“UNTO BABES.”
BY HELEN KENDRICK JOHNSON.
“’ET, ittie oottie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie iter;” which, being interpreted, means, “Yes, little rooster, I’ll get up when it gets a little lighter.”
The same was uttered by a pair of cherry lips, opening below a pair of laughing eyes, which were parted from the cherry lips by a cherry nose. The nose was cherry because it stuck out from the face so round and plump that the sun, which had been around painting cherries just this time of the year, threw a glance at it and said, “There’s another!” and gave it a good strong stroke with his brush. This little accident made the whole face look funny; for, like most people who do their work in a hurry, the sun had dipped up so much paint, and dashed it at the nose so carelessly, that it had hit ever so many other places—a spot on the chin, a daub on the cheeks, and a streak on the forehead.
Now there is some excuse for the sun; for while everybody knows that boys never will stand still long enough to have their faces properly attended to, everybody, little and big, and not only that, but every tree and flower and blade of grass, keeps dancing and whirling about, while the sun is trying to fix it.
The result is just what you would expect—apples with one red cheek and one white one, blackberries with three colors on the same stem, so that the boys can always quote the old riddle, “blackberries are red when they’re green,” and cherries that make half your pail-full, “not fit to eat,” according to your mother, and speckled little fellows, just like this one.
On this particular morning there was great excitement in the towzley head that popped up to make the lucid remark above quoted. His big sister did not dream that little Wide Awake took it all literally when she said, “Don’t get up the first time the rooster crows.”
She forgot that childhood’s sweetest trait is trust, and she was startled to remember it when she heard the precious little fellow’s sweet voice twitter out in the faint dawn:
“Et, ittie ootie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie iter.”
Long before the sun had fairly got his paints mixed for another dash at the fruit and the children, Strut crowed again.
Was Wide Awake asleep? Asleep, indeed! Up went the head again, and this time two flying heels followed, and the bright voice sang again:
“’E ootie c’ows, an’ a’aw ’e do’s.”
He meant to say:
“The rooster crows, and away he goes,” meaning his little self.
“Little brother, it isn’t time to get up for an hour. Hop into bed again,” called out Sister Laura.
“’Ou ed e ’econ’ tine,” said a sorrowful, drooping little voice.
“Go to sleep—that’s a good boy!” was the answer, and Laura set the copy for him by going off instantly herself.
But Wide Awake had not won his name without deserving it, and he passed a long and lonesome hour trying to amuse himself with nothing.
Finally, dressing-time came. When he reached the kitchen, all was as busy as a coming picnic could make it. Dinah was flying from cellar to pantry, and from pantry to oven. As soon as he got to the back stairs door-way, Wide Awake spied something wrong high up on Dinah’s back.
“Attieilly on ou olly,” he cried out.
“Keep still, Allie; don’t boffer me screaming,” said Dinah.
“Attieilly on ou olly,” said he, coming close to her, and pointing, and pulling her dress.
“Go ’long, I tell you!” said she. “I’ll tell your sister, and you won’t get no cake.”
Allie reluctantly stepped back a little; but he spoke volumes of anxiety, had any one been looking.
No one was.
“Oh! what’s dat on my neck?” screamed out Dinah, in a minute. “Oh-h-h!”
“Allie tole Dine attieilly on ou olly,” said Allie, as Dinah’s cries brought Laura, who picked off from Dinah’s neck an immense caterpillar, which the patient little fellow had been compelled to watch in its upward journey from the shoulder where he first espied it.
At length the preparations were fairly finished, the horses were at the door, Allie’s eyes were dancing almost out of his head with joy, the refreshments were all packed in, and, almost in the midst of the baskets a stool was set for Allie, and his happy little self deposited upon it. The rest were finally seated, and the picnickers move off for Dudley’s woods.
Everybody talked and laughed together; and Allie sang to himself, with no fear of being heard. Presently he seized an end of his sister’s shawl, and shouted with all his might:
“Doos, Laula, doos!”
