YOU may think that Lilia's “mortification” was quite an excitement in this enterprising young household; yet I assure you that never twenty-four hours passed but a ridiculous adventure of some kind overtook the girls. The daily bulletin which they carried over to Mrs. Carter at the Winter Farm kept the worthy inmates in constant wonderment as to what would happen next. Sometimes there was a regular programme for the next day, prepared the night before, but oftener, things happened of themselves, and when they do that, you know, pleasure seems a deal more satisfying and delightful, because it is unexpected. Uncle Harry was in great demand, and very often made one of the gay party of young folks off for a frolic. They defied King Winter openly, and went on all sorts of excursions, even on a bona-fide picnic, notwithstanding the two feet of snow on the ground. The way of it was this: On Friday, the boys—Hugh Pennell, Bell's cousin, Jack Brayton, and the young schoolmaster—turned the great bare hall in the top of the old Winship family house into a woodland bower.
By the way, I have not told you much about Geoffrey Strong yet, because the girls of the story have had everything their own way, but Geoffrey Strong was well worth knowing. He was only eighteen years old, but had finished his sophomore year at Bowdoin College, and was teaching the district school that he might partly earn the money necessary to take him through the remainder of the course. He was as sturdy and strong as his name, or as one of the stout pine-trees of his native State, as gentle and chivalrous as a boy knight of the olden time; as true and manly a lad, and withal as good and earnest a teacher, notwithstanding his youth, as any little country urchin could wish. Mr. Win-ship was his guardian, and thus he had become quite one of the Winship family.
The boys were making the picnic grounds when I interrupted my story with this long parenthesis. They took a large pair of old drop curtains used at some time or other in church tableaux, and made a dark green carpet by stretching them across the floor smoothly and tacking them down; they wreathed the pillars and trimmed the doors and windows with evergreens, and then planted young spruce and cedar and hemlock trees in the corners or scattered them about the room firmly rooted in painted nail-kegs.
“It looks rather jolly, boys, doesn't it?” cried Jack, rubbing his cold fingers, “but I'm afraid we've gone as far as we can; we can't make birds and flowers and brooks!”
“What's the special difficulty?” asked Geoffrey. “We'll borrow Grandmother Winship's two cages of canaries and Mrs. Adams' two; then we'll bring over Mrs. Carter's pet parrot, and altogether we'll be musical enough, considering the fact that the thermometer is below zero.”
This suggestion of Geoff's they accordingly adopted, and their mimic forest became tuneful.
The next stroke of genius came from Hugh Pennell. He found bunches of white and yellow everlastings at home with which he mixed some cleverly constructed bright tissue-paper flowers, of mysterious botanical structure. He planted these in pots, and tied them to shrubs, and behold, their forest bloomed!
“But we have finished now, boys,” said Hugh, dejectedly, as he put his last bed of whiteweed and buttercups under a shady tree. (They were made of paper, and were growing artistically in a moss-covered chopping-tray.) “We can't get up a brook, and a brook is a handy thing at a picnic, too. Good for the small children to fall into, good for drinking, good for dish-washing, good for its cool and musical tinkle.”
“I have an idea,” suggested Jack, who was mounted on a step-ladder busily engaged in tying a stuffed owl and a blue jay to a tree-top. “I have an idea. We can fill the ice-water tank, put it on a shelf, let the water run into a tub, then station a boy in the corner to keep filling the tank from the tub. There's your stagnant pool and your running streamlet. There's your drinking-water, your dish-washer, your musical tinkle, and possibly your small child's watery grave. What could be more romantic?”
“Out with him!” shouted Geoff. “He ought to be drowned for proposing such an apology for a brook.”
“I fail to see the point,” said Jack; “the sound would be sylvan and suggestive, and I've no doubt the girls would be charmed.”
“We'll brook no further argument on the subject,” retorted Hugh; “the afternoon is running away with us. We might bring up the bath-tub, or the watering-trough, sink it in an evergreen bank and surround it with house plants, but I don't think it would satisfy us exactly. I'll tell you, let us give up the brook and build a sort of what-do-you-call'em for a retreat, in one corner.” After some explanations from Hugh about his plan, the boys finally succeeded in manufacturing something romantic and ingenious. Two blooming oleanders in boxes were brought from Uncle Harry's parlor, there was a hemlock tree with a rustic seat under it, there was an evergreen arch above, there was a little rockery built with a dozen stones from the old wall behind the barn, and there were Miss Jane Sawyer's potted scarlet geraniums set in among them, all surmounted by two banging baskets and a bird-cage. With nothing save an airtight stove to warm it into life (the ugliness of the stove quite hidden by screens of green boughs), the cold, bare hall was magically changed into a green forest, vocal with singing birds and radiant with blooming flowers.
