A Sweet Little Maid - Amy Ella Blanchard (e reader books .txt) 📗

no way. The tree that shaded the woodhouse was just too high to reach, and she crept to the edge of the roof, making up her mind to jump, but when she saw the distance her heart failed her, and she went back.

"Leave me hyah all night I s'pose," she said, "mebbe I'll ketch cold and die; 'most wisht I would."

Then she heard some one call "Bubbles, Bubbles," but though she answered, no one came.

It grew later and later, the sun went down, and the sky sent up little puffs of pink clouds overhead.

Bubbles lay down on her back, and looked up at the sky. After a while a little star peeped out, then disappeared again, like a baby playing "Peep-bo."

"Angels, I reckon," thought Bubbles. "S'pose I won't git to see 'em. I reckon stealin's awful," and she lay there in a very humble frame of mind, till she went to sleep.

"I cannot imagine what has become of Bubbles," said Mrs. Dallas to her husband when he came in. "I have looked the house over, and called her in every room. She cannot have followed the children. I never knew her to stay away before."

"Hasn't Sylvy seen her?"

"Not since early in the afternoon. She has looked all over the place." And so she had, but Bubbles asleep on the roof did not hear her, and a limb of the tree on that side hid her from view.

"There is no reason for her running off, is there?" asked Mr. Dallas.

"No, unless Dimple has threatened her with the orphan asylum once too often. She has such a horror of it, but I told Dimple not to do so again, and she is not apt to disobey."

They sat down to tea, and it was not till an hour later that Bubbles was rescued. Mr. Dallas was walking about, smoking his cigar, when he heard a doleful voice saying,

"Lordy, Lordy, I'm awful bad, just as well go to the orphan asylum. I'll die hyah, plum sho'."

He listened, and walked a few steps further.

"Wisht I was a bird, I'd get up in that tree. Wisht I had a raven to bring me my supper--s'pose I'll starve and die too."

"Bubbles, where are you?" called Mr. Dallas. He heard a scrambling overhead, and a delighted reply.

"Hyah, sah, hyah I are."

He looked all around, but did not see her.

"Where are you?" he asked again.

"On de roof, sah."

"Well, why don't you get down?"

"Ain't no way, sah; done tucken de ladder away."

Mr. Dallas found the ladder and put it up, and Bubbles scrambled down.

"Have you been up there all this time?"

"Yas, sah," said Bubbles, scraping one foot with the bare toes of the other.

"How came the ladder down?"

"Miss Dimple done did it."

"What for?"

Bubbles hung her head, and began scraping the other foot.

"What for?" again asked Mr. Dallas.

"I done stole," said Bubbles, solemnly.

"And she did it to punish you?"

"Yas, sah."

Mr. Dallas could not avoid smiling, but he said, "Go along into the house, and tell Mrs. Dallas about it. By the way, didn't you see any one looking for you?"

"No, sah. I was clean tuckered a waitin', and I went to sleep. 'Specs they came then mebbe."

"Well, go along," he said, and Bubbles started for the house, while he went to bring home the girls.


CHAPTER VI


The Tea-Party

When the carriage left the house Mrs. Hardy directed the driver to go through one of the pleasant roads leading from the town.

"Which is your favorite drive, Dimple?" she asked.

"Oh, Pleasant Valley and Big Run," answered she. "Don't you think so?"

"I hardly know," said Mrs. Hardy. "I have been around so little; you will have to be our guide and tell us the pretty places."

Dimple felt quite important, and chatted away at a great rate.

"Didn't Rock make our dolls pretty hats?" she asked. "Mrs. Hardy, I wish he were my brother. He couldn't be, could he? Even if he could only be my cousin, I should like it."

Mrs. Hardy looked at Rock, who laughed and said, "That is more likely than the other."

"I don't see how," said Dimple.

"You will see," said Rock. But at a look from his mother he was silent.

They leaned back on the soft cushions, breathing the sweet air, spicy with the scent of the pines through which they were driving.

At Big Run they all begged to get out, to see if there were any fish in the water. They clambered about on the bank and over the stones, till Mrs. Hardy told them it was too late to stop longer, and they drove toward town.

After they had reached the house where Rock and his mother were boarding, they took off their hats and were ready for tea. They wondered if they were all to sit with Mrs. Brisk's family at the table, and dreaded it a little. However, when Rock said, "Come this way, girls," they were a little mystified, for he took them out into the garden.

Under a trellised summerhouse there was set a little table for three, and on the bench a very small table with two little chairs.

"That is for the dolls," explained Rock.

"Oh, Rock!" exclaimed the girls. "Where did they come from? Did you make them?"

"Yes," said he. "Do you like them?"

