JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL
"Down, Terry," commanded the Captain, as the little dog went for the
mild-eyed cow, but the mild-eyed cow seemed perfectly able to take care
of herself, and as she lowered her horns, Terry retired discreetly to a
safe place between the Captain's knees, where he wagged an ingratiating
tail.
Launcelot and the cow stood framed in the rose-covered gateway.
"Yes, I've bought a cow," explained the big boy, who was dusty but
cheerful, "and we are going to have our own butter and milk, and if
there is any over, I'll sell it."
"You have my order now," said the Judge, handsomely.
"Thank you, sir," said Launcelot, and Anne cried:
"Oh, Launcelot, make it in little pats stamped with a violet, and label
it, 'From the Violet Farm.'"
"That's not a bad idea," commended the Captain, "novelties like that
take, and if the butter is good, you may get a market for more than you
can make."
"Then I will get another cow and enlarge my hothouse, and between the
butter and the violets I guess I can bring up my college fund," and
Launcelot looked so hopeful that they all smiled in sympathy.
"Where did you get her?" asked Judy, as she patted the pretty creature
on the head.
"I bought her a mile or so out in the country, and I tell you I hated
to take her after I had paid the money."
"Why?" asked Anne.
"Oh, they were so poor, and the cow was the only thing they had. There
is a widow, named McSwiggins, with six children, and I guess they have
had a pretty hard time, and now their taxes are due and the interest
and two of them have had the typhoid fever, and are just skin and bone,
and they had to sell the cow, and they cried, and I felt like a thief
when I carried her off."
"Oh, poor things," cried Judy, when Launcelot finished his breathless
recital, "poor things."
"I didn't want to take her, after I found out, but Mrs. McSwiggins said
that they needed the money awfully, and that I was doing them a
favor--only it was hard, and then she cried and the children all cried,
too."
"Why haven't they told some one before this?" asked the Judge, wiping
his eyes.
"I guess the mother is too proud. They are from the South and they
haven't been in this neighborhood long, and she don't know any one."
"What's the cow's name?" asked Anne, whose eyes were like dewy
forget-me-nots.
"Sweetheart. The biggest girl named her, and when I went out of the
gate she just sat down on the step and looked after us, and her eyes
hurt me, they were so sad."
The little cow moved restlessly. "I guess I'll have to go," sighed
Launcelot, standing like a Peri outside the gates of Paradise, and
contrasting the coolness and quiet of the old garden with the heat and
dust of the long white road. "I guess I'll have to take Sweetheart on."
But just then down the path came Perkins, dignified in white linen, and
in his hand he bore a tray on which a glass pitcher, misty with
coolness and showing ravishing glimpses of lemon peel and ice, promised
delicious refreshment.
"You come and have some lemonade, Mr. Launcelot," said Perkins, as he
set the tray on the table, "I'll hold the cow."
And, as they all insisted, Launcelot came in, and Perkins went without
the gate.
But, alas, Sweetheart was a cow of many moods, and as the gay little
party in the garden sipped the cooling drink in the shade of the trees,
the little cow, growing restive out there in the sun with the flies
worrying her, suddenly ducked her head and ran.
And after her, still holding the rope, went the immaculate Perkins, to
be dragged hither and thither by her erratic movements, while he
shouted desperately, "Whoa."
And after Perkins went the excited Terry-dog, and after Terry went
Launcelot, and after Launcelot went Judy, and then Anne, and then far
in the rear, the Judge, while Captain Jameson, too weak to run, stood
at the gate and watched.
It was a brave race. Perkins had grit and he would not let go of the
rope, and Sweetheart wanted to go home and she would not stop running,
and so the procession went up the dusty road and down a dusty hill, and
then up another dusty hill, and down a cool green bank, where seeing
ahead of her a murmuring limpid stream, Sweetheart dashed into it,
stood still, and placidly drank in long sighing gulps.
Perkins went in after her, and was rescued by Launcelot, while Judy and
Anne stood on the bank and laughed until the tears ran down their
cheeks.
Perkins laughed, too, as he emerged wet and dripping, but beaming.
"I didn't let her go," he chuckled, a little proud of his agility in
his old age, and Launcelot said admiringly, "I didn't think you had it
in you, Perkins," and at that Perkins chuckled more than ever.
They went back in a triumphal procession, and then Lancelot took
Sweetheart away with him, and the little girls went up-stairs to dress.
The Captain and the Judge were left alone, and presently the former
said:
"Why can't we put Launcelot through college, father? It's a shame he
should have to work so hard."
But the Judge shook his head. "He is having something better than
college, Philip," he said. "He is learning self-reliance and he will
get to college if he keeps on like this and be better for the struggle.
I've told Grennell a half-dozen times that I would put up the money,
for I like the boy--but there is one very good reason why we can't pay
his way."
"What's that?" asked the Captain, with interest.
"He won't take a cent from anybody," said the Judge, "and I like his
independence."
"So do I," said the Captain, heartily, "but we will keep an eye on him,
father, and help him out when we can."
An hour later as the Captain sat alone under the lilac bush, Judy came
down with white ruffles a-flutter and with her brown locks beautifully
combed and sat beside him.
"To-morrow is my birthday," she said, superfluously.
"My big girl," smiled the Captain, "you make me feel old, Judy mine."
She smiled back, abstractedly. "Are--are you going to give me a
present, father?" she stammered.
It was a queer question, and the Captain was not sure that he liked it.
Birthday presents were not to be talked about beforehand.
"Of course I am," he said, finally. "Why?"
"Will it--cost--as much as--Launcelot's cow?" asked Judy, still
blushing.
