Part 17 (1/2)

”I think I'm always tired these days,” Mrs. Procter admitted, ”but I'm particularly tired this morning. The baby was very restless last night.”

”If you were like Mrs. Martin on the other side of the town,” said Suzanna as she rose from the table and began to gather up the dishes, while Peter escaped into the yard, ”who has only one little girl, you wouldn't be kept awake.” Suzanna's eyes were widely questioning. Did her mother regret owning so many children?

Mrs. Procter stood up. She lifted the baby out of his high chair.

”You're every one dear and wonderful to me,” she said. ”But we're all human, dear, and apt to grow tired.”

Suzanna walked into the kitchen and put the dishes down on the table. On her way back to the dining-room she glanced out of the window. The early September day had changed. Miraculously every dull gray cloud had scurried away, leaving a sky soft, yet brilliant. Birds flew about, carolling madly, as though some elixir in the air sent their spirits bounding. Suzanna's every fiber responded. The desire whipped her to plunge into the beauty of outdoors, to run madly about, to shout, to sing. But alas, she knew there was no chance to obey her ardent impulse, since Wednesday was cleaning day, a day rigid, inflexible, when all the Procter family were pressed into service; that is, all but Peter, belonging to a s.e.x blessedly free from work during its young, upgrowing years.

Mrs. Procter spoke: ”Bring the high chair into the kitchen, Suzanna, near the window for the baby; then we'll start cleaning.”

Suzanna obeyed reluctantly. She turned from the window. ”Mother,” she said, ”when I'm grown up I'll have no steady days for anything.”

”What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Procter.

”Well, I won't wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on Wednesday, and bake on Thursday. I'll let every day be a surprise.”

”Yes,” said Mrs. Procter, ”and a nice mix-up there'd be. You must have set times for every task if you expect to accomplish anything.”

”But isn't it 'complis.h.i.+ng anything if you're happy?” asked Suzanna, really puzzled.

Mrs. Procter hesitated. ”But you can be happy working, too.”

”But I know, mother, that I'd be happier today out in the sun.”

”But the truth remains, Suzanna, that if we don't wash on Monday we'd have to wash on Tuesday, and that ties up everything at the end of the week,” said her mother.

Suzanna sighed. She couldn't by mere words combat her mother's arguments. They seemed indeed una.s.sailable if you applied plain reason to them. But something deeper, finer than reason, made Suzanna believe that to be out in the sun, to be under the trees, to be dreaming in the perfume of flowers, was more important than cleaning and dusting; anyway in a glorious, straight-from-Heaven day like this Wednesday. So she returned unconvinced to the dishes, while her mother after tying the baby in his high chair cast an appraising eye around, wondering just where she should begin her upheaval.

Suddenly a loud, heart-rending outcry was heard, and Peter, who a moment before had been playing peacefully in the yard, came rus.h.i.+ng into the house. Out of the medley of his piteous cries, Suzanna at last made sense. Not so her mother who asked anxiously:

”What in the world is he crying so for, Suzanna? Is he hurt? Will he let you look him over?”

”No, he's not hurt,” returned Suzanna. ”He is crying because _never in all his life will he be able to see his ears_.”

Mrs. Procter stared dumbfounded. But she soon recovered. She was accustomed to originalities of this sort in her family.

”So! Well, what am I to do about it?” she asked the small boy.

Peter looked at her stolidly. ”I want to see my ears,” he repeated. ”And I can't only in the mirror.”

”Have you lived for five years,” asked Mrs. Procter, ”without discovering that your ears are attached to your head, and that I can't take them off in order that you may see them?”

”And you can't see the back of your neck either, Peter,” cried Suzanna at this juncture. At which disastrous piece of information Peter cried louder.

”Now, Suzanna,” exclaimed Mrs. Procter in some exasperation. ”What did you tell him that for? Isn't it enough for him to learn in one day that he'll never see his ears without telling him about the back of his neck?

Stop your crying, Peter. It's bad enough to have you cry for things that can be mended.”

Maizie, attracted by the noise, unable to control her curiosity, appeared at the door. Her face was still sullen, but it also bore a rare expression of stubbornness. Satisfying her curiosity as to the reason for the commotion, she then made her announcement.

”Mother,” she began, ”I'm not going to wash the window sills upstairs this cleaning morning.”