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What Katy Did

S >> Susan Coolidge >> What Katy Did




It was a big place, with a very high roof. There was not much wood left
in it just now, and the little there was, was piled neatly about the
sides of the shed, so as to leave plenty of room. The place felt cool
and dark, and the motion of the swing seemed to set the breeze blowing.
It waved Katy's hair like a great fan, and made her dreamy and quiet.
All sorts of sleepy ideas began to flit through her brain. Swinging to
and fro like the pendulum of a great clock, she gradually rose higher
and higher, driving herself along by the motion of her body, and
striking the floor smartly with her foot, at every sweep. Now she was at
the top of the high arched door. Then she could almost touch the
cross-beam above it, and through the small square window could see
pigeons sitting and pluming themselves on the eaves of the barn, and
white clouds blowing over the blue sky. She had never swung so high
before. It was like flying, she thought, and she bent and curved more
strongly in the seat, trying to send herself yet higher, and graze the
roof with her toes.

Suddenly, at the very highest point of the sweep, there was a sharp
noise of cracking. The swing gave a violent twist, spun half round, and
tossed Katy into the air. She clutched the rope,--felt it dragged from
her grasp,--then, down,--down--down--she fell. All grew dark, and she
knew no more.

When she opened her eyes she was lying on the sofa in the dining-room.
Clover was kneeling beside her with a pale, scared face, and Aunt Izzie
was dropping something cold and wet on her forehead.

"What's the matter?" said Katy, faintly.

"Oh, she's alive--she's alive!" and Clover put her arms round Katy's
neck and sobbed.

"Hush, dear!" Aunt Izzie's voice sounded unusually gentle. "You've had a
bad tumble, Katy. Don't you recollect?"

"A tumble? Oh, yes--out of the swing," said Katy, as it all came
slowly back to her. "Did the rope break, Aunt Izzie? I can't remember
about it."

"No, Katy, not the rope. The staple drew out of the roof. It was a
cracked one, and not safe. Don't you recollect my telling you not to
swing to-day? Did you forget?"

"No, Aunt Izzie--I didn't forget. I--" but here Katy broke down. She
closed her eyes, and big tears rolled from under the lids.

"Don't cry," whispered Clover, crying herself, "please don't. Aunt Izzie
isn't going to scold you." But Katy was too weak and shaken not to cry.

"I think I'd like to go up stairs and lie on the bed," she said. But
when she tried to get off the sofa, everything swam before her, and she
fell back again on the pillow.

"Why, I can't stand up!" she gasped, looking very much frightened.

"I'm afraid you've given yourself a sprain somewhere," said Aunt Izzie,
who looked rather frightened herself. "You'd better lie still a while,
dear, before you try to move. Ah, here's the doctor! well, I am glad."
And she went forward to meet him. It wasn't Papa, but Dr. Alsop, who
lived quite near them.

"I am so relieved that you could come," Aunt Izzie said. "My brother is
gone out of town not to return till to-morrow, and one of the little
girls has had a bad fall."

Dr. Alsop sat down beside the sofa and counted Katy's pulse. Then he
began feeling all over her.

"Can you move this leg?" he asked.

Katy gave a feeble kick.

"And this?"

The kick was a good deal more feeble.

"Did that hurt you?" asked Dr. Alsop, seeing a look of pain on her face.

"Yes, a little," replied Katy, trying hard not to cry.

"In your back, eh? Was the pain high up or low down?" And the doctor
punched Katy's spine for some minutes, making her squirm uneasily.

"I'm afraid she's done some mischief," he said at last, "but it's
impossible to tell yet exactly what. It may be only a twist, or a slight
sprain," he added, seeing the look of terror on Katy's face. "You'd
better get her up stairs and undress her as soon as you can, Miss Carr.
I'll leave a prescription to rub her with." And Dr. Alsop took out a bit
of paper and began to write.

"Oh, must I go to bed?" said Katy. "How long will I have to stay
there, doctor?"

