Part 23 (1/2)
”But n.o.body has to eat it all at once,” retorted Uncle Roger, with another groan. ”Oh, Sara Stanley, it's a thankful man I am that your Aunt Olivia is to be home to-night. You'd have me kilt entirely by another day. I believe you did it on purpose to have a story to tell.”
Uncle Roger hobbled off to the barn, still holding on to his stomach.
”Do you think he really feels sick?” asked the Story Girl anxiously.
”No, I don't,” said Felicity. ”You needn't worry over him. There's nothing the matter with him. I don't believe there were any needles in that sawdust. Mother sifted it very carefully.”
”I know a story about a man whose son swallowed a mouse,” said the Story Girl, who would probably have known a story and tried to tell it if she were being led to the stake. ”And he ran and wakened up a very tired doctor just as he had got to sleep.
”'Oh, doctor, my son has swallowed a mouse,' he cried. 'What shall I do?'
”'Tell him to swallow a cat,' roared the poor doctor, and slammed his door.
”Now, if Uncle Roger has swallowed any needles, maybe it would make it all right if he swallowed a pincus.h.i.+on.”
We all laughed. But Felicity soon grew sober.
”It seems awful to think of eating a sawdust pudding. How on earth did you make such a mistake?”
”It looked just like cornmeal,” said the Story Girl, going from white to red in her shame. ”Well, I'm going to give up trying to cook, and stick to things I can do. And if ever one of you mentions sawdust pudding to me I'll never tell you another story as long as I live.”
The threat was effectual. Never did we mention that unholy pudding. But the Story Girl could not so impose silence on the grown-ups, especially Uncle Roger. He tormented her for the rest of the summer. Never a breakfast did he sit down to, without gravely inquiring if they were sure there was no sawdust in the porridge. Not a tweak of rheumatism did he feel but he vowed it was due to a needle, travelling about his body.
And Aunt Olivia was warned to label all the pincus.h.i.+ons in the house.
”Contents, sawdust; not intended for puddings.”
CHAPTER XVIII. HOW KISSING WAS DISCOVERED
An August evening, calm, golden, dewless, can be very lovely. At sunset, Felicity, Cecily, and Sara Ray, Dan, Felix, and I were in the orchard, sitting on the cool gra.s.ses at the base of the Pulpit Stone. In the west was a field of crocus sky over which pale cloud blossoms were scattered.
Uncle Roger had gone to the station to meet the travellers, and the dining-room table was spread with a feast of fat things.
”It's been a jolly week, take it all round,” said Felix, ”but I'm glad the grown-ups are coming back to-night, especially Uncle Alec.”
”I wonder if they'll bring us anything,” said Dan.
”I'm thinking long to hear all about the wedding,” said Felicity, who was braiding timothy stalks into a collar for Pat.
”You girls are always thinking about weddings and getting married,” said Dan contemptuously.
”We ain't,” said Felicity indignantly. ”I am NEVER going to get married.
I think it is just horrid, so there!”
”I guess you think it would be a good deal horrider not to be,” said Dan.
”It depends on who you're married to,” said Cecily gravely, seeing that Felicity disdained reply. ”If you got a man like father it would be all right. But S'POSEN you got one like Andrew Ward? He's so mean and cross to his wife that she tells him every day she wishes she'd never set eyes on him.”
”Perhaps that's WHY he's mean and cross,” said Felix.