A “MUMPFUL” PARTY.
Certain dainty blue billets were causing a wild flutter of excitement
among the ranks of Miss Lyon’s school, for every girl in “our set”
received one of the fascinating things.
“Miss Emily Drayton requests the pleasure of—” How deliciously grown up!
Emily’s parties were always simply perfect. Emily did not go to school
with the others, for she was a delicate little girl, and had her lessons
with a governess at home. Her friends rather envied her at times, since
she had short hours and not half the Latin and arithmetic to do that
they did, and an entire holiday whenever she did not feel quite well;
but, in her turn, Emily often looked wistfully at the others, and longed
with all her heart for the dear delights of school life. She always felt
“out of it” when her little friends laughed and chattered and compared
notes over school doings that she knew nothing of. They would kindly
explain the jokes and references, but when she did not know dear Miss
Bates and cross Miss Raymond and slipshod Susie Dane and stupid Jessie
Moore, the things that the girls laughed over till their sides ached did
not seem very funny to her. It made her rather a lonely little girl,
and, for this reason, her mother was always getting up some simple
little party or company for her, and having Emily’s friends to luncheon.
But this special party was to be a particularly fine affair, for it was
not only Emily’s birthday, but Hallowe’en as well, which double event
Mrs. Drayton always celebrated more elaborately than any other.
Such an excitement among the children, then, when the blue notes began
to circulate! Such jabbering at recess, such comparing of notes, such
arrangements for going, such questions about each other’s dress! Alas!
the party was a whole week off. Could breakfast, and luncheon, and
dinner, and going to bed and getting up, and school and lessons, ever
fill up this long stretch between?
“I suppose there are new gowns for this important occasion,” said
Donald, who had strolled in to dinner, one night. The family were all in
the back parlour.
“No,” said mamma. “Their organdies are fresh and nice, fortunately, and
new sashes are all they need.”
“Fortunately! _Un_fortunately, I say,” said Donald, teasingly. “I was
going to bring Cricket a dress of porcelain,” referring to a joke of
last summer, when Cricket had arrayed a heroine in flowing robes of
white porcelain.
Cricket coloured, but answered serenely, as usual:
“If I was a great big boy, eighteen years old, and a Freshman, too, I’d
be ashamed of an old chestnut joke like that. I described to auntie what
I meant, and she said I meant chiffon—that gauzy, filmy stuff, you
know.”
“_Filmy_ stuff would be appropriate,” murmured Marjorie. “With a sash of
black carbon ribbon you would be very swell.”
“This family is absolutely disgusting,” said Eunice, looking aggrieved.
“Mamma, I should think you would be ashamed of such perfectly impolite,
teasy children as Donald and Marjorie.”
“I ’xpect God picked out the bestest children he had around then,” piped
up Zaidie, who always put her oar in.
“Indeed, he didn’t,” said Cricket emphatically. “The good ones were all
gone, and mamma was in a hurry, and He just sent any He had on hand.”
“Good for you, Cricket!” cried Eunice approvingly, thumping her sister
on the back. “Now, Mr. Donald, who has come out the little end of the
horn?”
“Eunice, your slang is simply disgusting. Of course, we men talk it, but
girls should never think of it.”
“Hark, oh, hark, to the lordly Freshman!” chanted Eunice, clasping her
hands and rolling up her eyes.
“Notice everything he says, Eunice, so we’ll know how to behave when we
go to college, and are dear, cunning little Freshmen,” chimed in
Cricket.
“No more words of wisdom to-night,” announced Donald, getting up. “I’m
off.”
“The supply exhausted so soon?” murmured Marjorie, beginning a new
corner in her embroidery.
Donald kissed his mother, ignoring Marjorie. “I’ll order you a Dresden
China gown, my Lady Jane,” he said, twisting Cricket’s brown curls as he
passed her.
On the eventful Tuesday morning, Cricket awoke bright and early—or
rather, I should say, early but by no means bright. She had had a most
unpleasant dream of having exchanged heads with an elephant, and her
neck was, consequently, so much larger, that she could not fasten her
collar around it. Eunice suggested they should make a new collar of the
sail of the _Gentle Jane_, which she said would be just large enough.
That seemed a good suggestion, but as they went to get it, they saw the
_Gentle Jane_ being taken out to sea by some playful seals.
“Dear! dear!” said Cricket in her dreams. “Now I’ll have to go to the
party without anything around my neck, because there isn’t anything else
big enough to make a collar of, and my throat is getting bigger all the
time.” Just then she awoke, clutching her neck. Sure enough, it did feel
queer, and was very stiff on one side. She swallowed, experimentally.
