Chapter 7

"Harry--is--in--prison!" she said. Even though she'd said it herself she seemed to be awfully surprised at the news. She shook and shook her head as though she was trying to wake up the idea that was asleep. Her eyes were all scrunched up now with trying to remember about it. She dragged the back of her hands across her forehead. First one hand and then the other. She opened her eyes very wide again and looked at Old Man Smith.

"Where--is--Harry?" said Old Man Smith.

Annie Halliway never took her eyes from Old Man Smith's face.

"It--It was the night we crossed the border from France to Spain," she said. Her voice sounded very funny and far away. It sounded like reciting a lesson too. "There were seven of us and a teacher from the Paris art school," she recited. "It--It was the March holiday.----There--There--was a woman----a strange woman in the next compartment who made friends with me.--She seemed to be crazy over my hair.--She asked if she might braid it for the night."

Without any tears at all Annie Halliway began to sob again.

"When they waked us up at the Customs," she sobbed, "Harry came running! His face was awful! 'She's braided diamonds in your hair!' he cried. 'I heard her talking with her accomplice! A hundred thousand dollars' worth of diamonds! Smugglers and murderers both they are!--Everybody will be searched!'--He tore at my braids! I tore at my braids! The diamonds rattled out! Harry tried to catch them!--He pushed me back into the train! I saw soldiers running!--I thought they were going to shoot him! He thought they were going to shoot him!--I saw his eyes!--He looked so--so surprised!--I'd never noticed before how blue his eyes were!--I tell you I saw his eyes!--I couldn't speak!--There wasn't anybody to explain just why he had his hands full of diamonds!--I _saw_ his eyes! I tell you I couldn't speak!--I tell you I _never_ spoke!--My tongue went dead in my mouth! For months I never spoke!--I've only just begun to speak again!--I've only just----"

She started to jump up from the ground where she was sitting! She couldn't!--She had braided Old Man Smith and his wheel chair into her hair! When she saw what she had done she toppled right over on her face! And fainted all out!

Over behind the lilac bush somebody screamed.

It was Annie Halliway's Mother! With her was a strange gentleman who had come all the way from New York to try and cure Annie Halliway. The strange gentleman was some special kind of a doctor.

"Hush--Hush!" the Special Doctor kept saying to everybody. "This is a very crucial moment! Can't you see that this a very crucial moment?" He pointed to Annie Halliway on the grass. Her Mother knelt beside her trying very hard to comb Old Man Smith and his wheel-chair out of her pig-tail. "Speak to her!" said the Doctor. "Speak to her very gently!"

"Annie?" cried her Mother. "Annie?--Annie--_Annie?_"

Annie Halliway opened her eyes very slowly and looked up. It was a brand new kind of a look. It had a bottom to it instead of being just through and through and through. There was a little smile in it too. It was a pretty look.

"Why, Mother," said Annie Halliway. "Where am I?"

The Special Man from New York made a queer little sound in his throat.

"Thank God!" he said. "She's all right _now_!"

It seemed pretty quick to me.

"You mean--" I said, "that her Mysteria is all cured--now?"

"Not _Mys_teria," said the Special Man from New York, _"Hys_teria!"

"No!--_Her_steria!" corrected Old Man Smith.

The Special Man from New York began to laugh.

But Annie Halliway's Mother began to cry.

"Oh, just suppose we'd never found her?" she cried. She looked at Carol. She looked at me. She glared a little. But not so awfully much. "When you naughty children ran away with her?" she cried. "And we couldn't find her anywhere?--And the Doctor came? And there was only an hour to spare?--And we got a horse and drove round anywhere? And--And----"

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything!" said the Special Man from New York.

"And all your appointments waiting?" cried Annie Halliway's Mother.

"Darn the appointments!" said the Special Man from New York. He slanted his head and looked at Old Man Smith. "We arrived," he said, "just at the moment when the young lady was gazing so--so intently at the piece of shiny glass." He made a funny grunt in his throat. "Let me congratulate you, Mr.--Mr. Smith!" he said. "Your treatment was most efficient!--Your hypnosis was perfect! Your----"

"Hip _nothing_!" said Old Man Smith.

"Of course, in a case like this," said the Special Man from New York, "the Power of Suggestion is always----"

"All young folks," said Old Man Smith, "are cases of one kind or another--and the most powerful suggestion that I can make is that somebody find 'Harry!'"

