________________________________________________
_ Observing the monotonously proper behavior
of the sun, man had an absurd idea
and invented Time. Becoming still more absurd,
man said, ``So much shall be a day; such and
such shall be a week. All weeks shall be the same
length.'' Yet every baby knows better! How
long for Johnnie Watson, for Joe Bullitt, for
Wallace Banks--how long for William Sylvanus
Baxter was the last week of Miss Pratt? No one
can answer. How long was that week for Mr.
Parcher? Again the mind is staggered.
Many people, of course, considered it to be a
week of average size. Among these was Jane.
Throughout seven days which brought some
tense moments to the Baxter household, Jane
remained calm; and she was still calm upon the
eighth morning as she stood in the front yard of
her own place of residence, gazing steadily across
the street. The object of her grave attention
was an ample brick house, newly painted white
after repairs and enlargements so inspiring to
Jane's faculty for suggesting better ways of
doing things, that the workmen had learned to
address her, with a slight bitterness, as ``Madam
President.''
Throughout the process of repair, and until the
very last of the painting, Jane had considered this
house to be as much her property as anybody's;
for children regard as ownerless all vacant houses
and all houses in course of construction or radical
alteration. Nothing short of furniture--intimate
furniture in considerable quantity--hints that
the public is not expected. However, such a
hint, or warning, was conveyed to Jane this
morning, for two ``express wagons'' were standing
at the curb with their backs impolitely toward
the brick house; and powerful-voiced men
went surging to and fro under fat arm-chairs,
mahogany tables, disarticulated bedsteads, and
baskets of china and glassware; while a harassed
lady appeared in the outer doorway, from time
to time, with gestures of lamentation and
entreaty. Upon the sidewalk, between the wagons
and the gate, was a broad wet spot, vaguely
circular, with a partial circumference of broken
glass and extinct goldfish.
Jane was forced to conclude that the brick
house did belong to somebody, after all. Wherefore,
she remained in her own yard, a steadfast
spectator, taking nourishment into her system
at regular intervals. This was beautifully
automatic: in each hand she held a slice of bread,
freely plastered over with butter, apple sauce, and
powdered sugar; and when she had taken somewhat
from the right hand, that hand slowly
descended with its burden, while, simultaneously,
the left began to rise, reaching the level of her
mouth precisely at the moment when a little
wave passed down her neck, indicating that the
route was clear. Then, having made delivery,
the left hand sank, while the right began to rise
again. And, so well had custom trained Jane's
members, never once did she glance toward either
of these faithful hands or the food that it
supported; her gaze was all the while free to remain
upon the house across the way and the great
doings before it.
After a while, something made her wide eyes
grow wider almost to their utmost. Nay, the
event was of that importance her mechanical
hands ceased to move and stopped stock-still,
the right half-way up, the left half-way down, as if
because of sudden motor trouble within Jane.
Her mouth was equally affected, remaining open
at a visible crisis in the performance of its duty.
These were the tokens of her agitation upon
beholding the removal of a dolls' house from one of
the wagons. This dolls' house was at least five
feet high, of proportionate breadth and depths
the customary absence of a facade disclosing an
interior of four luxurious floors, with stairways,
fireplaces, and wall-paper. Here was a mansion
wherein doll-duchesses, no less, must dwell.
Straightway, a little girl ran out of the open
doorway of the brick house and, with a self-
importance concentrated to the point of shrewishness,
began to give orders concerning the disposal
of her personal property, which included (as she
made clear) not only the dolls' mansion, but also
three dolls' trunks and a packing-case of fair
size. She was a thin little girl, perhaps half a
year younger than Jane; and she was as soiled,
particularly in respect to hands, brow, chin, and
the knees of white stockings, as could be expected
of any busybodyish person of nine or ten whose
mother is house-moving. But she was gifted--
if we choose to put the matter in the hopeful,
sweeter way--she was gifted with an unusually
loud and shrill voice, and she made herself
heard over the strong-voiced men to such emphatic
effect that one of the latter, with the dolls'
mansion upon his back, paused in the gateway
to acquaint her with his opinion that of all
the bossy little girls he had ever seen, heard, or
heard of, she was the bossiest.
``THE worst!'' he added.
The little girl across the street was of course
instantly aware of Jane, though she pretended
not to be; and from the first her self-importance
was in large part assumed for the benefit of the
observer. After a momentary silence, due to her
failure to think of any proper response to the
workman who so pointedly criticized her, she
resumed the peremptory direction of her affairs.
