A Melody in Silver
K >> Keene Abbott >> A Melody in SilverA MELODY IN SILVER
By KEENE ABBOTT
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1911
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY KEENE ABBOTT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published April 1911_
CONTENTS
I. THE LOST CAUSE 1
II. RUE AND ROSEMARY 14
III. THE WORLD'S END 20
IV. DEAD SEA FRUIT 30
V. THE MUG OF WOE 43
VI. "FAV-VER" 52
VII. AS A FOUNTAIN IN THE DESERT 66
VIII. THE GONE-AWAY LADY 75
IX. THE CRIME OF DAVID 86
X. THE NIP OF GUILT 97
XI. APOTHEOSIS 104
XII. LIGHT 113
XIII. THE SUBSTITUTE 125
XIV. SKY BLOSSOMS 142
A MELODY IN SILVER
CHAPTER I
THE LOST CAUSE
David had a suspicion. He did not know it was that, but that is
what it was. He suspected that Mother thought he was a good
little boy, and he suspected that she thought Mitchell Horrigan
was a bad little boy. Perhaps Mother had a suspicion, too; she
might have suspected that it was Mitch who had put a certain
notion into David's head--a notion which had to do with pants.
Only you must not call them pants; they are "trouvers."
But it doesn't really matter in the least what they are called.
Mitch had them. He also had the measles once. David did not know
whether it was the measles part or the pants part that made Mitch
a bad little boy. All David knew about it was that if he invited
Mitch into the yard to climb trees and give swimming lessons in
the high grass, it usually happened that Mother could think of
some important business for her little boy to do in the house. It
was surprising how many important matters there were for David to
do in the house every time Mitch came into the yard to play. She
might want to show him something, and perhaps it would be a
turn-over that she wanted to show him, a delicious little
half-grown pie stuffed with strawberries or with cherries.
If Mitch were waiting out under the trees, the toothsome bit of
pastry was always a very peculiar kind. Mother believed in
generosity, but generosity with limitations. Strawberry turn-over
was not good for Mitch. Mother was positive that it was not good
for him. That seemed a little singular to David, for he had never
noticed anything wrong with Mitch. It does not seem credible that
a boy who owns a real Indian bow 'n' arrow, which shoots so high
he can knock the eye out of an angel with it, should yet be so
foolish as to have a bad stomach.
David had never seen any of the one-eyed angels that Mitch had
knocked down out of heaven with his Indian bow 'n' arrow. Mitch
was not the kind to show all of his treasures. He didn't even
show his bow 'n' arrow. He kept it hid, so that if the police
ever found out about it they could not get it away from him. If
they wanted to arrest him for having it, that would be all
right, but they should not get hold of his Indian bow 'n' arrow.
The thing you liked about Mitch was that he was so reasonable.
One's faith in him would never be shaken unless one were to try
his recipe for getting trouvers. In theory it was a sound recipe.
Mitch, who had reached trouvers and understood the mightiness of
the achievement, could vouch for the sure result of his
prescription. It was guaranteed to cure the dress-habit in seven
days. At first, though, Mitch would not tell how the great honor
of pants had been bestowed upon him. He was then too important
even to say, "Hello, kid!" For a time he did not deign to notice
anybody, and when he did notice anybody it was only to pretend
that David was nothing but a little girl.
"I am not, neither."
David filed his protest between the palings of the fence. But it
was no use. He might protest, he might cross his heart and hope
to die, but still the boy on the other side of the fence would
not believe.
"Are, too," Mitch would say.
Then a startled look, an appealing, hopeless fear suddenly
abashed the little boy in the dainty white dress. As he shook the
ringlets out of his eyes he asked, earnestly:
"Why, then, am I a girl?"
Here, you see, was another case like the bow 'n' arrow. Mitch did
not have to tell all he knew. He only got proud and spat through
his teeth and said, "Why?" right back at David.
Such a question, you must agree, may be illuminating, but is not
satisfying. The meaning of it seems a bit indefinite and
lonesome, but if you are a little boy with ringlets it has
meaning enough. It hurts mightily. But Mitch was still not
satisfied.
"Dear Little Curly Locks," he said with contemptible sweetness,
"oo mustn't get oo dress dirty."