"'Harry?'" said Annie Halliway's Mother. "'_Harry?_'--Why, I've got four letters at home for Annie in my desk now--from some im--impetuous young man who signs himself 'Harry!'--He seems to be in an Architect's office in Paris! 'Robin' is what he calls Annie!--'_Dearest_ Robin'----"

"Eh?" said Annie Halliway. "What? _Where?_" She sat bolt upright! She scrambled to her feet! She started for the carriage!

Her Mother had to run to catch her.

The Special Man from New York followed them just as fast as he could.

Old Man Smith wheeled his chair to the gate to say "Good-bye."

Everything seemed all mixed up.

Annie Halliway's Mother never stopped talking a single second.

"Oh, my Pet!" she cried. "My Precious. My Treasure!"

With one foot on the carriage step the Special Man from New York turned round and looked at Old Man Smith. He smiled a funny little smile.

"Seek--and ye shall find!" he said. "That is--if you only know _How_ and _Where_ to seek."

Old Man Smith began to chuckle in his beard.

"Yes, I admit that's quite a help," he said, "the knowing _How_ and _Where!_--But before you set out seekin' very hard for anything that's lost it's a pretty good idea to find out first just exactly what it is that you're seekin' for!--When a young lady's lost her _mind,_ for instance, that's one thing!--But if it's her _heart_ that's lost, why, that, of course, is quite another!"

Annie Halliway's face wasn't white any more. It was as red as roses. She had it in her Mother's shoulder.

The horses began to prance. The carriage began to creak.

Annie Halliway's Mother looked all around.

"Oh, dear--oh, dear--oh, dear, Mr.--Mr. Smith," she said. "How shall I ever repay you?"

Old Man Smith reached out his hand across the fence. There was sort of a twinkle in his eye.

"One dollar, please," said Old Man Smith.

THE BOOK OF THE FUNNY SMELLS--AND EVERYTHING

It was Carol who invented the Book. He didn't mean any harm.

I helped him.

We called it "The Book of the Funny Smells--and Everything."

It was one Tuesday noon coming home from school that we stopped the Lady on the street.

She was a very interesting looking lady. She looked like all sorts of different-colored silk roses. And a diamond brooch.

"Excuse us, Madam," I said. "But we are making a book! And we have decided to begin it with you! If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a Beautiful Lady,--what Beautiful Smell in the Whole Wide World would you choose to be?"

The lady reeled back against the wall of the Post Office. And put on a gold eyeglass to support her.

"Merciful Impudences!" she said. "What new kind of census is this?"

We knew what a "census" was.

"No! It isn't that at all!" I explained. "This is something important."

Carol showed her the book. He showed her the pencil he was going to write the book with.

"When it's all done," I explained, "everybody will want to read it!"

"I can well believe it," said the Lady. She looked at Carol. Everybody looks at Carol.

"Who are you children, anyway?" she said.

"My name is Ruthy," I explained. "And this is my brother Carol."

She began to look at Carol all over again. She reached out and shook him by the shoulder.

"Dumbness!" she said. "Why let Sister do all the talking?"

My stomach felt pretty queer.

"My brother Carol _can't_ talk," I explained. "He _is_ dumb!"

The Lady turned very red.

"Oh dear--Oh dear--Oh dear," she said. She opened her purse. She took out a dollar bill. "Surely something could be done about it!" she said.

"We are not looking for money," I explained. "We are perfectly rich. We have warm underalls. And two parents. And an older sister. We have a tame coon. And a tame crow. Our Father could paint the house any Autumn he wanted to if he'd rather do it than plant Tulips."

The Lady looked at her watch. It was a bright blue watch no bigger than a violet is.

"This is all very interesting," she said. "But at the obnoxious hotel which you run in this village dinner is at twelve o'clock and if I'm not there at exactly that moment there will not be another dinner, I suppose, until twelve o'clock the next day. So----"

"Probably not," I said. "So if you don't feel timid at all about walking out with strangers, my brother Carol and I will walk home to the Hotel with you and write our book as we go."

The Lady bit herself. She bit herself in the lip. She began to walk very fast.

Carol walked very fast on one side of her. I walked very fast on the other. Carol carried the book. He carried it wide open so as to be all ready any moment. I carried the pencil.

