Paddy Haggerty kept a nate shanty.
He kept mate, figs, an’ bread
An’ a nate lodgin’ bed.
Well liked for the country he lived in.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
Sing fol de rol-lol, de rol lido!”
A swelling chorus of voices flung the “fol de rol-lols” as high as the rafters.
“One night the snow fallin’ down
He could not get to town
An’ Paddy was ate out completely.”
Here something always seemed to be left out or added on to spoil the meter, but Robert twanged on as gayly as ever, fitting his music to the words as he knew them with never a care for rhyme or reason.
“That night as he lay dreaming of fairies and witches,
He heard an uproar
Outside of his door
And he jumped up to strail on his breeches.”
“Sing fol de rol-lol,” shouted the children.
“The words were scarce spoke
When the door came unbroke
And they gathered ’round Paddy like leeches.
Sayin’, ‘By the Big Matchel Gob
If ye don’t give us grub
We’ll ate ye clean out o’ your breeches!’ ”
“Sing fol de rol-lol! Sing fol de rol-lol!”
“ ‘Sure, they’ve got to be fed!’
He slipped up to the bed
Which held Judy his own darlin’ wife in,
An’ ’twas there they agreed
How to give ’em a feed,
So he stepped out an’ brought a big knife in.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
Sing fol de rol-lol, de rol lido!
“They cut up the waist
Of the breeches the best
And they ripped off the buttons and stitches.
They cut ’em in strips,
By the way they was striped,
An’ they boiled up the old leather breeches.”
“Sing fol de rol-lol!” roared the audience. “Fol de rol-lol, de rol lido!”
“When it was stewed
An on a dish strewed,
The boys cried out, ‘Lord be thankit!’
But ’twas little they knew
That ’twas leather-be-goo
B’iled out o’ Paddy’s old breeches.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
“As they messed on the stuff,
Says Andy,‘ ’Tis tough.’
Says Paddy, ‘Ye’re no judge o’ mutton.’
Then Brian McQuirk,
On the p’int of his fork,
Held up a large ivory button.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
Sing fol de rol-lol.
Sing fol de rol-lol, de rol lido!
“ ‘They’ve p’isoned the feast
Let’s send for a priest!’
They jumps on their legs an’ they screeches,
An’ from that very night
They’d knock out yer daylight
If ye’d mention the old leather breeches.”
Such a joyous howl of “fol de rol-lols” marked the end of the song as set the horses to jumping and pawing in their stalls and John’s dog to barking like a mad thing. And so ended in music the show which had begun with scalp locks.
On counting up the gate receipts, the Woodlawn children discovered that they had a tidy collection of marbles, old birds’ nests, butternuts, pins with colored heads, slingshot crotches, and various other objects of interest or art.
“I guess we did pretty well,” said Caddie pleasantly as she divided the spoils.
But Tom pocketed his share in silence. Some disturbing thought seemed to have occurred to him. “Katie Hyman didn’t come to the show,” he said. “I guess she’s about the only one who didn’t.”
“What do you expect?” demanded Caddie with a little touch of scorn in her voice. “She’d be scared to death of a scalp belt.”
“She hasn’t been to school since the massacree scare,” volunteered Hetty.
“I know it,” said Tom.
Caddie stopped to think. “No, she hasn’t,” she said slowly. She had thought so much about John and the little Hankinsons that Katie had never entered her head. Now a series of vivid pictures flashed across her mind. Katie standing in the barn, her eyes wide with fear, her hands pressed to her breast, saying, “Cross my heart”; Katie fainting when Caddie returned from her wild ride; Katie pale and silent the next day, starting for home, holding her mother’s hand; and last of all Katie’s place on the bench in the corner of the schoolroom, empty! “I wonder,” said Caddie.
“Maybe she’s sick,” said Tom, trying to seem careless about it.
“Maybe she is,” said Caddie, “and, if she is, I guess it’s my fault. We’d better go and see her.”
They ran to the house for permission.
