EARLY IN THE MORNING
At six o'clock on Thursday morning Sue was up and scanning the clouds.
There were not many clouds to scan; the sun was rising bright and
glorious in a wonderful blue sky.
"It's going to be a perfectly splendid day!" said Sue. "I must call
Mary. I don't believe she is awake. Oh, I'll send a pigeon; that's
just what I'll do. It will be lovely to be waked up by a pigeon this
glorious morning; and I have to feed them, anyhow, because I said I
would. I am never going to forget the pigeons again--never! The next
time I do, I shall go without food for two days, and see how _I_ like
it."
Sue dashed into her dress, buttoned it half-way up, and rushed
headlong down the stairs and through the kitchen. Katy, the maid of
all work, was crossing the floor with a brimming pan of milk. Crash!
Sue ran directly into her. The pan fell with a mighty splash; the milk
flew over both Katy and Sue, wetting them from head to feet.
"Indade, then, Miss Sue, 'tis too bad of yez entirely!" cried Katy.
"And laughin', too, after sp'ilin' me gown and desthroyin' me clane
flure, let alone all the milk in the house gone."
"Oh, but, Katy, if you knew how funny you look, with the white milk
all over your red face! I can't help laughing; I truly can't. And my
dress is spoiled too, you see, so it's all right. I can't stop now;
I'm in the most terrible hurry!"
She flew on, but popped her head back through the door to say:
"But I am sorry, Katy; I truly am! And if you'll just leave the milk
there, I'll pick it up--I mean wipe it up--just as soon as I get back
from the picnic."
Her smile was so irresistible that Katy's angry face softened in spite
of herself.
"Sure it's merely a child she is," the good woman said. "Miss Lily's
twice the sinse of her, but yet 'tis her takes the heart of one!"
She brought the mop and wiped up the milk, then went soberly to change
her dress, wondering how the mistress would make her breakfast without
the milk-toast which was usually all she could fancy in the morning.
Sue had already forgotten the milk. She ran on across the yard, where
the dew lay thick and bright, to a small building that stood under a
spreading apple-tree. It had been a shed once, and its general effect
was still, Sue admitted, "a little sheddy"; but the door was very
fine, being painted a light pea-green, the panels picked out with
scarlet, and having a really splendid door-plate of bright tin, with
"S. PENROSE" in black letters. Some white pigeons sat on the roof
sunning themselves, and they fluttered down about the girl's head as
she tried the door.
"Dear me!" said Sue. "How stupid of me to lock the door last night! I
might have known I should forget the key this morning. Never mind; I
can get in at the window."
She could, and did; but, catching her dress on a nail, tore a long,
jagged rent in the skirt.
"Dear me!" said Sue, again. "And I don't believe there is another
clean one, since I spilt the ink last night. Never mind!"
Sue ran up the narrow stairs, and, crossing a landing, entered a tiny
room, papered with gay posters. There was plenty of room for the
little table and two chairs, and if a third person should come in she
could sit on the table. A narrow shelf ran all round the room. This
was the Museum, and held specimens of every bird's nest in the
neighboring country (all old nests; if Sue had caught any one robbing
a nest, or stealing a new one, it would have gone hard with that
person), and shells and fossils from the clay bank near the river. The
boys played "Prehistoric Man" there a good deal, and sometimes they
let Sue and Mary join them, which was great glory. Then there was
smoked glass for eclipses (Sue smoked them after the last eclipse, a
year ago, so as to be ready for the next one; but the next one was
only the moon, which was tiresome, because you didn't need smoked
glass), and a dried rattlesnake, and a portrait of Raphael framed in
lobster-claws. Sue did not look at these treasures now, because she
knew they were all there; but if any "picknickle or bucknickle" had
been missing, she would have known it in an instant. Flinging herself
into a chair, she hunted for a piece of paper; found one, but rejected
it in favor of a smooth, thin sheet of birch bark, on which she wrote
as follows:
"DEAREST JULIET: It is the east, and thou art the sun, and it's
time to get up. I pray thee, wake, sweet maid! This white bird,
less snowy than thy neck, bears thee my morning greeting. Do
hurry up and dress! Isn't this day perfectly fine? Sha'n't we
have a glorious picnic? What are you going to wear? My cake is
just lovely! I burned the first one, so this isn't angel, it's
buttercup, because I had to take the yolks. Star of my night,
send back a message by the bird of love to thy adored
"ROMEO."
