Part 36 (2/2)

On this perfect spring morning, the Close was transformed, for the swinging-couch and the lawn marquee were gone, and a great wedding-bell of h.o.a.ry blossoms was in its place, hung above the wide flagstone which lay before this side entrance to the Church. Flanking the bell on either hand, flowers and greenery had been ma.s.sed by the decorators to achieve an altar-like effect. And above the bell, roofing the improvised altar, was a canopy of smilax, as Gothic in design as the vari-tinted windows to right and left.

Discussing the unwonted appearance of their haunt and home, the bird-dwellers of the Close flew about in some excitement, or alighted on wall and ledge to look and scold. And fully as noisy as the sparrows, and laboring like Brownies to set the yard to rights following the departure of the florist and his a.s.sistant, a trio of boys from the choir raked and clipped and garnered into a sack.

Ikey was in command, and wielded the lawn mower. Henry, a tall mild-eyed lad, selected for the morning's pleasant duty in the Close in order to reward him for irreproachable conduct during the week previous, snipped at the uneven blades about the base of the sun-dial.

The third worker was Peter, a pale boy, chosen because an hour in the open air would be of more value to him than an hour at his books.

”I tell you she iss _not_ a Gentile!” denied Ikey, who was arrogant over being armed with authority as well as lawn mower.

”She is so!” protested Henry, with more than his usual warmth.

”I know she ain't!”

”Aw, she is, too!”

”I asks her, 'Momsey, are you a Gentile?'” went on Ikey. ”Und she answers to me, 'Ikey, I am all kinds of religions.'--_Now_!”

”Ain't her mother a Gentile?” demanded Henry.

”I'm glat to say it!”

”And her father was.”

”Sure! Just go in und look at him!”

”Then what's the matter with you! She's _got_ to be a Gentile!”

Ikey recognized the unanswerableness of the argument. ”Vell,” he declared stoutly, ”I lof her anyhow!”

A fourth boy leaned from a drawing-room window. ”Telephone!” he called down.

”Ach! Dat telephone!” Ikey propped himself against the sun-dial.

”Since yesterday afternoon alretty, she rings und nefer stops! 'Vere iss Miss Hattie?'--dat Wallace, he iss awful lofsick! 'I don't know.'

'Vere iss Miss Susan?' 'I don't know.' 'Vere iss my daughter?'--de olt lady! 'I don't know.'--All night by dat telephone, I sit und lie!”

”Ha! Ha!” Peter, the pale, seized the excuse to drop back upon the cool gra.s.s. ”How can you _sit_ and _lie_?”

”Smarty, you're too fres.h.!.+” charged Ikey. ”How can you sit und be lazy? Look vat stands on dis sun-dial!--_Tempus Fugits_. Dat means, 'De morning iss going.' So you pick up fast all de gra.s.s bits by de benches.--Und if somebody asks, 'Vere iss Mr. Farvel,' I says, 'I don't know,' und dat iss de truth. Because he iss gone oudt all night, und dat iss not nice for ministers.” He shook his head at the lawn mower.

”Say, a woman wants to talk with Mrs. Milo,” reminded the boy who was hanging out of the window.

”She can vant so much as she likes,” returned Ikey, mowing calmly.

”Oo! You oughta heard her!--Shall I say she's gone?”

”Say she's gone, t'ank gootness,” instructed Ikey. And as the boy precipitated himself backward out of sight, ”Ach, dat's vat's wrong mit dis world!--de mutter business. Mrs. Milo, Mrs. Bunk.u.m, und your mutter, und your mutter----”

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