CHERRIES ARE RIPE.
Faster and faster flew the May days by, and all the world was beautiful.
The strawberries grew red and sweet upon the vines, and the children
went out with the pickers to gather them, but they didn't work very
steadily at this, for the sun was hot, and picking berries is apt to
make the back ache. But the cherries most delighted them, and when Aunt
Maria told them that they could have just as many cherries to eat as
they wanted, and gave them one tree all to themselves, they hardly knew
how to express their joy. It was not only in eating the cherries, that
they had pleasure, for Aunt Maria let them have a tea-party, and said
they might choose their guests.
"They don't know anybody but the Lesters and the Randolphs," she said
complacently to Miss Rose.
"I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Edith and Johnnie invited a lot of
little ragamuffins from Wood's Alley," replied Miss Rose.
Wood's Alley was one of those wretched neighborhoods, which in cities
have a way of setting themselves down near rich people's doors. It was
the short cut to Main street, and when the people near Aunt Maria's were
in haste, they often took it, rather than go a long way round. The
windows in Wood's Alley were broken and dingy, and the interiors--which
means all you could see as you passed by, looking at open doors--were
dirty, smoky, and uninviting. Children fairly swarmed there, black and
white, and as ragged as they could be. Mabel had made Aunt Maria very
angry one day, by taking off her best hat, and giving it to a little
beggar girl from Wood's Alley, who had been lingering near the gate, and
casting admiring looks at it.
"She ought to have known better than to take it from you," Aunt Maria
said. "She is nothing but a little thief, and you are a very improvident
child. To-morrow I'll take you to church in your old hat."
This did not trouble Mabel much. Mabel did not yet care enough for her
clothes, and more than once she had given her things away before. Her
mother had been trying to teach her discretion in giving, for some time.
"Well, Rose," said Aunt Maria, "if I thought they would do that, I would
tell them to have a picnic out-doors, for I don't want Wood's Alley in
my dining-room. Those children are just as like their mother as they can
be."
"Auntie," said Johnnie, "there's a splendid boy named Jim Cutts. He's
been fishing with Charlie and me. Can he come to the party?"
"Jim Cutts!" echoed Mrs. MacLain with a sigh. Then she answered,
"Yes, dear, have whom you please; but let your table be out under the
trees, on the lawn."
"That'll be splendid!" said Johnnie, running off.
They had ten or twelve little children at their party, and Dinah brought
them sandwiches, cakes, and milk, and they had all the cherries they
could eat. Edith taught them one of her Sunday-school hymns, and Johnnie
made Luce perform all his most cunning tricks for their entertainment.
Mabel lent her new doll to the poorest girl, to take home for the night,
on the promise that it should surely come home next morning.
The promise was kept.
When the company had gone, Aunt Maria called them in, and made them take
a thorough bath, and put on clean clothes all the way through. Then she
bade each sit down, in the room with her, and read a chapter in the
Bible. As Mabel could not read, she gave her a picture Bible to look at.
She sat by, with so grave a face, and had so little to say, that they
all began to feel uncomfortable, and wished themselves somewhere else.
Edith's face was covered with blushes, Mabel began to swallow a lump in
her throat, and Johnnie at last, growing angry, determined to stand it
no longer. He shut up his Bible, and marched to Aunt Maria, who looked
at him through her spectacles, and said:
"Well, sir? Who told you to shut up your book?"
"It does no good to read the Bible when anybody's mad with you," said
Johnnie. "What have we done, Aunt Maria?"
"I did not _say_ you had done anything."
"But you look so cross, and sit up so straight, and--who ever heard of
reading the Bible, in the middle of the afternoon, on a week day?" said
Johnnie with an air of assurance.
"Well, Johnnie, to tell the truth, I did _not_ like your bringing
all the riff-raff of the town to eat my nice cherries."
"But you said we might do it."
"I should think, Johnnie, you would have liked better to have such
friends as Percival Lester and Reginold Randolph, or Maggie and Clara
Vale, to play with. I fear you have low tastes, child."
At this charge, little Johnnie colored up, but he stood his ground.
"The reason we asked them was because they couldn't buy any fruit, if
they wanted it ever so much; and we thought it would please them and
make them happy."
Edith had been thoughtfully turning over the leaves of her Bible, and
now she said:
"Auntie, here are some verses I once read to mamma:
"'When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy
brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors, lest they also
bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee.
