Jimmie and the angel child, after being oppressed by innumerable
admonitions to behave correctly during the afternoon, succeeded in
reaching the garden, where the stove awaited them. They were enjoying
themselves grandly, when snow began to fall so heavily that it
gradually dampened their ardor as well as extinguished the fire in the
stove. They stood ruefully until the angel child devised the plan of
carrying the stove into the stable, and there, safe from the storm, to
continue the festivities. But they were met at the door of the stable
by Peter Washington.
"What you 'bout, Jim?"
"Now--it's snowin' so hard, we thought we'd take the stove into the
stable."
"An' have er fiah in it? No, seh! G'w'on 'way f'm heh!--g'w'on! Don'
'low no sech foolishin' round yer. No, seh!"
"Well, we ain't goin' to hurt your old stable, are we?" asked Jimmie,
ironically.
"Dat you ain't, Jim! Not so long's I keep my two eyes right plumb
squaah pinted at ol' Jim. No, seh!" Peter began to chuckle in
derision.
The two vagabonds stood before him while he informed them of their
iniquities as well as their absurdities, and further made clear his
own masterly grasp of the spirit of their devices. Nothing affects
children so much as rhetoric. It may not involve any definite
presentation of common-sense, but if it is picturesque they surrender
decently to its influence. Peter was by all means a rhetorician, and
it was not long before the two children had dismally succumbed to him.
They went away.
Depositing the stove in the snow, they straightened to look at each
other. It did not enter either head to relinquish the idea of
continuing the game. But the situation seemed invulnerable.
The angel child went on a scouting tour. Presently she returned,
flying. "I know! Let's have it in the cellar! In the cellar! Oh, it'll
be lovely!"
The outer door of the cellar was open, and they proceeded down some
steps with their treasure. There was plenty of light; the cellar was
high-walled, warm, and dry. They named it an ideal place. Two huge
cylindrical furnaces were humming away, one at either end. Overhead
the beams detonated with the different emotions which agitated the tea
party.
Jimmie worked like a stoker, and soon there was a fine bright fire in
the stove. The fuel was of small brittle sticks which did not make a
great deal of smoke.
"Now what'll we cook?" cried little Cora. "What'll we cook, Jim? We
must have something to cook, you know."
"Potatoes?" said Jimmie.
But the angel child made a scornful gesture. "No. I've cooked 'bout a
million potatoes, I guess. Potatoes aren't nice any more."
Jimmie's mind was all said and done when the question of potatoes had
been passed, and he looked weakly at his companion.
"Haven't you got any turnips in your house?" she inquired,
contemptuously. "In _my_ house we have _turnips_."
"Oh, turnips!" exclaimed Jimmie, immensely relieved to find that the
honor of his family was safe. "Turnips? Oh, bushels an' bushels an'
bushels! Out in the shed."
"Well, go an' get a whole lot," commanded the angel child. "Go an' get
a whole lot. Grea' big ones. _We_ always have grea' big ones."
Jimmie went to the shed and kicked gently at a company of turnips
which the frost had amalgamated. He made three journeys to and from
the cellar, carrying always the very largest types from his father's
store. Four of them filled the oven of little Cora's stove. This fact
did not please her, so they placed three rows of turnips on the hot
top. Then the angel child, profoundly moved by an inspiration,
suddenly cried out,
"Oh, Jimmie, let's play we're keepin' a hotel, an' have got to cook
for 'bout a thousand people, an' those two furnaces will be the ovens,
an' I'll be the chief cook--"
"No; I want to be chief cook some of the time," interrupted Jimmie.
"No; I'll be chief cook my own self. You must be my 'sistant. Now I'll
prepare 'em--see? An' then you put 'em in the ovens. Get the shovel.
We'll play that's the pan. I'll fix 'em, an' then you put 'em in the
oven. Hold it still now."
Jim held the coal-shovel while little Cora, with a frown of
importance, arranged turnips in rows upon it. She patted each one
daintily, and then backed away to view it, with her head critically
sideways.
"There!" she shouted at last. "That'll do, I guess. Put 'em in the
oven."
Jimmie marched with his shovelful of turnips to one of the furnaces.
The door was already open, and he slid the shovel in upon the red
coals.
"Come on," cried little Cora. "I've got another batch nearly ready."
"But what am I goin' to do with these?" asked Jimmie. "There ain't
only one shovel."
"Leave 'm in there," retorted the girl, passionately. "Leave 'm in
there, an' then play you're comin' with another pan. 'Tain't right to
stand there an' _hold_ the pan, you goose."
So Jimmie expelled all his turnips from his shovel out upon the
furnace fire, and returned obediently for another batch.
"These are puddings," yelled the angel child, gleefully. "Dozens an'
dozens of puddings for the thousand people at our grea' big hotel."