“I’M HERE,” SAID THE VOICE. “I’VE COME. I’M PHIL.”

BLACK-EYED SUSAN

BY

ETHEL CALVERT PHILLIPS

AUTHOR OF “WEE ANN” AND “LITTLE FRIEND LYDIA”

WITH DRAWINGS BY HAROLD CUE

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN CO BOSTON & NEW YORK

BLACK-EYED SUSAN

Table of Contents

BLACK-EYED SUSAN

[CHAPTER I—BLACK-EYED SUSAN OF FEATHERBED LANE]

A pair of black eyes, a head covered with short brown curls, two red cheeks, and a tip-tilted nose—that was Susan. A warm heart, a pair of eager little hands always ready to help, little feet that tripped willingly about on errands—that was Susan, too.

“The best little girl in Putnam County,” said Grandfather, snuggling Susan up so close that his gray beard tickled her nose and made her laugh.

“My little comfort,” said Grandmother, with a hand on Susan’s bobbing curls that simply couldn’t be made to lie flat no matter how much you brushed and brushed.

Susan herself didn’t say very much to this, but oh, how she did love Grandfather, from the crown of his big slouch hat to the toes of his high leather boots that he delighted to wear both winter and summer!

As for Grandmother, who could help loving her, with her merry smile, her soft pink cheeks shaded by a row of little white curls, and her jar of cinnamon cookies on the low shelf in the pantry? Yes, her jar of cinnamon cookies on the low shelf in the pantry, for, somehow, in Susan’s mind, Grandmother and the cinnamon cookies were pleasantly mingled and together made up the love and comfort and cheer that to Susan meant home.

The house Susan lived in with Grandmother and Grandfather Whiting and Snuff the dog was a broad, low, white house that stood far back from the road at the end of Featherbed Lane.

Susan thought this the funniest name she had ever heard.

As she and Grandfather, hand in hand, would carefully pick their way over the stones that covered the road from house to highway, she never tired of asking, “Grandfather, why do you call it Featherbed Lane? It’s not a bit like a feather bed. It’s as hard as hard can be.”

“Because there are just as many stones in this lane as there are feathers in a feather bed,” Grandfather would answer gravely. “Some day you must count them and see.”

“But how many feathers are there in a feather bed?” Susan would ask. “You must count them, too,” was Grandfather’s reply.

At the end of the lane, on the roadside, stood a little house with three windows, a front door, and a pointed roof with a chimney. This was Grandfather’s law office, and here he was to be found at work every day, coming up to the house only at meal-time. Inside there was one big room, not only lined all round with books, but with books overflowing their shelves and piled upon the chairs and tumbled upon the floor. Grandfather’s big desk was drawn up close to the windows, and as Susan passed in and out of the gate she never failed to smile and wave her hand in greeting.

If Grandfather were not busy, he would invite her in, and then Susan on the floor would build houses of the heavy law books, using Grandfather’s shabby old hassock for table or bed as the case might be.

One cool May afternoon Susan climbed upon Grandfather’s lap as he sat in front of the coal fire that burned in the office grate every day that gave the least excuse for it.

Grandmother had gone calling in the village, and Susan was staying with Grandfather until her return. Susan cuddled her head down on Grandfather’s broad shoulder.

“Say ‘William Ti Trimity’ for me, please,” said she coaxingly.

So Grandfather obediently repeated,

William Ti Trimity, he’s a good fisherman;

Catches his hens and puts them in pens.

Some lays eggs and some lays none.

Wire, briar, limber lock,

Three geese in a flock.

One flew east, and one flew west,

And one flew over the cuckoo’s nest.

Susan gave Grandfather’s cheek a pat by way of thanks.

“Sing to me now, please,” was the next command.

Obligingly Grandfather tuned up and sang in his sweet old voice—

It rains and it hails and it’s cold stormy weather.

In comes the farmer drinking up the cider.

You be the reaper and I’ll be the binder,

I’ve lost my true love, and right here I find her.

This was an old favorite, and it never failed to delight Susan to have Grandfather in great surprise discover her as the lost true love “right here” in his arms.

“Now, ‘Chickamy,’” said Susan, smoothing herself down after the vigorous hug she felt called upon to bestow.

Chickamy, Chickamy, crany crow,

Went to the well to wash his toe.

When he came back the black-eyed chicken was gone—

said Grandfather in a mysterious voice.

“Can’t you remember any more of it, Grandfather?” implored Susan. “Don’t you know who Chickamy was, or who stole the black-eyed chicken? I do wish I knew.”

“No, I can’t remember,” said Grandfather regretfully. “You know all I know about it, Susan. Only I do think Chickamy was a foolish fellow to wash his toe just at that minute. Why didn’t he take the black-eyed chicken with him or leave somebody at home to take care of him?”

“Yes, it is a pity,” sighed the little girl. “Or why didn’t he wash his toe in the tub at home? Well, anyway, Grandfather, now tell about the time I came to live with you.” And Susan re-settled herself comfortably as Grandfather slipped down in his chair and stretched out his feet toward the low fire.

“It was a cold winter night,” began Grandfather, with the ease of one who has told his story many times, “and the ground was covered with snow. All the little rabbits were snuggled down in their holes in the ground trying to keep warm. All the little birds were cuddled together in their nests under the eaves. All the little boys and girls were sound asleep tucked in their warm beds—”

“All but one,” interrupted Susan.

“Yes, all but one,” agreed Grandfather, “and she was riding along in a sleigh, and the sleigh-bells went jingle jangle, jingle jangle, and the horses’ feet went crunch, crunch, crunch, through the snow.”

“Now, tell was I cold,” prompted Susan, as Grandfather paused to spread his silk handkerchief over his head to keep off the draught.

“The little girl wasn’t one bit cold,” went on Grandfather smoothly, “because she was dressed in fur from head to foot. She wore a white fur coat and a white fur cap that came so far down over her face that all you could see was the tip of her nose.”

