Books: Half Past Seven Stories

R >> Robert Gordon Anderson >> Half Past Seven Stories

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Those two round things--like cherries--stuck in his throat so. What
was it the doctor called them? Tonsils, that was it. And they felt as
big as footballs now, and, oh, so sore!

The doctor decided he had "tonsil-eatus"--a funny name. He called out
to Mother to inquire if they would really "eat us"--and how they could
"eat us" when they were in your throat already. He felt rather proud
of that joke and better for having made it--for a little while,
anyway.

There was one "'speshully fine" thing about being sick. Mother would
always send Jehosophat and Hepzebiah into the spare room to sleep, and
she would come herself and lie down in Jehosophat's bed, right next to
the little sick boy, right where he could reach out his hand and place
it in hers. That was "most worth" all the aches and the pains.

It was all right to have Father near, but somehow Marmaduke felt
better if it was Mother that lay by his side. Her hands and her voice
were sort of cool and they drove the bad things that came in his
dreams far away.

There was one other fine thing about being sick the Fairy Lamp!

At least that was what the children had named it. It was really a
little blue bowl, not light blue like his oatmeal bowl, but almost as
blue as periwinkles, or the sky some nights. It had little creases on
the outside, "flutings," Mother said, like the pleats in her dress.
Inside the bowl was a thick white candle, and it had a curly black
wick like a kewpie's topknot.

Now Mother wanted to make sponge for the bread, but Marmaduke
pleaded,--

"I want you to stay with me, I feel so sick."

"Wouldn't my little boy let me go--just for five minutes?"

He thought that over for a little while. Then, "Yes," he said slowly,
"if you light the Fairy Lamp."

So she struck the match and touched it to the wick. The wick always
seemed lazy about being lit. It acted as if the match were waking it
up.

But all of a sudden it would burst into flame, and the dark blue of
the bowl would turn into light blue--oh, such a pretty color, not like
the bluing Hannah put in the water to make the clothes white, nor
would it match Sophy Soapstone's electric blue dress. It was more like
a blue mist, just such a shade as the fairies would wear.

Marmaduke watched it a long time. Sometimes the little flame
sputtered, sometimes it waved in the air, or dipped and bowed in his
direction, and once it _actually_ winked at him.

From where he lay he could see a bright star shining through the
window. He tried to look with one eye at the light and with the other
eye at the star, both at the same time. The star seemed sort of blue,
too.

"I wonder if the little light is the baby of the star," he said to
himself.

And when he looked at the star again, he saw a ray travel down from it
into the window, right towards his eyes.

He blinked, and the light grew brighter. It made a pathway reaching
from the sky to his bed. Something seemed to be traveling down the
bright pathway, singing a song as it came.

First he thought it must be an angel, then a fairy with wings like a
moth.

He shut his eyes a minute, to see what would happen, and he heard the
voice singing a funny sort of song--no, not funny, but pretty.

And this was the song:

"Light, light
By day or night;
Stars in the skies,
Stars in the eyes."

He opened his. And there before him, in front of the window, stood a
little lady. He thought she was dressed in white, then he decided it
was yellow, then gold and white.

She walked, yet she seemed to be pasted on a big, shiny star. The top
point rose just above her head, making the peak of a crown. The two
middle points stuck out beyond her shoulders like bright moth wings,
and the two bottom points extended below her waist, and away from her,
like the ends of a sash.

At first Marmaduke thought she must be a painted doll, such as you see
in the magazines about Christmas time, made for little children to cut
out. But her golden hair was not still like that, but was always in
motion like crinkly water that flows over the stones in the brook when
the sun shines on it. And there on the rag rug, his own rag rug, were
her little feet--very white, with little toes, and she could sing,
too. My, how she could sing! No, she was not any painted doll.

She was going on with that song now:

"Far and near,
Bright and clear,
On sky and sea,
And the Christmas tree."

"'Llo!" said Marmaduke--then he stopped, ashamed. That was the way he
talked to the fellows at school. He mustn't speak to such a beautiful
lady that way. So--"How do you do?" he corrected himself.

But she only smiled and said--what do you think?

"'Llo! little boy"--just like himself. That seemed to set her singing
again:--

"Low and high,
In the lake or the sky;
High and low,
In the crystal snow."

Then she stopped.

"Is there any more to it?" asked Marmaduke. "Oh, yes, one could go on
forever"

"On the church spire,
Or in the fire;
On the wavelet's tip,
Or the mast of a ship;
In the shining gem
Over Bethlehem;
In the little cradle,
With the ox in the stable,
A baby fair
It was brightest there!"

