Cricket

Cricket was so completely subdued by this last piece of forgetfulness, and its consequences, that for weeks afterwards her improvement was simply wonderful.

But old habits are very strong. After a time Cricket’s watchfulness over herself grew less, and the old story began. She borrowed Marjorie’s new silk umbrella in a hurry, because she could not find her own, and left it in the horsecar. The very next week she took Zaidee and Helen out to walk, and left them on a seat in the park, while she ran to speak to some little friends. They, not knowing that she had the twins with her, urged her to go down to Howlett’s for hot chocolate with them. She went off, forgetting the children, whom she had charged “not to stir till I come back.” An hour after, when she reached home, she was met by Eliza with a demand for the twins. Nurse flew off on learning where they had been left, and fifteen minutes later she brought in two little shivering, crying girls, who had not stirred from the seat, because Cricket had bidden them stay there. Several policemen and kind-hearted passers-by had gathered around them, and were trying to find out where they belonged.

A fine attack of croup for Helen was the result, and a slight cold for Zaidee, who was stronger, and Cricket was in disgrace again.

“I don’t like to forget,” she said, miserably, when the entire family took her to task that evening. “I never mean to forget, and then I go and do it.”

“Go and don’t do it, you mean,” said Donald.

“The trouble is, little daughter,” said papa, as he had said a hundred times before, “that you do not pay sufficient attention. You know how many times I have told you that attention is putting your mind upon a point, with a view to remembering it.”

“I expect that’s the trouble,” said Cricket, quickly. “I do fasten my mind on a point. I put it on so hard that the point sticks through, and then of course I can’t remember.”

“I should think you’d remember sometimes, by mere accident,” remarked Marjorie, looking up from her book. “There are exceptions to all rules.”

“Cricket is the exception to that rule,” struck in Donald.

“Now, I think I have remembered a good many things thus far, sir,” said Cricket, rather indignantly. “It was only yesterday that you told me to tell Rose Condit something, and I couldn’t think just exactly what it was, but I remembered to say that you wanted her to come and see you.”

There was a shout at this.

“You little monkey,” said Donald, getting red. “Did you tell her that? I told you to say that I’d see her to-night.”

“That’s pretty near the same, isn’t it,” asked Cricket, anxiously.

There was another shout.

“Cricket is like a little chap that I used to hear of when I was a small boy,” began papa, standing on the hearth-rug, with his hands behind his back, and smiling down at his small daughter, as she sat on the rug, clasping her knees with both hands, and staring thoughtfully into the fire. Cricket was such a lovable, winning thing, with all her trying ways, that one could not be angry with her long.

“Who was this boy, papa?” she said, looking up. “Now, please don’t tell me about any good little boy, who never forgot.”

“This wasn’t a good little boy, ma’am,” laughed papa; “he was sent by his mother to the store for some eggs and sugar and molasses. Lest he should forget, she told him to repeat the three things on the way. So he started off, saying ‘Eggs, sugar, and molasses—eggs, sugar, and molasses.’ Suddenly he stubbed his toe, and fell headlong. As he picked himself up, he said, ‘Wax, tar, and rosin—wax, tar, and rosin—ain’t forgot yet.’ So when Cricket does remember, it is likely to be the wrong thing.”

“The trouble is that Cricket’s forgetfulness never makes any difference to herself. She isn’t the one that suffers,” said Marjorie, still feeling injured over her silk umbrella. “It’s always something of other people’s that she forgets.”

“It ought to be a boomerang arrangement,” said Donald, as he got up to go out.

“What’s a boomer-something?” asked Cricket, curiously.

“A boomerang, my dear,” returned Donald, “is a curved piece of wood about a yard long which is used by the Australians. They throw it straight along, and it turns a few somersaults, and presently comes back to the thrower. If a person who doesn’t understand it throws it, it’s more than likely to come back, whack, on his own head. See? Now that’s the style of thing to make you remember, Miss Scricket. A good, sharp rap on your own head, when you’re throwing your forgettings around, would be an excellent thing, wouldn’t it, little mother?” kissing his mother as he passed her chair.

Mamma smiled up at her tall son, and stroked Cricket’s curly hair.

“I’m beginning to be afraid,” she said, “that Donald is right, my little girl, and that only a ‘boomerang arrangement’ will do any lasting good.”

Cricket sighed. “It’s very hard to be such a torment to the family, when I love everybody so,” she said, plaintively. “I wish somebody would throw stones at me.”

Now, as it proved, the boomerang was not far away.

The very next week a note was brought to the school which Cricket attended, for her to give to her mother. She put it in her pocket, and of course it might as well have gone into a coal-mine, as far as her thinking of it again was concerned.

That was Wednesday. Cricket did not chance to wear that particular dress again till the next Wednesday, for she tore it in some way, and it was laid aside to be mended. On going home from school she chanced to put her hand in her pocket, and brought up the note.

“Where did this come from!” she thought, in bewilderment. She could not at all remember, but she concluded that some one had given it to her on her way to school, though she could not recall it.

