CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.
Christmas time was approaching, and the Wards’ house was to be full to
overflowing of young people for a week or two. Donald was to have a
college friend of his with him for several days. Eunice and Cricket were
to have their little Kayuna friends, Edith Craig and Hilda Mason, to
visit them; and, at the last moment, Mrs. Somers had written, begging
that Will and Archie might be taken in, if possible, as Edna had just
come down with scarlet fever, and they had to go away. Five extra people
in an already rather full house made a great deal of planning and
arranging necessary, but I almost think that the children enjoyed the
bustle it all made as much as the expected visit.
Donald had an extra bed put up in his room for his friend. Eunice was to
share the spare room with Edith Craig, and Hilda was to have Eunice’s
cot, according to the first plan; but when Will and Archie had to be
arranged for, mamma could think of nothing else to do but to give them
the girls’ room, and put up two more cots in the spare room—fortunately
a large one—so that all four girls could sleep there. The children were
ready to stand on their heads with delight at this arrangement.
“So boarding-school-y!” beamed Cricket, surveying the room, when the
beds were all ready. It looked, for all the world, like a hospital ward.
“_Oh_, what fun we’ll have! You were such an _angel_, mamma, to arrange
for us all to be together.”
“I hope I won’t regret it,” said mamma, laughing, but looking a little
dubious.
“Indeed, you won’t,” promised Eunice. “We’ll be good, truly. Only it
will be such fun to plan jokes on the boys; and they can’t do much to us
when we are all together, you see.”
“Remember, I don’t like practical jokes, dear,” said mamma. “They are
dangerous things.”
“Oh, we’ll tell you all the things we do,” promised Cricket, “and we
truly won’t do anything you think we’d better not. _Please_ don’t say we
can’t play any jokes.”
Christmas fell on Thursday, and the guests were to arrive the next day.
Christmas itself was the gala day it always is in a house full of happy
young people. It began, of course, with the usual excitement over the
stockings, big and little, that hung on the back-parlour mantel. Then
there were the presents that were too big to go into stockings to be
oh-ed and ah-ed over. Then came the church service and the Christmas
dinner, and in the evening, a little party at a neighbouring house.
The girls from Kayuna arrived Friday afternoon. Doctor Ward took Eunice
and Cricket to the station to meet them, and in due time four broadly
smiling girls walked into the house, where the little guests were warmly
welcomed by mamma and Marjorie.
Edith Craig was a tall, fine-looking girl, a year older than Eunice,
and, being the eldest of five children, she was very mature for her
years. She was really very companionable for Marjorie as well as for
Eunice. Cricket she regarded as a mere infant, and her motherly ways
towards that young lady were very amusing. All the family were very fond
of Edith, however; she was a bright, jolly, sensible girl, who seemed
equally happy whether she was exchanging confidences with Eunice, or
sitting with Mrs. Ward and chatting over her embroidery, or romping with
Cricket, or giving Doctor Ward intelligent attention when he was talking
of some late medical discovery, or playing duets with Marjorie, or
frolicking with the children in the nursery. A well-bred, adaptable girl
is always charming.
Cricket thought that Hilda had grown very much in the four months since
she had seen her, but her bronze curls were as smooth, and her clothes
as trim, and she was as plump and pretty as ever.
The little hostesses had planned enough for the ten days’ visit to fill
a month, as children generally do; but that was very much better than
not having enough to do. Saturday, the first day, was a lovely
beginning, for Mrs. Drayton had planned one of Emily’s pleasant little
matinée parties. Ten children, including the four of the Ward party,
were invited to lunch with Emily and go to the matinée afterwards, to
see “Robin Hood.” This was an especially great treat for Eunice and
Cricket, for they were seldom allowed to go to the theatre, and their
little guests rarely had the chance. The lunch was perfect; Mrs. Drayton
and Emily were as delightful as they always were; “Robin Hood” was
charmingly given, and the day was a perfect success.
They found when they reached home that Will and Archie had just arrived,
and as Donald’s friend had come also, the whole party collected around
the dinner table.
Doctor Ward looked around beamingly on the flock, as he flourished his
knife over the big turkey.
“Cricket, this is an improvement on your orphan asylum, I think,” he
said. “How is it? Do you prefer the babies?”
“I really think, now that I’ve had experience,” said Cricket
reflectively, “that I like middle-aged people, like ourselves, better.
We aren’t so much trouble, I’m sure.”
There was a shout at Cricket’s “middle-aged people.”
