One particularly long one, with a queer stamp on the envelope, she read twice, never
speaking a word till they got back. Then Ben was sent off with Lita and the Squire’s letters, promising to get his chores
done in time for tea.
Exactly five minutes before six the party arrived in great state, for Bab and Betty wore their best frocks and hair ribbons,
Ben had a new blue shirt and his shoes on as full dress, and Sancho’s curls were nicely brushed, his frills as white as if
just done up.
No one was visible to receive them, but the low table
stood in the middle of the walk, with four chairs and a footstool around it. A pretty set of green and white china caused
the girls to cast admiring looks upon the little cups and plates, while Ben eyed the feast longingly, and Sancho with difficulty
restrained himself from repeating his former naughtiness. No wonder the dog sniffed and the children smiled, for there was
a noble display of little tarts and cakes, little biscuits and sandwiches, a pretty milk pitcher shaped like a white calla
rising out of its green leaves, and a jolly little teakettle singing away over the spirit lamp as cozily as you please.
“Isn’t it perfectly lovely?” whispered Betty, who had never seen anything like it before.
“I just wish Sally could see us now,” answered Bab, who had not yet forgiven her enemy.
“Wonder where the boy is,” added Ben, feeling as good as anyone, but rather doubtful how others might regard him.
Here a rumbling sound caused the guests to look toward the garden, and in a moment Miss Celia appeared, pushing a wheeled
chair, in which sat her brother. A gay afghan covered the long legs, a broad-brimmed hat half hid the big eyes, and a discontented
expression made the thin face as unattractive as the fretful voice, which said, complainingly—
“If they make a noise, I’ll go in. Don’t see what you asked them for.”
“To amuse you, dear. I know they will, if you will only try to like them,” whispered the sister, smiling and nodding over
the chair back as she came on, adding aloud, “Such a punctual party! I am all ready, however, and we will sit down at once.
This is my brother Thornton, and we are all
going to be very good friends by and by. Here’s the droll dog, Thorny; isn’t he nice and curly?”
Now, Ben had heard what the other boy said, and made up his mind that he shouldn’t like him; and Thorny had decided beforehand
that he wouldn’t play with a tramp, even if he could cut capers; so both looked decidedly cool and indifferent when Miss Celia introduced them. But Sancho had better manners,
and no foolish pride; he, therefore, set them a good example by approaching the chair, with his tail waving like a flag of
truce, and politely presented his ruffled paw for a hearty shake.
Thorny could not resist that appeal, and patted the white head, with a friendly look into the affectionate eyes of the dog,
saying to his sister as he did so—
“What a wise old fellow he is! It seems as if he could almost speak, doesn’t it?”
“He can. Say ‘How do you do,’ Sanch,” commanded Ben, relenting at once, for he saw admiration in Thorny’s face.
“Wow, wow, wow!” remarked Sancho, in a mild and conversational tone, sitting up and touching one paw to his head, as if he
saluted by taking off his hat.
Thorny laughed in spite of himself, and Miss Celia, seeing that the ice was broken, wheeled him to his place at the foot of
the table. Then, seating the little girls on one side, Ben and the dog on the other, took the head herself and told her guests
to begin.
Bab and Betty were soon chattering away to their pleasant hostess as freely as if they had known her for months; but the boys
were still rather shy, and made Sancho the medium through which they addressed one another. The excellent beast behaved with
wonderful propriety, sitting upon his cushion in an attitude of such dignity that it
seemed almost a liberty to offer him food. A dish of thick sandwiches had been provided for his especial refreshment; and,
as Ben from time to time laid one on his plate, he affected entire unconsciousness of it till the word was given, when it
vanished at one gulp, and Sancho again appeared absorbed in deep thought.
But, having once tasted of this pleasing delicacy, it was very hard to repress his longing for more; and, in spite of all
his efforts, his nose would work, his eye kept a keen watch upon that particular dish, and his tail quivered with excitement
as it lay like a train over the red cushion. At last, a moment came when temptation proved too strong for him. Ben was listening
to something Miss Celia said; a tart lay unguarded upon his plate; Sanch looked at Thorny, who was watching him; Thorny nodded,
Sanch gave one wink, bolted the tart, and then gazed pensively up at a sparrow swinging on a twig overhead.
The slyness of the rascal tickled the boy so much that he pushed back his hat, clapped his hands, and burst out laughing as
he had not done before for weeks. Everyone looked round surprised, and Sancho regarded them with a mildly inquiring air, as
if he said, “Why this unseemly mirth, my friends?”
Thorny forgot both sulks and shyness after that, and suddenly began to talk. Ben was flattered by his interest in the dear
dog, and opened out so delightfully that he soon charmed the other by his lively tales of circus life. Then Miss Celia felt
relieved, and everything went splendidly, especially the food; for the plates were emptied several times, the little teapot
ran dry twice, and the hostess was just wondering if she ought to stop her voracious guests, when something occurred which
spared her that painful task.
A small boy was suddenly discovered standing in the path behind them, regarding the company with an air of solemn interest.
A pretty, well-dressed child of six, with dark hair cut short across the brow, a rosy face, a stout pair of legs, left bare
by the socks which had slipped down over the dusty little shoes. One end of a wide sash trailed behind him, a straw hat hung
at his back, while his right hand firmly grasped a small turtle, and his left a choice collection of sticks. Before Miss Celia
could speak, the stranger calmly announced his mission.
“I have come to see the peacocks.”
“You shall presently —” began Miss Celia, but got no further, for the child added, coming a step nearer—
“And the wabbits.”
“Yes, but first won’t you—”
“And the curly dog,” continued the small voice, as another step brought the resolute young personage nearer.
“There he is.”
A pause, a long look; then a new demand with the same solemn tone, the same advance.
“I wish to hear the donkey bray.”
“Certainly, if he will.”
“And the peacocks scream.”
“Anything more, sir?”
Having reached the table by this time, the insatiable infant surveyed its ravaged surface, then pointed a fat little finger
at the last cake, left for manners, and said, commandingly—
“I will have some of that.”
“Help yourself; and sit upon the step to eat it, while you tell me whose boy you are,” said Miss Celia, much amused at his
proceedings.
Deliberately putting down his sticks, the child took the
cake, and, composing himself upon the step, answered with his rosy mouth full—
“I am papa’s boy. He makes a paper. I help him a great deal.”
“What is his name?”
“Mr. Barlow. We live in Springfield,” volunteered the new guest, unbending a trifle, thanks to the charms of the cake.
“Have you a mamma, dear?”
“She takes naps. I go to walk then.”
“Without leave, I suspect. Have you no brothers or sisters to go with you?” asked Miss Celia, wondering where the little runaway
belonged.
“I have two brothers — Thomas Merton Barlow and Harry Sanford Barlow. I am Alfred Tennyson Barlow. We don’t have any girls
in our house, only Bridget.”
“Don’t you go to school?”
“The boys do. I don’t learn any Greeks and Latins yet. I dig, and read to mamma, and make poetrys for her.”
“Couldn’t you make some for me? I’m very fond of poetrys,” proposed Miss Celia, seeing that this prattle amused the children.
“I guess I couldn’t make any now; I made some coming along.
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