Title: The Hickory Limb
Author: Fillmore, Parker, 1878-1944
Language: English
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                        THE HICKORY LIMB



                               By

                         PARKER FILLMORE



                        Illustrations by

                       ROSE CECIL O'NEILL



                            NEW YORK

                   HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY



                        Copyright, 1907,

                     by The Ridgway Company

                        Copyright, 1910,

                      by John Lane Company

       *       *       *       *       *



TO MARTHA

       *       *       *       *       *



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

                                           PAGE

"I don't care what she says! I'm going!"     13

"Dare you to come in swimmin'! Dare
  you to come in swimmin'!"                  25

Eddie Grote was in a tight place             37

"Margery Blair, you come right out of
  that pond!"                                41

       *       *       *       *       *



THE HICKORY LIMB


     _Mother, may I go out to swim?
        Yes, my darling daughter;
      Hang your clothes on a hickory limb,
        And don't go near the water._



THE HICKORY LIMB


Gladys Bailey had a parasol in one hand and a card-case in the
other. From her own wide experience in social usage, she was
going to initiate the twins into the mystery of formal calls. She
had told them earlier in the day that they might bring their
younger sister, but later reflection decided her to withdraw this
permission. As Katherine and Alice were ready first, it was easy
to explain to them her reasons.

"Four," Gladys said, "are too many to go calling. Margery's too
little for our crowd anyway, and, besides, that would make three
from one family. We had just better start before she comes down."

For a moment the twins looked doubtful; then, as usual, agreed.
Thereupon, all three cautiously tiptoed off the porch and down
the lawn. Before they reached the street, Margery was after them,
calling: "Wait a minute, Katherine! Wait, Alice!"

The twins had barely time to slip through the gate and hear
Gladys's low injunction, "Don't let her come," when Margery was
upon them.

"You can't come with us, Margery," Katherine began, with an
assumption of innocence.

"Why, Katherine, you promised I could."

"That was for to-morrow," suggested Alice weakly.

Margery looked from her sisters to Gladys, who was staring vaguely
across the street. Her excessive aloofness was suspicious, and
Margery instantly jumped to conclusions.

"I bet I know what's the matter. That old Gladys Bailey doesn't
want me. But I'm going anyhow! I don't care what she says! I'm
going!"

[Illustration: "I don't care what she says! I'm going!"]

And, throwing herself against the gate, Margery pushed and kicked
and shook, while Katherine and Alice, holding it shut from the
outside, blushed with embarrassment that Gladys should hear, and
whispered fiercely, "Margery, keep still!"

But Margery would not keep still. At that moment she was
remembering against Gladys many a former indignity. How she hated
her--how she had always hated her for her prim, deceitful,
grown-up manners, for her patronizing airs, and, most of all, for
the strange influence she wielded over Margery's own sisters and
brother. It was bad enough that the twins should hang upon her
words, but worse, far worse, that even Henry, that model of
discretion, should be so completely taken in as to look upon
Gladys with an interest which bordered dangerously near to
admiration. Secure in the esteem of Katherine and Alice, and
conscious of her sway over Henry, Gladys saw no reason to
conciliate the youngest member of the family. "Margery's too
little for our crowd," she would say, and, while Margery fumed
and fought, would calmly reiterate the statement until it came to
be accepted as fact. Gladys never fought. As on this afternoon,
she was always the general, who, so to speak, directed from afar
the onslaughts of the actual combatants.

Though outnumbered two to one, Margery had the spirit of a host,
and for a while victory hung doubtful. Then fate decided the
issue, and, in guise of the maternal voice from the window,
called Margery off.

"Margery Blair," the voice commanded, "stop that noise this
instant! Aren't you ashamed to tease the girls so? Stop it! Do
you hear me?"

Yes, Margery heard; and, knowing from experience the futility of
argument, she stopped.

"Are we ready?" Gladys Bailey asked, suddenly awakening, as it were,
from a reverie. The twins, a little heated from their exertions, were
quite ready, and, holding their card-cases--envelopes filled with
cards of home manufacture--in young-ladyish fashion, they started off,
copying, as best they could, the mincing steps of Gladys.

