"ALAN, ON HIS FIERY STEED."
I was tired,—unusually so,—and was glad to get into the chair. It was after school hours, and the clan was in full force. Nora was seated at my easel, humming "A Media Noche," and trying to copy her birthday picture; Betty and Jack were fencing,—at least, Betty was making furious lunges at Jack, which he was mainly occupied in dodging, while every now and then a vehement protest was heard, such as, "Now, Betty, look out! that was my head," or, "That came within an inch of my nose—I do wish you'd be careful!" Kathie and the twins were playing house, holding lively conversations in a high key, while Alan paid them repeated visits, prancing around the room, and to their door, on a broomstick, which was his fiery steed, and to control which required both voice and whip; Nannie was hunting through our pile of violin music for a certain duet to play with Max when he got home; and in the midst of all the noise Phil lay on the sofa, his head nearly level with the seat, and his long legs extended over the arm, reading Virgil aloud.
That's his way of studying,—a most annoying one to a nervous person!—and, as the noise around him increases or decreases, so he raises or lowers his voice. As may be easily understood, there are times when he fairly roars.
The news of the reception had preceded me, and as I came in Phil reared his head in such a comical way to speak to me that Betty instantly declared that he looked like a turtle. "So you're booked for the Blackwood tea-fight," he said. "Well, old man, my sympathy for you is only equalled by my thankfulness that I am not the victim. Take my advice,—I've been there several times, you know, and you haven't,—fortify the inner man before you go. It's a very mild orgy,—a thimbleful of chocolate and one macaroon are all you'll get,—and coming between luncheon and dinner, I'm afraid you'll feel—as I did—as if you'd like to fall on the table and eat up all that's on it." His head fell back, and he resumed his reading, the book resting upright on his chest.
"People are not supposed to gorge themselves at an afternoon reception," remarked Nora, before I could get a word in. "It is—"
"'A feast of reason and a flow of soul,'" finished Nannie, smiling, "though I'm sure dear old Mrs. Blackwood would willingly have given you a pound or two of macaroons and a whole pitcher full of chocolate, had she known you were hungry."
"Oh, I'm not saying a word against her in particular; she's a first-rate old party," commenced Phil, but he was instantly interrupted.
"Phil, you are positively vulgar," cried Nora, in a tone of disgust.
"Don't speak of our dear old friend in that way, Phil; it isn't nice," said Nannie.
"Well, now, here's a queer thing," remarked Phil, in an argumentative tone. "If I'd said Mrs. Blackwood was 'a host in herself,' it would have been considered a delicate compliment; and yet when I call her a 'party,' which certainly means a host, you two jump on me. There's no accounting for the eccentricities of the feminine character." Then, as his head sank back, "I do believe somebody's been pulling the feathers out of this sofa pillow; there can't be two dozen left in it. I suppose Betty's been making an Indian head-dress for herself. Just poke that history under my head, will you, Jack? or I'll certainly get rush of blood to the brain. There, that's better! Why so silent, most noble Felix?" with a sidelong glance at me after settling himself. "Art filled with fears for Thursday's function?"