“I mean people who aren’t little things, like Zaidie and Helen, or grown
up, like mamma,” explained Cricket defensively. “Just scattered along,
like all of _us_, I mean.”
The days flew by on wings. Edith was sufficiently companionable to
Marjorie for the latter to be included in many of the little doings that
mamma planned for the younger girls. Will and Archie sometimes
accompanied them also, and sometimes were off on their own account.
Archie was as much of a tease as ever, and with the four girls right
under his thumb, so to speak, he had a most congenial employment in
tormenting them. Indeed, the various tricks on both sides formed a large
part of the entertainment.
The second night of his arrival, Archie carefully made apple-pie beds,
in which he was an adept, for the occupants of the spare room, and the
girls soon found it wisest not to go to bed on any night without
carefully examining everything in the room. One night all the sheets
were thickly strewn with salt, which, being white, did not show at a
casual glance, but was painfully apparent when they lay down. Again, he
cut up the splints of a number of whisk brooms, and the straws he
scattered on the mattress under the sheet. Did you ever go to bed under
the same circumstances? It is not comfortable. Another night, he lined
the pillow-cases with white paper, carefully basted on the ticking.
Once, by an ingenious arrangement of some nails tied together with
string and hung outside the window one windy night, a weird sound, like
a clanking chain, was made, and the girls had a lively hunt for the
mysterious noises that kept them all awake.
Mamma watched the fun carefully, but let them go on, as long as it was
all good-natured. And indeed, the girls found many a way to repay their
ingenious tormentor. They sewed up the sleeves of his night-shirt
securely, not only of the one he was wearing, but of all he had with
him, and Will’s also, lest Archie should borrow. They filled his
tooth-powder bottle with soda, and stuffed the fingers of his best
gloves with cotton.
One night, when Archie had been particularly bad all day, Cricket took
her revenge by creeping stealthily into his room after he was
asleep—having been kept awake herself, for the purpose, by the united
efforts of the other three—and very cautiously pasted postage stamps
over his eyelids. Like most boys, when once asleep, he rivalled the
“Seven Sleepers,” and he never stirred during the performance. Adorned
with the stamps, he peacefully slept on all night, while Cricket
jubilantly crept back to bed. By morning, the stamps stuck as tightly as
if they had been nailed there.
When Archie awoke, to his horror, he could not open his eyes. He felt of
them, but the stamps stuck so close that he could not imagine what was
the matter, and called out in alarm to Will. Will, of course, when he
once opened his own sleepy eyes, was nearly in convulsions of laughter
over the blue one-cent stamp adornment on Archie, but, in pretended
fright, advised him not to touch his eyes till he could call his uncle.
He summoned Doctor Ward in hot haste. Archie, really much disturbed in
mind over this strange disorder, was lying perfectly still when his
uncle entered. The doctor, entering into the joke, told him that it was
nothing serious yet, only a strange growth that had come during the
night—perhaps from cold—and he would get his surgical instruments and
remove it. Archie groaned at the sound, but his uncle assured him that
it would not hurt him much, if he kept perfectly quiet and did not touch
his eyes, while he got his instruments. Then the doctor stepped to the
bathroom, and came back with a sponge and warm water, and, after much
preparation, he began swabbing Archie’s eyes, talking all the time, till
Archie was nearly frantic.
“By Jupiter, uncle! How long will I have to keep my eyes bandaged after
this operation? What ails the confounded things, anyway? They _feel_ all
right, now, if only I could get them open.”
“There!” said his uncle at last, “now try, _very_ carefully, if you can
open your eyes. Slowly, mind.”
Archie raised his eyelids, and looked about him.
“Why, they’re all right,” he cried in great surprise. “They don’t hurt a
bit. Did you _cut_ something off, uncle? Didn’t it bleed? Here, you
idiot,”—to Will, who was rolling on the floor in convulsions of
laughter,—“what’s the matter with you?”
“Oh! oh!” gasped Will. “Did it bleed, uncle? That’s too much! The dear,
brave little boy! He never whimpered.”
Archie, in a state of raging indignation, flung a pillow at him.
“You old lunatic!”
Doctor Ward held up one of the stamps by a pair of nippers.
“A nocturnal visit of a certain household insect, usually harmless, is
plainly the cause of your trouble, my boy,” he said, “but as I told you,
I do not consider it serious. Bathe your eyes in warm water. Also, I
recommend temporary seclusion, and the cultivation of a calm and
forgiving frame of mind.”