“And that was red,” supplied Susan.

“And she had a pair of white furry mittens on her hands, and her feet were wrapped in a white fur rug.

“Well, by and by the horse turned in a lane that was so packed with snow that you couldn’t tell whether it was a Featherbed Lane or not. Crunch, crunch, crunch, went the horses’ feet, jingle jangle, jingle jangle, went the bells until they were almost up to the white house at the end of the lane.

“Now in that white house there sat a grandmother and a grandfather before the fire.

“Presently the grandmother laid down her knitting.

“‘I think I hear sleigh-bells in the lane,’ said she.

“The grandfather put down his book.

“‘I think I hear horses’ feet,’ said he.

“Then the grandmother rose and looked out of the window.

“‘I see a lantern,’ said she, peering out through the snowflakes, for it had begun to snow again.

“At that the grandfather flung open the door and in came—”

“Me!” exclaimed Susan. “And I didn’t cry one bit. Did I?”

“Mercy, no,” said Grandfather, opening his eyes wide at the very thought. “You just winked and blinked in the light, and when I held out my arms you came straight to me.”

“And what did you say, Grandfather?”

“I said, ‘My little black-eyed Susan.’”

“And that has been my name ever since,” said Susan with an air of satisfaction. “Now, tell what Grandmother was doing.”

“Grandmother had both arms round your father who carried you in, for once upon a time he was her little boy,” concluded Grandfather.

“And you were so glad to see me that night because my mother had gone to heaven, weren’t you?” mused Susan. “And then my father went away to build a big bridge, and then he went to the war and he never came back.”

A silence fell for a moment upon Grandfather Whiting and Susan as they gazed into the fire, and then the little girl stirred and spoke.

“I think I will go and play with Flip awhile, Grandfather,” said she.

She slipped down from Grandfather’s lap, and, leaving him to fall into a doze, proceeded to set up housekeeping with Flip, her rag doll, behind a pile of books in a corner.

Flip and Snuff, the shaggy brown setter, were Susan’s constant playmates, for the house in Featherbed Lane stood a little way out of the village and there were no children living near by.

The other side of the Lane, on a little knoll, perched the old Tallman house, empty since last autumn when Miss Eliza Tallman had gone down to the village to live with her niece.

Across the way and up the road stood the deserted little old schoolhouse, long ago abandoned for the new brick building in the heart of the village.

But, although Susan had no near neighbors and often longed for some one her own age to play with, still she dearly loved the lively Snuff who could outrace her any day, who played a skillful game of hide and seek, and who returned tenfold the strength of her love with all the might of his affectionate pink tongue, his briskly wagging tail, and his faithful little heart.

As for Flip, it is hard to say what Susan would have done without her. She was a long thin wobbly rag doll, with a head flat like a turtle’s, and not a single spear of hair on it. But to Susan, her brown eyes were the tenderest and her rosy lips the sweetest to be found anywhere, and it was into Flip’s sympathetic ear that Susan poured her griefs and troubles, great or small. She was Susan’s bedfellow, too, lying outside the coverlid where her little mother might easily put out her hand and touch her in the night.

Susan had other good friends, too. There was the newel post opposite the front door at home. Susan had never thought anything about the newel post until one day, playing “lady come to see” with a shawl on for a long skirt, she had tripped and bumped her head against the post. Now, this was fully six months ago, and when Susan was only a little girl, as she would have been sure to explain, and so she did what other little girls have done before. Feeling the newel post to blame for her fall, she pounded it with both hands and kicked it with both feet. And suddenly, in the midst of the pounding and kicking, Susan spied a big dent in the side of the post. Had she done that? Oh! what a mean, a cruel girl she was! She hurried upstairs for her new hair-ribbon, which she tied round what she called the newel post’s neck, and sitting down she tried to smooth out the dent and soothe the newel post’s hurt feelings at the same time. Perhaps Grandmother could have explained that dent as made by a trunk carelessly carried upstairs, but Susan always believed that she had made it. She rarely passed the newel post without giving it a pat, and, sitting on the stairs, she and Flip and the newel post often had many a pleasant chat together.

And there was Snowball, the rubber cat, that had been Susan’s favorite toy when she was a baby. Snowball may once have deserved her name. But now she was a dingy gray that not even frequent scrubbings with soap and water could freshen. She had lost her tail, she had lost her squeak, but Susan was loyal to her old pet and still lavished tender care upon her.

Then, too, there was the shawl dolly. Most of the time the dolly was a plain little black-and-white checked shawl spread over Grandmother’s shoulders or neatly folded on the hatbox in Grandmother’s closet. But whenever Susan was a little ailing, Grandmother folded the shawl into a soft comfortable dolly, who cuddled nicely and who never failed to give to Susan the comfort needed.

Just now Susan was playing school in the corner. She was the teacher, and Flip and the hassock, who this afternoon was a fat little boy named Benny, were the scholars.

“Flippy, who made you?” asked the teacher.

“God,” answered Flippy promptly.

Susan made her talk in a squeaky little voice.

“Benny, how much is two and two?” was the next question.

But Benny didn’t answer. Perhaps he couldn’t.

“Benny, how much is two and two?” repeated the teacher loudly.

Still no answer.

This was dreadful, and Susan felt that she must be severe. Shaking her finger warningly at disobedient Benny, she went to Grandfather’s desk to borrow his long black ruler, and, glancing out of the window, she saw a big red wagon toiling slowly up the road.

“It’s the circus!” exclaimed Susan. “Grandfather, wake up, the circus is coming.”

Grandfather woke himself up with a shake and peered out of the window, over Susan’s head.

“No, that is not the circus,” said he. “That’s a moving-van. Somebody’s furniture is packed inside that wagon. Hello, they’re turning in at the Tallman place. Liza must have rented it.”

