THE RETURN OF THE CHILDREN
We had a great surprise this morning. I can't help thinking it over as I
sit here this evening on the feather bed, my body half asleep, but my
mind awake and lively.
It was just about dinner time—that is, the early, noon dinner of the
Gleasons—Slyboots and I were on the upper veranda. Serena was in here in
this closet on the feather bed. She feels so terribly about her
experiences of last night at the mole-hunt that I have not been able to
get her to budge out of the house all day.
Well, Slyboots and I heard carriage wheels and looked down. There was a
stout-looking woman driving a big horse harnessed to a double-seated
express wagon in which sat beside herself three children. I knew that
they must be the Gleason children coming home, so I got up and looked
curiously through the veranda railing.
Yes, there they were, the two little boys, and the little girl and their
aunt. Mrs. Gleason ran out of the house and kissed her children, and
Mary and her mother came out too.
My dear little mistress was greatly excited. I knew that she was, by the
way she looked from her mother to the children. She was longing to go
and speak to them, and presently Mrs. Denville took her hand, and led
her forward.
The two boys were the queerest little fellows I ever saw. There is only
a year's difference between their ages, and they look almost like twins.
Timothy and Robert are their names. The girl is a little witch. Her name
is Della. The two boys are prim and proper like two little old men. They
keep together nearly all the time. The girl is flying about by herself
all over the place. I fancied at first that Mary would like the little
boys better than the little girl, but now I am beginning to think I was
mistaken.
As soon as the aunt arrived this morning, her sister-in-law, Mrs.
Gleason, said: “You will, of course, put your horse out.”
The fat woman nodded, and Mrs. Gleason went in the house and blew the
dinner horn twice. That meant Denno, and he soon came running to take
the aunt's horse to the stable. Then all the grown people went inside,
and Mary and the little Gleasons stood staring at each other.
“Those your dogs?” inquired the little girl, pointing to Mona and Dolly.
Mary nodded her head.
“Got any more animals?” inquired Della.
“Yes, some cats and birds,” replied Mary.
“Let's see 'em,” returned Della with a commanding air, and Mary led the
way up-stairs.
“I'm not going to be mauled by strange children,” said Slyboots, and she
fled. I stood my ground, and presently they all trooped out on the
veranda.
The little girl gave a squeal when she saw my long hair. The boys said
never a word, but they both stroked me gently.
“Say,” remarked Della, “let's go see our own critters.”
Forgetting all about the birds, for which the canaries would be truly
thankful, for they hate strangers, the children rushed down-stairs, and
I came more slowly behind with Mary.
“Why don't you go faster?” inquired Della rebukingly, as she waited for
us in the kitchen doorway.
Mary blushed furiously. “I can't,” she said. “I have a weak back.”
“Turn round,” said the little girl peremptorily, “let me see it!”
Oh! how angry I was. I could have scratched her. Her request, or
command, seemed so brutal when I thought of the sensitiveness of my dear
little mistress.
I heard Mary making a choking sound in her throat. However, she did as
she was told, and then Della who, if rough, is at heart a very kind
child, did a very nice thing.
She passed her hand swiftly but gently up and down Mary's back, then she
turned her round again and throwing her arms about her neck she kissed
her heartily and said, “I'm sorry.”
The two boys stared hard at the girls, then, by common consent, they all
walked slowly instead of running to the barn. Della put her arm round
Mary's waist. It had not taken them long to get acquainted. My dear
little mistress' face just beamed, and I saw that she would like these
children.
When we reached the barn, Della went straight to the grain room. There
she filled the pockets of her blue cotton dress with oats and cracked
corn. Then she led the way to the horse stalls. Oh! how glad the horses
were to see those children. They stretched their heads over the door and
neighed and whinnied and Della and the boys rubbed and hugged them. As
for the pony, he almost went crazy, and coolly opening the door of his
stall, Della let him out. He followed her just like a dog, occasionally
putting his nose over her shoulder to sniff at the oats in her hand.
The cows were all out to pasture. Della unfastened the calves, and let
them play a little about the barn floor. I never saw such extraordinary
antics in any young creatures. They were so awkward with their legs and
heads—Mary laughed till the tears came in her eyes. After a while Della
fastened up the calves, said, “Come on!” and, going out-of-doors, led
the way round to the back of the barn, where a big door opened into the
barn cellar. She would not go down the staircase, because the pony
wanted to go with her.
