were beginning to pout, and her fair, pinkish face to redden, as if she were about to cry; “perhaps it was prettier to have them all die; only your ladies and gentlemen always do die, and I thought, for a change, you know! – What a lovely word that was – ‘Corregidor’ – what does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” replied Cecy, quite consoled. “It was in the ‘Conquest of Granada.’ Something to walk over, I believe.”
“The next,” went on Katy, consulting her paper, “is ‘Yap,’ a Simple Poem, by Clover Carr.”
All the children giggled, but Clover got up composedly, and recited the following verses:
“Did you ever know Yap?
The best little dog
Who e’er sat on lap
Or barked at a frog.
“His eyes were like beads,
His tail like a mop,
And it waggled as if
It never would stop.
His hair was like silk
Of the glossiest sheen,
He always ate milk,
And once the cold-cream.
“Off the nursery bureau
(That line is too long!)
It made him quite ill,
So endth my song.
“For Yappy he died
Just two months ago,
And we oughtn’t to sing
At a funeral, you know.”
The “Poem” met with immense applause; all the children laughed and shouted and clapped, till the loft rang again. But Clover kept her face perfectly, and sat down as demure as ever, except that the little dimples came and went at the corners of her mouth; dimples, partly natural, and partly, I regret to say, the result of a pointed slate-pencil, with which Clover was in the habit of deepening them every day while she studied her lessons.
“Now,” said Katy, after the noise had subsided, “now comes ‘Scripture Verse,’ by Miss Elsie and Joanna Carr. Hold up your head, Elsie, and speak distinctly; and oh, Johnnie, you mustn’t giggle in that way when it comes your turn!”
But Johnnie only giggled the harder at this appeal, keeping her hands very tight across her mouth, and peeping out over her fingers. Elsie, however, was solemn as a little judge, and with great dignity began:
“An angel with a fiery sword,
Came to send Adam and Eve abroad;
And as they journeyed through the skies
They took one look at Paradise.
They thought of all the happy hours
Among the birds and fragrant bowers,
And Eve, she wept and Adam bawled,
And both together loudly squalled.”
Dorry snickered at this, but sedate Clover hushed him.
“You mustn’t,” she said, “it’s about the Bible, you know. Now, John, it’s your turn.”
But Johnnie would persist in holding her hands over her mouth, while her fat little shoulders shook with laughter. At last, with a great effort, she pulled her face straight, and speaking as fast as she possibly could, repeated, in a sort of burst:
“Balaam’s donkey saw the Angel,
And stopped short in fear.
Balaam didn’t see the Angel,
Which is very queer.”
After which she took refuge behind her fingers, while Elsie went on –
“Elijah by the creek,
He by ravens fed,
Took from their horny beak
Pieces of meat and bread.”
“Come, Johnnie,” said Katy; but the incorrigible Johnnie was shaking again, and all they could make out was –
“The bears came down, and ate – and ate.”
These “Verses” were a part of a grand project on which Clover and Elsie had been busy for more than a year. It was a sort of rearrangement of Scripture for infant minds; and when it was finished they meant to have it published, bound in red, with daguerreotypes of the two authoresses on the cover. “The Youth’s Poetical Bible” was to be the name of it. Papa, much tickled with the scraps which he overheard, proposed, instead, “The Trundle-Bed Book,” as having been composed principally in that spot; but Elsie and Clover were highly indignant, and would not listen to the idea for a moment.
After the “Scripture Verses,” came Dorry’s turn. He had been allowed to choose for himself, which was unlucky, as his taste was peculiar, not to say gloomy. On this occasion he had selected that cheerful hymn which begins –
“Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound.”
And he now began to recite it in a lugubrious voice and with great emphasis, smacking his lips, as it were, over such lines as –
“Princess, this clay shall be your bed, In spite of all your towers.”
The older children listened with a sort of fascinated horror, rather enjoying the cold chills which ran down their backs, and huddling close together, as Dorry’s hollow tones echoed from the dark corners of the loft. It was too much for Philly, however. At the close of the piece he was found to be in tears.
“I don’t want to st-a-a-y up here and be groaned at,” he sobbed.
“There, you bad boy!” cried Katy, all the more angry because she was conscious of having enjoyed it herself, “that’s what you do with your horrid hymns, frightening us to death and making Phil cry!” And she gave Dorry a little shake. He began to whimper, and as Phil was still sobbing, and Johnnie had begun to sob too, out of sympathy with the others, the Feet in the Loft seemed likely to come to a sad end.
“I’m going to tell Aunt Izzie that I don’t like you,” declared Dorry, putting one leg through the opening in the floor.
“No, you aren’t,” said Katy, seizing him, “you are going to stay, because now we are going to have the Feast! Do stop, Phil; and Johnnie, don’t be a goose, but come and pass round the cookies.”
The word “Feast” produced a speedy effect on the spirits of the party. Phil cheered at once, and Dorry changed his mind about going. The black bottle was solemnly set in the midst, and the cookies were handed about by Johnnie, who was now all smiles. The cookies had scalloped edges and caraway seeds inside, and were very nice.
