A SERENADE.
The Cheerful Three met in Nettie’s room the next Saturday evening. The
house where she boarded stood several squares beyond the college and
nearer the suburbs.
“I’ve brought some XXX sugar,” Persis announced, “and we can make some
candy. Patty has nuts and two or three kinds of extracts, and—oh, yes, I
have eggs, so we can proceed to make ever so many kinds.”
“Good,” cried Nettie. “You’ve solved a difficulty for me, girls. But we
must have some chocolate, too. Who’ll run out with me to get some? The
shops are still open, and we can get anything we want.”
Both girls signified their willingness to visit the shops, and all three
started forth.
“If we had a brother or a cousin or some reliable masculine escort, we’d
go down to market and buy some taffy,” Patty remarked. “You know its
quite a frolic, and nowhere do they have such a Saturday night market as
here. In fact, I believe there are few such markets anywhere. Did you
ever go down on Christmas-eve? It is a real carnival on the street where
the market is, and it is getting livelier every year. But, of course,
you have always been at home for the holidays.”
“No, not always. The first year I was here the family were all abroad,”
rejoined Persis. “And grandma and I spent the winter at Mrs. Brown’s.
You remember she took a house here.”
“To be sure, I had forgotten. And the Phillips boys came that first
holiday. Oh, yes, and that friend of yours, Mr. Danforth.” And Nettie
gave Patty a little knowing look which Persis did not see.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Nettie, suddenly, after they had returned from
their shopping expedition. “I don’t know what to make the candy in. I
hate to bother Mrs. Scott to loan me anything.”
“Take that big flower-pot,—the yellow one over there,” Persis suggested.
“It will make an excellent bowl.”
“Sure enough; and let me see—we’ll just use sheets of white paper to
spread the candies on. I’ll have to light my lamp, for I want to melt
the chocolate over the gas. How will I do it?”
“Can’t you set your hot-water kettle on the little gas-stove, or
whatever it is, and put the chocolate in that mug? It will fit in the
top of the kettle, won’t it?” Persis was always ready with expedients.
“That will do exactly. Now we’re all right.”
For an hour or two the girls chattered away, stirring, tasting, and
patting into shape their confections until they were tired out.
“Goodness, Nettie,” exclaimed Persis, viewing their work. “I don’t see
why we made such a lot. We’ll never get all this stuff eaten up before
it gets stale.”
“What a remark to make in a community that boasts of four hundred girls,
each possessing her own special sweet tooth!” rejoined Nettie.
“Oh, well, if you are going to scatter them broadcast, all right,”
Persis returned, sitting on the floor and hugging her knees. “What are
you doing now?” For Nettie was packing away an assortment of the candies
in little boxes which she had fished out from the lower part of her
washstand.
“Oh, I’m just disposing of these,” replied Nettie, nonchalantly. “What
time is it, girls?”
Patty glanced at the small clock ticking away on the dressing-table.
“Ten o’clock! who would believe it! I’m going to bed. You know I was
always a regular sleepy-head. Mother says that’s why I’m such a
roly-poly. I sleep so soundly.”
“Do you sleep soundly?” And Nettie smiled.
“Yes.”
“Then leave your door open. Perse and I may want to call you if we are
ill from overeating.”
Patty laughed, and the girls proceeded to prepare for bed. They were a
long time about it, however, and it was nearly eleven before their heads
were on their pillows.
It seemed to Persis that she had only travelled half-way to Slumberland,
and sweet sounds were already weaving themselves into her dreams, when
she was awakened by a whisper from Nettie.
“Listen, Persis.”
“Hm?” said Persis, drowsily, for she could not detach the music from her
consciousness.
Nettie gave her a little shake. “Come, get up,” she said.
“What for?”
“We must waken Patty.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you hear? Why, we are being serenaded.”
At this, Persis sat bolt upright, and realized that “Nellie was a lady,”
was being sung by a quartette of manly young voices just below the
window.
“Oh, how lovely!” she whispered. “Oh, Nettie, did you know about it? I
never heard a real serenade. Isn’t it romantic to be wakened this way?