“I’m so glad I thought of it,” she said to herself, quite proudly, and she held it in her hand all the way home lest she should forget to deliver it.

Mamma received the week-old note, and read it without any suspicion. It was dated, simply, “Wednesday morning.”

“This is from Mrs. Drayton,” she exclaimed to papa. “I’m so glad. She says that Mrs. Lynn will spend a day and night with her. She’s the famous lecturer, you know. She and Mrs. Drayton were school-mates. She comes very unexpectedly now, and Mrs. Drayton wants us to dine there to-night, very informally. The Camerons will be there—no one else. You can go, can’t you, dear?”

“Yes, it will suit me very well,” said papa.

After Cricket had left the room Mrs. Ward added,—

“She writes a postscript to say that she is planning a luncheon party for Emily, for her birthday on Saturday, as a surprise to her, and invites Eunice and Cricket. She is going to take the children, after, to the matinée, to see the ‘Old Homestead.’ Isn’t that just like Mrs. Drayton? Poor Eunice won’t be able to go unless her cold is very much better, but Cricket will be overjoyed. And she says not to tell the children till Friday, lest Emily should hear of it.”

Mamma was delighted at the chance of meeting Mrs. Lynn, who was a very noted woman, and she and papa went off in good season.

About half-past eight, to the surprise of the children, who were gathered in the sitting-room,—the younger ones always had permission to sit up a little later when their father and mother were out—the click of papa’s latchkey was heard in the door, and a moment after he and mamma entered the room.

“What is the matter? Are you ill?” came in a chorus.

“Nobody is ill,” said papa, looking queer.

“Then what is the matter?”

“Nothing much—only there was no dinner-party.”

“No dinner-party?” every one exclaimed.

Mamma took up the note which had been left on the table, and said gravely to Cricket,—

“Tell me where you got this note, my dear?”

“From my pocket,” returned Cricket, in much surprise.

“How did it get there? When did you find it?”

“Why, this,—” Cricket hesitated. “Yes, it certainly was this morning.”

“You certainly gave it to me this morning, but who gave it to you, and when?”

“It was the funniest thing,” said Cricket, eagerly. “I really don’t know. I honestly don’t remember putting it there, and yet somebody must have given it to me on the way to school.”

“Could anybody have left it at school, for you?” asked papa.

“No, I’m sure no one did this morning. Some one left a note a long time ago, but,—” Cricket stopped suddenly, in dismay.

“Exactly, my dear,” said papa, dryly. “It was a long time ago—just one week.”

“Mamma!” cried Cricket, “didn’t I ever give you that note? Is this the same one?”

“The very same. How did you not happen to find it before?”

Cricket looked down at her dress.

“Why, Cricket!” exclaimed Eunice. “You haven’t had that dress on for a long time. You tore the ruffle last week, and you were waiting for Eliza to mend it.”

“That is it, then,” said mamma. “Now, do you know what you have done? The note was given you last Wednesday. You put it in your pocket, and did not think of it again. You found it to-day, and did not even know how it got in your pocket.”

“I thought it was queer,” murmured Cricket.

“You gave me the note this morning. It was dated simply ‘Wednesday,’ so of course I never doubted it had just been given you.”

“Then there wasn’t any dinner-party to-night?” faltered Cricket.

“I’ll tell you what your forgetfulness has done, my dear,” answered mamma. “Mrs. Lynn was at Mrs. Drayton’s for that night only. We were anxious to meet each other, for I know her sister very well. She came very unexpectedly, and Mrs. Drayton sent the note in to you, since your school is so near her, as the quickest way of its reaching me.

“To-night, as papa and I arrived, we saw the Draytons’ carriage standing in front of their door, and of course wondered at that. As we rang the bell, the door opened, and the Draytons themselves came out, to our great amazement. They exclaimed at seeing us, and we immediately found they were invited out to dinner themselves to-night. Of course we explained, and so did they, though, as they were already late, they could only stop a few moments.

“Mrs. Drayton was greatly surprised last week, when we neither arrived nor sent any word, but supposed it was one of my sudden illnesses. Think how rude you made us appear, Cricket.”

“And then, how ridiculous you made us seem to-night,” added papa, “in going to dine, when there wasn’t any dinner-party.”

Cricket was much too wretched to speak. She was curled up in a corner of the couch, with her head buried in the cushions.

“But that is not all,” went on papa.

Cricket raised a tear-stained face, in added dismay. What more could there be?

“And I am not altogether sorry, my dear, that it will be a great disappointment to yourself.”

“Oh, ho!” said Donald, quickly. “Boomerang business, I see.”

“Yes, a boomerang, and no mistake. Tell her, mamma.”

“Mrs. Drayton had arranged a children’s luncheon-party for Saturday as a surprise for Emily. Six were invited, and she intended to take them to a matinée afterward, to their box, to see ‘The Old Homestead.’ She invited you and Eunice. I thought I should let you go, Cricket, even though Eunice may not be well enough.”

