Susan was very unhappy. She stood by her bedroom window, kicking the
wall, and at every kick she said, "mean, mean, mean."
It was all about a little berry pie. Grandmother had made for Susan's
dinner a saucer pie. It was juicy and brown and had fancy little crimps
all about the edge. It looked almost too good to eat.
But instead of being pleased and thanking Grandmother, Susan had scowled
up her face at sight of it, and had muttered,
"I don't like the little pie. I want a piece of the big one."
Now, there is no telling why Susan acted in that way. I don't believe
she could have explained it herself. The words seemed to pop out of her
mouth, her face seemed to snarl itself up, and, for no reason at all she
suddenly felt very angry at the poor, pretty little saucer pie.
And after this dreadful speech, nobody spoke.
Susan felt Grandfather looking at her over his spectacles. She saw
Grandmother take the saucer pie and set it aside. And then, somehow,
nobody seemed to remember that Susan was at the table at all. She sat
there, the lump in her throat growing bigger and bigger and with a
strange prickly feeling in the end of her nose, until the tears began to
chase one another down her cheeks. And then Susan slipped from her chair
and ran upstairs.
On the floor near the door lay innocent Snowball. Susan pushed her to
one side with such force that Snowball flew under the bed and struck the
wall with a thump. Then Susan threw herself on the bed beside Flip and
clasped her in her arms.
First she cried until she couldn't cry any more, and then she whispered
the whole story into Flip's ear. "Nobody loves me but you, Flippy,"
finished Susan with a gasp. Already she felt comforted, for, no matter
what happened, Flippy was always on her side.
After a little, she rolled off the bed, and stood looking out of the
window into the hot garden below. There was not a breath of air
stirring. The leaves of the fruit trees scarcely moved, the sky seemed
to swim and dance before her eyes, and the only sound to be heard was
the shrill singing of the locusts in the trees.
It was then that Susan said, "mean, mean, mean," and she meant
Grandmother, and Grandfather, and every one in the whole round world
except Flippy Whiting.
Susan twisted the shade cord and sniffed, and tried to think of all the
cross and disagreeable things Grandmother and Grandfather had ever done
to her.
But there was something strange about those thoughts. They were as
contrary as Susan herself. For all she could remember were the times
when Grandmother and Grandfather had been kind and patient and good, and
little by little quite a different feeling came over her.
"Grandfather always takes me driving with him when he can," thought she.
"And Grandmother made the new dress for Flip; and she brought me a
paint-box yesterday from Green Valley."
And suddenly Susan began to cry again.
"But this time it is sorry tears. The other time it was mad ones,"
thought she to herself, for Susan was quite as sharp as are most little
girls to know when she was in the right or in the wrong.
Downstairs she flew, and flung her arms about Grandmother.
"Oh, oh, oh," moaned Susan, burying her face in Grandmother's neck. "Oh,
Grandmother, Grandmother." And if she had stood upon the church steps
and shouted, "I'm sorry," to the whole village, she couldn't have said
it more plainly.
Grandmother understood her quite well, and all she said was:
"I couldn't believe that my Susan would be so rude to me."
"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it," whispered Susan, and, sealing the
peace with a kiss, she went in search of Grandfather.
He sat on the porch, reading his paper, and he must have heard all that
she said, for he opened his arms, and without a word she snuggled down
upon his lap. With both hands she pulled his face round to hers and
placed a kiss upon what she called "my very own spot," none other than
the tip of Grandfather's nose.
"Promise you will never let any one else kiss you there," Susan had once
begged.
"I promise," Grandfather had answered with a laugh. And no doubt he kept
his word.
But now, he put his hand into his baggy coat pocket and pulled out a
plump summer squash.
"I thought this would make a nice dolly for you," said he. "I picked it
up after dinner in the garden." And with his knife he deftly cut eyes
and nose and mouth, and handed over the simpering orange-colored baby to
the delighted Susan.
"Now we will go down to the office," said he, "and let Grandmother have
a nap this afternoon. I have to see a man on business, but you can play
around the schoolhouse while I'm busy."
At the roadside gate they stopped a moment "to catch the breeze," said
Grandfather, pulling off his hat and mopping his brow.
A man, whistling a lively tune, came up the road, and surely he felt the
heat but little, for he wore a brown velveteen jacket and had knotted
about his throat a bright red handkerchief. His face was brown and his
soft hat showed dark curling hair underneath the brim.
Grandfather eyed him shrewdly, and, as the man passed the gate, he
spoke.
"Sarishan," said Grandfather.
The man stopped short and looked Grandfather straight in the eye.
"Sarishan, rye," answered the man.
Grandfather Whiting laughed and shook his head.
"No, no," said he. "I'm no rye, and 'sarishan' is all the Romany I know.
But I wanted to see whether you would answer me. There are not many
Romanies to be seen about here nowadays. Are there?"
The man shook his head and moved on. After a pause, he began his
whistling again.
"What is it, Grandfather?" asked Susan. "What were you saying? Who is
that man?"
"He is a gypsy," answered Grandfather, watching the man out of sight,
past the schoolhouse and round the bend of the road. "I thought so when
I saw him, so I spoke to him in Romany or gypsy talk. I said,
'Sarishan.' That means, 'good-day.' I'm surprised he answered me. They
generally pretend not to understand."
"Sarishan," repeated Susan. She liked the soft pretty word. "But what
did he call you, Grandfather?"
