At recess it went the rounds, Sary assuring them that it was a grand story with lots about love and getting married, and that there was a woman in it who treated a girl just terrible.
Chicken Little was not in the least interested in love or lovers, but she was not proof against Sary’s mysterious manner. She promptly begged the loan of the precious book till noon. But there was only time for aggravating peeps in the short hour filled with recitations. So she coaxed Sary to let her take it home that night. Sary was easily persuaded. Reading was a painful process to her and she had been secretly hoping that one of the children would read the book and tell her the story.
Chicken Little slipped it home guiltily hidden in her school bag. She found it a weighty responsibility. No sooner had she ensconced herself snugly in one of the dormer windows to read, than she heard someone coming upstairs. It was only Olga. She thought possibly she would be safer in Ernest’s room, but Ernest and Carol were doing their algebra there. At last she settled down in the front parlor and by tea time was deep in the adventures of Rosamond Clifford, romantic and unreal enough to satisfy the most exacting child.
For days the book was her constant companion outside of school hours. She read snatches of it to Sary and a chosen few in a corner of the schoolyard at recesses and noons. She hid it under her pillow ready for her devouring eyes at an early hour in the morning. To be sure Chicken Little never could wake up at an early hour, her mother having to call long and lustily before she could rouse her at all. Still the book was there if she should happen to want it.
After Chicken Little finished it, the story was passed from hand to hand among the children. Gertie being the only one with sufficient firmness of character to decline to read it without asking Mother. One adventurous child discovered she could get other books by the same author from the public library. These the children also passed round and gloated over their lurid adventures for days. The stories were doubly fascinating because each small sinner realized that the mushy volumes must be carefully concealed from mothers and teachers. The craze ended finally by Miss Brown’s discovering a copy of “Cousin Maud” and confiscating it after a sharp lecture to the school on what children should read.
But the mischief was done. Fully a dozen young heads seethed with romance. They imagined they were abused by unfeeling sisters or stern parents. They looked for unhappy lovers around every corner. They even tried to lie awake nights nursing broken hearts, but ten o’clock was the latest hour anyone reached, though Grace Dart said she knew she heard it strike one. Katy, indeed, walked in her sleep one night to her mother’s horror. Mrs. Halford promptly gave her a liberal dose of castor oil and she was never able to repeat the wonderful feat.
At least six dolls were re-christened Rosamond Clifford, and seven others promptly became Cousin Maud. Marbles and tag and the usual spring outdoor sports were neglected while they planned doll elopements or family quarrels, and locked the tiny heroines in dark closets.
Chicken Little was in great demand on these occasions because she had learned some of the choicest scenes in the stories by heart and she would talk for the dolls.
“My, you do Dr. Kennedy just grand!” said Katy stirred out of her usual calm by a thrilling scene in which her prettiest doll had defied a cruel stepfather made from a stick of stove-wood.
“It’s awful easy,” Jane responded modestly. “I’ve read it so often I can say it most all, and I just try to act mad.”