Chapter 8

"Humph!" said my Father. "There aren't any of them that are worth the nice inky lithograph smell of the first Garden Catalogues that come off the presses 'long about February!"

My Mother clapped her hands again.

"Oh Goodie!" she said. "Write Father down as choosing to smell like 'the nice inky lithograph smell of the first Garden Catalogues that come off the presses 'long about February'!"

My Father had to tell us how to spell "Lithograph." Carol wrote it very carefully. My Mother laughed.

"Well really," said my Mother, "I'm beginning to have a very good time.--What is Question No. 2?"

"Question No. 2," I said, "is:--If you were a Beautiful Sound instead of a Beautiful Father and Mother,--what Beautiful Sound in the whole wide world would you choose to be?"

My Father felt better almost at once.

"Oh Pshaw!" he said. "That's easy. I'd be the Sound of Gold Pieces jingling in the pocket of a man--of a man--" He looked at my Mother. "--Of a man who had a Brown-Eyed Wife who looked something like my Brown-Eyed Wife--and three children whose names--when you spoke 'em quickly sounded very similar--yes, very similar indeed to 'Ruthy' and 'Carol' and 'Rosalee'!"

"Oh what nonsense!" said my Mother.

"What does the jingle of Gold Pieces amount to?--Now if I could be any Sound I wanted to--I'd choose to be the sweet--soft--breathy little _stir_ that a nice little family makes when it wakes up in the morning--so that no matter how much you've worried during the long black night you can feel at once that everything's all right! And that everybody's all there!--In all the world," cried my Mother, "I know of no sweeter sound than the sound of a nice little family--waking up in the morning!"

I turned to Carol's page. I laughed and laughed. "Bubbling Fat is what Carol would like to sound like!" I cried. "The noise that Bubbling Fat makes when you drop doughnuts into it!--But I?--If I could be any lovely Sound I wanted to,--I'd like to be the Sound of Rain on a Tin Roof--at night! All over the world people would be lying awake listening to you! And even if they didn't want to listen they'd have to! Till you were good and ready to stop!"

It took Carol a good while to write down everything about "Gold Pieces" and a "Nice Little Family waking up in the Morning" and "Rain on a Tin Roof."

"The next question is pretty hard," I explained. "Maybe you'd like to be thinking about it.--If you were a Beautiful Sight--that people came miles to see,--what Beautiful Sight in the whole wide world would you choose to be?"

My Father didn't wait a minute. "A Field of Tulips!" he said.

Carol pounded the table with his fists. His face was like an explosion of smiles. He pointed to my Father's page in the Book.

"It's already written!" I said. "We guessed it all the time!"

We turned to my Mother. We saw a little quiver go through my Mother's shoulders.

"I'd choose to be a Storm at Sea!" said my Mother.

"_What?_" cried my Father.

"A Storm at Sea!" said my Mother.

My Father stopped saying "What?" And made a little gasping sound instead. "_You?_--_You?_" he said. "The gentlest soul that ever breathed?--Would like to be a 'Storm at Sea'?"

"It's only the 'mother' side of me that is gentle!" laughed my Mother. She threw back her head suddenly. She thrust out her hands. It jerked her soft, calm hair all fluffy and wild across her forehead. Her eyes danced! Her cheeks turned all pink! "Oh _wouldn't_ it be fun?" she cried. "All the roaring! And the ranting! And the foaming! And the _Furying_!--Racing up the beaches in great waves! And splashes! _Banging_ against the rocks! Scaring the fishes almost to pieces! Rocking the boats till people fell _Bump_ right out of their berths onto the floor! Ruffling the gulls till----"

"You wouldn't actually--wreck a boat would you?" said my Father.

My Mother stopped tossing her head. And waving her hands. She gave a little sigh. She began mending my Father again very hard.

"Just----pirates," she said.

"O--h," said my Father.

"We intended to make the next one about 'Motions,'" I explained. "But it was too hard. Carol wanted to be an Elevator!--Carol says an Elevator is like quick-silver in a giant thermometer that's gone mad!--He wanted to be the motion it makes when the Elevator's going down and the floor's coming up! But it made me feel queer in my stomach!"

"Merciful Heavens!" said my Father. "What kind of a family have I drawn?--My Wife wants to be a 'Storm at Sea' and my Son aspires to feel like an 'Elevator Gone Mad'!"

Carol looked at my Mother. My Mother looked at Carol. They laughed their eyes together.

"So we made it 'Money' and 'Memory' instead," I explained.

