Ethel Morton at Chautauqua

by Mabell S. C. Smith

Its present situation was not convenient, however. The shelf it was on was far too high. Still, that was easily remedied. Dragging forward a chair he mounted upon it, secured his prize, and then laboriously clambered down, breathing heavily from his exertions. Helen's bureau was not so high and on it he placed his treasure, kneeling in front of it on the chair which was still where he had left it.

Careful scrutiny resolved the apparatus into its parts. On top was a cup. He took it off its tripod and laid it on the tray. The tripod underneath held in its embrace a metal container—the thing out of which the pretty blue flame had shot up when Mother set a match on top. Dicky separated these two parts and pushed one to one side of the bureau and one to the other.

Where had the matches gone to? There they were, on the floor, and their rescue necessitated a scramble down and up again. They were safety matches and the production of a light from their unresponsive heads was only accomplished by accident after many attempts which strewed the floor with broken bits of wood.

At last, Oh, joy! a flame flashed up and Dick in ecstasy slipped off the cover of the lamp and dropped the match into the inside. It was a rapturous sight. The light leaped tall and slender, and bent as a breath of air from the window touched it.

Dicky leaned back in his seat and watched it as from an orchestra stall. It was the prettiest thing he had ever personally produced and he was proud of his handiwork.

A stronger puff made a fairy dance of flame. Another puff came in from the door and crossed it and together they raced through the door into mother's room and disappeared. But they seemed to have started a small tempest of breezes. One after another dashed in from door and window and played tag and jostled the flickering light. It bent this way and that way and crouched back into its holder and then leaped out just in time to meet a slap from a bold wind that drew heavily across the room and in passing, sent the flame, Zip! against Helen's muslin draperies.

In a second they were ablaze, shooting upward toward the ceiling. Dicky watched the fire, fascinated with its speed and its faint crackle as if it were chuckling with amusement at its own pranks.

But fun never lasts very long; Dicky had found that out before. In a minute pieces of muslin, all turned black now, began to float down on him. The mirror was not so pretty as it had been, even with Helen's silly souvenirs on it; indeed it had a queer look now as if it was cross at what was going on. In fact, it cracked on one side with a noise like a cat spitting with rage.

Dicky found himself too warm now that one of the muslin curtains from the window had blown over and caught a piece of the flame on its corner. It was nice to watch, but it was rather hot in this room and he was tired of it anyway. He thought he would go down stairs and see if the Ethels were at home.

But when he turned toward the entry door it was closed and another prank of the wind had shut the door into Mother's room. He could not get out anywhere except on to the roof of the porch and that had no stairs. The room roared in his ears and a bit of the hot black stuff fell on his hand. He rushed on to the porch and screamed a strong, piercing shriek that sent all the blood in her body into Ethel Brown's heart when it reached the back of the house and her ears.