If Margery shouted after them no parting taunt, it was not
because she had none ready. The ear corresponding to the maternal
voice was probably still at the window; and Margery, though
desperate enough for any fate sufficiently tragic, disliked the
thought of spending the afternoon in bed. Therefore she kept an
outward silence. But her heart would not be still, and every
little outraged feeling in her body, finding a voice of its own,
clamored aloud: "Oh, if we could only pay 'em back! Oh, if we
could only pay 'em back!" Margery, alas! had not yet learned that
forgiveness is sweeter than revenge. Of course she would forgive
them if, say, a milk-wagon should run over her and she had only a
few hours to live. Then how they would cry! But as it was too
late in the afternoon for any milk-wagons to be about, such a
death-bed forgiveness was clearly out of the question. So the one
thing left was revenge.

Yet what revenge was possible? None, absolutely none. That
afternoon she was utterly powerless to shake by any act of hers
the equanimity of those three complacent young persons. There was
nothing belonging to them which she could smash, hide, or
appropriate. There was nothing they had ever said or done which
now, in her hour of need, she could use against them. They were
in fact so impossibly, so hopelessly--no, not exactly virtuous,
but _proper_, that the mere contemplation of their colorless
lives threw Margery into a most deplorable state of hatred,
malice, and all uncharitableness.

As the hopelessness of revenge settled on Margery's spirit, a
feeling of loneliness began to creep over her. She could think of
nothing to do, and of nobody to whom she might appeal for
sympathy or amusement. The limitless expanse of an idle afternoon
stretched out before her like a desert. Henry had gone fishing,
and Willie Jones--_Willie Jones!_ With that name came a dazzling
thought, a plan full-blown, a balm sweet to her soul, a glorious
solution!

Margery skipped up to the porch and called out in a coaxing,
pleasant tone: "Mamma, may I take a little walk?" The maternal
voice, plainly relieved that the storm had spent itself, gave
consent, and Margery danced out the front gate and up the
street, her heart thumping fast in exultation.

O-oh! Let Katherine and Alice distribute as many of their
calling-cards as possible, for soon they will have no further use
for them. Soon--to be exact, by the time they get home--they will
be disgraced, horribly disgraced, and no one will ever care to
receive them or their visits again. Even Gladys, their adored
Gladys, will give them one cold glance of scorn and turn her
back. It was hard, certainly, not to be able to include Gladys in
the impending doom. But, after all, Katherine and Alice were the
more culpable, for had they not cast aside all feelings of
sisterly relationship? Let them, then, bear the brunt of the
punishment.

After a fashion Margery was grateful to Gladys, for it was really
Gladys who had placed in her hands the weapon she was about to
use. Gladys was forever saying to Katherine and Alice: "If you're
not careful, Margery will disgrace you all some day. Then how
will you feel? No one will play with you; no one will even speak
to you on the street. And it won't be your fault, either. But,
you see, everybody'll know Margery is your sister."

Yes, every one would know, and Margery, as she skipped along,
gloated in the thought. It went without saying that, in
disgracing the others, Margery was willing to sacrifice herself.
Willing? She was almost too willing. In fact, it must be
confessed that there was something in the present undertaking
which, quite apart from all anticipations of revenge, hummed a
gay little tune in her ear, and tempted her hurrying feet into
many a frisky little side-step. From time to time she had to
nudge herself, as it were, to remember that her purpose was one
of retributive justice, that the end was what her soul hungered
after--not the means.

She gave a passing regret to the afternoon shoes she was wearing,
the white stockings, the clean dress, the great pink bow of
ribbon in her hair. Likely enough these would be sadly draggled
before the deed was done. But even that thought did not check her
haste nor cause her for one second to pause or look back.

       *       *       *       *       *



Her road lay toward the open country. At last, leaving behind all
lines of houses, she crawled under a barbed-wire fence into a
broad meadow where a few cows were grazing; then over a creek
into another meadow, and up to a grassy knoll just ahead. From
beyond it faint shouts were coming. At the foot of the knoll
Margery rested a few moments, then pushed bravely on to the very
gate of her adventure.