Who are they?”
“Some of the University boys. They asked me if you girls could manage to
spend a night with me, for they wanted to serenade us, and they didn’t
dare to go to the boarding hall of your college.”
“Of course it wouldn’t do. But isn’t it fine? I’ll go give Patty a
shake; nothing short of a downright yell will waken her, unless I do.”
And Persis slipped out of bed and ran to the other room.
Sleepy Patty at first only grunted, but at last she was made to realize
what was going on. Then the girls threw something around their shoulders
and stole to the windows in order to catch more of the melody. The moon
was shining brightly, and they could very plainly see the dark figures
in the little garden below.
“That is Walter Dixon with the banjo, and Rob Maxfield with the guitar;
and I don’t know who has the mandolin. Joe Chapman is singing tenor, and
Matt Ward bass, but I don’t know the baritone. I wonder who he is.”
Nettie was peeping stealthily through the shutters.
“They seem to be strong on the Nellie songs,” said Persis. “They are
starting up ‘The Quilting Party.’ What are you going to do, Nettie?”
“I’m going to let down these boxes of candy to them. See I’ve tied them
to a string, kite-tail fashion. I think they deserve some sort of
recognition.”
Carefully, very carefully, the girls secreted themselves behind the
curtains and dropped the long string over the window-sill. There was a
cessation in the music, and then the girls’ college yell, followed by
that of the boys’ own college, quite startled the neighborhood by the
vigor with which they were given.
One more parting song was given, and then the boys departed, the
tinkling of the mandolin and guitar being heard more and more faintly as
they took their way down the street.
“Oh, it was just lovely,” sighed Persis. “I had visions of the Alhambra,
and of Spanish cavaliers, and all sorts of things. I think the boys were
just dear to think of it, and I’ll tell Walter so the next time I see
him.”
“I wonder if they ever serenade Connie,” observed Nettie, as they crept
back to bed.
“I don’t know, but I should suppose they would. Connie has grown to be
the nicest sort of a girl. I always did like her, although her family
did not attract me.”
“Oh, well, they are simply no relation at all to her. They are simply
the children of her father’s wife, so we can overlook their untutored
ways,” returned Nettie. “Mrs. Dixon is just as fond of Connie as she can
be. I wish she and Walter would marry. Do you think they will?”
“I don’t know. I hardly think so. They are more like brother and sister.
I’m going to spend a day or two with them next week. You know the
Cooking Club meets there, and we are going to give the boys a supper,
some of Walter’s friends, and one or two of the boys from home.”
“Who?” asked Nettie, wickedly.
“Oh, only Mr. Dan and Porter Phillips. They are coming on to be here at
class-day, too. You know Mrs. Phillips is still abroad, and Porter is at
our house.”
“You don’t call Mr. Danforth a boy, do you?”
“No, not exactly; but we have known him so long, we always class him in
with home folks.”
The next Saturday found a merry party of young people in Mrs. Dixon’s
roomy kitchen, baking and stewing, and stirring and tasting.
“Aren’t we lucky in having such a cool evening?” said Connie, who, with
a white apron before her, was carefully compounding the dressing for a
salad.
“Cool! Do you call this cool?” exclaimed Patty Peters, who was lifting
something from the oven, her round red cheeks glowing from the proximity
to the fire.
“Not inside that oven, of course.”
“No, nor within a mile of it.”
“What’s that? It smells so good,” observed Porter Phillips, sniffing at
the contents of the pan Patty was turning around.
“It is Patty-cake, Patty-cake, baker’s man, of course,” averred Walter
Dixon, who, with a blue-and-white checked apron tied around his waist,
was executing high kicks.
“Oh, now, come off. Have we got to have much of that sort of thing?”
Porter said, in a disgusted tone.
“Of course you have, wherever Walter is,” put in Connie. “Which of you
boys is going to grind the coffee? You’re here to help, remember. No
work, no eat.”
“Didn’t I turn that ice-cream freezer till I nearly had vertigo?”
returned Walter. “You ought to let me off, Con, and give these other
fellows a chance.”
