The very best place of all, as you will hereinafter discover, was our buggy shed. The floor was nothing more than the good, hard earth. Here and there were little wallowing nests of dust made by some cheerful hen while engaged in an indolent sun-bath. On one side hung the harness, which might be pressed into service for circus purposes. Along the braces lay the monkey-wrench, hammer, nails, and delectable boxes of fascinating axle grease. The rancid smell of this yellowish-black article of lubrication is indissolubly associated with heaven-sent memories of the happiest days. True I never tried it, though I believe you once did with painful results; I always wanted to spread it on a white slice of bread and eat it. The axle grease was a cause for sin. More anon.
In the center stood our phaeton, which served from a coach and four to a low-raking revenue cutter. Behind it was the jolt wagon—so named because of a lack of springs. This caused very delightful sensations to those playing train within, when the vehicle was being driven at a trot over a rough road. Now one of the privileges to be bought, often at a high price, from the hired man, was the unalloyed joy of putting great daubs of grease upon the axles of the aforesaid phaeton and farm wagon. I have often done without my second piece of chocolate pie, gladly thrusting it surreptitiously down the throat of this previously mentioned man of many virtues, just to get to help at this task. Something second unto it was being allowed to spin the recently attended wheel before removing the jack from beneath it. All of this that you may know the charms of axle grease.... O, the memories of that day of many sins!
Nance, who lived just back of me, with an alley between, had a habit which was good or bad as it suited my purpose. It was to come through a gate in her back fence, which mine did not possess, and enter my domain through a crack in the fence. This entrance, which had been made long ago by the removal of a board, was a constant source of annoyance to me. Since her first appearance years ago, the crack had been worn smooth and glossy by much passing of girl frocks. She insisted upon being played with and the pity of her possessing neither father, mother, sisters, or brothers of her own was all that saved the crack being securely nailed. It was only when she attempted to force dolls upon me that I sternly rebelled. Of course it was only in the back yard and upon the common that she was allowed my comradeship. When we were fishing or swimming she could not come, though she shed many tears and entered various protests.
Now of all times this was one when a visit from her was not wanted. Jean François acted like she would be welcome, it is true. Just why he so fancied her was then a mystery to me. I'll leave it to you. I had prepared for a really wicked, good time all alone with the happy pedler. In the morning, after playing Indian with the Greens, I hoped we should be buccaneers in the hay until Aunt Bet began to get dinner. Then we were to slip into the house and slide down the banisters until time to eat. The whole afternoon was to be spent greasing the phaeton and the jolt wagon. There was a new box of axle grease, and a splendid pine paddle with which to apply it.... Suppose you had all of such a great day planned and a red-headed little jade, with a very white frock, taking her welcome for granted, squeezed through the crack of your fence.... Jean François says you can always count upon a woman making her appearance just when you are off on a particularly masculine jaunt.
Well, the Indians had to be postponed. She had once taken a rather awkward left-handed part in a battle and had gone bellowing through the fence, a most unbecoming woman. She wasn't any heroine. The scar, which her Aunt Barbara feels very sure will disappear, may be found in that blessed red hair to this day. So politeness forbade warfare. The hay proved better. It is true I noticed her eyes grow a bit wide with fear as she arose on the rickety ladder. This was fostered by Jean François following closely behind, playing sailor. We made believe that she was a respectable merchantman, while I was a pirate, and the pedler the man-of-war. I swooped down upon her only to be chased and hard put by the shot and shell of the larger vessel. I feel sure she got the worst of the fight. Then, in the storm, we covered her with hay until her weak little protest from somewhere beneath the billows made me uneasy for her ever again reaching port.
It was the banisters where she surprised all of us.
"I do it all the time at home," she informed us proudly. Just then I ceased to sympathize with her lack of a mother. I, too, wished for a G. F. who domineered a maiden aunt.
"You see," said she, "I never walk down stairs unless Aunt Barbara is around."
Then she illustrated her ability for us, to almost knocking the newel post from its dignified position at the bottom of the stair. We stood watching with awe and a trifle of envy. It was an unfortunate thing in some respects to have parents. Here, however, our joy was interrupted by a call demanding Nance to report for dinner. She departed, and I was left to dissipate on an old-fashioned circular baluster. Jean François became a spectator, saying that he drew the line at such amusements.
It was the afternoon which caused the telling of this story. History was made. We had the jack under the front wheel of the jolt wagon when she appeared. The umbrella man was unscrewing the nut while I worked the grease. Her frock was a new one. A trace of recent tears told of the folly of playing respectable merchantman upon a sea of hay. Here the wheel was lifted off, placed against the wall, and the glistening axle, already suffering from over attention, was liberally applied with lubricant. When we turned to replace the wheel, there was the jade sitting innocently against the hub. She stepped aside for us, only to expose a neat black ring printed upon a part of her frock which prophesied what awaited her within the immediate future. At first she was inclined to cry. Instead, upon our laughing at her, she became impudent. As each wheel came off, she promptly sat against it, regularly increasing the number of rings. Then she insisted on at least putting one paddle full on an axle. After that she must be allowed to attend one entire wheel by herself, of course, allowing one of us to remove it. This we did cheerfully. Were we not interested in getting her just as black as possible? Had she not grown exceedingly bold and saucy?... Next she decided to taste the grease. One little finger, on the tip of which was a bit of black tar, was stuck delicately on her outstretched tongue, while she made a face for our delectation.