She ran in and out of the house, her brow dark
with frowns, her shoulders elevated; and by
every means at her disposal she urged her audience
to behold the frightful responsibilities of
one who must keep a thousand things in her head
at once, and yet be ready for decisive action at
any instant.
There may have been one weakness in this
strong performance: the artistic sincerity of it
was a little discredited by the increasing
frequency with which the artist took note of her
effect. During each of her most impressive
moments, she flashed, from the far corner of her eye,
two questions at Jane: ``How about THAT one?
Are you still watching Me?''
Then, apparently in the very midst of her
cares, she suddenly and without warning ceased
to boss, walked out into the street, halted, and
stared frankly at Jane.
Jane had begun her automatic feeding again.
She continued it, meanwhile seriously returning
the stare of the new neighbor. For several minutes
this mutual calm and inoffensive gaze was
protracted; then Jane, after swallowing the last
morsel of her supplies, turned her head away and
looked at a tree. The little girl, into whose eyes
some wistfulness had crept, also turned her head
and looked at a tree. After a while, she advanced
to the curb on Jane's side of the street, and,
swinging her right foot, allowed it to kick the
curbstone repeatedly.
Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to
kick one of the fence-pickets.
``You see that ole fatty?'' asked the little girl,
pointing to one of the workmen, thus sufficiently
identified.
``Yes.''
``That's the one broke the goldfish,'' said the
little girl. There was a pause during which she
continued to scuff the curbstone with her shoe,
Jane likewise scuffing the fence-picket. ``I'm
goin' to have papa get him arrested,'' added the
stranger.
``My papa got two men arrested once,'' Jane
said, calmly. ``Two or three.''
The little girl's eyes, wandering upward, took
note of Jane's papa's house, and of a fierce young
gentleman framed in an open window up-stairs.
He was seated, wore ink upon his forehead, and
tapped his teeth with a red penholder.
``Who is that?'' she asked.
``It's Willie.''
``Is it your papa?''
``NO-O-O-O!'' Jane exclaimed. ``It's WILLIE!''
``Oh,'' said the little girl, apparently satisfied.
Each now scuffed less energetically with her
shoe; feet slowed down; so did conversation, and,
for a time, Jane and the stranger wrapped themselves
in stillness, though there may have been
some silent communing between them. Then the
new neighbor placed her feet far apart and
leaned backward upon nothing, curving her front
outward and her remarkably flexible spine inward
until a profile view of her was grandly semicircular.
Jane watched her attentively, but without
comment. However, no one could have doubted that
the processes of acquaintance were progressing
favorably.
``Let's go in our yard,'' said Jane.
The little girl straightened herself with a slight
gasp, and accepted the invitation. Side by side,
the two passed through the open gate, walked
gravely forth upon the lawn, and halted, as by
common consent. Jane thereupon placed her
feet wide apart and leaned backward upon nothing,
attempting the feat in contortion just
performed by the stranger.
``Look,'' she said. ``Look at ME!''
But she lacked the other's genius, lost her
balance, and fell. Born persistent, she
immediately got to her feet and made fresh efforts.
``No! Look at ME!'' the little girl cried,
becoming semicircular again. ``This is the way.
I call it `puttin' your stummick out o' joint.'
You haven't got yours out far enough.''
``Yes, I have,'' said Jane, gasping.
``Well, to do it right, you must WALK that way.
As soon as you get your stummick out o' joint,
you must begin an' walk. Look! Like this.''
And the little girl, having achieved a state of
such convexity that her braided hair almost
touched the ground behind her, walked
successfully in that singular attitude.
``I'm walkin','' Jane protested, her face not
quite upside down. ``Look! I'M walkin' that
way, too. My stummick--''
There came an outraged shout from above, and
a fierce countenance, stained with ink, protruded
from the window.
``Jane!''
``What?''
``Stop that! Stop putting your stomach out
in front of you like that! It's disgraceful!''
Both young ladies, looking rather oppressed,
resumed the perpendicular. ``Why doesn't he like
it?'' the stranger asked in a tone of pure wonder.
``I don't know,'' said Jane. ``He doesn't like
much of anything. He's seventeen years old.''
After that, the two stared moodily at the
ground for a little while, chastened by the severe
presence above; then Jane brightened.
``_I_ know!'' she exclaimed, cozily. ``Let's play
callers. Right here by this bush 'll be my house.
You come to call on me, an' we'll talk about our
chuldren. You be Mrs. Smith an' I'm Mrs.
