HILDA ARRIVES.
Of course, Cricket went with Auntie Jean to the station on Friday
afternoon to meet Hilda.
Hilda had never stayed at the seashore before, for her mother was very
fond of the mountains, and went every summer to the Catskills.
Therefore, there was everything to show her. Think of it. She had never
even been in bathing in the ocean! This fact interested Cricket more
than anything else, and so the very first morning she got Hilda up early
to get a dip before breakfast.
"Ouch!" squealed Hilda, shrinking back, as the cold waves touched her
bare toes. "Why, Cricket! it's cold!"
"It won't be as soon as you're fairly in," urged Cricket. "Just make a
dash, and go in all over. Wade out to the raft, and dive off. You don't
know what fun it is to go slap-dash into the water and get all gurgled,"
which was Cricket for choked.
"But I'll get all _wet_," objected Hilda, "besides, it's _so_ cold,
Cricket," and she drew back further up on the beach, and stood poking
her toes into the warm sand.
"Get wet?" said Archie, politely. "No, you wouldn't. We keep dry water
for any one making a first attempt."
"And if you _should_ get wet, what would it matter? A bathing-suit isn't
a party dress, Hilda," urged Cricket. "We usually expect to get wet when
we go into the water, anyway."
"Mother, may I go out to swim?" sang Archie, teasingly.
"Come on, Hilda. Just go right forward, ker-chunk," and Cricket made a
run and threw herself full length in the shallow water. She rolled over
and over, and came up sputtering, and laughing. "Don't be afraid, you
goosey girl."
"I'm not a goosey girl. Suppose I should go out there and get drowned?"
"You _can't_ drown. Archie, and Will, and I, all can swim, and we'll
save you. Will taught me this summer. It's lovely," and Cricket led
Hilda, hanging back and protesting, into the water, ankle deep.
The truth really was, that Hilda did not want to wet her pretty new
bathing-suit. She was such a careful, orderly little person, that she
did not like the idea of doing anything so untidy. Besides, Cricket's
dripping, clinging skirt looked very uncomfortable.
Just then, Will and Archie, at a private signal, threw themselves,
splash, into the water on each side of her, spattering her well, and
Cricket, seizing the opportunity, cried out:
"Now, you're a little wet, you must go under right away, or else you'll
take cold," and Hilda yielded very unwillingly, and protesting that she
was freezing to death. She squealed and choked as the boys ducked her
under the water, and she really thought for one dreadful minute that her
last hour had come.
"If _this_ is bathing, I think it's _awful_," she said, with emphasis,
as soon as she could speak. The boys had piloted her as far as the
swimming raft, and, imitating Cricket's example, she climbed up on it,
trying to rub off her wet face with her wetter sleeve, and looking
perfectly miserable. "Archie, I've got to have a handkerchief, or a
towel, or something, to dry my face. Please bring me one."
The boys both laughed at her. "Oh, certainly," said Archie. "I'll
telephone to the laundry to send down a cartload right away. We usually
have Luke put a supply of clean ones on the raft, all ready for us. He
must have forgotten it this morning."
"You needn't laugh at me. I do hate to have my face stay wet."
"Dive again, then," advised Will, setting the example. "Come, Cricket,
race me to the rock and back again."
Cricket promptly dived, but Hilda could not be coaxed off her perch till
the others were ready to go in. So, altogether, the first bath was not a
great success, and Hilda almost made up her mind that she would never
try it again, for it was, by no means, such fun as it was reported to
be. But over Sunday she had time to forget her sensations, and when
Cricket sprang up early Monday morning, as usual, Hilda finally
concluded she would try it again. To her great surprise--perhaps it was
partly because the first newness was worn off her bathing-suit--she
found that she enjoyed it a great deal more than the first time. She
actually waded around with the water nearly up to her shoulders, and
half learned to float, with Will supporting her. The next morning
completed the lesson, and she began to feel very independent.
On Monday morning Auntie Jean drove the four girls over to Plymouth, to
see the sights there. Hilda was full of eagerness and curiosity to see
the famous Rock on which the Pilgrim Fathers landed.
"What! _that_ little thing?" she exclaimed, in surprise and disgust,
when a small affair was pointed out to her, a rock not even very near
the water, but well up on the land, with a stone canopy over it. "How
could they land on that little thing?"
"Archie says they came up on stilts," said Cricket. "Of course they had
to land on Plymouth Rock, 'cause the histories said they must."
"I never believed that," said literal Edna. "How could they get the
stilts?"
