A FINE GAME
One Saturday morning, the Maynards and the Bryants sat on the veranda of
"Maynard Manor," and every one of them was gazing at the sky.
"It will,--I know it will," said Mrs. Maynard, hopelessly.
"It won't,--I know it won't!" exclaimed Marjorie, smiling at her mother.
"It's bound to," declared Cousin Jack, "and there's no use thinking it
won't!"
Of course, they were talking about the rain, which hadn't yet begun to
fall, but which, judging from the ominous gray sky and black clouds,
would soon do so.
"Yep, there are the first drops now!" cried King, as some black spots
suddenly appeared on the veranda steps.
"Yep! that settles it!" Marjorie agreed, "we'll have to give up the
trip. What can we do, nice, instead?"
They had planned an all-day motor trip. Mr. Maynard was always at home
on Saturdays, and he liked nothing better than to take his family and
friends for a ride.
"The nicest thing just now would be to scoot indoors!" said Cousin Jack,
as the drops came faster and thicker, and a gust of wind sent the rain
dashing at them.
So they all scurried into the house, and gathered in the big living-room
to discuss the situation.
"It does seem too bad to have it rain on a Saturday," said Cousin Ethel,
looking regretfully out of the window.
"Rain, rain, go away, come again another day," chanted Midget, drumming
on the pane with her finger tips.
"Oh, if I were a kiddy, I shouldn't mind it," said Cousin Jack,
teasingly, to Marjorie. "There are lots of things you can play. But us
poor grown-ups have no fun to look forward to but motoring, and now we
can't do that."
"Oh, if I were a grown-up, _I_ shouldn't mind it," said Midget, laughing
back at him. "Grown-ups can do anything they like, but kiddies have to
do as they're told."
"Ah, yes," and Cousin Jack sighed deeply, "but we have sorrows and cares
that you know nothing of."
"Yes," returned Marjorie, "and _we_ have sorrows and cares that _you_
know nothing of! I'd like you to change places with us for a day, and
see----"
"All right, we will!" exclaimed Cousin Jack. "That's a fine game! For
to-day, we grown-ups will be the children and you and King can play
mother and father to us!"
"Oh, what larks!" cried King. "Let's begin right away! Will you,
Mother?"
Mrs. Maynard laughed. "I'll try it," she said, "but not for all day. Say
till afternoon."
"Well, till five o'clock this afternoon," suggested Marjorie; "will you,
Father, will you?"
"I'll play any game the rest play," said good-natured Mr. Maynard. "What
do you want me to do?"
"Well, you must obey us implicitly! King is Father, and I'm Mother, and
you four are our children; Helen and Ed, and Ethel and Jack, your names
are! Oh, what fun! King, what shall we do first?"
"Hear their lessons, I guess. Now, my dears, I know it's vacation, but
you really ought to study a little each day, to keep your minds from
rusting out."
This was a favorite speech of Mrs. Maynard's, and as King quoted it,
with a twinkle in his eye, it was recognized at once, at least, by the
four Maynards.
"All right," cried Marjorie, dancing about in excitement, "sit in a row,
children. Why, Ed, your hands are a sight! Go at once, and wash them, my
boy, and never appear before me again with such an untidy appearance!"
Mr. Maynard obediently left the room, and when he returned a few moments
later, his hands were immaculately clean. Also, he was munching a cooky,
apparently with great delight.
"Give me one!" demanded Cousin Jack.
"And me!" "And me!" begged both the ladies, trying to act like eager
children. Mr. Maynard drew more cookies from his pockets and gave them
to the others, not, however, including King and Marjorie.
"Now, children, finish your cookies, but don't drop crumbs on the
floor," said Midget, choking with laughter at Cousin Jack, who was
cramming large bits of his cake into his mouth.
"Please, Mother, may I go and get a drink of water?" he mumbled.
"Yes, Jack, go. And then don't ever take such big bites of cooky again!
You children have the worst manners I ever saw!"
And then each one had to have a drink of water, and there was much
laughter and scrambling before they were again in order for their
lessons.
"Geography, first," said King, picking up a magazine to serve as a
pretended text-book.
