Under the Lilacs (9 page)

C
HAPTER
9

E
xactly 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. I will say it to you.”

And, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half said, half sung the following poem:
¹

“Sweet are the flowers of life,

Swept o’er my happy days at home;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When I was a little child.

“Sweet are the flowers of life

That I spent with my father at home;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When children played about the house.

“Sweet are the flowers of life

When the lamps are lighted at night;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When the flowers of summer bloomed.

“Sweet are the flowers of life

Dead with the snows of winter;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When the days of spring come on.

“That’s all of that one. I made another one when I digged after the turtle. I will say that. It is a very pretty one,” observed
the poet with charming candor; and, taking a long breath, he tuned his little lyre afresh—

“Sweet, sweet days are passing

O’er my happy home,

Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.

Cold are the days when winter comes again.

When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,

Sweet were the days on the rivulet’s green brink;

Sweet were the days when I read my father’s books;

Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing.”

“Bless the baby! where did he get all that?” exclaimed Miss Celia, amazed; while the children giggled as Tennyson, Jr., took
a bite at the turtle instead of the half-eaten cake, and then, to prevent further mistakes, crammed the unhappy creature into
a diminutive pocket in the most businesslike way imaginable.

“It comes out of my head. I make lots of them,” began
the imperturbable one, yielding more and more to the social influences of the hour.

“Here are the peacocks coming to be fed,” interrupted Bab, as the handsome birds appeared with their splendid plumage glittering
in the sun.

Young Barlow rose to admire; but his thirst for knowledge was not yet quenched, and he was about to request a song from Juno
and Jupiter, when old Jack, pining for society, put his head over the garden wall with a tremendous bray.

This unexpected sound startled the inquiring stranger half out of his wits; for a moment the stout legs staggered and the
solemn countenance lost its composure, as he whispered, with an astonished air—

“Is that the way peacocks scream?”

The children were in fits of laughter, and Miss Celia could hardly make herself heard as she answered, merrily—

“No, dear; that is the donkey asking you to come and see him: will you go?”

“I guess I couldn’t stop now. Mamma might want me.”

And, without another word, the discomfited poet precipitately retired, leaving his cherished sticks behind him.

Ben ran after the child to see that he came to no harm, and presently returned to report that Alfred had been met by a servant,
and gone away chanting a new verse of his poem, in which peacocks, donkeys, and “the flowers of life” were sweetly mingled.

“Now I’ll show you my toys, and we’ll have a little play before it gets too late for Thorny to stay with us,” said Miss Celia,
as Randa carried away the tea things and brought back a large tray full of picture books, dissected maps, puzzles, games,
and several pretty models of animals, the whole crowned with a large doll dressed as a baby.

At sight of that, Betty stretched out her arms to receive it with a cry of delight. Bab seized the games, and Ben was lost
in admiration of the little Arab chief prancing on the white horse, “all saddled and bridled and fit for the fight.” Thorny
poked about to find a certain curious puzzle which he could put together without a mistake after long study. Even Sancho found
something to interest him; and, standing on his hind legs, thrust his head between the boys to paw at several red and blue
letters on square blocks.

“He looks as if he knew them,” said Thorny, amused at the dog’s eager whine and scratch.

“He does. Spell your name, Sanch”; and Ben put all the gay letters down upon the flags with a chirrup which set the dog’s
tail to wagging as he waited till the alphabet was spread before him. Then, with great deliberation, he pushed the letters
about till he had picked out six; these he arranged with nose and paw till the word “Sancho” lay before him correctly spelt.

“Isn’t that clever? Can he do any more?” cried Thorny, delighted.

“Lots; that’s the way he gets his livin’, and mine too,” answered Ben; and proudly put his poodle through his well-learned
lessons with such success that even Miss Celia was surprised.

“He has been carefully trained. Do you know how it was done?” she asked, when Sancho lay down to rest and be caressed by the
children.

“No, ’m, father did it when I was a little chap, and never told me how. I used to help teach him to dance, and that was easy
enough, he is so smart. Father said the middle of the night was the best time to give him his lessons; it was so still then,
and nothing disturbed Sanch and made him forget. I can’t do half the tricks, but I’m goin’ to learn when
father comes back. He’d rather have me show off Sanch than ride, till I’m older.”