_In June--Some Day, 3 o'clock. Cool under the Trees._
Some while ago a book was written about me, called _Sweetheart
Travelers_. It was father who wrote it, and I think he did his best,
saying a lot of nice things. But, of course, how could he really
understand little girls?
At first I thought I would write a book contradicting the mistakes. But
Mr. Dignus, who is a friend of mine and knows about such things, said
that would not be very kind to father, and might do him harm in his
business. But that if I would write about everything just as it seemed
to me as I grew up, he would see to it that it was printed and
published.
So when father sees it, won't he just get a surprise? Perhaps he will go
into a shop and buy _Sweetheart's Diary_, thinking that somebody is
poaching on his preserves. I can see him tugging at his big mustache,
and walking very solid and determined, same as he does when he says to
the boys, "You, sir, come into the study along o' me!" Which makes all
the rest of us go sort of cold and trembly all over, like a rabbit
smelling fresh lettuce.
But it is for what we are NOT going to get that _we_ are sincerely
thankful.
Only, after a dreadful lecture the boys are generally let off--"for this
time only, mind you!"--whereas the rabbit always ends up by eating the
lettuce. [Moral somewhere about, but I can't just make it out.]
And that reminds me. I will tell you the dreadful history of the Blue
Delhi Vase. It is one of the first things I can remember and the one
that frightened me the most. It used to sit on our brown, carved-oak
table in the little drawing-room. It was pale blue like the color of the
beady stones you can't see into--oh, yes--thank you very
much--_turquoise_. And somehow I thought that it had come from a
fearfully rich uncle in India, who was Prime Minister to a Begum, and
would come home one day with an elephant in a huge cattle truck, like
what I had seen on the railway. He would then have a scarlet carpet
laid to keep his embroidered slippers clean--there is always mud before
our station--and he would ride up to our front door on the Begum's state
elephant. And the first question he would ask was always, "Is my Blue
Delhi Vase in good repair?"
And if it wasn't, then he would demand the name of the miscreant who had
done it, and bid the elephant, whose name was quite distinctly Ram
Punch, t-r-r-rample him to pieces.
I suppose when I was very young I must have dreamed this, or heard folk
talking, without understanding. At any rate I got things pretty mixed in
my mind. You see I was _very_ little then, so little that I don't
remember there being any boys. Though I suppose Hugh John was a little
trundler in a "pram," looking up at the sky with wide solemn eyes and
never saying a word. I suppose so, but I don't remember.
All I know is that I wore little red caps, one for Sunday and one for
week-days. The Sunday one was put away during the week, and so mostly I
had only one.
Now, on this great day I happened to be in the garden, and Somebody sent
me in for my cap. Because my hair flew all about and got just fearfully
"tuggy"--enough to make any one cry, even Hugh John, who never cries at
all. But, then, _he_ has hair short like a door-mat and rough as if made
of teased string. He has also a head so hard that he will bounce it
right through the panel of a door for a penny--that was, of course,
afterwards, not when he used to lie in his "prim-pram." But he got
whipped, for the doors had to be mended. So he stopped.
I was in a great hurry. Indeed I flew. I never remember walking in those
days. So in I banged as hard as I could, and coming out of the hot sun,
the rooms felt all very still and cool. The parlor smelt of old rose
leaves, which I sometimes stirred with my finger. They were in a big
bowl, all powdery, and smelt nice--especially on hot days. Then I used
to think that the poor old dead things were stirring in their sleep, and
trying to "blossom in the dust." I don't know where I got those
words--in a hymn, most likely. But I used to say them over and over to
myself--yes, till I cried. Because I was sorry for the old roses that
tried to live and couldn't. Silly, wasn't it? Well, it seems so now. But
then, of course, it was different.
Now, when I had got over the queer little catch in my throat that
finding myself alone always gave me, I started looking round under all
the sofas and chairs to see that there were no lurking Day Ghosts about.
They are the worst kind, and I began to wonder where my cap was.
I had come for it specially, you see. So I could not go out without it.
Also there were awfully nice things going on in the garden; the picking
of white raspberries, mainly; each shaped like a thimble; the cap coming
easily off, and leaving a small dead white spear-point, and with a
taste--oh, to make your mouth water for quite a week!
Anyway, mine does now.
For a while I could not see my red cap. Then, all in a minute, I caught
sight of it on the top of the Delhi Blue Vase. It was dreadfully high,
and as for me, I was dreadfully little. More than that, the table was
slippery.
But I _had_ to get the cap, because all the time I was missing the white
raspberries out in the garden. I could hear them pattering into the tin
pails with a rustle of waving stems and a _whish_ of nice green leaves
when you let them go.
So I got up on tiptoe. I was still ever so much too short. Then I took a
buffet--the one on which I listened to stories being told. And I
mounted on that. I had very nearly got the cap off when the buffet
slipped sideways, and--oh, it was dreadful--there on the carpet lay the
Delhi Blue Vase all in shreds--no, "shards" is the proper word.
I couldn't think. I couldn't cry. I could not even pray. I forgot how. I
grew ice-cold. For I had heard it said that of all the valuable things
in the house that was the rarest. I knew it could never be put together
again, and it was I who had done it.
For a moment I thought of running away altogether. It was not fear of
being punished. No, if it had only been that, I should not have minded.
At least not much. Punishments don't last long up at our house. But now
I should never see the uncle from India, nor the elephant being unpacked
end-foremost out of the cattle truck, nor the crimson carpet, nor the
howdah, nor any of these fine things. Or even if I did I might be
stamped to death by the elephant, after all. Oh, I _was_ unhappy. I
looked in the glass and, I declare, I hardly knew the white, frightened,
peeky face I saw there for my own.
You see, I usually see my own face when my hair is being done, or when
the soap is just washed off. Then it is shiny and red; but now, in the
dusk of the room, it looked very small and pale, and my eyes very big
and black, with rims round them.
Now our cat was there, and the thought came of itself that everything
might be blamed on her. She was our only _not-nice_ pussy, and if I said
it was Mir-row who did it, nobody would be the worse. She was always
knocking things down anyway. She would only get chased out, and she was
always being chased out. So one extra time would not matter to Mir-row.
Well, I suppose that is what the ministers and grown-up people call
temptation--when you think you can do a thing so as not to be found out.
When you do a thing and don't care whether you are found out or
not--that is different. That's like Sir Toady (he's my brother, as you
shall hear) when he goes bird-nesting and has to watch out for the
keeper. But he doesn't really care if he _is_ catched.
But the Delhi Vase! Oh, it seemed as if I never could be happy again in
this world!
I knew--I mean at the time--that I should have prayed. I had been often
and often told that I ought. Still, you can't just always pray when you
ought to. However, I did manage to kneel down and grab hold of Mir-row.
I knew that Mir-row was a bad cat, and did all sorts of things she ought
not to do. So I took her to the place where the Delhi Vase had been
broken, and asked her if she minded. And she said as plain as possible
that she did not care a bit. I should get whipped, that was all, and she
would be glad.
She was a hard-hearted Thing. For I was in dreadful trouble. But for all
that Mir-row would not take a bit of the blame. And she might just as
easily, seeing the number of tit-bits I had brought out for her. But
cats have no gratitude--at least Mir-row had none. However, I think she
must have been a foreign cat, because she could not even pronounce
"_Mee-ow_" properly. And that is the reason why her name was "Mir-row."
She said so herself.