Then did David's fists clench defiantly, and he said an awful
swear.
"Dresses!" he exclaimed derisively; "that's all you know about
it. They're kilts!"
This defense was not convincing, for there is no good way, once
you think of it, to prove that a dress is a dress and that a kilt
is a kilt. The only way, I fear, to settle such a controversy is
to hit the other boy with a brick. Only David did not have a
brick. What he did have was a confused feeling that Mitch was
right. For might it not be true, this horrible thing about being
a girl? What if David was that, and couldn't ever get over it?
Now, Mitch, since you are at last in trouvers, here is the time
to prove to this ignominious comrade of yours that in you are the
instincts of a gentleman. Why don't you show David that there may
be a chance for him after all? It would be proper for you to
remind him that you yourself used to wear dresses, but of course
you will make sure to speak of the disgrace as a thing of many
years ago.
But there is no need, Mitch, in counseling David to go to
extremes. It is quite unnecessary to inform him that the way to
pants is a very simple matter. I dread to think that you are
telling him to tear his kilts "all to splinters." Of course that
can be done. You hook the skirt over a paling in the fence; then
you jump, and sometimes, David, it hurts when you hit the ground.
But what matter? You are fighting in a noble cause. Mother will
be so astonished! She will see how desperately you have outgrown
your kilts.
Only she did not see it. She picked the splinters out of David's
hands--cruel splinters from the fence--and she was very sorry for
her little boy. And as for the dresses, it was no great matter
about them. She would make other dresses for her David.
And that is why Mitchell Horrigan's recipe for pants is not a
good recipe. Even at the end of a week David could not report
much progress. Finally he had to acknowledge himself defeated. He
then bore the dishonor of kilts with what manfulness he could and
with a creed which was recited something like this:
"We don't care to play with Mitch any more, do we, Mother?"
Or again:
"We don't care nothing about trouvers, do we, Mother?"
Sometimes David would ask with husky heroism:
"Curls is all right for little boys, is they not?"
David was angry with Mitch; David was never going to speak to
Mitchell Horrigan any more. His resolution was so strong that he
hurried away to tell Mitch about it, but when the boy actually
appeared, it was hard to remember why one should be angry with
him. His brown feet came flapping along the stone walk, and in
his hand was a freshly whittled stick that made an animated
clatter when he drew it along the fence. There was that in the
reckless abandonment of Mitch which did not help David to tell
him that he was too mean and disgraceful to be spoken to. And
besides, his feelings might be hurt if one were to tell him that.
So, as Mitch came nearer and nearer, David felt guiltier and
guiltier, and presently he was surprised to hear himself asking
rather abjectly:
"You isn't mad at me, is you, Mitch?"
Trouvers ignored the humble salutation. He took out his knife and
began to whittle ceremoniously upon the stick.
"What you making?" David asked tentatively.
"Nothin' much," said Mitch, with the air of a man who has
invented steamships and flying machines. "Only a tiger trap."
David knew better. David knew that Mitch, in his insufferable
conceit, was merely whittling to show off his new knife. So,
pressing his red mouth between two white palings of the fence,
David declared in a strong voice:
"I have a bigger knife than that."
The assertion was boldly made, but when Mitch asked to see the
knife, David decided not to show it.
"Bigness don't count," said Mitch. "It's the steel."
He breathed upon the blade to test its quality. Every boy knows
that if the film of moisture is quick to vanish, there can be no
question about the superlative merit of the knife.
"Where did you get it?"
David was eager to know that, but Mitch decided that he must be
going. He hadn't time to stay here any longer. He intimated that
he had important business to look after. He was going to make a
kite ten feet tall, and, with the snobbishness of a plutocrat, he
went strutting away. He was almost beyond earshot when he
volunteered this brief information:
"My father, he guv it to me."
Had David heard correctly? Did Mitch say "father"? The little boy
had never thought of such an article as a father except as
something which belongs to a story book. Fathers were common
enough in the story books; they were men, but until this moment
David had never thought of them as being desirable. It now
appeared that they were good for something. Mitch Horrigan had
one. He actually kept a father, and the father gave him fine
presents.
Reflecting upon all this, David became a very quiet little boy.
