Cricket

Like most days, this particular day of Kenneth’s began in the morning. He slept in a crib in mamma’s large room, for the twins and Eliza had the nursery all to themselves.

Every morning, as soon as it was dawn, Kenneth would begin to stir like a little bird in his white nest, and then, half asleep as he was, he would scramble quietly out of his crib, gather up his long, white nightie, and steal softly over to the big bed across the room.

Then came the never-failing joke of clapping his little fat hands over papa’s sleepy eyes, with a chirping,—

“Dess who’s here, papa!” and papa, of course, never could guess, and always named over the whole flock, from seventeen-year-old Donald down, till the baby called out, gleefully,—

“It’s you’ Tennet, papa!” and scrambled like a little monkey into his arms. He was such a sunny little creature, always beaming on the world in general, with such radiant good-temper, that it was no wonder he was everybody’s pet.

This particular morning was the seventh of November, just before the Presidential election. Kenneth was astir earlier than usual, for some reason, and it was still dark when he crept with unusual caution across the floor, and stuck his little fists into papa’s eyes.

He lifted him up, without his customary frolic, saying, sleepily,—

“Be a good baby, Kenneth, and let papa have another snooze.” So the little fellow cuddled down in his father’s arms, and lay as still as a mouse, with his arms tight around papa’s neck, and his golden curls drifting across his face and getting dreadfully in his way. At last papa was aroused by a patient little sigh.

“Now, then, Kenneth,” he said, suddenly hoisting him up in the air, “do you know that papa must go and vote to-day?”

“Let Tennet do, too, papa?” he suggested, coaxingly.

“Not to-day, my little man. You’ll have to wait for eighteen years.”

“Tan I do res’day?” this was as near as his crooked little tongue could come to yesterday, which was his name for any indefinite period.

“We’ll see, my son. By-the-way, what are your politics?”

Kenneth sat up on papa’s chest and looked wise. He knew quite well when papa was teasing him.

“You are a Republican, I suppose, you monkey?”

Kenneth shook his head till his sunny curls fell over his eyes.

“What! not a Republican? You don’t mean to tell me you’re a Democrat, do you?”

Kenneth considered.

“Es, I is. I is a Democrack,” he said, decidedly, conquering the c’s, as he sometimes did, with a mighty effort.

“Very well, then,” said papa, with equal decision, “then you must go away from me. I can’t have any little Democracks in my bed.”

To his surprise, the baby slowly slipped from his arms and slid down to the floor without a word. Papa watched him with amusement; never thinking he would hold out.

“Change your mind, baby,” he said, coaxingly. “You’re not a Democrack now, are you?”

Kenneth looked back, wistfully. He was half-way across the floor.

“I is a Demo-crack—” he answered, without wavering.

“Then you’ll have to get into your own crib,” said papa, teasingly.

Without a word the baby went on, climbed up on a chair and tumbled head over heels into his own nest.

Fifteen minutes later, when papa got up to dress, he found his little son cuddled down in a forlorn little ball, with his thumb tucked into his mouth, and his blue eyes grave and wide.

Kenneth hid his head on papa’s shoulder, when he lifted him up and petted him; but he had nothing to say. By-and-by he wriggled away from him and crept up to mamma, who was sitting before the dressing-table, brushing her hair, as bright as baby’s own.

“Mamma,” he whispered, very softly, “I isn’t a Demo-crack now, but I don’t want papa to see me chain my mind.”

Kenneth’s mind was destined to give him more trouble that very day, for, with all his sweetness, he was very persistent.

That afternoon he was in the library, all alone with mamma. The elder girls were all off, and the twins were out with Eliza, and papa was making his daily rounds among his patients, so Kenneth and mamma had the blazing wood fire—for the early autumn days were chilly—and the sunny library all to themselves.

Mamma was sewing on some dainty white material, and Kenneth was amusing himself in his usual quiet fashion. There was a lower shelf, close to the floor, where the children’s books were kept, and there stood a long line of attractive, red-bound Rollo books, fourteen of them. These always had a special fascination for Kenneth. He would pull them all out, and build houses with them, or turn over the leaves, looking at pictures, talking busily to himself all the time.

