we shall celebrate, when the day arrives, by a grand dinner.
You remember how we tease her about her love for tea, which she cannot conceal, but which she is ashamed of all the same.
Well! I have printed the poem on a card, and on the other side Margery has drawn the picture of a cross old maid, surrounded by seven cats, all frying to get a drink out of her tea-cup. Then Geoff is going to get a live cat from the milk ranch near here, and box it up for me to give to her when she receives her presents at the dinner-table. Won’t it be fun?
OWED TO POLLY BECAUSE OF HER BIRTHDAY.
She camps among the untrodden ways
Forninst the ‘Mountain Mill’;
A maid whom there are few to praise
And few to wish her ill.
She lives unknown, and few could know
What Pauline is to me;
As dear a joy as are to her
Her frequent cups of tea.
A birthday this dear creature had,
Full many a year ago;
She says she is but just fifteen,
Of course she ought to know.
But still this gift I bring to her,
Appropriate to her age,
Regardless of her stifled scorn,
Or well conceal-ed rage!
She smiles upon these tender lines,
As you all plainly see,
But when she meets me all alone,
How different it will be!
Now comes Geoff’s, to be given with a pretty little inkstand:—
There was a young maiden whose thought
Was so airy it couldn’t be caught;
So what do you think?
We gave her some ink,
And captured her light-winged thought.
Here is Jack’s last on Polly:—
There’s a pert little poppet called Polly,
Who frequently falls into folly!
She’s a terrible tongue
For a ‘creetur’ so young,
But if she were dumb she’d be jolly!
I helped Polly with a reply, and we delivered it five minutes later:—
I’d rather be deaf, Master Jack,
For if only one sense I must lack,
To be rid of your voice
I should always rejoice,
Nor mourn if it never came back!
And now good-night and good-bye until I am allowed to write you my own particular kind of letter.
The girls and boys are singing round the camp-fire, and I must go out and join them in one song before we go to bed.
Yours with love, now and always,
Bell.
P.S.—Our ‘Happy Hexagon’ has become a sort of ‘Obstreperous Octagon.’ Laura and Scott Burton are staying with us. Scott is a good deal of a bookworm, and uses very long words; his favourite name for me at present is Calliope; I thought it was a sort of steam-whistle, but Margery thinks it was some one who was connected with poetry. We don’t dare ask the boys; will you find out?
VI
Camp Chaparral, July 13, 188–. Studio Raphael.
Dear Little Sis,—The enclosed sketches speak for themselves, or at least I hope they do. Keep them in your private portfolio, and when I am famous you can produce them to show the public at what an early age my genius began to sprout.
At first I thought I’d make them real ‘William Henry’ pictures, but concluded to give you a variety.
Can’t stop to write another line; and if you missed your regular letter this week you must not growl, for the sketches took an awful lot of time, and I’m just rushed to death here anyway.
Love to mother and father.
Your loving brother.
Jack
P.S.—Polly says you need not expect to recognise that deer by his portrait, should you ever meet him, as no one could expect to get a striking likeness at a distance of a half-mile. But, honestly, we have been closer than that to several deer.
Chapter V.
The Forest of Arden—Good News
‘From the East to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind;
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind;
All the pictures, fairest lined,
Are but black to Rosalind;
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind.’
The grand performance of ‘As You Like It’ must have a more extended notice than it has yet received, inasmuch as its double was never seen on any stage.
The reason of this somewhat ambitious selection lay in the fact that our young people had studied it in Dr. Winship’s Shakespeare class the preceding winter, but they were actually dumb with astonishment when Bell proposed it for the opening performance in the new theatre.
‘I tell you,’ she argued, ‘there are not many pieces which would be effective when played out of doors by dim candle-light, but this will be just as romantic and lovely as can be. You see it can be played just “as you like it.”’
Philip and Aunt Truth wanted a matinée performance, but the girls resisted this plan very strongly, feeling that the garish light of day would be bad for the makeshift costumes, and would be likely to rob them
