Susannah Maude
The girls at The Woodlands, while they contributed to various charities,
had one special and particular object of interest. For several years
they had supported a little girl at an orphanage. She was called their
orphan, and twice a year they received accounts of her progress. They
sent her a Christmas present annually, and her neat little letter of
thanks was handed round for everybody to read. Poor Susannah Maude was
the daughter of very disreputable parents; she had been rescued from a
travelling caravan at the age of ten, and the authorities at the
Alexandra Home had done their best to obliterate her past life from her
memory. When she reached school-leaving age the question of her future
career loomed on the horizon. After considerable correspondence with the
matron, Miss Bowes had at length decided to have the girl at The
Woodlands, and try the experiment of training her as a kitchen-maid. So
in February Susannah Maude had arrived, small and undersized, with a
sharp little face and beady, black eyes, and a habit of sniffing as if
she had a perpetual cold.
"Not a bit like the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired orphan of fiction," decided
the girls, rather disappointed at the sight of their protégée.
Perhaps the cook was disappointed too. At any rate, many complaints of
smashed dishes, imperfect wiping, and inadequate sweeping of corners
reached Miss Bowes, who urged patience, harangued the culprit, and shook
her head, half laughing and half sighing, over the domestic
catastrophes. Though strictly confined to the kitchen regions, the
orphan took the deepest interest in the young ladies of the school. Her
keen eyes would peer out of windows, and her head bob round doors in
continual efforts to gain some idea of their mode of life. A chance word
from one of them wreathed her in smiles. She was a funny, odd little
object with her short squat figure and round bullet head, and thin
little legs appearing underneath her official white apron. Her official
name was Susan, but every girl in the school called her Susannah Maude.
At the instigation of Miss Bowes her patrons took the furthering of her
education in hand, and each in turn bestowed half an hour a day in
hearing her read history, geography, or some other suitable subject. A
little bewildered among so many fresh teachers, the small maid
nevertheless made what efforts she could, and read loud and lustily,
even if she did not altogether digest the matter she was supposed to be
studying.
"I believe she reads the words without taking in a scrap of the sense,"
laughed Ulyth, when her turn as instructress was over. "She was gazing
at my dress, or my watch, or my handkerchief whenever she could spare an
eye from her book. She thinks them of far more importance than Henry
VIII."
"So she does," agreed Lizzie. "I tried to get her interested yesterday
in the number of his wives--I thought the Bluebeard aspect of it might
move her--but she only said: 'What does it matter when they're all
dead?' I felt so blank that I couldn't say any more."
Nobody quite remembered whose idea it was that their orphan should be
invited to the Camp-fire meetings. Somebody in a soft-hearted moment
suggested it, and Mrs. Arnold replied: "Oh yes, poor little soul! Bring
her, by all means." So Susannah Maude had come, and once there she
apparently regarded herself as a member of the League, and turned up on
every available occasion. How much she understood of the proceedings or
of the scope of the society nobody could fathom. She sat, during the
meetings, bolt upright, with folded arms, as if she were in school, her
bright, beady eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Mrs. Arnold, whom she seemed
to regard as a species of priestess in charge of occult mysteries.
"Would I be struck dumb if I told what goes on here?" she asked Ulyth
one day; and, although she was assured that no such act of vengeance on
the part of Providence would overtake her, she nevertheless preserved a
secrecy worthy of a Freemason, and would drop no hint in the kitchen as
to the nature of the ceremonies she witnessed.
One or two points evidently made a great impression upon her. During the
spring months Nature lore was very much to the fore, and the members
qualified for candidateship to the various grades by exhibiting their
knowledge of the ways and habits of birds. Notes of observations were
read aloud at the meetings, particulars recorded of nests that had been
built in the school grounds, with data as to the number of days in which
eggs were hatched and the young ones fledged. It was an unwritten law at
The Woodlands never to disturb the birds. The girls were not allowed to
take any eggs from the nests, and were taught not to frighten a sitting
bird or to interfere with the fledge-lings. After several years of such
consideration The Woodlands had become a kind of bird sanctuary, where
the little songsters appeared to know they were free from molestation.
That the fruit in the garden suffered rather a heavy toll was true; but,
as Miss Bowes remarked: "One can't have everything. We must remember how
many insects they clear away, and not grudge them a few currants and
gooseberries. They pay us by their lovely songs in the spring."
