Under the Lilacs (29 page)

This piece was rapturously applauded, and all the performers had to appear and bow their thanks, led by the defunct Bluebeard,
who mildly warned the excited audience that if they “didn’t look out the seats would break down, and then there’d be a nice
mess.” Calmed by this fear they composed themselves, and waited with ardor for the next play, which promised to be a lively
one, judging from the shrieks of laughter which came from behind the curtain.

“Sanch’s going to be in it, I know; for I heard Ben say, ‘Hold him still; he won’t bite,’” whispered Sam, longing to “jounce”
up and down, so great was his satisfaction at the prospect, for the dog was considered the star of the company.

“I hope Bab will do something else, she is so funny. Wasn’t her dress elegant?” said Sally Folsom, burning to wear a long
silk gown and a feather in her hair.

“I like Betty best, she’s so cunning, and she peeked out of the window just as if she
really
saw somebody coming,” answered Liddy Peckham, privately resolving to tease mother for some pink roses before another Sunday
came.

Up went the curtain at last, and a voice announced “A Tragedy in Three Tableaux.” “There’s Betty!” was the general exclamation,
as the audience recognized a familiar face
under the little red hood worn by the child who stood receiving a basket from Teacher, who made a nice mother with her finger
up, as if telling the small messenger not to loiter by the way.

“I know what that is!” cried Sally; “it’s ‘Mabel on Midsummer Day.’ The piece Miss Celia spoke; don’t you know?”

“There isn’t any sick baby, and Mabel had a ‘kerchief pinned about her head.’
I
say it’s Red Riding Hood,” answered Liddy, who had begun to learn Mary Howitt’s pretty poem for her next piece, and knew
all about it.

The question was settled by the appearance of the wolf in the second scene, and such a wolf! On few amateur stages do we find
so natural an actor for that part, or so good a costume, for Sanch was irresistibly droll in the gray wolf skin which usually
lay beside Miss Celia’s bed, now fitted over his back and fastened neatly down underneath, with his own face peeping out at
one end, and the handsome tail bobbing gaily at the other. What a comfort that tail was to Sancho, none but a bereaved bowwow
could ever tell. It reconciled him to his distasteful part at once, it made rehearsals a joy, and even before the public he
could not resist turning to catch a glimpse of the noble appendage, while his own brief member wagged with the proud consciousness
that though the tail did not match the head, it was long enough to be seen of all men and dogs.

That was a pretty picture, for the little maid came walking in with the basket on her arm, and such an innocent face inside
the bright hood that it was quite natural the gray wolf should trot up to her with deceitful friendliness, that she should
pat and talk to him confidingly about the butter for grandma, and then that they should walk away together, he politely carrying
her basket, she with her hand on his
head, little dreaming what evil plans were taking shape inside.

The children encored that, but there was no time to repeat it, so they listened to more stifled merriment behind the red tablecloths,
and wondered whether the next scene would be the wolf popping his head out of the window as Red Riding Hood knocks, or the
tragic end of that sweet child.

It was neither, for a nice bed had been made, and in it reposed the false grandmother, with a ruffled nightcap on, a white
gown, and spectacles. Betty lay beside the wolf, staring at him as if just about to say, “Why, grandma, what great teeth you’ve
got!” for Sancho’s mouth was half open and a red tongue hung out, as he panted with the exertion of keeping still. This tableau
was so very good, and yet so funny, that the children clapped and shouted frantically; this excited the dog, who gave a bounce
and would have leaped off the bed to bark at the rioters, if Betty had not caught him by the legs, and Thorny dropped the
curtain just at the moment when the wicked wolf was apparently in the act of devouring the poor little girl, with most effective
growls.

They had to come out then, and did so, both much disheveled by the late tussle, for Sancho’s cap was all over one eye, and
Betty’s hood was anywhere but on her head. She made her curtsy prettily, however; her fellow actor bowed with as much dignity
as a short nightgown permitted, and they retired to their well-earned repose.