“For shame, lazy-bones. You are host here, and ought to set them a good
example. Never mind, Mr. Danforth has come to the rescue.”
“You’d better let Mr. Dan make the coffee,” Persis suggested. “He can
make the finest you ever tasted.”
“No, he mustn’t be allowed to make it. The men are only to do the work
that requires muscle. We furnish the brains,” replied Connie, saucily.
“My, what a noise! with a coffee-mill and an egg-beater going at the
same time. Here, Walter, taste this dressing. Does it need more
vinegar?”
“No, not a bit. You fellows over there picking out crab meat, are you
most through? The lady over here says she is in a devilish humor, and
wants you to hurry up.”
“Oh, Walter!” cried Persis. “I said nothing of the kind. I said I was
ready for the crab meat.”
“Well, aren’t you going to devil them, and aren’t you in the humor for
it?”
“Don’t explain, don’t explain, that only makes it worse. I wish I had a
pump handy, so as to give you a sousing.”
“Souse? did I hear correctly? Are we going to have pigs’ feet? You
didn’t mention it before.”
“Hush, at once. You are too silly to live,” cried Persis, peremptorily.
“Go get that crab meat from those boys before you say another word.”
Walter only grinned and went off, returning with the dish. “Do you know
why I always insist upon having sausage on my birthday?” he asked.
“No, silly. I’ve no time to guess your idiotic conundrums.”
“I’ll give you a hint. I was born on the second of February.”
“I don’t care when you were born, and if you don’t behave yourself
better I’ll wish you never had been born. Take your fingers out of that
dish. Who wants to know your conundrums?”
“You do. You know you do. See what a sweet, forgiving spirit I have, for
I will tell you, for all your harshness towards me. I insist upon having
sausage because my birthday comes on ground-hog day.”
“Mr. Dan! Mr. Dan!” Persis called. “I wish you would come and sit on
Walter; he is getting worse and worse.”
“Is that slang, or do you mean literally, Miss Persis?” asked Mr. Dan,
approaching.
“I mean both, if it requires the two constructions to keep him quiet.”
“Persis is most wofully wanting in appreciation,” Walter complained. “I
had another first-class conundrum to spring on her, and now I am
squelched.”
“Keep it till supper time,” Mr. Danforth advised.
“As a favor,” interposed Persis.
“Are you going to have favors? I didn’t know that?”
“We are going to have sense.”
“What kind?”
“What kind? Why, common sense. You, perhaps would best not appear,”
retorted Persis, filling her shells carefully with the mixture she had
prepared.
“Oh, I didn’t know but what you meant sweet scents; little bottles of
cologne at each place, or something of that kind.”
Persis made no reply, but stalked to the range to place therein her
devilled crabs, Patty having removed her pans.
“There!” she said; “my contribution will soon be ready. How are you
coming on Con?”
“Finely. My salad is a thing of beauty. Wilson Vane says he thinks he
can eat it all, but I have my doubts. We will cook the lobster Newburg
on the chafing dish, of course. Now, let me see. Nettie Greene made
angel cake this morning, and Bessie Taylor has chocolate cake and
maccaroons. Nina Barker made Maryland biscuits and jellied chicken, and
there are three kinds of sandwiches, besides salted almonds and bread
and pickles. So, I think we’ll do very well. What are those boys up to?”
“They’re finishing the crab-claws.”
“Boys!” called Connie. “Wilson, you and Porter stop that; you won’t have
any appetite for your supper.”
“Won’t we? I’ve an appetite I wouldn’t take fifty dollars for. I’ve been
saving it up for a week, and the family thought I was going into a
decline. I promise, though, that I’ll not take off the edge of it.” And
Wilson threw down the claw he had been cracking and came over to where
Persis and Connie sat perched on the window-sill.
“What a fellow Mr. Dan is,” he said. “He’s helping everybody, and seems
to know just what to do. Generally I feel like a fish out of water, in a
kitchen, although this affair is great fun, but Mr. Dan takes hold like
an old hand.”