"As Launcelot's cow?"
He stared at her. "Why do you want to know?" he asked.
"Well," she patted his coat collar, coaxingly, "I want you to give me
the money, and let me buy back the McSwiggins cow.
"I'll buy it myself."
But she shook her head. "No, I want to give it myself. I
feel--so--so--thankful, father, for my happiness, that I want to do
something for somebody else, who isn't happy."
He put his hand under her chin and turned her face with its earnest
eyes up to him. "You are sure you would rather have that than any
other birthday present, Judy mine?" he asked, thinking how much she
looked like her mother.
"I am very sure, father."
They sent for Launcelot that evening, and he entered into the plan with
enthusiasm. "I can get another cow," he said, "and if they have the
money and the cow both they will get along all right."
"I don't want them to know who gives it," said Judy. "I hate that way
of giving. I don't want to go and stare at them and talk to them about
their poverty. I think it would be nice to tie a note to Sweetheart's
horns and just leave her there."
The next day about noon, a mysterious party, with a strange and unusual
looking cow in their midst, crept to the back of the McSwiggins barn.
Sweetheart lowed softly, as she recognized the familiar surroundings.
"Gracious, I hope they won't hear," said little Anne, "that would spoil
it all."
Perkins set a heavy basket down and wiped his forehead.
"You go and look, Mr. Launcelot," he said, "and if there ain't any one
around you tie her to the hitching-post, and then bring the ends of
those pink ribbons back with you."
When that was accomplished, the Mysterious Four hid themselves in some
bushes by the side of the road to await developments.
Presently Johnny McSwiggins, trailing listlessly towards the barn, gave
one look and rushed back into the house.
"They's somethin' out thar," he said, with his eyes bulging.
Mary McSwiggins, the oldest girl, looked at him hopelessly. "I don'
care ef they is. We alls too po' fer anythin' to hurt."
"But hit looks lak Sweetheart's ghos'," declared Johnny, "an' hit's got
pink ribbin on. I declar' hit look lak Sweetheart's ghos', Sistuh
Ma'y."
At that beloved name, Mary rushed out, while the family trailed behind,
Mrs. McSwiggins bringing up the rear with the wan baby in her arms.
Tied to the post was Sweetheart, but such a cow had never been seen
before in the history of Fairfax, for Judy was nothing if not original,
and with the help of Anne and Launcelot she had decked the little cow
gorgeously.
Around her neck was a huge wreath of roses, pink ribbons were tied to
her horns, and two long pink streamers like reins went over her back
and across the path and around the barn, where the ends were hidden.
"Gee," said Johnny McSwiggins, but the rest of them were silent, gazing
at this transformed and glorified Sweetheart, while Mary laid her head
against the sleek neck and murmured love names to her dear little cow.
"They's somethin' at the end of them ribbins," said Mrs. McSwiggins,
after awhile, "you all go an' look."
And when they looked they found two huge baskets, one filled with
wonderful things all ready to eat (Perkins had packed that), and the
other filled with fruits and vegetables (Launcelot had raised them),
and on top of one basket was a box of candy (Anne sat up to make it),
and on the other a package of raisin cookies (from the little
grandmother).
The little McSwiggins squealed and gurgled with delight, and then ate
as only people can who have seen the gaunt wolf of starvation at the
door, and as they ate they asked the question unceasingly:
"Who sent it?"
"They's a letter tied to her horn," volunteered Johnny McSwiggins after
he had devoured two cookies and three sandwiches and a chicken leg. "I
seen it."
They found it under the roses, and when they opened it, there dropped
out two yellow-backed bills (from the Judge and the Captain), and a
note (and that was from Judy), and the note said:
"I waved my wand and commanded that Sweetheart be brought back to you.
Also these other gifts. If you wish to keep them, and to keep my
favor, you must never ask whence they came.
"Your guardian fairy,
"JUANNLOT."
Then all the little McSwiggins stared, and the littlest
McSwiggins--except the baby, asked, "Was it really a fairy, mother?"
and Mrs. McSwiggins wiped her eyes and sobbed, "I reckon it was,
honey," but Mary McSwiggins with her eyes shining as they had never
shone before in her sad little life said softly to her mother, "I'll
bet it was them girls and that Bart boy. I'll bet it was--"
"What girls?" asked Mrs. McSwiggins.
"Them girls down at the Judge's in the big house. They wears white
dresses, and one's got yaller hair and the other's got brown, and I was
behin' the fence yustiddy when they was pickin' flowers, and that's how
I foun' out they names--the dark one's Judy, and the light one's
Anne--and the boy's named Launcelot. And that's how they got that
fairy name--you look here," and she held up the note to her mother,
"'Ju--ann--lot'--it's jes' them names strung together."
"Well, now," said Mrs. McSwiggins, "if that ain' bright, honey. But I
don't know's we ought to take all them things."
"Sweetheart ain't goin' away from yer no more," said Mary, firmly, "and
they'd feel mighty bad if we didn't take the other things."
"Well, mebbe they would," said Mrs. McSwiggins, "and anyhow they's
saved us from the po'house, and that's a fact, Mary, and don' you
forgit it when you say yo' prayers."
Far down the road the Mysterious Four gloated over their success.
"Wasn't it fun?" gasped Anne.
"Here's to the fairy Juannlot," cried Launcelot.
"May she never cease to do good," cried Judy, beaming on her fellow
conspirators.
But Perkins merely nodded approval. For had not all the good ladies of
the house of Jameson played the role of Lady Bountiful, and was not
Judy thus proving herself worthy of their name and fame?