Chapter 15 Donald and Dorothy by Mary Mapes Dodge
THE HOUSE-PICNIC
The house-picnic proved a complete success. In the first place, not only the original thirty came, but other boys and girls whose names had been added to the list; secondly, a lovely snow-storm, one of the bright, dry kind, had come during the night, and evidently had come to stay; thirdly, the guests made it a frolic from the start, and every sleigh-load driven to the door by Jack came in singing and cheering; fourthly, Uncle George, as Dorry said, was "splendid," Jack was "good as gold," and Liddy was "too lovely for anything;" fifthly, the house from top to bottom was bright, home-like, and beautiful; and lastly, hardly anything was broken, not a single child was killed, and the house wasn't burned to the ground,—all of which Liddy and Jack agreed was "simply mirac'l'us!"
Such a wonderful day as that is hard to describe. Imagine the scene. Great square halls on the first and second floors; broad stair-ways; fine open rooms; pleasant fires; beautiful flowers; boys and girls flitting, gathering everywhere, from garret to kitchen,—now scattered, now crowded, now listening to stories, now running, now hiding, now gazing at an impromptu "performance," now sitting in a demure circle, with a napkin on every lap,—you know why,—now playing games, now having a race on the broad freshly-swept piazza, that extended along every side of the mansion, now giving three cheers for Uncle George, and then beginning all over again. It lasted more than ten hours, yet nobody was tired, (until the next day!) and all the guests declared, in one way or another, that it was the very nicest time they ever had known in their lives. Donald and Dorothy were delightful as host and hostess. They enjoyed everything, were on the alert for every one's pleasure, and by their good-humor, courtesy, and graceful manners, unconsciously set an example to all the picnickers. Uncle George,—ah, now I know what to say! You have known him heretofore as a man of grave responsibility,—troubled with an anxiety which to you, perhaps, has been uncomfortably mysterious. But Uncle George, at the house-picnic, was quite a different man. He threw care to the winds, proposed games, invented capital "forfeits," sprang surprises upon the guests, laughed and played like a splendid boy, and, better yet, wore his "glow-look" nearly all the time.
"How handsome Mr. Reed is!" thought more than one young guest. "They say his brother Wolcott was handsomer still. No wonder Don and Dorry are so good-looking. Ho! what are we going to do now?"
Then would follow a merry, well-ordered rush to this or that part of the house, according to the special attraction of the moment. But, really, it is quite impossible for any one to describe the day properly. The only way is to give you a few notes from observations taken on the spot.
We'll begin with the kitchen—Norah's kingdom. There she stands, a queen in a calico gown. But Dorothy has the sceptre. It is a big wooden spoon. She and a dozen other girls are crowding about the big cooking-stove. All have large towels pinned over their dresses, after the fashion of Topsy's apron—close to the throat, tight around the skirt, and the arms left free. What in the world are they making? What but molasses candy! It is nearly done. It ought to be, after the boiling and the stirring that the girls in turn have given it. Finally, some one holds forward a pan of cold water. Dorothy, carefully dipping out a spoonful of the fragrant syrup, drops it into the water. It sizzes; it stiffens—hurrah! the candy is ready to be taken from the fire.
Cool enough now. "Come, boys! Come, girls!" cries Uncle.
"Here, put these on,—every one of you!" cries Liddy, her arms loaded with the coarse towel-aprons which she—knowing soul!—had specially prepared for the occasion. "Sakes! be careful! Don't burn yourselves!"
But who hears? They are pulling the candy already. Boys and girls in pairs, with hands daintily washed and greased, are taking soft lumps of the cooling confection, drawing them out into long, shining ribbons, doubling and drawing them out again until they get lighter and lighter in color, and finally, the beautiful golden strands are declared ready for more artistic handling. Then follow royal fun and rivalry, each young confectioner trying to outdo the other. Some twist the soft candy into sticks and lay them aside to cool; some braid it charmingly; others make little walking-canes; others cut it into caramels,—one and all indulging meantime in flavorsome morsels, and finally shouting with delight over Donald's masterpiece, which he has placed upon the table for inspection, and which he calls
"Ha! ha!" shouts Daniel Danby. "Pretty good! But supposing it hadn't been made of Orleans! Guess there are other kinds of molasses." But that sarcastic and well-informed young gentleman is hardly heard in the laughing commotion.