From the top of the knoll she looked down the other side to a
tiny pond where five little boys were playing and splashing. The
minute they spied Margery they sank to their chins in the muddy
water and raised frantic hands and voices:

"Go 'way from here! Go 'way from here! We're swimmin'! We're
swimmin'!"

With considerable inward trepidation but outward calm, Margery
descended toward them.

"We're swimmin'! We're swimmin'!" the little boys kept on shouting
inanely until Margery was forced to make some acknowledgment of the
information.

"Oh!" she called out in sarcasm undisguised, "I thought you was
flying!"

That seemed to make the little boys angry. They redoubled their
cries and gesticulations.

"Go 'way from here! Go 'way from here! You're a girl! You're a
girl!"

"Is that so? I'm a girl, am I? I'm so glad to hear it!"

Margery sat down near the water's edge and gazed across defiantly
at the little boys, who were clustered together at the far end of
the pond. They were not her match at sarcasm and so were forced
to answer with inarticulate jeers. For a few seconds no more
words were exchanged. Then one of the boys attempted a parley.

[Illustration: "Dare you to come in swimmin'! Dare you to come in
swimmin'!"]

"Margery," he began. It was Willie Jones. There was a plea and a
protest in his voice.

"Well?"

Margery's sharp interrogation gave so little encouragement that
Willie Jones desisted.

Freddy Larkin next essayed the part of spokesman for the boys.
Freddy had curly hair and a lisp.

"Mardthery!"

"Well?"

"Dare you to come in thwimmin'! Dare you to come in thwim----"

Willie Jones choked further utterance with a splash of water.
But, though he silenced Freddy, the other three instantly took up
the cry, "Dare you to come in swimmin'! Dare you to come in
swimmin'!"

Margery's moment had come.

"Huh! You think I'm afraid, don't you? Well, I ain't!"

She pulled off her shoes, rolled down her white stockings, and
then, standing up, very deliberately began unbuttoning the back
of her dress.

For the boys this was a turn of events unexpected and most
disconcerting. Not for a moment did they really want her to
accept their dare. Why, whoever heard of a girl doing such a
thing? The very thought scandalized them deeply. Indeed, they
would stop her if they could, but it was utterly beyond their
powers of expression to tell her that the dare was a mere joke, a
pleasantry that had better be forgotten. Unable to explain this,
they wriggled about uncomfortably in the water and hid their
growing confusion in half-hearted jeers.

When the dress was discarded, every little boy there hoped in his
soul that this might be all. The proprieties would not be
utterly demolished if Margery would only treat as a bathing-suit
her skimp little undervest and bloomers. But Margery would not.
She calmly proceeded to undo the buttons which made these two
garments one.

"Margery!" There was an almost agonized pleading in Willie
Jones's voice.

"Willie Jones, will you shut up! Just because you live near us
you needn't think you're my brother. 'Cause you ain't. Besides,
girls can do the same as boys."

There was a last tug; those final garments which might have
served as a bathing-suit slipped down over her feet, and Margery
stepped forth, a skinny, defiant little Venus, challenging the
world to look if it dare. It was a most embarrassing moment for
the little boys. Their faces, bobbing about nervously on the
surface of the water, blushed violently, and their jeers
dwindled down to the merest quavers.

Her independence of custom and opinion thus emphatically
established, Margery lost no time in entering the water. Sitting
gingerly on the muddy bank, she slid forward one foot, then the
other. Ugh! The bottom of the pond was soft and slimy, and
squashed up between her toes like worms. For the first time a
dreadful misgiving came over her. What if, after all, swimming
were not the delightful pastime it was cracked up to be! However,
there was no turning back now.

Sitting in the water, she propelled herself forward with her
hands, slowly and cautiously. The little boys looked on in marked
though unexpressed disapproval. Margery was putting them into a
horribly awkward position--there was no doubt about that. They
didn't like it, either. But in spite of themselves they were
beginning to feel a certain admiration for her pluck. It was
almost a pity she was a girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Look out, Margery!" It was Tommy Grayson who gave the friendly
warning. "They's a tin can over there."

