Cricket

The household settled into their town-life very quickly, and in three days’ time they almost felt as if their lovely summer had been a dream. Only the children’s sunburned faces and hands, and their overflowing health and spirits, remained as proof positive that they had not been in town all summer.

“How strange it is that Marion Blair does not call for me,” said Marjorie, one day, turning away from the window, where she had been standing in hat and coat, for half an hour. “She said she would be here at three, and it is nearly four now. I’m afraid we’ll lose the chrysanthemum show altogether.”

“Oh, Marjorie!” cried Cricket, penitently. “I’m so sorry. I met Daisy Blair on the street this morning, and she asked me to give you this note from Marion.”

Marjorie read the note hastily.

“You provoking child! She writes that she has a severe cold and can’t go out to-day, but wants me to call for Sallie Evarts, and go with her, and Sallie would wait for me till three. Sallie was going with us. Now, it’s too late to go way up there, and you’ve lost us the flower-show—both of us, for I’m sure Sallie wouldn’t go off alone—and it’s the last day.”

“Oh, Marjorie dear, I am so sorry,” Cricket said, looking crushed, as she always did, when her forgetfulness was in question. “I’m awfully sorry.”

“You always are awfully sorry,” returned Marjorie, impatiently, “but that does not excuse your abominable forgetfulness.” Marjorie used strong language, but really Cricket’s constant slips of memory were maddening.

Both her mother and father felt very badly over this fault of Cricket’s, knowing it might any day bring serious consequences. They had tried every possible means to help her overcome it, but thus far nothing had ever done any special good. She would remember better for a time, and then forget more than ever. One reason for her forgetfulness was an odd one. With all her high spirits and her love of active, out-door sports, Cricket was also greatly given to day-dreams. She had a strong imagination, and was devoted to her books, for she liked to read quite as much as she loved to run and play. When she was by herself, she was always dreaming out strange fancies, making jingles which she called poetry, or telling stories to herself about all sorts of things. When she was given an errand to do she would always set off willingly enough, and in a moment would be entirely absorbed in her own fancies as she walked along the street. She would perhaps go past the house to which she had been sent, for an entire block, then, suddenly recollecting herself, would turn quickly and go as far in the other direction. Marjorie said that one day, when she was calling at a certain house, she saw Cricket pass a house opposite four times before she remembered to go in when she came to the door.

She had frequently been known to pass her own home, if she chanced to come alone from school, and walk on for a couple of blocks. A letter intrusted to her might reach its destination any time within six months, if it went into her pocket. She never by any chance remembered a message. She even forgot, oftentimes, whether she had eaten her lunch or not. Indeed, the only thing she never mislaid were her school-books, and the sole things she never forgot were her lessons. Her memory for history, even for long strings of dates, was really unusual. She could commit pages of poetry, and Latin declensions, and conjugations rolled easily off her glib little tongue.

Since this was the case, I am sadly afraid that Cricket’s slips of memory were simply from lack of attention to what people told her to do. Her mind was always too full of plans and fancies of her own to notice carefully what they said. Consequently, things of that sort being laid on the top of her mind, constantly rolled off and were lost.

So long as Cricket was only a little girl, her fault was annoying but not serious. Now, as she grew older, and might have important messages and errands intrusted to her by people who did not know her failing, you may be sure mamma was in constant terror.

After Cricket’s forgetfulness in delivering the note had lost Marjorie and her friend the flower-show, mamma had a long and very serious talk with her little daughter. She reminded her how often she had talked to her on the same subject before, and how each time Cricket had promised to do better; how useless it was for her to say how sorry she was, and then forget the next day just the same.

“Well, you see,” Cricket said, candidly, “I say ‘I’ll never forget again,’ and then prob’ly the next day I go and do it. And then, naturally, I get discouraged. Ever is such a long time.”

“Well, little daughter,” suggested mamma, “suppose you try this way. Don’t say that you’ll never forget again, but only ‘I will try not to forget a thing I’m told to do to-day,’ and the next day say the same thing. You don’t know how quickly the habit of remembering would be formed, for I really think that your constant forgetfulness is largely a habit.”

“I might try that,” said Cricket, thoughtfully. “Couldn’t I take a day off, sometimes?” she added, quickly.

Mamma laughed

“There is no such thing as ‘taking a day off,’ when we are trying to do better, pet. Do you know, overcoming a bad habit is like rolling up a ball of string. If you drop it, you have just so much to do over. So if you take even one day off—”

“I see,” interrupted Cricket, with a sigh. “I’ve just got to keep winding. But, truly, I’ll try this time not to drop my ball. I really do suppose,” she added, thoughtfully, after a moment, “that I could remember better, if I didn’t tell stories to myself all the time I’m walking, but it’s such fun. I get so interested that I don’t know anything.”

“Then the stories should go, little daughter,” said mamma, “if they hinder you remembering. Now try it for one day at a time. ‘Take short views,’ as Sydney Smith says.”

“I’ll truly try,” repeated Cricket, with so serious a face that mamma felt greatly encouraged.

Really, for a week Cricket’s improvement was marvellous. She resolutely put her beloved stories and day-dreams out of her mind, if she was told to do anything, until she had done it, and she began to realize that it had been largely a lack of attention that made her forget messages so.

“I haven’t dropped my ball once this week,” Cricket confided in triumph to mamma, at the end of that time, as she kissed her good-night. Eunice had gone to bed early with a bad headache. “Really, do you know, remembering isn’t such hard work, if you only make up your mind that you will.”

Mamma smiled. “I am glad you find it so. Good-night, love. By-the-by, stop at the library door, as you go upstairs, and tell papa that Mr. Evans has just sent word that he will be in about nine, on some important business.”