"They are perfect," said Florence. "Dimple, do see how nicely Celestine sits up to the table."

"And Rubina, too," said Dimple, as she took off her doll's hat. "Don't they look lovely? Look, Rock. What a boy you are."

Rock laughed, and they turned to their own table, which had a tiny bouquet by each plate and a pyramid of fruit in the centre.

The long drive had given them all an appetite, and they did full justice to the croquettes, muffins and fried potatoes before they thought of the jelly, fruit and cake.

"How will we get our chairs and table home?" said Florence.

"I will take them to-morrow," said Rock.

"Oh, no," said Dimple. "It was enough for you to make them, without taking them home, too."

"Well," said Rock, "if the cabinetmaker can't take home his own goods, I think it is a pity."

The girls laughed, and so the matter rested.

"What shall we do now?" asked Rock. "Will you look at pictures, or play games, or what?"

Dimple looked at Florence, and Florence looked at Dimple.

"I think pictures are nice in winter, when you can't be out of doors," said Florence, who never could get enough of out of doors.

So they concluded to play out of doors.

"What nice long grass this is," said Dimple. "We could almost hide ourselves. We might play we were rabbits, and hop about and make nests."

"Let's hide ourselves," cried Florence. "I speak for first count.

"'Onery Twoery,
Dickery Day,
Illava, Lullava,
Lackava Lay,
One condemn the American line.
Umny Bumny,
Twenty-nine.
Fillason, Folloson,
Nicholas John.
Queevy, Quavy,
English Navy,
Signum, Sangnum,
Buck!'

"You're out," she sang out to Rock and then went again rapidly over the count, making herself "It."

Then Dimple and Rock stole softly off to hide themselves, while Florence covered her eyes by a tree.

"Whoop!" called Dimple, presently.

"Whoop!" called Rock, a moment later.

And Florence went in search of them, but before she found them, she discovered something else and called out:

"Rock! Dimple! Come here, quick. I have found something so funny and cunning."

Out of their nests started the children to see Florence standing over another nest in a trellis, in which was a family of little baby wrens, opening their small beaks and clamoring to be fed.

"Sh! Sh!" Dimple said, softly. "Don't let's scare them, poor little things. See, there is the mother bird. She is distressed because we have found her babies. Oh Rock, don't let any one else know they are here, for they might hurt them."

"Let us go away now," said Rock, in a whisper. "The poor mother bird is flying around, and is so troubled. She doesn't know that we wouldn't harm her little ones for anything." So they tiptoed away and left the mother in possession.

"What kind of bird was it?" Florence asked, in a low voice.

"Why, don't you know? That was Jenny Wren," returned Dimple, more accustomed to creatures of woods and fields.

"Was it really Jenny Wren?" exclaimed Florence, delightedly. "I'm so glad I've seen her."

"Didn't you ever see her before? You have heard Mr. Wren sing, haven't you? Oh, how he sings! I think house-wrens are such dear, dear birds. We always put up boxes and cans and such things for them, for we like to have them around, and they can build their nests in quite small places. The other big birds try to drive them away sometimes, but we always try to protect them. Mamma says Jenny Wren is a very neat housekeeper, and takes excellent care of her family. They are such friendly little birds. I love them better than any others."

"Do you believe you have any wrens' nests near the house, this year?" Florence asked.

"Yes, indeed, ever so many. I know just where to look for them. I'll show you some to-morrow. There's one in the funniest place. You know where the bamboo shade is rolled up at the side of the front porch: well, in one end of that a wren has built a nest, and mamma will not have the shade let down till the little birds are ready to fly."

Florence gave a sigh of content. She enjoyed such things so heartily, and saw none of them in her city home.

"I like the robins," put in Rock, "they are such cheerful fellows. Listen to that one whistle. Doesn't it remind you of juicy cherries?"

Dimple laughed. "Yes, and don't they love cherries! I believe they eat half on our trees, and they always pick out the very finest ones."

"Of course. So would you, if you were a robin," Rock returned. "Speaking of birds, Florence, have you ever watched the swallows--the chimney swifts--come home? It's a sight."

"No, I never saw them. Are there any here?" returned Florence, eagerly.

"Lots of them. They build in that old chimney, and they come every year on a certain day of the month. They seem to have a sort of system in the way they circle around, and go down the chimney; just as if they were regularly drilled for it. It's about time for them now. Suppose we sit here and watch them."

This they did, and when the last belated swallow had dropped down into the tall old chimney, they went up to the house where Mrs. Hardy was waiting for them, and where they were glad to listen to her tales of California; its big trees, its fine fruits, and the lovely flowers that grow wild there; and she told many funny tales of the Chinese, till Mr. Dallas made his appearance, and with regretful