Another pillow went whack at Will, as a partial relief to Archie’s
helpless rage. He only wished he dared throw one at his uncle, as Doctor
Ward went out, laughing.
No remarks were made at breakfast time relative to the situation. Archie
gazed haughtily past Cricket, and devoted himself ostentatiously to
Hilda, whom, usually, he rather snubbed. Like most people who love to
tease, he could not easily endure a joke on himself. So he scorned
Cricket’s overtures of peace, and even meditated refusing to join the
skating party planned for that day. The skating party, however, had been
in prospect for several days, and as even Donald and his friend, Mr.
Herrick, were to join it, Archie could not quite make up his mind to
this sacrifice, even for the sake of punishing Cricket. In this trait
Zaidie and Archie were comically alike. Both usually took revenge by
making themselves thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I suppose Archie will treat me with an air of cold familiarity all
day,” said Cricket, in confidence to Will, as he took her skates, and
Archie walked on ahead with Hilda. Hilda was delighted. Archie had
usually so little to say to her.
Will went off in a shout of laughter at Cricket’s remark. She thought it
was at the memory of the morning.
“I don’t think he ought to mind just a little joke like that, when he
just _piles_ jokes on other people,” went on Cricket, in an injured
tone. “Look at all the things he’s done to us, and we smile at him just
the same.”
The skating party was a grand success. They went out of town, on the
street cars for several miles, to the lake, which was a glittering sheet
of ice. The day was clear and not too cold. Everybody skated well, but
Archie particularly excelled. He was up in every kind of fancy figure,
and in the delight of showing off, his wounded feelings were gradually
soothed—at least outwardly.
“But I’ll get even with that little minx,” he said, grimly, to himself.
“She’s altogether too fresh,” forgetting, as practical jokers generally
do, that he had had the first innings.
They returned home in time for half-past one luncheon, with the
appetites of anacondas. No one noticed that Archie whipped into the
dining-room, instead of going up-stairs with the others, when they first
came in, chattering, and laughing, and glowing with exercise. In ten
minutes time the luncheon-bell rang.
“Waffles! hurrah!” cried Will, boyishly, as Jane brought in his
favourite dish.
“Auntie, you’re a brick!” chimed in Archie. “Miss Scricket, don’t you
take all this syrup on yours, for I want some myself, and there isn’t
much in the syrup jug,” and Archie peered in.
“You don’t need any, being so sweet yourself,” returned Cricket, pouring
out a liberal supply of the clear, delicious-looking syrup from the jug
that stood by her plate.
The next instant the family were startled by a most unmannerly gulp from
Cricket, who clapped her hands over her mouth and bolted from the table
without the ceremony of an “Excuse me” to mamma. Everybody looked after
her in surprise; then mamma, excusing herself, hastily followed her to
the butler’s pantry, whither she had retired. The sickest,
forlornest-looking child imaginable held up a white face.
“It was—the—syrup,” she managed to say “It’s sour or something. Oh, I’m
so sick at my stomach!”
Not waiting to investigate the matter at that moment, mamma called
Sarah, who carried poor little Cricket up-stairs in her arms. A very
unhappy hour followed. As soon as mamma could be spared, she flew
down-stairs to the dining-room.
Archie stood by the window, drumming on the window-pane. He turned
around as his aunt entered.
“Yes, I did it,” he said. “It’s castor-oil. I slipped in and emptied the
syrup jug just before luncheon, and put some castor-oil in, out of a
bottle in uncle’s office. It won’t hurt her, will it? I didn’t think
she’d get more than a taste of the stuff.”
“It’s nothing serious, only you’ve given poor little Cricket a pretty
bad quarter of an hour, my boy. It chances that oil of any kind, even
salad oil, makes her deathly sick. She never eats salad or lettuce, if
it is dressed; but of course you did not know that.”
Archie looked uncomfortable.
“Of course I didn’t, auntie, or I wouldn’t have been such a brute.”
“Surely not. It was just the ‘chances of war.’ It is always so with
practical joking. Each goes a step farther than the other, till some
one—generally the weaker party—gets the worst of it. Suppose you drop it
now, dear?”
“See here, auntie,” said Archie, awkwardly, “I—you know—well, Cricket
really owes me one now. Let her go on and do me up, if she wants to. I’d
a jolly lot rather she would; and I won’t do another single thing after
that. Did she bluster much?”