Ah, what a washing of hands! For the fun of the thing, Uncle George has caused warm water to be put into a great tub, which stands upon the wash-bench, and now the candy-pullers take their turn in a close ring about it, all frantically feeling and struggling for the soap which repeatedly bobs to the surface, only to be dashed out of sight again by some desperate little hand.
While this merry crowd of cooks and pullers is working and frolicking in the kitchen, under Norah's watchful eye, a few of the company may be found in other parts of the old mansion, amusing themselves in their own fashion. Some of the very young guests are in the upper rooms playing childish games; and one or two older ones, who, as it happens, see quite enough of the kitchen in their own homes, prefer to enjoy themselves now in the finer apartments.
We'll look into Mr. Reed's study, the door of which stands slightly ajar. Amanda Danby is there alone. She is sitting in the master's big chair with a volume of poems in her hand—forgetting the party, forgetting that she has laboriously smoothed her curly hair for the occasion, forgetting that she is wearing her precious drab merino—her mother's wedding gown—now made over for the fourth time, forgetting the new collar and pretty blue bow at her throat (Dorry's gifts), conscious only that
"The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar."
Amanda smiles to herself as she turns the leaf, feeling that, after all, there is a great deal of life and spirit in the world, and that dish-pans, pots, and kettles are mere phantoms of the imagination. The verse runs on so smoothly too. She could write whole books of poetry herself if she only had gone somewhere and improved herself. Then, as she reads on, the great, comfortable arm-chair, the soft carpet, the well-filled book-shelves and the subdued light, give her a vague, delightful sense of having improved herself already.
Let us look into the other rooms. No one in the parlor; the back sitting-room, too, is deserted; the dining-room is locked for awhile; but high up on the garret-stairs sit three wide-eyed, open-mouthed youngsters listening to Ben Buster.
"True?" he is saying, "of course it's true; I knew the boy myself—Joe Gunther, smart fellow. He's on a ranch, now, out in Californy. I'll tell you how it was; he was living with a settler named Brown, 'way off in Utah. Brown had three men besides Joe to help him,—sort of partnership, I b'lieve, raising cattle. It was a desolate place, and the Indians were troublesome. Brown nor his men never went outside the door without a loaded gun, and they kept several more in the hut, always loaded, ready for an attack. One morning, long before daylight, Joe heard a rumpus. He was in bed,—none of your cots, but a bunk, like a shelf, fastened to the inside of the stockade walls."
"What do you mean by stockade walls?" asks one of the listeners.
"Why, walls made out of logs standing upright. It was only a hut, you see; no laths, nor plaster, nor any such nonsense. Well, Joe knew by what he heard that old man Brown was inside, firing from the door at the Indians; didn't know where the other two were,—killed, may be,—and so Joe gets up on his knees and looks through a crevice of the stockade wall, and sees the chief crawling stealthily around the hut to get in at the only window and attack the old man! A loaded gun—double barrel—was hanging on the wall right near Joe. What did he do but take it, put the muzzle through the chink, and let go at the fellow; discharged both barrels clean at him. 'You will, will you?' he yelled out, as the Indian fell; and I declare, if the other Indians weren't so scared and mystified by the sudden voice, and the chief killed, out of the very walls, as it seemed to them, that they turned and scampered. Joe rushed out to old man Brown, and there he was, with his two partners, at the door, not one of the three scratched, and the chief was lying there by the stockade wall, just as he fell.
"Joe didn't care to go near him, for by this time he began to feel rather weak in the joints. But the most wonderful part of all is to come yet. That Indian chief was only wounded, after all. They thought he was killed; and while the three men and Joe were in the hut, planning what they should do next,—for they were sure the redskins would come back in greater force to get the body of their chief,—I declare if that old Indian didn't up and go about his business. Brown and Joe and all of them searched the forest well, that day and the next, but they never found him. Joe had made his mark though, and he was in more than one scrimmage with the Indians after that."
"It's a shame to kill Indians!" at last exclaims one of Ben's awe-stricken listeners. "My father says they've been imposed upon and abused by the white folks. He says we ought to teach them instead of killing them."
"That's so," says another of the trio, nodding emphatically. "My father says so too."
"Oh, does he?" returns Ben Buster, in mild wrath, "who doesn't? But this was a fair fight. What are you going to do when they're doin' the killing, eh? Open your book and hear them a spelling lesson? Guess not. Ask 'em questions in 'rithmetic when they're helping themselves to your scalp? Oh, of course."
All of which would be very impressive and very convincing to the young hearers, did not a small boy, named Jedediah Treadwell, at this moment come suddenly rushing across the hall, shouting—
"Ho! Candy! I smell merlasses candy. They're making it. Come on."
