Mavis of Green Hill Part 10

"We're not going to give up," he said. "But now you must be taken back into the house again. You're tired."

And no amount of pleading or denial could bend his inflexible will.

Wigglesworth came prancing into my room, just as the Doctor was leaving.

"You haven't said how adorable he is," I said, coaxing my new toy to the bed.

"Adorable!" he repeated, emphatically.

But, Diary-dear, the Doctor wasn't looking at the _dog_!

QUITE AT HOME August 30th

Dear Poet:

By now Mr. Denton has brought you my incoherent note of thanks for the benison of Wigglesworth. Every day I thank you more. He is the dearest little friend one could imagine or wish for. I have taught him to bark loudly when I say your name, and I hope to bring him to an appreciation of poetry, by selected readings!

Next week, sometime, I am to have my promised lawn fete to introduce the countryside to the new member of our household.

Even Sarah has succ.u.mbed. I heard her talking something suspiciously like baby-talk to him this morning, when she came in with my tray and observed Wiggles regarding her brightly and wagging all over, from his basket at the foot of my bed. And Father is a willing captive of his charms, even luring him from me on long, companionable walks. But I believe that he is jealous of you because he has never thought of getting me a dog. I have had birds and goldfish and even an Angora kitten which lived but to run away. But never since childhood a real live dog of my own.

Mr. Denton must have worked some magic with Father that he has so inexplicably allowed me to accept so valuable a gift from--a stranger? But no, I cannot call you that!

I regret to report that Wigglesworth has conceived an adoration for the doctor. The one of no consequence, I mean. I cannot understand it, but there seems to be a natural affinity between the two.

Later, I must write you all the things, or, anyway, almost all, which Mr. Denton said about you. For of course we had a little session behind closed doors, and I asked the poor man questions until his grey head rang. Aren't you curious? But before I repeat to you what was, of course, told to me in strictest confidence, I must ask you _if those things are true_.

Wigglesworth sends his love. He is beside my bed, this minute, on the floor, holding up one paw in greeting.

Very gratefully yours, WIGGLESWORTH'S SLAVE

GREEN HILL September 5

Dear Diary, I'm sorry that I neglect you so. But you see, with friends calling every day to behold me, royally at home out of doors, and with a week's preparation for my "Come one, come all" tea, which took place yesterday afternoon, and with almost daily letters from Richard Warren to answer--I've so many now that they make far too bulky a book of you and so I have them tied up with ribbon, under my pillow--and with Peter's recent heroic attempt to drink gasoline, and Wigglesworth's brilliant development as a bloodhound--well, I have had but little time for you, Blue Book.

Today, Father is out and Sarah busy below stairs. It is five o'clock of a golden September afternoon, and I am alone, and ready to record the events of the past week. Suppose we begin with Peter, who lives next door, as you very well know, and who is an active and ambitious and altogether charming seven-year old. It seems, Diary, that Peter has, during the summer, become hopelessly enamored of Jimmy Simpson, the ten-year old brother of Sammy, a f.e.c.kless towhead, tanned as a saddle and twice as tough! From my windows, and more recently also from the nearer vantage point of my hammock, I have observed the progress of their friends.h.i.+p, dating from the early days of summer when Jimmy condescended to aid his older brother in the morning delivery of the Simpson milk. Lately, Jimmy has been seen displaying his ragged blue overalls about the lawn adjoining ours. I have heard, too, blood-curdling shrieks and dire groans which I take to portend that Peter has more than once inveigled Jimmy into his own favorite and histrionic pastime of "Injuns and Tigers." Once, Jimmy in his role of scalper became slightly too realistic, and Peter, bursting through the hedge which separates the Goodrich property from ours, fled to me for protection. With his curly head on my breast, I turned against the aggressor.

"Jimmy Simpson," I cried indignantly, "aren't you ashamed to frighten a boy younger than yourself? Don't you know that isn't manly?"

Jimmy, engaging, brazen, and blue-eyed, stubbed one bare toe against the gra.s.s.

"Honest, Miss Mavis," he defended himself firmly, "I didn't hurt him none. He's a _baby_, he is!" he concluded, with a positively vicious glance at the back of Peter's head.

"I'm not!" shouted the accused, rising up in honest wrath.

"Y'are," repeated Jimmy. "Baby an' telltale."

Here Peter, to my infinite delight, squared two small brown fists, and disengaging himself from my restraining hands, advanced belligerently upon his idol.

"You Jimmy," said Peter. "You take that back--quick!"

I swear I saw a gleam of admiration in the Simpson eye.

"Yes," I begged hastily, "do take it back, Jimmy."

Jimmy s.h.i.+fted uneasily upon his capacious feet.

"Well," he began uncertainly. And then a wholly friendly smile irradiated his freckled face. "I was only funning, Peter," he said generously.

I breathed again. Peter dropped his hands to his sides and said happily, "Got any cookies for us, Mavis?"

I rang my silver bell for Sarah, and presently she appeared from the kitchen, greeted Jimmy in none too friendly accents, and disappearing into her domain returned again with a heaped plate of crisp tan cookies and three gla.s.ses of lemonade.

"There," said Sarah, grudgingly, "you young limbs!"

She looked at my two small friends as she spoke, but I am afraid she included me in her remark.

This incident served to show Jimmy the mettle of my seven year old neighbor. It was by way of a delicate tribute to Peter that he was asked, on the following day, to be one of six compet.i.tors in a foot race which, starting from his own gate, was to end at the cross roads some five hundred yards distant. Just before the start he came over and exhibited himself to me, clad in vest and drawers, with sneakers on his little feet and a huge red 5 decorating his visibly inflated chest.

Solemnly, I shook his hand and wished him well. Then I lay back in my hammock to await the result of the race.

Half an hour later, Peter, very red in the face, very hot, and manfully trying to suppress his tears, appeared through the gap in the hedge, with Jimmy in close attendance.

"He won!" said Peter, disconsolately, pointing a dusty forefinger at his companion.

"But Pete came in second," hastily put in the victor, standing at the foot of my swinging couch.

"I--I wanted to win," announced Peter, the uncomforted. Then, seeing my eyes fixed in affection and condolence on him, he gave one loud frantic gulp and came into my arms.

"But, Peter darling," I, said to the one small red ear I could see, "you must remember that you are only seven if you _are_ big for your age, and all the other boys are much older, aren't they, Jimmy?" I asked this with my most appealing look over Peter's bowed head toward the Simpson scion.

"Yes, Miss Mavis, ma'am," corroborated Jimmie loudly. "An' Pete, he done awful good to come in second. Why, Josh Watkins was in the race too, and he's eleven an' a terrible swift runner."

"You see?" I said to the Ear.

Peter raised his head and thrust his grimy fists into his eyes.

"It's all right," he said bravely, "only...."

"Never mind, dear," I begged, "next time you'll come in first, won't he, Jimmy?"

"Sure!" agreed Jimmy heartily. And Peter, content with the confidence of his vanquisher, presently made off with him, saying earnestly, "But Jimmy, what makes you go so fast?"

Two days later, swinging lazily between my trees and reading _The Lyric Hour_ to Wiggles, who listened attentively and with c.o.c.ked, inquiring ears, I was horrified to see Mrs. Goodrich hurtle herself through the hedge, followed by Loretta, her black cook, both of them wringing their hands--Loretta, I swear, almost as white as her mistress--and both demanding,

"_Have_ you seen Peter?"

"Why, no," I answered, "not today. Why?"