ON THE ROOF
"Why, Mopsy Maynard," exclaimed her mother, as Marjorie danced into the
house, smiling and dishevelled, "what a looking head! Please go
straight to your room, and make yourself tidy before supper time."
"Yes, indeed, Mother, but just listen a minute! Uncle Steve has a new
horse, a black one, and there are a hundred million little chickens, in
the queerest kind of a thing, but I can't remember its name,--it's
something like elevator."
"Incubator, perhaps," suggested her mother.
"Yes, that's it; and oh, Mother, it's so funny! Do come out and see it,
won't you?"
"Not to-night, child; and now run up to your room and tie up your hair."
Marjorie danced upstairs, singing as she went, but when she reached the
door of the room she was accustomed to use, she stopped her singing and
stood in the doorway, stock-still with sheer bewilderment.
For somehow the room had been entirely transformed, and looked like a
totally different apartment.
The room was in one of the wings of the house, and was large and
square, with windows on two sides. But these had been ordinary windows,
and now they were replaced by large, roomy bay windows, with glass
doors that reached from floor to ceiling, and opened out on little
balconies. In one of these bay windows was a dear little rocking-chair
painted white, and a standard work-basket of dainty white and green
wicker, completely furnished with sewing materials. In the other bay
window was a dear little writing-desk of bird's-eye maple, and a wicker
chair in front of it. The desk was open, and Marjorie could see all
sorts of pens and pencils and paper in fascinating array.
But these were only a few of the surprises. The whole room had been
redecorated, and the walls were papered with a design of yellow
daffodils in little bunches tied with pale green ribbon. The woodwork
was all painted white, and entirely around the room, at just about the
height of Marjorie's chin, ran a broad white shelf. Of course this
shelf stopped for the windows and doors, but the room was large, and
there was a great deal of space left for the shelf. But it was the
things on the shelf that attracted Marjorie's attention. One side of
the room was devoted to books, and Marjorie quickly recognized many of
her old favorites, and many new ones. On another side of the room the
shelf was filled with flowers, some blooming gayly in pots, and some
cut blossoms in vases of water. On a third side of the room the shelf
held birds, and this sight nearly took Marjorie's breath away. Some
were in gilt cages, a canary, a goldfinch, and another bird whose name
Marjorie did not know. And some were stuffed birds of brilliant
plumage, and mounted in most natural positions on twigs or branches, or
perched upon an ivy vine which was trained along the wall. The fourth
side was almost empty, and Marjorie knew at once that it was left so in
order that she might have a place for such treasured belongings as she
had brought with her.
"Well!" she exclaimed, although there was no one there to hear her.
"Well, if this isn't the best ever!" She stood in the middle of the
room, and turned slowly round and round, taking in by degrees the
furnishings and adornment. All of the furniture was new, and the brass
bed and dainty dressing-table seemed to Marjorie quite fit for any
princess.
"Well!" she exclaimed again, and as she turned around this time she saw
the older people watching her from the hall.
"Oh, Grandma Sherwood!" she cried, and running to the old lady,
proceeded to hug her in a way that was more affectionate than
comfortable.
"Do you like it?" asked Grandma, when she could catch her breath.
"Like it! It's the most beautiful, loveliest, sweetest room in the
whole world! I love it! Did you do it all for me, Grandma?"
"Yes, Midget; that is, I fixed up the room, but for the shelf you must
thank Uncle Steve. That is his idea entirely, and he superintended its
putting up. You're to use it this year, and next year Kitty can have
her dolls and toys on it, and then the year after, King can use it for
his fishing-tackle and boyish traps. Though I suppose by that time
Rosamond will be old enough to take her turn."
"Then I can't come again for four years," exclaimed Marjorie, with an
expression of consternation on her face.
"Not unless you come two at a time," said Grandma; "and I doubt if your
mother would consent to that."
"No, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard; "it's hard enough to lose one of the
flock, without losing two."
"Well, I'll have a good time with it this summer, anyway," said
Marjorie; "can't we unpack my trunk now, Mother, so I can put my pearl
pen in my desk; and my clock, that Rosy Posy gave me, on the shelf; and
hang up my bird picture on the wall?"