Hastily folding the note into a rather tipsy cocked hat, Sue opened a
little door upon a ladder-like staircase, and called: "Coo! coo!
coo!"
Down fluttered the pigeons, a dozen or more, and taking one in her
hands, she fastened a note to a bit of ribbon that hung round its
neck.
"There!" she said. "Oh, you dear darlings! I must give you your corn
before I do another thing."
The corn was in a little covered bin on the landing at the head of the
stairs. This landing was called the anteroom, and was fully as large
as a small table-cloth. Sue scattered the corn with a free hand, and
the pigeons cooed, and scrambled for it as only pigeons can. She kept
one good handful to feed the messenger bird, and several others
perched on her shoulders and thrust their soft heads into her hand.
"Dear things!" said Sue, again. "Zuleika, do you love me? Do you,
Leila and Hassan? Oh, I wonder if I look like Lili, in the Goethe
book! If I were only tall, and had a big white hat and a long white
gown with ruffles, I think perhaps--"
She stopped short, for a voice was calling from below: "Sue, Sue,
where are you?"
Sue's face, which had been as bright as Lili's own, fell.
"Oh, Mary Hart!" she cried. "How could you?"
"How could I what?" and Mary's rosy face looked up from the foot of
the staircase.
"Why, I supposed you were still sound asleep, and I was just going to
send a pigeon over. See! The note is all fastened on; and it's a Romeo
note, too; and now you have spoiled it all!"
"Not a bit!" said Mary, cheerfully. "I'll run right back, Sue. I am
only walking in my sleep. Look! see me walk!"
She stretched her arms out stiffly, and stalked away, holding her head
high and staring straight in front of her. Sue observed her
critically.
"You're doing it more like Lady Macbeth than Juliet!" she called after
her. "But still it's fine, Mary, only you ought to glare harder, I
think. Mind you stay asleep till the pigeon comes. It's Abou Hassan
the wag" (the pigeons were named out of the "Arabian Nights"), "so you
might give him a piece of apple, if you like, Juliet."
"No apples in Verona at this season!" said Juliet, in a sleep-walking
voice (which is a loud, sepulchral monotone, calculated to freeze the
blood of the listener). "I don't suppose hard-boiled egg would hurt
him!" Then she snored gently, and disappeared round the corner.
"That was clever of Mary," said Sue. "I wish I walked in my sleep
really and truly, like that funny book Mr. Hart has about Sylvester
Sound. It would be splendid to be able to walk over the housetops and
never fall, and never know anything about it till you woke up and
found yourself somewhere else. And then, in that opera Mamma told me
about, she walked right out of the window, and all kinds of things
happened. It must be dreadfully exciting. But if I did walk in my
sleep, I would always go to bed with my best dress on, only I'd have
my feet bare and my hair down. Dear me! There's that gray cat, and I
know she is after my pigeons! Just wait a minute, you cat!"
Sue dismissed the pigeons gently, and they fluttered obediently up to
their cote, while she ran downstairs. Sure enough, a wicked-looking
gray cat was crouching on a branch of the apple-tree, watching with
hungry eyes the few birds that had remained on the roof. The cat did
not see Sue, or, at all events, took no notice of her. Sue slipped
round to the farther side of the tree and began to climb up silently.
It was an easy tree to climb, and she knew every knob and knot that
was comfortable for the foot to rest on. Soon she was on a level with
the roof of the pigeon-house, and, peeping round the bole, saw the
lithe gray body flattened along the bough, and the graceful,
wicked-looking tail curling and vibrating to and fro. The pretty,
stupid pigeons cooed and preened their feathers, all unconscious of
the danger; another minute, and the fatal spring would come. Sue saw
the cat draw back a little and stiffen herself. She sprang forward
with a shout, caught the branch, missed it--and next moment Sue and
cat were rolling on the ground together in a confused heap. Poor pussy
(who could not understand why she might not have pigeons raw, when
other people had them potted) fled, yowling with terror, and never
stopped till she was under the kitchen stove, safe from bright-eyed,
shouting avalanches. Sue picked herself up more slowly, and rubbed her
head and felt for broken bones.
"I _won_'t have broken anything," she said, "and spoil the picnic. Ow!
that hurts; but I can wiggle it all right. I'll put some witch-hazel
on it. My head seems to be a little queer!" Indeed, a large lump was
already "swellin' wisibly" on her forehead. "Never mind!" said Sue.
