Racketty-Packetty House and Other Stories (16 page)

“I am the colour of gold,” it said, “and yet they have dared to cut me down. What will they do next, I wonder?”

What they did next was to bunch it up with other wheat and tie it and stack it together, and then it was carried in a waggon and laid in the barn.

Then there was a great bustle after a while. The farmer's wife and daughters and her two servants began to work as hard as they could.

“The threshers are coming,” they said, “and we must make plenty of things for them to eat.”

So they made pies and cakes and bread until their cupboards were full; and surely enough the threshers did come with the threshing-machine, which was painted red, and went “Puff! puff! puff! rattle! rattle!” all the time. And the proud wheat was threshed out by it, and found itself in grains again and very much out of breath.

“I look almost as I was at first,” it said; “only there are so many of me. I am grander than ever now. I was only one grain of wheat at first, and now I am at least fifty.”

When it was put into a sack, it managed to get all its grains together in one place, so that it might feel as grand as possible. It was so proud that it felt grand, however much it was knocked about.

It did not lie in the sack very long this time before something else happened. One morning it heard the farmer's wife saying to the coloured boy:

“Take this yere sack of wheat to the mill, Jerry. I want to try it when I make that thar cake for the boarders. Them two children from Washington city are powerful hands for cake.”

So Jerry lifted the sack up and threw it over his shoulder, and carried it out into the spring-waggon.

“Now we are going to travel,” said the proud wheat. “Don't let us be separated.”

At that minute, there were heard two young voices, shouting:—

“Jerry, take us in the waggon! Let us go to mill, Jerry. We want to go to mill.”

And these were the very two boys who had played in the granary and made so much noise the summer before. They had grown a little bigger, and their yellow hair was longer, but they looked just as they used to, with their strong little legs and big brown eyes, and their sailor hats set so far back on their heads that it was a wonder they stayed on. And gracious! how they shouted and ran.

“What does yer mar say?” asked Jerry.

“Says we can go!” shouted both at once, as if Jerry had been deaf, which he wasn't at all—quite the contrary.

So Jerry, who was very good-natured, lifted them in, and cracked his whip, and the horses started off. It was a long ride to the mill, but Lionel and Vivian were not too tired to shout again when they reached it. They shouted at sight of the creek and the big wheel turning round and round slowly, with the water dashing and pouring and foaming over it.

“What turns the wheel?” asked Vivian.

“The water, honey,” said Jerry.

“What turns the water?”

“Well now, honey,” said Jerry, “you hev me thar. I don't know nuffin 'bout it. Lors-a-massy, what a boy you is fur axin dif'cult questions.”

Then he carried the sack in to the miller, and said he would wait until the wheat was ground.

“Ground!” said the proud wheat. “We are going to be ground. I hope it is agreeable. Let us keep close together.”

They did keep close together, but it wasn't very agreeable to be poured into a hopper and then crushed into fine powder between two big stones.

“Makes nice flour,” said the miller, rubbing it between his fingers.

“Flour!” said the wheat—which was wheat no longer. “Now I am flour, and I am finer than ever. How white I am! I really would rather be white than green or gold colour. I wonder where the learned grain is, and if it is as fine and white as I am?”

But the learned grain and her family had been laid away in the granary for seed wheat.

Before the waggon reached the house again, the two boys were fast asleep in the bottom of it, and had to be helped out just as the sack was, and carried in.

The sack was taken into the kitchen at once and opened, and even in its wheat days the flour had never been so proud as it was when it heard the farmer's wife say—

“I'm going to make this into cake.”

“Ah!” it said; “I thought so. Now I shall be rich, and admired by everybody.”

The farmer's wife then took some of it out in a large white bowl, and after that she busied herself beating eggs and sugar and butter all together in another bowl: and after a while she took the flour and beat it in also.

“Now I am in grand company,” said the flour. “The eggs and butter are the colour of gold, the sugar is like silver or diamonds. This is the very society for me.”

“The cake looks rich,” said one of the daughters.

“It's rather too rich for them children,” said her mother. “But Lawsey, I dunno, neither. Nothin' don't hurt 'em. I reckon they could eat a panel of rail fence and come to no harm.”

“I'm rich,” said the flour to itself. “That is just what I intended from the first. I am rich and I am a cake.”

Just then, a pair of big brown eyes came and peeped into it. They belonged to a round little head with a mass of tangled curls all over it—they belonged to Vivian.

“What's that?” he asked.

“Cake.”

“Who made it?”

“I did.”

“I like you,” said Vivian. “You're such a nice woman. Who's going to eat any of it? Is Lionel?”

“I'm afraid it's too rich for boys,” said the woman, but she laughed and kissed him.

“No,” said Vivian. “I'm afraid it isn't.”