"Can you tell me," said the Lady, "just why you and your brother have picked upon me as the first victim of your most astonishing interrogations?"

"Because you are the only Lady we ever saw in our lives that we didn't know who she was!" I explained. "And that makes it more interesting!"

"O--h," said the Lady. She gave a queer little gasp. It was the Hotel happening! She ran up the hotel steps. There was a Gentleman waiting for her at the top of the steps. He was a tall Gentleman with a very cross mustache. The Lady whispered something to him. He shook his mustache at us.

"Get out of here, you Young Scamps!" he cried. "Get out of here, I say! _Get out!_"

No one had ever shaken his mustache at us before. We sat down on the step to think about it.

The Gentleman ran off to call the Hotel Proprietor.

The Lady looked a little sorry. She came running back. She stooped down. She took the book from Carol. And the pencil from me. She laughed a little.

"You funny--funny children," she said. "What is it you want to know? The Most Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world,--is that it?--The Most Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world?" She looked back over her shoulder. She wrote very fast. Her cheeks looked pink. She banged the book together just the first second she had finished. She pulled my ear. "I'm--I'm sorry," she said.

"Oh, that's all right," I assured her. "We'll be round and write the rest of the book some other day!"

The Man with the Cross Mustache kept right on hunting all around.

When the Hotel Proprietor came running and saw who we were he gave us two oranges instead, and a left-over roll of wall-paper with parrots on it, and all the old calendars that were in his desk.

We had to race home across the railroad trestle to get there in time. It wasn't till we reached the Blacksmith Shop that we had a chance to stop and see what the Lady had written in our book. There was a Smoke Tree just outside the Blacksmith Shop. It was all in smoke. We sat down under it and opened our book.

This is what the Lady had written in our book.

The most beautiful smell in the world is the smell of an old tattered baseball glove--that's been lying in the damp grass--by the side of a brook--in June Time.

I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. We felt surprised. It wasn't exactly what you would have expected. Carol rolled over on his stomach. He clapped his heels in the air. He pounded his fists in the grass.

We forgot all about going home. We went into the Blacksmith's Shop instead. It was a very earthy place. But nothing grew there. Not grass. Not flowers. Not even vines. Just Junk!

The Blacksmith's name was Jason. He looked something like a Stove that could be doubled up in its stomach and carried round to all four corners of a horse for the horse to put his foot on. He was making shoes for a very stout black horse. The horse's name was Ezra. There were a great many sparks around! And iron noises! And flames! And smouches! Ezra's hoofs seemed to be burning! It smelt so funny we didn't think it would be polite to ask Jason what he'd rather smell like instead! So we decided to begin the other way about. But whatever way you decided you had to scream it.

"Jason," I screamed. "If you were a Beautiful Sound instead of a Beautiful Blacksmith, what Beautiful Sound in the whole wide world would you choose to be?"

"_Eh?_" screamed Jason. He stopped hammering. He stopped thumping. He stopped boiling poor Ezra's hoof with a red hot poker. "_Eh?_" he said all over again. "Well, that's a new one on me! What's the Big Idea?"

"Well--I want to know," said Jason. He sat down on a great block of wood. He wiped his sleeve on his face. It made his sleeve all black. "If I was a Sound--?" he said. "Instead of a Man?--Instead of a man?" It seemed to puzzle him a good deal. "Not to be a man--any more you mean? No arms? Legs? Stomach? Eyes?--To get all worn out and busted stayin' on forever in one place? And then thrung away?--But to be just a--just a Sound?--Just a Sound? Well, of all the comical ideas! Of all the----" Then quite suddenly he whacked his hand down in a great black smouch on his knee and clanged his feet like dungeon chains across a clutter of horseshoes. "I've got it!" he cried. "I've got it!--If I was a Sound instead of a man I'd choose to be a Song!--Not great loud band-tunes, I mean, that nobody could play unless he was hired! And charged tickets! But some nice--pretty little Song--floatin' round all soft and easy on ladies' lips and in men's hearts. Or tinklin' out as pleasant as you please on moonlight nights from mandolin strings and young folks sparkin'. Or turnin' up just as likely as not in some old guy's whistle on the top of one of these 'ere omnibuses in London Town. Or travellin' even in a phonograph through the wonders of the great Sahara Desert. Something all simple--I mean that you could hum without even botherin' with the words. Something people would know who you was even if there _wasn't_ any words!--Something all sweet and low----'Sweet and Low,' that's it! My Mother used to sing it! I hain't thought of it for forty years! _That's_ the one I mean!"