The boys swung their hats in irrepressible glee.
“Won't this be a surprise to the people, though! Won't they think of the desert blooming as the rose!” cried Hugh.
“I fancy it won't astonish Uncle Harry and Grandmother much,” answered Jack, dryly, “inasmuch as we've nearly borrowed them out of house and home during the operation. Old Mrs. Winship said when I took her hammer, hatchet, chopping-tray, house plants, and screw-driver, that perhaps she had better go over to Mrs. Carter's and board. The girls will be fairly stunned, though. Just imagine Bell's eyes! I told them we'd see to sweeping and heating the hall, but they don't expect any decorations. Well, I'm off. Lock the door, Geoff, and guard it like a dragon; we meet at eleven to-morrow morning, do we? Be on hand, sharp, and let us all go in and view the scene together. I wouldn't for worlds miss hearing and seeing the girls.”
Jack and Hugh started for home, and Geoff went downstairs to run a gauntlet of questioning from Jo Fenton, who was present in Grandmother Winship's kitchen on one of the borrowing tours of the day, and extremely anxious to find out why so much mysterious hammering was going on.
While these preparations were in progress, the six juvenile housekeepers were undergoing abject suffering in their cookery for the picnic. It had been a day of disasters from beginning to end—the first really mournful one in their experience.
It commenced bright and early, too; in fact, was all ready for them before they awoke in the morning, and the coal fire began it, for it went out in the night. Everybody knows what it is to build a fire in a large coal stove; it was Jo's turn as stoker and tirewoman, and I regret to say that this circumstance made her a little cross, in fact, audibly so.
After much searching for kindling-wood, however, much chattering of teeth, for the thermometer was below zero, much vicious banging of stove doors, and clattering of hods and shovels, that trouble was overcome. But, dear me! it was only the first drop of a pouring rain of accidents, and at last the girls accepted it as a fatal shower which must fall before the weather would clear, and thus resigned themselves to the inevitable.
The breakfast was as bad as a breakfast knew how to be. The girls were all cooks to-day in the exciting preparation for the picnic, for they wanted to take especially tempting dainties in order that they might astonish more experienced providers. Patty scorched the milk toast; Edith, that most precise and careful of all little women under the sun, broke a platter and burned her fingers; Lilia browned a delicious omelet, and waved the spider triumphantly in the air, astonished at her own success, when, alas, the smooth little circlet slipped illnaturedly into the coal hod. Lilia stood still in horror and dismay, while Bell fished it hastily out, looking very crumpled, sooty, shrunken, and generally penitent, if an omelet can assume that expression. She slapped it on the table severely, and said, with a little choke and tear in her voice:
“The last of the eggs went into that omelet, and it is going to he rinsed, and fried over, and eaten. There isn't another thing in the house for breakfast. There is no bread; Alice put cream-of-tartar into the buckwheats, instead of saleratus, and measured it with a tablespoon besides; Miss Miranda's cat upset the milk can; the potatoes are frozen; and I am ashamed to borrow anything more of Grandmother.”
“Never,” cried Alice, with much determination. “Sooner eat omelet and coal hod, too! Never mind the breakfast! there are always apples. What shall we take to the picnic? We can suggest luncheon at high noon, and no one will suspect we haven't breakfasted.”
“Let's make mince pies,” cried Jo, animatedly, from her seat on the wood-box.
“Goose,” answered Bell, with a sarcastic smile. “There's plenty of time to make mince-meat, of course!”
“At any rate, we must have jelly-cake,” said Lilia, with decision, while dishing up the injured omelet for the second time. “We had better carry the delicacies, for Mrs. Pennell and the boys will be sure to bring bread and meat and common things.”
“Oh, tarts, tarts!” exclaimed Edith, in an ecstacy of reminiscence. “I haven't had tarts for a perfect age! Do you think we could manage them?”
“They must be easy enough,” answered Patty, with calm authority. “Cut a hole out of the middle of each round thing, then till it up with jelly and bake it; that's simple.”
“Glad you think so,” responded Edith, with an air of deep melancholy and cynicism, as she prepared to wash the cooking dishes and found an empty dish-water pot. “I should think the jelly would grow hard and crusty before the tarts baked, but I suppose it's all right. Everything we touch to-day is sure to fail.”
“Oh, how much better if you said, 'I'll try, I'll try, I'll try,'” sang Bell, in a spasm of gayety.
“Oh, how much sadder you will feel when you've tried, by and by,” retorted Edith. “Is there anything difficult about pastry, I wonder? Look in the cookbook. Does it have to be soaked over night like ham, or hung for two weeks like game, or put away in a stone jar like fruit-cake, or 'braised' or 'trussed' or 'larded' or anything?”