"That depends on how fast you get well," replied the doctor; "not long,
I hope. Perhaps only a few days.

"A few days!" repeated Katy, in a despairing tone.

After the doctor was gone, Aunt Izzie and Debby lifted Katy, and carried
her slowly up stairs. It was not easy, for every motion hurt her, and
the sense of being helpless hurt most of all. She couldn't help crying
after she was undressed and put into bed. It all seemed so dreadful and
strange. If only Papa was here, she thought. But Dr. Carr had gone into
the country to see somebody who was very sick, and couldn't possibly be
back till to-morrow.

Such a long, long afternoon as that was! Aunt Izzie sent up some dinner,
but Katy couldn't eat. Her lips were parched and her head ached
violently. The sun began to pour in, the room grew warm. Flies buzzed in
the window, and tormented her by lighting on her face. Little prickles
of pain ran up and down her back. She lay with her eyes shut, because it
hurt to keep them open, and all sorts of uneasy thoughts went rushing
through her mind.

"Perhaps, if my back is really sprained, I shall have to lie here as
much as a week," she said to herself. "Oh dear, dear! I _can't_. The
vacation is only eight weeks, and I was going to do such lovely things!
How can people be as patient as Cousin Helen when they have to lie
still? Won't she be sorry when she hears! Was it really yesterday that
she went away? It seems a year. If only I hadn't got into that nasty old
swing!" And then Katy began to imagine how it would have been if she
_hadn't_, and how she and Clover had meant to go to Paradise that
afternoon. They might have been there under the cool trees now. As these
thoughts ran through her mind, her head grew hotter and her position in
the bed more uncomfortable.

Suddenly she became conscious that the glaring light from the window was
shaded, and that the wind seemed to be blowing freshly over her. She
opened her heavy eyes. The blinds were shut, and there beside the bed
sat little Elsie, fanning her with a palm-leaf fan.

"Did I wake you up, Katy?" she asked in a timid voice.

Katy looked at her with startled, amazed eyes.

"Don't be frightened," said Elsie, "I won't disturb you. Johnnie and me
are so sorry you're sick," and her little lips trembled. "But we mean to
keep real quiet, and never bang the nursery door, or make noises on the
stairs, till you're well again. And I've brought you somefing real nice.
Some of it's from John, and some from me. It's because you got tumbled
out of the swing. See--" and Elsie pointed triumphantly to a chair,
which she had pulled up close to the bed, and on which were solemnly set
forth: 1st. A pewter tea-set; 2d. A box with a glass lid, on which
flowers were painted; 3d. A jointed doll; 4th. A transparent slate; and
lastly, two new lead pencils!

"They're all yours--yours to keep," said generous little Elsie. "You
can have Pikery, too, if you want. Only he's pretty big, and I'm
afraid he'd be lonely without me. Don't you like the fings, Katy?
They're real pretty!"

It seemed to Katy as if the hottest sort of a coal of fire was burning
into the top of her head as she looked at the treasures on the chair,
and then at Elsie's face all lighted up with affectionate
self-sacrifice. She tried to speak, but began to cry instead, which
frightened Elsie very much.

"Does it hurt you so bad?" she asked, crying, too, from sympathy.

"Oh, no! it isn't that," sobbed Katy, "but I was so cross to you this
morning, Elsie, and pushed you. Oh, please forgive me, please do!"

"Why, it's got well!" said Elsie, surprised. "Aunt Izzie put a fing out
of a bottle on it, and the bump all went away. Shall I go and ask her to
put some on you too--I will." And she ran toward the door.

"Oh, no!" cried Katy, "don't go away, Elsie. Come here and kiss
me, instead."

Elsie turned as if doubtful whether this invitation could be meant for
her. Katy held out her arms. Elsie ran right into them, and the big
sister and the little, exchanged an embrace which seemed to bring their
hearts closer together than they had ever been before.