"Not just now," said her mother, "for it is nearly supper time, and you
must transform yourself from a wild maid of the woods into a decorous
little lady."
The transformation was accomplished, and it was not very long before a
very neat and tidy Marjorie walked sedately downstairs to the
dining-room. Her white dress was immaculate; a big white bow held the
dark curls in place, and only the dancing eyes betrayed the fact that
it was an effort to behave so demurely.
"Well, Midget," said Uncle Steve, as they were seated at the supper
table, "does the old place look the same?"
"No, indeed, Uncle; there are lots of changes, but best of all is my
beauty room. I never saw anything so lovely; I just want to stay up
there all the time."
"I thought you'd like that shelf. Now you have room for all the
thousand and one bits of rubbish that you accumulate through the
summer."
"'Tisn't rubbish!" exclaimed Marjorie, indignantly; "it's dear little
birds' nests, and queer kinds of rocks, and branches of strange trees
and grasses and things."
"Well, I only meant it sounds to me like rubbish," said Uncle Steve,
who loved to tease her about her enthusiasms.
But she only smiled good-naturedly, for she well knew that Uncle Steve
was the very one who would take her for long walks in the woods, on
purpose to gather this very "rubbish."
The next day Marjorie was up bright and early, quite ready for any
pleasure that might offer itself.
Her mother went back home that day, and though Marjorie felt a little
sad at parting, yet, after all, Grandma Sherwood's house was like a
second home, and there was too much novelty and entertainment all about
to allow time for feeling sad.
Moreover, Marjorie was of a merry, happy disposition. It was natural to
her to make the best of everything, and even had she had reasons for
being truly miserable, she would have tried to be happy in spite of
them.
So she bade her mother good-by, and sent loving messages to all at
home, and promised to write often.
"Remember," said her mother, as a parting injunction, "to read every
morning the list I gave you, which includes all my commands for the
summer. When I see you again I shall expect you to tell me that you
obeyed them all."
"I will try," said Marjorie; "but if it is a long list I may forget
some of them sometimes. You know, Mother, I AM forgetful."
"You are, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling; "but if you'll try I
think you'll succeed, at least fairly well. Good-by now, dear; I must
be off; and do you go at once to your room and read over the list so as
to start the day right."
"I will," said Marjorie, and as soon as she had waved a last good-by,
and the carriage had disappeared from view, she ran to her room, and
sitting down at her pretty desk, unfolded the list her mother had given
her.
To her great surprise, instead of the long list she had expected to
find, there were only two items. The first was, "Keep your hands clean,
and your hair tidy"; and the other read, "Obey Grandma implicitly."
"Well," thought Marjorie to herself, "I can easily manage those two!
And yet," she thought further, with a little sigh, "they're awfully
hard ones. My hands just WON'T keep clean, and my hair ribbon is
forever coming off! And of course I MEAN to obey Grandma always; but
sometimes she's awful strict, and sometimes I forget what she told me."
But with a firm resolve in her heart to do her best, Marjorie went
downstairs, and went out to play in the garden.
Some time later she saw a girl of about her own age coming down the
path toward her. She was a strange-looking child, with a very white
face, snapping black eyes, and straight wiry black hair, braided in two
little braids, which stood out straight from her head.
"Are you Marjorie?" she said, in a thin, piping voice. "I'm Molly Moss,
and I've come to play with you. I used to know Kitty."
"Yes," said Marjorie, pleasantly, "I'm Marjorie, and I'm Kitty's
sister. I'm glad you came. Is that your kitten?"
"Yes," said Molly, as she held up a very small black kitten, which was
indeed an insignificant specimen compared to the Persian beauty hanging
over Marjorie's arm.
"It's a dear kitten," Molly went on. "Her name is Blackberry. Don't you
like her?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, a little doubtfully; "perhaps she can be company
for Puff. This is my Puff." Marjorie held up her cat, but the two
animals showed very little interest in one another.
"Let's put them to sleep somewhere," said Molly, "and then go and play
in the loft."