And Grandfather and Susan, with great interest, watched the heavy van turn and jolt along the driveway that led to the house next door.

“Here comes another van,” called Susan, whose sharp eyes spied the red wagon far down the road.

This van bore what the movers call “a swinging load.” On the back of the wagon were tied all the pieces of furniture that couldn’t be crammed or squeezed into the van itself.

The horses pulled and strained up the little hill until they were directly opposite Susan’s gate, and then, with a crash, something fell off the back of the wagon.

“Look, look!” cried Susan, hopping up and down. “Look, Grandfather, it’s a rocking-horse!”

Sure enough, a dapple gray rocking-horse, with a gay red saddle, was rocking away in the middle of the road as if he meant to reach Banbury Cross before nightfall.

“There will be somebody for me to play with!” cried Susan, climbing up on Grandfather’s desk in her excitement. “Maybe I will have a ride on that rocking-horse. Won’t there be somebody for me to play with, Grandfather?”

And Susan, her eyes shining, put both arms around Grandfather’s neck and gave him a great hug.

“It looks that way,” said Grandfather, as soon as Susan let him breathe again. “It looks as if that rocking-horse was about your size, too. But here comes your grandmother. Perhaps she has heard something about it in the village.”

Like a flash Susan was off down the road, and by the time Grandfather had put on his hat and shut the office door Susan had learned all the news that Grandmother had to tell.

“Grandmother knows all about it,” called Susan, flying up the road again. “Miss Liza Tallman has rented her house for a year. And, Grandfather, there is a little boy as old as me and his name is Philip Vane.”

[CHAPTER II—OVER THE GARDEN WALL]

Philip Vane! The words flashed into Susan’s mind as soon as she opened her eyes the next morning, Philip Vane—the new little boy next door! And Susan jumped out of bed and, running to the window, peered eagerly over at the old Tallman house.

Yes, some one was already up and stirring, for smoke was pouring out of the kitchen chimney, but there was no sign to be seen of any little boy.

Breakfast over, Susan hurried through her daily tasks about the house, and then ran out to the chicken-yard, with her bowl of chicken-feed under her arm. She waited until the fowls, with their usual squawkings and cluckings, had gathered about her feet, and addressed them solemnly.

“I’ve a piece of news for you,” said Susan, “and you are not going to have one bite of breakfast until I’ve told you. There is a little boy coming to live next door, and his name is Philip Vane. We are going to play together and be friends. Aren’t you glad?”

Old Frizzly, so named because her feathers grew the wrong way, could no longer restrain her impatience at this delay of her meal. She uttered an extra loud squawk and flapped her wings wrathfully. But Susan accepted it as an answer to her question.

“Old Frizzly is the only one of you with any manners at all,” said she reprovingly. “You are greedy, and you are rude, and you don’t care a bit whether I have any one to play with or not.”

And, hastily emptying her bowl, Susan departed to station herself upon the low stone wall that separated the Tallman house from her own. She saw heads pass and repass the open windows, sounds of hammering floated out upon the sweet spring air, rugs were vigorously shaken on the little back porch. The butcher’s cart rumbled noisily past on the main road, and a slim lady, with fair hair and a long blue apron, stepped out on the porch and, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed down the driveway as if she were expecting some one.

But, in spite of these interesting sights and sounds, Susan felt disappointed, for not a single peep did she have of the new little boy.

“Did Miss Liza say there was a little boy, Grandmother?” asked Susan, coming into the house at dinner-time so low in her mind that she dragged patient Flippy along by one arm, her limp feet trailing on the ground behind her.

“Why, yes,” answered Grandmother, gazing into the oven at a pan of nicely browned biscuit. “I told you yesterday what she said, Susan. ‘A little boy about the age of your Susan,’ said she. Now run to the door for me and see whether Grandfather is coming. I want him to carry over this plate of biscuit to Mrs. Vane to show ourselves neighborly, and you shall go along with him if you like.”

Susan needed no second invitation. She skipped ahead of Grandfather as they went through the low place made in the stone wall for Grandmother and Miss Tallman to step through easily. But when they reached the doorway, and Mrs. Vane stood before them, she shyly hid behind Grandfather’s great leather boots.

She listened to the grown-up talk with ears wide open for some mention of a person her own age, but it was not until Grandfather turned to go that she felt bold enough to slip her hand in his and give it a little squeeze as if to remind him why she had come.

“Oh, yes,” said Grandfather, understanding the squeeze perfectly and so proving himself to Susan the wisest man in the world. “This is my little granddaughter Susan, Mrs. Vane. She was very much interested in a rocking-horse that fell from one of your vans yesterday.”

“That was Phil’s rocking-horse,” said Mrs. Vane, smiling kindly down into Susan’s big black eyes, at this moment half friendly and half shy. “Philip is my little boy, and he will be so glad of a next-door neighbor. He has had no one to play with in the city, and he has been very ill, too, but I know he will enjoy himself here where he can run and shout as much as he likes, and I’m sure he will soon be well, now that he can play out in this good sun and air.”

Susan looked all about her in search of a little boy running and shouting as much as he liked, but Phil’s mother met her glance with a shake of the head.

“No, he isn’t here yet,” said she. “But I expect him any minute. His father is going to bring him up from the city this morning.”

Filled with the hope of seeing Phil arrive, Susan hurried through her dinner, but as she left the house and started toward the garden wall, the sight of Snuff limping dismally along on three legs drove all other thoughts from her mind.

“Grandfather, Grandfather, Snuffy’s hurt,” she called, and, putting her arms around her shaggy playfellow, she tried to help him up the back steps.

Snuff whimpered a little to gain sympathy, but he bore the pain without flinching when Grandfather gently pulled the cruel splinter from his foot, and washed and bound up the wound. Susan, remembering Snuff’s sweet tooth, begged a bowl of custard from Grandmother, and she was enjoying Snuff’s pleasure in the treat when a voice fell upon her ears.