"Oh, _Edna_!" cried Eunice, while the rest laughed.
"Then they cut a piece off, and carried it up in front of Pilgrim Hall,
and put it in front of it, and built a railing round it, the first thing
they did," went on Cricket.
"But there wasn't any Pilgrim Hall, then," persisted Edna.
"Edna, you're a goose," said Eunice. "Now auntie, can we go and see the
Statue of Faith, and the Pilgrim Hall, and the burying-ground, and all?"
They had a merry day in the quaint old town, with all its relics and
curiosities. They went all over Pilgrim Hall, and saw the famous sword
of Captain Myles Standish, the cradle of Peregrine White,--the little
baby who was born at sea on that famous voyage,--and hosts of other
interesting things.
Then they did a little shopping, and bought some candy to eat on the way
home. This was always part of the fun.
"When will they have Captain Myles Standish's statue up?" asked Eunice,
with her mouth full of caramels, as they passed Captain's Hill.
"Very soon, I believe, now. The pedestal is nearly done, and the statue
is already there."
"Yes, I know," nodded Cricket. "We walked over there one day last week.
Hilda, the statue is there waiting, and it's all boxed up like a
chicken-coop. You can see the statue right between the slats. And, oh,
auntie! Archie made such a funny joke. Will had just asked Eunice why it
would be the highest statue in the world, but she knew the
answer--'cause it's Myles above the sea, of course. Then Archie stooped
over and poked a stick through the slats, and said: 'Let's tickle his
feet and see if he smiles.' Wasn't that good?"
"I don't see a bit of sense to it," declared Edna, "and I didn't then.
Eunice and Cricket just laughed and laughed, mamma. Of _course_ a statue
couldn't smile."
"Edna, you wouldn't see a joke if one walked up and _bit_ you," said
Eunice. "Archie said: 'Let's tickle his feet and see if he's-Myles.'
_Don't_ you see?"
"If he's Myles. If he smiles. Oh, _yes_!" cried Edna, looking really
excited. "I see! you can take it in two ways."
"Edna, it's easy to see your great-grandfather was a Scotchman," said
Mrs. Somers, when she could speak for laughing at her very practical
little daughter.
"Why, I don't see what that has to do with it. People laugh at such
silly things, mamma. Eunice and Cricket just double up over some things
that are too stupid for anything."
"That's your misfortune, dear. If there was a School of Jokes I should
certainly send you to it."
"Well, for instance," went on Edna, "I'll leave it to Hilda if this
wasn't silly. That day when we all walked over to Captain's Hill, we all
sat down on some stones to rest. Nobody happened to be saying anything
just then, and Cricket began to sing. Archie listened a moment, then he
jumped up and started off on a run, as fast as he could go, all around
the top of the hill, and came back all puffing and panting, and he said:
'Cricket, I've run all around the hill, and I can't catch that tune.'
The girls thought it was awfully funny; what, do _you_ think it was
funny, too?" for Hilda went off in a peal of laughter, as well as
auntie.
"Of course," went on Edna, "he couldn't tell the tune if he didn't stay
and listen to it; and, perhaps, he wouldn't have known then," she added,
thoughtfully.
Cricket grew very red, as she always did when any slighting allusion was
made to her singing.
"Archie is a very funny boy, _I_ think," she remarked quickly, to turn
the attention of the others from this sore subject. "He isn't as nice as
Will, but he's generally funnier. He gets so mad when Edna says, 'What's
the sense to that?' when he makes a joke."
"Like yesterday, Mrs. Somers," said Hilda, "when Archie asked us a
conundrum, 'How does a sculptor die?' do you know it? The answer is, 'He
makes faces and _busts_.' And he got so mad when Edna only told him that
_busts_ wasn't correct. He ought to say, 'He makes faces and _bursts_.'"
"Well, he ought, oughtn't he, mamma? Nobody says busts."
"Edna, you're hopeless," answered her mother. "And here we are at home
again."
At the supper-table Will announced that he and Archie and the _Gentle
Jane_ were all ready to take a sailing party to the Gurnet Lights the
next day, if the party so desired. By the clapping of hands it was
judged that the party did so desire.
"But about grandma?" asked Mrs. Somers, when she could make herself
heard. "I can't go and leave her for all day when she is so helpless."
Cricket coloured at the allusion, but she instantly said, bravely:
"If you will go with the others, auntie, I'll stay with grandma."
"If you stay, Cricket, I'll stay, too," said Hilda, quickly.
