CHAPTER XII. WEE IRISHY CAKES.
Muriel awakened the next morning with a song in her heart that she wassoon expressing in clear, sweet notes which told the listener how glad,glad the singer was just to be alive.
Captain Ezra, busying himself near the open kitchen door, sighed softlyas he realized that this wordless song was different from the others thatMuriel had sung in the mornings that were past as she prepared theirsimple breakfast.
There had been words to those other songs, sometimes hymns that thelassie had memorized from having often heard them repeated at themeeting-house, whither she had been permitted to go when the summercolony was closed. Then again, there had been times when she had setwords of her own to the meeting-house tunes; lilting melodies they wereof winging gulls and of the mermaids who lived in the sea. But thismorning there was a new and eager joyousness in the girl's singing. Forthe first time in her fifteen years, the gates of her prison had beenflung wide and she had stepped out into a strange world, timidly,perhaps, but soon forgetting herself in her delight at what she hadfound, a world of books, of young companionship, of adventure andromance. Muriel, even if she were again imprisoned, would never be quitethe same. But the newly awakened love in the heart of Captain Ezra hadbeen the key that had opened the door for his "gal," and she was now freeto come and go as she wished, because he trusted her. She would not leavehim without telling him nor would he detain her if she wished to go.
"Top o' the mornin' to you, Grand-dad," she called, when the fish weredone to a turn and the potatoes were crispy brown. "I've a mind to bebakin' today," she continued when he was seated at the table. "Some o'those wee Irishy cakes that Uncle Barney taught me how to make, just likehis 'auld' mother did. He's allays askin' for 'em when he docks at WindyIsland. He's been laid up so long, I cal'late the taste of 'em might becheerin' him, wouldn't you reckon they might, Grand-dad?"
The young arms were about the old man's neck and her fresh young cheekrested against the forehead that was leathered by exposure to the sun andwind and beating rain.
There was a twinkle in the grey eye that was nearest her.
"I cal-late as 'twould add to ol' Cap'n Barney's cheer if the stewardessherself toted them cookies to his stranded ol' craft on the dunes. Wasthat what yo' was figgerin' on doin', fust mate?"
"If yo'd like to take me, Grand-dad." This very demurely. The old seacaptain put down his knife and fork and laughed heartily.
"I reckon a gal who knows how to sail a boat better'n most folks don'need a boatman to cruise her over to the mainland. Sho now, Rilly!Navigate yer own craft. The embargo's lifted, as the newspapers put it.Come and go when it's to yer likin'. Jest be lettin' me know." Then headded, as though it were an after-thought: "When yo' carry yer cargo o'cakes to town, if I was yo' I'd leave a few at Miss Brazilla's cottage. Ireckon yer new friend might be likin' the taste o' suthin' differ'nt."
Muriel's cheeks were rosy. "Grand-dad," she protested, "I wa'n't thinkin'of Gene Beavers, honest I wa'n't! I just reckoned 'twasn't fair for me tobe spendin' a whole arternoon wi' a _new_ friend when an ol' one who'sbeen lovin' me for years back is laid up in drydock an' needs me evenmore."
The hazel eyes looked across the table so frankly that the teasingtwinkle faded in the grey eyes and an expression of infinite tendernesstook its place.
"I reckon I understand, fust mate," the old man said. "Cap'n Barney's gota heart in him as big as the hold in a freight boat, but thar's apowerful lot of loneliness in it, for all that he's allays doin'neighborly things for the folks on the dunes. Barney's been hankerin' foryears to be goin' back to his ol' mother, but she keeps writin' him to bestayin' in America, and that she'll come to keep his house as soon as herduty's done, but she don' come, for it's this un' and that un' over tharthat's in need of her ministrin'. Some day, I reckon, Barney'll pull upanchor and set sail for his Emerald Isle."
"Oh, Grand-dad," Rilla said, with sudden tears in her eyes, "you'n me'llbe that lonely if he goes."
During the morning, while Muriel busied herself with making the little"Irishy" cakes, she did not sing, nor was she thinking of Gene Beavers,for all of her thoughts were of her dear friend, old Captain Barney.Somehow she hadn't realized before how lonesome he must be so far awayfrom kith and kin. The fisherfolk living about him on the dunes were notfrom his country, nor were their interests his interests. They loved him,but could not understand him, for, as Mrs. Sam Peters had said one day toa group of the wives: "How can a body understand a man with grey hair onthe top o' his head who believes in the fairies?"
Muriel understood him, and so no wonder was it that they two were theclosest of friends.
Long rows of pert looking little cakes with spiral peaks were on thewhite pine shelf when Cap'n Ezra heard the welcome call for mess.
"Yo, Rilly gal," he exclaimed, "looks like a baker shop for sure sartin.How much a dozen are yo' askin' for yer wares?"
