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What Katy Did

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"That's right," proceeded Katy, who, as oldest and biggest, always took
the lead in their plays. "Now if we're fixed and ready to begin, the
Fête (Katy pronounced it _Feet_) can commence. The opening exercise will
be 'A Tragedy of the Alhambra,' by Miss Hall."

"No," cried Clover; "first 'The Blue Wizard, or Edwitha of the
Hebrides,' you know, Katy."

"Didn't I tell you?" said Katy; "a dreadful accident has happened to
that."

"Oh, what?" cried all the rest, for Edwitha was rather a favorite with
the family. It was one of the many serial stories which Katy was forever
writing, and was about a lady, a knight, a blue wizard, and a poodle
named Bop. It had been going on so many months now, that everybody had
forgotten the beginning, and nobody had any particular hope of living to
hear the end, but still the news of its untimely fate was a shock.

"I'll tell you," said Katy. "Old Judge Kirby called this morning to
see Aunt Izzie; I was studying in the little room, but I saw him come
in, and pull out the big chair and sit down, and I almost screamed
out 'don't!'"

"Why?" cried the children.

"Don't you see? I had stuffed 'Edwitha' down between the back and the
seat. It was a _beau_tiful hiding-place, for the seat goes back ever so
far; but Edwitha was such a fat bundle, and old Judge Kirby takes up so
much room, that I was afraid there would be trouble. And sure enough,
he had hardly dropped down Before there was a great crackling of paper,
and he jumped up again and called out, 'Bless me! what is that?' And
then he began poking, and poking, and just as he had poked out the
whole bundle, and was putting on his spectacles to see what it was,
Aunt Izzie came in."

"Well, what next?" cried the children, immensely tickled.

"Oh!" continued Katy, "Aunt Izzie put on her glasses too, and screwed up
her eyes--you know the way she does, and she and the judge read a little
bit of it; that part at the first, you remember, where Bop steals the
blue-pills, and the Wizard tries to throw him into the sea. You can't
think how funny it was to hear Aunt Izzie reading 'Edwitha' out loud--"
and Katy went into convulsions at the recollection "where she got to 'Oh
Bop--my angel Bop--' I just rolled under the table, and stuffed the
table-cover in my mouth to keep from screaming right out. By and by I
heard her call Debby, and give her the papers, and say: 'Here is a mass
of trash which I wish you to put at once into the kitchen fire.' And she
told me afterward that she thought I would be in an insane asylum before
I was twenty. It was too bad," ended Katy half laughing and half
crying, "to burn up the new chapter and all. But there's one good
thing--she didn't find 'The Fairy of the Dry Goods Box,' that was
stuffed farther back in the seat.

"And now," continued the mistress of ceremonies, "we will begin. Miss
Hall will please rise."

"Miss Hall," much flustered at her fine name, got up with very
red cheeks.

"It was once upon a time," she read, "Moonlight lay on the halls of the
Alhambra, and the knight, striding impatiently down the passage, thought
she would never come."

"Who, the moon?" asked Clover.

"No, of course not," replied Cecy, "a lady he was in love with. The next
verse is going to tell about her, only you interrupted.

"She wore a turban of silver, with a jewelled crescent. As she stole
down the corregidor the beams struck it and it glittered like stars.

"'So you are come, Zuleika?'

"'Yes, my lord.'

"Just then a sound as of steel smote upon the ear, and Zuleika's
mail-clad father rushed in. He drew his sword, so did the other. A
moment more, and they both lay dead and stiff in the beams of the moon.
Zuleika gave a loud shriek, and threw herself upon their bodies. She was
dead, too! And so ends the Tragedy of the Alhambra."

"That's lovely," said Katy, drawing a long breath, "only very sad! What
beautiful stories you do write, Cecy! But I wish you wouldn't always
kill the people. Why couldn't the knight have killed the father,
and--no, I suppose Zuleika wouldn't have married him then. Well, the
father might have--oh, bother! why must anybody be killed, anyhow? why
not have them fall on each other's necks, and make up?"

"Why, Katy!" cried Cecy, "it wouldn't have been a tragedy then. You know
the name was A _Tragedy_ of the Alhambra."

"Oh, well," said Katy, hurriedly, for Cecy's lips were beginning to
pout, and her fair, pinkish face to redden, as if she were about to cry;
"perhaps it _was_ prettier to have them all die; only I thought, for
a change, you know!--What a lovely word that was--. 'Corregidor'--what
does it mean?"

"I don't know," replied Cecy, quite consoled. "It was in the 'Conquest
of Granada.' Something to walk over, I believe."