“No,” said Patty, looking up from the 'Bride's Manual,' “but it has to be pounded on a marble slab with a glass rolling-pin.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Bell, “Tarts are nothing but pie-crust. This village is situated in the very middle of what is called the New England Pie Belt, and the glass rolling-pin and the marble slab have never been seen by the oldest or youngest inhabitant. I know that bride. When she makes pastry you can see her diamond engagement ring flash as she dips her turquoise scoop into her ruby flour-barrel. Look up soft gingerbread, Patty.”
“Four cups best New Orleans molasses—”
“The molasses is out,” said Jo; “find jelly-cake.”
“Jelly all gone,” said Bell; “where, I can't think, for there were seventeen tumblers.”
“The boys are awfully fond of it with bread,” said Alice, reminiscently. “How about doughnuts?”
“All right,” Bell answered, “of course you'll go to the store for more eggs and a pail of lard. We're out of molasses, eggs, lard, ginger, jelly, patience, and luck.”
Over an hour was spent in futile excursions through the cookery books, vain rummagings of the pantry and larder, frequent trips to the country store, and nothing was a triumphant success. Things that should have been thin were fat and puffy; those that should have risen high and light as air were flat and soggy; pots, pans, bowls, were heaped on one another in the sink until at one o'clock Alice Forsaith went to bed with a headache, leaving the kitchen in a state of general confusion and uproar. I cannot bear to tell you all the sorry incidents of that dreadful day, but Bell had shared in the blunders with the rest. She had gone to the store-room for citron, and had stumbled on a jar of frozen “something” very like mince-meat. This, indeed, was a precious discovery! She flew back to the kitchen, crying:
“Hurrah! We'll have the pies after all, girls! Mother has left a pot of mince-meat in the pantry. It's frozen, but it will be all right. You trust to me. I've made pies before, and these shall not be a failure.”
The spider was heated, and enough meat for three pies put in to thaw. It thawed, naturally, the fire being extremely hot, and it presently became very thin and curious in its appearance.
“It looks like thick soup with pieces of chopped apple in it,” said Lilia to Bell, who was patting down a very tough, substantial bottom crust on a pie plate.
“We-l-l, it does!” owned the head cook, frankly; “but I suppose it will boil down or thicken up in baking. I don't like to taste it, somehow.”
“Very natural,” said Lilia, dryly. “It doesn't look 'tasty;' and, to tell the truth, it does not look at all as I've been brought up to imagine mince-meat ought to look.”
“I can't be responsible for your 'bringing up,' Lill. Please pour it in, and I'll hold the plate.”
The mixture trickled in; Bell put a very lumpy, spotted covering of dough over it, slashed a bold original design in the middle for a ventilator, and deposited the first pie in the oven with a sigh of relief.
Just at this happy moment, Betty Bean, Mrs. Winship's maid-of-all-work, walked in with a can of kerosene.
“Don't you think that's funny looking mince-meat, Betty?” asked Patty, pointing to the frying-pan.
Betty the wise looked at it one moment, and then said, with youthful certainty and disdain: “'Tain't no more mince-meat than a cat's foot.”
This was decisive, and the utterance fell like a thunder-bolt upon the kitchen-maids.
“Gracious,” cried Bell, dropping her good English and her rolling-pin at the same time. “What do you mean? It looked exactly like it before it melted. What is it, then?”
“Suet,” answered cruel Betty Bean. “Your ma chopped it and done it up in molasses for her suet plum puddins this winter. It's thick when it's cold; and when it was froze, maybe it did look like pie-meat with a good deal of apple in it; but it ain't no such thing.”
This was too much. If I am to relate truly the adventures of this half-dozen suffering little maidens, I must tell you that Bell entirely lost her sunny temper for a moment; caught up the unoffending spider filled with molasses and floating bits of suet; carried it steadily and swiftly to the back-door, hurled it into a snow-bank; slammed the door, and sat down on a flour-firkin, burying her face in the very dingy roller-towel. The girls stopped laughing.
“Never mind, Bluebell,” cooed Patty, sympathetically, smoothing her hostess's curly hair with a very doughnutty hand, and trying to wipe her flushed cheeks with an apron redolent of hot fat. “You can use the rest of the pie-crust for tarts, and my doughnuts are swelling up be-yoo-ti-ful-ly!”
Bell withdrew the towel from her merry, tearful eyes, and said with savage emphasis:
“If any of you dare tell this at the picnic to-morrow, or let Uncle Harry or the boys know about it, I'll—I don't know what I'll do,” finished she, weakly.
“That's a fearful threat,” laughed Jo,—“'The King of France and fifty thousand men plucked forth their swords! and put them up again.'”