“I’m here,” said the voice. “I’ve come. I’m Phil.”

Susan sprang to her feet and faced the thinnest little boy she had ever seen.

“He’s as thin as a bone,” thought she, borrowing an expression from Grandmother.

But the thin little face owned a pair of honest blue eyes, and a smile so wide that you couldn’t help smiling back even if you happened to be feeling very cross. And, as Susan didn’t feel cross in the least, you may imagine how broadly she smiled upon her new neighbor.

“Is this your dog?” asked Phil, eyeing Snuff’s bandage with respectful interest. “I’m going to have a dog and a cat and maybe some hens and chickens, too.”

Susan related Snuff’s accident, and the invalid, feeling all eyes upon him, dropped his head heavily to the ground with a deep sigh and a mournful thud of his tail. Then he opened one eye to see the effect upon his audience.

Susan and Phil broke into laughter at such sly tricks, and Snuff, delighted with his success, beat his tail violently upon the piazza floor.

“I brought over my Noah’s Ark,” announced Phil, taking from under his arm the gayly painted little house upon which Susan’s eyes had been fixed from the first. “We’ll play, if you like.”

And Susan and Phil, with the ease of old friends, proceeded to marshal the strange little toy animals in line, two by two, behind Mr. and Mrs. Noah and their stiff and stolid family.

“Now you sing a song,” said Phil. “Do you know it?” And without waiting for Susan’s shake of the head he burst loudly into tune:

“They marched the animals, two by two,

One wide river to cross—

The elephant and the kangaroo,

One wide river to cross.”

“But you see the kangaroo won’t stand up, so I have to put the tiger with the elephant. Then you sing it this way”

And he took up the chant again:

“They marched the animals, two by two,

One wide river to cross—

The elephant and the tigeroo,

One wide river to cross.”

“Do you like it?” asked Phil, looking up into Susan’s face with a smile.

Susan nodded with an energy that set her curls a-bobbing.

“There’s Grandmother in the window,” said she. “Let’s go in and see her.”

Grandmother put down her knitting to welcome Philip, and bade Susan pass the cinnamon cookies.

“I know my mother likes me to eat them,” announced Phil, silent until he had disposed of his cooky, “because she wants me to grow fat.”

“Perhaps she would like you to take another one,” said Grandmother, hiding a smile and passing the plate again.

“I was sick,” went on Phil, whose tongue seemed loosened by the second cinnamon cooky. “I was sick so long I nearly all melted away. My father calls me Spindle Shanks. But I’m going to grow big and fat now—if I eat enough,” he added with his eyes on the plate of cakes.

Each with a cooky in hand and an extra one in Phil’s pocket, Susan escorted her new friend down Featherbed Lane in the hope that Grandfather would invite them into the office.

He was writing busily, but when Susan and Phil, clinging to the window-sill, all but pressed their noses against the pane, Grandfather put down his pen and motioned them to come in.

“How do you do, sir,” said Grandfather as Phil shook hands in true manly fashion. “So you are my next-door neighbor. I hope we shall be good friends.”

“Oh, he will, Grandfather,” said Susan, speaking up for her new acquaintance, who, standing speechless, allowed his gaze to travel from the high boots up to the quizzical brown eyes looking so pleasantly down upon him.

“Well, neighbor, we shall have to fatten you up a little, I’m thinking,” remarked Grandfather heartily, observing thin little Phil in his turn.

“Yes,” agreed Phil, finding his tongue at last and taking a nibble of his cooky as if to begin the fattening process at once.

“I mean to eat and grow fat. My mother wants me to; she said so. My father calls me Spindle Shanks,” he added, as if rather proud of his new name.

“Is that so?” said Grandfather with interest. “Now I shouldn’t have thought of calling you that. But I might have called you ‘Pint o’ Peanuts’ if any one had asked me.”

Phil and Susan went off into a fit of laughter at this funny name, and when they recovered Grandfather remarked gravely:

“The best thing to do in a case like this is to build up an appetite. Susan, you go with Philip up to his house and ask his mother if she will let him take a little drive with Parson Drew and you and me over to Green Valley. Be sure to tell her it’s to work up an appetite. Then cut across and tell Grandmother we are going to the Green Valley Court-House and that we shall be home by five o’clock.”

Grandfather was forced to stand on the doorstep and call the last part of his directions after Susan. For at the first mention of a drive she had caught Phil’s hand and started on a run up the driveway leading to his house.

Mrs. Vane hastily polished off her son with a corner of the kitchen roller towel, snuggled him into a warm sweater, and sent word to Grandfather that she was very glad to have Philip go driving, though he didn’t need to work up an appetite she was sure.

Grandmother made Susan hunt for her straw hat which, strange to say, was not to be found upon its accustomed nail. Grandmother and Phil searched downstairs, while Susan ran about frantically upstairs, so afraid they would be late that she could only half look. But at last she discovered her hat upside down under the bed, with rubber Snowball taking a nap in it, just as Susan had put her to bed the day before.

In spite of this delay the children were in good time, and with Susan wedged tightly on the seat between Grandfather and the minister, and Phil standing between the great leather boots with either hand on Grandfather’s knee, they drove off in fine style.

Mr. Drew was the village minister, a young man with a pleasant manner and a twinkle in his kind blue eyes. He and Grandfather were special friends. They liked to talk together, though they rarely agreed, and sometimes became so excited in their talk that you might almost think they were quarreling. But of course Susan knew better than that.

Grandfather’s horse, big bony Nero, had hurt his knee and had been turned out to grass to rest and recover. So this afternoon Mr. Drew held the reins and chirruped gently to his little brown Molly as she carried them briskly along the road.