Ulyth was a great devotee of Nature study, and had the supreme
satisfaction of being the first to discover that a pair of long-tailed
tits were building in a gorse-bush down the paddock. She was immensely
excited, for they were rather rare birds in that district, and generally
nested much higher up on the hills. This was indeed the only instance on
record of their having selected The Woodlands for their domestic
operations. As she had made the discovery, it was her particular
privilege to take the observations, and every day she would go very
quietly and cautiously and seat herself near the spot to note the doings
of the shy little architects. It was a subject of intense interest to
watch the globular nest grow, and then to ascertain, when the parents
were out of the way, that eggs had actually been laid in it. Ulyth was
so afraid of disturbing the tits that she conducted her daily
observations alone, fearing lest even Lizzie's presence might frighten
them. "When there are two of us we can't help talking, and an unusual
sound scares them worse than anything," she decided.
One morning she started for her daily expedition to the paddock. The
little hen had been sitting long enough to make Ulyth think the eggs
must surely be hatched, and that probably the parents were both already
busy catering for their progeny. She crept noiselessly round the corner
to the hollow where the bushes were situated. Then she gave a gasp and a
cry of horror. On the ground, quite close to the nest, knelt Susannah
Maude, busily occupied in smearing some sticky white substance over the
lower boughs and shoots of the gorse-bushes. She looked round with a
beaming face as Ulyth approached. Her beady eyes twinkled with
self-congratulation.
"Susannah! What are you doing, you young imp of mischief?" exclaimed
Ulyth in an agony.
"Catching your birds for you, Miss," responded the orphan, a thrill of
pride in her voice. "It's bird-lime, this is, and it'll soon stick 'em,
you'll see. I knows all about it, for my father was a bird-catcher, and
I often went with him when I was a kid. I'd a job to get the lime, I can
tell you, but Bobby Jones brought me some from Llangarmon."
She looked at Ulyth with a smile, as if waiting for the praise that she
deemed due to her efforts. Utterly aghast, Ulyth stammered:
"But, Susannah Maude, we--we don't want the birds caught."
The orphan appeared puzzled. A shade crossed her sharp little face.
"Not want to catch 'em? What's the use of 'em, then? Dad caught 'em and
sold 'em."
Ulyth had to keep a strong curb over her temper. After all, how could
this ignorant child know what she had never been taught? Miss Bowes
might well preach patience and forbearance.
"It's very cruel to snare the birds with lime at any time, especially
now, when they have young ones who would starve without them," she
explained with what calm she could muster. "Promise me that you will
never try to do such a thing again, and never interfere with any of the
nests. Mrs. Arnold will be most grieved to hear of this."
The orphan's black eyes filled with tears.
"Will she mind? I thought she'd like 'em to keep in a cage as pets. I'd
do anything in the world to please her."
"Then leave the birds alone, if you want to please her. Run now to the
house and fetch me a basin full of hot water and a cloth. I must wipe
all this horrible stuff off the bushes. Bring a knife, too, for I shall
have to cut away some of the branches and burn them. I hope the tits
won't desert."
Ulyth was late for school that morning, but the offence was condoned by
Miss Teddington when she heard the reason.
"I hope you washed every scrap of the lime off?" she asked anxiously.
"I didn't leave it while there was enough to catch even a bumble-bee.
The birds are back. They came directly I'd gone a dozen yards away."
"That shows the young ones are hatched. I hope Susan won't direct her
energies into any other natural-history experiments."
"We shall be sorry we brought her to the Camp-fire if she does. She
means well, but the worst of her is that you never can calculate in the
least what she may do next. She's a problem."
* * * * *
During the summer term the Camp-fire Guild had many informal meetings by
the stream. The girls were often allowed to take tea there, a permission
which they highly appreciated. Mrs. Arnold had lent them a small
camp-oven, in which they could bake cakes, and many culinary efforts
resulted from the acquisition. On Saturday afternoon Gertrude Oliver and
Addie Knighton were on the cooking-list as special scouts, and, having
mixed some currant-buns, placed them carefully in the oven. They were in
charge of the camp-fire and responsible for the preparation of the tea,
to which that day all the mistresses were to be specially invited. The
rest of the school were in the playing-field practising flag-signalling
under the joint superintendence of Mrs. Arnold and Miss Teddington.