“I don’t like that pretty well,” she announced to herself as the result
of her attempt. “I wonder if I have the lumbago in my throat,—and
to-night is Emily’s party! I _won’t_ have a sore throat. I never did in
my life before, and I won’t begin to-night—provoking old thing!”
She swallowed vigorously several times, and winked back the tears.
“There! that didn’t hurt much. Wonder if it’s swollen.” She hopped out
of bed quickly, and ran to the glass. She opened the neck of her
night-dress and examined her round, white throat critically. It
certainly was a trifle larger on one side, and was sore, as she pressed
it a little.
“Oh, my patience, if it should be lumbago!” she groaned tragically. She
hadn’t the faintest idea what lumbago is, but the name sounded to her as
if it might be something that could come in the throat. “Wonder how long
it would take lumbago to come on. I _won’t_ have it begin till after
to-night, anyway. How queer my head feels! I guess I’ll look inside my
throat.”
Cricket turned quickly to draw up the shade, that she might see better
what inroads the “lumbago” had already made. The quick movement made her
aching head dizzy. She stumbled forward, tripped over her long
night-dress, and sat down, hitting the water pitcher which she had left
the night before standing by the wash-stand. Over went the pitcher, and
out came a deluge of water, almost setting bewildered Cricket afloat, as
she lay huddled up on the floor.
“Cricket, what an awful racket you’re making,” said Eunice sleepily,
from her bed. “Don’t get up yet. It isn’t time. It isn’t light enough.”
“Don’t get up? Do you think I’m going to lie here and _drown_?” asked
Cricket indignantly, getting rather weakly on her feet. “I’ve knocked
over the water pitcher.” She pulled the towels off the rack, and began
mopping up the flood that crawled in every direction. “I’m wet through
to my bones, I do believe, and there isn’t a dry inch in my
night-dress.”
“Put on another one, and get on your bedroom slippers. Don’t hop around
there another minute with your bare feet,” ordered Eunice, sleepily, but
sensibly.
Cricket mopped dejectedly. “The water tipped straight into my slippers.
There! That will do till Jane gets at it. Ugh! my feet are as cold as
chopsticks. I’ll change my night-dress, and then I’m going to get into
bed with you, Eunice, and get warm.”
By breakfast time, Cricket felt very queer indeed. At any other time her
mother would have noticed her lack of appetite and flushed cheeks; but
just now it was, of course, put down to the excitement of the coming
event. Her throat was stiffer than ever. She managed to slip down a
little oatmeal, but the other things hurt too much to attempt.
“I _won’t_ have lumbago in my throat till after this party,” Cricket
repeated grimly, to herself, as she went up-stairs to get ready for
school. “Only—I do wish the party was last night, and I could go into
mamma’s room and lie down all day, instead of going to school. My throat
gets sweller and sweller. Do you suppose it could swell up so that I
couldn’t eat anything, and would starve to death?”
At this cheerful thought, Cricket groaned so deep a groan that Eunice
looked around in amazement.
“Was that you, Cricket? Did you hurt yourself?”
“No, I was only thinking. _Do_ you know those irregular French verbs?
Aren’t they awful?”
“I should think they were. They are enough to make a cow groan. Ready?
Come on. Why, aren’t you ready?”
Cricket swallowed an unhappy lump in her throat, and winked back a tear.
How her throat did hurt, and how her head ached!
“I’m not quite ready. I didn’t have ’Liza brush my hair out, and it’s
all full of bones, as Zaidie says. Upsetting that water pitcher, and
mopping it up, took up so much time. There! that must do. Where are my
books? Oh, here. I’m ready. Come on,” and Cricket ran out first, lest
Eunice should see her face.
The keen, fresh air seemed to do her head good, and by the time she
reached school, she felt a little better. All the girls were chattering
so hard about the party that night, that, for the time being, Cricket
forgot her throat.
Under any other circumstances her manner and appearance would have
attracted notice and comment. But it must be confessed that from a
school point of view, the day was a general failure, and among the many
flushed faces, hers passed unnoticed. She was sometimes languid and
dull, and then excited and inattentive, making all kinds of queer
blunders. She finally distinguished herself by announcing in her history
class that Tecumseh, the Indian chief, died of a severe attack of
lumbago, exclaiming as he fell, “Don’t give up the ship.”
“Really, Jean, it is fortunate that parties do not come every day,” said
her long-suffering teacher, rather surprised that it should be Cricket
who said this, for the child’s quick memory rarely failed her. Cricket
sat scarlet and mortified, and did not recover even when that stupid
Mary Blair wrote on the board in the grammar class, “Troy was concord by
the Greasians.”
However, the day slipped away. By dinner-time, her throat felt as if a
good-sized potato had taken up its residence there. Her head ached and
her bones ached, and down in one corner of her heart she began to wish
that some one would say positively that she could not go to the party.