"Now is _that_ all of it?" Marmaduke asked her.

"Oh, there's lots more, but I'll sing just the last part for
tonight"--and she told him the end:

"And in Mother's eyes,
Just as bright as the skies."

Marmaduke thought she was right in the last part of the song, anyway.
Of course, he didn't understand exactly what it was all about, but it
was a very pretty song, and he would think it over in the morning. But
then his curiosity got the better of him.

"What did you come down here for?"

"Oh, I saw the light in your window," she explained, "and I thought
maybe it was a little lost star. You see, we have to look out for
them. When we do find a star that has lost its way we take it back--"

"Do you stick it up there with a pin?"

This question seemed to strike her as very amusing, and she laughed.
And when she laughed it sounded like church bells far, far off, or the
voice of the Brook.

"Oh, no," she said as soon as she could speak. "Do I look as if I
could be stuck up there by a pin?"

"No-o-o, but what do you do? Just float around--or swim?"

"Well, that's the way you Earth people would put it--but we have
another word for it."

"What is the word?"

She shook her head.

"That I can't tell you, for you'd never understand it, but it's a very
pretty word."

Marmaduke sighed.

"I'd like to know it," he said, "but I suppose I can't."

And the Star Lady answered,--

"Not now, perhaps some day."

"Do you do anything else besides hunting for little lost stars?"

"Oh, yes," she said, coming a trifle nearer his bed, "sometimes we
find little stars on earth that have never been in the sky, and they
shine so very brightly that we take them up there, too."

"What kind of stars?"

"Would you like to see them?"

"You bet I would," Marmaduke started to say, then stopped. That
sounded rather rude. Still she didn't reprove him; she didn't seem to
mind it a bit. There was something very homelike about her, for all
she was so radiant and bright.

"I understand perfectly," she assured him, "but we must be off before
daylight." Then she turned to the bureau.

"Take the Little Blue Lamp with you, then you'll seem like a star,
too."

Now long ago Marmaduke had made another trip to the skies, to see The
Old Man in the Moon, but that journey was never like this. This was so
much more beautiful.

He didn't feel as if he were walking or riding, just rising in the air
with one hand clasped in the fingers of the Star Lady, the other
around the little lamp.

Marmaduke wondered if all the people would look up and see his little
light.

"Perhaps they can see just the light and not me," he said to himself,
"and that would be just right."

They rose up over the trees, then over the brook, and he saw himself
shining in the brook. It looked as if his twin were lying there in the
water, and he laughed out loud--that is he thought he did. But he
found he wasn't making any sound. Instead of words, sparkles seemed to
come from his mouth, like the twinkles of a star.

He asked the Star Lady about that. It was very funny, but now that
they were getting up in the clouds he couldn't hear his own voice and
she couldn't hear it, either, but they understood each other just the
same.

"When a star twinkles, it is laughing," she explained, and it all
seemed very clear to him.

Now they passed through great clouds. When they rose above them he
looked down. They seemed like white islands in a clear blue sea. And
the sky was the sea. It wasn't like water, but just as cool, and the
earth, and the towns, and the trees lay like places buried at the
bottom of the ocean.

He tried to step on a cloud, and he couldn't feel anything at all
under him, yet it didn't give way--he could sit down on it. He did lie
down for a little while, it felt so soft and nice, but the Star Lady
made him get up.

"We must hurry, for way over there I see the Sun. He's stirring in his
sleep, and when he gets up and washes his face--"

"Does he wash his face?" interrupted Marmaduke, "just like real
people?"

"Yes, he rubs cloud lather all over it, and then he dips his face in
the bowl of the ocean."

"How does he dry it?"

"Oh, the morning wind does that," she replied, smiling at such a
parade of questions, "but let's go before he starts to wash up, for I
must show you all the star fields. It's only a few steps up."

"But I don't see any steps," exclaimed the little boy.

She smiled.

"Don't you?" she said, "you've been climbing them all the time."

"But it's such a long way to come, and my legs don't feel a bit
tired," he persisted, a little doubtfully.

[Illustration: "'We must hurry, for way over there I see the Sun. He's
stirring in his sleep.'"]

"Oh, no one ever gets tired in the skies," she explained, "we never
get tired and we never grow old."

"Do you live forever 'n ever?"

"Yes, forever," she answered gently, "but there are the fields."

Before them and all around them they stretched--as far as his eyes
could see, and as far as they could have seen if he had had the
biggest telescope in the world.