"'But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the
blind; and thou shalt be blessed, for they cannot recompense thee, for
thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.'"
"There," said Johnnie, "haven't we made a Bible feast?"
"Yes, my dears," Aunt Maria replied, "and I beg your pardon. The truth
is, I have not been very much displeased with you, but thought I would
try you a little. Now as you have had a good rest, you may all go out
and play."
"I think Aunt Maria ith a naughty woman," said Mabel in a very low voice
to Edith, as they left the room.
Rose, who had been present all the while, heard her, and so did Aunt
Maria, but neither said a word, till the children were out of hearing.
Then Rose said,
"I'm afraid I agree with little Mabel. Dear Mrs. MacLain, what made you
pretend to be vexed, if you were not?"
"I am not obliged to explain my actions to every one, am I, Rose?" said
the lady. "Children are a sort of a puzzle to me, never having had any
of my own; and I don't believe I know how to bring them up. But these of
Helen's are pretty good, especially Johnnie."
Aunt Maria had some very stylish friends who occasionally visited her.
They sent word beforehand concerning their coming, and great
preparations were made. On the day of their arrival, the little folks
were arrayed in their very best, and Edith and Mabel took their dolls,
and were seated in the parlor, that they might not get into the least
disorder.
"Mrs. Featherfew is very particular," said Aunt Maria. "She will be sure
to take notice, if you don't behave splendidly."
"I'll be glad when she's been and gone," remarked Johnnie.
Mrs. Featherfew however was quite different from what the children had
been led to expect. She was a slender pretty looking lady, who seemed to
float down the long parlor, she walked so lightly and gracefully, her
long silk dress trailing behind her. The next day the two little girls
amused themselves by playing "Mrs. Featherfew," Edith putting on a long
gown of her aunt's for the purpose.
Two very elegant children came with Mrs. Featherfew, Wilhelmine and
Victorine. They spoke very primly and politely, and seemed to our little
folks like grown-up ladies cut down short. But when after dinner they
all went out into the grounds to play, Mine and Rine, as they called
each other, could play as merrily as the others.
The little girl to whom the dolly had been lent happened to be looking
through the palings, just when the fun was at its height. She had rather
a dirty face, and a very torn dress.
"Do look at that impertinent creature actually staring at us, as if she
belonged here!" exclaimed Victorine, with amazement.
"Go right away, child," said Wilhelmine.
Now as these little girls were guests themselves, they were taking too
much responsibility in ordering anybody off. Edith's face flushed, and
she felt vexed. She would have preferred, after all her Aunt Maria had
said about it, to have the Alley children keep a little more distance;
but she could not let anybody hurt their feelings.
"That little girl is a friend of mine, Wilhelmine," spoke out the loyal
little soul bravely. It was not in Edith, to be ashamed of any friend,
no matter how humble.
Wilhelmine looked surprised, and Johnnie went on to tell how they had
gotten acquainted. Before he had finished, the little visitors were so
interested in the ragged girl, that they each gave her a bright
five-cent piece.
So Edith did good by her fearlessness. We never know how much good we
may do, by speaking according to our conscience.
The Featherfew girls had a very nice time, and went away well pleased;
but they told their mamma that the Evans children were very droll.
"It's the way they have been brought up, I imagine," said Mrs.
Featherfew.
Two or three days after that, the children were in a part of the garden,
in which was a bridge over a darling little brook, as Edith called it.
They were expecting their parents by the first steamer, and Johnnie had
been gathering a basket of the ripest and reddest cherries he could
find, to have them all ready for offering to mamma on her arrival. As he
was running lightly over the bridge, his foot slipped, and he came near
falling in, but Edith and Mabel flew to the rescue, and held him up by
his cap, and his curls, and his arm, till he recovered his balance. One
foot was very wet. It had gone "way, way in," and in that condition,
splashed and barefoot, for he pulled off the wet boot and stocking, he
went back to the house with the girls.
Just as they reached the front door, a carriage drove up. A gentleman
sprang out, and lifted a lady next, and the servants began to take off
the bags and trunks. Could that be mamma? It needed only a glance to
satisfy the eager children, and in a moment all three were rapturously
hugging and kissing her and their father.
[Illustration]
Mamma had grown quite plump and rosy. She was ever so much better, and
Johnnie asked, the first thing, whether she could bear a noise now.