And down they run—all but Ben, who prefers to go through the house in search of adventures. He opens a door, sees a small ring of prettily dressed little girls and boys, hand in hand, singing:
"Oats, pease, beans, and barley grows!
You nor I nor nobody knows
Where, oats, pease, beans, and barley grows."
He beats a hasty retreat. Signs of commotion come from Mr. Reed's room on the other side of the hall; but Ben, hearing Fandy's familiar voice there, turns aside and goes slowly down stairs, feeling rather bored since there is no one to listen to his stories.
Soon he is in the kitchen, laughing with the rest at Donald's expressive masterpiece, but secretly resolving never to go into company again until he can have a frock-coat. The blue cloth jacket and trousers, bought with his last year's savings, somehow do not seem to him as fine as they did when he put them on earlier in the day; though he is an independent youth, not easily made dissatisfied with his appearance. For the first time in his life he rather envies Daniel David and Ellen Elizabeth, who look remarkably well on this occasion, being dressed in clothes that once were Donald's and Dorothy's. This is no unusual effect. For Lydia, with Mr. Reed's hearty sanction, has long been in the habit of slyly handing garments to Mrs. Danby, with the flattering assurance that as the dear D's grow like weeds, it will be an act of real kindness if Mrs. Danby will turn the clothes to good account; and Mrs. Danby always has complied.
Talking of the Danbys, perhaps this is a fitting time to explain the commotion that Ben heard in Mr. Reed's sleeping-room.
A moment before, and in the midst of certain lively planning, a middle-sized boy, named Thomas Budd, had strayed from the candy-pulling scene and appeared at the threshold of this apartment, where Charity Danby, little Isabella Danby, Fandy, and three or four others were assembled.
"All right!" shouted Fandy, excitedly, as Master Budd entered; "come along, Tommy Budd, you can play too. Now Charity Cora, look out for Is'bella! We're going to have my new game."
"Oh, please do, Cora! quick!" cried little Helen Danby. "Fandy's made it up all hisself, and he's goin' to teach it to us."
"That's right," said Fandy, approvingly, as Charity Cora hastily lifted her three-year-old sister from the floor; "take her 'way off. It's a awful dang'rous game. She might get killed!"
Very naturally, Cora, with little Isabel in her arms, stood near the door to see what was going to happen.
"Now, chil'ren," cried Fandy, "take your places all over. Pete, you're a lion; Sammy, you're a big wolf; Helen, you're a wild cat; Gory, you're a elephant; and Tommy, you'll have to be,—let's see, what other animal is there? Oh! yes; you must be a kangaroo! and I'm a great big hunter-man, with a gun an' a soword!"
So saying, the great big hunter-man took a small brass-handled shovel and poker from the brass stand by the open fireplace, and struck an attitude.
"Now, chil'ren, you must all go 'round, a-howling and going on like what you all are, and I'll pounce on you fass as I can, an' kill you. When I shoot, you must fall right down; and when I chop off your heads with my big soword, you must roar awful."
"Hah! Where's the game in that?" cried Gory, scornfully.
"Why—let's see," said Fandy, rather puzzled. "Oh! yes; the one I kill first is it—that's the game."
"All right," exclaimed Tommy Budd, "and then that one takes the gun and sword and hunts. That's first-rate. Let's begin."
But Fandy objected to this.
"No, no," he said, "I've got to do all the killin', 'coz it's my game. I'll tell you what! The ones that gets killed are dead animals; and all the dead animals can go under the bed!"
"That'll do," they shouted; and the game began. Such roaring and baying, growling and shouting, were never heard in human habitation before.
Baby Isabel, who must have been born to be a lion-tamer, looked on in great glee; and Cora tried not to feel frightened.
Fandy made a capital hunter; he shot right and left, and sawed off the heads of the slain like a good fellow, until at last there were four dead animals under the bed, all lying curled up just as still as mice.
There was only one more animal to kill, and that was Tom, the kangaroo.
Bang! went Fandy's gun—the shovel end pressed in style against his shoulder. Bang!
But the kangaroo didn't fall.
Fandy took more careful aim, and fired again.
Bang!
Still the kangaroo hopped about, as frisky as ever.
"Bang! I tell you! Don't you hear me say 'bang'? Why don't you go dead?"
"You haven't hit me yet," retorted the kangaroo, taking wonderful leaps. "Look out! Pretty soon I'll jump on you and smash you!"