Cricket came to her feet with a bound. “Can I go?” she asked, eagerly. “I am dying to see ‘The Old Homestead?’ Oh, goody, goody!”

“Don’t you understand, dear?” asked mamma. “The matinée-party shares the fate of the dinner-party. They are both over, and we were not there. You forgot the note, you see, and it was last Saturday, you know.”

“Last Saturday! Have I lost it!” exclaimed Cricket, with eyes as large as saucers.

“Whew!” whistled Donald. “That’s a good hard whack with the boomerang, my lady. You threw it well, that time.”

“Hush, Donald,” said mamma. “Don’t tease her.”

Cricket burst into a flood of tears. To have lost one of Emily Drayton’s parties! Such beautiful parties her mamma always had for her, too. And then think of a matinée and a box! Dr. Ward did not approve of much theatre-going for little people, and the children rarely went, excepting for their Christmas treat. All Cricket’s little friends had seen ‘The Old Homestead,’ and she had been begging for weeks to go. Now by her own careless forgetfulness she had lost it. It was too dreadful. Her boomerang had struck her a “whack,” indeed.

“I’m awfully sorry for you, Cricket,” Marjorie said, “but I can’t help hoping that you’ll realize now how pleasant it is for other people to lose flower-shows and umbrellas and dinner-parties.”

“Make her stop, mamma!” sobbed wretched Cricket. “I’m always sorry when I forget your things, Marjorie.”

“Yes,” assented teasing Donald, though he really pitied his little sister. “It’s easy to bear another man’s misfortune like a Christian. Come, youngster, take your whacking like a man.”

“By-the-way, have you had any dinner?” asked Marjorie, of mamma.

“Oh, yes, papa and I went to the Bolingbroke and dined. Come, Cricket, it’s bedtime. I’ll go up with you.”

Cricket stumbled upstairs, blind with tears. Mamma helped her to undress, in her gentle way, and when the little girl was in bed she sat down and talked with her for a while.

“Yes, it’s very hard, little daughter,” said mamma, “but now I want you to think how often your forgetfulness has caused other people to lose as much pleasure as this of yours. I cannot tell you, for instance, how disappointed I am, not to see Mrs. Lynn. She went to New York the next day, and sailed on Saturday for Europe for a long stay. I may not have another chance of meeting her.

“All this is serious, but not so much so, as your forgetting old Mrs. Cummings’s message not long ago, so that her poor husband nearly died before papa could get there. It is not worse than when you forgot to tell Donald that Mr. Marsh wanted him to call at his office on business; or when you didn’t tell papa that Mr. Evans wanted to see him, or when you forgot the children, and gave poor little Helen such an attack of the croup that she is scarcely strong yet.”

“Do people always feel as badly as I do?” sobbed Cricket.

“Just as badly, my dear. Indeed, I think it’s a trifle easier when you’ve only yourself to blame. As Marjorie said, it is strange that you so seldom suffer yourself, and yet it is not strange, either. You remember the things, you see, that you are interested in. I do hope, dearie, that this will be a lesson, and that your boomerang may never hit you so hard again.”

“If boomerangs hurt other people half as much as this one has hurt me,” said Cricket, between her sobs, “they sha’n’t feel any more of my boomerangs, I am sure of that.”

“I hope not, darling,” said mamma, kissing her good-night.

And really, I am glad to say that this was Cricket’s last serious piece of forgetfulness. She set herself with all her might and main to conquer her fault, and tried as she had never tried before. She regularly remembered to bring home both her bundle and her change when she was sent on an errand. She posted letters promptly. She remembered various messages that were given to her for her mamma; and on one occasion she even got up in the middle of the night, and went to papa with some word which had been given to her for him during the day, and which she had forgotten.

So she improved steadily. I do not mean to say that she never forgot or neglected anything again, for she certainly did; but she would usually recall the forgotten thing in time to set it straight. She understood now that no half-way trying will conquer any fault, and nothing outside will help one to do it until a person makes up his mind to do it himself.

Weeks after, there arrived for Cricket, one evening after dinner, a mysterious package. The family were all in the sitting-room, where they usually gathered for a time, after dinner, before they separated to their various duties or pleasures. Cricket opened it amid much wondering on the part of the others, as well as on her own.

It was a long thing, and when Cricket got it free from all its wrappings, what do you think she found? An oddly curved piece of hard wood, nearly a yard long, pointed at both ends, about four inches wide in the middle, and half an inch thick.

“What in the world is this queer-looking thing?” Cricket asked, holding it up in both hands in great amazement.

“A boomerang, my dear,” answered Donald. “For memorabil.”

“For what?”

“Memorabil. That means to remember something by. Tie it up with pretty little blue ribbons, and hang it in your room, my dear, as girls always do with their trinkets. When you look at it, you’ll remember the famous occasion when you learned not to forget, for you’re getting to be as reliable as a district messenger boy. We can give you an errand now with forty-nine chances out of a hundred that it will be done. Next summer I’ll teach you how to throw this. I’ve taken lessons on purpose.”

And the boomerang hangs on Cricket’s wall to this day.