boys exchanged signals and glances. Suddenly there were two very
startled people in the company around the ingle nook. The old lady half
arose from her chair in consternation and amazement. Her husband stared
in wonder when he heard such a vociferous and unexpected sound. Had the
boys gone crazy? Certainly the old people, kind and hospitable as they
were, for at least one minute thought so. Such an unearthly noise! It
resembled nothing so much as a wild Indian warcry.
After all it was only the college yell.
In the school-days of Mr. and Mrs. Thorncroft no such thing had ever
been dreamed of. Living now in seclusion out in the country amid plenty
and a certain rustic refinement, this elderly couple had never heard
that modern accomplishment of a college man--the yell. It may be
exhilarating to the college man; its use may be within the modern bounds
of propriety, and it may, among the coteries of the more advanced, be
considered the correct thing; but it is certain that the old lady, who
had been educated in a French convent in her youth, hearing the yell
for the first time did not think so. Her unformulated idea, judging from
her looks, was that it was an indication of atavism--a going back, in
one particular--to man's former state of savagery.
The boys were amused at her surprise. She then saw that it was something
done for her entertainment. They evidently thought it was something very
fine. These lads lacked, just now, what one may call perspective. They
lacked the proper appreciation of the correctness, or fitness, of
things. They knew the college yell was the most enthusing thing on earth
to them when used on the campus in a grand rush to victory, but they did
not think, or realize, that the same yell given in a small room might be
startling and even offensive to an elderly lady.
"You must excuse me now, boys, for a little while," said the farmer.
"I must go and look after my men. I will be back soon. Mother"--he
always called his wife by that name--"are all the walnuts gone?"
"No. Dear me! I never thought about them. I will get some."
She returned with a large dish of walnut and hickory nuts. In lieu of
the usual table nut-crackers she brought a flat stone and two hammers.
While the boys were busy cracking and eating nuts she said:
"You do not know, my children, what an unexpected pleasure your visit
has been to me. Would you like to know the reason? Very well, I will
tell you," she seated herself comfortably again in her green
chintz-covered chair.
"I love boys because somewhere in the world there are wandering two of
my own dear children. Both left home when they were about the age of you
four big boys, and I love to remember them as such even now. They were
fine lads, with rosy healthy cheeks, and they were good. You lads with
your bright eyes and clear skins, and good pure faces make me see my own
two darlings once again. Do I long to see them? Ah, yes. Oh, how much,
how much!--once again before I die. But I am not grieving about them.
No. Every night I commend them to the keeping of our blessed Mother, and
I feel that wherever they may be a mother's prayers for them must be
heard. I am sure that Our Lady is taking care of them."
"Why did they leave home?" asked Henning sympathetically.
"Ah! the wanderlust. The desire to see the world. But you boys must
come and see me again and I will tell you the story. There is no time
now, as I see my husband coming from the cattle-shed."
"Mother!" said the cheery voice of Roland Thorncroft a moment later,
as he opened the door, "would not these young gentlemen like a good
skate on the meadow pond? It has been swept by the wind, and is
capital ice."
Jack Beecham looked at his watch. It was already four o'clock.
"We are thankful," he said, "but I am afraid we must do without that
pleasure. It is quite time we started for home."
Husband looked at wife. She nodded, and then he nodded. Something was
settled between them.
"Don't you like skating, boys? I thought you did, seeing each had a
pair of skates along."
"Very much, sir," said Tom Shealey, "but we must be starting now."
"Come along, then. Bring your skates. There is no wind and it is not
nearly as cold as it was this morning. You will not want your
top-coats."
The boys looked puzzled. The host saw the look of mystification on
their faces. He burst into a merry laugh.
"You simple children!" he said, as soon as he could. "Do you think
that after being our guests all day, and singing for us as you have
done, we are going to let you walk home! No, no. You just get your
skates and come along with me. I'll show you the finest piece of ice
in the country. You can skate there for an hour or an hour and a half.
By that time coffee will be ready, eh, mammy? And a bobsleigh. We are
going to have just the finest, most musical sleighride this evening
you ever saw, or heard. You had better come along, mother, too."
"Really, I have half a mind to."
"Do, do, do, Mrs. Thorncroft; do, do!" chorused the boys.
"I will see by the time you return for supper."
When the time came for starting, however, she decided to stay at home.
She had prepared a lunch for the journey, for there was no time now
for a formal supper. After each boy had taken a bowl of steaming
coffee, she bade them adieu. Such handshakings! Such good-byes! The
jolly lads subdued their merriment momentarily when she kissed each
one a farewell on the brow. It was a beautiful moment in each one's
life and was never forgotten by any of them.
They had a glorious ride in the moonlight and the frost. And so it
happened that six merry boys came joyously into the college yard at
about seven o'clock, happy, tired, excited, and chattering like
magpies about the unexpected good time they had enjoyed.
"I am glad the plan worked," said Mr. Shalford to himself. The boys
never learned that the dinner at Thorncroft's was a prearranged
affair. As soon as he had decided to send Henning and his companions
out for a day's change, the prefect had told one of the farmhands to
get a fast horse and arrange with the Thorncrofts for the boys'
entertainment. He had suggested to Tom Shealey and Jack Beecham the
best route to take without arousing their suspicions, and everything
had happened just as he had planned. Some men are positively ingenious
in their charity.