Part 4 (1/2)

”n.o.body sick in body,” Calliope repeated absently.

”Soul-sick an' soul-hungry you can't feed up,” Mis' Holcomb added.

”I donno,” said Calliope, thoughtfully, ”I donno but you can.”

”No,” Mis' Holcomb went on; ”your soul's like yourself in the gla.s.s: they ain't anything there.”

”I donno,” Calliope said again; ”some mornin's when I wake up with the sun s.h.i.+nin' in, I can feel my soul in me just as plain as plain.”

Mis' Holcomb sighed.

”Life looks dreadful footless to me,” she said.

”Well,” said Calliope, ”sometimes life _is_ some like hearin'

firecrackers go off when you don't feel up to shootin' 'em yourself.

When I'm like that, I always think if I'd go out an' buy a bunch or two, an' get somebody to give me a match, I could see more sense to things.

Look here, Mame Bliss; if I get hold o' any folks to give the dinner for, will you help me some?”

”Yes,” Mis' Holcomb a.s.sented half-heartedly, ”I'll help you. I ain't n.o.body much in family, now Abigail's done what she has. They's only Eppleby, an' he won't be home Thanksg'vin this year. So I ain't nothin'

else to do.”

”That's the _i_-dee,” said Calliope, heartily; ”if everything's foolish, it's just as foolish doin' nothin' as doin' somethin'. Will you bring over a kettleful o' boiled potatoes to my house Thanksgivin' noon? An'

mash 'em an' whip 'em in my kitchen? I'll hev the milk to put in.

You--you don't cook as much as some, do you, Mame?”

Did Calliope ask her that purposely? I am almost sure that she did. Mis'

Holcomb's neck stiffened a little.

”I guess I can cook a thing or two beside mash' potatoes,” she said, and thought for a minute. ”How'd you like a pan o' 'scalloped oysters an'

some baked macaroni with plenty o' cheese?” she demanded.

”Sounds like it'd go down awful easy,” admitted Calliope, smiling. ”It's just what we need to carry the dinner off full sail,” she added earnestly.

”Well, I ain't nothin' else to do an' I'll make 'em,” Mis' Holcomb promised. ”Only it beats me who you can find to do for. If you don't get anybody, let me know before I order the oysters.”

Calliope stood up, her little wrinkled face aglow; and I wondered at her confidence.

”You just go ahead an' order your oysters,” she said. ”That dinner's goin' to come off Thanksgivin' noon at twelve o'clock. An' you be there to help feed the hungry, Mame.”

When we were on the street again, Calliope looked at me with her way of shy eagerness.

”Could you hev the dinner up to your house,” she asked me, ”if I do every bit o' the work?”

”Why, Calliope,” I said, amazed at her persistence, ”have it there, of course. But you haven't any guests yet.”

She nodded at me through the falling flakes.

”You say you ain't got much to be thankful for,” she said, ”so I thought mebbe you'd put in the time that way. Don't you worry about folks to eat the dinner. I'll tell Mis' Holcomb an' the others to come to your house--an I'll get the food an' the folks. Don't you worry! An' I'll bring my watermelon pickles an' a bowl o' cream for Mis' Holcomb's potatoes, an' I'll furnish the turkey--a big one. The rest of us'll get the dinner in your kitchen Thanksgivin' mornin'. My!” she said, ”seems though life's smoothin' out fer me a'ready. Good-by--it's 'most noon.”