“Yes, dear, Laula knows.”
“My doos, Laula! my doos ober dare.”
“Yes, dear, never mind,” was the answer.
“Ve’er min’ doos, Laula?” said the voice, anxiously.
“No, never mind, we’ll see another.”
“Where is the feather on your hat, child?” asked Laura, when they had ridden two miles farther.
“Doos dawn, Laula; ’ou ed no min’ my doos.”
“Dear me! that was what he called his feather,—his goose,” said she. “I might have remembered.”
“Laula, Allie’s feets feel ’et.”
“Wet, child? I guess not,” said Laura, and chatted on.
They were nearing the woods as she spoke, and soon the loaded carriages turned into a wood so uninviting and full of underbrush that you looked again all over the party to see if they appeared crazy from anything but gay spirits.
No, they were sane, no doubt; and there must be an explanation for such a choice. The explanation was, that it was not choice at all, it was circumstance which guided them. Twenty-five years ago that very day, a party of four young married people, with their older children, had come to this wood to pick blackberries, which grew in great abundance upon its borders. It was half a frolic; but still it was no accident that sent them home with forty shining black quarts to enjoy by their firesides. The next year they went again, and the next, and the next; and every year the company grew larger. But, strange to say, as it grew larger the quarts grew smaller, and finally, somehow or other, “the blackberries are not worth picking this year;” or “the blackberries are all dried up this year,” became the continual complaint when the excursionists returned home with emptier and emptier baskets.
But the “Blackberry Party” grew as thick as its namesake fruit had been of old, and now, for twenty-five years, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, grandchildren and neighbors, gathered to the time-honored festival. To be sure, every year more of the elders stayed behind, because they missed one and another who were there “last year,” and life’s merriment was checked for them forever until they should follow.
But new ones had come to take the lead, and the merry scenes went on in the gnarled old forest. It was a strange fact that in all these years the day on which the picnic occurred had never been stormy. A glorious succession of bright days had spanned the quarter of a century, and it was taken as a sign that heaven smiled peculiarly upon the innocent joy which the day was sure to bring.
This was the quarter centennial, and the procession had picked up little Allie, as “big enough to go this year.” And so little Allie was very happy, although, in spite of Sister Laura’s assurance, he did think that his feet were “’et.”
Laura thought so too, in a minute; for she lifted a can that had once held six quarts from the “morning’s milking,” and found “only a stingy little pint or so,” left.
“Allie’s feet us ’et, Laula,” said the voice, which did not dream that it sounded like the silver trumpet of an unheeded angel.
“Fisk an’ Tarlo ginkin auty, Laula,” said Allie once more.
“Carlo naughty! drive him away. But he won’t bite Allie.”
“No, ’e bite auty, ’pring auty.”
“Never mind,—he won’t hurt you. Carlo is a good doggie.”
“Go ’way, there! What are you doing, you scamps! I declare! Frisk and Carlo have been drinking half that spring water!”
“Allie tole Laula.”
But Laula was bemoaning the loss; for the spring was almost a mile away, and this wood was provided with no modern conveniences.
The cask of ice-water was too precious to be used for cooking purposes, and away trudged the youths for another bucket-full.
This weakened the effective force of the dinner getters materially; for, under the pretense of picking the traditional blackberries, nearly all the party, in couples or in groups, had strayed off to parts unseen. The remaining ones were lighting a lively fire, and going through various manœuvres before it, and a certain odor therefrom said plainly, “You don’t often get better coffee than I come from.”
Allie, meantime, was roaming about unnoticed. He gained an immense amount of information in this leisure hour.
Presently Laura called out, “I have got the lemons ready; bring me that box of sugar.”
The box was brought, a ten-pound one, and full to the brim.
“Laula, don’ pu’ dat! Dat au ’alt, Laula!”
“Allie doesn’t like to see his pet sugar thrown away in such a big hole,” said she, gayly, as she emptied the box into the oaken cask. “Run for the ice-water, I hear them coming from all directions.”