There seemed to be nothing interesting for him to do. He had no
appetite for supper, and in his face was the look of one who
dreams of such mighty things as trouvers, and a hair-cut, and a
brand-new knife. And when, at last, it came time to kiss Mother
good-night, he turned appealing eyes upon her, and asked with
trembling lips:
"Why don't _I_ never have no fav-ver?"
CHAPTER II
RUE AND ROSEMARY
They are not easy to take, siestas aren't. They are the word for
going to sleep in the daytime when you would rather not.
Sometimes you have to take medicine with them, and nearly always
you feel that you must have a drink of milk. It is so easy to
discover that you are thirsty, and besides, it usually gives you
a chance to stay awake a little while longer. Frequently you find
that you don't care as much for the milk as you thought you did,
but in one way there is always a satisfaction in it. If you have
a looking-glass, you can see the white mustache the drink has
left on your lip. Another satisfaction is that if Mother forgets
to bring your milk in the mug you like best, you can send her
right back for it.
If David wants to be particularly polite he sometimes asks Mother
to tell him her story about the young man with the mustache. She
has one that is tremendous dull because there are so many
thinking places in it. "And then--and then--" Mother will say,
and after that the story doesn't get on worth anything. The worst
about it is that it always takes such a long while for her to
reach the part which tells of the time when the young man started
to raise a mustache.
"How did he start?" David never fails to ask.
"By not shaving his lip."
It is now that David feels of his white lip with the tip of his
red tongue and then stoutly declares:
"I have not shaved _my_ lip."
"It was brown, like your hair," says Mother, "and when it was
about half-grown it began to curl up at the ends. The boys made
fun of it, but it was very beautiful and ever so soft and fine."
"Truly, was it?" asks David, and then something blooms pink in
Mother's cheeks. That is the one interesting thing about her
story, and up to that point he can always stand her narrative very
well; for he is always watching for the pretty pinkness. But when
that is gone, his interest goes too. It seems very ordinary to him
that this young man should have studied mechanics and become a
great engineer and invented things, and made discoveries.
Now, if he had ever been shipwrecked, or if he had ever been
eaten up by bears, or if he had fought Indians, or done some
other notable thing with a scare in it, why, _that_ would be
worth talking about. But why tell so much about a young man who
had done none of these things? Why speak of the way she had
encouraged him and helped him and studied with him? You can see
for yourself that it was a very stupid tale.
It was clever of David, though, to have her tell him the story,
for then she would sometimes forget that her little boy was not
having his siesta. To show her that he was trying to keep up an
interest he would now and then ask a question, as, for example,
when she spoke of the honors the young man had won at college.
"Could he spit through his teeth?" David would inquire, and it
was always a sad thing to him that this was not one of the young
man's accomplishments. A very disappointing chap, to be sure.
"Do you know, my little boy," Mother would say in a strange, soft
voice, "do you know that your eyes are as bright as his eyes used
to be, and that--"
"It's a nice story," David would say courageously, and like as
not, while Mother was still talking about the handsome young man
with the mustache, her little boy would fall fast asleep.
It is good, David, that you do not hear the story that is hid
away in the thinking places; it is good that you do not know the
worn look which sometimes comes into Mother's face and crowds
from it all the pretty pinkness that you love to see. You will
never know that other look which was often in Mother's face
before you came to nestle in her arms and frighten it away. You
have done well, brave soldier-man, for now I am right sure she
does not wonder any more why the day should have come when the
one she had helped so much should have forgotten the help and
been thankless for all the love that she had given him.
CHAPTER III
THE WORLD'S END
Sometimes, when David was working hard on his siesta, Mother
would tell him that he was to whistle as soon as the Sand Man
came. But even that doesn't always help. You have to ask so many
times to make sure that the Sand Man _hasn't_ come, and after you
have been told repeatedly that you are not yet asleep it makes
you discouraged. You know, too, that you mustn't cheat; it's not
fair to whistle until you actually see the Sand Man.
Hardly anything is so wearing on a little boy as to wait. This is
especially true of siesta-time, when there are always such a
number of interesting things going on outside. Through the
shutter's chink the yellow sunshine comes squirting into the
room--such amazing sunshine, just as it is on circus day! Only to
think of what great events must be in progress while you and
Mother lie here together in the darkened room, and toss
hopelessly in the dreadful throes of trying to get through with
your siesta!