Jones.'' And in the character of a hospitable
matron she advanced graciously toward the new
neighbor. ``Why, my dear Mrs. SMITH, come
right IN! I THOUGHT you'd call this morning. I
want to tell you about my lovely little daughter.
She's only ten years old, an' says the brightest
THINGS! You really must--''
But here Jane interrupted herself abruptly,
and, hopping behind the residential bush, peeped
over it, not at Mrs. Smith, but at a boy of ten or
eleven who was passing along the sidewalk.
Her expression was gravely interested, somewhat
complacent; and Mrs. Smith was not so lacking
in perception that she failed to understand how
completely--for the time being, at least--calling
was suspended.
The boy whistled briskly, ``My country, 'tis
of thee,'' and though his knowledge of the
air failed him when he finished the second line,
he was not disheartened, but began at the
beginning again, continuing repeatedly after this
fashion to offset monotony by patriotism. He
whistled loudly; he walked with ostentatious
intent to be at some heavy affair in the distance;
his ears were red. He looked neither to the right
nor to the left.
That is, he looked neither to the right nor to
the left until he had passed the Baxters' fence.
But when he had gone as far as the upper corner
of the fence beyond, he turned his head and
looked back, without any expression--except that
of a whistler--at Jane. And thus, still whistling
``My country, 'tis of thee,'' and with blank pink
face over his shoulder, he proceeded until he was
out of sight.
``Who was that boy?'' the new neighbor then
inquired.
``It's Freddie,'' said Jane, placidly. ``He's in
our Sunday-school. He's in love of me.''
``JANE!''
Again the outraged and ink-stained countenance
glared down from the window.
``What you want?'' Jane asked.
``What you MEAN talking about such things?''
William demanded. ``In all my life I never
heard anything as disgusting! Shame on you!''
The little girl from across the street looked
upward thoughtfully. ``He's mad,'' she
remarked, and, regardless of Jane's previous
information, ``It IS your papa, isn't it?'' she
insisted.
``No!'' said Jane, testily. ``I told you five
times it's my brother Willie.''
``Oh!'' said the little girl, and, grasping the fact
that William's position was, in dignity and
authority, negligible, compared with that which she
had persisted in imagining, she felt it safe to tint
her upward gaze with disfavor. ``He acts kind
of crazy,'' she murmured.
``He's in love of Miss Pratt,'' said Jane.
``She's goin' away to-day. She said she'd go
before, but to-day she IS! Mr. Parcher, where
she visits, he's almost dead, she's stayed so long.
She's awful, I think.''
William, to whom all was audible, shouted,
hoarsely, ``I'll see to YOU!'' and disappeared from
the window.
``Will he come down here?'' the little girl
asked, taking a step toward the gate.
``No. He's just gone to call mamma. All
she'll do' ll be to tell us to go play somewheres
else. Then we can go talk to Genesis.''
``Who?''
``Genesis. He's puttin' a load of coal in the
cellar window with a shovel. He's nice.''
``What's he put the coal in the window
for?''
``He's a colored man,'' said Jane.
``Shall we go talk to him now?''
``No,'' Jane said, thoughtfully. ``Let's be
playin' callers when mamma comes to tell us to
go 'way. What was your name?''
``Rannie.''
``No, it wasn't.''
``It is too, Rannie,'' the little girl insisted.
``My whole name's Mary Randolph Kirsted, but
my short name's Rannie.''
Jane laughed. ``What a funny name!'' she
said. ``I didn't mean your real name; I meant
your callers' name. One of us was Mrs. Jones,
and one was--''
``I want to be Mrs. Jones,'' said Rannie.
``Oh, my DEAR Mrs. Jones,'' Jane began at
once, ``I want to tell you about my lovely
chuldren. I have two, one only seven years old, and
the other--''
``Jane!'' called Mrs. Baxter from William's
window.
``Yes'm?''
``You must go somewhere else to play. Willie's
trying to work at his studies up here, and he says
you've disturbed him very much.''
``Yes'm.''
The obedient Jane and her friend turned to go,
and as they went, Miss Mary Randolph Kirsted
allowed her uplifted eyes to linger with increased
disfavor upon William, who appeared beside
Mrs. Baxter at the window.
``I tell you what let's do,'' Rannie suggested in
a lowered voice. ``He got so fresh with us, an'
made your mother come, an' all, let's--let's--''
She hesitated.
``Let's what?'' Jane urged her, in an eager
whisper.
``Let's think up somep'n he won't like--an'
DO it!''
They disappeared round a corner of the house,
their heads close together. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXIX. "DON'T FORGET!"
Read previous: CHAPTER XXVII. MAROONED
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