"You're the most _precious_ little darling," murmured Katy, clasping
Elsie tight. "I've been real horrid to you, Elsie. But I'll never be
again. You shall play with me and Clover, and Cecy, just as much as you
like, and write notes in all the post-offices, and everything else."

"Oh, goody! goody!" cried Elsie, executing little skips of transport.
"How sweet you are, Katy! I mean to love you next best to Cousin Helen
and Papa! And"--racking her brains for some way of repaying this
wonderful kindness--"I'll tell you the secret, if you want me to _very_
much. I guess Cousin Helen would let me."

"No!" said Katy; "never mind about the secret. I don't want you to tell
it to me. Sit down by the bed, and fan me some more instead."

"No!" persisted Elsie, who, now that she had made up her mind to part
with the treasured secret, could not bear to be stopped. "Cousin Helen
gave me a half-dollar, and told me to give it to Debby, and tell her she
was much obliged to her for making her such nice things to eat. And I
did. And Debby was real pleased. And I wrote Cousin Helen a letter, and
told her that Debby liked the half-dollar. That's the secret! Isn't it a
nice one? Only you mustn't tell anybody about it, ever--just as long as
you live."

"No!" said Katy, smiling faintly, "I won't."

All the rest of the afternoon Elsie sat beside the bed with her
palm-leaf fan, keeping off the flies, and "shue"-ing away the other
children when they peeped in at the door. "Do you really like to have me
here?" she asked, more than once, and smiled, oh, _so_ triumphantly!
when Katy said "Yes!" But though Katy said yes, I am afraid it was only
half the truth, for the sight of the dear little forgiving girl, whom
she had treated unkindly, gave her more pain than pleasure.

"I'll be _so_ good to her when I get well," she thought to herself,
tossing uneasily to and fro.

Aunt Izzie slept in her room that night. Katy was feverish. When morning
came, and Dr. Carr returned, he found her in a good deal of pain, hot
and restless, with wide-open, anxious eyes.

"Papa!" she cried the first thing, "must I lie here as much as a week?"

"My darling, I'm afraid you must," replied her father, who looked
worried, and very grave.

"Dear, dear!" sobbed Katy, "how can I bear it?"




CHAPTER IX

DISMAL DAYS


If anybody had told Katy, that first afternoon, that at the end of a
week she would still be in bed, and in pain, and with no time fixed for
getting up, I think it would have almost killed her. She was so restless
and eager, that to lie still seemed one of the hardest things in the
world. But to lie still and have her back ache all the time, was worse
yet. Day after day she asked Papa with quivering lip: "Mayn't I get up
and go down stairs this morning?" And when he shook his head, the lip
would quiver more, and tears would come. But if she tried to get up, it
hurt her so much, that in spite of herself she was glad to sink back
again on the soft pillows and mattress, which felt so comfortable to her
poor bones.

Then there came a time when Katy didn't even ask to be allowed to get
up. A time when sharp, dreadful pain, such as she never imagined
before, took hold of her. When days and nights got all confused and
tangled up together, and Aunt Izzie never seemed to go to bed. A time
when Papa was constantly in her room. When other doctors came and stood
over her, and punched and felt her back, and talked to each other in
low whispers. It was all like a long, bad dream, from which she
couldn't wake up, though she tried ever so hard. Now and then she would
rouse a little, and catch the sound of voices, or be aware that Clover
or Elsie stood at the door, crying softly; or that Aunt Izzie, in
creaking slippers, was going about the room on tiptoe. Then all these
things would slip away again, and she would drop off into a dark place,
where there was nothing but pain, and sleep, which made her forget
pain, and so seemed the best thing in the world.

We will hurry over this time, for it is hard to think of our bright Katy
in such a sad plight. By and by the pain grew less, and the sleep
quieter. Then, as the pain became easier still, Katy woke up as it
were--began to take notice of what was going on about her; to put
questions.

"How long have I been sick?" she asked one morning.

"It is four weeks yesterday," said Papa.