"He called me 'rye.' That means a gentleman. A Romany rye is a gypsy
gentleman. Some people like gypsy life, Susan, and know and understand
the gypsies better than others do. Sometimes they slip away and live
with the gypsies for a time. And this man thought I was one of them
because I spoke to him in Romany."
Susan wanted to ask Grandfather what gypsy life was like. But the man
Grandfather was to see on business drove up just then, so she slipped
across the road to the deserted schoolhouse, and, bringing out her own
little broom which she kept under the porch, she proceeded to give the
steps and the walk a thorough sweeping.
This housewifely task ended, she seated herself on the steps, for she
thought the squash baby needed an afternoon nap. Tied round the handle
of the broom was a little blue cloth that Susan used for a duster. It
was new and clean, so she fastened it round the neck of the squash baby
as a cloak, and so rocked the baby to and fro and hummed a little song.
It was quiet on the schoolhouse steps. The shadows crept silently across
the road, so silently that they did not disturb a little head pillowed
on the hard boards of the porch.
The flowers and grasses in the neglected yard stirred and rustled in the
afternoon breeze, just beginning to spring up, but all they murmured was
"Hush! Hush!" The bees hummed and buzzed busily about among the flowers,
one inquisitive young fellow, who knew no better, actually lighting on
Susan's gay hair-ribbon, as if he thought it a new kind of blossom. But
the little mother did not stir, for the very song the bees sang was a
lullaby.
So that Susan's nap was long and refreshing, and when at last she woke
and stretched her stiff little arms and legs, she discovered that she
was hungry.
"You stay here, baby," said she, firmly planting the ever-smiling squash
baby upon the steps. "I'll be back in a minute with a cooky for you."
Susan trudged leisurely up Featherbed Lane. Near the end she halted,
and, leaning on the garden wall, stared with interest over at the
Tallman house.
The sound of crying was plainly to be heard floating out upon the air.
The dismal wails grew louder, and then the door opened and Phil's father
appeared.
He walked with a determined air to the big lilac bush near the foot of
the steps, and, pulling out his pen-knife, carefully selected and cut
off a stout little branch.
"It's a switch," thought Susan, terror-stricken. "Oh, me, it's a
switch."
At this moment the door was flung open again, and out upon the porch
darted a little figure. Its face was red, its arms were whirling, it was
dancing up and down and crying all at once. But, nevertheless, as Susan
peered closely, she saw that it was Phil. There was no doubt about that.
His friend on the other side of the fence held her breath at the sight.
Oh, how sorry she was for him! She knew just how badly he felt. She,
too, would have been dancing in a frenzy if, a little earlier that
afternoon, she had seen Grandfather cutting a switch.
But, finally, Phil found his voice. "No, no!" he shrieked; "I'll be
good! I'll be good! I'll be good!"
His father turned and looked at him.
"Stop crying," said he.
Phil sobbed and capered about a moment longer, but at last his sobs died
away and he stood still.
His father eyed him a moment longer. Then he shut his pen-knife with a
snap and dropped the switch in the grass.
At this welcome sight Phil vanished into the house, and his father
slowly followed him.
"What a horrid day," thought Susan. "Poor Philly! But I won't tell I
saw. I mean I won't tell any one but Grandmother and Grandfather and
Flip."
Armed with her cookies, Susan traveled back to the schoolhouse. On the
little stone walk she stopped and stared. The schoolhouse steps were
bare!
Where was the squash baby? Surely she hadn't walked away by herself.
Neither had she rolled off, toppled over by her own weight, for Susan
searched carefully in the grass about the steps. She shook the
schoolhouse door. It was firmly locked. She peeped in the window. The
same familiar scene met her eye: rows of old-fashioned benches, rusty
stove, dingy maps upon the wall, tin dipper left upon the window-sill.
To Susan's relief she saw Grandfather's business friend drive away, and
she hurried across the road to tell of the mysterious disappearance.
"Too bad," said Grandfather, as hand in hand they walked up to the
house. "But I'll make you another baby. Some mischievous boy has passed
by and taken it. There is not much travel on this road, though, and you
never lost anything before, did you? It's strange."
Over on the Tallman steps sat Phil alone. He was spick and span in a
clean starched suit, his hair was brushed to a gloss, and he was turning
the leaves of a picture-book in a way that any proper and well-behaved
child might imitate. At this moment, whatever may have been true earlier
in the day, there was not the slightest suggestion of Naughty Adolphus
about little Phil.
But he seemed dispirited, and Grandmother, who had sharp eyes and ears
as well as a warm heart, and who had guessed something of Phil's unhappy
afternoon, looked from the drooping little figure on the steps to the
red-rimmed eyes of her own Susan.
"Susan," said she briskly, "it's a long while to supper-time. You run
over and ask Mrs. Vane to let Philip come back here with you. Tell her I
have a little treat for you two. I hope I won't give them bad dreams,"
Grandmother added to herself, as Susan gladly sped over the garden wall
and across the green lawn on her pleasant errand.
Back came the children, hand in hand, already looking brighter, and when
they saw the little saucer pie, neatly cut in two, they broke into broad
smiles.
"Chew it well," instructed Grandmother, "and when you have finished, be
sure you run around the house three times.
"But I believe their pleasure is worth one nightmare," reflected she,
"though I don't know that Mrs. Vane would agree with me."
"It's good," announced Phil, his own cheerful self once more, as he
joyously ate berry juice with a spoon.
"It's the best pie I ever tasted," said Susan, twisting about in her
chair to smile at Grandmother. Never, never again would she be rude to
Grandmother; of that she was sure.
"But I do wish," said Susan, looking round at every one, "that I knew
who took my squash baby."