When the boys at last awoke from their naps, I gave them permission to play mumble-peg very, very quietly—the heads had told me to keep them quiet on Sundays—and they made a desperate effort to do so. But probably behavior so far had been impossibly good, and this was the last straw. At any rate, when we were gathered in the sitting-room after supper for ten minutes of Sunday-school lesson, the storm broke. Nucky kicked Killis on the shin; Killis called him a smotch-eyed polecat; the two grappled; Philip flew to Nucky's assistance, Joab to Killis's; Keats, Hen and Moses rushed in on the Marrs side, Taulbee, Zachariah and Iry on the Blair, little Jason flew joyously into the fray, impartially attacking both sides, and Geordie prudently retired under the table.
It all happened in a flash,—before I could catch my breath the table was overturned, chairs were flying, bedlam had broken loose. In vain I commanded, implored, threatened,—I might as well have spoken to the raging sea.
Dreadful moments followed, during which I could only dodge chairs and wring my hands wildly. Worse was to come, however,—when I saw Killis grab the shovel, Nucky the poker, and Keats the tongs, while Philip wrested off a table-leg, and Taulbee and others either smashed chairs to pieces for weapons, or seized remaining table-legs, then indeed I felt that death was imminent for all concerned, and, running to the door, shrieked for Howard and the big boys over the workshop. Returning, I plucked the broom from Iry, and rushed with it, straw end foremost, into the thick of the fight. I was lammed on the head by a shovel, on the shoulder by a table-leg, on the elbow by something,—it is not safe to say what might have been the outcome had not Howard opportunely arrived, snatched the broom from me, and, with the handle-end, beaten and whacked the boys mercilessly until they finally surrendered their weapons and retired, bloody but happy, from the "battle."
I lay long awake last night, not from fleas, but nursing bruises and reconstructing theories. I see now that love and gentleness need to be backed up by good muscle, and that to be a success in my undertaking here I require, not the small body I actually possess, but the physique of an Amazon. Of course it is all a mistake, and I must give it up, even sooner than I had anticipated. But I am sorry,—the boys are most attractive, and time spent with them passes with lightning swiftness,—incredible as it seems, for seven whole days I have not had a chance to think of myself, my grief, my loneliness. Undoubtedly this is the Lethe I need,—but if its waves buffet me to bits, what then?
Later.
Inspiration came when I visited the loom-house this morning, and saw Cleo Royce, the head-weaving-girl, at her work. She is so large and handsome and strong,—a young Juno, with glorious muscle. The heads are to let her come to the cottage and occupy a cot in my room,—I am determined to stay out my month.