One of the mean things about it is that neither side of the
pillow has any cool spot. You turn it over once more and once
more, and yet once more again, but it is no use. It is utterly
impossible to cuddle down and obey orders and go to sleep like a
brave soldier-man. The more you try it the more squirmy and itchy
you feel; for at such a time one is usually fretted by the
repeated ticklings of some bothersome fly. He will sneak along
the edge of the pillow and rub his hands together in front of
him, and then he's ready. Down he swoops upon your nose, hitting
it precisely in the same place where he lit before.
It is easy for Mother to say, "Go to sleep, now," but what bad
shift a little boy will sometimes make of his siesta!
There came a day in June when David believed he never in this
world could get through with it. He heard the chuck and drowsy
clack of the sprinkling-wagon as it ponderously advanced upon its
lazy way; he heard the almost whispered clucking of a mother-hen
who was calling her chicks to come shuffle with her in the cool
loose earth under the shade of the crooked old apple-tree, and
presently there came a time when the out-of-doors was all so
still that even the falling of a shadow would have made a sound.
David was right sure of that. There was such mystery, such an
unwonted sense of unreality a-quiver in this silence, that he
wanted, very much, to learn what it was all about. Then, ever and
ever so cautiously, he slipped down off the bed. His dimpled toes
went patting daintily across the polished floor, and presently he
had stolen forth upon a great adventure. His eyes narrowed; he
winked rapidly; so dazed he was with the sunshine and the
strangeness of a world that had never looked like this before.
He had found out where summer is. It was here in Mother's garden,
and you knew it was, for you could feel it in the stillness, and
you could see it in the sleepiness of blossoms that drowsed and
drooped and hung their lazy heads in the languishing sweetness of
good air and golden sunshine. It was all very strange and very
dear to David. The sky had never before been so blue, and never
so big nor deep nor cool, and the ground was pleasantly warm and
nice. As the seeded grass touched his ankles he could feel warm
shivers run over his legs, delightful thrills which came to him
this day for the first time. He had found out where summer is.
David paused, and listened, and heard nothing. The whole world
was listening. By and by a honey-burdened bumblebee began talking
to himself; you couldn't quite understand what he said because he
mumbled and bumbled so. David knew he was such a very tired and
sleepy bumblebee that nobody could understand what he was talking
about; and besides, he wasn't nearly so wonderful as a big
butterfly that balanced with blazing wings upon a nodding rose.
He was too heavy for the wee, sweet flower. David was right sure
the butterfly should have rested less heavily there, for pretty
soon the bonnie bloom came all apart and began to fall. One after
another the crimson petals slipped away, and dipped and floated
and came falling and falling down. David was confident that he
could hear the warm whisper of them as they fell, so in tune he
was with the summer and the sunshine, out here in Mother's
garden.
It was good he had stolen forth into the ardent glory of the
noon-time, for if he had not he never would have learned about
the place where the world stops. Only a few of us have found out
about that place. You don't think about it at all, and then,
pretty soon, you _do_ think about it. The way David learned of
it was a new way. He laid him down upon the petunia bed--dear,
old-fashioned flowers, lavender and pink and white, that peeped
between the palings of the white fence--he laid him down and
smelled deep the good, queer smell of them, and like the flowers
themselves, he, too, peeped between the bars into the vast world
which lay beyond. And that is how he learned of the place where
the world stops.
Down a long, long lane--down there, a little way past the
cottonwood tree, where the lane quits going on, that is where the
world stops. You know that is the place because of the awesomeness
that comes to you. The old cottonwood stands sentinel over that
region of the Great Beyond. So tall and big and still he is that
if you look at him awhile you will get the strange feeling of
things. High up in the glossy leaves one can sometimes hear a
little pattery sound, finer than the crinkle of tissue paper--a
pretty little sound like a quiet sprinkle of cooling rain. When he
does that he is whispering to the clouds that bring the freshness
of the summer shower.
Beyond him, down there where the world stops, is the place where
the clouds go to sleep after their long, slow journeyings across
the deep, sweet blue of the sky.