And so this cloud passed over, and another and yet another with comforting gleams of sunshine between, till at length it was seven o'clock in the evening before the dishes were washed and the kitchen tidied; then six as tired young housewives stretched themselves before the parlor fire as a bright blaze often shines upon. Bell, pale and pretty, was curled upon the sofa, with her eyes closed. The other girls were lounging in different attitudes of dejection, all with from one to three burned fingers enveloped in cloths. The results of the day's labor were painfully meager,—a colander full of doughnuts, some currant buns, molasses ginger-bread, and a loaf of tolerably light fruit cake. Out in the kitchen closet lay a melancholy pile of failure,—Alice's pop-overs, which had refused to pop; Patty's tarts, rocky and tough; and a bride's cake that would have made any newly married couple feel as if they were at the funeral of their own stomachs. The girls had flown too high in their journey through the cook book. Bell and Jo could really make plain things very nicely, and were considered remarkable caterers by their admiring family of school-mates; but the dainties they had attempted were entirely beyond their powers; hence the pile of wasted goodies in the closet.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Lilia. “Nobody has spoken a word for an age, and I don't wonder, if everybody is as tired as I. Shall we ever be rested enough to go to-morrow?”
“I was thinking,” said Edith, dreamily, “that we have only seven more days to stay. If they were all to be as horrible as this, I shouldn't care very much; but we have had such fun, I dread to break up housekeeping. The chief trouble with to-day was that we did no planning yesterday. We never looked into the store-room nor bought anything in advance nor settled what we should cook.”
“Well,” said Bell, waking up a little, “we will crowd everything possible into the last week and make it a real carnival time. To-morrow is Saturday and the picnic; on Monday or Tuesday we'll have some sort of a 'pow-wow,' as Uncle Harry says, for the boys, in return for their invitation, and then we'll think of something perfectly grand and stupendous for Friday, our last day of fun. It will take from that until Monday to get the house into something like order for my mother's return. (This with a remorseful recollection of the terrible back bed-room, where everything imaginable had been 'dumped' for a week past.)
“I haven't finished trimming our shade hats,” called Alice, faintly, from the distance. “I will do it in the morning while you are packing the luncheon. Whatever we do let us unpack our baskets privately and try to mix in our food with Mrs. Carter's or Mrs. Winship's, so that nobody will know which is which.”
The girls had tried to devise something jaunty, picturesque, and summery for a picnic costume; but the weather being too cold for a change of dress, they had only bought broad straw hats at the country store,—hats that farmers wore in haying time, with high crowns and wide brims. They had turned up one side of them coquettishly, and adorned it with funny silhouettes made of black paper, descriptive of their various adventures. Lilia's, for instance, had a huge ink bottle and sponge; Bell's a mammoth pie and frying-pan. Around the crowns they had tied colored scarfs of ribbon or gauze, interwoven with bunches of dried grasses, oats, and everlastings.
Half-past eight found them all sleep-in as soundly as dormice; and the next morning with the recuperative power that youth brings, they awoke entirely refreshed and ready for the fray.
The picnic was a glorious success. It was a clear, bright day, and not very cold; so that with a good fire they were able to have a couple of windows open, and to feel more as if they were out in the fresh air. The surprise and delight of the girls knew no bounds when they were ushered into their novel picnic ground, and even the older people avowed that they had never seen such a miracle of ingenuity. The scene was as pretty a one as can be imagined, though the young people little knew how lovely a picture they helped to make in the midst of their pastoral surroundings. Six charming faces they were, happy with girlish joy, sweet and bright from loving hearts, and pure, innocent, earnest living. Bell was radiant, issuing orders for the spread of the feast, flying here and there, laughing over a stuffed snake under a bush (Geoff's device), and talking merry nonsense with Hugh, her arch eyes shining with mischief under her great straw hat.
Marcus Aurelius, the parrot, talked, and the canaries sang as if this were the last opportunity any of them ever expected to have; while the embroidered butterflies and stuffed birds fluttered and swayed and danced on the quivering tree-twigs beneath them almost as if they were alive.
The table-cloth was spread on the floor, in real picnic fashion, for the boys would allow neither tables nor chairs, and the lunch was simply delectable. Mrs. Win-ship, Mrs. Brayton, and Mrs. Pennell, with affectionate forethought, had brought everything that schoolgirls and boys particularly affect—jelly-cake, tarts, and hosts of other goodies. How the girls remembered their closetful of “attempts” at home; how they roguishly exchanged glances, yet never disclosed their failures; how they discoursed learnedly on baking-powder versus saleratus, raw potato versus boiled potato yeast; and with what dignity and assurance they discussed questions of household economy, and interlarded their conversation with quotations from the “Young Housekeeper's Friend,” and the “Bride's Manual.”