“I shall be much too rich,” said the cake, angrily. “Boys, indeed. I was made for something better than boys.”

After that, it was poured into a cake-mould, and put into the oven, where it had rather an unpleasant time of it. It was so hot in there that if the farmer's wife had not watched it carefully, it would have been burned.

“But I am cake,” it said, “and of the richest kind, so I can bear it, even if it is uncomfortable.”

When it was taken out, it really was cake, and it felt as if it was quite satisfied. Everyone who came into the kitchen and saw it, said—

“Oh, what a nice cake! How well your new flour has done!”

But just once, while it was cooling, it had a curious, disagreeable feeling. It found, all at once, that the two boys, Lionel and Vivian, had come quietly into the kitchen and stood near the table, looking at the cake with their great eyes wide open and their little red mouths open, too.

“Dear me,” it said. “How nervous I feet—actually nervous. What great eyes they have, and how they shine! and what are those sharp white things in their mouths? I really don't like them to look at me in that way. It seems like something personal. I wish the farmer's wife would come.”

Such a chill ran over it, that it was quite cool when the woman came in, and she put it away in the cupboard on a plate.

But, that very afternoon, she took it out again and set it on the table on a glass cake-stand. She put some leaves around it to make it look nice, and it noticed there were a great many other things on the table, and they all looked fresh and bright.

“This is all in my honour,” it said. “They know I am rich.”

Then several people came in and took chairs around the table.

“They all come to sit and look at me,” said the vain cake. “I wish the learned grain could see me now.”

There was a little high-chair on each side of the table, and at first these were empty, but in a few minutes the door opened and in came the two little boys. They had pretty, clean dresses on, and their “bangs” and curls were bright with being brushed.

“Even they have been dressed up to do me honour,” thought the cake.

But, the next minute, it began to feel quite nervous again. Vivian's chair was near the glass stand, and when he had climbed up and seated himself, he put one elbow on the table and rested his fat chin on his fat hand, and fixing his eyes on the cake, sat and stared at it in such an unnaturally quiet manner for some seconds, that any cake might well have felt nervous.

“There's the cake,” he said, at last, in such a deeply thoughtful voice that the cake felt faint with anger.

Then a remarkable thing happened. Some one drew the stand toward them and took the knife and cut out a large slice of the cake.

“Go away!” said the cake, though no one heard it. “I am cake! I am rich! I am not for boys! How dare you?”

Vivian stretched out his hand; he took the slice; he lifted it up, and then the cake saw his red mouth open-yes, open wider than it could have believed possible-wide enough to show two dreadful rows of little sharp white things.

“Good gra——” it began.

But it never said “cious.” Never at all. For in two minutes Vivian had eaten it!!

And there was an end of its airs and graces.

I
t began with Aunt Hetty's being out of temper, which, it must be confessed, was nothing new. At its best, Aunt Hetty's temper was none of the most charming, and this morning it was at its worst. She had awakened to the consciousness of having a hard day's work before her, and she had awakened late, and so everything had gone wrong from the first. There was a sharp ring in her voice when she came to Jem's bedroom door and called out, “Jemima, get up this minute!”

Jem knew what to expect when Aunt Hetty began a day by calling her “Jemima.” It was one of the poor child's grievances that she had been given such an ugly name. In all the books she had read, and she had read a great many, Jem never had met a heroine who was called Jemima. But it had been her mother's favorite sister's name, and so it had fallen to her lot. Her mother always called her “Jem,” or “Mimi,” which was much prettier, and even Aunt Hetty only reserved Jemima for unpleasant state occasions.

It was a dreadful day to Jem. Her mother was not at home, and would not be until night. She had been called away unexpectedly, and had been obliged to leave Jem and the baby to Aunt Hetty's mercies.

So Jem found herself busy enough. Scarcely had she finished doing one thing, when Aunt Hetty told her to begin another. She wiped dishes and picked fruit and attended to the baby; and when baby had gone to sleep, and everything else seemed disposed of, for a time, at least, she was so tired that she was glad to sit down.

And then she thought of the book she had been reading the night before-a certain delightful story book, about a little girl whose name was Flora, and who was so happy and rich and pretty and good that Jem had likened her to the little princesses one reads about, to whose christening feast every fairy brings a gift.

“I shall have time to finish my chapter before dinnertime comes,” said Jem, and she sat down snugly in one corner of the wide, old fashioned fireplace.

But she had not read more than two pages before something dreadful happened. Aunt Hetty came into the room in a great hurry—in such a hurry, indeed, that she caught her foot in the matting and fell, striking her elbow sharply against a chair, which so upset her temper that the moment she found herself on her feet she flew at Jem.

“What!” she said, snatching the book from her, “reading again, when I am running all over the house for you?” And she flung the pretty little blue covered volume into the fire.

