THE BIRTHDAY DRIVE.
The day Weezy was four years old, Kisty Nye was five,--quite old enough
to be called Christine, if the family had thought about it. Mrs. Nye
had made her little daughter a birthday cake, and invited Weezy to
supper. Ellen Nolan was not now at Mrs. Rowe's. She was attending a
primary school.
"I'm a year older than I was yesterday, mamma," said Weezy that
afternoon, when her mother was tying her bonnet. "Pretty soon won't I
be every teenty speck as old as Kisty?"
Before Mrs. Rowe could reply, Weezy was whisking down the gravel-walk,
dragging behind her a dust-pan tied to a string. The dust-pan held two
dolls and a clay pipe.
"Oh, ho, Weezy, I shouldn't suppose you'd let your dolls smoke a pipe!"
"My dollies _never_ smoke pipes. You're a naughty boy to say so," cried
Weezy, much offended.
"Ah, I know now," said Kirke, with an innocent air. "You smoke that
pipe yourself."
"O Kirke, _what_ a story! Kisty 'n' I blow bubbles with it. You know we
do."
"Oh! Kisty _Nye_ blows bubbles," said Kirke, pretending not to
understand. "And why don't _you_ blow 'em too?"
"Well, I said I did. I said Kisty 'n' _I_ blow bubbles," cried Weezy
pettishly, twitching her dust-pan carriage out of the way of her
brother's stilts, as he hopped through the gate.
"Yes, Kisty _Nye_ blows bubbles. Just what you said; and this makes
twice you've said it," cried teasing Kirke, slamming the gate behind
him.
"H'm! I don't like to have folks shut gates in my faces," grumbled
Weezy, pushing it open in high displeasure. "I think you're a very
_plaguing-y_ boy."
Kirke laughed, and stooped down to close the sweet little scolding
mouth with a sugar-plum.
"Old Mr. Nye gave me three of 'em, and I saved one for you," said he.
"Who says I'm a _plaguing-y_ brother?"
"You are not _plaguing-y_ now any more," said Weezy serenely. "Oh, hum!
wish _Mr. Old Nye_ would give ME three sugar-plums myself."
Once more in gay good-humor, she trudged along with Kirke to Kisty's
house, not far up the street, and, the moment she saw Kisty, threw both
arms about her waist. It was a chubby waist; for Kisty was a chubby
little girl, broader than Weezy, though not an inch taller.
"Oh, I know something sp--len--did!" said Kisty, squeezing her fat
palms together very hard. "We're going to have something; guess what."
"Pin-nuts," suggested Weezy breathlessly.
"Better'n peanuts. Something that hasn't any shell on to it."
"Gum-drops?"
"No, no! You can't guess, you can't guess," cried Kisty triumphantly.
"They grow on trees, and they have seeds in the middle."
"Watermelons! I about know them's um," cried Weezy, giving Kisty
another hug.
"Poh! watermelons don't grow on trees. Watermelons grow on _bushes_,
ever so low on the ground. I've seen 'em in grandpa's garden," said
Kisty, proudly reflecting that she knew a great deal more than Weezy,
who was only four years old.
"Honest? Well, sugar gooseberries, then," said Weezy, considerably
crushed.
"No, indeed. Those don't grow: those are baked in the oven. I shall
have to tell: it's apples,--red, ripe apples."
Weezy clapped her hands.
"Ned is going into the country to buy the apples, and mamma says for
him to take us with him in the new dog-cart," said Kisty, fairly out of
breath with the excitement of spreading the good news.
Weezy screamed with delight; and, leaving the dolls flat on their backs
under the lilacs, scampered off to the stable, Kisty following as fast
as her clumsy, fat legs would carry her. They found Ned backing the
horse into the thills of the dog-cart.
"Mamma says, Ned, you must buy a bushel of the best apples you can
find," panted Kisty, running to the house again for her hat.
"I rather think I'd better steal 'em," answered her tall brother,
with a sly wink at Weezy. "Wouldn't you, little Miss Weezy? Supposing
we creep into every orchard we come to, and taste of an apple on every
tree in it, so we can pick out the nicest, and fill our baskets with
them? Don't you believe that would be the best way?"
There was no response, but the young man had not looked for any. He
was busy buckling the harness, and thought no more about Weezy, till,
looking up presently, he saw Kisty climbing into the buggy all by
herself.
"Why!" said he, "where's the other little birthday girl?"
Kisty did not know. She ran to ask her mother, and her mother did not
know. Weezy was not in the stable, or in the garden, or in the house.
After a long search, Ned found her in the hammock at home, sobbing
bitterly. Mrs. Rowe and Lovisa had locked the house and gone away; and
the poor little girl was all alone, with nobody to speak to.
"Ah, here you are, little runaway," said Ned playfully, pulling
her hands from her wet eyes. "Isn't this a funny time to play
hide-and-seek, when you're going to drive, and the horse is waiting for
you?"
"I'm not a-going. I don't want to ride; wish you wouldn't _bovver_ me,"
wailed she, rolling over upon her face.
"Oh, come along, dear!" urged Ned; "come right along, before Kisty
cries herself sick. When we've got our apples, we'll go to see a red
and green parrot I know of, that'll say, 'Walk in, walk in, have a
chair?'"
Weezy shook her head till her neck must have ached, and no amount of
coaxing on Ned's part would induce her to go with him. He did not know
what to make of her, and at last hurried home to ask what it was best
to do.
Mrs. Nye felt as uncomfortable about the occurrence as Ned did; and the
moment she saw Mrs. Rowe enter her front-door, she advised him to rush
across to tell her the story.
"I can't imagine what has come over Weezy," said he, catching up his
hat. "I never knew her to act so before."
As he paused on Mr. Rowe's door-stone to wipe his feet, he heard the
child in the sitting-room sobbing, and this was what she was saying,--
"He was going to steal the apples: he truly was, mamma. S'pose I'd ride
with boys that steal? Course I wouldn't. But, oh, mamma, it's _such_ a
cunning doggy-cart; and, oh dear! I wish I had some apples."
"You precious little goosie!" cried Ned, bursting into the room,
laughing. "Did you think I really meant to steal the apples? Why,
Weezy, dear, I was just in fun. I wouldn't steal them any more than you
would."
"You _said_ you would, you truly did," said Weezy, peeping through her
fingers at him with an air of doubt.
"I was making believe, pet; just making believe. I'll leave it to your
mother if I wasn't," said Ned gayly. "Come along with me, and I'll
promise not to steal so much as an apple-core."
Picking her up, tears and all, he carried her away to his father's
stable, where the horse still stood in the harness; and, when he set
her down in the dog-cart, her face was beaming with smiles.
She had a lovely drive, and saw for herself that Ned did not steal a
single apple, though he bought as many as the dog-cart would hold. And
on their way back they called upon the parrot, and he invited them to
"walk in, and have a chair," as politely as if he had been a gentleman.
When they drove into Mr. Nye's yard, tea was ready: and the two
little "birthday girls" sat side by side at the table, Kisty in her
high-chair, and Weezy in a common chair with the big dictionary in it;
and each had a piece of the birthday cake, and all they wanted besides.
And when, by and by, Ned went home with Weezy, he carried a beautiful
little new basket filled with choice apples, and gave it to her to keep.
So you see, Weezy had a pretty good kind of a birthday, after all.