Then Thorny appeared, looking much excited, to make the following request: “As one of the actors in the next piece is new
to the business, the company must all keep as still as mice, and not stir till I give the word. It’s perfectly splendid! so
don’t you spoil it by making a row.”

“What
do
you suppose it is?” asked everyone, and listened
with all their might to get a hint, if possible. But what they heard only whetted their curiosity and mystified them more
and more. Bab’s voice cried in a loud whisper, “Isn’t Ben beautiful?” Then there was a thumping noise, and Miss Celia said,
in an anxious tone, “Oh, do be careful,” while Ben laughed out as if he was too happy to care who heard him, and Thorny bawled
“Whoa!” in a way which would have attracted attention if Lita’s head had not popped out of her box, more than once, to survey
the invaders of her abode, with a much astonished expression.

“Sounds kind of circusy, don’t it?” said Sam to Billy, who had come out to receive the compliments of the company and enjoy
the tableau at a safe distance.

“You just wait till you see what’s coming. It beats any circus
I
ever saw,” answered Billy, rubbing his hands with the air of a man who had seen many instead of but one.

“Ready! Be quick and get out of the way when she goes off!” whispered Ben, but they heard him and prepared for pistols, rockets,
or combustibles of some sort, as ships were impossible under the circumstances, and no other “she” occurred to them.

A unanimous “O-o-o-o!” was heard when the curtain rose, but a stern “Hush!” from Thorny kept them mutely staring with all
their eyes at the grand spectacle of the evening. There stood Lita with a wide flat saddle on her back, a white headstall
and reins, blue rosettes in her ears, and the look of a much-bewildered beast in her bright eyes. But who the gauzy, spangled,
winged creature was, with a gilt crown on its head, a little bow in its hand, and one white slipper in the air, while the
other seemed merely to touch the saddle, no one could tell for a minute, so strange and splendid did the apparition appear.
No wonder Ben was
not recognized in this brilliant disguise, which was more natural to him than Billy’s blue flannel or Thorny’s respectable
garments. He had so begged to be allowed to show himself “just once,” as he used to be in the days when “father” tossed him
up on the barebacked old General, for hundreds to see and admire, that Miss Celia had consented, much against her will, and
hastily arranged some bits of spangled tarlatan over the white cotton suit which was to simulate the regulation tights. Her
old dancing slippers fitted, and gold paper did the rest, while Ben, sure of his power over Lita, promised not to break his
bones, and lived for days on the thought of the moment when he could show the boys that he had not boasted vainly of past
splendors.

Before the delighted children could get their breath, Lita gave signs of her dislike to the footlights, and, gathering up
the reins that lay on her neck, Ben gave the old cry, “Houpla!” and let her go, as he had often done before, straight out
of the coach house for a gallop round the orchard.

“Just turn about and you can see perfectly well, but stay where you are till he comes back,” commanded Thorny, as signs of
commotion appeared in the excited audience.

Round went the twenty children as if turned by one crank, and sitting there they looked out into the moonlight where the shining
figure flashed to and fro, now so near they could see the smiling face under the crown, now so far away that it glittered
like a firefly among the dusky green. Lita enjoyed that race as heartily as she had done several others of late, and caracoled
about as if anxious to make up for her lack of skill by speed and obedience. How much Ben liked it there is no need to tell,
yet it was a proof of the good which three months of a quiet, useful life had done him, that even as he pranced gaily under
the boughs thick
with the red and yellow apples almost ready to be gathered, he found this riding in the fresh air with only his mates for
an audience pleasanter than the crowded tent, the tired horses, profane men, and painted women, friendly as some of them had
been to him.

After the first burst was over, he felt rather glad, on the whole, that he was going back to plain clothes, helpful school,
and kindly people, who cared more to have him a good boy than the most famous Cupid that ever stood on one leg with a fast
horse under him.