Jem sprang to rescue it with a cry, but it was impossible to reach it; it had fallen into a great hollow of red coal, and the blaze caught it at once.

“You are a wicked woman!” cried Jem, in a dreadful passion, to Aunt Hetty. “You are a wicked woman.”

Then matters reached a climax. Aunt Hetty boxed her ears, pushed her back on her little footstool, and walked out of the room.

Jem hid her face on her arms and cried as if her heart would break. She cried until her eyes were heavy, and she thought she would be obliged to go to sleep. But just as she was thinking of going to sleep, something fell down the chimney and made her look up. It was a piece of mortar, and it brought a good deal of soot with it. She bent forward and looked up to see where it had come from. The chimney was so very wide that this was easy enough. She could see where the mortar had fallen from the side and left a white patch.

“How white it looks against the black!” said Jem; “it is like a white brick among the black ones. What a queer place a chimney is! I can see a bit of the blue sky, I think.”

And then a funny thought came into her fanciful little head. What a many things were burned in the big fireplace and vanished in smoke or tinder up the chimney! Where did everything go? There was Flora, for instance—Flora who was represented on the frontispiece—with lovely, soft, flowing hair, and a little fringe on her pretty round forehead, crowned with a circlet of daisies, and a laugh in her wide-awake round eyes. Where was she by this time? Certainly there was nothing left of her in the fire. Jem almost began to cry again at the thought.

“It was too bad,” she said. “She was so pretty and funny, and I did like her so.”

I daresay it scarcely will be credited by unbelieving people when I tell them what happened next, it was such a very singular thing, indeed.

Jem felt herself gradually lifted off her little footstool.

“Oh!” she said, timidly, “I fell very light.” She did feel light, indeed. She felt so light that she was sure she was rising gently in the air.

“Oh,” she said again, “how—how very light I feel! Oh, dear, I'm going up the chimney!”

It was rather strange that she never thought of calling for help, but she did not. She was not easily frightened; and now she was only wonderfully astonished, as she remembered afterwards. She shut her eyes tight and gave a little gasp.

“I've heard Aunt Hetty talk about the draught drawing things up the chimney, but I never knew it was as strong as this,” she said.

She went up, up, up, quietly and steadily, and without any uncomfortable feeling at all; and then all at once she stopped, feeling that her feet rested against something solid. She opened her eyes and looked about her, and there she was, standing right opposite the white brick, her feet on a tiny ledge.

“Well,” she said, “this is funny.”

But the next thing that happened was funnier still. She found that, without thinking what she was doing, she was knocking on the white brick with her knuckles, as if it was a door and she expected somebody to open it. The next minute she heard footsteps, and then a sound, as if some one was drawing back a little bolt.

“It is a door,” said Jem, “and somebody is going to open it.”

The white brick moved a little, and some more mortar and soot fell; then the brick moved a little more, and then it slid aside and left an open space.

“It's a room!” cried Jem. “There's a room behind it!”

And so there was, and before the open space stood a pretty little girl, with long lovely hair and a fringe on her forehead. Jem clasped her hands in amazement. It was Flora herself, as she looked in the picture, and Flora stood laughing and nodding.

“Come in,” she said. “I thought it was you.”

“But how can I come in through such a little place?” asked Jem.

“Oh, that is easy enough,” said Flora. “Here, give me your hand.”

Jem did as she told her, and found that it was easy enough. In an instant she had passed through the opening, the white brick had gone back to its place, and she was standing by Flora's side in a large room—the nicest room she had ever seen. It was big and lofty and light, and there were all kinds of delightful things in it—books and flowers and playthings and pictures, and in one corner a great cage full of lovebirds.

“Have I ever seen it before?” asked Jem, glancing slowly around.

“Yes,” said Flora; “you saw it last night—in your mind. Don't you remember it?”

Jem shook her head.

“I feel as if I did, but——”

“Why,” said Flora, laughing, “it's my room, the one you read about last night.”

“So it is,” said Jem. “But how did you come here?”

“I can't tell you that; I myself don't know. But I am here, and so”—rather mysteriously—“are a great many other things.”

“Are they?” said Jem, very much interested. “What things? Burned things? I was just wondering——”

“Not only burned things,” said Flora, nodding. “Just come with me and I'll show you something.”

She led the way out of the room and down a little passage with several doors in each side of it, and she opened one door and showed Jem what was on the other side of it. That was a room, too, and this time it was funny as well as pretty. Both floor and walls was strewn with toys. There were big soft balls, rattles, horses, woolly dogs, and a doll or so; there was one low cushioned chair and a low table.

“You can come in,” said a shrill little voice behind the door, “only mind you don't tread on things.”

“What a funny little voice!” said Jem, but she had no sooner said it than she jumped back.

The owner of the voice, who had just come forward, was no other than Baby.