In the afternoon they played all sorts of games,—some quiet, more not at all so,—until at five o'clock, nearly dark in these short days, they left their make-believe forest and trudged home through the snow, baskets under their arms, declaring it a mistaken idea that picnics should be confined to summer.
“What a gl-orious time we've had!” exclaimed Jo, as they busied themselves about the home dining-room. “Yesterday seems like a horrible nightmare, or, at least, it would if it hadn't happened in the daytime, and if we hadn't the pantry to remind us of the truth. The things we carried were not so v-e-r-y bad, after all! I was really proud of the buns, and Patty's doughnuts were as 'swelled up' as Mrs. Drayton's.”
“And a great deal yellower and spotted-er,” quoth Edith, in a sly aside.
“Well,” admitted Patty, ruefully, “there certainly was quite enough saleratus in them; but I think it very unbecoming in the maker of the bride's-cake to say anything about other people's mistakes! Bride's cake, indeed!” she finished with a scornful smile.
“True!” said Edith, much crushed by this heartless allusion to what had been the most thorough and expensive failure of the day; “I can't deny it. Proceed with your sarcasm.”
“This house 'looks as if it was going to ride out'! as Miss Miranda says,” exclaimed Alice. “Do let us try to straighten it before Sunday! The closets are all in snarls, the kitchen's in a mess, and the less said about the back bedroom the better.”
Accordingly, inspired by Alice's enthusiasm, they began to work and to improve the hours like a whole hiveful of busy bees. They put on big aprons and washed pans and pots that had been evaded for two days, made fish-balls for breakfast, dusted, scrubbed, washed, mended, darned, and otherwise reduced the house to that especial and delicious kind of order which is likened unto apple-pie. And thus one week of the joys and trials of this merry half-a-dozen housekeepers was over and gone.
MONDAY morning broke. Such a cold, dismal, drizzly morning! The wind whistled and blew about the cottage, until Lilia suggested tying the clothes-line round the chimneys and fastening it to the strong pine-trees in front, for greater safety. It snowed at six o'clock, it hailed at seven, rained at eight, stopped at nine, and presently began to go through the same varied programme. After breakfast, Bell went to the window and stood dreamily flattening her nose against the pane, while the others busied themselves about their several tasks.
“Well, girls,” said she at length, “we've had four different kinds of weather this morning, so it may clear off after all, though I confess it doesn't look like it. It's too stormy to go anywhere, or for anybody to come to us, so we shall have to try violently in every possible way to amuse ourselves. I must run over to Miss Miranda's for the milk before it rains harder. Perhaps I shall stumble into some excitement on the way; who knows!”
So saying, she ran out, and in a few minutes appeared in the yard wrapped in a bright red water-proof, the hood pulled over her head, and framing her roguish, rosy face. In ten minutes she returned breathless from a race across the garden, and a vain attempt to keep her umbrella right side out. She entered the room in her usual breezy way, leaving the doors all open, and sank into a chair, with an expression of mysterious mirth in her eyes.
“Guess what's happened!” she asked, with sparkling eyes. “I have the most enormous, improbable, unguessable surprise for you; you never will think, and anyway I can't wait to tell, so here it is: We are all invited to tea this afternoon with Miss Miranda and Miss Jane! Isn't that 'ridikilis'?”
“Do tell, Isabel,” squeaked Jo, with a comically irreverent imitation of Miss Sawyer, “air you a-going to accept?”
“Oh, yes, Bell, we'd better go,” said Edith Lambert. “I should like to see the inside of that old house. I dare say we shall enjoy it, and it saves cooking.”
“We are remarkably favored,” laughed Bell. “I don't believe that anybody has been invited there since the Sewing Circle met with them three years ago. They live such a quiet, strange, lonely life! Their mother and father died when they were very young, more than thirty years ago. They were quite rich for the times, and left their daughters this big house all furnished and quantities of lovely old-fashioned dishes and pictures. All the rooms are locked, but I'll try and melt Miss Miranda's heart, and get her to show us some of her relics. Scarcely anything has been changed in all these years, except that they have bought a cooking-stove. Miss Jane hates new-fangled things, and is really ashamed of the stove, I think; as to having a sewing-machine, or an egg-beater, or a carpet-sweeper,—why, she would as soon think of changing the fashion of her bonnet! I believe there isn't such a curious house, nor another pair of such dried-up, half-nice, half-disagreeable people in the country. There's Emma Jane with the butter! I'll meet her at the back door, get her to peel some potatoes and apples, make her sew a white ruffle in her neck, and make some original remark.”