“You may make as much noise as you like, now; Lita’s had her run and will be as quiet as a lamb after it. Pull up, Ben, and
come in; sister says you’ll get cold,” shouted Thorny, as the rider came cantering round after a leap over the lodge gate
and back again.

So Ben pulled up, and the admiring boys and girls were allowed to gather about him, loud in their praises as they examined
the pretty mare and the mythological character who lay easily on her back. He looked very little like the god of love now;
for he had lost one slipper and splashed his white legs with dew and dust, the crown had slipped down upon his neck, and the
paper wings hung in an apple tree where he had left them as he went by. No trouble in recognizing Ben, now; but somehow he
didn’t want to be seen, and, instead of staying to be praised, he soon slipped away, making Lita his excuse to vanish behind
the curtain while the rest went into the house to have a finishing-off game of blindman’s-buff in the big kitchen.

“Well, Ben, are you satisfied?” asked Miss Celia, as she stayed a moment to unpin the remains of his gauzy scarf and tunic.

“Yes, ’m, thank you, it was tip-top.”

“But you look rather sober. Are you tired, or is it because you don’t want to take these trappings off and be plain Ben again?”
she said, looking down into his face as he lifted it for her to free him from his gilded collar.

“I
want
to take ’em off; for somehow I don’t feel respectable,” and he kicked away the crown he had helped to make so carefully,
adding with a glance that said more than his words: “I’d rather be ‘plain Ben’ than anyone else, for you like to have me.”

“Indeed I do; and I’m so glad to hear you say that, because I was afraid you’d long to be off to the old ways, and all I’ve
tried to do would be undone.
Would
you like to go back, Ben?” and Miss Celia held his chin an instant, to watch the brown face that looked so honestly back
at her.

“No, I wouldn’t — unless —
he
was there and wanted me.”

The chin quivered just a bit, but the black eyes were as bright as ever, and the boy’s voice so earnest, she knew he spoke
the truth, and laid her white hand softly on his head, as she answered in the tone he loved so much, because no one else had
ever used it to him —

“Father is not there; but I know he wants you, dear, and I am sure he would rather see you in a home like this than in the
place you came from. Now go and dress; but, tell me first, has it been a happy birthday?”

“Oh, Miss Celia! I didn’t know they
could
be so beautiful, and this is the beautifulest part of it; I don’t know how to thank you, but I’m going to try —” and, finding
words wouldn’t come fast enough, Ben just put his two arms round her, quite speechless with gratitude; then, as if ashamed
of his little outburst, he knelt down in a great hurry to untie his one shoe.

But Miss Celia liked his answer better than the finest speech ever made her, and went away through the moonlight, saying to
herself —

“If I can bring one lost lamb into the fold, I shall be the fitter for a shepherd’s wife, by and by.”

C
HAPTER
22

I
t was some days before the children were tired of talking over Ben’s birthday party; for it was a great event in their small
world; but, gradually, newer pleasures came to occupy their minds, and they began to plan the nutting frolics which always
followed the early frosts. While waiting for Jack to open the chestnut burrs, they varied the monotony of school life by a
lively scrimmage long known as “the woodpile fight.”

The girls liked to play in the half-empty shed, and the boys, merely for the fun of teasing, declared that they should not,
so blocked up the doorway as fast as the girls cleared it. Seeing that the squabble was a merry one, and the exercise better
for all than lounging in the sun or reading in school during recess, Teacher did not interfere, and the barrier rose and fell
almost as regularly as the tide.

It would be difficult to say which side worked the harder; for the boys went before school began to build up the barricade,
and the girls stayed after lessons were over to pull down the last one made in afternoon recess. They had their playtime first;
and, while the boys waited inside, they heard the shouts of the girls, the banging of the wood, and the final crash, as the
well-packed pile went down. Then, as
the lassies came in, rosy, breathless, and triumphant, the lads rushed out to man the breach, and labor gallantly till all
was as tight as hard blows could make it.