"Edward, bound Missouri."
"Missouri is bounded on the north,--by,--by,--Kansas, I guess."
"Pshaw! he doesn't know his lesson! let me say it!" exclaimed Cousin
Jack. "Missouri is bounded on the north by Kentucky, on the east by
Alabama, on the south by New Jersey, and on the west by Philadelphia. It
is a great cotton-growing state, and contains six million inhabitants,
mostly Hoosiers."
"Fine!" cried Marjorie, "every word correct! Next, Ethel, what is the
Capital of the United States?"
"Seacote," said Cousin Ethel, laughing.
"Sure it is!" agreed King; "now that's enough jography. Next, we'll have
arithmetic. Helen, how much is eighteen times forty-seven?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Maynard, helplessly.
"Don't know your multiplication table! Fie, fie, my dear! You must stay
in after school and study it. Edward, how much _is_ eighteen times
forty-seven?"
"Six hundred and fifty-nine, Father."
"Right, my boy! Go up head."
"Now, I'll give an example," said Midget. "If Edward has three eggs and
Jack has two eggs, how many have they together?"
"Can't do it!" declared Cousin Jack, "'cause Ed and I are never together
at breakfast, and that's the only time we have eggs!"
"Then here's another!" cried Midget; "how can you divide thirteen apples
evenly among four people?"
"You can't!" said Cousin Jack, "that's the answer."
"No, it isn't! Who knows?"
"Invite in nine more people," suggested Mr. Maynard.
"No; that's not it! Oh, it's easy! Don't you know, Mother? I mean,
_Helen_?"
But they all gave it up, so Marjorie announced the solution, which is,
"Make apple sauce!"
"History lesson, now," said King. "Edward, who discovered America?"
"Pocahontas," replied Mr. Maynard.
"Right. Who was Pocahontas?"
"A noble Indian Princess, who was born July 29th, 1563."
"Very good. Ethel, describe the Battle of Bunker Hill."
"I can't; I wasn't there."
"You should have gone," reprimanded King, severely. "Didn't you read
the newspaper accounts of it?"
"Yes, but I didn't believe them."
"Jack Bryant, can you describe this famous battle?"
"Yes, sir. It was fought under the shadow of the Bunker Hill Monument.
At sundown the shadow ceased, so they all said, 'Disperse ye rebels, and
lay down your arms!' So they laid down their arms and went to sleep."
"Very well done, Master Bryant. Now, we're going to speak pieces. Each
pupil will speak a piece or write a composition. You may take your
choice."
"I'll speak a piece! Let me speak first!" exclaimed Cousin Ethel,
jumping up and down. "May I speak now, Teacher!"
"Yes, Ethel, dear," said Midget, kindly; "you may speak your piece
first. Stand up here, by me. Make your bow."
So Cousin Ethel came up to Marjorie, and acted like a very shy and
bashful child. She put her finger in her mouth, and dropped her eyes and
wriggled about, and picked at her skirt, until everybody was in peals of
laughter.
"Be quiet, children," said Midget, trying to control her own face. "Now,
everybody sit still while Ethel Bryant recites."
Cousin Ethel made a very elaborate dancing-school bow, and then, swaying
back and forth in school-child fashion, she recited in a monotonous
singsong, these lines:
"MUD PIES
"The grown-ups are the queerest folks; they never seem to know
That mud pies always have to be made just exactly so.
You have to have a nice back yard, a sunny pleasant day,
And then you ask some boys and girls to come around and play.
You mix some mud up in a pail, and stir it with a stick;
It mustn't be a bit too thin--and not a bit too thick.
And then you make it into pies, and pat it with your hand,
And bake 'em on a nice flat board, and my! but they are grand!"
Mrs. Bryant declaimed, with suitable gestures, and finally sat down on
the floor and made imaginary mud pies, in such a dear, childish way that
her audience was delighted, and gave her really earnest encores.
"Do you know another piece, Ethel?" asked Marjorie.
"Yes, ma'am," and Mrs. Bryant resumed her shy voice and manner.
"Then you may recite it, as your little schoolmates seem anxious to have
you do so."