Margery shifted her direction, and soon reached deeper water,
where she was able to stand up without shocking the sensibilities
of any one. The little boys were still some distance from her.
The water, muddy beyond all chance of transparency, came up to
their chests. To them, however, this was not enough. The
excessive modesty of eight or nine made them keep even the white
of their angular little shoulders primly covered.

Now, human nature can not be expected to retain forever that
freshness of surprise which it feels over every new experience
in life. Time, philosophy tells us, accustoms man to almost
anything. It does the same for small boys. Beyond question it was
enough to take the wind out of any one to see a girl coolly strip
and come in swimming quite as though she were a boy, with all a
boy's peculiar rights and privileges. But, astonishing as that
might be, it was after all no reason for standing there all day
like sticks in the mud when you might just as well be having a
good time.

Margery, who was also standing like a stick, felt as bored as
they. With nothing to do but gently bounce with the slight
lap-lap of the water, she found herself wondering more and more
just where the fun of swimming came in.

She watched with envy the small beginnings that betokened in the
boys a return to the serious play of life. Charley Burns gave
Freddy Larkin an unexpected ducking. Freddy came up spluttering
and blowing, but with a handful of slimy mud which he plastered
over Charley's white head. Then a splash fight became general.
Every one splashed water into every one else's face. Margery
noted with interest the peculiar downward stroke of the flat hand
which brought about the finest results. She added her shouts to
the boys', and longed to add some splashes likewise.

Now, the progress of a splash fight is thus: At first there are
no sides--every man's splash is against every man's; but the
splashes of all turn immediately against him who shows first
signs of defeat; and he, the victim, may then use any means
whatever to protect himself.

Eddie Grote was the victim this time. When the deluge became
choking, he turned his back, ducked, and then let fly in the
general direction of the allied forces two slimy handfuls of
mud. In the excitement of the game the boys had clean forgot the
immodesty of bare shoulders, and had even broken away from their
original close grouping until, to all appearances, Margery was
one of them. So it happened that, when Freddy Larkin dodged
aside, one handful of the watery mud caught Margery square on the
head and splattered down over her face and ears.

"Aw, see what you done, Eddie Grote!" Tommy Grayson shouted
indignantly. "You went and throwed mud on Margery's hair ribbon!
Ain't you got no sense?"

In the pause that followed, four little boys reviled the fifth
with various forms of, "Aw, what'd you do that for?" And the
fifth stood still in awkward consternation, the mud still
dripping from his guilty hand.

For a moment Margery, too, was concerned, but only for a moment.
When, under any circumstances, one's world is coming to an end
within a few hours at furthest, a hair ribbon more or less
matters very little. Moreover, it suddenly flashed upon Margery
that here was a chance to make those few remaining hours more
golden and at the same time gratify her soul with a trial at that
masterly downward stroke of the flat hand. So before Eddie Grote
had time to close his astonished mouth, she filled it with a
mighty splash of water. Then, while Eddie choked and spluttered,
too surprised to defend himself, she sent another well-aimed
splash and another, until the gasping Eddie was forced to turn
and flee. Not even then did Margery stop, but, following up her
advantage, she drove him on and on toward shore.

In their ecstasy at the spectacle, the remaining boys leaped up
and down in the water like happy little trout, clapping their
hands and shouting:

"Hurrah for Margery!"

"Give it to him, Margery!"

"I bet on Margery!"

"What's the matter with Margery?"

Eddie Grote was in a tight place. All woman's rights to the
contrary, in a struggle of the sexes a man has to show the woman
some consideration or fly in the face of public opinion. Eddie
Grote, although hard pressed, realized that public opinion would
not in this instance stand for what, ordinarily, would be his
_modus operandi_, namely, to fling mud over his shoulder. If he
could but gain a moment's time thus, he might make a dash for the
deeper water. But he could not, and the other little boys, as
they saw his growing predicament, raised shriller, louder shouts
of joy:

"That's right, Margery! Chase him out of the water! Chase him
out!"

[Illustration: Eddie Grote was in a tight place.]

"Oh, Eddie Grote, ain't you ashamed? And before a girl, too! Oh!
Oh! Oh!"