"What does my little boy see with his two big, shining eyes? And
what does my little boy hear?"
It was Mother's voice above him that was thus humbly asking
admission into the strange world he had found, and so well she
knew it was marvelous fine, this world of his, that she snuggled
his cheek against _her_ cheek, and tried and tried, in her poor,
grown-up way, to understand all the pretty things the great
silent tree was whispering to the clouds.
"Is it there?" she asked very softly and very earnestly. "Is it
down there that the clouds go to sleep?"
And they remained together, these two, side by side, thinking
about the sweet go-to-bed place of the clouds. A silence which
was new to them, a cool and reposeful silence, had come upon them
and held them. They were conversing in a language which has no
words. It was a melody in silver--the spirit of motherhood, the
soul of childhood blending into music, bringing them nearer,
deepening their love and making it more dear to them.
They understood each other, that woman and that little boy. They
did not move. David had taken hold of Mother's hand, and he held
to it while they kept on looking down there, afar off, where the
great silent tree was softly whispering to the summer clouds.
CHAPTER IV
DEAD SEA FRUIT
"Why don't I never have no fav-ver?"
Often David asked that question; upon awakening and upon going to
bed he was pretty sure to make inquiries that were never
satisfactorily answered. And now, one morning, it was a decided
relief to Mother to have him ask something else. With eager
questioning he said:
"Am I?"
Early, very early, he had awakened her to ask her that, for he
had been told, on going to bed, that when the day should come
again he would be four years old. Twice in the night he had
asked if he was It; so when the dawn at last showed with a
lovely pinkness in the lacy folds of the curtains, and the note
of a far-away meadow-lark called him into the glory of birthday
happiness, he wanted to be very certain that this famous period
of his life had actually come.
Before demanding if it were quite true, he lay still awhile and
thought about it. He looked at Mother's face, and snuggled his
fingers into the fairy foam of her nightgown, but the face and
the fairy foam at her throat had not changed in the least. They
were just the same as they had been yesterday and the day before
and the day before that.
It was very strange. He had supposed that when a little boy is
four years old, his life would be somehow--different. That is why
he was still in doubt; he was not at all sure about being four
years old. He would wake up Mother and then, if he _was_ It, she
would make him feel that he was.
Her reassurance, though, was not nearly so satisfying as he had
hoped.
"Yes, dear; it's your birthday. Now go to sleep awhile, my
pretty."
David lay very still, but he did not go to sleep. By and by he
asked rather uneasily:
"What do you do first?"
"What do you mean, little boy?"
"Little? _Am_ I little?"
"Of course you're growing," Mother told him.
But David would not be deceived. Already the suspicion had come
to him that there was nothing grand about being four years old.
It was not a success; it was a failure, and his one hope now
rested in Dr. Redfield, for this was the morning when the Doctor
had promised to waylay the little boy.
"How does _that_ begin?" David asked. He could not think what it
was that began.
"How does _what_ begin?" Mother inquired.
And that was not nice nor reasonable of her. Mothers are made to
answer questions, not to ask questions, and they are so
discouraging when they can't understand about being waylaid!
David felt abused, but he decided to have one more try at her.
Then, if she didn't give him satisfaction, he would know that
Four Years Old was all a humbug. As he looked longingly into her
face, his words faltered, as though he were again expecting
disappointment.
"Will he--will he wear his big, shiny hat when he does it?"
Into Mother's face came a puzzled, half knowing look. She
recalled the admiration inspired in a certain little boy by a
certain abominable top hat that a certain doctor had once worn to
a certain annual meeting of the State Medical Society. But this
was the extent of her knowledge.
"When he does what?" she asked.
The little boy's lip trembled, and he turned away his face. He
saw it wasn't any use. Mother didn't understand; she evidently
hadn't tried. It was plain that he was not four years old; he was
only three. It is very hard on little boys to be only that old
when they have made up their minds to be four. So, when David was
being dressed, he suffered all the while with a severe case of
what is commonly called pouts, but which in reality is something
much sadder.
"My, my!" said Mother, as she drew a stocking over the pink toes
of his right foot, "one mustn't look like that on his birthday."
"It is not my birthday," he said, not impertinently, but politely
and woefully.