MRS. CANARY was, literally speaking, behind the times. The weekly edition of that romantic sheet, the Household Times, had just arrived, and the mistress of the house had been unable to resist the temptation to "lose herself" in its crackling folds for a few minutes. It was Sunday morning, and the Sabbath to the Canary family meant the dressing of five children for attendance at a house of worship. There was a strong odour of soap and sanctity about the little home, but the mother was reading aloud, totally oblivious to the noise and confusion surrounding her:
"Si-lunce reigned in the great hall as the Duke faced his quack-ing vik-tum. The res-o-lute blood of his dough-ty ancest-ers shone in his deep eyes. 'I little expect-ed this of you, Phil-lup,' he said at last. The cring-ing slave fell abjeck-ly at his feet, without a word. The calm un-im-passioned voice per-ceeded. 'Fate has played you a sorry trick,' it said.
"The man gru-vel-ing at his feet made no reply, but the Duke's keen eye caught the gleam of a shining blade. 'Traitor, Mis-cre-ant,' he hissed, 'would you play me false in my own hall?' and he fell upon the fiendish form."
From the Duke's hall to the Canary kitchen was only a step. In the latter place the long-suffering Holly Belle was having a discussion with Fridoline as to the merits of church-going for the rising generation. Fridoline was determined of chin, and fiery of disposition, and at the early age of seven had conceived a violent aversion to the ritual of faith, and the proper observance of the Sabbath. The following patient monologue floated through the half-closed door:
"Oh, yes you will, Fridoline. Every one goes to Sunday School.... Here's the blacking all ready for you.... No, you can't wash first. What's the use of getting clean and then gauming yourself all up agin?... Black the heels of the shoes. Yes, they do show, too.... No, Friddie dear, please don't put on that clean collar until you wash your neck. Let me help you wash.... Well, I won't, if you don't want me to, but you are never pertic'ler about the edges, you know you ain't.... Stop brushing Mike's hair with that blacking brush!... Friddie, I'll tell Ma!... No, your neck ain't clean, an' your ears are a sight. Let me take that rag a minute. No, I won't get your coat collar wet.... Don't work your face that way, Friddie; it can't be as stiff as that.... Well, don't open your mouth, then you won't taste it.... Stop hitting my elbow.... Fridoline Canary!... I hate to tell on you, but if you don't stop I will.... Ma, make Friddie stop!"
Mrs. Canary, putting her forefinger between the pages of the Duke's history, came to the doorway and looked in,—the picture of grieved amazement.
"Why, Fridoline," she exclaimed. "Why do you hurt that loving sister of yours? Elbows is tender in ladies. Holly Belle, I wouldn't be too pertic'ler about the edges. He was washed good last Wednesday."
"Sh'd say I was," growled Fridoline, looking vengefully at his sister. "They's no need of making me as wet as wash-day agin. Holly Belle's too doggoned clean."
"Ye look as shiny as a new mirror," said his mother proudly. "There's nothing like Ivory soap for bringing out all there is in a man. You look every inch a policeman's son. Now your uncle Weatherby, who holds a government position at Washington, D.C.——"