"Four weeks!" said Katy. "Why, I didn't know it was so long as that. Was
I very sick, Papa?"

"Very, dear. But you are a great deal better now."

"How did I hurt me when I tumbled out of the swing?" asked Katy, who was
in an unusually wakeful mood.

"I don't believe I could make you understand, dear."

"But try, Papa!"

"Well--did you know that you had a long bone down your back,
called a spine?"

"I thought that was a disease," said Katy. "Clover said that Cousin
Helen had the spine!"

"No--the spine is a bone. It is made up of a row of smaller bones--or
knobs--and in the middle of it is a sort of rope of nerves called the
spinal cord. Nerves, you know, are the things we feel with. Well, this
spinal cord is rolled up for safe keeping in a soft wrapping, called
membrane. When you fell out of the swing, you struck against one of
these knobs, and bruised the membrane inside, and the nerve inflamed,
and gave you a fever in the back. Do you see?"

"A little," said Katy, not quite understanding, but too tired to
question farther. After she had rested a while, she said: "Is the fever
well now, Papa? Can I get up again and go down stairs right away?"

"Not right away, I'm afraid," said Dr. Carr, trying to speak cheerfully.

Katy didn't ask any more questions then. Another week passed, and
another. The pain was almost gone. It only came back now and then for a
few minutes. She could sleep now, and eat, and be raised in bed without
feeling giddy. But still the once active limbs hung heavy and lifeless,
and she was not able to walk, or even stand alone.

"My legs feel so queer," she said one morning, "they are just like the
Prince's legs which were turned to black marble in the Arabian Nights.
What do you suppose is the reason, Papa? Won't they feel natural soon?"

"Not soon," answered Dr. Carr. Then he said to himself: "Poor child! she
had better know the truth." So he went on, aloud, "I am afraid, my
darling, that you must make up your mind to stay in bed a long time."

"How long?" said Katy, looking frightened: "a month more?"

"I can't tell exactly how long," answered her father. "The doctors
think, as I do, that the injury to your spine is one which you will
outgrow by and by, because you are so young and strong. But it may take
a good while to do it. It may be that you will have to lie here for
months, or it may be more. The only cure for such a hurt is time and
patience. It is hard, darling"--for Katy began to sob wildly--"but you
have Hope to help you along. Think of poor Cousin Helen, bearing all
these years without hope!"

"Oh, Papa!" gasped Katy, between her sobs, "doesn't it seem dreadful,
that just getting into the swing for a few minutes should do so much
harm? Such a little thing as that!"

"Yes, such a little thing!" repeated Dr. Carr, sadly. "And it was only a
little thing, too, forgetting Aunt Izzie's order about the swing. Just
for the want of the small 'horseshoe nail' of Obedience, Katy."

Years afterwards, Katy told somebody that the longest six weeks of her
life were those which followed this conversation with Papa. Now that she
knew there was no chance of getting well at once, the days dragged
dreadfully. Each seemed duller and dismaller than the day before. She
lost heart about herself, and took no interest in anything. Aunt Izzie
brought her books, but she didn't want to read, or to sew. Nothing
amused her. Clover and Cecy would come and sit with her, but hearing
them tell about their plays, and the things they had been doing, made
her cry so miserably, that Aunt Izzie wouldn't let them come often. They
were very sorry for Katy, but the room was so gloomy, and Katy so cross,
that they didn't mind much not being allowed to see her. In those days
Katy made Aunt Izzie keep the blinds shut tight, and she lay in the
dark, thinking how miserable she was, and how wretched all the rest of
her life was going to be. Everybody was very kind and patient with her,
but she was too selfishly miserable to notice it. Aunt Izzie ran up and
down stairs, and was on her feet all day, trying to get something which
would please her, but Katy hardly said "Thank you," and never saw how
tired Aunt Izzie looked. So long as she was forced to stay in bed, Katy
could not be grateful for anything that was done for her.

