Saint Anne’s face lighted brilliantly, then instantly clouded. “None the rest? Not Wesley, nor Saint Augustine, nor Dorcas, nor Sheba, nor teeny-tiny David boy? Just me alone? I—I couldn’t. Mamma says it’s mean to be stingy of our things, so when I have two ’simmonses I always give one to who’s nearest. Not to give chicken would be meaner—‘meaner ’n pussley’! I don’t mind being hungry—not much I don’t mind it—but when any of us is selfish all papa has to do is say ‘Pussley, pussley!’ quick, just like that, an’ we stop right away. But—but I’ll bring yours, if mamma’ll let me, and I’ll turn my face right the other way while you eat it, so I shan’t be tempted to ‘covet my neighbor’s—anything that is his.’ That’s in my kittenchasm that we childern say to mamma every Sunday, after we’ve had our milk. I’ll run right away now.”
Quite sure that his request would be granted and hoping that the surplus of Gerald’s dinner would be plentiful, Jim went to the spring and filled the rusty bucket always waiting there. Then he plucked six big burdock leaves and arranged them on a boulder. The little maid of the sweet, serious eyes had taught him a lesson in unselfishness; and whether the portion coming to him were much or little, each child should have its share.
Then he looked up and saw Saint Anne returning. Upon her outstretched arms she balanced the pewter platter, and upon this was set—Oh! glory! one whole, small chicken delicately roasted, as only Chloe could have prepared it. A half dozen biscuits flanked it and a big bunch of grapes. A tin cup fairly shone in its high state of polish, but its brilliancy was nothing as compared with the shining face of Saint Anne.
Behind her trailed four brothers and sisters, each stepping very softly as if in awe of the unexpected feast before them. The fifth child was missing, Saint Augustine, the mischief of the household, who was oftener under foot than out of sight.
“Where’s other brother, Saint Anne? Shall we wait for him? Did your mother save any for herself? Did Gerald need me?”
It was a long string of questions to be answered and the little girl counted them off upon her fingers.
“I don’t know where Saint Augustine is. Likely he’ll be ’round real soon. I guess we won’t wait—I mean the others needn’t—they look so watery around the mouth. No, mamma didn’t save any. She said she didn’t care for it. Funny, wasn’t that? As if anybody, even a grown-up mamma, could help caring! And the Gerald boy was asleep. I most wish he would be all the time, he—he speaks so sort of sharp like. Mamma says that’s cause he’s gettin’ well. Gettin’-well-folks are gen’ally cross and it’s a good sign. What you doing?”
Jim had pulled another burdock leaf and spread a bit of sweet fern upon it. He had an idea that Dorothy would have objected to the odor of burdock as mingled with a dinner. Then he carefully sliced with his pocket knife the daintiest portions of the little fowl and some of the bread. He added the finest of the grapes and turning to Dorcas and Sheba, said:
“Now, girlies, Saint Anne brought the dinner away out here, but it’s your job to take this much back to your mother. You are to tell her that this is a picnic and nobody would enjoy it unless she picnics, too. Will you tell her? Will you be real careful? If you will I promise you we others won’t eat a mouthful till you get back.”