As the grown-up talk rumbled on over her head, Susan peered out like a bright-eyed bird, and at every interesting landmark or familiar spot she called, “Look, Phil, look!” until from its frequent turning there was some danger that Phil’s head might snap completely off its frail little neck.

“There is the old schoolhouse, Phil,” called Susan. “We can play house on the doorstep.

“And here is the row of cherry trees. By and by we will come here with a pail.

“And, Phil, the crossest old cow lives in this field. Don’t you ever come here by yourself. Once I only climbed up on the fence to look at her, and she put down her head and ran at me. And how she did moo—as cross as anything.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” said Phil stoutly, as, safe behind the shelter of Grandfather’s boots and bowling swiftly along the road, he cast a defiant look at the surly bossy securely fastened by a rope to a stout stake in the ground. “Maybe I’ll take you there sometime. I won’t let her hurt you.”

But the cow was left behind them, and Susan called Phil to look at the poultry farm, with its ducks and geese, its hens and chickens, cackling cheerfully and running about in amiable confusion.

Now they were nearing the town of Green Valley, and down the hill and over the bridge they rumbled to stop before the imposing stone Court-House, with its parking-space for automobiles and its row of hitching-posts, to one of which was tied little brown Molly.

Susan danced impatiently up and down as Grandfather descended heavily to the sidewalk.

“Oh, Grandfather,” said she, catching hold of his hand, “I want to take Philly to Madame Bonnet’s. May I? Please say ‘yes.’”

“To be sure,” answered Grandfather, feeling in his pocket as he spoke. “It will be a good place for you to wait. Here’s ten cents apiece. Spend it carefully, and be sure you don’t get lost on the way.”

Susan laughed as she caught Phil by the arm and dragged him off. Lost on the way to Madame Bonnet’s! when every one in the world knew it was just across the street from the Court-House.

Once safely over the crossing Susan stopped and pointed:

“Look, Phil,” said she. “It’s the nicest place you ever knew. Here it is. Here’s Madame Bonnet’s shop.”

[CHAPTER III—MADAME BONNET’S SHOP]

Madame Bonnet’s shop was so small that if you hadn’t known it was there you might easily have walked past it and never seen it at all.

It was one story high, with a low front door, and panes of glass in the one window so tiny that it was difficult to see the wares that Madame Bonnet had for sale. But if you shut one eye and pressed the other close to the glass, you were well repaid for your trouble, for Madame Bonnet kept a toy shop the like of which was not to be found anywhere, though you traveled the world over in search of it.

It was not that the shop was large, because it wasn’t. It was not that Madame Bonnet had many toys for sale, because she hadn’t. But the children said you could buy at Madame Bonnet’s what you couldn’t buy anywhere else. And though the grown people sometimes stated, and perhaps truly, that Madame Bonnet hadn’t bought a penny’s worth of new stock in twenty-five years, the children were well satisfied, and no doubt that is the true test of a toy shop, after all.

“Oh, Phil,” cried Susan, pressing one eye against the window, “do look at the china doll carriage, and the little doll’s lamp with a pink shade and all, and that beautiful pair of vases that would just go on the mantel in my doll’s house. I mean if I had a doll’s house,” added Susan truthfully.

But Phil, twisting and turning and almost standing on his head, was calling out:

“Look at the china boy rowing in the boat—with all his bundles, too. What do you think is in them, Susan? Do tell me. What is in that yellow striped bundle? What do you think is in that one?”

“Something for him to eat, I guess,” said Susan sensibly. “Let’s go inside and look around.”

Madame Bonnet was comfortably knitting in the rear of the shop, and didn’t think of getting up to wait upon her customers.

“Well, Susan Whiting,” said she, gazing at the children over her spectacles. “How do you do? Is your grandmother well? And so your grandfather is going to call by for you. I suppose he came in to the Court-House on business. And this is the little boy who has come to live next door to you, is it? Well, my dears, I hope you will find something you like here. Just walk around, and if you want to know about anything bring it to me. My knee has been so bad with rheumatism that I don’t get up if I can help it.”

And Madame Bonnet returned to her knitting, apparently forgetting the children, who walked about on tiptoe eyeing the toys and handling everything within reach.

Madame Bonnet had been born and brought up in the town of Green Valley and had never journeyed farther away than fifty miles. People were somewhat surprised, therefore, when, one fine day, the girl they had always known as Mary Bonnet had opened her little shop, and had raised over the front door a sign which boldly read, “Madame Bonnet.”

“There is French blood in me somewhere, I’m sure,” said she. “And I don’t see why I shouldn’t call myself ‘Madame,’ if I like.”

And now that Madame Bonnet was an old lady with white hair and spectacles, most people had forgotten that she had ever borne any other name.

“Phil,” said Susan, standing entranced before a low shelf, “won’t you come and look at this doll?”

In the center of a large square of cardboard was sewed a bisque doll, whose long flaxen braid hung over one shoulder and reached to the tips of her dimpled toes. Surrounding her, also sewed on the card, was her wardrobe, consisting of a pink dress, a pink hat, and a pair of pink kid boots, a similar costume in blue, a Red Riding Hood cape, and a green silk umbrella.

Susan fairly held her breath before this vision of loveliness. But Phil was spellbound at the other end of the shop—and no wonder.

In a long glass tube, full of water, was a little red imp, even to horns and tail, and, instructed by Susan how to press upon the rubber top, Phil soon learned to make the imp execute a gay dance or move slowly up and down in his narrow, watery prison.

“Come along,” urged Susan, tugging at Phil’s arm. “There are lots more things to see. Look at this little piano. It has four keys—tink-a-link-a-link! And here’s a swimming boy—how pretty he is!” And Susan carefully lifted the light little figure, who lay with rosy hands and feet outstretched all ready for a splash.

“I like the animals.”