“He has always been a home boy,” replied Persis. “His mother was a widow
and an invalid. Mr. Dan was her only child, and did so much for her. Her
loss, however, was a terrible blow to him.”
“I can imagine it. Strange, for all his domestic ways, he’s as mannish a
fellow as ever I saw.”
“Yes, he is.” Persis spoke a little wistfully. “He has more noble
qualities than any man I ever met,” she then said, steadily.
Wilson looked at Connie and smiled. Persis knew perfectly well what they
were thinking. “That is no reason why I shouldn’t give him his due,” she
told herself. Then she continued, “He is just as thoughtful a friend as
he was a son. He is a great tower of strength, and has been an immense
help to Porter and Basil.”
“Yes, I believe that. I used to think Port was a little shaky in some
directions.”
“He’s not perfect,” Persis acknowledged, regretfully, “but he has the
making of a fine man in him if he’s not spoiled by flattery and
success.”
“Well, I’m half starved. When do we start in?” asked Wilson.
“As soon as my crabs are browned. Are they done, Connie? Then we are
ready. Come, boys, help us to carry in the dishes. I hope your labors
have given you appetites.”
“Don’t fear,” they cried, scrambling from their different corners, and
from the door-steps, where most of them had congregated.
“Fall in line,” called Walter. “I’ll carry the crabs.”
“Better let Mr. Dan have the coffee-pot,” said Porter, “he’s the
steadiest. Give me that dish of salad. I’ll try not to stump my toe, and
spoil this fine structure. My, but it’s jolly-looking—all those little
tricks around it. I’m tempted to snake one of those fat olives.”
“Don’t you do it, for your life,” Connie commanded. “You shall have all
you want at the table.” And Porter refrained.
Connie had clever fingers, and had painted pretty cards, which Persis’s
wit had helped out by apt and sly hits which the inscriptions contained.
“We ought to have put you in a dish, Con,” said Walter, pausing between
satisfying bits of lobster.
“Why?” she asked, innocently.
“Because a Stew-art thou.”
“He’s off,” cried Porter.
Walter smiled complacently. “Oh, Con doesn’t mind. She’s used to my
little spicings, and couldn’t enjoy a meal without, could you, Con?
Here’s the next. You all needn’t listen if you don’t want to. I’ll get
it off for Con’s benefit.” And Connie nodded to him indulgently. “Why do
we know that Adam was a gambler? This is as new and fresh——”
“As you are,” interrupted Porter.
“Oh, eat your supper,” responded Walter. “Say, Con, have you guessed
it?”
“No; I’m thinking of gambling on the green, and that sort of thing.”
“No, no; ’way off. Give it up? Because, when he came from the garden of
Eden, he left a Par-a-dise behind him.”
“Now, that isn’t so bad,” interposed Porter, grandly. “We’ll admit that,
Walt. You are improving.”
“Hear the infant. One would think him a Senior at least. You’re just
barely out of the Fresh class yourself, remember. Look here, fellows, we
haven’t said a word about the ‘wittles.’ Aren’t they first-class?”
“By the way they are disappearing I should judge we thought so,” replied
Wilson. “Nothing less than speeches, toasts drunk in silence and
standing, will express our appreciation. I say we don’t stop to air our
opinions now, but wait till the festive board is cleared. We don’t have
to wash the dishes, do we?”
“No,” Mrs. Dixon, who chaperoned the party, told them. “It seemed to me
that getting the supper was quite enough for these girls, and I have
provided dish-washers. So you will be free to follow your own sweet
fancies after supper. Boys, you know you must vote on the bestowing of
the prize.”
“Prize! What prize?”
“Why,” Persis informed them, “we always give a prize to the one who has
shown the most culinary skill on such occasions.”
“But isn’t it largely a question of taste,” Mr. Danforth remarked. “If I
like chicken-salad better than devilled crabs, I should naturally vote
for the salad.”
“Oh, but you see what a fine, impartial, and discriminating sense it
requires. It is not a question of what you like, but what shows the best
cooking,” Mrs. Dixon explained.
“We’re in for it!” cried Wilson, in mock despair. “Think of it, fellows.
