Tarts.
‘The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
All on a summer’s day.’
Fruit, Nuts, and Raisins.
‘You shall have an apple,
You shall have a plum.’
‘I had a little nut-tree, nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear.’
Bread and Cheese.
‘When I was a bachelor I lived by myself,
And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon the shelf.’
Coffee and Lemonade.
‘One, two, three, how good you be!
I love coffee and Billy loves tea.’
‘Oranges and lemons,
Says the bell of St. Clemen’s.’
* * *
‘What they ate I can’t tell,
But ’tis known very well
That none of the party grew fat.’
Bell and Geoff took turns at ‘dishing up’ in the kitchen, and sat down at the table between whiles; and they barely escaped being mobbed when they omitted one or two dishes on the programme, and confessed that they had been put on principally for the ‘style’ of the thing,—a very poor excuse to a company of people who have made up their mouths for all the delicacies of the season.
Jack was head waiter, and having donned a clean white blouse of Hop Yet’s and his best cap with the red button, from which dangled a hastily improvised queue of black worsted, he proceeded to convulse everybody with his Mongolian antics. These consisted of most informal remarks in clever pigeon English, and snatches of Chinese melody, rendered from time to time as he carried dishes into the kitchen. Elsie laughed until she cried, and Laura sat in the shadiest corner, her head artistically swathed in white tarlatan.
Polly occupied the seat of honour at the end of the table opposite Dr. Winship, and was happier than a queen. She wore her new green cambric, with a bunch of leaves at her belt. She was sun-burned, but the freckles seemed to have disappeared mysteriously from her nose, and almost any one would have admired the rosy skin, the dancing eyes, and the graceful little auburn head, ‘sunning over with curls.’
When the last bit of dessert had been disposed of, and Dicky had gone to sleep in his mother’s lap, like an infant boa-constrictor after a hearty meal, the presentation of gifts and reading of poems took place; and Polly had to be on the alert to answer all the nonsensical jokes that were aimed at her.
Finally, Bell crowned the occasion by producing a song of Miss Mulock’s, which had come in the morning mail from some girl friend of Polly’s in the East, who had discovered that Polly’s name had appeared in poetry and song without her knowledge, and who thought she might be interested to hear the composition. With the aid of Bell’s guitar and Jack’s banjo the girls and boys soon caught the pretty air, and sung it in chorus.
At the end, Dr. Winship raised his glass of lemonade, and proposed to drink Miss Oliver’s health. This was done with enthusiasm, and Geoffrey immediately cried, ‘Speech, speech!’
‘I can’t,’ said Polly, blushing furiously.
‘Speech!’ sung Jack and Philip vociferously, pounding on the table with knife-handles to increase the furore.
‘Speech!’ demanded the genial doctor, going over to the majority, and smiling encouragingly at Polly, who was pushed to her feet before she knew very well what she was doing. ‘Oh, if Laura were not looking at me,’ she thought, ‘I’d just like to speak right out, and tell them a little bit of what is in my heart. I don’t care—I will!’
‘I know you are all in fun,’ she said, looking bravely into the good doctor’s eyes, ‘and of course no one could make a proper speech with Jack grinning like a Cheshire cat, but I can’t help telling you that this is the happiest summer and the happiest birthday of my whole life, and that I scarcely remember nowadays that I have no father and no brothers and sisters, for I have never been alone or unhappy since you took me in among you and Bell chose me for her friend; and I think that if you knew how grateful I am for my beautiful summer, dear Dr. Paul and Aunt Truth, you would be glad that you gave it to me, and I love you all, dearly, dearly, dearly!’ Whereupon the impulsive little creature finished her maiden speech by dashing round the table and giving Mrs. Winship one of her ‘bear hugs,’ at which everybody laughed and rose from the table.
Laura Burton, who was thoroughly out of conceit with the world, and who was never quite happy when other people seemed for the moment to be preferred to herself, thought this burst of affection decidedly theatrical, but she did not know of any one to whom she could confine her opinions just then; indeed, she felt too depressed and out of sorts to join in the general hilarity.
Dinner being over, Dr. Paul and the boys took the children and sauntered up the cañon for a lazy afternoon with their books. Elsie went to sleep in the new hammock that the doctor had hung in the sycamores back of the girls’ sleeping-tent, and Mrs. Winship lay down for her afternoon nap. Pancho saddled the horses for Bell and Margery, who went for a gallop. Polly climbed into the sky-parlour to write a long letter to her mother, and Laura was left to solitude in the sleeping-tent. Now everybody knows that a tent at midday is not a particularly pleasant spot, and after many a groan at the glare of the sun, which could not be tempered by any system of shawls, and moans at the gopher-holes which she discovered while searching for her ear-ring, and repeated consultations with the hand-glass at brief intervals, during which she convinced herself that she looked worse every minute,—she finally discovered a series of alarming new spots on her neck and chin. She felt then that camping out was a complete failure, and that she would be taken home forthwith if it could be managed, since she saw nothing before her but day after day of close confinement and unattractive personal appearance. ‘It’s just my luck!’ she grumbled, as she twisted up her hair and made herself as presentable as possible under the trying circumstances. ‘I don’t think I ever had a becoming or an interesting illness. The chicken-pox, mumps, and sties on my eyes—that’s the sort of thing I have!’
‘I feel much worse, Mrs. Winship,’ she said, going into the sitting-room tent and waking Aunt Truth from a peaceful snooze. ‘If you can spare Pancho over night, I really think I must trouble you to send Anne and me home at once. I feel as if I wanted to go to bed in a dark room, and I shall only be a bother if I stay.’
‘Why, my child, I’m sorry to have you go off with your visit unfinished. You know we don’t mind any amount of trouble, if we can make you comfortable.’
‘You are very kind, but indeed I’d rather go.’
‘I hardly dare let you start in the hot sun—without consulting the doctor, and everybody is away except Polly; they will feel badly not to say good-bye.’
‘It is nearly three o’clock now, so the worst of the sun is over, and we shall be at the ranch by eight this evening. I feel too ill to say good-bye, any way, and we shall