"No, you won't, neither!" cries the hunter, growing very red and taking fresh aim.
Bang!
Unlucky shot! The kangaroo was on him in an instant.
"Now, sir," growls the kangaroo, butting the overthrown hunter with his head, "what's the next part of this game? Who beats?"
"I do!" gasped Fandy. "Get off me."
This was too much for the dead animals under the bed. They began to laugh.
Cora laughed as heartily as any, and so did half a dozen big boys and girls who by this time had assembled in the open doorway.
"Stop laughin'," shouted Fandy, still struggling under the kangaroo, "an' all you under the bed come out. Don't you know when all the animals 'cept one is killed, that's the end of the game? Let's play somethin' else."
"Where'd you get that?" he added, as soon as he was a free man,—partly to change the subject, and partly because a boy whom he knew suddenly appeared eating a piece of molasses candy.
"Down stairs. We've been making loads of it," was the muffled reply.
A hint was enough. It is hardly necessary to say that in a twinkling, lion, tiger, wild cat, wolf, elephant, and hunter and kangaroo had joined the crowd in the kitchen, and were feasting ecstatically upon caramels and molasses sticks.
"Whatever shall I do, Mr. George, sir," said the distressed Lydia, "to stop the eating? They'll be sick, sir, every mother's child of them, if they keep on."
"Tell them to wash their hands and faces and come to the parlor. We'll have the picture-gallery game now," said Mr. Reed.
Accordingly, scouts were sent through the house to bring the company together. Meantime, Sailor Jack, in his best clothes, was hard at work clearing the decks for action, as he said.
All were in the parlor and seated, at last. That is, all excepting Uncle George and eight or ten, who hardly could be missed from such a roomful. Jack had arranged the chairs in several long rows, facing the great sliding-doors that separated the parlor from the back sitting-room; and on these were seated subdued and expectant boys and girls, all gazing at the closed doors, while the youngest of the guests sat on the floor in front of the chairs, half-frightened, half-delighted at the prospect of "seeing something."
By this time the feathery snow-storm had ceased, and a flood of afternoon sunlight was pouring into the large room. Whispered comments upon the change of weather arose, coupled with remarks that there would be coasting next day, anyhow; then came other remarks, and light laughter, with occasional clapping of hands, when suddenly Mr. Reed appeared at the side entrance which led into the hall:
"YOUNG LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! You are now to see a live picture-gallery, and we ask for your criticism upon the paintings, begging you to be merciful in your remarks, and not to be too funny while you try to make the pictures laugh. For, you must know, if any picture in our gallery is guilty of even a smile, it must instantly pop out of sight, leaving its frame empty. When all the frames are thus deserted, we shall expect some of you to fill them again. In fact, each picture in the present exhibition is to select his or her substitute for the next time."
At this, some of the boys looked troubled, and some of the girls tittered; but one and all clapped, in hearty applause of Mr. Reed's little speech.
Then came the tinkle of a bell to announce that all was ready; Ed Tyler and Donald pushed back the sliding doors, and there, in the great square doorway, was the picture-gallery. To be strictly correct, we should call this gallery a gray wall, apparently hung from top to bottom with fine portraits in broad gilt frames, and all looking wonderfully life-like and unnatural; for when a live portrait must not laugh, how can it feel at ease?
At first the spectators were too surprised to speak. Then came a murmur of admiration, with cries of "Good, good!" from the boys and "How lovely!" from the girls; while Liddy, by the parlor door, clasped her hands in silent rapture at the beautiful show.
Beautiful, indeed, it was. All the portraits were as fresh and glowing as though they had been "painted yesterday." The drawing was perfect, the coloring exquisite, and so well were the pictures lighted, so cunningly provided with dark backgrounds, that they seemed really to be paintings. Dorry, in a prim Quaker cap and muslin neckerchief, was prettier than ever. Josie Manning, in red cloak and hood, made a charming gypsy; little Fandy, with his brown eyes and rosy cheeks, was a remarkably handsome portrait of himself; and a sallow, black-haired youth in a cloak and slouched hat, with a paper-cutter in his clenched fist, scowled admirably as a brigand. The other pictures, though content to be simply faces trying not to smile, were really very bright and effective, and a credit to any artist.
"Well!" exclaimed Uncle, after a moment, "what have the critics to say? What do you think of—of the gypsy, for instance? Who will buy it?"
"I won't!" shouted a funny little fellow in knickerbockers. "It's a chromo."
