CHAPTER IV--THE SQUASH BABY
Susan was very unhappy. She stood by her bedroom window, kicking thewall, and at every kick she said, "mean, mean, mean."
It was all about a little berry pie. Grandmother had made for Susan'sdinner a saucer pie. It was juicy and brown and had fancy little crimpsall about the edge. It looked almost too good to eat.
But instead of being pleased and thanking Grandmother, Susan had scowledup 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 believeshe could have explained it herself. The words seemed to pop out of hermouth, her face seemed to snarl itself up, and, for no reason at all shesuddenly 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 sawGrandmother take the saucer pie and set it aside. And then, somehow,nobody seemed to remember that Susan was at the table at all. She satthere, the lump in her throat growing bigger and bigger and with astrange prickly feeling in the end of her nose, until the tears began tochase one another down her cheeks. And then Susan slipped from her chairand ran upstairs.
On the floor near the door lay innocent Snowball. Susan pushed her toone side with such force that Snowball flew under the bed and struck thewall with a thump. Then Susan threw herself on the bed beside Flip andclasped her in her arms.
First she cried until she couldn't cry any more, and then she whisperedthe whole story into Flip's ear. "Nobody loves me but you, Flippy,"finished Susan with a gasp. Already she felt comforted, for, no matterwhat happened, Flippy was always on her side.
After a little, she rolled off the bed, and stood looking out of thewindow into the hot garden below. There was not a breath of airstirring. The leaves of the fruit trees scarcely moved, the sky seemedto swim and dance before her eyes, and the only sound to be heard wasthe shrill singing of the locusts in the trees.
It was then that Susan said, "mean, mean, mean," and she meantGrandmother, and Grandfather, and every one in the whole round worldexcept Flippy Whiting.
Susan twisted the shade cord and sniffed, and tried to think of all thecross and disagreeable things Grandmother and Grandfather had ever doneto her.
But there was something strange about those thoughts. They were ascontrary as Susan herself. For all she could remember were the timeswhen Grandmother and Grandfather had been kind and patient and good, andlittle 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 apaint-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 littlegirls 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 stepsand shouted, "I'm sorry," to the whole village, she couldn't have saidit 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 thepeace with a kiss, she went in search of Grandfather.
He sat on the porch, reading his paper, and he must have heard all thatshe said, for he opened his arms, and without a word she snuggled downupon his lap. With both hands she pulled his face round to hers andplaced a kiss upon what she called "my very own spot," none other thanthe tip of Grandfather's nose.
"Promise you will never let any one else kiss you there," Susan had oncebegged.
"I promise," Grandfather had answered with a laugh. And no doubt he kepthis word.
But now, he put his hand into his baggy coat pocket and pulled out aplump summer squash.
"I thought this would make a nice dolly for you," said he. "I picked itup after dinner in the garden." And with his knife he deftly cut eyesand nose and mouth, and handed over the simpering orange-colored baby tothe delighted Susan.
"Now we will go down to the office," said he, "and let Grandmother havea nap this afternoon. I have to see a man on business, but you can playaround the schoolhouse while I'm busy."
At the roadside gate they stopped a moment "to catch the breeze," saidGrandfather, pulling off his hat and mopping his brow.
A man, whistling a lively tune, came up the road, and surely he felt theheat but little, for he wore a brown velveteen jacket and had knottedabout his throat a bright red handkerchief. His face was brown and hissoft hat showed dark curling hair underneath the brim.
Grandfather eyed him shrewdly, and, as the man passed the gate, hespoke.
"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 manyRomanies to be seen about here nowadays. Are there?"
The man shook his head and moved on. After a pause, he began hiswhistling again.
"What is it, Grandfather?" asked Susan. "What were you saying? Who isthat 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 whenI 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. Theygenerally pretend not to understand."
"Sarishan," repeated Susan. She liked the soft pretty word. "But whatdid he call you, Grandfather?"
"He called me 'rye.' That means a gentleman. A Romany rye is a gypsygentleman. Some people like gypsy life, Susan, and know and understandthe gypsies better than others do. Sometimes they slip away and livewith the gypsies for a time. And this man thought I was one of thembecause I spoke to him in Romany."