The kittens were soon deposited in the warm kitchen, and the two girls
ran back to the barn for a good play. Marjorie had already begun to
like Molly, though she seemed rather queer at first, but after they had
climbed the ladder to the warm sweet-smelling hay-loft, they grew
better acquainted, and were soon chattering away like old friends.
Molly was not at all like Stella Martin. Far from being timid, she was
recklessly daring, and very ingenious in the devising of mischief.
"I'll tell you what, Mopsy," she said, having already adopted
Marjorie's nickname, "let's climb out of the window, that skylight
window, I mean, onto the roof of the barn, and slide down. It's a
lovely long slide."
"We'll slide off!" exclaimed Marjorie, aghast at this proposition.
"Oh, no, we won't; there's a ledge at the edge of the roof, and your
heels catch that, and that stops you. You CAN'T go any further."
"How do you get back?"
"Why, scramble back up the roof, you know. Come on, it's lots of fun."
"I don't believe Grandma would like it," said Marjorie, a little
doubtfully.
"Oh, pshaw, you're afraid; there's no danger. Come on and try it,
anyhow."
Now Marjorie did not like to be called afraid, for she really had very
little fear in her disposition. So she said: "Well, I'll go up the
ladder and look out, and if it looks dangerous I won't do it."
"Not a bit of danger," declared Molly. "I'll go up first." Agile as a
sprite, Molly quickly skipped up the ladder, and opened the trap-door
in the barn roof. Sticking her head up through, she soon drew her thin
little body up after it and called to Marjorie to follow. Marjorie was
a much heavier child, but she sturdily climbed the ladder, and then
with some difficulty clambered out on the roof.
"Isn't it gay?" cried Molly, and exhilarated by the lofty height, the
novel position, and the excitement of the moment, Marjorie thought it
was.
"Now," went on Molly, by way of instruction, "sit down beside me right
here at the top. Hang on with your hands until I count three and then
let go, and we'll slide straight down the roof."
Marjorie obeyed directions, and sat waiting with a delightful feeling
of expectancy.
"One, two, three!" counted Molly, and at the last word the two girls
let go their grasp and slid.
Swiftly and lightly the slender little Molly slid to the gutter of the
eaves of the roof, caught by her heels, and stopped suddenly, leaning
against the slanted roof, comfortably at her ease.
Not so Marjorie. She came swiftly down, and, all unaccustomed to motion
of this sort, her feet struck the gutter, her solid little body bounced
up into the air, and instead of falling backward again, she gave a
frightened convulsive movement, and fell headlong to the ground.
Quick as a flash, Molly, when she saw what had happened, scrambled back
up the roof with a wonderful agility, and let herself down through the
skylight, and down the ladder like lightning. She rushed out of the
barn, to where Marjorie lay, and reached her before Carter did, though
he came running at the first sounds of Marjorie's screams.
"I'm not hurt much," said Marjorie, trying to be brave; "if you'll help
me, Carter, I think I can walk to the house."
"Walk nothin'," growled Carter; "it's Miss Mischief you are for sure! I
thought you had outgrown your wild ways, but you're just as bad as
ever! What'll your grandma say?"
Molly stood by, decidedly scared. She didn't know how badly Marjorie
was hurt, and she longed to comfort her, and tell her how sorry she was
that she had urged her to this mischief, but Carter gave her no
opportunity to speak. Indeed, it was all she could do to keep up with
the gardener's long strides, as he carried Marjorie to the house. But
Molly was no coward, and she bravely determined to go to the house with
them, and confess to Mrs. Sherwood that she was to blame for the
accident.
But when they reached the door, and Grandma Sherwood came out to meet
them, she was so anxious and worried about Marjorie that she paid
little attention to Molly's efforts at explanation.
"What are you trying to say, child?" she asked hastily of Molly, who
was stammering out an incoherent speech. "Well, never mind; whatever
you have to say, I don't want to hear it now. You run right straight
home; and if you want to come over to-morrow to see how Marjorie is,
you may, but I can't have you bothering around here now. So run home."
And Molly ran home.