“No,” said Mrs. Ward, smiling. “Cricket is always ‘game,’ as you boys
say, and would not let me blame you. But let me say one more word, my
lad. Since you love to play jokes and tease people, as well as you do,
don’t you think you might be a little generous, and let them have the
same sport with you, without losing your temper? Turn about is always
fair play, my boy.”
Archie looked slightly shame-faced—a most unusual state of affairs for
him. But, as Mrs. Ward never nagged the children, a few words from her
always had their due weight.
In a couple of hours, Cricket was ready to join the girls, who were
clustered about the cosy open fire in mamma’s room, laughing and
chattering over their embroidery. Now that the violent nausea, which the
least taste of oil always gave her, was over, Cricket was rather
disposed to look upon the whole thing as very funny, after all. She was
really rather amazed when the girls sympathised with her and
energetically heaped abuse upon Archie.
“It wasn’t anything,” she insisted. “I’d have done it myself, if I’d
have thought of it. Of course it isn’t very pleasant to have your
stomach sick at itself; but he didn’t know I don’t like oil. But, oh,
mamma, I’ve thought of _such_ a nice little trick to play on him now!”
“It’s time to stop, dear,” said Mrs. Ward. “Don’t let’s carry it any
further.”
“Please, mamma, it’s such a _little_ joke, and it wouldn’t hurt him a
bit; and I do think he deserves a good taking-down,” pleaded Cricket.
“He’ll crow over me, always, if I don’t; he’ll call me ‘’fraid cat,’ and
I’m _not_ a ‘’fraid cat;’ I’ll leave it to anybody.”
“Let’s hear the joke,” said mamma judicially, remembering Archie’s own
words; and Cricket unfolded her little scheme.
“I thought of that when I was sickest,” she finished triumphantly. And
mamma said she might do it.
That evening the boys had planned to go and make a formal call on May
Chester. Formal calls were rather a new experience for both of them, and
each felt as important as a little dog with a new collar. They went
up-stairs, to get ready, directly after dinner, and were gone an
unconscionably long time.
“I know those boys will try to sneak down-stairs, and get out without
being seen,” said Eunice, getting impatient for their appearance.
“They can’t do it. I’m on the lookout with my little eye,” chirped
Cricket, from the portières. “Isn’t it funny how ashamed boys always are
of being dressed up! ’Sh! there they come now. Edith, you know you’re to
go out and ask them to come in a moment. They won’t suspect you.”
“Slip out in the hall as if you were looking for something, and meet
them by accident,” advised Eunice.
Edith obediently sauntered out into the hall, and met the boys as
directed. After a moment’s conversation, she succeeded in coaxing them
into the parlour, for approval from the family. Archie came in with a
lofty expression, as if making formal calls on young ladies, with pale
yellow kid gloves on, was an every-night affair. Will looked somewhat
conscious.
“Is that your new suit, Archie?” asked Mrs. Ward. “How well it fits!”
“_Seems_ to me,” said Cricket, screwing up her face critically, “it sort
of wrinkles across the shoulders,” patting his back patronisingly.
Archie wheeled around to a mirror hastily.
“Wrinkles, Miss Scricket! You ought to be wrinkled yourself! It fits
like a—a house-afire,” he said indignantly, nearly twisting his neck
off.
“And we all know how perfectly a house-afire fits,” observed Marjorie.
Cricket continued patting Archie’s back, and smoothing out imaginary
wrinkles. By the time he had reached the doorway she had succeeded in
what she was trying to do, for as he went out, after waving a light
yellow hand patronisingly to the girls, there was pinned across his back
a broad slip of paper with good-sized printed letters on it:
“I’m such a little boy; please to send me home early.”
“There!” remarked Cricket with much satisfaction, as the front door
shut, “I think Archie will be pleased to have May Chester see that. I
winked at Will—he won’t tell; and he helped him on with his overcoat
_very_ carefully. I peeked to see.”
“I’d like to see his face when he finds it out,” said Hilda.
“Oh, _wouldn’t_ I!” cried Cricket fervently. “And, mamma, Archie can do
anything he likes to me now—I won’t pay him off again. I’ll tell him
so.”
Half an hour later, Donald came in.
“Here’s something I picked up on the doorstep,” he said. “Probably a
circular or something thrown down. Why, what’s this?”
He held it up. A burst of laughter from the girls greeted it. It was
that identical paper, which had probably been rubbed off by the
overcoat, and had worked down.
Cricket looked perfectly blank for a moment, and then joined in the
laughter.
“If Archie only knew it,” she cried, “_wouldn’t_ he crow! Joke’s on me
now, for sure!”