"Made what 'Money' and 'Memory' instead?" said my Father.

"The next two questions," I explained.

"O--h," said my Mother.

"Fire away!" said my Father.

"Question No. 4," I said. "Which do you like best? _Times?_ or _Things?_"

"Times or Things?" said my Father. "Whatever in the world do you mean?" His eyebrows looked pretty puzzled.

"Why, we mean," I explained, "if somebody gave you five whole dollars for your birthday--how would you rather spend it?--What would you get most fun out of, we mean?--_Times?_ Or _Things?_--Would you be most apt to spend it for Rabbits, we mean? Or going to a Fair?"

"Oh," said my Father, "I see!--Times or Things?--Times--or things?--Why _Things_!" he decided almost at once. "_Things_ of course!--When you buy a _Thing_ you've got something really tangible for your money! Something definite! Something really to show!--'Rabbits' I admit would probably not be my choice.--But a book, now! A set of garden tools?--A pair of rubber boots even?"

"N--o," said my Mother very softly, "I'm almost sure I'd rather 'go to the Fair'!--'_Times_' or '_Things_'?--Yes I'm perfectly positive," she cried out, "that _Times_ give me more pleasure than _Things_ do!--Now that I think of it I can see quite plainly that always--always I've preferred to spend my money 'going to the Fair'!"

"Yes, but how foolish," said my Father. "When the Fair's over it's over!--Nothing left to show for it but just a memory."

My Mother laughed right out loud. It was the prettiest laugh.

"Now that's where you're mistaken!" she laughed. "When the Fair's what you call 'over,'--that's the time it's really _just begun_!--Books get lost--or puppies chew them! Garden tools rust! Even the best rubber boots in the world get the most awful holes poked through their toes!--But a Happy Memory?--A Happy Memory--?" She jumped up suddenly and crept into my Father's arms.

My Father stroked her hair. And stroked it.

Carol kicked me in the shins.

"There's only one more question!" I cried out pretty loud.

"What is it?" said my Mother. It sounded pretty mumbly through my Father's shoulder.

"Oh this one is very important," I said. "It's about _colors_."

"Colors?" said my Father. He didn't seem to care nearly as much as you'd have thought he would.

"C--Colors," mumbled my Mother.

"Somewhere in a book," I explained, "we read about a man who wanted his memory 'kept green?'--Why _green?_ Why not pink?--Why not blue?--Or even red with a cunning little white line in it?"

"_Eh?_" said my Father.

"If you were going away," I explained.

My Mother's hands clutched at his coat. She gave a queer little shiver. "Oh not--'away'!" she protested.

"For ever and ever," I explained.

My Mother's face came peering out from the shadow of my Father's shoulder. She started to laugh. And made a little sob instead. "Oh not for----ever----and _ever_?" she said.

We all sat and looked at each other. I felt awful queer in my stomach.

Carol kicked me in the shins. He wrote something quick on a piece of paper and shoved it across the table at me.

"_China_ was the place that Carol meant!" I explained. "Oh he didn't mean--at all--what you thought he meant!--If you were going away to--to _China_--for ever and ever--and ever--and gave your Best Friend a whole lot of money like twenty-five dollars to remember you by--what color do you _hope_ he'd keep your memory?"

"Oh--yes--why of course!" said my Father quite quickly. "It's a jolly one after all, isn't it!--Color--Color?--Let me see!--For twenty-five dollars you say? Yes Yes!--The very thing! _Yellow_ of course! I hope my Best Friend would have wit enough to buy a _Lamp_!--Nothing fancy you know but something absolutely reliable.--Daytimes to be sure your memory wouldn't be much use to him. But nights--the time everybody needs everybody the most,--Nights I say,--looking back from--from _China_, was it that you designated?--Nights it would be rather pleasant I think to feel that one lived on and on--as a yellow glow in his friend's life."

My Father reached out and pinched my ear.

"How about it, Ruthy?" he asked.

"Oh that's all right," I admitted. "But if _I_ gave my Best Friend twenty-five dollars to remember me by--I hope he'd buy a Blueberry Bush!--Just _think_ of all the colors it would keep your memory!--White in blossom-time! And blue in fruit-season! And red as blood all the Autumn! With brown rabbits hopping through you!--And speckled birds laying--goodness knows _what_ colored eggs! And--"

Somebody banged the front door. Somebody scuffled on the threshold. Somebody shouted "Hello--Hello--Hello--!" It was the Old Doctor.

We ran to see if he had peppermints in his pocket.

He had!