"I'll put arnica on that, and vinegar and brown paper and things;
perhaps it'll be all right by breakfast-time; and anyhow, I drove off
the cat!" And she shook herself, and went cheerfully into the house.
Punctually at nine o'clock the three girls met on the door-step of the
Penrose house, each carrying her basket. They were a curious contrast
as they stood side by side. Clarice Packard was gaily dressed in a
gown of figured challis, trimmed with rows on rows of ribbon, and a
profusion of yellow lace. Her vast hat was tilted on one side, and her
light hair was tormented into little flat curls that looked as if they
were pinned on, though this was not the case. She had on a brooch, a
gold chain, a locket, seven charms, five "stick-pins," four hat-pins,
three bracelets, and eight rings; and, as Mary said to herself, she
was "a sight to behold." If Clarice, on the other hand, had been asked
to describe Mary, she would probably have called her a red-faced
dowdy. As a rule, people did not think Mary Hart pretty; but every one
said, "What a _nice_-looking girl!" And, indeed, Mary was as pleasant
to look at as clear red and white--and freckles!--could make her, with
the addition of a very sweet smile, and a pair of clear, honest,
sensible blue eyes. Her brown holland frock was made in one piece,
like a child's pinafore, and, worn with a belt of russet leather, made
a costume of such perfect comfort that she and Sue had vowed to keep
to it till they were sixteen, if their mothers would let them. Sue
was not in brown holland to-day, because she had torn her last clean
pinafore dress, as we have seen; but the blue gingham sailor-suit did
well enough, and the blouse was very convenient to put apples in, or
anything else from a tame squirrel to a bird's nest. Just now it held
a cocoanut and some bananas that would not go into the basket, and
that gave the light, fly-away figure a singular look indeed.
But Sue's bright face was clouded just now. She stood irresolute,
swinging her basket, and looking from one to the other of her
companions.
"Mother says we must take Lily!" she announced in a discontented tone.
"I don't see how we can be bothered with having her. She'll want to
know everything we are talking about, and we sha'n't have half so much
fun."
Clarice looked sympathetic. "Children are such a nuisance!" she said,
and shrugged her shoulders. "Seems to me they ought to know when they
are not wanted."
"Nonsense, Sue!" said Mary, ignoring the last speech. "Of course we
will take Lily; she'll be no trouble at all, and she will help a good
deal with the wreaths and baskets. I'll see to her," she added, a
little pang of bitterness mingling with one of self-reproach. She had
not always wanted to take Lily when she and Sue were together. They
always had so much to say to each other that was extremely important,
and that no one else could possibly understand, that a third in the
party, and that third a child of nine, seemed sadly in the way. Now,
however, all was changed. Somehow, it was herself who was the third.
Perhaps Lily's presence would be a relief to-day.
Presently the little girl came running out, all beaming with delight
at being allowed to go on the big girls' picnic.
"Mother has given me a whole bottle of raspberry shrub!" she announced
joyfully.
"Hurrah!" cried Sue, her face brightening again. "We can have toasts,
and that will be splendid. Now let's start, girls! Come, Clarice. Let
me carry your basket; it's heavy, and I can carry two just as well as
one."
"Start!" echoed Clarice. "We are not going to walk, are we?"
[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC.]
"Why, yes," said Sue, looking a little blank. "Don't you--aren't you
fond of walking, Clarice? We always walk, Mary and I."
"Oh, certainly; I adore walking. Only, if I had known, Puppa would
have sent the team for us. Is it far?" And Clarice glanced down at her
shoes, with their paper soles and high heels.
"No," said Sue, cheerily. "Only a little bit of a way, not more than a
mile. Oh, Clarice, what a lovely brooch that is! Won't you tell me
about it as we go along? I am sure there is a story about it; there's
something so exciting about all your things. Do tell me."
Clarice simpered and cast down her eyes, then cast a significant
glance at the others. She took Sue's arm, and they walked on together,
one listening eagerly, the other evidently pouring out some romantic
story. Mary took Lily's hand in hers.
"Come, Lily," she said; "we will go together, and I'll tell you a
story as we go. What one would you like? 'Goosey, Gobble, and
Ganderee'? Very well!" But to herself Mary was saying: "I don't
believe that girl ever walked a mile in her life. We shall have to
carry her before we get to the Glen!"