Eddie Grote was ashamed, horribly ashamed. The water was fast falling
below his knees. To get back to the depths was impossible; to go
straight ahead were greater shame. Facing the inevitable, and
clutching frantically at the flying skirts of modesty, he doubled up
like a little turtle, chin to knees, and cried quits in those last
words of the conquered: "I give up! I give up!"

Margery, who knew the practices of modern warfare quite as well
as he, ceased fire and slowly backed away. She backed amid a
chorus that was like a triumphant "See the Conquering Hero
Comes." Freddy Larkin called out, "What's the matheh with
Mardthery?" and the others took up the chant:

      She's all right!
      Who's all right?
        MARGERY!

       *       *       *       *       *



Ah, what fun swimming was! Did anything else under heaven equal
it? Come, now, what might, she had drunk deep of one of life's
joys, and the memory of it would long sustain her. And then,
while the boys were still shouting her victory, while her heart
was still glowing with the thought of having made good before
them, it came--a voice that was like the voice of judgment.

"Margery!" it trumpeted sharply. "_Margery!_"

And at that voice five little Adams were suddenly afraid, and,
remembering the nakedness of their shoulders, hid themselves as
best they could in the muddy depths, and the solitary little Eve
covered herself likewise until the waters were up to her chin.
Then six little floating heads turned and gazed in speechless
dismay at the knoll. There stood Henry. In one hand he was
clutching a tin can full of something; from the other he had
dropped a seine.

[Illustration: "Margery Blair, you come right out of that pond!"]

"Margery!" he repeated as though scarce able to believe his eyes.
Then as the vision remained fixed, he changed his tone.

"Margery Blair, you come right out of that pond!"

All the outraged conventionalities of an elder brother sounded in
his voice and showed in the horrified expression of his face.

Margery did not question fate, but meekly obeyed. Slowly and
reluctantly she made her way to shore. Henry was at the water's
edge to hasten her landing. He reached out and dragged her in--no
longer a defiant young Venus, but a very frightened little girl
whose naughtiness had found her out. Henry pushed her roughly
toward her pile of clothes with the succinct order, "Now dress."
He made a screen of his body between her and the five pairs of
eyes that were bobbing about so exasperatingly on the water.

Behind the screen Margery shivered helplessly. "Ain't got nothin'
to wipe with," she sniffled.

Very carefully and deliberately, without exposing for an instant
the form of his frail sister, Henry deposited on the ground his
tin can of minnows, went through all his pockets, and finally
pulled out a small, dirty handkerchief. As he handed this over
his shoulder, the little boys in the water laughed.

"Say, Henry, will you lend me that towel when Margery's through
with it?" asked Charley Burns facetiously.

"I'll punch your head when I ketch you. That's what I'll do to
you."

Charley did not continue the subject.

Presumably the handkerchief served its purpose, for Margery's
next words showed that dressing had progressed a bit.

"I can't get my stockin's on," she quavered.

"Pull 'em on," grunted the screen unfeelingly.

A few moments later there was similar trouble with the shoes, and
Margery sent out a tearful announcement:

"They just won't go on."

"They got to," remarked the screen firmly.

"But I tell you they won't. They're my new ones and they won't go
on without a shoe-horn."

"Stamp on 'em!" commanded Henry gruffly.

Behind the screen convulsive excitement followed, accompanied by
a certain Jack-in-the-box effect which seemed highly to amuse the
little boys in the water.

"That's right, Margery. Stamp on 'em!" they repeated derisively
until cowed into silence by Henry's stony stare.

"I can't button my dress," was Margery's final plaint.

"You got to."

"But I tell you I can't," she insisted, her voice rising to a
long-drawn wail. "It buttons behind."

With the utmost dignity the screen slowly turned itself around.
That was a signal for the small boys in the water to break forth
into jeers and taunts. They spoke in that treble squeal which
little boys use when they seek to imitate girls' voices.

"Say, Henry, please lend me your towel to wipe my ears."

"Button my dress, Henry."

"Where's your shoe-horn, Henry?"