"The next," went on Katy, consulting her paper, "is 'Yap,' a Simple
Poem, by Clover Carr."

All the children giggled, but Clover got up composedly, and recited the
following verses:

"Did you ever know Yap?
The best little dog
Who e'er sat on lap
Or barked at a frog.

"His eyes were like beads,
His tail like a mop,
And it waggled as if
It never would stop.

"His hair was like silk
Of the glossiest sheen,
He always ate milk,
And once the cold-cream

"Off the nursery bureau
(That line is too long!)
It made him quite ill,
So endeth my song.

"For Yappy he died
Just two months ago,
And we oughtn't to sing
At a funeral, you know."

The "Poem" met with immense applause; all the children laughed, and
shouted, and clapped, till the loft rang again. But Clover kept her face
perfectly, and sat down as demure as ever, except that the little
dimples came and went at the corners of her mouth; dimples, partly
natural, and partly, I regret to say, the result of a pointed
slate-pencil, with which Clover was in the habit of deepening them every
day while she studied her lessons.

"Now," said Katy, after the noise had subsided, "now come 'Scripture
Verses,' by Miss Elsie and Joanna Carr. Hold up your head, Elsie, and
speak distinctly; and oh, Johnnie, you _mustn't_ giggle in that way
when it comes your turn!"

But Johnnie only giggled the harder at this appeal, keeping her hands
very tight across her mouth, and peeping out over her fingers. Elsie,
however, was solemn as a little judge, and with great dignity began:

"An angel with a fiery sword,
Came to send Adam and Eve abroad
And as they journeyed through the skies
They took one look at Paradise.
They thought of all the happy hours
Among the birds and fragrant bowers,
And Eve she wept, and Adam bawled,
And both together loudly squalled."

Dorry snickered at this, but sedate Clover hushed him.

"You mustn't," she said; "it's about the Bible, you know. Now John, it's
your turn."

But Johnnie would persist in holding her hands over her mouth, while her
fat little shoulders shook with laughter. At last, with a great effort,
she pulled her face straight, and speaking as fast as she possibly
could, repeated, in a sort of burst:

"Balaam's donkey saw the Angel,
And stopped short in fear.
Balaam didn't see the Angel,
Which is very queer."

After which she took refuge again behind her fingers, while Elsie went
on--

"Elijah by the creek,
He by ravens fed,
Took from their horny beak
Pieces of meat and bread."

"Come, Johnnie," said Katy, but the incorrigible Johnnie was shaking
again, and all they could make out was--

"The bears came down, and ate------and ate."

These "Verses" were part of a grand project on which Clover and Elsie
had been busy for more than a year. It was a sort of rearrangement of
Scripture for infant minds; and when it was finished, they meant to have
it published, bound in red, with daguerreotypes of the two authoresses
on the cover. "The Youth's Poetical Bible" was to be the name of it.
Papa, much tickled with the scraps which he overheard, proposed,
instead, "The Trundle-Bed Book," as having been composed principally in
that spot, but Elsie and Clover were highly indignant, and would not
listen to the idea for a moment.

After the "Scripture Verses," came Dorry's turn. He had been allowed to
choose for himself, which was unlucky, as his taste was peculiar, not
to say gloomy. On this occasion he had selected that cheerful hymn
which begins--

"Hark, from the tombs a doleful sound."

And he now began to recite it in a lugubrious voice and with great
emphasis, smacking his lips, as it were, over such lines as--

"Princes, this clay _shall_ be your bed,
In spite of all your towers."

The older children listened with a sort of fascinated horror, rather
enjoying the cold chills which ran down their backs, and huddling close
together, as Dorry's hollow tones echoed from the dark corners of the
loft. It was too much for Philly, however. At the close of the piece he
was found to be in tears.

"I don't want to st-a-a-y up here and be groaned at," he sobbed.

"There, you bad boy!" cried Katy, all the more angry because she was
conscious of having enjoyed it herself, "that's what you do with your
horrid hymns, frightening us to death and making Phil cry!" And she gave
Dorry a little shake. He began to whimper, and as Phil was still
sobbing, and Johnnie had begun to sob too, out of sympathy with the
others, the _Feet_ in the Loft seemed likely to come to a sad end.

"I'm goin' to tell Aunt Izzie that I don't like you," declared Dorry,
putting one leg through the opening in the floor.

"No, you aren't," said Katy, seizing him, "you are going to stay,
because _now_ we are going to have the Feast! Do stop, Phil; and
Johnnie, don't be a goose, but come and pass round the cookies."