The fate of eight fair damsels hanging upon our votes. It is enough to
make a man commit suicide.”
“You don’t vote for the damsels. You are to consider them only negative
conditions. The dishes themselves, as proud personalities, are to be
passed upon.”
“Bread, and pickles, and everything?”
“Yes, except the butter; that is not home-made.”
“By the way, who made the bread? It is uncommonly good,” observed Mr.
Danforth.
“Don’t tell, girls. As many articles as possible shall go on their own
merits,” said Persis. “Then no partiality will be shown them on account
of the makers. I don’t believe any of the boys know who is the
bread-maker.”
“I believe you made it,” Mr. Danforth remarked, in an undertone, to
Persis at his side. But she only laughed merrily, and refused to tell.
And, lo! when the votes were counted, bread came first, and pickles
second.
“Aren’t we out of it nicely?” cried Wilson. “No one can accuse us of
partiality.”
“Except those whose dishes you do know,” replied Patty, demurely. “For
example, you saw me make the chicken-patties.”
“And didn’t vote for them! Done for! What an ostrich I am! I forgot
entirely that the not voting for specials gave us away.”
“But who is the bread-winner?” inquired Mr. Danforth. “I am really
anxious to know.”
“Who but Patty herself,” Connie announced.
“Bless you, Patty dear. I’m proud of you,” Persis laughed, gleefully,
and cast a mocking glance at Mr. Danforth, who returned it with one of
discomfiture.
“I was sure it was you,” he said, in a low tone.
However, no one grudged little Patty her prize,—a pretty lace-pin, the
head of which represented a tiny broiling-iron.
“There ought to be a second prize for the pickles,” declared Walter. “I
constitute myself a committee of one to provide it in behalf of the
guests. Here, Con.” And, taking out his own scarf-pin, he tossed it
across the table.
“But, Walter, I made the pickles,” Connie informed him, in a surprised
tone.
“I know it,” he replied, calmly, helping himself to an olive.
A little flush mounted to Connie’s cheek, and she laughed somewhat
nervously as she said, “Thank you, kind sir.”
Walter nodded in reply, and then called, “Speech! speech! Here’s to the
prize-winners, may they never fail to rise to an emergency, and may they
never get in a pickle.”
“Can’t you respond to the honor shown you, Patty? Say something, just a
few words,” whispered Persis; but Patty was dumb, and looked confusedly
at her plate.
“Oh, Persis, I can’t,” she whispered back.
“Answer for her,” said Persis, turning quickly to Mr. Dan, who arose and
made a speech which won great applause, not only for the speaker, but
for the blushing Patty, who, hearing her accomplishments so eulogized,
felt that after Mr. Dan’s recommendations she might receive a proposal
from any one of the young men before her.
“Now, my sweet pickle, to you,” said Walter, waving his cup towards
Connie.
“Oh, Walter!” protested she.
“You’ve got to. We’re not going to do the toasting and the speechifying
too for you girls. You’ve got a chance to talk without interruption, so
go ’long and do it.”
Connie paused in embarrassment before she began in a little prim way,
but catching a sight of Walter’s face, and seeing that the girls looked
disappointed, she launched forth into a perfect torrent of fun and
nonsense, so that she sat down amid shouts of mirth and was applauded to
the echo.
Connie’s effort set the ball rolling, and the fun grew fast and furious
till Mrs. Dixon asked them if they realized that they had been three
hours at the table.
“It has been a great success,” the boys assured the young cooks.
“My only regret is that you didn’t make the bread,” were Mr. Danforth’s
parting words to Persis, as, after an hour on the cool porch, the guests
departed.
“Well, I _can_ make bread, if it gives you any consolation to know it,”
Persis replied, “But I cannot guarantee that it is as good as Patty’s.”
“Will you make some for me some day?”
“Perhaps. Just now I’ve enough to do in getting ready for class-day. I
can’t think about bread nor anything except mental food.”
The boys went off singing, and the June night, with its warmth, its
sweetness, its thrill, typified the gladness of their youth.
[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]