“Yes, do go,” said Mrs. Woodlawn. “I’ve worried about the poor little thing myself. Here, take her some of these molasses cookies, and see that you get back before dark.”
“Couldn’t we take the scalp belt to show her, Caddie?” inquired Tom.
“I’ll let you,” said Caddie, “but she won’t like it.”
“Aw, golly! I bet she would. She’s the only one who hasn’t seen it. I’d hate to be the only one who hadn’t seen it, wouldn’t you?”
Caddie wrapped up the scalp belt in a piece of brown paper, and away they went.
“You go up to the door and knock, Caddie,” said Tom when they reached the little log house where Katie and her mother lived. “I just came along to keep you company, you know.”
Caddie went up and knocked, and Mrs. Hyman let them in.
“Yes, Katie’s been very poorly ever since the scare,” said her mother. “But do come in. I think the sight of you will do her good.”
Katie sat up in bed, a little knitted shawl about her shoulders and pillows piled behind her. Her face was so pale, her eyes so blue, her hair so golden—like a little girl in a dream or a fairy tale. On the rough wall beside her was pinned the finest Valentine from Dunnville store. Tom looked at it and suddenly lost his voice.
“I’m sorry you’ve been poorly,” said Caddie, coming up to the bed.
Katie reached out her little thin hand and caught Caddie’s sturdy one. “Oh, Caddie,” she said, “I want to feel if you are real. You look so real! I’m glad you
came. I’ve had such nightmares since the scare. In them people are always hunting for you, and I’m the only one who knows that you are away being scalped by the Indians, and I can’t tell because I’ve crossed my heart. Oh, you can’t know how awful it is!”
Caddie sat down on the edge of the bed, awkwardly holding the little hand in hers. “I shouldn’t have made you cross your heart,” she said. “It was real unkind of me, Katie. But I didn’t mean it that way. You see, just then, I was more scared of the white folks than the Indians. Katie, honestly, you mustn’t be afraid of the Indians. Most of them are just as good and friendly as can be. Let me tell you about John and what he gave me to keep for him before he went away.”
Tom drew up a chair and together they told her about John’s departure and the scalp belt show, and how Mrs. Hankinson had gone away, and what Caddie had done with her silver dollar. Encouraged by the little shadowy smiles about her lips, they piled on all the lively details they could remember or invent, and, before they were through, Katie was laughing and there was a little pinkness in each pale cheek.
“Oh, I should have liked to see them with their bright red handkerchiefs!” she said. “I—I almost wish I could have seen the scalp belt show.”
“Well,” said Tom, “it’s here,” and he tapped the brown paper parcel which lay on his knee.
“Here?” echoed Katie, looking a little startled.
“Yes,” said Tom. “Caddie thought you’d be afraid to look at it. But I knew you wouldn’t want to be the on
ly one who hadn’t seen it.”
“She doesn’t want to see it, Tom. It’s only a bunch of old Indian scalps,” said Caddie, fearing that all their cheerful talk would have been wasted if Katie were obliged to see the gruesome object. But Katie sat up straighter in her pillows. There was a kind of resolute bravery about her that no one had ever noticed there before.
“I do want to see it—very much.”
Tom unwrapped the brown paper and held up the belt. “Isn’t that a beauty?” he demanded.
Katie gasped. “Yes,” she said. “Yes—it—is—a beauty.” She even touched one of the tails of hair, and when she had, she looked quite proud and pleased.
“Do wrap it up now, Tom,” said Caddie, “and here are some cookies Mother sent which you’ll find much nicer than scalps. I hope you’ll be well soon, and now we must go.”
“Thank you for coming,” said Katie. “I think I will be well soon.” And, indeed, she did look better already.
As they rose to go Tom’s eye rested again on the “rose is red” Valentine. Katie looked at it, too. Then their eyes met in some embarrassment.
“Tom,” said Katie, “I guessed who sent it.”
Tom laughed. “You did? That was pretty smart of you, Katie.”
All the way home Tom whistled and sang: “Fol de rol-lol, fol de rol-lol, fol de rol-lol, de rol lido!”