The word "Feast" produced a speedy effect on the spirits of the party.
Phil cheered at once, and Dorry changed his mind about going. The black
bottle was solemnly set in the midst, and the cookies were handed about
by Johnnie, who was now all smiles. The cookies had scalloped edges and
caraway seeds inside, and were very nice. There were two apiece; and as
the last was finished, Katy put her hand in her pocket, and amid great
applause, produced the crowning addition to the repast--seven long,
brown sticks of cinnamon.

"Isn't it fun?" she said. "Debby was real good-natured to-day, and let
me put my own hand into the box, so I picked out the longest sticks
there were. Now, Cecy, as you're company, you shall have the first drink
out of the bottle."

The "something delicious" proved to be weak vinegar-and-water. It was
quite warm, but somehow, drank up there in the loft, and out of a
bottle, it tasted very nice. Beside, they didn't _call_ it
vinegar-and-water--of course not! Each child gave his or her swallow a
different name, as if the bottle were like Signor Blitz's and could pour
out a dozen things at once. Clover called her share "Raspberry Shrub,"
Dorry christened his "Ginger Pop," while Cecy, who was romantic, took
her three sips under the name of "Hydomel," which she explained was
something nice, made, she believed, of beeswax. The last drop gone, and
the last bit of cinnamon crunched, the company came to order again, for
the purpose of hearing Philly repeat his one piece,--

"Little drops of water,"

which exciting poem he had said every Saturday as far back as they could
remember. After that Katy declared the literary part of the "Feet" over,
and they all fell to playing "Stagecoach," which, in spite of close
quarters and an occasional bump from the roof, was such good fun, that a
general "Oh dear!" welcomed the ringing of the tea-bell. I suppose
cookies and vinegar had taken away their appetites, for none of them
were hungry, and Dorry astonished Aunt Izzie very much by eyeing the
table in a disgusted way, and saying: "Pshaw! _only_ plum sweatmeats and
sponge cake and hot biscuit! I don't want any supper."

"What ails the child? he must be sick," said Dr. Carr; but Katy
explained.

"Oh no, Papa, it isn't that--only we've been having a feast in
the loft."

"Did you have a good time?" asked Papa, while Aunt Izzie gave a
dissatisfied groan. And all the children answered at once:
"Splendiferous!"




CHAPTER VI

INTIMATE FRIENDS


"Aunt Izzie, may I ask Imogen Clark to spend the day here on Saturday?"
cried Katy, bursting in one afternoon.

"Who on earth is Imogen Clark? I never heard the name before,"
replied her aunt.

"Oh, the _loveliest_ girl! She hasn't been going to Mrs. Knight's school
but a little while, but we're the greatest friends. And she's perfectly
beautiful, Aunt Izzie. Her hands are just as white as snow, and no
bigger than _that_. She's got the littlest waist of any girl in school,
and she's real sweet, and so self-denying and unselfish! I don't believe
she has a bit good times at home, either. Do let me ask her!"

"How do you know she's so sweet and self-denying, if you've known her
such a short time?" asked Aunt Izzie, in an unpromising tone.

"Oh, she tells me everything! We always walk together at recess now. I
know all about her, and she's just lovely! Her father used to be real
rich, but they're poor now, and Imogen had to have her boots patched
twice last winter. I guess she's the flower of her family. You can't
think how I love her!" concluded Katy, sentimentally.

"No, I can't," said Aunt Izzie. "I never could see into these sudden
friendships of yours, Katy, and I'd rather you wouldn't invite this
Imogen, or whatever her name is, till I've had a chance to ask somebody
about her."

Katy clasped her hands in despair. "Oh, Aunt Izzie!" she cried, "Imogen
knows that I came in to ask you, and she's standing at the gate at this
moment, waiting to hear what you say. Please let me, just this once! I
shall be so dreadfully ashamed not to."

"Well," said Miss Izzie, moved by the wretchedness of Katy's face, "if
you've asked her already, it's no use my saying no, I suppose. But
recollect, Katy, this is not to happen again. I can't have you inviting
girls, and then coming for my leave. Your father won't be at all
pleased. He's very particular about whom you make friends with. Remember
how Mrs. Spenser turned out."

Poor Katy! Her propensity to fall violently in love with new people was
always getting her into scrapes. Ever since she began to walk and talk,
"Katy's intimate friends" had been one of the jokes of the household.

Papa once undertook to keep a list of them, but the number grew so great
that he gave it up in despair. First on the list was a small Irish
child, named Marianne O'Riley. Marianne lived in a street which Katy
passed on her way to school. It was not Mrs. Knight's, but an ABC
school, to which Dorry and John now went. Marianne used to be always
making sand-pies in front of her mother's house, and Katy, who was about
five years old, often stopped to help her. Over this mutual pastry they
grew so intimate, that Katy resolved to adopt Marianne as her own little
girl, and bring her up in a safe and hidden corner.