They were not green like those of Earth, but blue--blue as if each
blade of grass were a blade of violet. And each field was thickly
planted with bright little gleams like fireflies, winking, winking
through the night.

And here and there was a great big star, like the Star Lady herself,
walking about--no, it wasn't that--they were _floating_ about the
meadows. How Marmaduke wished he knew the word she had said they used
in the skies for "walking."

"Are they stars or angels?" he asked her.

"Yes and no," she replied. Her answer was very strange, but she
wouldn't explain it.

Suddenly Marmaduke thought of a question he had often asked people
down on Earth. He could put it to the Star Lady and see if she would
give the same answer as Mother. It was an old, old question that
little children have asked ever since the world began.

"Who made the stars?" it was.

"God," she answered gently, "at least He made the big ones--but not
the little ones."

"And who made them?"

"Oh, the people on earth. Perhaps you made a few yourself," she added.

"_Me_? How ever could I make stars?" And he stared at her in
wonder.

"Oh, yes you can. Do you see those little ones there? They are the
kind deeds people do on Earth. We go looking for them, and we can find
them easily, for they shine out even in the darkest woods and the
darkest streets. Then we put them up here. Look hard and perhaps you
can find some you recognize."

Marmaduke did look hard. There was one near him. It was very little,
but, somehow, as he looked he seemed to know it.

He went very near it. It twinkled like a real star, yet it was round
as a bubble. And in it, just as in a soap bubble, he saw a picture.

The Star Lady was looking at him with an amused smile.

"What do you see?" she asked.

Yes, sure enough, there was a picture in it, a little faint, but he
could make it out a horse and a bright red cart and on the seat a boy
with crutches.

"Why it's Little Geeup and Johnny Cricket!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, it's the picture of the time you took him for a ride," she
answered. "I saw you do it, and I went down to Earth, and took that
kind, bright little star deed, and planted it here in this very same
field."

"Oh, oh!" It was all he could say, it was so wonderful.

Then he saw another field not far away that was full of particularly
bright stars.

"I think I know those," he told the Star Lady, "they seem like
friends."

"Do they? No wonder!"

Then she looked at him, her head on one side, and a smile in her eyes.

"I won't tell you what they are. I'm going to let _you_ tell
_me_."

"Oh, I know, I know," he cried, "they're Mother's kind deeds--all
she's done for me and Jehosophat and Hepzebiah--and, oh, how many
there are!" he added.

"Yes indeed, my dear. You never guessed there were so many, did you?"

Marmaduke grew very solemn as he replied,--

"But I won't forget now _ever_."

From where they stood, the great blue fields rose into a hill. And on
the top of the hill was a beautiful star, the largest of all.

"And what is that?" the little boy asked his new friend.

"The star that shone over the cradle in Bethlehem."

He begged her to let him go nearer, but she shook her head.

"Not tonight. Someday you'll see it very clearly."

He was disappointed at that.

"When can I?" he asked.

"I do not know--but someday you and all in the world will see it, when
the Earth people are kind to each other--not once in a while, but
every day--_all the while_--"

"Anyway," said Marmaduke, "I don't think that star is any prettier
than Mother's. It's _bigger_ but not _prettier_."

"No, dear," she said, "not any more beautiful--it's all the same
light. But the Sun is putting on his gold shoes. Look--over there,"
she added, "you can see the reflection."

And sure enough, as Marmaduke looked over to the East, the edge of the
sky was turning to gold.

"You'll have to say goodbye now," the Star Lady told him, not sadly
but gently, "to all the stars and to me. But before you go, listen,
and you'll hear them all singing together. They always do, in the
morning before the Sun comes. There, can you hear it?"

He listened, oh, so hard, but all he could hear was music like sleigh
bells that were very far away.

"I hear something," he told her, "but it isn't clear. It sounds so
far, far off."

"Someday you'll hear that clearly, too," she said, then turned.
"Goodbye, my dear, I'll look out for your stars again, all the little
ones you make each day. Don't forget."

And as he felt himself sinking, he saw the Star Lady waving at him
from above, and he was sure she was singing again:

"Light, light
By day or night;
Stars in the skies,
Stars in the eyes."

Again he opened his. There was the Blue Fairy Light winking at
him--and his mother's hand was on his forehead. How good it felt! And
how cool her voice sounded!

"Was it a nice dream, dear?" she asked him. He didn't answer that
question. Instead he said shyly,

"Mother--"

"Yes, dear?"