Meantime, after luncheon Eunice had begun to feel heavy-headed and
stiff-necked herself. Like Cricket, she carefully concealed the fact,
and resolutely put on a bright face and a very “smily” smile, if any one
looked in her direction. Each child was so absorbed in concealing her
own feelings that neither noticed the other.
At dinner, both being rather exhausted by such unusual exertions, they
were so silent that papa asked them finally whether this was the night
they were going to Emily Drayton’s party, or the night they were going
to be hanged. He himself had forgotten, he said, and he couldn’t tell by
their faces.
“They have been going to this party every day and night for a week,”
said mamma, looking rather anxiously at each flushed face. “No wonder
they are all tired out beforehand. I had them both lie down for an hour
this afternoon, also. My chickens, you _must_ eat a little more dinner
than that, if you _are_ excited.”
“I positively _can’t_, mamma,” said Cricket, feeling every moment that
the tears _would_ come if she forced another morsel past that awful
lump, that now felt the size of a watermelon to her. Eunice resolutely
choked down another bit of mashed potato.
“I’m too excited,” she remarked, with a great assumption of
cheerfulness. “Mamma, will you excuse Cricket and me, and let us go
up-stairs now? I don’t want any dessert, do you, Cricket?”
Cricket jumped up briskly.
“No, indeed. Please ’scuse us, mamma,” and equally glad to escape, the
two children flew up-stairs. Each began to make conversation as they
dressed. Eliza was there, waiting to help them.
“Lawks, how hot your face is!” said Eliza, her hand touching Cricket’s
cheek, as she brushed the brown curls till the gold light in them shone
out.
“It’s excitement,” said Eunice. “Mine’s hot, too; just feel. Ouch!” with
an undignified exclamation, as Eliza’s hand touched the lower part of
her cheek rather heavily.
Cricket suddenly flashed a quick glance at her.
“Eunice,” she said hastily, as Eliza left the room for a moment, “does
your throat feel queer?”
“Yes. How do you know?” answered Eunice, surprised.
“’Cause mine does, awfully. It has all day. And my head aches.”
“So does mine!”
“And I’m _so_ hot—”
[Illustration: GETTING READY FOR THE PARTY.]
“So am I.”
“And I feel so queer all over.”
“So do I. What _can_ be the matter? It can’t be the party!”
“A party we haven’t been to can’t make us sick. No; I’m afraid we’re
going to have the lumbago in our throats, and I think _that’s_ something
dreadful.”
“Lumbago? It sounds dreadful. Why, I never heard of it. What is it?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of it. I heard papa telling mamma that May Chester’s
grandmother had it, and you know how sick _she’s_ been this fall.”
“This lump in my throat is bad enough for anything,” sighed Eunice,
putting her hand to it. “But let’s stand it till the party is over,
Cricket.”
“_I’ll_ stick it out,” said Cricket, with grim determination.
Mamma came in just here and put the finishing touches to the dainty
dresses, and then they went down to the back parlour to exhibit
themselves in all their bravery to papa and Marjorie.
Donald sauntered in as they were being duly admired.
“Hollo, kids! What giddy-looking girls! I am proud of you. Be sure and
be good girls. Don’t forget to ‘open your eyes and look very wise,
although you feel very silly.’”
“But we _don’t_ feel very silly,” returned Eunice with dignity. “_We’re_
not Freshmen in college.”
“Been polishing your wits for the party, I see. Good plan, my Lady
Greasewrister, and Madame Van Twister, your ladyship’s sister.”
“You always did call us names, and I s’pose you always will,” said
Cricket tolerantly. “But it amuses you, and we don’t care—do we, Eunice?
Isn’t it time to go, mamma?”
“Yes, the carriage is waiting. Put on my cloak for me, Donald. Thank
you, dear. All ready, my little maids.”
It was some distance to Emily Drayton’s, and during the drive the
children were so silent that mamma was a little worried. So little
excitement of this kind was allowed them, that generally they were as
merry as grigs.
“What is the matter, girls? I never saw such sober little faces bound
for a party. Is anything wrong?”
Cricket longed to confess that her throat felt like a boiled pudding,
that the skin of her neck was queer and stretched, that the lights
danced confusedly before her eyes, and that she wanted to turn around,
go home, and go to bed. However, since she had borne it all day, she did
not exactly like to sacrifice so much resolution, and giving Eunice’s
hand a tight squeeze, she said:
“No, it’s nothing much; only a joke we’re going to tell you after the
party.”
“A joke,” said mamma suspiciously. “Hadn’t you better tell me now?”
“No, really,” said Cricket earnestly. “It doesn’t have anything to do
with anybody but ourselves, truly, mamma,” quite believing her words.