Bell's criticism of the Misses Sawyer and their home was quite just. The old brick house stood in a garden which, in the spring-time, was filled with odorous lilacs, blossoming apple-trees, and long rows of currant and gooseberry bushes. In the summer, too, there were actual groves of asparagus, gaudy sunflowers, bright hollyhocks, gay marigolds, royal flower-de-luce,—all respectable, old-fashioned posies, into whose hearts the humming-birds loved to thrust their dainty beaks and steal their sweetness. Then there were beds paved round with white clam-shells, where were growing trembling little bride's-tears, bachelor's-buttons, larkspur, and china pinks. No modern blossoms would Miss Miranda allow within these sacred ancient places, no begonias, gladioli, and “sech,” with their new-fangled, heathenish, unpronounceable names. The old flowers were good enough for her; and, certainly, they made a blooming spot about the dark house.
Now, indeed, there was neither a leaf nor a bud to be seen; snow-birds perched and twittered on the naked apple-boughs, and rifts of snow lay over the sleeping seed-souls of the hollyhocks and marigolds, keeping them just alive and no more, in a freezing, cold-blooded sort of way common to snow.
But if the garden outside looked like a relic of the olden time, the rooms inside seemed even more so. The “keeping-room” had been refurnished fifteen or twenty years before, but so well had it been kept, that there still hovered about it a painful air of newness. Over the stiff black hair-cloth sofa hung a funeral wreath in a shell frame, surrounded by the Sawyer family photographs—husbands and wives always taken in affectionate attitudes, that their relations might never be misunderstood. In a corner stood the mahogany “what-not” with its bead watch-cases, shells, and glass globes covering worsted-work flowers, together with more family pictures, daguerreotypes in black cases on the top shelf, and a marvelous blue china vase holding peacock feathers. Then there was a gorgeous “drawn in” rug before the fireplace, with impossible purple roses and pink leaves on its surface, and a marble-topped table holding a magnificent lamp with a glass fringe around it, and a large piece of red flannel floating in the kerosene.
All these glories the girls were allowed to view as a great favor granted at Bell's earnest request. They examined the parlor and the curiosities in the diningroom cupboard with awe-struck faces, though their sobriety was almost overcome at the sight of some of the works of art which Miss Miranda held up for their reverential admiration.
Upstairs there were rooms scarcely ever opened. The bedsteads were four-posted, and so high with many feather beds that their sleepy occupants must have ascended a step-ladder to get into them, or climbed up the posts hand over hand and dropped down into the downy depths. The counterpanes and comforters were quilted in wonderful patterns. There was the “wild-goose chase,” the “log cabin,” the “rocky mountain,” the “Irish plaid,” and a “charm quilt,” in twelve hundred pieces, no two of which were alike. The windows in the best chamber had white cotton curtains with elaborate fringes; the looking-glass was long and narrow with a yellow-painted frame, and a picture, in the upper half, of Napoleon crossing the Alps, the Alps in question being very pointed and of a sky-blue color, while Napoleon, in full-dress uniform, with never an outrider nor a guide, was galloping up and over the dizzy peaks on a skittish-looking pony.
These things nearly upset Jo's gravity, and she quite lost Miss Sawyer's favor by coughing down an irrepressible giggle when she was shown a painting of Burns and His Mary, done in oil by Miss Hannah, the oldest sister of the family, and long since dead. Miss Sawyer had no doubt that Hannah's genius was of the highest order, although the specimens of her skill handed down would astonish a modern artist. Burns and His Mary were seated on a bank belonging to a landscape certainly not Scottish; His Mary, with a pink tarlatan dress on, tucked to the waist; while a brook was seemingly purling over Burns' coat-tails spread out behind him on the bank. It was this peculiar detail which aroused Jo's mirth, as well it might, so that she could not trust herself to examine with the others Miss Hannah's last and finest effort—“Maidens welcoming General Washington in the streets of Alexandria.” The maidens, thirteen in number, were precisely alike in form and feature, all very smooth as to hair, long as to waist, short as to skirt, pointed as to toe, and carrying bouquets of exactly the same size and structure, tied up with green ribbon.
The tour of inspection finished, the girls sat down to chat over their tatting and crochet work, while the two ladies went out to prepare supper.
“My reputation is gone,” whispered Jo, solemnly. “To think that I should have laughed when I had been behaving so beautifully all the afternoon; but Robbie Burns was the last straw that broke the camel's back of my politeness; I couldn't have helped it if Miss Miranda had eaten me instead of frowning at me.”
“What do you think?” cried Lilia, jumping up impulsively and knocking down her chair in so doing, “I'm going to beard the lion in his den, and see if they won't let me help them get supper. Don't you want to come, Jo?”
The two girls ran across the long, cold hall, opened the kitchen door stealthily, and Jo asked in her sweetest tones, “Can't we set the table or help in any way, Miss Miranda?”
“No, I thank you, Josephine; there is nothing to do, or leastways you wouldn't know where things are, and wouldn't be any good. The Porter girl may come in if she wants to, but two of you would only clutter up the kitchen.”
