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[Illustration: _"I'M HERE," SAID THE VOICE. "I'VE COME. I'M PHIL."_]
BLACK-EYED SUSAN
BY
ETHEL CALVERT PHILLIPS
AUTHOR OF "WEE ANN" AND "LITTLE FRIEND LYDIA"
WITH DRAWINGS BY HAROLD CUE
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN CO BOSTON & NEW YORK
BLACK-EYED SUSAN
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I--BLACK-EYED SUSAN OF FEATHERBED LANE
CHAPTER II--OVER THE GARDEN WALL
CHAPTER III--MADAME BONNET'S SHOP
CHAPTER IV--THE SQUASH BABY
CHAPTER V--DOWN AT MISS LIZA'S
CHAPTER VI--THE GYPSIES
CHAPTER VII--IN THE SCHOOLHOUSE
CHAPTER VIII--SUSAN'S PRESENT
CHAPTER IX--HICKORY DICKORY DOCK
CHAPTER X--THE VISIT
CHAPTER XI--HOW THE MONEY WAS SPENT
CHAPTER XII--THANKSGIVING IN FEATHERBED LANE
*BLACK-EYED SUSAN*
CHAPTER I--BLACK-EYED SUSAN OF FEATHERBED LANE
A pair of black eyes, a head covered with short brown curls, two red
cheeks, and a tip-tilted nose--that was Susan. A warm heart, a pair of
eager little hands always ready to help, little feet that tripped
willingly about on errands--that was Susan, too.
"The best little girl in Putnam County," said Grandfather, snuggling
Susan up so close that his gray beard tickled her nose and made her
laugh.
"My little comfort," said Grandmother, with a hand on Susan's bobbing
curls that simply couldn't be made to lie flat no matter how much you
brushed and brushed.
Susan herself didn't say very much to this, but oh, how she did love
Grandfather, from the crown of his big slouch hat to the toes of his
high leather boots that he delighted to wear both winter and summer!
As for Grandmother, who could help loving her, with her merry smile, her
soft pink cheeks shaded by a row of little white curls, and her jar of
cinnamon cookies on the low shelf in the pantry? Yes, her jar of
cinnamon cookies on the low shelf in the pantry, for, somehow, in
Susan's mind, Grandmother and the cinnamon cookies were pleasantly
mingled and together made up the love and comfort and cheer that to
Susan meant home.
The house Susan lived in with Grandmother and Grandfather Whiting and
Snuff the dog was a broad, low, white house that stood far back from the
road at the end of Featherbed Lane.
Susan thought this the funniest name she had ever heard.
As she and Grandfather, hand in hand, would carefully pick their way
over the stones that covered the road from house to highway, she never
tired of asking, "Grandfather, why do you call it Featherbed Lane? It's
not a bit like a feather bed. It's as hard as hard can be."
"Because there are just as many stones in this lane as there are
feathers in a feather bed," Grandfather would answer gravely. "Some day
you must count them and see."
"But how many feathers are there in a feather bed?" Susan would ask.
"You must count them, too," was Grandfather's reply.
At the end of the lane, on the roadside, stood a little house with three
windows, a front door, and a pointed roof with a chimney. This was
Grandfather's law office, and here he was to be found at work every day,
coming up to the house only at meal-time. Inside there was one big room,
not only lined all round with books, but with books overflowing their
shelves and piled upon the chairs and tumbled upon the floor.
Grandfather's big desk was drawn up close to the windows, and as Susan
passed in and out of the gate she never failed to smile and wave her
hand in greeting.
If Grandfather were not busy, he would invite her in, and then Susan on
the floor would build houses of the heavy law books, using Grandfather's
shabby old hassock for table or bed as the case might be.
One cool May afternoon Susan climbed upon Grandfather's lap as he sat in
front of the coal fire that burned in the office grate every day that
gave the least excuse for it.
Grandmother had gone calling in the village, and Susan was staying with
Grandfather until her return. Susan cuddled her head down on
Grandfather's broad shoulder.
"Say 'William Ti Trimity' for me, please," said she coaxingly.
So Grandfather obediently repeated,
William Ti Trimity, he's a good fisherman;
Catches his hens and puts them in pens.
Some lays eggs and some lays none.
Wire, briar, limber lock,
Three geese in a flock.
One flew east, and one flew west,
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest.
Susan gave Grandfather's cheek a pat by way of thanks.
"Sing to me now, please," was the next command.
Obligingly Grandfather tuned up and sang in his sweet old voice--
It rains and it hails and it's cold stormy weather.
In comes the farmer drinking up the cider.
You be the reaper and I'll be the binder,
I've lost my true love, and right here I find her.