So again, Mrs. Bryant diffidently made her bow, and recited, with real
dramatic effect:
"AN UNVISITED LOCALITY
"I wisht I was as big as men,
To see the Town of After Ten;
I've heard it is so bright and gay,
It's almost like another day.
But to my bed I'm packed off straight
When that old clock strikes half-past eight!
It's awful hard to be a boy
And never know the sort of joy
That grown-up people must have when
They're in the Town of After Ten.
I'm sure I don't know what they do,
For shops are closed, and churches too.
Perhaps with burglars they go 'round,
And do not dare to make a sound!
Well, soon I'll be a man, and then
I'll see the Town of After Ten!"
"Oh, Cousin Ethel, you're lovely!" cried Marjorie, forgetting her rôle
for the moment. But King took it up.
"Yes, little Ethel," he said, "you recite very nicely, for such a young
child. Now, go to your seat, and Helen Maynard may recite next."
"Mine is a Natural History Poem," said Mrs. Maynard, coming up to the
teacher's desk. "It is founded on fact, and it is highly instructive."
"That's nice," said King. "Go ahead with it."
So Mrs. Maynard made her bow and though not bashful, like Mrs. Bryant,
she was very funny, for she pretended to forget her lines, and
stammered and hesitated, and finally burst into pretended tears. But,
urged on and encouraged by the teachers, she finally concluded this gem
of poesy:
"THE WHISTLING WHALE
"A whistling whale once built his nest
On the very tiptop of a mountain's crest.
He wore a tunic and a blue cocked hat,
And for fear of mice he kept a cat.
The whistling whale had a good-sized mouth,
It measured three feet from north to south;
But when he whistled he puckered it up
Till it was as small as a coffee-cup.
The people came from far and near
This wonderful whistling whale to hear;
And in a most obliging way
He stood on his tail and whistled all day."
"That's a truly noble poem," commented King, as she finished. "Take your
seat, Helen; you have done splendidly, my little girl!"
"Now, Teddy Maynard, it's your turn," said Marjorie.
"After Jacky," declared Mr. Maynard, and nothing would induce him to
precede his friend.
"Mine is about a visit I paid to the Zoo," said Mr. Bryant, looking
modest. "I wrote it myself for a composition, but it turned out to be
poetry. I never can tell how my compositions are going to turn out."
"Recite it," said Marjorie, "and we'll see if we like it."
"It's about wild animals," went on Cousin Jack, "and it tells of their
habits."
"That's very nice," said King, condescendingly; "go ahead, my boy."
So Cousin Jack recited this poem:
"THE WAYS OF THE WILD
"There's nothing quite so nice to do
As pay a visit to the zoo,
And see beasts that, at different times,
Were brought from strange and distant climes.
I love to watch the tapirs tape;
I stand intent, with mouth agape.
Then I observe the vipers vipe;
They're a most interesting type.
I love to see the beavers beave;
Indeed, you scarcely would believe
That they can beave so cleverly,
Almost as well as you or me.
And then I pass along, and lo!
Panthers are panthing to and fro.
And in the next cage I can see
The badgers badging merrily.
Oh, the dear beasties at the zoo,
What entertaining things they do!"
"That's fine!" exclaimed Midget. "I didn't know we were going to have a
_real_ entertainment!"
"Very good, Jacky!" pronounced King. "I shall mark you ten in
declamation. You're a good declaimer. Now, Teddy Maynard, it's your
turn."
"Mine is real oratory," declared Mr. Maynard, as he rose from his seat.
"But I find that so many fine oratorical pieces fizzle out after their
first lines, that I just pick out the best lines and use them for
declamation. Now, you can see how well my plan works."
He struck an attitude, bowed to each of his audience separately, cleared
his throat impressively, and then began to declaim in a stilted, stagey
voice, and with absurd dramatic gestures:
"THE ART OF ELOCUTION
"The noble songs of noble deeds of bravery or glory
Are much enhanced if they're declaimed with stirring oratory.
I love sonorous words that roll like billows o'er the seas;
These I recite like Cicero or like Demosthenes.
