Birthdays are always important events, but some are more important
than others. The most important of all, of course, is one you can't
remember at all--the zero birthday, when you were born.
After that, the fifth, I suppose, is the red letter day. A boy
certainly begins to appreciate life when he gets to be five years old.
Next, probably, would come the seventh, for a boy--or a girl--is
pretty big by then, and able to do so many things. In old Bible days
seven was supposed to be a sacred number, and even today many people
think it lucky. Why, at the baseball games the men in the stands rise
up in the seventh inning and stretch, they say, to bring victory to
the home team.
The seventeenth birthday is the next great event. By that time a boy
is quite grown up and ready for college; and on the twenty-first he
can vote. But after that people don't think so much of birthdays until
their seventieth or so, when they become very proud of them once more.
Perhaps they grow like little children again. Wouldn't it be funny to
have, say, eighty candles on one cake? But what cook or baker makes
cakes big enough for that?
Marmaduke wasn't looking so far ahead. All he was thinking about was
his own birthday, which came that fine day, his seventh; and he was
wondering if Mother would put the seven candles on his cake, and if it
would turn out chocolate, which he very much hoped.
About three o'clock of this same day, Mother looked out of the window
and said "Good gracious!," which were the very worst words she ever
said; and Father looked up from the cider-press which he was mending,
and said "By George!", which were the very worst he ever said; and the
Toyman looked up from the sick chicken to which he was giving some
medicine, and said "Geewhillikens!" And whether or not that was the
worst he ever said I do not know. I hope so.
What could they be exclaiming about? _Marmaduke_! He was all
alone as far as human beings went, for Jehosophat was putting
axle-grease on his little red cart, and Hepzebiah was playing with
Hetty, her rag doll, and the rest were busy at their tasks, as we have
just seen.
But he had some fine company, oh, yes, he had. He was giving a
birthday party for the animals.
And this is the way he persuaded all his noisy quarrelsome friends of
the barnyard to come to his party:
First he went to the barn and filled one pocket--you see, he was a big
boy now and had pockets--one, two, three, four, five, six, seven--one
over his heart, two close by his belt, one on the inside of his
jacket, one on each side of his hips, and two in the back of his
corduroy trousers. Well, he filled pocket number one with golden
kernels of corn from the sack; pocket number two with meal from
another sack; and he filled pocket number three with lettuce leaves
from the garden; and number four with birdseed from a little box. That
makes four pockets.
To fill the others, he had to make three more journeys--three very
strange journeys, so strange you could never guess where he was going.
First he went to the wagon-shed, and there, because it was near the
three kennels, was kept the box of dog-biscuit. Six of these biscuits
went in the fifth pocket. Let's see--yes, that leaves two more to be
filled.
For the sixth, he went into his own little room and got a bottle with
a stopper in it, one which he had begged from the doctor that time he
was sick. Then he went to the springhouse by the well, and filled the
little bottle with milk from the big can.
But the seventh pocket had the strangest load of all. He took his
shovel and actually dug some worms from the garden, long, wriggly
worms--"night-walkers," the boys call them--and placed them in a can,
and presto! that too went into his pocket, the seventh. And now all
the pockets were filled.
And, mind you, he did all this by himself. And when he came back from
all these errands he bulged out in such funny places, the places where
he had stuffed his pockets, so that he looked as if he had tremendous
warts or knobs all over his body.
"Did you ever!" said Mother, and all three--she, the Toyman, and
Father--kept watching, trying hard not to laugh. It paid them to watch
him, too, for they were going to see something worth-while, better
than a "movie," better even than a circus.
Well, after all the errands were over, Marmaduke collected some
shingles, and all the cups and tins in which the Three Happy Children
made mud-pies. And he spread them out on the table in the summer-house
very carefully.
Can you guess what he did that for? I don't believe you can. I know I
couldn't.
Then he took his little scoopnet, and went to the pond and put the net
in. Out it came, and in the meshes flopped and tumbled and
somersaulted three tiny fish.
These he placed in one of the pans on the table in the summer-house,
and then hurried to the rabbit-hutch and opened the sliding door and
called,--
"Come, Bunny, Bunny,
An' don't be funny!"
But first we must explain that Marmaduke had a queer trick of making
rhymes. I guess he caught it from the Toyman, who used to make lots
for the children, just to see them laugh. So Marmaduke got the habit.
And making rhymes is just as catching as measles and whooping cough,
only it doesn't hurt so much.
Of course, some of Marmaduke's rhymes weren't very good, but he tried
his best, which is all you can ask of anybody. Anyway, we will have to
tell you them just as he made them, so you can see what sort of a
party he had.