“Yes, mamma,” said Cricket, stopping on her way out to play with Duster. Then she went out of the room and upstairs. At her room door she remembered her message.

“Just in time,” she thought. “Most dropped it that time!” and she ran down again to the library.

Mamma sat listening to see if she delivered the message. Hearing her run down stairs again, she smiled, satisfied.

“Oh, papa,” Cricket began, when her attention was attracted by a beautifully illustrated, new volume, which papa was unwrapping. “Isn’t that beautiful!” she exclaimed, in delight. She hung over papa’s shoulder, as he turned the pages and explained some of the lovely pictures.

Suddenly he pulled out his watch and stood up in thought for a moment.

“May I see this more?” begged Cricket.

“Yes, you may take it for a few minutes,” said papa. “Be sure you put it back on my table when you are through with it. I must step over to Brewster’s for a minute;” and papa took up some papers and left the room.

Cricket did not heed him. She threw herself on the white goat-skin before the open fire, and, with her chin in her hand, she turned the leaves of the lovely volume in absorbed interest. Papa went out, and she did not even hear the door close. Mamma did, though, and stepped to the door of the parlour. The light still streamed from the library, and she went back, supposing papa was still there.

An hour passed. About nine the bell rang violently; Cricket did not hear it. A few minutes after, mamma’s repeated “Cricket” brought her to her feet.

“Where is your father?” Mrs. Ward was saying. “Didn’t you give him my message?”

“What message?” faltered Cricket, looking bewildered.

“Didn’t you tell him that Mr. Evans would call? Why, Cricket!”

“Oh, mamma, what shall I do? I forgot all about it.”

Mr. Evans looked extremely annoyed. He was an irritable man, with small patience for any one’s short-comings. Now, he certainly had good reason to be vexed. His business was important, and he had to catch a late train for New York, and had but little time to spare.

“Well, well, then,” he said, shortly, “perhaps you can tell me where he is gone, if you did forget the message?”

Cricket grew frightened. “I think—I can’t just remember,” she faltered.

“Haven’t you any idea?” asked mamma. “He must have mentioned some place when he was going;” for it was papa’s rule always to leave word when he went out.

“It seems to me—yes, I know,” cried Cricket, brightening up. “He said he was going to the Bruces,” with a faint echo of the name that papa had spoken lingering in her ear. Unfortunately, the Bruces lived at the other end of town, and the Brewsters in the next square.

“I shall have to risk finding him there, then,” said Mr. Evans, looking at his watch. “No! I have not time. Really this is a most unfortunate matter,” and Mr. Evans put back his watch, looking like a thunder-cloud. Having taken the precaution to notify Dr. Ward that it was necessary to see him that night on important business, it was certainly more than vexatious to find him out. Mrs. Ward was greatly distressed.

“I will send Donald instantly to the Bruces,” she said. “Perhaps then my husband can catch you at the station before you leave, if he has not time to go to your house.” And with this Mr. Evans departed.

Mamma dragged Donald from his studies, and sent him post-haste across the city. Then she came back to Cricket.

“We won’t talk about this till after I have seen papa!” she said, gravely, and miserable Cricket went slowly off to bed.

Forlornly, she mounted the stairs. No thought of the new volume she had left on the rug came to her mind. Usually, it would have been safe enough, but to-night it chanced that Duster was in an unusually playful mood. All the older ones but mamma being out, and the younger ones in bed, Duster felt lonely, and wanted to play. He strolled into the library in search of amusement. The firelight played on the standing pages of the costly volume, open on the hearth-rug. Duster darted forward. With teeth and claws he worried the charming plaything, pitching it up, and shaking it vigorously, till the covers banged. He tore the leaves into fragments and chased them around, then settled down comfortably to chew up what was left.

It is but justice to Duster to say that he was generally a very well-behaved dog, and rarely did any mischief. He had his own playthings, and was expected to keep to them. Probably in the dim light, for mamma had turned down the gas, he did not realize that the new plaything was that forbidden delight, a book. However, in ten minutes the charming volume, with its beautiful pictures, and choice binding, was a wreck, and Duster trotted back to mamma, feeling perfectly virtuous, and much refreshed, as he lay down on her dress to take a nap.

But the next morning came Cricket’s reckoning with papa and mamma and the book—or rather with the remains of it.

Donald had returned the night before, saying that the Bruces had not seen papa, and mamma, of course, became very anxious. Donald had gone out again to two or three places where he thought his father might be, and then at the last minute had met him in the street. Dr. Ward had rushed to the station; Mr. Evans was there, hoping he might come, and they had a hurried talk, for fortunately the train was late. By this lucky chance, only, was a great amount of inconvenience saved to several people.

Then Dr. Ward came home to find mamma in the greatest anxiety; and then, to crown all, when they went into the library, there lay papa’s rare, new book, a wreck, upon the floor.

Cricket came from that interview the most wretched little girl that ever lived. It was seldom that her forgetfulness was the cause of so much mischief, and she had had a very severe lecture.

“I’m perfectly miserable,” Cricket sobbed, after papa had gone out. “I thought I was getting on so beautifully, and somehow, I felt sure that I was never going to forget again.”

“I’m afraid that was just the trouble, dear. Whenever you feel that you are most successful in overcoming a fault, then is just the time when you need double caution. ‘It’s always dangerous to be safe,’ you know.”

“Oh, is that what that saying means?” broke in Cricket. “I never could see how it was dangerous to be safe.”

“That’s exactly it. Now I want you never to feel safe. There is always danger of dropping your ball.”