This was an old favorite, and it never failed to delight Susan to have
Grandfather in great surprise discover her as the lost true love "right
here" in his arms.
"Now, 'Chickamy,'" said Susan, smoothing herself down after the vigorous
hug she felt called upon to bestow.
Chickamy, Chickamy, crany crow,
Went to the well to wash his toe.
When he came back the black-eyed chicken was gone--
said Grandfather in a mysterious voice.
"Can't you remember any more of it, Grandfather?" implored Susan. "Don't
you know who Chickamy was, or who stole the black-eyed chicken? I do
wish I knew."
"No, I can't remember," said Grandfather regretfully. "You know all I
know about it, Susan. Only I do think Chickamy was a foolish fellow to
wash his toe just at that minute. Why didn't he take the black-eyed
chicken with him or leave somebody at home to take care of him?"
"Yes, it is a pity," sighed the little girl. "Or why didn't he wash his
toe in the tub at home? Well, anyway, Grandfather, now tell about the
time I came to live with you." And Susan re-settled herself comfortably
as Grandfather slipped down in his chair and stretched out his feet
toward the low fire.
"It was a cold winter night," began Grandfather, with the ease of one
who has told his story many times, "and the ground was covered with
snow. All the little rabbits were snuggled down in their holes in the
ground trying to keep warm. All the little birds were cuddled together
in their nests under the eaves. All the little boys and girls were sound
asleep tucked in their warm beds--"
"All but one," interrupted Susan.
"Yes, all but one," agreed Grandfather, "and she was riding along in a
sleigh, and the sleigh-bells went _jingle jangle, jingle jangle_, and
the horses' feet went _crunch, crunch, crunch_, through the snow."
"Now, tell was I cold," prompted Susan, as Grandfather paused to spread
his silk handkerchief over his head to keep off the draught.
"The little girl wasn't one bit cold," went on Grandfather smoothly,
"because she was dressed in fur from head to foot. She wore a white fur
coat and a white fur cap that came so far down over her face that all
you could see was the tip of her nose."
"And that was red," supplied Susan.
"And she had a pair of white furry mittens on her hands, and her feet
were wrapped in a white fur rug.
"Well, by and by the horse turned in a lane that was so packed with snow
that you couldn't tell whether it was a Featherbed Lane or not. _Crunch,
crunch, crunch_, went the horses' feet, _jingle jangle, jingle jangle_,
went the bells until they were almost up to the white house at the end
of the lane.
"Now in that white house there sat a grandmother and a grandfather
before the fire.
"Presently the grandmother laid down her knitting.
"'I think I hear sleigh-bells in the lane,' said she.
"The grandfather put down his book.
"'I think I hear horses' feet,' said he.
"Then the grandmother rose and looked out of the window.
"'I see a lantern,' said she, peering out through the snowflakes, for it
had begun to snow again.
"At that the grandfather flung open the door and in came--"
"Me!" exclaimed Susan. "And I didn't cry one bit. Did I?"
"Mercy, no," said Grandfather, opening his eyes wide at the very
thought. "You just winked and blinked in the light, and when I held out
my arms you came straight to me."
"And what did you say, Grandfather?"
"I said, 'My little black-eyed Susan.'"
"And that has been my name ever since," said Susan with an air of
satisfaction. "Now, tell what Grandmother was doing."
"Grandmother had both arms round your father who carried you in, for
once upon a time he was her little boy," concluded Grandfather.
"And you were so glad to see me that night because my mother had gone to
heaven, weren't you?" mused Susan. "And then my father went away to
build a big bridge, and then he went to the war and he never came back."
A silence fell for a moment upon Grandfather Whiting and Susan as they
gazed into the fire, and then the little girl stirred and spoke.
"I think I will go and play with Flip awhile, Grandfather," said she.
She slipped down from Grandfather's lap, and, leaving him to fall into a
doze, proceeded to set up housekeeping with Flip, her rag doll, behind a
pile of books in a corner.
Flip and Snuff, the shaggy brown setter, were Susan's constant
playmates, for the house in Featherbed Lane stood a little way out of
the village and there were no children living near by.
The other side of the Lane, on a little knoll, perched the old Tallman
house, empty since last autumn when Miss Eliza Tallman had gone down to
the village to live with her niece.
Across the way and up the road stood the deserted little old
schoolhouse, long ago abandoned for the new brick building in the heart
of the village.
But, although Susan had no near neighbors and often longed for some one
her own age to play with, still she dearly loved the lively Snuff who
could outrace her any day, who played a skillful game of hide and seek,
and who returned tenfold the strength of her love with all the might of
his affectionate pink tongue, his briskly wagging tail, and his faithful
little heart.
As for Flip, it is hard to say what Susan would have done without her.