Mary and the boys followed meekly behind. Della went up to the first
pig-pen. The pigs knew her, and began to squeal. She had no food for
them, so she got a stick and scratched their backs.
“What dirty creatures pigs are,” remarked Mary with a shudder.
“They ain't dirty,” said Della reprovingly. “Pigs are clean. Men are
dirty, 'cause they don't give them clean bedding.”
“But they are playing in such black stuff,” said Mary.
“That stuff is nice sods from the meadow,” said Della. “They have to
work it over. Don't you know 'Root hog or die?'”
Mary said she did not, and Della went on. “Pigs like to play in the
dirt, but my pa says a pig always wants a clean bed. Sometimes we keep
pigs out in the pasture, and they make lovely clean beds for themselves
of leaves and grass.”
“How do they do that?” asked Mary.
“They carry the stuff in their mouths,” replied Della, “and when it's
going to rain they run fast and hurry to make a fresh bed. You can
always tell when a storm is coming by the pigs.”
Mary looked doubtfully at the boys, but they nodded their heads as if to
say, “Our sister is right.”
Della went from one pen to another. I looked through the cracks in the
board fence about the pens. The pigs were nice-looking, and although
each one was playing in the black earth, there was a clean bed of straw
in the corner for them.
At the last pen Della opened the little gate leading to it and let a pig
out. He was a pet pig called Bobby, and he was as pleased to see her as
a dog would have been. He grunted with delight, and tried to rub himself
against her, and she leaped and danced to get out of his way, for he was
all covered with mud, and the more she sprang in the air the harder the
boys and Mary laughed.
Finally they all went out in the sunshine again, the pig and pony
following. “Now for the hens,” said Della, and she lifted up her voice,
“Biddy, biddy, biddy—chickie, chickie, chickie.”
“Have you chickens?” inquired Mary eagerly. “I haven't seen any yet.”
“Yes, two broods,” said Della, “but the hens stole their nests away, and
are pretty shy. However, I think I can get them. You and the boys stand
here,” and she went on a little way.
The pony and the pig followed her, but she did not seem to mind them.
“Biddy, biddy, biddy,” she called again, and then the hens came running
from the meadow, the orchard, and one old hen, with a following of
lovely yellow chickens, came out of the barn cellar behind us, and
hurried toward Della.
The little girl sat down on the ground, and it was most amusing to see
the hens gather round her. Some even got on her lap, and looked in her
pockets for the grain that they knew she had. One old thing gave her a
loving peck on the neck that made Della squeal.
“What friends!” exclaimed Mary admiringly. “How they love her!”
“She's always fussing round them,” said Timothy, the elder of the two
boys, “they ought to like her—Come on, Robert, let's go down to the
river and have a swim.”
Mary looked at them curiously. She could have stayed here all day
watching the hens. Then she said, “Don't you like animals?”
Timothy looked at Robert, and Robert looked at Timothy, and finally the
elder one said, “Yes, but we don't want to live and die with them the
way Della does.”
Just then the dinner-horn sounded, and without waiting for the girls,
the two boys ran like the wind toward the house.
Della dismissed the hens, put the pig back in the pen, took the pony to
his stall, then, accompanied by Mary, went to the house.
Her father made a great fuss about her. “Ho, ho!” he laughed catching
her up in his arms, big girl though she was, “ho, ho! I'm glad to have
my tomboy back, and my little sissies,” and he winked at the two demure
little boys.
Della wriggled away from him, and went to her mother's bedroom to tidy
herself. The farmer and his men always washed their faces and hands and
brushed their hair in a little wash-room off the kitchen.
In a few minutes every one was ready for dinner. Mr. Gleason sat at the
foot of the table, his wife at the head, then there were the four
children, the two men, and Mr. Gleason's sister. Mr. and Mrs. Denville,
not caring for such an early dinner, were going to have theirs later.
The food smelt very nice and hot. They had beef and potatoes, turnips
and lettuce, and a big plum pudding with a nice sauce. I sat under the
table, and listened to all that was said. It was pleasant to have every
one so happy. There was a good deal of laughing and joking, and no cross
words.