"But you _can't_, Hilda. You're the party, don't you see? We've all
been to the Gurnet, and we're going to get up this picnic on purpose for
you. You've got to go."
"Yes, you've got to go," struck in Archie. "It's like the man who was on
his way to be executed. He saw people all running along the street, and
he called out to some one, 'No hurry, friend. It can't go on till I get
there. I'm the man to be hung.'"
"Then, since Hilda is the man to be hung she'll have to go. That's
certain. And besides, children, you can't go to-morrow, for we must give
cook a day's notice if she is to provide luncheon enough to last you
entirely hollow young people for a whole day. Then I'll see Mrs. Emmons,
and perhaps she will come and spend the day with grandma on Wednesday,
and we'll set sail then for the Gurnet Lights. Will that do? I'll go
over directly after supper and see her, so you can put your minds at
rest."
Mrs. Emmons would be delighted to come and spend the day with grandma,
it proved, so the plans for Wednesday instantly began, as if they did
not have a whole day before them. The hour of the start must be settled
at once. As it would be low tide at eleven, they must be off at eight
in the morning, to get well over the mud-flats before they were exposed.
They would go outside the point for a little cruise, if it was not too
rough, and then come back and land at the Gurnet, and show all the
sights there to Hilda, and eat their luncheon either before or after, as
they liked.
The boys were both good sailors, and understood a boat perfectly. Their
grandfather Maxwell had trained them well from the time they were wee
bits of boys, and even before his death, three years before, he had
trusted them to go out alone.
But the next day the excitement began in earnest, and there was hurrying
to and fro, and consultations over what to take, and what to wear, and
what to do, and proposals for this, and objections to that, till the
whole house was in a whirl.
"Children, you couldn't make more preparation if you were going to
Europe," cried distracted auntie, finally, as all the girls burst into
her room for the fortieth time, as she was trying to take a nap that
afternoon. "I don't know where your sketch-book is, Edna. Yes, wear
your sailor caps. Of course you'll wear your sailor suits, and not
ginghams. Yours is torn, Edna? Then, my dear, please go and mend it
directly. Your fishing-tackle is in the lobby, by the side kitchen door,
Cricket. You left it in Billy's room, and he brought it over. Yes, I
told cook to make some chocolate cake, Eunice. Now scamper, every one of
you. I'm going to lock my door now, and don't anybody dare to come and
disturb for an hour."
But within five minutes a small voice called through the keyhole,
imploringly:
"'Scuse me, auntie dear, but _couldn't_ we take George W.? he's just
begging to go, and I know he'll be good."
"Scat!" cried auntie, and Cricket scatted.
"Sha'n't we take some books, in case we get becalmed?" suggested Eunice,
as they all finally rested on the piazza, and tried to think of
something else to get ready.
"Of course. Sometimes we are becalmed for an hour, Hilda, and it's
awfully stupid."
"I'll take 'Jack and Jill,'" said Cricket. "And, oh, girls, let's take
our blank books and pencils, so we can write on our stories for the
'Echo' if we want to."
"I won't, and that's flat!" said Edna, decidedly. "Going on a picnic
for fun, and writing stories! What do you think I'm made of, Cricket?"
"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice," returned Cricket, cheerfully.
"Did I tell you, girls, that Hilda is going to write a story for our
next 'Echo?' 'Our estinguished contributor, Miss Hilda Mason!' Doesn't
that sound fine? And she's written some poetry, too! Isn't she lovely?"
and Cricket hugged Hilda in a sudden burst of affection.
"This is the first poetry I ever wrote," said Hilda, trying not to look
conscious.
"And it's lovely!" said Cricket, approvingly. "Read it to the girls,
please, Hilda." And Hilda, waiting for a little urging, though she was
really dying to read it, produced her "poem," and read:
"It was Christmas eve, now remember,
And out in the cold world alone,
A cold night, too, in December,
There wandered a poor little one.
"Waiting in sorrow and weeping,
Waiting out there in the cold,
Why should she have cause to sorrow?
Why, her mother lay there in the mould.
"And where was the child's own father?
Was he in the cold ground, too?
No, her father was in the billiard-room.
I pity the poor child, don't you?"
"That's too sweet for anything, Hilda! All you girls are clever but me,"
sighed Edna, half enviously.
"I've just decided that I'll be a poetess like Mrs. Browning, when I
grow up," said Hilda, calmly. "I never tried writing poetry before, but
it's just as _easy_. It would be very interesting to be a poetess,"
added Hilda, who was given to day-dreams, in which she was always
famous.