"Sweet and Low"--he began to sing.

Sweet and low--Sweet and low-- Wind of the Western Sea----

His voice was all deep and full of sand like the way a bass drum makes you feel in your stomach. I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. We felt pretty surprised. Jason the Blacksmith looked more surprised than anyone! But he kept right on singing!

Over the rolling waters go-- Come from the--the something--moon and blow-- While my little one--while my pretty one--sleeps. Father will come to his babe in the nest-- S-silvery--something--all out of the West-- Silvery----

We ran!

When we got to the Smoke Tree and looked back there was no sound at all in the Blacksmith Shop except the sound of Ezra thumping his hoofs. And Jason being a Song instead of a man!

The faster we ran the more surprised we felt.

When you _read_ a book, of course, you expect to be surprised. If you didn't think the person who made the book was going to tell you something that you didn't know before you wouldn't bother to read it. But when you're _writing_ a book it doesn't seem exactly as though so many unexpected things ought to happen to you!

We were pretty glad when we ran right into the Old Minister who preaches sometimes when all the young ministers can't think of anything more to preach about.

The Old Minister was leaning against the Bridge. The Old Lawyer was leaning against the Bridge with him. They were waving their canes. And their long white beards. And arguing about the "Thirty-Nine Articles."--Carol thinks it was the "Fifty-Seven Varieties" they were arguing about. But the "Fifty-Seven Varieties" I'm almost sure is Pickles. It's the "Thirty-Nine Articles" that is Arguments!

The Old Minister laughed when he saw us coming. "Well--Well--Well!" he cried. "See who's here! And carrying such a big book too! And all out of breath!" He put his arm round Carol. I thought he was going to ask us our Catechisms. And there wasn't any breath left in our catechisms.

"Oh, if you were a Beautiful Sound," I gasped, "instead of a Beautiful Preacher--what Beautiful Sound in the whole wide world--would you--would you choose to be?"

"Eh?" said the Old Minister. "Eh?--What's--that? A--A--Sound instead of a Preacher? Well, upon my word!--This minute, you mean? Or any minute? If I was a Beautiful Sound instead of----?" He mopped his forehead. He looked pretty hot. He twinkled his eyes at the Old Lawyer. "Well--just _this_ minute," he said, "I'd rather be the Sound of Foaming Beer than anything else in the world that I can think of!" He thumped his cane on the ground. The Old Lawyer thumped his cane on the ground. They both started off down the road thumping as they walked. We heard them chuckling as they thumped. They weren't arguing any more about the "Thirty-Nine Articles." They were arguing about Cheese.

And that was surprising too!

There wasn't any dinner left when we got home except just knives and forks and spoons. My Mother found us two bowls to go with the spoons. And some milk to go with the bowls. And some crackers to go with the milk. Everything went very well.

We told my Mother we were sorry to be late but that we were writing a book and it was very important.

My Mother said yes,--she knew that writing books was very important and had always noticed that people who wrote 'em were very apt to be late to things. Her only regret, she said, was that Carol and I hadn't had a little more time in which to form habits of promptness before we began on such a chronic career as Literature.

My Father said "Stuff and Nonsense!" My Father said that if we'd kindly condescend to tear ourselves away from the Charms of Literature for one brief afternoon he'd like to have us weed the Tulip Bed.

We said we would.

We forgot all about our book. It isn't that pulling up weeds is any special fun. It's the putting flowers back that you've pulled up by mistake that is such a Game in itself. You have to make little splints for them out of Forsythia twigs. You have to build little collars of pebble-stone all around them to keep marauding beetles from eating up their wiltedness. You have to bring them medicine-water from the brook instead of from the kitchen--so that nobody will scream and say, "Oh, what have you done now?--Oh, what have you done _now_?"

It was Supper Time before we knew it. There was creamed chicken for supper. And wild strawberry preserve. And a letter from our sister Rosalee. Our sister Rosalee is in Cuba visiting her Betrother. She wrote seven pages about it. She seemed to like her Betrother very much.