"And so, from every poem what is worthy I select;
I use the phrases I like best, the others I reject;
And thus, I claim, that I have found the logical solution
Of difficulties that attend the art of elocution.
"Whence come these shrieks so wild and shrill? Across the
sands o' Dee?
Lo, I will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee!
For this was Tell a hero? For this did Gessler die?
'The curse is come upon me!' said the Spider to the Fly.
"When Britain first at Heaven's command said, 'Boatswain,
do not tarry;
The despot's heel is on thy shore, and while ye may, go marry.'
Let dogs delight to bark and bite the British Grenadiers,
Lars Porsena of Clusium lay dying in Algiers!
"Old Grimes is dead! Ring out, wild bells! And shall Trelawney die?
Then twenty thousand Cornishmen are comin' thro' the rye!
The Blessed Damozel leaned out,--she was eight years old _she said_!
Lord Lovel stood at his castle gate, whence all but him had fled.
"Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! Only three grains of corn!
Stay, Lady, stay! for mercy's sake! and wind the bugle horn.
The glittering knife descends--descends--Hark, hark, the foeman's
cry!
The world is all a fleeting show! Said Gilpin, 'So am I!'
"The sea! the sea! the open sea! Roll on, roll on, thou deep!
Maxwelton braes are bonny, but Macbeth hath murdered sleep!
Answer me, burning shades of night! what's Hecuba to me?
Alone stood brave Horatius! The boy--oh, where was he?"
"Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie, as Mr. Maynard finished, "did you really
make that up? Or did you find it in a book?"
But Mr. Maynard wouldn't tell, and only accepted the praise heaped upon
him, with a foolish smirk, like an embarrassed schoolboy.
"Now, children, school is out," said Midget, "and it's about luncheon
time. So go and tidy yourselves up to come to the table. You're always
sending us to tidy up, Mother, so now you can see what a nuisance it is!
Run along, and come back as quickly as you can, for luncheon is nearly
ready."
The four grown-ups went away to tidy up, and King and Midget made
further plans for this new game. It was still raining, so there was no
hope of going motoring, and they concluded they were having enough fun
at home to make up for it.
But when the four "children" returned, they looked at them a moment in
silent astonishment, and then burst into shrieks of laughter.
Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant had transformed themselves into boys, by
brushing their hair down very wet and straight, and wearing large, round
collars made of white paper, and tied with enormous bows. They looked
funny enough, but the two ladies were funnier still. Mrs. Maynard had
her hair in two long pigtails tied with huge ribbons, and Cousin Ethel
had her hair in bunches of curls, also tied with big bows. They both
wore white bib aprons, and carried foolish-looking dolls which they had
made out of pillows, tied round with string.
"You _dear_ children!" cried Midget; "I think you are lovely! Come along
to luncheon."
The "children" politely let King and Midget go first, and they followed,
giggling. Sarah, the waitress, was overcome with amusement, but she
managed to keep a straight face, as the comical-looking procession filed
in.
King and Marjorie appropriated their parents' seats, and the others sat
at the sides of the table.
"No, Helen, dear," said Midget, "you can't have any tea. It isn't good
for little girls. You may have a glass of milk, if you wish."
"I don't think these lobster croquettes are good for Jack," said King,
looking wisely at Midget; "they're very rich, and he's subject to
indigestion."
"I am not!" declared Cousin Jack, looking longingly at the tempting
croquettes, for which Ellen was famous.
"There, there, my child," said Marjorie; "don't contradict your father.
Perhaps he could have a half of one, King."
"Yes, that would scarcely make him ill," and King gave Cousin Jack a
portion of one small croquette, which he ate up at once, and found to be
merely an aggravation.
"Oh, no! no pie for Edward," said Marjorie, when a delicious lemon
meringue made its appearance. "Pie is entirely unsuitable for children!
He may have a nice baked apple."
And Mr. Maynard was plucky enough to eat his baked apple without a
murmur, for he remembered that often he had advised Mrs. Maynard against
giving the children pie.
To be sure, the pie would not harm the grown people, but Mr. Maynard had
agreed to "play the game," and it was his nature to do thoroughly
whatever he undertook.