The gypsy twitched very slightly, and all the other pictures put on increased solemnity of expression, for they felt that their time, too, was coming.
"Do you throw in the frame?" asked some one else.
"Isn't that right eye a little out?" said a girl who was taking drawing-lessons.
This made the picture laugh, and presto! the frame was empty.
After this, though the remarks made were not brilliant nor irresistibly funny, the picture-gallery soon suffered severe losses. So small a thing will make us laugh when we try to look grave. The brigand exploded at a cutting allusion to his dagger; the Quakeress yielded to a profound remark concerning her chiaro-scuro; other faces grinned the instant they were specially alluded to, and finally, Fandy's portrait was the only one left in its frame. That bright little countenance stared into the room so defiantly that even Uncle George tried, with the rest, to conquer it.
In vain critics criticised—the portrait was deaf. In vain they tried to be as funny as they could; it was obdurate. In vain they shouted at it, laughed at it. Not a smile. Fandy was a youth of principle, and he felt bound in honor to do his duty. Then the boys called the picture names. It was a monkey, a tramp, a kitten, an eel, a hop-toad. Everybody tried to think of something too funny for him to resist. Then Donald said:
"No, it's not an animal at all. Let's see—what does it look like, any way? Ah, it's a target; don't you see the bull's-eye?"
Not a smile.
"Bring a pot of varnish," cried Ed Tyler, "the picture is so dull we'll shine it up a little and see what that will do." Suddenly a childish howl was heard, to everybody's surprise; for little three-year-old Isabel had been quite forgotten.
"A-ow, a-ow! Tate Fan'-y down. What's 'e masser wis Fan'-y? Me want Fan'-y."
The little sister unconsciously triumphed where every one else had tried and failed. Fandy laughed with the rest, and instantly disappeared, as though he had been blown out like a candle. He was soon in the parlor, comforting Isabel to the best of his ability, casting saucy glances at the rest of the company meanwhile, with a merry shake of the head, as if to say, "You thought you could make me laugh, did you? No, sir, you couldn't."
Now while the folding doors were closed, a new set of pictures was made; the bell tinkled again, and the game went on as before.
There hung the same six frames in the same places upon the gray wall; but the portraits were new, and very effective, though some of them laughed as soon as the opened doors revealed them to the spectators. This time, by way of variety, each frame as soon as vacated was filled with another portrait in full view of the company. When the emptied frame happened to be on the lower part of the gray wall, the new "picture" had only to stand or kneel upon the carpet behind the frame, but if it happened to be higher up, he or she was obliged to climb upon a chair or table behind it, or even a ladder, whichever might be necessary to enable the picture to appear at the proper place.
For this gray wall, you must know, was but a large straight curtain of dark cotton stuff, without any fulness, stretched tightly across the doorway behind the sliding doors, and with large square or oblong pieces cut out of it here and there. Each open space thus left was bordered with a strip of gilt paper, thus forming an empty picture-frame. Don and Dorry had made the whole thing themselves the day before, and they were therefore very happy at the success of the picture-gallery, and the fun it created. They had ingeniously provided the highest pictures with small, dark curtains, fastened above the back of the frames, and hanging loosely enough to be drawn behind the living pictures, so as to form backgrounds. A draped clothes-horse answered the same purpose for the lower pictures. All of this explanation and more was given by Don and Dorry at the house-picnic to eager listeners who wished to get up exactly such a picture-gallery at their own homes some evening. But while they were talking about it somebody at the piano struck up a march—"Mendelssohn's Wedding March"—and almost before they knew it the guests found themselves marching to the music two by two in a procession across the great square hall, now lighted by a bright blaze in its open fireplace.
Donald and Dorry joined the merry line, wondering what was about to happen—when to their great surprise (ah, that sly Uncle George! and that innocent Liddy!) the double doors leading into the dining-room were flung open, and there, sparkling in the light of a hundred wax-candles, was a collation fit for Cinderella and all her royal court. I shall not attempt to describe it, for fear of forgetting to name some of the good things. Imagine what you will, and I do believe there was something just like it, or quite as good, upon that delightful table, so beautiful with its airy, fairy-like structures of candied fruits, frostings, and flowers; its jagged rock of ice where chickens and turtles, made of ice-cream, were resting on every peak and cranny; its gold-tinted jellies, and its snowy temples. Soon, fairy-work and temple yielded to ruthless boys, who crowded around with genteel eagerness to serve the girls with platefuls of delicacies, quite ignoring the rolling eye-balls of two little colored gentlemen who had been sent up from town with the feast, and who had fully expected to do the honors. Meanwhile Liddy, in black silk gown and the Swiss muslin apron which Dorry had bought for her in the city, was looking after the youngest guests, resolved that the little dears should not disgrace her motherly care by eating too much, or by taking the wrong things.