And Phil paused before a table laden with small trays on each of which reposed a family of tiny bisque animals. There sat demure Mrs. Pussy and her five tortoise-shell kittens. Four timid little lambs huddled close to the Mother Sheep as if asking protection from a herd of big gray elephants, who, in turn, trumpeted silently with upturned trunks, at the disgrace of being placed next a placid family of black-and-white pigs. There were ducks and chickens, camels and donkeys, cows and horses—sitting, standing, and lying side by side in a peaceful and united frame of mind not often to be met with in this world.

Phil carried a tray of fat snub-nosed little animals back to Madame Bonnet to find out what they were.

“Land sakes!” exclaimed Madame Bonnet. “Don’t you know what they are? They’re dogs, pug dogs. Didn’t you ever see one? Susan, didn’t you ever see a pug dog? Well, I don’t know as they are as common as they used to be. Ladies used to like them for pets.” And Madame Bonnet shook her head over the way times had changed since she was a girl.

The children wandered round and round, entranced afresh at each table and shelf.

There was a small wooden clock, like the timepiece in Susan’s kitchen at home, whose pendulum swung gayly to and fro if only you helped it a little with your finger. There were dolls’ hats made by Madame Bonnet herself, that varied in style from a knitted tam-o’-shanter to a strange turban-like affair with a jaunty chicken feather in the top. There was sheet after sheet of paper dolls that surely belonged to the days of long ago, for the ladies wore their hair in a way that Grandmother would have recognized as a waterfall, and the little girl dolls had droll pantalettes hanging below their skirts.

There was a beautiful sawdust and china doll, whose wavy black china hair was piled high upon her head, whose strapped china boots gracefully took “first position” when she was held upright, and whose rosy lips smiled sweetly in spite of the fact that her bright green silk dress was neatly pasted on, so that it wouldn’t come off, no matter what the emergency. Perhaps the fancy gilt paper trimming on dolly’s frock kept her cheerful. Perhaps Susan’s open admiration warmed her chilly little china heart and helped her to forget any discomfort she might suffer.

At any rate, Susan passed reluctantly from her side to view the doll’s furniture, and there she entered into such a delightful wilderness of chairs, beds, tables, and sofas as would be difficult to describe. Parlor sets with red and blue velvet trimmings; bedroom sets quite complete, down to the cradle rocking comfortably away beside the mother’s big bed; rocking-chairs; baby’s high chair; a bookcase filled with tiny paper books; a stove with lids that really lifted off.

“Oh, I can’t go home!” cried Susan, when Grandfather opened the door and, stooping low to save his head, came into the shop.

“Five minutes more,” said Grandfather, as he sat down for a little talk with his old friend Madame Bonnet.

“Oh, Phil, only five minutes more.” And in that five minutes Susan flew around like a distracted hen, making up her mind what her purchase should be.

Phil had been absorbed for some time in a pile of paper books with gay red-and-white pictured covers, and he now came forward with his selection. “The Story of Naughty Adolphus,” read Grandfather, and gazed with interest upon the picture of Adolphus, to whom “naughty” seemed a mild word to apply. For not only was Adolphus dancing up and down in a fit of temper, and all but striking his meek and shrinking little nurse who stood terror stricken close by; but it was very evident that Adolphus refused to have his hair brushed, his face washed, or finger nails trimmed. All this the picture showed quite plainly, and innocent Phil gazed at it with a virtuous air, for, in his worst moments, he felt sure he had never even approached “Naughty Adolphus.”

“It looks interesting,” announced Grandfather soberly. “I think you’ve made a good choice. Susan, are you ready?”

“Look,” murmured Susan, faint with admiration. “Look what I’ve found.”

It was a white china egg, and, lifting off the top, there lay a little dolly, as snug as could be.

“It’s beautiful,” said Susan. And bold with gratitude, she stood on tiptoe and placed a kiss upon Madame Bonnet’s wrinkled cheek.

“Well!” said Madame Bonnet, taken aback for the moment, but liking it nevertheless. “If I had a good knee I’d step down cellar for a bottle of my raspberry vinegar to treat you all. How are your knees, Mr. Whiting?”

“Young as a boy’s,” returned Grandfather, rubbing them as he spoke. “But here’s Parson Drew. Suppose we let him step down. He doesn’t know that he has any knees.”

So Parson Drew, as fond as Susan of raspberry vinegar, obligingly “stepped down cellar,” and brought up a tall rosy bottle the contents of which, under Madame Bonnet’s careful eye, he poured into thin little glasses with a gold band about the top.

“Well,” said Grandfather, after he had actually turned the bottle upside down to prove to Susan and Phil that there was not a single drop left in it, “I’m afraid the time has come for us to go.”

And after many good-byes and messages for Grandmother, the party moved toward the door.

Parson Drew led the way, and, as he opened the door, something from outside, with a clatter and clash, darted into the shop, whirled down the aisle, and subsided with a jangle into a dark corner at the back of the store.

Madame Bonnet, completely forgetting her bad knee, mounted her chair in a twinkling and stood holding her skirts about her feet, calling—

“Help! Help! Help!”

Susan, clutching tight to her eggshell baby, tried to climb up into Grandfather’s arms, while Phil, making himself as small as possible, hid under a convenient table.

Grandfather was peering into the dark corner where the clattering object, now silent and motionless, could be faintly seen.

Suddenly Grandfather put back his head and laughed.

“It’s a cat,” said he; “a poor forlorn little gray cat. And we were all afraid of a cat.”

He gave a second look, and then he spoke in a different tone.

“Tut, tut, tut,” said Grandfather, as if he were angry.

He gently moved toward the trembling pussy, but before Madame Bonnet could step down from her chair or Phil come out from under the table, in from the street walked Mr. Drew, whom no one had missed until now. He held by the coat-collar a freckled, red-headed boy, and he was pushing him along in no very gentle way.