Great white lumps of ice, pure cold water,—in they went, and Laura stirred violently with her monstrous ladle.
“Allie shall have the first taste,” said she, “to show him that his dear sugar is not wasted.”
“Allie don’ wan’! Allie know e au ’alt.”
“All spoilt? No, dear, just see how nice it is!”
“Laula pu’ in ’alt,” said he, again. “Laula ta’!”
Laula did “ta’,” then; and she dropped the cup with a scream of horror. For, besides the fact that ten pounds of salt in any combination do not help to make either a refreshing or a thirst-allaying drink, here were five dozen fine lemons, and many quarts of ice-water, a hopeless loss.
“How could that stupid Dinah bring the salt instead of the sugar?” she muttered, as soon as vexation would allow her to speak at all.
One by one the party dropped in, and the first cry was for lemonade, “Laura’s famous manufacture.” More famous than it ever had been it became immediately, and, amid the general din of exclamations no one heard Allie say:
“Allie knew. Allie tole Laula ’bout ’alt!”
Then was felt, with greater cruelty, the absence of milk for the fragrant coffee; and the delicious cake, and sandwiches, and ham, and turkey, and tarts, and pastry, were but half enjoyed.
It was with a heavy heart that poor Laura packed up the dishes, and laid away more untouched food, than usual.
A row of lemon and berry pies had been set upon one of the benches; and somebody, to keep the insects out, had thrown a table-cloth upon them. Along came two lovers, whose visions were only fairy-like, and who were in that state of mind when it made no difference where they rested or went, so that they rested or went together. With their eyes entirely occupied in gazing at one another, they wandered up to the temporary cupboard.
A little voice close by fairly screamed out:
“Don’ ’it on ’e bys! Don’t ’it on ’e bys!”
A vague smile into his earnest face was all the reply he received, and down sat the pair, too full of a fond trust in themselves to remember to doubt anything created.
“Oh! oh! oh! oh!” resounded all about them, and an instant later their own “oh” mingled in the chorus, as the groan of broken crockery rose on the air, and table-cloth and drapery were pronounced a ruin.
“’Ou ’at wite on ’e bys,” said a voice which was not needed to confirm the fact.
At length the light of the twenty-fifth glorious day began to steal in long darting lines among the foliage that had been a shelter from its rays all day. As the company assembled, it was found to have been an unusually bad year for blackberries, though why it should have been the most imaginative did not venture to suggest.
As they started homeward Laura said:
“Now sit right still, Allie, for fear you should fall out, for we shall go very fast indeed.”
There was little need for the warning, as Allie was well wedged down in front, and well wrapped up in an extra shawl of Laura’s, because she forgot to bring his little overcoat.
But by-and-by the whip worked quietly out of its broken holder, and no eyes but the two bright, observant eyes in the littlest head saw that in a minute it must fall.
The little fellow tried to dart forward, but the great shawl held him too securely.
“Sit still, Allie,” said Laura.
Poor Allie seemed to think he might as well, too. His warnings had saved nothing, yet; but still from his huge roll of woolen he said:
“’E ’ip dop, Laula.”
Presently the horses lagged a little, and the driver, leaning forward for his whip, discovered its loss.
The long procession halted, wondering what had happened to the first carriage. The whip was found, “’way back,” and, as two carriages had passed over it, it was a handsome whip no more.
“What a shame!” said the driver, as he tried to crack the broken lash.
“Allie tole ’ou. Allie’s patint am keen wown ou’!” fell from the cherry lips.
Now came home and bed for the little child who had begun to be joyous in anticipation at four o’clock in the morning. No wonder that in such a long series of discouragements his “patience was clear wore out.”
His sleep that night was broken by a kind of baby-boy, Cassandra-like murmur, which would have touched to its depths the heart of any tender soul that heard it.
“Laula,” it said, plaintively, “Allie tole ’ou!”
But Laula was fast asleep.
A PRIZE FOR A SQUIRREL.