"Not that anything on that table could hurt a chicken," she said softly to Charity Cora, as she gave a bit of sponge-cake and a saucer of blanc-mange to little Isabel, "Mr. George and I looked out for that; but their dear little stomachs are so risky, you know, one can't be too careful. That's the reason we were so particular to serve out sandwiches and substantials early in the day, you know. But sakes! there's that molasses candy! I can't help worrying about it."
Charity Cora made no reply beyond a pleasant nod, for, in truth, conversation had no charms for her just then. If Donald had found you, hungry reader, modestly hidden in a corner, and with a masterly bow had handed you that well-laden plate, would you have felt like talking to Liddy?
But Liddy didn't mind. She was too happy with her own thoughts to notice trifles. Besides, Sailor Jack just at that moment came to lay a fresh log on the hall fire, and that gave her an opportunity to ask him if he ever had seen young folks "having a delighteder time."
"Never, Mistress Blum! Never!" was his emphatic, all-sufficient response.
At this very moment, Gory Danby, quite unconscious of the feast up stairs, was having his own private table in the kitchen. Having grown hungry for his usual supper of bread and milk, he had stolen in upon Norah and begged for it so charmingly, that she was unable to resist him. Imagine his surprise when, drowsily taking his last mouthful, he saw Fandy rush into the room with a plate of white grapes.
"Gory Danby!" exclaimed that disgusted brother, "I'm 'shamed of you! What you stuffin' yourse'f with common supper for when there's a party up stairs? Splendid things, all made of sugar! Pull off that bib, now, an' come along!"
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Again the march struck up. Feasting was over. The boys and girls, led by Uncle George, who seemed the happiest boy of all, went back to the parlor, which, meanwhile, had been rearranged, and there, producing a great plump tissue-paper bag, he hung it to the chandelier that was suspended from the middle of the parlor ceiling. I should like to tell you about this chandelier, how it was covered with hundreds of long, three-sided glass danglers that swung, glittered, and flashed in a splendid way, now that all its wax candles were lighted: but that would interrupt the account of the paper bag. This bag was full of something, they were sure. Uncle George blindfolded Josie Manning with a handkerchief, and putting a stick in her hand, told her to turn around three times and then try to strike the bag with the stick.
"Stand back, everybody," cried Donald, as she made the last turn. "Now, hit hard, Josie! Hard enough to break it!"
Josie did hit hard. But she hit the air just where the bag didn't hang; and then the rest laughed and shouted, and begged to be blindfolded, sure that they could do it. Mr. Reed gave each a chance in turn, but each failed as absurdly as Josie. Finally, by acclamation, the bandage was put over Dorothy's dancing eyes, though she was sure she never, never could—and lo! after revolving like a lovely Chinese top, the blindfolded damsel, with a spring, and one long, vigorous stroke, tore the bag open from one side to the other. Down fell the contents upon the floor—pink mottoes, white mottoes, blue mottoes, and mottoes of gold and silver paper, all fringed and scalloped and tied with ribbons, and every one of them plump with sugar-almonds or some good kind of candy. How the guests rushed and scrambled for them!—how Fandy Danby fairly rolled over the other boys in his delight!—and how the young folks tore open the pretty papers, put the candy into their pockets, and shyly handed or sent the printed mottoes to each other! Fandy, in his excitement, handed a couplet to a pretty little girl with yellow hair, and then seeing her pout as she looked at it, ran over to her again with a quick "Let me see't. What does it say?" She held out the little bit of paper without letting it go, and Fandy seizing it at the other end, read laboriously and in laughing dismay:
"You-are-the-nicest-boy-I-know,
And-this-is-just-to-tell-you-so."
He recovered himself instantly, however, and wagging his handsome little head at her, exclaimed emphatically:
"Girl, girl, don't you see, I meant girl! It's pleposterous to think I meant boy, cause you ain't one, don't you see. Mottoes is awful foolish, anyway. Come over in the hall and see the gol'-fishes swimmin' in the 'quarium,"—and off they ran together, as happy as birds.