She told Clover of this plan, but nobody else. The two children, full of
their delightful secret, began to save pieces of bread and cookies from
their supper every evening. By degrees they collected a great heap of
dry crusts, and other refreshments, which they put safely away in the
garret. They also saved the apples which were given them for two weeks,
and made a bed in a big empty box, with cotton quilts, and the dolls'
pillows out of the baby-house. When all was ready, Katy broke the plan
to her beloved Marianne, and easily persuaded her to run away and take
possession of this new home.

"We won't tell Papa and Mamma till she's quite grown up," Katy said to
Clover; "then we'll bring her down stairs, and _won't_ they be
surprised? Don't let's call her Marianne any longer, either. It isn't
pretty. We'll name her Susquehanna instead--Susquehanna Carr. Recollect,
Marianne, you mustn't answer if I call you Marianne--only when I say
Susquehanna."

"Yes'm," replied Marianne, very meekly.

For a whole day all went on delightfully. Susquehanna lived in her
wooden box, ate all the apples and the freshest cookies, and was happy.
The two children took turns to steal away and play with the "Baby," as
they called Marianne, though she was a great deal bigger than Clover.
But when night came on, and nurse swooped on Katy and Clover, and
carried them off to bed, Miss O'Riley began to think that the garret was
a dreadful place. Peeping out of her box, she could see black things
standing in corners, which she did not recollect seeing in the day-time.
They were really trunks and brooms and warming-pans, but somehow, in the
darkness, they looked different--big and awful. Poor little Marianne
bore it as long as she could; but when at last a rat began to scratch in
the wall close beside her, her courage gave way entirely, and she
screamed at the top of her voice.

"What is that?" said Dr. Carr, who had just come in, and was on his way
up stairs.

"It sounds as if it came from the attic," said Mrs. Carr (for this was
before Mamma died). "Can it be that one of the children has got out of
bed and wandered up stairs in her sleep?"

No, Katy and Clover were safe in the nursery; so Dr. Carr took a
candle and went as fast as he could to the attic, where the yells were
growing terrific. When he reached the top of the stairs, the cries
ceased. He looked about. Nothing was to be seen at first, then a
little head appeared over the edge of a big wooden box, and a piteous
voice sobbed out:

"Ah, Miss Katy, and indeed I can't be stayin' any longer. There's
rats in it!"

"Who on earth _are_ you?" asked the amazed Doctor.

"Sure I'm Miss Katy's and Miss Clover's Baby. But I don't want to be a
baby any longer. I want to go home and see my mother." And again the
poor little midge lifted up her voice and wept.

I don't think Dr. Carr ever laughed so hard in his life, as when
finally he got to the bottom of the story, and found that Katy and
Clover had been "adopting" a child. But he was very kind to poor
Susquehanna, and carried her down stairs in his arms, to the nursery.
There, in a bed close to the other children, she soon forgot her
troubles and fell asleep.

The little sisters were much surprised when they waked up in the
morning, and found their Baby asleep beside them. But their joy was
speedily turned to tears. After breakfast, Dr. Carr carried Marianne
home to her mother, who was in a great fright over her disappearance,
and explained to the children that the garret plan must be given up.
Great was the mourning in the nursery; but as Marianne was allowed to
come and play with them now and then, they gradually got over their
grief. A few months later Mr. O'Riley moved away from Burnet, and that
was the end of Katy's first friendship.

The next was even funnier. There was a queer old black woman who lived
all alone by herself in a small house near the school. This old woman
had a very bad temper. The neighbors told horrible stories about her, so
that the children were afraid to pass the house. They used to turn
always just before they reached it, and cross to the other side of the
street. This they did so regularly, that their feet had worn a path in
the grass. But for some reason Katy found a great fascination in the
little house. She liked to dodge about the door, always holding herself
ready to turn and run in case the old woman rushed out upon her with a
broomstick. One day she begged a large cabbage of Alexander, and rolled
it in at the door of the house. The old woman seemed to like it, and
after this Katy always stopped to speak when she went by. She even got
so far as to sit on the step and watch the old woman at work. There was
a sort of perilous pleasure in doing this. It was like sitting at the
entrance of a lion's cage, uncertain at what moment his Majesty might
take it into his head to give a spring and eat you up.