“This is the boy who did the deed,” said Mr. Drew, and he sounded angry in the same way Grandfather did. “I thought I would catch him enjoying his fun if I stepped outside, and, sure enough, there he was, doubled up with laughter and slapping himself on the knee at the joke. A fine joke,” added Mr. Drew, giving the boy a little shake, “a fine joke—tormenting a poor cat.”

“The other boys were in it, too,” whined the culprit, squirming, “only they ran away.”

“That doesn’t excuse you,” answered Mr. Drew sternly. “I have a notion to tie the tin can on you. ‘It’s only for a joke,’ you know. That is what you told me.”

“No, no,” whimpered the boy, jerking and twisting about. “Let me go. I’ll give you five cents if you do. I’ll give you ten cents if you let me go.” And he pulled from his pocket a handful of coins and held them out on his grimy palm.

“Is it yours?” asked Mr. Drew. “Is it your money?”

The boy nodded.

“Good!” said Mr. Drew. “Then I’ll take it.” And he coolly slipped the coins into his pocket.

“Now,” said he to the boy, tightening his grip on his collar, “you come with me, and we will spend this money on a treat for poor pussy. And you shall watch her enjoy it, too.”

When Mr. Drew returned with his unwilling companion, he found Madame Bonnet composedly knitting in her chair, the rest of the group eyeing pussy, still motionless in her corner.

“Now, Tim,” said Parson Drew cheerfully, to his sulky, red-haired friend, “you shall have the pleasure of giving pussy the milk and the cat-meat which you bought for her with your money.”

Tim silently spread the feast and retreated a few steps.

“Come, puss, puss,” encouraged Madame Bonnet in her comfortable voice, “drink your milk.”

And pussy timidly put out her pink tongue and drank the milk thirstily.

“You needn’t be afraid to leave her to me,” observed Madame Bonnet to Grandfather, who was looking at his watch. “I like a cat, when I know it’s a cat and not a whirlwind. I’ll take off the can when she is more used to me, and I’ll keep her here a bit till I find her a home.”

Outside the shop, the party halted once more.

“Don’t play any more tricks like this, will you, Tim?” asked Mr. Drew. “And shake hands.”

Tim nodded and thrust out his hard little hand. He grinned cheerfully up at Mr. Drew, and was off down the street, whistling shrilly between his fingers as he ran.

“When I get home,” confided Susan in Grandfather’s ear, as she sat on his lap on the homeward ride, “I’m going to tell Snowball all about it, and about that bad boy, and then I guess she will be glad that she has lost her tail. Don’t you?”

[CHAPTER IV—THE SQUASH BABY]

Susan was very unhappy. She stood by her bedroom window, kicking the wall, and at every kick she said, “mean, mean, mean.”

It was all about a little berry pie. Grandmother had made for Susan’s dinner a saucer pie. It was juicy and brown and had fancy little crimps all about the edge. It looked almost too good to eat.

But instead of being pleased and thanking Grandmother, Susan had scowled up her face at sight of it, and had muttered,

“I don’t like the little pie. I want a piece of the big one.”

Now, there is no telling why Susan acted in that way. I don’t believe she could have explained it herself. The words seemed to pop out of her mouth, her face seemed to snarl itself up, and, for no reason at all she suddenly felt very angry at the poor, pretty little saucer pie.

And after this dreadful speech, nobody spoke.

Susan felt Grandfather looking at her over his spectacles. She saw Grandmother take the saucer pie and set it aside. And then, somehow, nobody seemed to remember that Susan was at the table at all. She sat there, the lump in her throat growing bigger and bigger and with a strange prickly feeling in the end of her nose, until the tears began to chase one another down her cheeks. And then Susan slipped from her chair and ran upstairs.

On the floor near the door lay innocent Snowball. Susan pushed her to one side with such force that Snowball flew under the bed and struck the wall with a thump. Then Susan threw herself on the bed beside Flip and clasped her in her arms.

First she cried until she couldn’t cry any more, and then she whispered the whole story into Flip’s ear. “Nobody loves me but you, Flippy,” finished Susan with a gasp. Already she felt comforted, for, no matter what happened, Flippy was always on her side.

After a little, she rolled off the bed, and stood looking out of the window into the hot garden below. There was not a breath of air stirring. The leaves of the fruit trees scarcely moved, the sky seemed to swim and dance before her eyes, and the only sound to be heard was the shrill singing of the locusts in the trees.

It was then that Susan said, “mean, mean, mean,” and she meant Grandmother, and Grandfather, and every one in the whole round world except Flippy Whiting.

Susan twisted the shade cord and sniffed, and tried to think of all the cross and disagreeable things Grandmother and Grandfather had ever done to her.

But there was something strange about those thoughts. They were as contrary as Susan herself. For all she could remember were the times when Grandmother and Grandfather had been kind and patient and good, and little by little quite a different feeling came over her.

“Grandfather always takes me driving with him when he can,” thought she. “And Grandmother made the new dress for Flip; and she brought me a paint-box yesterday from Green Valley.”

And suddenly Susan began to cry again.

“But this time it is sorry tears. The other time it was mad ones,” thought she to herself, for Susan was quite as sharp as are most little girls to know when she was in the right or in the wrong.

Downstairs she flew, and flung her arms about Grandmother.

“Oh, oh, oh,” moaned Susan, burying her face in Grandmother’s neck. “Oh, Grandmother, Grandmother.” And if she had stood upon the church steps and shouted, “I’m sorry,” to the whole village, she couldn’t have said it more plainly.

Grandmother understood her quite well, and all she said was:

“I couldn’t believe that my Susan would be so rude to me.”

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” whispered Susan, and, sealing the peace with a kiss, she went in search of Grandfather.

He sat on the porch, reading his paper, and he must have heard all that she said, for he opened his arms, and without a word she snuggled down upon his lap. With both hands she pulled his face round to hers and placed a kiss upon what she called “my very own spot,” none other than the tip of Grandfather’s nose.