After the Old Doctor had given us all the peppermints he thought we ought to have--and seven more besides, he sat down in the big cretonne chair by the window, and fanned his neck with a newspaper. He seemed to be pretty mad at the people who had made his collars.

"W-hew!" he said. "The man who invented a 21-inch collar ought to be forced to suck boiling starch through the neck of a Blueing Bottle!"

We didn't see just why.

The Old Doctor said he didn't care to discuss it.

"Any news to-day?" asked my Father.

"News enough!" said the Old Doctor. He seemed pretty mad about that too!

"Such as what?" asked my Father.

"There's a Prince and Princess in town!" said the Old Doctor. "Or a Duch and Duchess!--Or a Fool and Fooless!--I don't care what you call 'em!--They've got some sort of a claim on the old Dun Voolees estate. Brook,--meadow,--blueberry----hillside,--popple grove,--everything! They've come way from Austria to prove it! Going to build a Tannery! Or a Fertilizer Factory! Or some other equally odoriferous industry! Fill the town with foreign laborers!--String a line of lowsy shacks clear from the Blacksmith Shop to the river!--Hope they _choke_!"

"Oh my dear--my dear!" said my Mother.

The Old Doctor looked a little funny.

"Oh I admit it's worth something," he said, "to have you call me your 'dear.'--But I'm mad I tell you clear through. And when you've got as much '_through_' to you as I have, that's _some mad_!--W-hew!" he said. "When I think of our village,--our precious, clean, decent, simple little All-American village--turned into a cheap--racketty--crowd-you-off-the-sidewalk Saturday Night Hell Hole...?"

"Oh--Oh--OH!" cried my Mother.

"Quick! Get him some raspberry shrub," cried my Father.

"Maybe he'd like to play the Children's new Game!" cried my Mother.

"It isn't a Game," I explained. "It's a Book!"

My Mother ran to get the Raspberry Shrub. She brought a whole pitcher. It tinkled with ice. It sounded nice. When the Old Doctor had drunken it he seemed cooled quite a little. He put the glass down on the table. He saw the Book. He looked surprised.

"Lanos--Bryant? Accounts?" he read. He looked at the date. He looked at my Father. "What you trying to do, Man?" he said. "Reconstruct a financial picture of our village as it was a generation ago? Or trace your son Carol's very palpable distaste for a brush, back to his grandfather's somewhat avid devotion to pork chops?" He picked up the book. He opened the first pages. He read the names written at the tops of the pages. Some of the names were pretty faded.--"Alden, Hoppin, Weymoth, Dun Vorlees," he read. He put on his glasses. He scrunched his eyes. He grunted his throat. "W-hew!" he said. "A hundred pounds of beans in one month?--Is it any wonder that young Alden ran away to sea--and sunk clear to the bottom in his first shipwreck?--'Roast Beef'?--'Roast Beef'?--'Malt and Hops'?--'Malt and Hops'?--'Roast Beef'?--'Malt and Hops'?--Is _that_ where Old Man Weymoth got his rheumatism?--And Young Weymoth--his blood pressure?--Dun Vorlees?--Dun Vorlees?--_What?_ No meat at all from November to February?--No fruit?--Only three pounds of sugar?--Great Gastronomics! Back of all that arrogance,--that insulting aloofness,--was _real_ Hunger gnawing at the Dun Vorlees vitals?--Was _that_ the reason why--?--Merciful Heavens!" cried the Old Doctor. "This book is worth twenty dollars to me--this very minute in my Practice! The light it sheds on the Village Stomach,--the Village Nerves,--the--"

"Please, Sir," I said. "The Book is Carol's. Mr. Lanos Bryant gave it to him.--And we're planning to get a great deal more than twenty dollars for it when we sell it!"

"_Eh?_" said the Old Doctor. "_What?_"

He jerked round in his chair and _glared_ at Carol.

"_This_ I'll have you understand, my Young Man," he said, "is in the cause of Science!"

Carol looked pretty nervous. He began to smooth his hair as well as he could without bristles. It didn't smooth much.

"Oh please, Sir," I explained, "people who write books _never_ have smooth hair!"

"Who's talking about writing books?" roared the Old Doctor.

"Please, Sir, _we're_ trying to talk about it," I said. My voice sounded pretty little. "It's the _back_ part of the book that's the important part," I explained. "It's the back part of the book that we're writing!"

"_Eh?_" said the Old Doctor.

He slammed the book together. He stood up and began to look for his hat.

