It was our Uncle Peter who sent us the little piece of paper.
It was a piece of paper torn out of that part of a newspaper where
people tell what they want if they've got money enough to pay for it.
This is what it said:
"WANTED a little dog who can't sleep to be night companion
for a little boy who can't sleep. Will pay fifty dollars."
Our Uncle Peter sent it to my Father and told him to give it to us.
"Your children know so many dogs," he said.
"Not--fifty dollars' worth," said my Father. He said it with points in
his eyes.
"Oh--I'm not so sure," said my Mother. She said it with just a little
smile in her voice.
It was my Mother who gave us the big sheet of brown paper to make our
sign. My brother Carol mixed the paint. I mixed the letters. It was a
nice sign. We nailed it on the barn where everybody who went by could
see it. It said:
"Carol and Ruthy.
Dealers in Dogs who
Can't Sleep."
Nobody dealt with us. We were pretty discouraged.
We asked the Grocer if he had a little dog who couldn't sleep. We asked
the Postman. We asked the Butcher. They hadn't.
We asked the old whiskery man who came every Spring to buy old bottles
and papers. HE HAD!
He brought the dog on a dungeon chain. He said if we'd give him fifty
cents for the dungeon chain we could have the dog for nothing.
It seemed like a very good bargain.
Our Father lent us the fifty cents.
He was a nice dog. We named him Tiger Lily. His hair was red and smooth
as Sunday all except his paws and ears. His paws and ears were sort of
rumpled. His eyes were gold and very sweet like keepsakes you must never
spend. He had a sad tail. He was a setter dog. He was meant to hunt. But
he couldn't hunt because he was so shy. It was guns that he was so shy
about.
Our Mother invited us to wash him. He washed very nicely.
We wrote our triumph to our Uncle Peter and asked him to send us the
fifty dollars.
Our Uncle Peter came instead in an automobile and took Tiger Lily and
Carol and me to the city.
"Of course he isn't exactly a 'little dog,'" we admitted. "But at least
he's a dog! And at least he 'can't sleep'!"
"Well--I wonder," said our Uncle Peter. He seemed very pleased to wonder
about it. He twisted his head on one side and looked at Tiger Lily.
"What do you mean,--'doesn't sleep'?" he said.
Because my brother Carol is dumb and never talks I always have to do the
explaining. It was easy to explain about Tiger Lily.
"Why when you're in bed and fast asleep," I explained, "he comes and
puts his nose in your neck! It feels wet! It's full of sighs and a cool
breeze! It makes you jump and want your Mother!--All the rest of the
time at night he's roaming! And prowling! And s'ploring!--Up the front
stairs and down the back--and up the front and down the back!--Every
window he comes to he stops and listens! And listens!--His toe-nails
have never been cut!--It sounds lonely!"
"What does he seem to be listening for?" said our Uncle Peter.
"Listening for gun-bangs," I explained.
"O--h," said our Uncle Peter.
The city was full of noises like gun-bangs. It made Tiger Lily very
nervous. He tried to get under everything. It took us most all the
afternoon to get him out.
The little boy's name was Dicky. He wasn't at home. "Come again," said
the man at the door. We came again about eight o'clock at night. It
seemed as late as Christmas Eve and sort of lonely without our Parents
or any other presents. We had to climb a lot of stairs. It made Tiger
Lily puff a little and look very glad. It made our Uncle Peter puff some
too. It made the little boy's Mother puff a good deal. There wasn't any
Father. The Mother was all in black about it. Her clothes looked very
sorrowful. But her face was just sort of surprised. She had white hands.
She carried them all curved up like pond-lilies. She was pretty. Even
if you'd never seen her but once in a train window you'd always have
remembered.
The little boy's room was very large and full of lights. There were
tinkly glass things hanging everywhere. There was a music-box playing.
There was a tin railroad train running round and round the room all by
itself making a bangy noise. There was a wound-up bird in a toy cage
crying "Hi! Hi!" There was a crackling fire. Everything was tinkling or
playing or singing or banging or crackling. It sounded busy. You had to
talk very loud to make any one hear you.
The little boy sat on top of a table in a big bay window looking out at
the night. His knees were all cuddled up into the curve of his arms. He
had on a little red wrapper and bare legs and fur slippers. He was lots
littler than us. He looked cunning.
We stamped our feet on the rug.
"Here's your dog!" I said.