“Promise you will never let any one else kiss you there,” Susan had once begged.

“I promise,” Grandfather had answered with a laugh. And no doubt he kept his word.

But now, he put his hand into his baggy coat pocket and pulled out a plump summer squash.

“I thought this would make a nice dolly for you,” said he. “I picked it up after dinner in the garden.” And with his knife he deftly cut eyes and nose and mouth, and handed over the simpering orange-colored baby to the delighted Susan.

“Now we will go down to the office,” said he, “and let Grandmother have a nap this afternoon. I have to see a man on business, but you can play around the schoolhouse while I’m busy.”

At the roadside gate they stopped a moment “to catch the breeze,” said Grandfather, pulling off his hat and mopping his brow.

A man, whistling a lively tune, came up the road, and surely he felt the heat but little, for he wore a brown velveteen jacket and had knotted about his throat a bright red handkerchief. His face was brown and his soft hat showed dark curling hair underneath the brim.

Grandfather eyed him shrewdly, and, as the man passed the gate, he spoke.

“Sarishan,” said Grandfather.

The man stopped short and looked Grandfather straight in the eye.

“Sarishan, rye,” answered the man.

Grandfather Whiting laughed and shook his head.

“No, no,” said he. “I’m no rye, and ‘sarishan’ is all the Romany I know. But I wanted to see whether you would answer me. There are not many Romanies to be seen about here nowadays. Are there?”

The man shook his head and moved on. After a pause, he began his whistling again.

“What is it, Grandfather?” asked Susan. “What were you saying? Who is that man?”

“He is a gypsy,” answered Grandfather, watching the man out of sight, past the schoolhouse and round the bend of the road. “I thought so when I saw him, so I spoke to him in Romany or gypsy talk. I said, ‘Sarishan.’ That means, ‘good-day.’ I’m surprised he answered me. They generally pretend not to understand.”

“Sarishan,” repeated Susan. She liked the soft pretty word. “But what did he call you, Grandfather?”

“He called me ‘rye.’ That means a gentleman. A Romany rye is a gypsy gentleman. Some people like gypsy life, Susan, and know and understand the gypsies better than others do. Sometimes they slip away and live with the gypsies for a time. And this man thought I was one of them because I spoke to him in Romany.”

Susan wanted to ask Grandfather what gypsy life was like. But the man Grandfather was to see on business drove up just then, so she slipped across the road to the deserted schoolhouse, and, bringing out her own little broom which she kept under the porch, she proceeded to give the steps and the walk a thorough sweeping.

This housewifely task ended, she seated herself on the steps, for she thought the squash baby needed an afternoon nap. Tied round the handle of the broom was a little blue cloth that Susan used for a duster. It was new and clean, so she fastened it round the neck of the squash baby as a cloak, and so rocked the baby to and fro and hummed a little song.

It was quiet on the schoolhouse steps. The shadows crept silently across the road, so silently that they did not disturb a little head pillowed on the hard boards of the porch.

The flowers and grasses in the neglected yard stirred and rustled in the afternoon breeze, just beginning to spring up, but all they murmured was “Hush! Hush!” The bees hummed and buzzed busily about among the flowers, one inquisitive young fellow, who knew no better, actually lighting on Susan’s gay hair-ribbon, as if he thought it a new kind of blossom. But the little mother did not stir, for the very song the bees sang was a lullaby.

So that Susan’s nap was long and refreshing, and when at last she woke and stretched her stiff little arms and legs, she discovered that she was hungry.

“You stay here, baby,” said she, firmly planting the ever-smiling squash baby upon the steps. “I’ll be back in a minute with a cooky for you.”

Susan trudged leisurely up Featherbed Lane. Near the end she halted, and, leaning on the garden wall, stared with interest over at the Tallman house.

The sound of crying was plainly to be heard floating out upon the air. The dismal wails grew louder, and then the door opened and Phil’s father appeared.

He walked with a determined air to the big lilac bush near the foot of the steps, and, pulling out his pen-knife, carefully selected and cut off a stout little branch.

“It’s a switch,” thought Susan, terror-stricken. “Oh, me, it’s a switch.”

At this moment the door was flung open again, and out upon the porch darted a little figure. Its face was red, its arms were whirling, it was dancing up and down and crying all at once. But, nevertheless, as Susan peered closely, she saw that it was Phil. There was no doubt about that.

His friend on the other side of the fence held her breath at the sight. Oh, how sorry she was for him! She knew just how badly he felt. She, too, would have been dancing in a frenzy if, a little earlier that afternoon, she had seen Grandfather cutting a switch.

But, finally, Phil found his voice. “No, no!” he shrieked; “I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I’ll be good!”

His father turned and looked at him.

“Stop crying,” said he.

Phil sobbed and capered about a moment longer, but at last his sobs died away and he stood still.

His father eyed him a moment longer. Then he shut his pen-knife with a snap and dropped the switch in the grass.

At this welcome sight Phil vanished into the house, and his father slowly followed him.

“What a horrid day,” thought Susan. “Poor Philly! But I won’t tell I saw. I mean I won’t tell any one but Grandmother and Grandfather and Flip.”

Armed with her cookies, Susan traveled back to the schoolhouse. On the little stone walk she stopped and stared. The schoolhouse steps were bare!

Where was the squash baby? Surely she hadn’t walked away by herself. Neither had she rolled off, toppled over by her own weight, for Susan searched carefully in the grass about the steps. She shook the schoolhouse door. It was firmly locked. She peeped in the window. The same familiar scene met her eye: rows of old-fashioned benches, rusty stove, dingy maps upon the wall, tin dipper left upon the window-sill.

To Susan’s relief she saw Grandfather’s business friend drive away, and she hurried across the road to tell of the mysterious disappearance.