“Cricket is the exception to that rule,” struck in Donald.
“Now, I think I have remembered a good many things thus far, sir,” said Cricket, rather indignantly. “It was only yesterday that you told me to tell Rose Condit something, and I couldn’t think just exactly what it was, but I remembered to say that you wanted her to come and see you.”
There was a shout at this.
“You little monkey,” said Donald, getting red. “Did you tell her that? I told you to say that I’d see her to-night.”
“That’s pretty near the same, isn’t it,” asked Cricket, anxiously.
There was another shout.
“Cricket is like a little chap that I used to hear of when I was a small boy,” began papa, standing on the hearth-rug, with his hands behind his back, and smiling down at his small daughter, as she sat on the rug, clasping her knees with both hands, and staring thoughtfully into the fire. Cricket was such a lovable, winning thing, with all her trying ways, that one could not be angry with her long.
“Who was this boy, papa?” she said, looking up. “Now, please don’t tell me about any good little boy, who never forgot.”
“This wasn’t a good little boy, ma’am,” laughed papa; “he was sent by his mother to the store for some eggs and sugar and molasses. Lest he should forget, she told him to repeat the three things on the way. So he started off, saying ‘Eggs, sugar, and molasses—eggs, sugar, and molasses.’ Suddenly he stubbed his toe, and fell headlong. As he picked himself up, he said, ‘Wax, tar, and rosin—wax, tar, and rosin—ain’t forgot yet.’ So when Cricket does remember, it is likely to be the wrong thing.”
“The trouble is that Cricket’s forgetfulness never makes any difference to herself. She isn’t the one that suffers,” said Marjorie, still feeling injured over her silk umbrella. “It’s always something of other people’s that she forgets.”