"A little noise, dear, I hope," she said smiling. It had been a great
trial to Johnnie to keep so still as had been necessary when they were
at home.
"She is not so very strong yet, Master John," said Mr. Evans. "I'm
afraid an earthquake or a volcano would use her up. We'll have to take
care of her yet awhile."
But the children found that they had gotten their old mamma back. She
was a great deal nicer than anybody else, they thought.
That night, when it grew almost bedtime, and Chloe appeared as usual at
the parlor door, with the candles on a silver tray, and the great silver
snuffers, ready to light the young folks up stairs, they went and kissed
their father and mother and Aunt Maria for good night. But when they
were undressed, and the little dresses and skirts were hung smoothly
over the chairs, the little shoes and stockings set side by side on the
floor, and the little nightgowns on, somebody came quietly in, somebody
who sat down in the rocking-chair, and with one little white-robed
figure in her lap, and another with an arm thrown around her neck, and
another on a footstool at her feet, heard their hymns, and told them a
little story, and listened while each prayed to the dear Saviour. The
three little hearts were satisfied that night, because they had had
their mother to comfort them and bless them again.
A few days after that, they bade good-by to the beautiful seaside home,
and to Luce, and the black cat, and the horses and cow, the geese and
the chickens. To Miss Rose and Aunt Maria they gave a very warm
invitation to come and see them in their own home.
Fido and Queenie had been well taken care of at Aunt Catharine's house,
but they seemed very glad indeed to have their little mistress back.
Johnnie declared that Fido couldn't hold a candle to Luce, and he and
Mabel had several disputes over it. Indeed one day they became so angry
at each other, that Mrs. Evans sent the little brother to his own room
and the little sister to hers, to stay until they were ready to ask each
other's pardon. Edith, serene and peaceful, kept out of all such
troubles.
"Miss Simms," said Johnnie one day, "what is the reason nobody ever is
angry with Edith? She seems to please people without trying to."
"I think Edith has found out a great secret very early in her life,"
Miss Simms answered.
"I wish I knew it, then; I'm always being scolded, and I try to be as
good as the other fellows. But it isn't of any use, that I can see.
To-day I had been perfect all day in school, you know, Miss Simms, and
just a minute before recess, I spoke; and Miss Clark was mean enough to
make me stay in. She read off the boys' names who had violated any rule,
this way:
"'Willie Simpson, late;
"'Thomas Miller, missed his geography;
"'Johnnie Evans, whispering.
"'These little boys must spend this recess in the school-room.' I leave
it to you, Miss Simms, if that wasn't mean."
"Was it the rule that you must lose your recess, if you spoke?"
"Yes, if we spoke without permission."
"And you knew all about it?"
"Oh! yes!"
"Well, _I_ don't see how Miss Clark could help herself or you, if
you disobeyed. You were both bound by the rule, you see, Johnnie."
"That's only one thing. I forget to hang up my hat on the nail, and I
bring mud in on my boots, and I lose my speller, and I lose my temper
too, and I'm just tired of trying any more."
Johnnie stood like a little "knight of the rueful countenance," hat in
hand.
Miss Simms measured two breadths of silk; "snip, snip," went her shining
scissors, and she threaded her needle. "Dear me, what a hard needle to
thread; my eyes are beginning to fail me," she said.
"I'll thread it for you, let me. My eyes are bright and sharp," said
Johnnie.
"Thank you," she said. "Now, Johnnie, don't you want to know Edith's
secret. It is a word of four letters, LOVE. Love to God, and
love to everybody else. That makes Edie's good time."
"How can I get it too?" said Johnnie.
"I must tell you some of my verses, I think:
"'Ask, and ye shall receive.
"'Seek, and ye shall find.
"'Knock, and it shall be opened to you.
"'For every one that asketh receiveth.
"'And he that seeketh findeth.
"'And to him that knocketh, it shall be opened.'"
"I'll ask," said Johnnie.
These five happy weeks were long spoken of as "the time when we stayed
at Aunt Maria's house," and their memory has not yet faded away from the
children's minds. They are expecting a visit soon from Aunt Maria, Miss
Rose, and Chloe; and Lucifer Matches is coming too.
End of Project Gutenberg's Five Happy Weeks, by Margaret E. Sangster