So Lilia went in meekly, and poor Jo flew back to the parlor, smarting under a bitter sense of disgrace. The sisters fortunately knew nothing of Lilia's aptitude for blunders, else she never would have been suffered to touch their precious household gods. As it was, by dint of extreme care, she managed to get the plum sauce on the table, and to set the chairs around it, without any serious disaster. To be sure, in cutting the dried beef, she notched a memorandum of the pieces shaved on each of her fingers, so that when she finished they were perfect little calendars of suffering; however, this only concerned herself, and she did not murmur, as most of her mistakes implicated other people.
At half-past five they sat down to supper; and such a supper! Miss Miranda was evidently anxious to impress the young people. The best pink “chany” set had been unearthed, and there were besides other old dishes of great magnificence. Quaint British lustre pitchers held the milk and cream, a green dragon plate the cookies, and the “Sheltered Peasant” saucers came in for general admiration.
The china was not more notable than the food. There were light soda biscuits, large in size and thick, and there was cold buttermilk bread; a blue and white bowl held tomato preserves, while a glass one was full of delicious applesauce cooked in maple-syrup; then there was a round, creamy cottage-cheese, white as a snow-ball; a golden, dried-pumpkin pie, baked in a deep yellow plate; the brownest and plummiest and indigestible-est of all plummy cakes, with doughnuts and sugar gingerbread besides. This array of good things being taken in with rapid and rabid glances, the girls exchanged involuntary looks of delight, and even emitted audible signs of happiness. To say that they did justice to the repast would be a feeble expression, for in truth the meals of their own preparation were irregular as to time, indifferent as to quality, and sometimes, when they calculated carelessly and unwisely, even small as to quantity.
After tea was over, each of the girls was required to give, in answer to a string of questions asked, her entire family history; for no tidbit of information concerning other people's affairs was uninteresting to Miss Jane or Miss Miranda. This cross-examination being finished, they rose to go, unable to hear any longer the quiet, proper, suppressed atmosphere that pervaded the house. While they had been admiring the quaint, old-fashioned relics and busy devouring the appetizing New England goodies, they were quite at ease, but an hour or two of conversation had exhausted their adaptability. When they had taken their leave, and the sound of their merry voices and ringing laughter floated in from the country road, Miss Miranda sank into a chair, and waved a fan excitedly to and fro, her mouse-colored complexion quite flushed and pink from the unwonted dissipation.
“Wall, Jane,” said she, “it's over now, and we've done our dooty by Mis' Winship; she's a good neighbor, and I wanted to act right by Isabel when her Ma was away, but of all the crazy, 'stivering' girls I ever see, them do beat all; though they did behave tolerable well this afternoon.”
“They seemed to enjoy their supper,” said Miss Jane; “I never saw girls make a heartier meal.”
“They did for certain,” continued Miranda, “too hearty most. I thought. That light-haired girl with the blue ear-rings left her meat hash, that'll sour before we can warm it over again, and et and et fruit cake till I was afraid she'd have fits at the table. We ought to be very thankful we hevn't any young ones or men-folks to cook for, Jane.”
And with that expression of gratitude on her lips, she lighted a candle, and after locking up the house securely, the two spinsters went to their bedrooms to sleep the sleep of the calm and the virtuous.
Their merry visitors, undisturbed by the pelting rain from above, and the deep “slush” beneath, waded over into their own grounds with many a hearty laugh and jest.
“Oh, how delightful our own sitting-room looks!” exclaimed Patty, as they opened the door and gathered about the cheerful fire on the hearth. And, indeed, it did, after the stiff, prim arrangement of the rooms they had left. The flickering blaze cast soft shadows on the walls, and touched the marbles on the brackets with rosy tints; the canary-birds were fast asleep with their heads hidden under their wings, and the dog and cat were snoozing peacefully together on the hearth-rug. The young people, as well as the room, belonged to another generation than Miss Miranda's and Miss Jane's, a brighter, freer, fresher one, with a wider outlook, and quite different problems and responsibilities.
“We never can be jollier than this!” cried Lilia, in an irrepressible burst of appreciation. “Oh, that it might last forever, and that seminaries for young ladies might be turned into zoological gardens! Then we could keep house here this week, the next week, and eternally, taking tea with Miss Miranda whenever she asked us to come. What a good supper that was, girls! Oh, Bell and Jo, you ought to be overcome with remorse when you think what you might give us to eat, if you were only skillful, energetic, and ingenious!”
“You're the very essence of thanklessness!” answered Bell, in high dudgeon. “It's nothing less than fiery martyrdom to cook for you girls, when you are so ungrateful. Your special seminary will not be so far removed from a zoological garden when you return to it, that is certain!”