Then came a dance—the Lancers. Two thirds of the young company, including Don and Dorry, attended the village dancing-school; and one and all "just doted on the Lancers," as Josie Manning said. Uncle George, knowing this, had surprised the D's by secretly engaging two players,—for piano-forte and violin,—and their well-marked time and spirited playing put added life into even the lithe young forms that flitted through the rooms. Charity looked on in rapt delight, the more so as kind Sailor Jack already had carried the sleepy and warmly bundled Isabel home to her mother.
One or two more dances brought this amusement to an end, and then, after a few moments of rest came a startling and mysterious order to prepare for the
"THANK-YOU" GAME!
"What in the world is that?" asked the young folk of Don and Dorry; and their host and hostess candidly admitted that they hadn't the slightest idea what it was; they never had heard of it before.
"Well, then, how can we play it?" insisted the little spokes-people.
"I don't know," answered Dorry, looking in a puzzled way at the door.
"All join hands and form a circle!" cried a voice.
Every one arose, and soon the circle stood expectant.
"Your dear great-great fairy godmother is coming to see you," continued the voice. "She is slightly deaf, but you must not mind that."
"Oh, no, no!" cried the laughing circle, "not in the least."
"She brings her white gnome with her," said the invisible speaker; "and don't let him know your names, or he will get you into trouble."
"No, no, no!" cried the circle, wildly.
A slight stirring was heard in the hall, the doors opened, and in walked the big fairy godmother and her white gnome.
She was a tall, much bent old woman, in a ruffled cap, a peaked hat, and a long red cloak. He, the gnome, wore red trousers and red sleeves. The rest of his body was dressed in a white pillow-case with arm-holes cut in it. It was gathered at his belt; gathered also by a red ribbon tied around the throat; the corners of the pillow-case tied with narrow ribbon formed his ears, and there was a white bandage over his eyes, and a round opening for his mouth. The godmother dragged in a large sack, and the gnome bore a stick with bells at the end.
"Let me into the ring, dears," squeaked the fairy godmother.
"Let me into the ring, dears," growled the white gnome.
The circle obeyed.
"Now, my dears," squeaked the fairy godmother, "I've brought you a bagful of lovely things, but, you must know, I am under an enchantment. All I can do is to let you each take out a gift when your turn comes, but when you send me a 'Thank-you,' don't let my white gnome know who it is, for if he guesses your name you must put the gift back without opening the paper. But if he guesses the wrong name, then you may keep the gift. So now begin, one at a time. Keep the magic circle moving until my gnome knocks three times."
Around went the circle, eager with fun and expectation. Suddenly the blindfolded gnome pounded three times with his stick, and then pointed it straight in front of him, jingling the little bells. Tommy Budd was the happy youth pointed at.
"Help yourself, my dear," squeaked the fairy godmother, as she held the sack toward him. He plunged his arm into the opening and brought out a neat paper parcel.
"Hey! What did you say, dear?" she squeaked. "Take hold of the stick."
Tommy seized the end of the stick, and said, in a hoarse tone, "Thank you, ma'am."
"That's John Stevens," growled the gnome. "Put it back! put it back!"
But it wasn't John Stevens, and so Tommy kept the parcel.
The circle moved again. The gnome knocked three times, and this time the stick pointed to Dorry. She tried to be polite, and direct her neighbor's hand to it, but the godmother would not hear of that.
"Help yourself, child," she squeaked; and Dorry did. The paper parcel which she drew from the sack was so tempting and pretty, all tied with ribbon, that she really tried very hard to disguise her "Thank you," but the blindfolded gnome was too sharp for her.
"No, no!" he growled. "That's Dorothy Reed. Put it back! put it back!"
And Dorry, with a playful air of protest, dropped the pretty parcel into the bag again.
So the merry game went on; some escaped detection and saved their gifts; some were detected and lost them; but the godmother would not suffer those who had parcels to try again, and therefore, in the course of the game, those who failed at first succeeded after a while. When all had parcels, and the bag was nearly empty, what did that old fairy do but straighten up, throw off her hat, cap, false face, and cloak—and if it wasn't Uncle George himself, very red in the face, and very glad to be out of his prison. Instantly one and all discovered that they had known all along it was he.
"Ha! ha!" they laughed; "and now—" starting in pursuit—"let's see who the white gnome is!"
They caught him at the foot of the stairs, and were not very much astonished when Ed Tyler came to light.
"That is a royal game!" declared some. "Grand!" cried others. "Fine!" "First-rate!" "Glorious!" "Capital!" "As good as Christmas!" said the rest. Then they opened their parcels, and there was great rejoicing.