At last he tired of them, and ran away to something else.

“Put up the Rollo books, darling,” said mamma.

“’Es, I put zem up,” said Kenneth, but he kept on pursuing some belated flies.

“See, mamma!” he cried, “I dust pote ’em, so, and zey all fall down.”

“Poor flies,” said mamma, pitifully. “Don’t kill them. That is not kind.”

“All right, I won’t,” Kenneth answered. Presently mamma, attracted by the stillness, turned around. Kenneth was still standing by the window, with his little forefinger pointed at a poor, weak fly.

“F’y, f’y,” he said, half-aloud, “does you want to do to heaven? Do zere, zen!” and down came his plump finger, crushing the fly.

“Kenneth,” said mamma, to draw off his attention, “come now and pick up the books you had.”

Kenneth, for a wonder, looked very unwilling. Sending flies to heaven was much more interesting. However, he got up slowly, and went across the room, looking at mamma from under his long lashes.

“Pick them all up, baby,” said mamma, cheerily, “and then come and sit in mamma’s lap and watch for papa. It’s almost time for him to come.”

Kenneth stood by the scattered pile of books. Somehow he felt very unwilling to put them back in their places.

“Come, little son, pick them up,” repeated mamma. To her intense surprise, Kenneth suddenly whipped his hands behind his back.

“Tennet won’t!” he announced, standing as straight on his two fat legs as a little drummajor. If one of the pet doves had flown in her face, mamma could scarcely have been more surprised. She had never before had to tell Kenneth twice to do anything.

For a moment she scarcely knew what to do.

“See if you can’t get all the books in order, Kenneth, before papa comes,” she said, after a moment, as if she had not heard.

“Tennet won’t!” in tones more decided, as he gained courage.

“Then,” said mamma, slowly, “Kenneth must go in the corner for five minutes.”

Kenneth, looking very serious, but quite determined, immediately took up his station in the corner formed by the tall old clock and a book-case, while mamma waited while the moments ticked off. An unending time it seemed to the naughty baby, who stood gravely watching his mother, as if he were not at all concerned.

Then mamma said,—

“Will Kenneth pick up the books now?”

“Tennet won’t.”

This time there was a gleam of mischief that at once resolved mamma to sterner measures.

“Very well, then I must spat baby’s hands hard,” and she took up one of the soft bits of velvet that served Kenneth for hands, and bestowed a decided spat upon it. Kenneth winked and swallowed. He put his reddened fingers behind his back, and promptly offered the other hand, which mamma spatted also.

Straightway he went through the same performance, producing hand number one. It was difficult to keep from laughing, for the baby was so sober and so determined. He never moved his eyes from mamma’s face.

Fully half a dozen times, mamma slapped the hands of her rebellious little man. Then, suddenly remembering baby’s speech in the nursery, she said,—

“Now, Kenneth, mamma is going into the hall for a few minutes, and there will be nobody to see you change your mind, so you can pick up the books, and—”

“Tennet won’t!” came with such determined emphasis that mamma almost jumped.

“Then, when I come back,” mamma went on, looking very grave, “I will bring a little switch with me, and whip my baby’s hands hard. Kenneth must not say ‘won’t’ to mamma.”

Kenneth’s eyes looked very serious indeed, as his mother left the room. Such a long, long time she was gone!

Kenneth looked at the books, and then at his red fingers. Papa might come and find him in the corner. He began to want to go and put the books back now, but somehow his legs would not carry him there. Then mamma appeared, and, oh, dreadful! she had a little lilac switch, that to baby’s frightened eyes looked like a club. Very slowly she came towards her little son, looking, oh, so sad! and suddenly Kenneth’s stubbornness melted away.

“Tennet will! Tennet will!” he cried, and flew past mamma, and with breathless haste scrambled up the red-bound Rollo books, stowing them in their places with much eagerness, if not very carefully.

Mamma sat awaiting him with open arms, and as Kenneth nestled up to her shoulder, he put his arms around her neck and whispered,—

“Please don’t tell papa zat I had to chain my mind aden.”