of a nail the shoe was lost.’”
But I am sorry to say that my poor, thoughtless Katy did forget, and did get into another scrape, and that no later than the very next Monday.
Monday was apt to be rather a stormy day at the Carr’s. There was the big wash to be done, and Aunt Izzie always seemed a little harder to please and the servants a good deal crosser than on common days. But I think it was also, in part, the fault of the children, who, after the quiet of Sunday, were specially frisky and uproarious, and readier than usual for all sorts of mischief.
To Clover and Elsie, Sunday seemed to begin at Saturday’s bed-time, when their hair was wet and screwed up in papers that it might curl next day. Elsie’s waved naturally, so Aunt Izzie didn’t think it necessary to pin her papers very tight; but Clover’s thick, straight locks required to be pinched hard before they would give even the least twirl, and to her Saturday night was one of misery. She would lie tossing and turning, and trying first one side of her head and then the other; but whichever way she placed herself the hard knobs and the pins stuck out and hurt her; so when at last she fell asleep, it was face down, with her small nose buried in the pillow, which was not comfortable, and gave her bad dreams. In consequence of these sufferings Clover hated curls, and when she “made up” stories for the younger children they always commenced: “The hair of the beautiful princess was as straight as a yard-stick, and she never did it up in papers—never!”
Sunday always began with a Bible story, followed by a breakfast of baked beans, which two things were much tangled up together in Philly’s mind. After breakfast the children studied their Sunday-school lessons, and then the big carryall came round, and they drove to church, which was a good mile off. It was a large, old-fashioned church, with galleries, and long pews with high, red-cushioned seats. The choir sat at the end, behind a low, green curtain, which slipped from side to side on rods. When the sermon began they would draw the curtain aside and show themselves, all ready to listen, but the rest of the time they kept it shut. Katy always guessed that they must be having good times behind the green curtain—eating orange-peel, perhaps, or reading the Sunday-school books—and she often wished she might sit up there among them.
The seat in Dr. Carr’s pew was so high that none of the children, except Katy, could touch the floor, even with the point of a toe. This made their feet go to sleep; and when they felt the queer little pin-pricks which drowsy feet use to rouse themselves with, they would slide off the seat, and sit on the benches to get over it. Once there, and well hidden from view, it was almost impossible not to whisper. Aunt Izzie would frown and shake her head, but it did little good, especially as Phil and Dorry were sleeping with their heads on her lap, and it took both her hands to keep them from rolling off into the bottom of the pew. When good old Dr. Stone said, “Finally, my brethren,” she would begin waking them up. It was hard work sometimes, but generally she succeeded, so that during the last hymn the two stood together on the seat, quite brisk and refreshed, sharing a hymn-book, and making believe to sing like the older people.
After church came Sunday-school, which the children liked very much, and then they went home to dinner, which was always the same on Sunday—cold corned-beef, baked potatoes, and rice-pudding. They did not go to church in the afternoon unless they wished, but were pounced upon by Katy instead, and forced to listen to the reading of The Sunday Visitor, a religious paper, of which she was the editor. This paper was partly written, partly printed, on a large sheet of foolscap, and had at the top an ornamental device in lead pencil, with “Sunday Visitor” in the middle of it. The reading part began with a dull little piece of the kind which grown people call an editorial, about “Neatness”, or “Obedience”, or “Punctuality”. The children always fidgeted when listening to this—partly, I think, because it aggravated them to have Katy recommending on paper as very easy the virtues which she herself found it so hard to practise in real life. Next came anecdotes about dogs and elephants and snakes, taken from the Natural History book, and not very interesting, because the audience knew them by heart already. A hymn or two followed, or a string of original verses, and, last of all, a chapter of “Little Maria and Her Sisters”, a dreadful tale, in which Katy drew so much moral, and made such personal allusions to the faults of the rest, that it was almost more than they could bear. In fact, there had just been a nursery rebellion on the subject. You must know that for some weeks back Katy had been too lazy to prepare any fresh Sunday Visitors, and so had forced the children to sit in a row and listen to the back numbers, which she read aloud from the very beginning! “Little Maria” sounded much worse when taken in these large doses, and Clover and Elsie, combining for once, made up their minds to endure it no longer. So, watching their chance, they carried off the whole edition, and poked it into the kitchen fire, where they watched it burn with a mixture of fear and delight which it was comical to witness. They dared not confess the deed, but it was impossible not to look conscious when Katy was flying about and rummaging after her lost treasure, and she suspected them, and was very irate in consequence.
The evenings of Sunday were always spent in repeating hymns to Papa and Aunt Izzie. This was fun, for they all took turns, and there was quite a scramble as to who should secure the favourites, such as “The west hath shut its gate of gold”, and “Go when the morning shineth”. On the whole, Sunday was a sweet and pleasant day, and the children thought so; but from its being so much quieter than other days, they always got up on Monday full of life and mischief, and ready to fizz over at any minute, like champagne bottles with the wires just cut.
This particular Monday was rainy, so there couldn’t be any out-door play, which was the usual vent for over-high spirits. The little ones, cooped up in the nursery all the afternoon, had grown perfectly riotous. Philly was not quite well, and had been taking medicine. The medicine was called Elixir Pro. It was a great favourite with Aunt Izzie, who kept a bottle of it always on hand. The bottle was large and black, with a paper label round its neck, and the children shuddered at the sight of it.
After Phil had stopped roaring and spluttering, and play had begun again, the dolls, as was only natural, were taken ill also, and so was “Pikery”, John’s little yellow chair, which she always pretended was a doll too. She kept an odd apron tied on his back, and generally took him to bed with her—not into bed, that would have been troublesome; but close by, tied to the bed-post. Now, as she told the others, Pikery was very sick indeed. He must have some medicine, just like Philly.
“Give him some water,” suggested Dorry.
“No,” said John decidedly, “it must be black and out of bottle, or it won’t do any good.”
After thinking a moment, she trotted quietly across the passage into Aunt Izzie’s room. Nobody was there, but John knew where the Elixir was kept—in the closet on the third shelf. She pulled one of the drawers out a little, climbed up, and reached it down. The children were enchanted when she marched back, the bottle in one hand, the cork in the other, and proceeded to pour a liberal dose on to Pikery’s wooden seat, which John called his lap.
“There! there! my poor boy,” she said, patting his shoulder—I mean his arm—“swallow it down; it’ll do you good.”
Just then Aunt Izzie came in, and to her dismay saw a long trickle of something dark and sticky running down on to the carpet. It was Pikery’s medicine, which he had refused to swallow.
“What is that?” she asked sharply.
“My baby is sick,” faltered John, displaying the guilty bottle.
Aunt Izzie rapped her over the head with a thimble,
