Part 1 (1/2)
BLACK-EYED SUSAN.
by Ethel Calvert Phillips.
CHAPTER I-BLACK-EYED SUSAN OF FEATHERBED LANE
A pair of black eyes, a head covered with short brown curls, two red cheeks, and a tip-tilted nose-that was Susan. A warm heart, a pair of eager little hands always ready to help, little feet that tripped willingly about on errands-that was Susan, too.
”The best little girl in Putnam County,” said Grandfather, snuggling Susan up so close that his gray beard tickled her nose and made her laugh.
”My little comfort,” said Grandmother, with a hand on Susan's bobbing curls that simply couldn't be made to lie flat no matter how much you brushed and brushed.
Susan herself didn't say very much to this, but oh, how she did love Grandfather, from the crown of his big slouch hat to the toes of his high leather boots that he delighted to wear both winter and summer!
As for Grandmother, who could help loving her, with her merry smile, her soft pink cheeks shaded by a row of little white curls, and her jar of cinnamon cookies on the low shelf in the pantry? Yes, her jar of cinnamon cookies on the low shelf in the pantry, for, somehow, in Susan's mind, Grandmother and the cinnamon cookies were pleasantly mingled and together made up the love and comfort and cheer that to Susan meant home.
The house Susan lived in with Grandmother and Grandfather Whiting and Snuff the dog was a broad, low, white house that stood far back from the road at the end of Featherbed Lane.
Susan thought this the funniest name she had ever heard.
As she and Grandfather, hand in hand, would carefully pick their way over the stones that covered the road from house to highway, she never tired of asking, ”Grandfather, why do you call it Featherbed Lane? It's not a bit like a feather bed. It's as hard as hard can be.”
”Because there are just as many stones in this lane as there are feathers in a feather bed,” Grandfather would answer gravely. ”Some day you must count them and see.”
”But how many feathers are there in a feather bed?” Susan would ask.
”You must count them, too,” was Grandfather's reply.
At the end of the lane, on the roadside, stood a little house with three windows, a front door, and a pointed roof with a chimney. This was Grandfather's law office, and here he was to be found at work every day, coming up to the house only at meal-time. Inside there was one big room, not only lined all round with books, but with books overflowing their shelves and piled upon the chairs and tumbled upon the floor.
Grandfather's big desk was drawn up close to the windows, and as Susan pa.s.sed in and out of the gate she never failed to smile and wave her hand in greeting.
If Grandfather were not busy, he would invite her in, and then Susan on the floor would build houses of the heavy law books, using Grandfather's shabby old ha.s.sock for table or bed as the case might be.
One cool May afternoon Susan climbed upon Grandfather's lap as he sat in front of the coal fire that burned in the office grate every day that gave the least excuse for it.
Grandmother had gone calling in the village, and Susan was staying with Grandfather until her return. Susan cuddled her head down on Grandfather's broad shoulder.
”Say 'William Ti Trimity' for me, please,” said she coaxingly.
So Grandfather obediently repeated,
William Ti Trimity, he's a good fisherman; Catches his hens and puts them in pens.
Some lays eggs and some lays none.
Wire, briar, limber lock, Three geese in a flock.
One flew east, and one flew west, And one flew over the cuckoo's nest.
Susan gave Grandfather's cheek a pat by way of thanks.
”Sing to me now, please,” was the next command.