When the little boy saw Tiger Lilly he jumped right down from the table
and screamed. It was with joy that he screamed. He threw his arms right
around Tiger Lily's neck and screamed all over again. Tiger Lily liked
it very much.
"What makes his paws so fluffy?" he screamed. "How soft his face is!
He's got sweet eyes! He's got a sad tail! What's his name? Where did you
get him? Is he for me? Do I have to pay money for him? What does he eat?
Will he drink coffee?" Just as though he was mad about something he
began suddenly to jump up and down and cry tears. "Why doesn't somebody
answer me?" he screamed. "Why doesn't somebody tell me?"
He got so excited about it that he hit Carol on the nose and blooded him
quite a good deal.
The little boy's mother came running.
"Oh hush--hush, Dicky!" she cried. "Don't be in such a hurry! The boy
will tell you all about it in time! Give him time I say! Give him
time!"
"No he won't," I explained. "My brother Carol never tells anything. He
can't."
"He's--dumb," said our Uncle Peter.
The Lady looked sort of queer.
"Oh dear--Oh dear--Oh dear," she said. "What a misfortune!"
Our Uncle Peter sort of sniffed his expression.
"Misfortune?" he said. "I call it the greatest blessing in the world!"
He glared at little Dicky. "Yes the greatest blessing in the world!" he
said. "A child who doesn't babble or fuss!--Or SCREAM!"
The Lady looked more and more surprised. She turned to the little boy.
"'Dumb,' Dicky," she said. "You understand? Doesn't speak?"
Dicky looked at his Mother. He looked at Carol. A little pucker came and
blacked itself between his eyebrows. As though to toss the pucker away
he tossed back his whole head and ran to Tiger Lily and threw his arms
around Tiger Lily's neck.
"Doesn't----EVER?" he said.
"Doesn't ever--what?" said our Uncle Peter.
"Sleep?" said Dicky.
"It was the boy we were talking about," laughed his Mother. "Not the
doggie." She tried to put her arms around him.
He wiggled right out of them and ran back to Tiger Lily.
"Is it his adenoids?" he cried. "Have you had his eyes tested? How do
you know but what it's his teeth?"
"Whose teeth?" frowned our Uncle Peter.
"Tiger Lily's!" cried Dicky.
His Mother made a sorry sound in her throat.
"Poor Dicky," she said. "He's had most everything done to
him!--Tonsils,--spine,--eyes,--ears,--teeth!--Why the last Doctor I saw
was almost positive that the Insomnia was due entirely to--" In the very
middle of what it was due to she turned to our Uncle Peter. Her voice
got very private. Our Uncle Peter had to stoop his head to hear it. He
had a proud head. It didn't stoop very easily.
"He isn't my own little boy," she whispered.
As though his ears were magic the little boy looked up and grinned. His
eyes looked naughty.
"Nobody's own little boy," he said. "Nobody's own little boy!" As though
it was a song without any tune he began to sing it. "Nobody's--Nobody's
own little boy!"
The Lady tried to stop him. He struck at her with his feet. It made a
hurt on her arm. He snatched Tiger Lily by the collar and started for
the door.
"Going to find Cook and get a bone!" he said. He said it like a boast.
He slammed the door behind him. It made a rude noise. He came running
back and looked a little sorry, but mostly bashful. He pointed at Tiger
Lily. "What--What's HE afraid of?" he said.
"Noises," I explained.
"Noises?" cried the little boy. He cried it with a sort of a hoot. It
sounded scornful.
"Oh pshaw!" he said. "There isn't a noise in the world that I'm afraid
of! Not thunder! Not guns! Not ANYTHING! Noises are my friends! In the
night I take torpedoes and crack 'em on the hearth just to hear them
sputter! I've got three tin pans tied on a string! I've got a pop-gun!"
He ran back to the table to get the gun. It was a nice gun. It was
painted bright blue. It looked loud.
When Tiger Lily saw it he dove under the bed. It was hard to get him
out. The little boy looked very astonished.
"It's gun-bangs--specially--that Tiger Lily is afraid of," I explained.
"Gun-bangs?" said the little boy.
"That's why he can't ever hunt," I explained.
"Hunt?" said the little boy. "Not--ever you mean?" He looked at Tiger
Lily. He looked at the blue pop-gun. "Not ever? Ever? Ever?" Way down in
his little fur slippers it was as though a little sigh started and
shivered itself up-up-up--up till it reached his smile. It made his
smile sort of wobbly. "Oh all right!" he said and ran away as fast as he
could to hide the blue pop-gun in the bottom of the closet. A velocipede
he piled on top of it and two pillows and a Noah's Ark and a stuffed
squirrel. When the piling was all done he looked back at our Uncle
Peter. It was across one shoulder that he looked back. It made his
little smile look twisty as well as wobbly. One of his eyebrows had
crooked itself. "It's--It's SILENCES that I'm afraid of," he said.
