of the Countess Paulina look as if you might have chosen one of your attendants from ‘Afric’s sunny fountains, or India’s coral strand’; and as for the Court Chaplain, Rev. Jack-in-the-Pulpit, he has woefully forsaken the manners of the ‘cloth,’ and insists upon retaining his ancient title of Knight of the Brush; the Duchess of Sweet Marjoram alone continues circumspect in walk and mien, for blood will tell, and she is more Noble than the others.
In our capacity of Court Physician we have thrice relieved your youthful page, Sir Dicky Winship, of indigestion, caused by too generous indulgence in the flowing bowl—of milk and cherries; we have also prescribed for his grace the Duke of Noble, whose ducal ear was poisoned by the insidious oak leaf.
Your private box awaits you in the Princess’ Theatre, and your Majesty’s special interpreters of the drama will celebrate your arrival as gorgeously as it deserves.
The health of our dearly beloved Sovereign engages the constant thought of all her loyal and adoring subjects; they hope ere long to cull a wreath of laurel with their own hands and place it on a brow which needs naught but its golden crown of hair to affirm its queenly dignity. And as for crown jewels, has not our Empress of Hearts a full store?—two dazzling sapphires, her eyes; a string of pearls, her teeth; her lips two rubies; and when she opens them, diamonds of wisdom issue therefrom!
Come! and let the sight of thy royal charms gladden the eyes of thy waiting people! Issued under the hand of
Sir Geoffrey Strong, Bart., Court Physician and Knight of the Spectacles.
IV. Margery’s Contribution
Cosy Nook, July 11, 188–.
My own dear Elsie,—Your weekly chronicle is almost ready for Monday’s stage, and I am allowed to come in at the close with as many pages of ‘gossip’ as I choose; which means that I may run on to my heart’s content and tell you all the little things that happen in the chinks between the great ones, for Uncle Doc has refused to read this part of the letter.
First for some commissions: Aunt Truth asks if your mother will kindly select goods and engage Mrs. Perkins to make us each a couple of Scotch gingham dresses. She has our measures, and we wish them simple, full-skirted gowns, like the last; everybody thinks them so pretty and becoming. Bell’s two must be buff and pink, Polly’s grey and green, and mine blue and brown. We find that we haven’t clothes enough for a three months’ stay; and the out-of-door life is so hard upon our ‘forest suits’ that we have asked Mrs. Perkins to send us new ones as soon as possible.
We have had a very busy and exciting week since Polly began this letter, for there have been various interruptions and an unusual number of visitors.
First, there was our mountain climb to the top of Pico Negro; Phil says he has written you about that, but I hardly believe he mentioned that he and the other boys worried us sadly by hanging on to the tails of our horses as they climbed up the steepest places. To be sure they were so awfully tired that I couldn’t help pitying them; but Uncle Doc had tried to persuade them not to walk, so that it was their own fault after all. You cannot imagine what a dreadful feeling it gives one to be climbing a slippery, rocky path, and know that a great heavy boy is pulling your horse backwards by the tail. Polly insisted that she heard her mule’s tail break loose from its moorings, and on measuring it when she got back to camp she found it three inches longer than usual.
The mule acted like original sin all day, and Polly was so completely worn-out that she went to bed at five o’clock; Jack was a good deal the worse for wear too, so that they got on beautifully all day. It is queer that they irritate each other so, for I am sure that there is no lack of real friendship between them; but Jack is a confirmed tease, and he seems to keep all his mischief bottled up for especial use with Polly. I have tried to keep him out of trouble, as you asked me; and although it gives me plenty to do, I am succeeding tolerably well, except in his dealings with Polly. I lecture him continually, but ‘every time he opens his mouth he puts his foot in it.’
Polly was under a cloud the first of the week. Villikins was sick, and Dr. Winship sent her to Aunt Truth for a bottle of sweet oil. Aunt Truth was not in sight, so Polly went to the box of stores and emptied a whole quart bottle of salad oil into a pail, and Villikins had to take it, wheel or whoa (Jack’s joke!). Auntie went to make the salad dressing at dinner-time, and discovered her loss and Polly’s mistake. It was the last bottle; and as we can’t get any more for a week, the situation was serious, and she was very much tried. Poor Polly had a good cry over her carelessness, and came to the dinner-table in a very sensitive frame of mind. Then what should Jack do but tell Dicky to take Villikins a head of lettuce for his supper, and ask Polly why she didn’t change his name from Villikins to Salad-in! Polly burst into tears, and left the table, while Dr. Paul gave Jack a scolding, which I really think he deserved, though it was a good joke. The next morning, the young gentleman put on a pair of old white cotton gloves and his best hat, gathered her a bouquet of wild flowers, and made her a handsome apology before the whole party; so she forgave him, and they are friends—until the next quarrel.
On the night before the play, Laura and Scott Burton arrived on horseback, and the next morning the rest of the family appeared on the scene. We had sent over to see if Laura would play Audrey on so short notice, and bring over some odds and ends for costumes. We actually had an audience of sixteen persons, and we had no idea of playing before anybody but Aunt Truth and Dicky.
There were three of the Burtons, Pancho, Hop Yet, the people from the dairy farm, and a university professor from Berkeley, with eight students. They were on a walking tour, and were just camping for the night when Scott and Jack met them, and invited them over to the performance. Geoffrey and Phil were acquainted with three of them, and Uncle Paul knew the professor.
Laura, Anne, and Scott went home the next morning, but came back in two days for their week’s visit. The boys like Scott very much; he falls right into the camp ways, and doesn’t disturb the even current of our life; and Anne, who is a sweet little girl of twelve, has quite taken Dicky under her wing, much to our relief.
With Laura’s advent, however, a change came over the spirit of our dreams, and, to tell the truth, we are not over and above pleased with it. By the way, she spent last summer at the hotel, and you must have seen her, did you not? Anyway, Mrs. Burton and Aunt Truth were old school friends, and Bell has known Laura for two years, but they will never follow in their mothers’ footsteps. Laura is so different from her mother that I should never think they were relations; and she has managed to change all our arrangements in some mysterious way which we can’t understand. I get on very well with her; she positively showers favours upon me, and I more than half suspect it is because she thinks I don’t amount to much. As for the others, she rubs Polly the wrong way, and I believe she is a little bit jealous of Bell.
You see, she is several months older than the rest of us, and has spent two winters in San Francisco, where she went out a great deal to parties and theatres, so that her ideas are entirely different from ours.
She wants every single bit of attention—one boy to help her over the brooks, one to cut walking-sticks for her, another to peel her oranges, and another to read Spanish with her, and so on. Now, you know very well that she will never get all this so long as Bell Winship is in camp, for the boys think that Bell drags up the sun when she’s ready for him in the morning, and pushes him down at night when she happens to feel sleepy.
We, who have known Bell always, cannot realise that any one can help loving her, but there is something in Laura which makes it impossible for her to see the right side of