Apparently Henry's calm remained unshaken. In reality he made a
rather poor job of the buttoning. As soon as the back of the
dress promised to hold together, he stopped. Then, firmly
clutching Margery's arm in one hand and holding his seine and tin
can of minnows in the other, he faced his waspish little
tormentors.

       *       *       *       *       *



The moment had come for him to speak. He did not hesitate. Had he
been forty-five and bald, he could not have met the situation
with more determined conventionality. He realized, plainly
enough, that the family had been disgraced, and neither to
herself nor to the world would he minimize or excuse Margery's
culpability. Yet, nevertheless, he would do his best to hush up
the scandal.

"See here, you kids," he began warningly. Both hands were
occupied, so he could not emphasize his threat with the sight of
a clenched fist. His tones, however, carried conviction. "If any
of you's blab about this, I'll give you such a smashin'----"

Henry did not finish the sentence. There was no need to finish
the sentence. When one's thought has been fully enough expressed,
why go on further?

Henry paused a moment for the meaning to sink in. Then he started
up the knoll, dragging Margery after him. Instantly the pond was
in an uproar.

"Oh, Henry, can't guess who I seen in swimmin' this afternoon!"

"Comin' back to-morrow, ain't you, Margery?"

"Better slow up, Henry, or you'll drop your minnies."

"Say, Margery, your stockin's is comin' down."

Then Freddy Larkin started to chant at the top of his lungs:

     Motheh, may I go out to thwim?
       Yeth, my darlin' daughter;
     Hang your cloth' ...

Of course Margery knew that their wit was aimed at Henry, not at
her. But she breathed freer, nevertheless, once out of ear-shot.

Henry dragged her homeward at a furious pace. He held her arm so
tightly that it ached. The worst was that she couldn't make him
argue about it. He simply held on without talking.

"You just let my arm go, Henry Blair," she whimpered again and
again. "You ain't got any right to hurt me."

But Henry would only close his mouth more grimly and push on.

"Ain't you got any sense, Henry Blair? I ain't tryin' to run
off."

She might just as well be talking to a post.

Even the threat, "If you don't let me go, I'll holler," fell on
deaf ears.

This was said after they had reached the civilization of streets
and houses, where their appearance caused a mild sensation. And
small wonder. Margery's stockings were down in rolls about her
ankles. Behind, her dress was gaping open where Henry had missed
the buttons. In places there were yellow stains where the wet of
her body had soaked through. Her face was streaked with mud and
her hair was drying in a stiff mat that hung down heavily over
her eyes. The once gorgeous hair ribbon was little better than a
lump of mud.

Several little girls on different porches called out in amazed
curiosity, "Why, Margery, what _is_ the matter?" and a boy or
two, staring hard, remarked, "Hello, Henry. What you doin'?" For
all the attention he paid, Henry might not have heard. With lips
tightly closed, eyes looking straight ahead, he rushed on, never
once relaxing hold of his miserable victim's arm.

At their own gate they met the twins and Gladys Bailey just
returning from their round of calls. One look at the strange
pair, and even Gladys lost her air of blasé indifference. Her
eyes opened wide and she took a deep breath of interest and
surprise.

"Why, Henry," she said, "what in the world has Margery gone and
done now?"

_What has Margery gone and done now?_ If that wasn't like Gladys,
before she knew a thing about it to decide that Margery had gone
and done something! And when it was Gladys herself who was the
cause of it all, anyhow! Remembering this, Margery turned on her
and snarled like some angry little animal.

At this fresh token of savagery in his younger sister, Henry's
face grew quite apoplectic with shame. But, still keeping his
mouth closed, he pushed by Gladys and the twins, and dragged
Margery up the steps of the front porch.

"Oh, look at Margery's hair!" Gladys called out in virtuous
concern. "What _has_ happened? You _must_ tell us, Henry!"

Family shame might keep Henry's mouth closed, but Margery felt no
such restraint. She wanted Gladys to know! She wanted everybody
to know! So while Henry was freeing one hand of tin can and
seine, preparatory to opening the door, she twisted around until
she, could shout out the news to the listening world.