Susan wanted to ask Grandfather what gypsy life was like. But the manGrandfather was to see on business drove up just then, so she slippedacross the road to the deserted schoolhouse, and, bringing out her ownlittle broom which she kept under the porch, she proceeded to give thesteps and the walk a thorough sweeping.
This housewifely task ended, she seated herself on the steps, for shethought the squash baby needed an afternoon nap. Tied round the handleof the broom was a little blue cloth that Susan used for a duster. Itwas new and clean, so she fastened it round the neck of the squash babyas 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 acrossthe road, so silently that they did not disturb a little head pillowedon the hard boards of the porch.
The flowers and grasses in the neglected yard stirred and rustled in theafternoon 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 onSusan's gay hair-ribbon, as if he thought it a new kind of blossom. Butthe little mother did not stir, for the very song the bees sang was alullaby.
So that Susan's nap was long and refreshing, and when at last she wokeand stretched her stiff little arms and legs, she discovered that shewas hungry.
"You stay here, baby," said she, firmly planting the ever-smiling squashbaby 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 theTallman 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 fatherappeared.
He walked with a determined air to the big lilac bush near the foot ofthe steps, and, pulling out his pen-knife, carefully selected and cutoff a stout little branch.
"It's a switch," thought Susan, terror-stricken. "Oh, me, it's aswitch."
At this moment the door was flung open again, and out upon the porchdarted a little figure. Its face was red, its arms were whirling, it wasdancing up and down and crying all at once. But, nevertheless, as Susanpeered 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 thatafternoon, she had seen Grandfather cutting a switch.
But, finally, Phil found his voice. "No, no!" he shrieked; "I'll begood! 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 diedaway and he stood still.
His father eyed him a moment longer. Then he shut his pen-knife with asnap and dropped the switch in the grass.
At this welcome sight Phil vanished into the house, and his fatherslowly followed him.
"What a horrid day," thought Susan. "Poor Philly! But I won't tell Isaw. I mean I won't tell any one but Grandmother and Grandfather andFlip."
Armed with her cookies, Susan traveled back to the schoolhouse. On thelittle stone walk she stopped and stared. The schoolhouse steps werebare!
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 Susansearched carefully in the grass about the steps. She shook theschoolhouse door. It was firmly locked. She peeped in the window. Thesame familiar scene met her eye: rows of old-fashioned benches, rustystove, dingy maps upon the wall, tin dipper left upon the window-sill.
To Susan's relief she saw Grandfather's business friend drive away, andshe hurried across the road to tell of the mysterious disappearance.
"Too bad," said Grandfather, as hand in hand they walked up to thehouse. "But I'll make you another baby. Some mischievous boy has passedby and taken it. There is not much travel on this road, though, and younever lost anything before, did you? It's strange."
Over on the Tallman steps sat Phil alone. He was spick and span in aclean starched suit, his hair was brushed to a gloss, and he was turningthe leaves of a picture-book in a way that any proper and well-behavedchild might imitate. At this moment, whatever may have been true earlierin the day, there was not the slightest suggestion of Naughty Adolphusabout little Phil.
But he seemed dispirited, and Grandmother, who had sharp eyes and earsas well as a warm heart, and who had guessed something of Phil's unhappyafternoon, looked from the drooping little figure on the steps to thered-rimmed eyes of her own Susan.
"Susan," said she briskly, "it's a long while to supper-time. You runover and ask Mrs. Vane to let Philip come back here with you. Tell her Ihave a little treat for you two. I hope I won't give them bad dreams,"Grandmother added to herself, as Susan gladly sped over the garden walland across the green lawn on her pleasant errand.
Back came the children, hand in hand, already looking brighter, and whenthey saw the little saucer pie, neatly cut in two, they broke into broadsmiles.
"Chew it well," instructed Grandmother, "and when you have finished, besure you run around the house three times.
"But I believe their pleasure is worth one nightmare," reflected she,"though I don't know that Mrs. Vane would agree with me."
"It's good," announced Phil, his own cheerful self once more, as hejoyously ate berry juice with a spoon.
"It's the best pie I ever tasted," said Susan, twisting about in herchair to smile at Grandmother. Never, never again would she be rude toGrandmother; of that she was sure.
"But I do wish," said Susan, looking round at every one, "that I knewwho took my squash baby."