After this, Katy took a fancy to a couple of twin sisters, daughters of
a German jeweller. They were quite grown-up, and always wore dresses
exactly alike. Hardly any one could tell them apart. They spoke very
little English, and as Katy didn't know a word of German, their
intercourse was confined to smiles, and to the giving of bunches of
flowers, which Katy used to tie up and present to them whenever they
passed the gate. She was too shy to do more than just put the flowers in
their hands and run away; but the twins were evidently pleased, for one
day, when Clover happened to be looking out of the window, she saw them
open the gate, fasten a little parcel to a bush, and walk rapidly off.
Of course she called Katy at once, and the two children flew out to see
what the parcel was. It held a bonnet--a beautiful doll's bonnet of blue
silk, trimmed with artificial flowers; upon it was pinned a slip of
paper with these words, in an odd foreign hand:

"To the nice little girl who was so kindly to give us some flowers."

You can judge whether Katy and Clover were pleased or not.

This was when Katy was six years old. I can't begin to tell you how many
different friends she had set up since then. There was an ash-man, and a
steam-boat captain. There was Mrs. Sawyer's cook, a nice old woman, who
gave Katy lessons in cooking, and taught her to make soft custard and
sponge-cake. There was a bonnet-maker, pretty and dressy, whom, to Aunt
Izzie's great indignation, Katy persisted in calling "Cousin Estelle!"
There was a thief in the town-jail, under whose window Katy used to
stand, saying, "I'm so sorry, poor man!" and "have you got any little
girls like me?" in the most piteous way. The thief had a piece of string
which he let down from the window. Katy would tie rosebuds and cherries
to this string, and the thief would draw them up. It was so interesting
to do this, that Katy felt dreadfully when they carried the man off to
the State Prison. Then followed a short interval of Cornelia Perham, a
nice, good-natured girl, whose father was a fruit-merchant. I am afraid
Katy's liking for prunes and white grapes played a part in this
intimacy. It was splendid fun to go with Cornelia to her father's big
shop, and have whole boxes of raisins and drums of figs opened for their
amusement, and be allowed to ride up and down in the elevator as much as
they liked. But of all Katy's queer acquaintances, Mrs. Spenser, to whom
Aunt Izzie had alluded, was the queerest.

Mrs. Spenser was a mysterious lady whom nobody ever saw. Her husband was
a handsome, rather bad-looking man, who had come from parts unknown, and
rented a small house in Burnet. He didn't seem to have any particular
business, and was away from home a great deal. His wife was said to be
an invalid, and people, when they spoke of him, shook their heads and
wondered how the poor woman got on all alone in the house, while her
husband was absent.

Of course Katy was too young to understand these whispers, or the
reasons why people were not disposed to think well of Mr. Spenser. The
romance of the closed door and the lady whom nobody saw, interested her
very much. She used to stop and stare at the windows, and wonder what
was going on inside, till at last it seemed as if she _must_ know. So,
one day she took some flowers and Victoria, her favorite doll, and
boldly marched into the Spensers' yard.

She tapped at the front door, but nobody answered. Then she tapped
again. Still nobody answered. She tried the door. It was locked. So
shouldering Victoria, she trudged round to the back of the house. As she
passed the side-door she saw that it was open a little way. She knocked
for the third time, and as no one came, she went in, and passing through
the little hall, began to tap at all the inside doors.

There seemed to be no people in the house, Katy peeped into the kitchen
first. It was bare and forlorn. All sorts of dishes were standing about.
There was no fire in the stove. The parlor was not much better. Mr.
Spenser's boots lay in the middle of the floor. There were dirty glasses
on the table. On the mantel-piece was a platter with bones of meat upon
it. Dust lay thick over everything, and the whole house looked as if it
hadn't been lived in for at least a year.

Katy tried several other doors, all of which were locked, and then she
went up stairs. As she stood on the top step, grasping her flowers, and
a little doubtful what to do next, a feeble voice from a bed-room
called out:

"Who is there?"

This was Mrs. Spenser. She was lying on her bed, which was very tossed
and tumbled, as if it hadn't been made up that morning. The room was as
disorderly and dirty as all the rest of the house, and Mrs. Spenser's
wrapper and night-cap were by no means clean, but her face was sweet,
and she had beautiful curling hair, which fell over the pillow. She was
evidently very sick, and altogether Katy felt sorrier for her than she
had ever done for anybody in her life.

"Who are you, child?" asked Mrs. Spenser.

"I'm Dr. Carr's little girl," answered Katy, going straight up to the
bed. "I came to bring you some flowers." And she laid the bouquet on the
dirty sheet.

Mrs. Spenser seemed to like the flowers. She took them up and smelled
them for a long time, without speaking.

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