"Your eyes are like--"

"Like what, my dear little boy?"

"Like stars," he finished drowsily, then fell asleep, her hand still
on his forehead.

VIII

THE ANIMALS' BIRTHDAY PARTY

Birthdays are always important events, but some are more important
than others. The most important of all, of course, is one you can't
remember at all--the zero birthday, when you were born.

After that, the fifth, I suppose, is the red letter day. A boy
certainly begins to appreciate life when he gets to be five years old.
Next, probably, would come the seventh, for a boy--or a girl--is
pretty big by then, and able to do so many things. In old Bible days
seven was supposed to be a sacred number, and even today many people
think it lucky. Why, at the baseball games the men in the stands rise
up in the seventh inning and stretch, they say, to bring victory to
the home team.

The seventeenth birthday is the next great event. By that time a boy
is quite grown up and ready for college; and on the twenty-first he
can vote. But after that people don't think so much of birthdays until
their seventieth or so, when they become very proud of them once more.
Perhaps they grow like little children again. Wouldn't it be funny to
have, say, eighty candles on one cake? But what cook or baker makes
cakes big enough for that?

Marmaduke wasn't looking so far ahead. All he was thinking about was
his own birthday, which came that fine day, his seventh; and he was
wondering if Mother would put the seven candles on his cake, and if it
would turn out chocolate, which he very much hoped.

About three o'clock of this same day, Mother looked out of the window
and said "Good gracious!," which were the very worst words she ever
said; and Father looked up from the cider-press which he was mending,
and said "By George!", which were the very worst he ever said; and the
Toyman looked up from the sick chicken to which he was giving some
medicine, and said "Geewhillikens!" And whether or not that was the
worst he ever said I do not know. I hope so.

What could they be exclaiming about? _Marmaduke_! He was all
alone as far as human beings went, for Jehosophat was putting
axle-grease on his little red cart, and Hepzebiah was playing with
Hetty, her rag doll, and the rest were busy at their tasks, as we have
just seen.

But he had some fine company, oh, yes, he had. He was giving a
birthday party for the animals.

And this is the way he persuaded all his noisy quarrelsome friends of
the barnyard to come to his party:

First he went to the barn and filled one pocket--you see, he was a big
boy now and had pockets--one, two, three, four, five, six, seven--one
over his heart, two close by his belt, one on the inside of his
jacket, one on each side of his hips, and two in the back of his
corduroy trousers. Well, he filled pocket number one with golden
kernels of corn from the sack; pocket number two with meal from
another sack; and he filled pocket number three with lettuce leaves
from the garden; and number four with birdseed from a little box. That
makes four pockets.

To fill the others, he had to make three more journeys--three very
strange journeys, so strange you could never guess where he was going.
First he went to the wagon-shed, and there, because it was near the
three kennels, was kept the box of dog-biscuit. Six of these biscuits
went in the fifth pocket. Let's see--yes, that leaves two more to be
filled.

For the sixth, he went into his own little room and got a bottle with
a stopper in it, one which he had begged from the doctor that time he
was sick. Then he went to the springhouse by the well, and filled the
little bottle with milk from the big can.

But the seventh pocket had the strangest load of all. He took his
shovel and actually dug some worms from the garden, long, wriggly
worms--"night-walkers," the boys call them--and placed them in a can,
and presto! that too went into his pocket, the seventh. And now all
the pockets were filled.

And, mind you, he did all this by himself. And when he came back from
all these errands he bulged out in such funny places, the places where
he had stuffed his pockets, so that he looked as if he had tremendous
warts or knobs all over his body.

"Did you ever!" said Mother, and all three--she, the Toyman, and
Father--kept watching, trying hard not to laugh. It paid them to watch
him, too, for they were going to see something worth-while, better
than a "movie," better even than a circus.

Well, after all the errands were over, Marmaduke collected some
shingles, and all the cups and tins in which the Three Happy Children
made mud-pies. And he spread them out on the table in the summer-house
very carefully.

Can you guess what he did that for? I don't believe you can. I know I
couldn't.

Then he took his little scoopnet, and went to the pond and put the net
in. Out it came, and in the meshes flopped and tumbled and
somersaulted three tiny fish.

These he placed in one of the pans on the table in the summer-house,
and then hurried to the rabbit-hutch and opened the sliding door and
called,--

"Come, Bunny, Bunny,
An' don't be funny!"