"Yo're to have a dozen for the takin', Grand-dad," the girl, flushed fromthe heat of the stove, told him beamingly. "Yo're share o' 'em is on thetable waitin' yer comin'."
"So they be," the old man declared as he caught sight of the plate heapedwith little cakes near his place. "Yo' wouldn't be leavin' yer ol'Grand-dad out, would yo', fust mate?"
"Leave yo' out, Grand-dad?" The questioner seemed amazed that such asuggestion could be made. "Why, if all the folks in all the world were togo somewhar's else an' I still had you, I'd be that happy an' content."
The girl said this nestled close in the old man's arms, and over her headhe wiped away a tear.
"Thunderation fish-hooks!" he exclaimed gruffly. "What a tarnal lot o'sentiment, sort of, we two folks do think lately. I reckon yourgrand-dad's cruisin' into his second childhood faster'n a full riggedschooner can sail ahead of a gale."
Laughingly Muriel skipped to the stove and carried the black iron spiderto the table to serve Captain Ezra.
"I reckon it's better off we are when we are childlike, Grand-dad," shesaid. Then with sweet seriousness she added: "You know the Good Booktells that it's only them that becomes like a child again that can enterthe Kingdom of Heaven." Taking her place opposite the old man, the girlsat for a moment looking out of the open window at the shining waters ofthe bay.
"I reckon it means that we must be trustin' like a little child is,knowin' our Father in Heaven _wants_ to take care of us. I reckon we'dought to be like little Zoeth was the day that Mr. Wixon got mad an' wasgoin' to cruise off and leave his fam'ly forever. He was packin' up hiskit, sayin' hard words all the time, when little cripple Zoeth clumpedover to him, and slippin' that frail hand o' his into the big one, hesaid, trustin' like: 'Ma says yer goin' away forever, but I _know_'tain't so. Yo're _my_ dad and yer wantin' to take care o' me, aren'tyo', Dad?'
"Yo' recollect that Mr. Wixon stayed, and, what's more, Mis' Wixon, shechanged, too. She stopped peckin' about suthin' all the time an' tried tofigure out what she could do to make her home happy, an' she _did_ it,Grand-dad. I reckon that little ol' shack o' the Wixons is the happiesthome on the dunes." Then, taking up her knife and fork, she added: "Ical'late that's what the Good Book means, just trustin' an' bein'happy-hearted like a child."
An hour later Captain Ezra stood at the top of the steep steps leadingdown the cliff and watched while his "gal" rowed the dory over toward themainland.
The girl looked up at the first buoy and waved to the one she loved mostin all the world.
Little Sol was down on the wharf, and with him were several small boysand girls, rather unkempt, rough mannered little creatures, for the wivesof the fishermen hadn't much money to spend and the children werepermitted to grow up as untutored as water rats. When Rilla landed theyran to her with arms outstretched. "Rilly, Rilly," they clamored, "betellin' us a story 'bout the mermaid that lived in a cave an----"
"An' how the tail on her changed to two legs an' she was married to aprince," the oldest among them concluded. Many a time Muriel had toldthem this
story.
"I reckon I haven't time today," Rilla said with a quick glance at thesun. Then suddenly she thought of something. In her basket there were twopackages. In the larger one there were cakes for Uncle Barney. That couldnot be touched. But in the smaller one there were cakes which she hadplanned leaving at the Mullet cottage for Gene. After all, it was hardlyfair when he had all the goodies he wished and these raggedy childrenalmost never had anything but fish and potatoes. "I cal'late I have timeto be givin' yo' each a little cake," Muriel announced.
Placing her basket on a roll of tarred rope, she opened the smallerpackage and passed around the crispy little cakes and when she saw theglow in the eyes that looked up at her she was glad of her decision. "Nowwe'll be learnin' the manners," she laughingly told the children, whogazed at her with wide-eyed wonder. "Each of yo' be makin' a bow and say,'Thank you, Rilly.'"
A fine lady had come to Windy Island the summer before to visit the lightand with her had been a fairy-like girl of seven. Muriel had been bakingcakes that day and had given her one. To her surprise, the child had madethe prettiest curtsy and had said, "Thank you, Miss Muriel."
Whatever strange thing Rilla might ask the children to do they would atleast attempt it, and so, holding fast with grimy fingers to the preciouscakes, they watched the older girl as she showed them how to curtsy. Thenthey tried to do likewise, the while they piped out, "Thank yo', Rilly!"
"Now, dearies, allays do that arter yo've been given anythin' nice," shebade them. "Ye-ah, Rilly, we-uns will," was the reply that followed her.But it was rather muffled, for the cakes were being hungrily devoured.
Muriel wished that she could give each child another, but she could notopen Uncle Barney's package, and so, turning to wave goodbye, she leftthe wharf and set out across the dunes in the direction of the Irishman'scabin.
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