My Mother cried a little. My Father said "Oh, Pshaw! Oh, Pshaw! You can't keep 'em babies forever!" My Mother tried not to look at my Father's eyes. She looked at his feet instead. When she looked at his feet instead she saw that there were holes in his slippers. She seemed very glad. She ran and got a big needle. And a big thread. My Father had to sit very still.

It seemed a very good time to remember about the Book.

Carol went and got the Book. He put it down on the Dining Room table. It was a gray book with a red back to it. It said "Lanos Bryant" across the back of it. It was Lanos Bryant who had given us the book. Lanos Bryant was the Butcher. It was an old Account Book. The front of it was all mixed up with figurings. It was in the back of it that we were making Our Book.

My Mother looked up. She smiled at us.

"Why, bless my heart," she said, "we mustn't forget about the children's Book!"

"No such luck," said my Father.

Everybody smiled a little.

"What's the Book about?" said my Mother.

I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. He nudged me to go on.

"It's about You!" I said. "And about Father! And about Jason the Blacksmith! And about the Old Preacher. And about most anybody I guess that would like to be About-ed!"

"Well--Well--Well," said my Mother. "And what is it for?"

"Oh, it's just for fun," I said. "But it's very important.--Just the first instant anybody reads it he'll know all there is to know about everybody without ever having to go and make calls on them! Everything interesting about them I mean! Everything that really matters! Lots of things that nobody would have guessed!"

"Mercy!" said my Mother. She stopped mending my Father and jumped right up.

My Father jumped right up too!

"Oh, it isn't written yet!" I said. "It's only just begun!"

"O--h," said my Mother. And sat down again.

"We though maybe you and Father would help us," I said.

"O--h," said my Father. And sat down again too.

Carol began to laugh. I don't know why he laughed.

"It's--it's just a set of questions," I explained.

Carol opened the Book and found the questions.

"Just five or six questions," I explained. "All you have to do is to answer the questions--and tell us how to spell it perhaps.--And then that makes the Book!"

"It certainly sounds simple," said my Mother. She began mending my Father very hard. "And what are some of the questions?" she asked.

"Well--the first question," I explained, "is 'What is your name?'"

My Mother gave a little giggle. She hushed my Father with her hand.

"Oh surely," she said, "there couldn't be any objection to telling these pleasant children our names?"

"No--o," admitted my Father.

My Mother looked up. She twinkled her eyes a little as well as her mouth.

"Our names are 'Father' and 'Mother'," she said.

Carol wrote the names in the Book. He wrote them very black and literary looking. "Father" at the top of one page. And "Mother" at the top of the other. They looked nice.

"All right then," said my Father. "Fire away!"

I looked at my Father. I looked at my Mother. I didn't know just which one to begin with. Carol kicked me in the shins for encouragement. I decided to begin with my Mother.

"Oh Mother," I said. "If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a Beautiful Mother,--what Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world--would you choose to be?"

"Eh? What's that? _What?_" said my Father. "Well, of all the idiotic foolishness! Of all the--"

"Why no--not at all," said my Mother. "Why--Why I think it's rather interesting! Why--Why--Though I must admit," she laughed out suddenly, "that I never quite thought of things in just that way before!" She looked out the window. She looked in the fire-place. She looked at my Father. She looked at Carol. She looked at me. She began to clap her hands. "I've got it!" she said. "I know what I'd choose! A White Iris! In all the world there's no perfume that can compare with the perfume of a White Iris!--Orris root they call it. Orris--"

"Humph! What's the matter with Tulips?" said my Father.

"Oh but Tulips don't have any smell at all," said my Mother. "Except just the nice earthy smell of Spring winds and Spring rains and Spring sunbeams!--Oh of course they _look_ as though they were going to smell tremendously sweet!" she acknowledged very politely. "But they're just so busy being _gay_ I suppose that--"

"The Tulip Goldfinch," said my Father coldly, "is noted for its fragrance."

"Oh dear--Oh dear--Oh dear," said my Mother. She seemed very sorry. She folded her hands. "Oh very well," she said. "Mondays,--Wednesdays,--Fridays,--and Sundays,--I will be the fragrance of the Tulip Goldfinch. But Tuesdays,--Thursdays and Saturdays I really must insist on being the fragrance of a White Iris!"