But first we must explain that Marmaduke had a queer trick of making
rhymes. I guess he caught it from the Toyman, who used to make lots
for the children, just to see them laugh. So Marmaduke got the habit.
And making rhymes is just as catching as measles and whooping cough,
only it doesn't hurt so much.

Of course, some of Marmaduke's rhymes weren't very good, but he tried
his best, which is all you can ask of anybody. Anyway, we will have to
tell you them just as he made them, so you can see what sort of a
party he had.

So he said,--

"Come, Bunny, Bunny,
An' don't be funny!"

It didn't mean anything much, but he just said it.

And out, hippity hop, hippity hop, came the White Rabbits, making
noses at him in the odd way of their kind.

Holding out the lettuce leaves in front of their wriggling noses, he
coaxed them over to the summer-house, and when they got there, he
placed a leaf in one of the dishes, saving the rest for the feast.

And the Bunnies made funnier noses than ever and nibbled, nibbled away
at their plates.

Then he called out loud,--

"Here chick, chick, chick,
Come quick, quick, quick!"

And all the White Wyandottes came running. Mother Wyandotte and all
the little ones, and all their relatives, hurrying like fat old women
trying to catch the trolley car. Even lordly Father Wyandotte himself
stalked along a little faster than usual, and I guess the Big Gold
Rooster on the top of the barn tried to fly down too, but he was
pinned up there tight on the roof, and so couldn't accept the
invitation, much to his grave dissatisfaction.

Marmaduke put only one or two kernels of corn from his first pocket,
in the plates for the White Wyandottes, to hold them there until the
rest of the guests could come. He wanted to get them all together and
make a speech to them, the way Deacon Slithers did when they gave a
purse of gold to the minister. He was going to present himself with
something at that speech. He had it all planned out, you see.

So next he called the Pretty Pink Pigeons from their house on the top
of the barn.

"Coo, coo,
There's some for you."

And the Pretty Pink Pigeons accepted his invitation very quickly, and
he tempted them, too, all the way to the summer-house, with a little
of the bird-seed from the fourth pocket.

And then he called,--

"Goose, Goose, Goose--"

At first he couldn't think of anything nice for them, but just kept
calling, "Goose, Goose, Goose," over and over until he thought up a
bright idea--a fine rhyme,--

"You've no excuse."

And then to the Turkey,--

"Turkey, come to my party,
If you don't, you're a smarty."

Sort of silly, wasn't it?--but, no, I guess that was pretty good.

Then he yelled,--

"Here Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat,
You'll have a bite of that."

And--

"Wienie and Brownie and Rover,
Come 'n over, come 'n over, come 'n over!"

And at last,--

"Here, little fish,
Is a nice little dish."

All things considered, he did pretty well, didn't he?

Now he emptied all the different kinds of food, from his seven
different pockets, on the little shingles and the little dishes on the
table in the summer-house.

There was corn for the White Wyandottes and Mr. Stuckup the Turkey,
and some, too, for the Foolish White Geese; and meal for the Pretty
Pink Pigeons; and lettuce leaves for the hippity-hop white Bunnies;
and milk from the little bottle for the Pussy; and puppy biscuit for
the three Dogs; and worms for the Little Fish, all placed very
politely in their little dishes.

It was a grand party. No wonder Mother said, "Good gracious!" and "Did
you ever!"; and no wonder Father whistled, and said, "By George!", and
the Toyman slapped his overalls, and said "Gee-willikens!"--and
perhaps a lot of other things besides.

But there was one serious trouble about this party. Marmaduke couldn't
keep sufficient order to make that important speech, which was to have
been the event of the celebration.

He stood up on the bench in the summer-house, put his hands in his new
pockets, made a fine bow, and began:

"Ladees and gen'lemen an' all others, Mr. Rooster and Mrs. Rooster an'
General Turkey"--but he could get no further.

The White Wyandottes were jumping all over the table, and the Pretty
Pink Pigeons, who were very tame, were trying to get in his pockets
for more of the feast; and Rover and Brownie and Wienerwurst were
jumping up and trying to lick his face; and his grand speech turned
out something like this:

"Down, Rover! Get away, you crazy Geese! Stop that, Bunny! Stop it, I
say--scat!!--scat!!!--"

Well, by this time Wienerwurst was biting the tails of the Pretty Pink
Pigeons again; and Brownie was chasing the rabbits; and the Geese were
flapping their wings and crying, "hiss, hiss!"; and the Pigeons were
flying back to their home on the roof; and Rover had his mouth full of
White Geese feathers; and Tabby was swallowing the little
fish--and--and--Marmaduke was almost crying.

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