“My dear child, I am sorry already for my remark,” said Lilia, in feigned repentance. “It was very thoughtless in me to arouse your anger until after the next meal. Any impertinence of ours is sure to be visited upon us in the form of oatmeal porridge, or salt fish and crackers.”
“Lilia Porter, if you want to be an angel by and by, it would be better to draw your thoughts away from eatables for a time; you talk quite too much about food,” said Edith Lambert, who had a very hearty appetite, but never called attention to it. “When you have done with your nonsense, I have something to propose for our final 'good time.' We have only four days, 'tis true, and 'pity 'tis 'tis true; but we must go away with flying colors, and so astonish the natives with our genius that the village will talk of us for months to come.”
“Si-lence in court!” cried Jo, impressively. “Let me offer you the coal hod for a platform; it won't tip over; go on, you look as dignified as a policeman.”
“Stop your nonsense, Jo. You remember, Bell, the evening when we made a comic pantomime of 'Young Lochinvar,' and acted it before the teachers and seniors?”
“Indeed I do,” laughed Bell, in recollection. “We girls took all the characters. What fun it was!”
“Why can't we do that again, changing and improving it, of course? The boys are so clever and bright about anything of the kind that they would be irresistibly funny. What do you think?”
“I like the idea,” exclaimed Patty Weld. “Uncle Harry's large hall would be just the place for it, and the stage is already there.”
“So it is; how fortunate,” agreed Alice; “we couldn't think of anything that would be greater fun. How shall we cast the characters! You must be the bride, Bell, the 'fair Ellen!' you will do it better than anybody. Jo will make up into the funniest old lady for a mother, and the rest of us can be the bride-maidens. Hugh Pennell will be a glorious Young Lochinvar, if he can be persuaded to run away with Bell—” this with a sly glance at her hostess.
“Yes,” said Edith, “and poor Jack will have to be the 'craven bridegroom,' who loses his bride, and Geoff, the stern parent.”
“Uncle Harry will read the poem for us, I know,” continued Bell; “he does that sort of thing often at the church, and does it beautifully. Phil Howard, Royal Lawrence, and Harry will be bridemen. We'll perform the piece in such a tragic way that each separate hair in the audience will stand erect.”
“But, oh, the labor of it, girls!” sighed Patty—“wooden horses to be made for the elopement scene, Scottish dresses, and all sorts of toggery to be hunted up; can we ever do it in time, with our house-cleaning before us?”
“Nonsense, of course we can,” rejoined Bell, energetically. “We will consult every book on private theatricals, Scottish history, manners, and costumes in this house, and Uncle Harry's, too. Let us get up at five to-morrow morning, have a simple breakfast of—”
“Cornmeal mush or dry bread and milk,” finished Lilia, with grim sarcasm. “If time must be saved, of course, it must come out of the cooking! How are we to do this amount of work on a low diet, I should like to know?”
“How are the cooks to get time for anything outside the kitchen if they humor your unnatural appetites! Out of kindness, we propose to lower you gradually, meal by meal, into the pit of boarding-school fare.”
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' I don't care to be starved beforehand by way of getting used to it,” retorted Lilia, as she lighted the bedroom candles. “Come, dears, do cover the fire; it was sleepy-time an hour ago, and if you want to see something beautiful, look through the piazza window.”
Beneath them lay the steep river bank, smooth with its white, glittering crust, above which a few naked alders pushed their snow-weighted finger-tips; one rugged old pine-tree stood in the garden, grand, dark, and fearless; the quiet part of the river had been turned by King Winter into an icy mirror; but over the dam a hundred yards below, the waters tumbled too furiously to be frozen. The old bridge looked like a silver string tying together the two little villages, and over all was the dazzling winter moonlight.
Six dreamy faces now at the cottage window. Six girlish figures, all drawn closely together, with arms lovingly clasped. The white beauty, and the solemn stillness of the picture hushed them into quietness. One minute passed and then another, while the spell was working, till at length Bell impulsively bent her brown head, and said softly: “If the minister were here he would say, 'Let us pray.' It makes me want to whisper, 'Dear Lord, make us pure and white within, as thy world is without.'”
“Amen,” murmured Edith and Patty, in the same breath.
“Pull down the curtain,” sighed Jo; “it makes me feel wicked!”
“Ah, don't, don't, not quite yet!” pleaded Edith, “it is too heavenly and it can't do us any harm to feel wicked. It reminds me of Tennyson's 'St. Agnes' Eve,' of the white, white picture she looked out upon from her convent window the night she was lifted to the golden doors of heaven—the poem you recited for the medal, Alice,—say a verse of it.” And Alice, half under her breath, repeated the lovely lines:
“As these white robes are soil'd and
dark
To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shines my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am
To that I hope to be!”