“Why,” exclaimed Jem, beginning to feel frightened, “I left you fast asleep in your crib.”

“Did you?” said Baby, somewhat scornfully. “That's just the way with you grown-up people. You think you know everything, and yet you haven't discretion enough to know when a pin is sticking into one. You'd know soon enough if you had one sticking into your own back.”

“But I'm not grown up,” stammered Jem; “and when you are at home you can neither walk nor talk. You're not six months old.”

“Well, miss,” retorted Baby, whose wrongs seemed to have soured her disposition somewhat, “you have no need to throw that in my teeth; you were not six months old, either, when you were my age.”

Jem could not help laughing.

“You haven't got any teeth,” she said.

“Haven't I? said Baby, and she displayed two beautiful rows with some haughtiness of manner. “When I am up here,” she said, “I am supplied with the modern conveniences, and that's why I never complain. Do I ever cry when I am asleep? It's not falling asleep I object to, it's falling awake.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jem. “Are you asleep now?”

“I'm what you call asleep. I can only come here when I'm what you call asleep. Asleep, indeed! It's no wonder we always cry when we have to fall awake.”

“But we don't mean to be unkind to you,” protested Jem, meekly.

She could not help thinking Baby was very severe.

“Don't mean!” said Baby. “Well, why don't you think more, then? How would you like to have all the nice things snatched away from you, and all the old rubbish packed off on you, as if you hadn't any sense? How would you like to have to sit and stare at things you wanted, and not to be able to reach them, or, if you did reach them, have them fall out of your hand, and roll away in the most unfeeling manner? And then be scolded and called ‘cross!' It's no wonder we are bald. You'd be bald yourself. It's trouble and worry that keep us bald until we can begin to take care of ourselves; I had more hair than this at first, but it fell off, as well it might. No philosopher ever thought of that, I suppose!”

“Well,” said Jem, in despair, “I hope you enjoy yourself when you are here?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Baby. “That's one comfort. There is nothing to knock my head against, and things have patent stoppers on them, so that they can't roll away, and everything is soft and easy to pick up.”

There was a slight pause after this, and Baby seemed to cool down.

“I suppose you would like me to show you round?” she said.

“Not if you have any objection,” replied Jem, who was rather subdued.

“I would as soon do it as not,” said Baby. “You are not as bad as some people, though you do get my clothes twisted when you hold me.”

Upon the whole, she seemed rather proud of her position. It was evident she quite regarded herself as hostess. She held her small bald head very high indeed, as she trotted on before them. She stopped at the first door she came to, and knocked three times. She was obliged to stand upon tiptoe to reach the knocker.

“He's sure to be at home at this time of year,” she remarked. “This is the busy season.”

“Who's ‘he'?” inquired Jem.

But Flora only laughed at Miss Baby's consequential air.

“S. C., to be sure,” was the answer, as the young lady pointed to the door-plate, upon which Jem noticed, for the first time, “S. C.” in very large letters.

The door opened, apparently without assistance, and they entered the apartment:

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Jem, the next minute. “Goodness gracious!”

She might well be astonished. It was such a long room that she could not see to the end of it, and it was piled up from floor to ceiling with toys of ever description, and there was such bustle and buzzing in it that it was quite confusing. The bustle and buzzing arose from a very curious cause, too,—it was the bustle and buzz of hundreds of tiny men and women who were working at little tables no higher than mushrooms,—the pretty tiny women cutting out and sewing, the pretty tiny men sawing and hammering and all talking at once. The principal person in the place escaped Jem's notice at first; but it was not long before she saw him,—a little old gentleman, with a rosy face and sparkling eyes, sitting at a desk, and writing in a book almost as big as himself. He was so busy that he was quite excited, and had been obliged to throw his white fur coat and cap aside, and he was at work in his red waistcoat.

“Look here, if you please,” piped Baby. “I have brought some one to see you.”

When he turned round, Jem recognized him at once.

“Eh! Eh!” he said. “What! What! Who's this, Tootsicums?”

Baby's manner became very acid indeed.

“I shouldn't have thought you would have said that, Mr. Claus,” she remarked. “I can't help myself down below, but I generally have my rights respected up here. I should like to know what sane godfather or godmother would give one the name of ‘Tootsicums' in one's baptism. They are bad enough, I must say; but I never heard of any of them calling a person ‘Tootsicums.”'

“Come, come!” said S. C., chuckling comfortably and rubbing his hands. “Don't be too dignified,—it's a bad thing. And don't be too fond of flourishing your rights in people's faces,—that's the worst of all, Miss Midget. Folks who make such a fuss about their rights turn them into wrongs sometimes.”

Then he turned suddenly to Jem.

“You are the little girl from down below,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” answered Jem. “I'm Jem, and this is my friend Flora,—out of the blue book.”