"I went in swimmin'!" she cried, shaking her muddied locks at
Gladys. "That's what!" She had to hurry, for Henry was already
pulling at the screen door. "With boys, too! With _boys_!"

Henry jerked her roughly into the house, but not before she had
heard the beginning of Gladys's unctuous comment: "Oh, how
disgraceful! Ain't Margery just too awful!" She also had time to
realize vaguely that, disgraceful though it was, Gladys seemed in
no haste to turn on the twins that cold glance of scorn which, by
all reckoning, should instantly have been forthcoming. Why did
she stay on talking to them? A cold doubt began to creep into
Margery's mind. Had she, after all, disgraced only herself? The
doubt slowly grew to a certainty, until, by the time she found
herself dragged into the library, she felt as miserable and
forlorn as she looked.

Without a word Henry placed her before her mother. Her mother
raised languid eyes from a novel; then, like Gladys, showed
livelier interest.

"Margery! What have you been doing?"

"Swimmin'." Henry answered for her, in the first syllables he had
uttered since leaving the pond.

"Swimming!" repeated her mother faintly.

"With boys," added Henry gloomily.

"With boys!" echoed her mother, looking helpless and alarmed. The
occasion was evidently one which demanded a well-chosen reproof.
She paused a moment, then said impressively: "Why, I never heard
of a little girl doing such a thing!"

At that all Margery's waning spirit flared up. It was what they
always said! Whatever she did was bad, not because it _was_ bad,
but because _she_ was a girl!

"'Tain't my fault I'm a girl!" she cried, stamping her foot and
glaring out from under her muddy hair, more than ever like a
little creature of the woods. "I don't want to be a girl! I want
to be a boy, and you know I do!"

"That will do, Margery," said her mother coldly. "You may go to
bed now, and when your father comes home, I shall tell him how
you've been behaving and he can punish you. Henry, call Effie."

To Effie was intrusted the task of giving Margery a bath and
putting her to bed.

"She's been a bad girl this afternoon, Effie, and if she's rude
to you, you may spank her." And Margery's mother, thus shifting
her maternal responsibility, first to a servant, then to her
husband, returned to her novel with a troubled sigh.

When one is small and in the grip of adverse circumstances, there is,
perhaps, no process of life which can be made more humiliating than a
bath. In this instance, suffice to say that Effie was lavish in the
use of soap and water, especially soap, and, by the time she finished,
had reduced her charge to a state of quiescent misery.

       *       *       *       *       *



Margery's room was the small front corner room adjoining her
mother's. The window was open, and, as she lay in bed, feverish
and unhappy, the murmur of conversation from the porch below
reached her distinctly. She paid little attention until, hearing
Gladys Bailey's voice, it suddenly came over her that that young
woman had not yet gone home. Then Margery sat up and listened.

"I just feel so sorry for your poor father," Gladys's voice was
saying. "He'll feel so disgraced!" After a slight pause she
asked: "Don't you think he'll be home soon?"

So that was it! Gladys lingered on in hopes of witnessing the
last scene of Margery's humiliation. Oh, what a deceitful
creature Gladys was, pretending that the whole family was so
disgraced, yet remaining still as intimate with them as ever!
How horrid they all were--everybody except, perhaps--perhaps her
father! In the past he was the only one who had ever shown
himself superior to public opinion and circumstantial evidence.
Would he be the same this time? If he, too, were going to be
shocked and surprised, Margery felt that there was nothing left
for her but to go off somewhere alone and die.

"How many boys did you say they was, Henry?"

Henry evidently had not said, for he did not answer now. Nothing
daunted, Gladys went on.

"I suppose they was at least ten. Yes, I'm sure they must ha'
been ten."

"No, they wasn't," Henry blurted out. "They was only five."

Margery tossed about on her little bed in helpless rage and
scorn. Why, the creature was a regular Delilah!

"Who was they, Henry?"

Again Henry kept silence. But this time Gladys's question was
answered in another way. From up the street came the various
noises that announce the approach of a crowd of boys.

"Here they come now," Gladys exclaimed in candid satisfaction.