He grabbed Tiger Lily by the collar again and started for the door. As
though he was playing a Game he reached out one finger and tagged
everybody as he passed them. Everybody except Carol. When he started to
tag Carol he snatched back his finger and screamed instead. "He's a
Silence!" he screamed. "He's a Silence!" Still holding tight to Tiger
Lily's collar he ran for the stairs.
Flop-Flop-Flop his little fur slippers thudded on the hard wood floor.
Tick-Tick-Tick Lily's toe-nails clicked along beside him. It sounded
cool. And slippery.
His Mother wrung her hands. It seemed to be with despair that she wrung
them.
"Yes that's just it," she despaired. "It's 'Silences' that he's afraid
of! That's what keeps him awake all night banging at things! That's what
worries him so!"
"But he gave up the noisy pop-gun," said our Uncle Peter. "Gave it up of
his own accord when he saw that it frightened the dog."
"Why so he did!" said the Mother. She seemed very much surprised. "Why
so he did!--Why I don't know that I ever knew him to give up anything
before. He's been so delicate--and--and the only child and
everything--I'm afraid we've spoiled him."
"U--m--m," said our Uncle Peter.
"And all the circumstances of the case are so bewildering," despaired
the lady.
Like white pond-lilies floating in a black gloom her sad hands curled in
her lap. It seemed to be at our Uncle Peter that they curled.
"Are they indeed?" said our Uncle Peter. It was the "circumstances" that
he meant.
"Very bewildering," said the Lady. Her cheeks got a little pink. She
jumped up and went to the door and listened a minute at the head of the
stairs. When she came back to her chair she shut the door behind her.
"As I told you," she whispered, "the little boy isn't my own little
boy."
"So I understood," said our Uncle Peter.
"His Mother died when he was born," said the Lady.
"Very sad indeed," said our Uncle Peter.
"Dicky is six years old," said the Lady. "I married his Father a year
and a half ago. His Father was killed in an accident a year ago--"
"Oh dear--Oh dear," said our Uncle Peter.
The Lady began all over again as though it was a lesson.
"Dicky is six years old," she said. "I married his Father a year and a
half ago. He was killed in an accident a year ago. It was all so
sudden,--the marriage,--the accident,--everything--!" She began to cry a
little. It made her clothes look sorrowfuller and sorrowfuller and her
face more and more surprised. Once again she curled up her white
pond-lily hands at our Uncle Peter. It was as though she thought that
our Uncle Peter could help her perhaps with some of her surprises.
"I--I didn't know his Father very long," she cried. "I never knew his
Mother at all!----It's--It's pretty bewildering," she said, "to be left
all alone--for life--with a perfectly, strange little boy--who isn't any
relation at all!--All his funny little suits to worry about--and his
mumps and his measles--and--and whether he ought to play marbles 'for
keeps'--and shall I send him to college or not? And suppose he turns out
a burglar or something dreadful like that?--And how in the world am I
going to tackle his first love affair? Or his choice of a
profession?--Merciful Heavens!--Perhaps he'll want to fly!"
"Why--you're just like a Hen," said our Uncle Peter.
The Lady didn't like to be called a Hen.
It ruffled her all up.
Our Uncle Peter had to talk about Base Ball to soothe her.
The Lady didn't know anything about Base Ball but it seemed to soothe
her considerably to hear about it.
When our Uncle Peter was all through soothing her she looked up as
pleasant as pleasant could be.
"WHY?" she said.
"Why--what?" said our Uncle Peter. He seemed a little perplexed.
"Why--am I like a Hen?" said the Lady.
"O--h," said our Uncle Peter. He acted very much relieved. "O--h," he
said. "I was afraid it was something you were going to ask me about Base
Ball. But a Hen----?" He looked with smiles at the Lady. "Oh but a
Hen--?--Why even a Hen, my dear Madam," he smiled, "a real professional
true-enough hen doesn't take any too easily to the actual chick itself
until she's served a certain sit-tightly, go-lightly, egg-shell sort of
apprenticeship as it were to the IDEA.--Thrust a bunch of chicks under
her before she's served this apprenticeship and----"