She was a long thin wobbly rag doll, with a head flat like a turtle's,
and not a single spear of hair on it. But to Susan, her brown eyes were
the tenderest and her rosy lips the sweetest to be found anywhere, and
it was into Flip's sympathetic ear that Susan poured her griefs and
troubles, great or small. She was Susan's bedfellow, too, lying outside
the coverlid where her little mother might easily put out her hand and
touch her in the night.
Susan had other good friends, too. There was the newel post opposite the
front door at home. Susan had never thought anything about the newel
post until one day, playing "lady come to see" with a shawl on for a
long skirt, she had tripped and bumped her head against the post. Now,
this was fully six months ago, and when Susan was only a little girl, as
she would have been sure to explain, and so she did what other little
girls have done before. Feeling the newel post to blame for her fall,
she pounded it with both hands and kicked it with both feet. And
suddenly, in the midst of the pounding and kicking, Susan spied a big
dent in the side of the post. Had she done that? Oh! what a mean, a
cruel girl she was! She hurried upstairs for her new hair-ribbon, which
she tied round what she called the newel post's neck, and sitting down
she tried to smooth out the dent and soothe the newel post's hurt
feelings at the same time. Perhaps Grandmother could have explained that
dent as made by a trunk carelessly carried upstairs, but Susan always
believed that she had made it. She rarely passed the newel post without
giving it a pat, and, sitting on the stairs, she and Flip and the newel
post often had many a pleasant chat together.
And there was Snowball, the rubber cat, that had been Susan's favorite
toy when she was a baby. Snowball may once have deserved her name. But
now she was a dingy gray that not even frequent scrubbings with soap and
water could freshen. She had lost her tail, she had lost her squeak, but
Susan was loyal to her old pet and still lavished tender care upon her.
Then, too, there was the shawl dolly. Most of the time the dolly was a
plain little black-and-white checked shawl spread over Grandmother's
shoulders or neatly folded on the hatbox in Grandmother's closet. But
whenever Susan was a little ailing, Grandmother folded the shawl into a
soft comfortable dolly, who cuddled nicely and who never failed to give
to Susan the comfort needed.
Just now Susan was playing school in the corner. She was the teacher,
and Flip and the hassock, who this afternoon was a fat little boy named
Benny, were the scholars.
"Flippy, who made you?" asked the teacher.
"God," answered Flippy promptly.
Susan made her talk in a squeaky little voice.
"Benny, how much is two and two?" was the next question.
But Benny didn't answer. Perhaps he couldn't.
"Benny, how much is two and two?" repeated the teacher loudly.
Still no answer.
This was dreadful, and Susan felt that she must be severe. Shaking her
finger warningly at disobedient Benny, she went to Grandfather's desk to
borrow his long black ruler, and, glancing out of the window, she saw a
big red wagon toiling slowly up the road.
"It's the circus!" exclaimed Susan. "Grandfather, wake up, the circus is
coming."
Grandfather woke himself up with a shake and peered out of the window,
over Susan's head.
"No, that is not the circus," said he. "That's a moving-van. Somebody's
furniture is packed inside that wagon. Hello, they're turning in at the
Tallman place. Liza must have rented it."
And Grandfather and Susan, with great interest, watched the heavy van
turn and jolt along the driveway that led to the house next door.
"Here comes another van," called Susan, whose sharp eyes spied the red
wagon far down the road.
This van bore what the movers call "a swinging load." On the back of the
wagon were tied all the pieces of furniture that couldn't be crammed or
squeezed into the van itself.
The horses pulled and strained up the little hill until they were
directly opposite Susan's gate, and then, with a crash, something fell
off the back of the wagon.
"Look, look!" cried Susan, hopping up and down. "Look, Grandfather, it's
a rocking-horse!"
Sure enough, a dapple gray rocking-horse, with a gay red saddle, was
rocking away in the middle of the road as if he meant to reach Banbury
Cross before nightfall.
"There will be somebody for me to play with!" cried Susan, climbing up
on Grandfather's desk in her excitement. "Maybe I will have a ride on
that rocking-horse. Won't there be somebody for me to play with,
Grandfather?"
And Susan, her eyes shining, put both arms around Grandfather's neck and
gave him a great hug.
"It looks that way," said Grandfather, as soon as Susan let him breathe
again. "It looks as if that rocking-horse was about your size, too. But
here comes your grandmother. Perhaps she has heard something about it in
the village."
Like a flash Susan was off down the road, and by the time Grandfather
had put on his hat and shut the office door Susan had learned all the
news that Grandmother had to tell.
"Grandmother knows all about it," called Susan, flying up the road
again. "Miss Liza Tallman has rented her house for a year. And,
Grandfather, there is a little boy as old as me and his name is Philip
Vane."