The Collected Works of Susan Coolidge: 7 Novels, 35+ Short Stories, Essays & Poems (Illustrated). Susan CoolidgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
snickered at this, but sedate Clover hushed him.
“You mustn’t,” she said, “it’s about the Bible, you know. Now, John, it’s your turn.”
But Johnnie would persist in holding her hands over her mouth, while her fat little shoulders shook with laughter. At last, with a great effort, she pulled her face straight, and speaking as fast as she possibly could, repeated, in a sort of burst:
“Balaam’s donkey saw the Angel,
And stopped short in fear.
Balaam didn’t see the Angel,
Which is very queer.”
After which she took refuge behind her fingers, while Elsie went on –
“Elijah by the creek,
He by ravens fed,
Took from their horny beak
Pieces of meat and bread.”
“Come, Johnnie,” said Katy; but the incorrigible Johnnie was shaking again, and all they could make out was –
“The bears came down, and ate – and ate.”
These “Verses” were a part of a grand project on which Clover and Elsie had been busy for more than a year. It was a sort of rearrangement of Scripture for infant minds; and when it was finished they meant to have it published, bound in red, with daguerreotypes of the two authoresses on the cover. “The Youth’s Poetical Bible” was to be the name of it. Papa, much tickled with the scraps which he overheard, proposed, instead, “The Trundle-Bed Book,” as having been composed principally in that spot; but Elsie and Clover were highly indignant, and would not listen to the idea for a moment.
After the “Scripture Verses,” came Dorry’s turn. He had been allowed to choose for himself, which was unlucky, as his taste was peculiar, not to say gloomy. On this occasion he had selected that cheerful hymn which begins –
“Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound.”
And he now began to recite it in a lugubrious voice and with great emphasis, smacking his lips, as it were, over such lines as –
“Princess, this clay shall be your bed, In spite of all your towers.”
The older children listened with a sort of fascinated horror, rather enjoying the cold chills which ran down their backs, and huddling close together, as Dorry’s hollow tones echoed from the dark corners of the loft. It was too much for Philly, however. At the close of the piece he was found to be in tears.
“I don’t want to st-a-a-y up here and be groaned at,” he sobbed.
“There, you bad boy!” cried Katy, all the more angry because she was conscious of having enjoyed it herself, “that’s what you do with your horrid hymns, frightening us to death and making Phil cry!” And she gave Dorry a little shake. He began to whimper, and as Phil was still sobbing, and Johnnie had begun to sob too, out of sympathy with the others, the Feet in the Loft seemed likely to come to a sad end.
“I’m going to tell Aunt Izzie that I don’t like you,” declared Dorry, putting one leg through the opening in the floor.
“No, you aren’t,” said Katy, seizing him, “you are going to stay, because now we are going to have the Feast! Do stop, Phil; and Johnnie, don’t be a goose, but come and pass round the cookies.”
The word “Feast” produced a speedy effect on the spirits of the party. Phil cheered at once, and Dorry changed his mind about going. The black bottle was solemnly set in the midst, and the cookies were handed about by Johnnie, who was now all smiles. The cookies had scalloped edges and caraway seeds inside, and were very nice. There were two apiece; and as the last was finished, Katy put her hand in her pocket, and, amid great applause, produced the crowning addition to the repast – seven long brown sticks of cinnamon.
“Isn’t it fun?” she said. “Debby was real good-natured to-day, and let me put my own hand into the box, so I picked out the longest sticks there were. Now, Cecy, as you’re company, you shall have the first drink out of the bottle.”
The “something delicious” proved to be weak vinegar-and-water. It was quite warm, but somehow, drunk up there in the loft, and out of a bottle, it tasted very nice. Besides, they didn’t call it vinegar-and-water – of course not! Each child gave his or her swallow a different name, as if the bottle were like Signor Blitz’s and could pour out a dozen things at once. Clover called her share “Raspberry Shrub,” Dorry christened his “Ginger Pop,” while Cecy, who was romantic, took her three sips under the name “Hydomel,” which she explained was something nice, made, she believed, of beeswax. The last drop gone, and the last bit of cinnamon crunched, the company came to order again, for the purpose of hearing Philly repeat his one piece, –
“Little drops of water,”
which exciting poem he had said every Saturday as far back as they could remember. After that, Katy declared the literary part of the “Feet” over, and they all fell to playing “Stage-coach,” which, in spite of close quarters and an occasional bump from the roof, was such good fun, that a general “Oh dear!” welcomed the ringing of the tea-bell. I suppose cookies and vinegar had taken away their appetites, for none of them were hungry, and Dorry astonished Aunt Izzie very much by eyeing the table in a disgusted way, and saying: “Pshaw! only plum sweetmeats and sponge cake and hot biscuit! I don’t want any supper.”
“What ails the child? he must be sick,” said Dr. Carr; but Katy explained.
“Oh, no, Papa, it isn’t that – only we’ve been having a feast in the loft.”
“Did you have a good time?” asked Papa, while Aunt Izzie gave a dissatisfied groan. And all the children answered at once: “Splendiferous!”
Chapter VI.
Intimate Friends
Aunt Izzie, may I ask Imogen Clark to spend the day here on Saturday?” cried Katy, bursting in one afternoon.
“Who on earth is Imogen Clark? I never heard the name before,” replied her aunt.
“Oh, the loveliest girl! She hasn’t been going to Mrs. Knight’s school but a little while, but we’re the greatest friends. And she’s perfectly beautiful, Aunt Izzie. Her hands are just as white as snow, and no bigger than that. She’s got the littlest waist of any girl in school, and she’s real sweet, and so self-denying and unselfish! I don’t believe she has a bit good times at home, either. Do let me ask her!”
“How do you know she’s so sweet and self-denying if you’ve known her such a short time?” asked Aunt Izzie, in an unpromising tone.
“Oh, she tells me everything! We always walk together at recess now. I know all about her, and she’s just lovely! Her father used to be real rich, but they’re poor now, and Imogen had to have her boots patched twice last winter. I guess she’s the flower of hr family. You can’t think how I love her!” concluded Katy, sentimentally.
“No, I can’t,” said Aunt Izzie. “I never could see into these sudden friendships of yours, Katy, and I’d rather you wouldn’t invite this Imogen, or whatever her name is, till I’ve had a chance to ask somebody about her.”
Katy clasped her hands in despair. “Oh, Aunt Izzie!” she cried, “Imogen knows that I came in to ask you, and she’s standing at the gate at this moment, waiting to hear what you say. Please let me, just this once! I shall be so dreadfully ashamed not to.”
“Well,” said Miss Izzie, moved by the wretchedness of Katy’s face, “if you’ve asked her already it’s no use my saying no, I suppose. But recollect, Katy, this is not to happen again. I can’t have you inviting girls, and then