16. Warren Performs
Now the air began to be warm and the sun to shine. One day, when the three adventurers were in the woods hunting for arbutus to take to Teacher, they heard a roaring on the river.
“The ice is going out,” said Tom. “Let’s go and see.” They ran to the river bank and stood together, watching. They could not hear each other speak above the sound of grinding, crashing ice. By evening the ice had piled itself in places as high as the tavern at Dunnville. The tavern on the other side of the river was cut off from the town entirely. In summer a ferry plied between the two banks, in winter folks crossed on the ice, but now the two banks were separated by a great jam of ice that groaned and creaked and made its slow way down to larger rivers.
“It won’t be long now until the Little Steamer comes again,” said Mrs. Woodlawn with a smile. “Of course we shouldn’t complain now that they bring some of our mail in on sledges, but, just the same, I like it better to be in touch with Boston and the rest of the world. Children, what should you think of having your cousin Annabelle from Boston here to visit you this summer? Her parents have been talking of letting her make the journey for some time. She could go by the steam cars to St. Louis, visit Uncle Edmunds folks, and come on here by boat. I think I’ll sit down and write them this very day.”
“What’s she like, Mother?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen her for years, of course, but she was a darling little girl and very accomplished. She’s not so old as Clara—nearer Caddie’s age, I believe, but, well—she’s been reared as a lady, and will be nicely finished, I am sure.”
“Oh! That kind of girl!” said Tom.
Caddie’s heart, which had undergone a certain disagreeable chill at Mother’s, “but, well— she’s been reared as a lady,” warmed pleasantly again at the deep scorn in Tom’s voice. Tom was more than a brother, he was a friend.
However, the whole family looked with interest and a sense of expectation at the letter which Mother wrote and directed to Miss Annabelle Grey of Boston. It stood upon a shelf in the parlor for many days, waiting for the Little Steamer to come and take it.
Before the ice went out, Father and Robert Ireton had gone through the woods adjoining the farm and tapped the sugar maple trees. This was a delightful business to Tom, Caddie, and Warren, who made the rounds of the sap buckets in the afternoons after school, and felt that they were chiefly responsible for the maple syrup that was so good on Mrs. Conroy’s hot cakes.
And now vacation loomed delightfully ahead. The winter term of school was almost over and Miss Parker would go and teach the children of Durand their A B Cs and multiplication tables for three months. The last day of school was to be a “speaking” day with songs by the school and recitations by some of the pupils. Caddie and Warren both had pieces. Caddie’s was a very noble one beginning:
“A traveller on a dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea,
And one took root and sprouted up
And grew into a tree.”
The poem went on to say that, as carelessly tossed acorns may grow into great oaks, so may little words and deeds of kindness grow into great and beautiful things. Under Mother’s coaching Caddie had practiced it with gestures and a fine Boston accent, and it was quite perfect.
But everyone felt a little doubtful of Warren. His piece was so short that it seemed impossible that he should be able to forget it or mix it up in any way. But Warren was not gifted as a public speaker. He said it over and over as he went about the house.
“If at first you don’t succeed,
Try, try again!
That’s easy, isn’t it? You don’t think I’ll forget it, do you?”
“Of course not, Warren,” said Caddie. “Just don’t get stage fright, that’s all.”
“What’s stage fright?” asked Warren in a worried tone.
“Oh, just being scared when you have to get up and see so many eyes looking at you.”
“You won’t have time to get scared with a piece as short as that,” laughed Tom. Then he struck a dramatic attitude and declaimed:
“If at first you don’t fricassee,
Fry, fry a hen!”
This struck Warren as tremendously funny, and he went about the house giving Tom’s version of the piece as often as he gave the correct one.
On the morning of the “speaking” day the sky was full of black clouds. There was a heavy stillness in the air with an occasional drop of rain and a rumbling of distant thunder.