But doleful as the days were, they were not so bad as the nights, when,
after Aunt Izzie was asleep, Katy would lie wide awake, and have long,
hopeless fits of crying. At these times she would think of all the plans
she had made for doing beautiful things when she was grown up. "And now
I shall never do any of them," she would say to herself, "only just lie
here. Papa says I may get well by and by, but I sha'n't, I know I
sha'n't. And even if I do, I shall have wasted all these years, and the
others will grow up and get ahead of me, and I sha'n't be a comfort to
them or to anybody else. Oh dear! oh dear! how dreadful it is!"

The first thing which broke in upon this sad state of affairs, was a
letter from Cousin Helen, which Papa brought one morning and handed to
Aunt Izzie.

"Helen tells me she's going home this week," said Aunt Izzie, from the
window, where she had gone to read the letter. "Well, I'm sorry, but I
think she's quite right not to stop. It's just as she says: one
invalid at a time is enough in a house. I'm sure I have my hands full
with Katy."

"Oh, Aunt Izzie!" cried Katy, "is Cousin Helen coming this way when she
goes home? Oh! do make her stop. If it's just for one day, do ask her! I
want to see her so much! I can't tell you how much! Won't you? Please!
Please, dear Papa!"

She was almost crying with eagerness.

"Why, yes, darling, if you wish it so much," said Dr. Carr. "It will
cost Aunt Izzie some trouble, but she's so kind that I'm sure she'll
manage it if it is to give you so much pleasure. Can't you, Izzie?" And
he looked eagerly at his sister.

"Of course I will!" said Miss Izzie, heartily. Katy was so glad, that,
for the first time in her life, she threw her arms of her own accord
round Aunt Izzie's neck, and kissed her.

"Thank you, dear Aunty!" she said.

Aunt Izzie looked as pleased as could be. She had a warm heart
hidden under her fidgety ways--only Katy had never been sick before,
to find it out.

For the next week Katy was feverish with expectation. At last Cousin
Helen came. This time Katy was not on the steps to welcome her, but
after a little while Papa brought Cousin Helen in his arms, and sat her
in a big chair beside the bed.

"How dark it is!" she said, after they had kissed each other and talked
for a minute or two; "I can't see your face at all. Would it hurt your
eyes to have a little more light?"

"Oh no!" answered Katy. "It don't hurt my eyes, only I hate to have the
sun come in. It makes me feel worse, somehow."

"Push the blind open a little bit then Clover;" and Clover did so.

"Now I can see," said Cousin Helen.

It was a forlorn-looking child enough which she saw lying before her.
Katy's face had grown thin, and her eyes had red circles about them from
continual crying. Her hair had been brushed twice that morning by Aunt
Izzie, but Katy had run her fingers impatiently through it, till it
stood out above her head like a frowsy bush. She wore a calico
dressing-gown, which, though clean, was particularly ugly in pattern;
and the room, for all its tidiness, had a dismal look, with the chairs
set up against the wall, and a row of medicine-bottles on the
chimney-piece.

"Isn't it horrid?" sighed Katy, as Cousin Helen looked around.
"Everything's horrid. But I don't mind so much now that you've come. Oh,
Cousin Helen, I've had such a dreadful, _dreadful_ time!"

"I know," said her cousin, pityingly. "I've heard all about it, Katy,
and I'm so very sorry for you! It is a hard trial, my poor darling."

"But how do _you_ do it?" cried Katy.

"How do you manage to be so sweet and beautiful and patient, when you're
feeling badly all the time, and can't do anything, or walk, or
stand?"--her voice was lost in sobs.

Cousin Helen didn't say anything for a little while. She just sat and
stroked Katy's hand.

"Katy," she said at last, "has Papa told you that he thinks you are
going to get well by and by?"

"Yes," replied Katy, "he did say so. But perhaps it won't be for a long,
long time. And I wanted to do so many things. And now I can't do
anything at all!"

"What sort of things?"