"It's a nuisance we can't leave the cakes," sighed Addie. "I did so want
to see them send that message about the aeroplane."
"They're baking all right," said Gertrude. "We can't make them any
quicker by looking at them. Couldn't we just run to the top of the
gravel-pit and watch for a few minutes? There's Susannah Maude; she'd
keep an eye on them. Hello! Susan!"
The orphan, in virtue of being a hanger-on of the Camp-fire, was
wandering about by the stream in the wake of the proceedings. She came
running up eagerly at Gertrude's call.
"I'll mind 'em for you, Miss. I've watched Cook dozens of times. I'll
look after the kettle too. You leave it to me."
"I hope it won't be a case of King Alfred and the cakes."
Susan grinned comprehension.
"Standard V Historical Reader. Not me!" she chuckled. "I always thought
the woman was a silly to trust a man to turn the cakes."
"Well, mind you show up better. You might as well put the milk-can in
the stream to keep cool. We don't want it curdled, and I'm certain
there's thunder about."
Addie and Gertie were sure they were not absent long. They just stood
and watched a few messages being sent, then ran back promptly to their
duties.
Susannah Maude was in the very act of trying to lift the big camp-kettle
from its trivet.
"Hold hard there!" screamed Addie, running to the rescue. "You can't
move that alone. Susan! Stop!" It was too late, however. The small
busybody had managed to stir the kettle, but, her youthful arms being
quite unequal to sustaining its weight, she let it drop, retreating with
a wild Indian yell of alarm. The stream of boiling water fortunately
escaped her, but nearly put out the fire. When the steam and dust had
subsided, the rueful scouts picked up the empty kettle gingerly, as it
was hot.
"We shall have to build up the fire again," lamented Gertrude. "Oh,
Addie, the cakes!"
She might well exclaim. In a row among the ashes were the soaked,
dust-covered remains of the precious currant-buns.
"I took 'em out of the oven because they were done," explained Susan
hastily, justifying herself. "I thought you shouldn't blame me for
letting 'em burn, anyhow; and I put 'em down there on some dock-leaves
to keep hot. I couldn't tell the kettle would fall on 'em."
"They're done for," sighed Addie. "There isn't one fit to eat. Help us
to fill the kettle again as soon as you can, and fetch some more sticks
and gorse, you black-eyed Susan!"
"Where's the milk-can?" asked Gertrude uneasily.
"I put it in the stream as you told me," replied the orphan rather
sulkily, indicating with a nod the location.
Decidedly anxious as to its safety, the girls ran to the water-side.
They always put the can in a particular little sheltered corner fenced
in by a few stones. Susannah had helped them to place it there many
times, and had even named the spot "the dairy". They looked in vain. The
milk was certainly not there now.
"What in the name of thunder have you done with the can, you wretched
imp?" shouted Addie, thoroughly angry.
"You said it ought to keep very cool, so I threw it into the deep pool.
'Tain't my fault," retorted Susannah, who had a temper as well as her
benefactresses.
"I've half a mind to throw you after it!" raged Gertie, her fingers
twitching to shake the luckless orphan.
Perhaps Susannah's experienced eye gauged the extent of her wrath, and
decided that for once she had gone too far. She did not wait to proffer
any more explanations, but turned and fled back towards the house,
resuming her neglected pan-scouring in the scullery with a zeal that
astonished the cook.
Addie and Gertie replenished the camp-fire and refilled the kettle; but
the cakes were hopeless, and the milk was beyond recall. Doris Deane,
the champion swimmer of the school, dived for the can next morning and
brought it up empty; the lid was never recovered, probably having been
washed into a hole.
The Guild sat down that afternoon rather disconsolately to milkless tea.
Addie had begged a small jugful from the kitchen, enough for their
guests, the mistresses, but it was impossible to replace the big
two-gallon can at a moment's notice.
"I begin to wish the school had never supported an orphan at the
'Alexandra Home for Destitute Children'," sighed Gertie, eating plain
bread and butter, and thinking regretfully of her spoilt cakes. "I vote
next term we ask to give up collecting for it, and keep a monkey at the
Zoo instead. We could send it nuts and biscuits at Christmas."
"And currant-buns?" giggled Beth Broadway.
"You are about the most unfeeling wretch I ever came across!" snapped
Gertrude.