“There’s going to be a dreadful storm,” said Mrs. Woodlawn. “I can feel it in the air. I planned to take Minnie and baby Joe to the speaking, but I don’t dare risk it on such a day. It looks black enough for a tornado or a cloudburst. I really believe that you children had all better stay at home where you’ll be safe.”
“Stay at home from the speaking?” cried Caddie in dismay, thinking of her best white apron so nicely starched, and of the gestures and the Boston accent. Were they all to be wasted?
“Why, Ma—I mean Mother, we’ve gone to school in stormy weather all winter,” said Tom. “It won’t hurt us.”
“I think Mother’s right. We better stay at home,” said Warren, who was beginning to look a little pale around the gills. Ever since he had arisen that morning the air about him had been filled with muttered “try, try again”s, and sometimes with “fry, fry a hen’s which slipped out inadvertently.
“I’m going,” said Hetty stoutly.
“Well, well, go along,” said Mrs. Woodlawn, “but I’ll keep the little ones at home.”
So away the four Woodlawns trudged to school.
The schoolroom was decorated with evergreen branches and a loop of faded bunting, and the children were conspicuously starched and clean. Miss Parker herself had on a shiny black silk apron instead of the usual one of speckled calico. A few of the Dunnville parents sat on benches at the front of the room, looking self-conscious and important. Caddie’s heart beat a little faster, but not so much for herself as for Warren, whose face wore a look of dark foreboding. Could one possibly forget a piece so short as his? wondered Caddie uncomfortably. Then she heard Miss Parker calling her name, and she got up without any hesitation, mounted the platform, and made the neat curtsy Mother had taught her.
“A traveller on a dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea,
And one took root . . .”
It went off perfectly, gestures, Boston accent and everything.
She dropped another curtsy and returned to her seat, feeling that, perhaps for the first time in her life, she had acquitted herself exactly as an “accomplished” young lady would
have done. Too bad that Mother had not been there to see! While she was still glowing with this novel achievement, she heard Miss Parker announce:
“And now Master Warren Woodlawn will be heard in a recitation. Come right up here in front, Warren.”
For a moment Warren clung desperately to the bench on which he sat. Then with a rush he mounted the platform and began to recite in a very loud voice.
“If at first you don’t fricassee,
Fry, fry a hen!”
“Oh!” said Caddie.
“Oh!” said everybody else in various degrees of consternation and amusement. The titters spread into a roar of laughter.
“Warren Woodlawn,” said Miss Parker grimly, “you will please stop and see me after school.” She rapped on her desk with her ruler, and silence was restored. But what a merry silence—for everyone except Warren, and poor, outraged Miss Parker.
The “whoop” and “hurrah!” with which school always let out for the term was somewhat spoiled for Tom and Caddie and Hetty. How could one jump and shout with Warren still sitting uncomfortably on his bench waiting for Miss Parker to finish shaking hands with the parents? Besides, the storm which had been saving its fury all the morning was just beginning to break over the schoolhouse. There were gusts of wind and rain and clap after clap of thunder with jagged streaks of lightning in the dark sky. The children scattered for their homes more quickly and silently than usual. Tom, Caddie, and Hetty stayed in the cloakroom waiting for Warren.
“Golly! I wish she’d hurry up,” said Tom. “We’re going to get a good ducking before we get home if she doesn’t.”
“Let’s go in,” said Caddie. Cautiously they pushed the schoolroom door and entered the room which was now deserted except for Warren and Miss Parker.
“Now, Warren,” Miss Parker was saying, “I give you one more opportunity to say your piece correctly. Now go ahead, do.” Warren, his face very red, his hands very much in the way, began to mumble the famous piece. But all that would come out, try as he might, was “Fry, fry a hen.” Ominously Miss Parker reached for her ruler.
“Oh, say, ma’am,” said Tom, coming quickly forward with his nicest smile, “I guess it’s my fault, ’cause I taught him that. You see, it’s the first piece he ever spoke and I guess he’s pretty scared. I hope you’ll forgive him and lay the blame on me.”
Caddie Woodlawn Page 11