There didn't seem a moment to lose if we we're going to get him into our book. I ran and caught him by the hand. Even if his face was busy his hands always had time to be friends with Carol and me.

"Oh please--please--_please_," I besought him. "If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a Beautiful Doctor,--what Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world would you choose to be?"

"What?" said the old Doctor. "_What? W-h-a-t?_" he kept saying over and over. He looked at my Father. He looked at my Mother. My Mother told him about our Book. He made a loud Guffaw. "Guffaw" I _think_ is the noise he made. Carol is _sure_ that it is! He looked at Carol. He looked at me. He began to Guffaw all over again.

"Well really, Young Authorettes," he said, "I hardly know how to answer you or how to choose. Ether or Chloroform and general Disinfectants being the most familiar savors of my daily life,--the only savors indeed that I ever expect to suggest to anybody--" He looked out the window. There was an apple-blossom tree. It made the window look very full of June. His collar seemed to hurt him. It made him pretty serious. It made his voice all solemn.

"But I'll tell you, Kiddies," he said quite suddenly. "I'll tell you the Sweetest Thing that I ever smelled in my life!--It was the first Summer I was back from College.--I was out on the Common playing ball. Somebody brought me word that my Father was dead.--I didn't go home.--I slunk off instead to my favorite trout-brook--and sat down under a big white birch tree--and _cursed_!--I was very bitter. I needed my Father very much that year. And my step-mother was a harsh woman.--Late that night when I got home,--ugly with sorrow,--I found that I'd left my Catcher's glove. It happened to be one that my Father had given me.--With matches and a tin-can lantern I fumbled my way back to the brook. The old glove lay palm-upward in the moss and leaves. Somebody had filled the palm with wild violets.--I put my face down in it--like a kid--and bawled my heart out.--It was little Annie Dun Vorlees it seemed who had put the violets there. Trailed me clear from the Ball Field. Little kid too. Only fourteen years to my twenty. Why her Mother wouldn't even let me come to the house. Had made Annie promise even not to speak to me.--But when Trouble hit me, little Annie--?" The Old Doctor frowned his eyebrows. "Words!" he said. "It's _words_ after all that have the real fragrance to 'em!--Now take that word 'Loyalty' for instance. I can't even see it in a Newspaper without--" He put back his head suddenly. He gave a queer little chuckle. "Sounds funny, doesn't it, Kiddies," he laughed, "to say that the sweetest thing you ever smelled in your life was an old baseball glove thrown down on the mossy bank of a brook?"

I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. His eyes were popping. We ran to the Book. We snatched it open. It bumped our heads. We pointed to the writing. I read it out loud.

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.

My Mother looked funny.

"Good Gracious," she said. "Are my children developing 'Second Sight'?--First it was the 'Field of Tulips' already written down as their Father's choice before he could even get the words out of his mouth!--And now, hours before the Old Doctor ever even dreamed of the Book's existence they've got his distinctly unique taste in perfumes all--"

"But this isn't the Old Doctor!" I cried out. "She wrote it herself. It's the Lady down at the hotel. It's the--the Empress that the Old Doctor was talking about!"

"The--Empress?" gasped the Old Doctor.

"Well maybe you said 'Princess,'" I admitted. "It was some one from Austria anyway--come to fuss about the old Dun Vorlees place! You said it was! You said that's who it was!--It's the only Strange Lady in the village!"

"What?" gasped the Old Doctor. "_What?_" He looked at the book. He read the Lady's writing. Anybody could have seen that it wasn't our writing. It was too dressy. He put on his glasses. He read it again.

--the smell of an old tattered baseball glove--that's been lying in the damp grass--side of a brook--June Time.

"Good Lord!" he cried out. "Good Lord!"--He couldn't seem to swallow through his collar. "Not anyone else!" he gasped. "In all the world!--There couldn't possibly be anyone else! It must--It _must_ be little Annie Dun Vorlees herself!"

He rushed to the window. There was a grocery boy driving by.

"Hi! Hi there!" he called out. "Don't mind anybody's orders just now! Take me quick to the Hotel!--It's an Emergency I tell you! She may be gone before I get there!"

We sat down on the sofa and curled up our legs. Our legs felt queer.