“I don’t like jokes that make you look so sober, my chickens. Cricket,
are you very warm, dear? Your cheeks are so red that they are almost
purple.”
“It’s warm in the carriage. Don’t you think so?” struck in Eunice. And
then mamma, to take up their minds, began to talk brightly about some
funny occurrence that she had seen that morning while she was marketing,
and the children almost forgot their respective woes.
When they arrived at the Drayton’s, most of the children were already
there. The lovely house presented a gay scene. Emily greeted Eunice and
Cricket rapturously.
“I was so afraid that something had happened, and you weren’t coming,”
she said. “We are just going to play ‘Quack,’ and Cricket is always so
funny in that. Come over here.”
The classic game of “Quack” was started. All of you know it, do you not?
A large circle is formed, and one person, blindfolded, stands in the
middle with a cane in her hand. The circle moves slowly around till the
person in the centre thumps the cane as a signal to stop, and then it is
pointed at some one. This person takes the other end of the cane, and
the blindfolded one asks any question, which must be answered by the
word “Quack,” uttered in a disguised voice. The one in the centre must
guess the speaker, and is allowed three questions.
Cricket was always in demand for the centre, because her quick wits
supplied her with funny questions. To-night, however, she rather lost
her reputation, for her tired little brain could concoct nothing more
original than, “What is your name?” “Do you like butter?” and all the
other stupid questions that everybody asked. One game succeeded another,
but somehow nothing went very briskly. Presently Mrs. Drayton drew Mrs.
Ward aside, anxiously.
“What is the matter with these children? It is so hard to get them
started at anything. They don’t seem to be having a good time.”
“I’ve noticed something wrong,” said Mrs. Ward, looking about her. “I
never knew it so before, especially at this house. I’ve been watching my
own two pretty closely, and something is certainly wrong.”
“See!” said Mrs. Drayton, “that is the eighth child that has dropped out
of that game, and it is so with everything we have started.”
“There is something in the air,” Mrs. Ward said to her friend. “And
look! there is Cricket actually sitting all alone behind that palm, with
her head in her hand. I asked her a few minutes ago what is the matter,
but she insists there is nothing. Why not hasten supper?”
“That’s always a good suggestion,” answered Mrs. Drayton. “Will you set
them to playing ‘Going to Jerusalem,’ then they will be all ready to
march out. Mrs. Fleming will play for them.”
Even “Going to Jerusalem” was not a brilliant success. Most of the
children marched rather listlessly around, dropping into chairs when the
music stopped, without the usual scramble. Many of the little faces were
flushed a dark red, and eyes were heavy-lidded. The announcement of
supper was a relief, but Mrs. Drayton’s quick eyes noticed, to her
perplexity, that many of the dainty dishes were passed by untouched, and
that on many a plate the luscious creams and ices were scarcely tasted.
Directly after supper Cricket sought Eunice.
“Eunice, I can’t stand it any longer. The party is most out, and I
_must_ tell mamma that I have lumbago in my throat. If I don’t, it may
get so bad it can’t be mended. I mean cured. Do you mind _very_ much if
I ask mamma to take us home? The party isn’t half as nice as I thought
it was going to be.”
“I don’t mind a bit,” said Eunice, with an unexpected readiness. “I feel
too queer for anything. Do you suppose it’s something awful we’ve got,
Cricket?”
“I don’t know. I feel as if I were two persons plastered together.
There’s so much of me. My eyes are pulled sideways down to my ears. I
feel so queer and big,” finished Cricket, dolefully.
So a few minutes later Mrs. Ward heard a dilapidated little voice behind
her:
“Mamma dear, we’re ready to go home whenever you are.”
Mamma was absolutely paralysed by this unexpected remark.
“Cricket! is it you? What is the matter, dear? Are you ill?”
“No-o. At least I think not. But—well—my head aches a little and my
throat is stiff and hot, and my eyes are leaky and I’m sort of dizzy,
and—”
“My darling child! your throat is sore? Why didn’t you tell me before?
Where’s Eunice? We will go immediately. Find Eunice, and both of you
slip away to the dressing-room without speaking to any one. I’ll say
good-by for you to Emily and Mrs. Drayton.”
“Eunice is ready, mamma. She feels queer, too.”
Mrs. Ward’s heart, mother-like, jumped into her mouth. Cricket’s
description of her feelings might mean any one of so many things!
However, she kept a calm face, and hastened to explain matters to Mrs.
Drayton.
“Do you know, I almost believe that all the children are coming down
with something,” said Mrs. Drayton, anxiously. “That would account for
their all being so heavy and dull, and hard to amuse. Poor little Emily
is in despair. She has looked forward to this so long!”
The next day, seventeen of the children who had been at the party were
down with the mumps.