"Study, and help people, and become famous. And I wanted to teach the
children. Mamma said I must take care of them, and I meant to. And now I
can't go to school or learn anything myself. And if I ever do get well,
the children will be almost grown up, and they won't need me."

"But why must you wait till you get well?" asked Cousin Helen, smiling.

"Why, Cousin Helen, what can I do lying here in bed?"

"A good deal. Shall I tell you, Katy, what it seems to me that I should
say to myself if I were in your place?"

"Yes, please!" replied Katy wonderingly.

"I should say this: 'Now, Katy Carr, you wanted to go to school and
learn to be wise and useful, and here's a chance for you. God is going
to let you go to _His_ school--where He teaches all sorts of beautiful
things to people. Perhaps He will only keep you for one term, or perhaps
it may be for three or four; but whichever it is, you must make the very
most of the chance, because He gives it to you Himself.'"

"But what is the school?" asked Katy. "I don't know what you mean."

"It is called The School of Pain," replied Cousin Helen, with her
sweetest smile. "And the place where the lessons are to be learned is
this room of yours. The rules of the school are pretty hard, but the
good scholars, who keep them best, find out after a while how right and
kind they are. And the lessons aren't easy, either, but the more you
study the more interesting they become."

"What are the lessons?" asked Katy, getting interested, and beginning to
feel as if Cousin Helen were telling her a story.

"Well, there's the lesson of Patience. That's one of the hardest
studies. You can't learn much of it at a time, but every bit you get by
heart, makes the next bit easier. And there's the lesson of
Cheerfulness. And the lesson of Making the Best of Things."

"Sometimes there isn't anything to make the best of," remarked Katy,
dolefully.

"Yes there is, always! Everything in the world has two handles. Didn't
you know that? One is a smooth handle. If you take hold of it, the thing
comes up lightly and easily, but if you seize the rough handle, it hurts
your hand and the thing is hard to lift. Some people always manage to
get hold of the wrong handle."

"Is Aunt Izzie a 'thing?'" asked Katy. Cousin Helen was glad to hear
her laugh.

"Yes--Aunt Izzie is a _thing_--and she has a nice pleasant handle too,
if you just try to find it. And the children are 'things,' also, in one
sense. All their handles are different. You know human beings aren't
made just alike, like red flower-pots. We have to feel and guess before
we can make out just how other people go, and how we ought to take hold
of them. It is very interesting, I advise you to try it. And while you
are trying, you will learn all sorts of things which will help you to
help others."

"If I only could!" sighed Katy. "Are there any other studies in the
School, Cousin Helen?"

"Yes, there's the lesson of Hopefulness. That class has ever so many
teachers. The Sun is one. He sits outside the window all day waiting a
chance to slip in and get at his pupil. He's a first-rate teacher, too.
I wouldn't shut him out, if I were you.

"Every morning, the first thing when I woke up, I would say to myself:
'I am going to get well, so Papa thinks. Perhaps it may be to-morrow.
So, in case this _should_ be the last day of my sickness, let me spend
it _beauti-_fully, and make my sick-room so pleasant that everybody
will like to remember it.'

"Then, there is one more lesson, Katy--the lesson of Neatness.
School-rooms must be kept in order, you know. A sick person ought to be
as fresh and dainty as a rose."

"But it is such a fuss," pleaded Katy. "I don't believe you've any idea
what a bother it is to always be nice and in order. You never were
careless like me, Cousin Helen; you were born neat."

"Oh, was I?" said her Cousin. "Well, Katy, we won't dispute that point,
but I'll tell you a story, if you like, about a girl I once knew, who
_wasn't_ born neat."

"Oh, do!" cried Katy, enchanted. Cousin Helen had done her good,
already. She looked brighter and less listless than for days.

"This girl was quite young," continued Cousin Helen; "she was strong and
active, and liked to run, and climb, and ride, and do all sorts of jolly
things. One day something happened--an accident--and they told her that
all the rest of her life she had got to lie on her back and suffer pain,
and never walk any more, or do any of the things she enjoyed most."

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