My Mother and Father sat down on the other sofa. They looked queer all over. They began to talk about the Village. It wasn't exactly the Village that we knew. It was as though they talked about the Village when it was a _child_. They talked about when the Bridge was first built. They talked about the Spring when the Big Freshet swept the meadow. They talked about the funny color of Jason the Blacksmith's first long trousers. They talked about a tiny mottled Fawn that they had caught once with their own hands at a Sunday School picnic in the Arbutus Woods. They talked about the choir rehearsals in the old white church. They talked about my Father's Graduation Essay in the High School. It was like History that was sweet instead of just true. It made you feel a little lonely in your throat. Our Tame Coon came and curled up on our legs. It made our legs feel better. The clock struck nine. Our Father and Mother forgot all about us. Pretty soon we forgot all about ourselves. When we woke up the Old Doctor had come back. He was standing by the table in the lamplight talking to my Father and my Mother.

He looked just the same--only different--like a portrait in a newspaper that somebody had tried to copy. All around the inner edges of his bigness it was as though someone had sketched the outline of a slimmer man.--It looked nice.

"Well it _was_ little Annie Dun Vorlees!" he said.

"Was it indeed?" said my Father.

"Hasn't changed a mite!" said the Old Doctor. "Not a mite!--Oh of course she's wearing silks now instead of gingham.--And her hair?--Well perhaps it's just a little bit gray but----"

"Gray hair's very pretty," said my Mother.

"Humph!" said the Old Doctor. "I expected of course that she'd think me changed a good deal. I've grown stout. 'Healthy' she called it.--She thought I looked 'very healthy'!" The Old Doctor shifted his feet. He twitched at a newspaper on the table. "That Austrian gentlemen with her isn't her Husband," he said. "She's a--she's a widow now.--It's her Husband's brother."

"Really?" said my Father.

"Oh _Thunder_!" said the Old Doctor. "I guess perhaps I spoke a little bit hastily when I was here before--about their ruining the Village!--I've been talking a bit with Annie and--" His face turned quite red suddenly. He laughed a little. "There won't be any changes made at present in the old Dun Vorlees place--I imagine.--Not at present anyhow."

He looked over at us. We scrunched our eyes perfectly tight.

"Asleep," he said. He picked up our Book. He tucked it under his arm. He looked at my Father and Mother. "It's quite time," he said, "that you started a Bank Account for these children's college education.--It costs a great deal to send children to college nowadays. Carol will surely want a lot of baseball bats.--And girls I know are forever needing bonnets!" He took two Big Gold Pieces from his pocket and put them down on the table where our Book had been. They looked very shining.

My Father gave a little gasp. He jumped up! He started to argue!

My Mother hushed him with her hand. "S--sh----not to-night!" she whispered. "Not to-night!"

She looked at the Old Doctor. She looked at our Book all hugged up tight under his arm. Her eyes looked as though they were going to cry. But her mouth looked as though it was going to laugh.

"Oh of course--if it's in the Cause of Science," she said. "If it's in the Cause of Science."

THE LITTLE DOG WHO COULDN'T SLEEP

It was our Uncle Peter who sent us the little piece of paper.

It was a piece of paper torn out of that part of a newspaper where people tell what they want if they've got money enough to pay for it.

This is what it said:

"WANTED a little dog who can't sleep to be night companion for a little boy who can't sleep. Will pay fifty dollars."

Our Uncle Peter sent it to my Father and told him to give it to us.

"Your children know so many dogs," he said.

"Not--fifty dollars' worth," said my Father. He said it with points in his eyes.

"Oh--I'm not so sure," said my Mother. She said it with just a little smile in her voice.

It was my Mother who gave us the big sheet of brown paper to make our sign. My brother Carol mixed the paint. I mixed the letters. It was a nice sign. We nailed it on the barn where everybody who went by could see it. It said:

"Carol and Ruthy. Dealers in Dogs who Can't Sleep."

Nobody dealt with us. We were pretty discouraged.

We asked the Grocer if he had a little dog who couldn't sleep. We asked the Postman. We asked the Butcher. They hadn't.

We asked the old whiskery man who came every Spring to buy old bottles and papers. HE HAD!

He brought the dog on a dungeon chain. He said if we'd give him fifty cents for the dungeon chain we could have the dog for nothing.

It seemed like a very good bargain.

Our Father lent us the fifty cents.

He was a nice dog. We named him Tiger Lily. His hair was red and smooth as Sunday all except his paws and ears. His paws and ears were sort of rumpled. His eyes were gold and very sweet like keepsakes you must never spend. He had a sad tail. He was a setter dog. He was meant to hunt. But he couldn't hunt because he was so shy. It was guns that he was so shy about.

Our Mother invited us to wash him. He washed very nicely.

We wrote our triumph to our Uncle Peter and asked him to send us the fifty dollars.