Uncle George, as Liddy declared, wasn't a gentleman to do things by halves, and he certainly had distinguished himself in the "Thank-you" game. Every gift was worth having. There were lovely bon-bon boxes, pretty trinkets, penknives, silver lead-pencils, paint-boxes, puzzles, thimbles, and scissors, and dozens of other nice things.
What delighted "Oh, oh's!" and merry "Ha, ha's!" rang through that big parlor. The boys who had thimbles, and the girls who had balls, had great fun displaying their prizes, and trying to "trade." After a deal of laughter and merry bargaining, the gifts became properly distributed, and then the piano and violin significantly played "Home, Sweet Home!" Soon sleigh-bells were jingling outside; Jack was stamping his feet to knock the snow off his boots. Mr. McSwiver, too, was there, driving the Manning farm-sled, filled with straw; and several turn-outs from the village were speeding chuck-a-ty-chuck, cling, clang, jingle-y-jing, along the broad carriage-way.
Ah! what a bundling-up time! What scrambling for tippets, shawls, hoods, and cloaks; what laughter and frolic; what "good-byes" and "good-byes;" what honest "thank-you's" to Mr. Reed; and what shouting and singing and hurrahing, as the noisy sleigh-loads glided away, and above all, what an "Oh, you dear, dear, dear Uncle George!" from Dorry, as she and Donald, standing by Mr. Reed's side, heard the last sleigh jingle-jingle from the door.
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And then the twins went straight to bed, slept sweetly, and dreamed till morning of the house-picnic? Not so. Do you think the D's could settle down so quietly as that? True, Uncle George soon went to his room. Liddy and Jack hied their respective ways, after "ridding up," as she expressed it, and fastening the windows. Norah and Kassy trudged sleepily to bed; the musicians and colored waiters were comfortably put away for the night. But Donald and Dorothy, wide awake as two robins, were holding a whispered but animated conversation in Dorry's room.
"Wasn't it a wonderful success, Don?"
"Never saw anything like it," said Donald. "Every one was delighted; Uncle's a perfect prince. He was the life of everything too. But what is it? What did you want to show me?"
"I don't know, myself, yet," she answered. "It fell out of an old trunk that we've never looked into or even seen before; at least, I haven't. Some of the boys dragged the trunk out from away back under the farthest roof-end of the garret. It upset and opened. Robby Cutler picked up the things and tumbled them in again in a hurry; but I saw the end of a parcel and pulled it out, and ran down here to see what it was. But my room was full of girls (it was when nearly all of you boys were out in the barn, you know), and so I just threw it into that drawer. Somehow, I felt nervous about looking at it alone."
"Fetch it out," said Donald.
She did so. They opened the parcel together. It contained only two or three old copy-books.
"They're Uncle George's when he was a little boy," exclaimed Dorry, in a tone of interest, as she leaned over Donald, but with a shade of disappointment in her tone; for what is an old copy-book?
"It's not copy-writing at all," said Don, peering into the first one, "why, it's a diary!" and turning to look at the cover again, he read, "'Kate Reed.' Why, it's Aunt Kate's!"
"Aunt Kate's diary? Oh, Don, it can't be!" cried Dorry, as, pale with excitement, she attempted to take it from her brother's hands.
"No, Dorry," he said, firmly; "we must tie it up again. Diaries are private; we must speak to Uncle about it before we read a word."
"So we must, I suppose," assented Dorry, reluctantly. "But I can't sleep a wink with it in here." Her eyes filled with tears.
"Don't cry, Dot; please don't," pleaded Don, putting his arm around her. "We've been so happy all day, and finding this ought to make you all the happier. It will tell us so much about Aunt Kate, you know."
"No, Don, it will not. I feel morally sure Uncle will never let us read it."
"For shame, Dorry. Just wait, and it will be all right. You found the book, and Uncle will be delighted, and we'll all read it together."
Dorry wiped her eyes.
"I don't know about that," she said, decidedly, and much to her brother's amazement. "I found it, and I want to think for myself what is best to be done about it. Aunt Kate didn't write it for everybody to read; we'll put it back in the bureau. My, how late it must be growing," she continued, with a shiver, as, laying the parcel in, she closed the drawer so softly that the hanging brass handles hardly moved. "Now, good-night, Donald."
"What a strange girl you are," he said, kissing her bright face. "Over a thing in an instant. Well, good-night, old lady."
"Good-night, old gentleman," said Dorry, soberly, as she closed the door.