Yes, without doubt they were coming. When they saw Henry they
began immediately a taunting sing-song:

"Oh, Henry, can't guess who I seen in swimmin'! Can't guess who I
seen in swimmin'!"

Henry dashed off the porch and the chorus scattered in various
directions. One saucy voice sang as it ran:

     Motheh, may I go out to thwim?
       Yeth, my darlin' daughter;
     Hang your cloth' ...

Yes, that was the whole thing in a nutshell, Margery thought. It
was exactly how they always talked to girls.

     Hang your clothes on a hickory limb,
       And DON'T go near the water!

Wasn't it what her mother said to her a dozen times a day? _Now
be a good little girl and have a good time._ How could you be a
_good_ little girl and have a good time at the _same_ time? The
irony of it, when anybody with a grain of sense would know that
the two do not go hand in hand! If she had stayed home that
afternoon, she would have been good, but she would not have had a
good time. As it was, she had had a good time, but she had not
been good. So there you are!

The gate clicked, but it was not Henry, for Gladys offered the
conciliatory greeting, "Hello, Willie." So it must be Willie
Jones coming through their yard to get to his own. Margery
wondered whether Gladys would be able to work him as she had
worked Henry. Margery thought not, but if she were--well, she,
Margery Blair, would have very little more to say to Willie
Jones.

When, Margery judged, Willie Jones was passing the porch, Gladys
asked in her suavest tones, "Oh, Willie, did you see Margery,
too?"

For a moment Willie did not answer, and Margery, kneeling on the
floor behind the window curtain, held her breath. Then,
apparently without slowing his pace, Willie Jones grunted out in
his roughest manner:

"Aw, go on! You don't know what you're talkin' about!"

"Willie Jones is just the rudest boy," Gladys informed the twins.
"I wouldn't think your mother would let Margery play with him."

But, up-stairs, Margery wept for joy at this evidence of a true
and noble heart.

Henry returned from the chase with the interesting news that he
had almost caught Freddy Larkin.

"Well, I just pity your poor father," Gladys commented, "if he
goes down on the car to-morrow with Freddy Larkin's father."

"Why, Gladys?" chorused the twins anxiously.

"Because he'll laugh at your father and make fun of him for
having a girl that went in swimming with boys. Just you see! And
your father'll feel so disgraced!"

Would he really? Margery wondered forlornly. Of all her family,
her father was the one, the only one, she would have spared; and
now, if Gladys were to be trusted, he it was who would suffer
most. With a pang, she suddenly remembered how many times in the
past she had been sent to bed, as to-day, to await his coming,
and how kind and just he had always been, never pronouncing
punishment until he had sifted and weighed the evidence against
her. And, remembering this, her rebellious little heart softened
and a sense of regret came over her--the first she had felt that
afternoon. Why, why had she not remembered him sooner? How could
she _ever_ have forgotten him?

       *       *       *       *       *

In the midst of this incipient remorse, Gladys announced his
arrival.

He came in with a cheerful, "Hello, kidlets!" and almost
immediately asked, "Where's Margery?"

"Margery's in bed," Henry said significantly.

Margery heard her father pull over a porch chair and seat
himself.

"She's been bad," Katherine said.

Still her father made no comment.

It was Alice's turn to speak, and there was nothing left to tell
but the deed itself.

"She went in swimmin'," Alice whispered.

And then, of all things, as Gladys Bailey would say, what did her
father do but laugh! He laughed loud and long; but the others,
evidently surprised, did not join him.

It was Gladys who spoke first.

"You forgot to tell your father that she went in swimmin' with
boys."

"With boys!" her father echoed, and laughed harder than before.

Up-stairs, her head pressed against the window-sill, Margery
could scarcely believe her ears. Did he really think it was
funny? And then she had it. Her father was pretending! But that,
after all, was only half a clue. Why was he pretending? Why?

He stopped laughing after a time and began putting questions to
each of them in turn, until he had pieced together the whole
story.

"Katherine," he asked finally, "why did you and Alice not take
her with you when you went calling? If you had, this would not
have happened."

"Well, you see, papa," began Katherine, "she's too little for our
crowd."

"Too little? What nonsense! She's not a bit too little."

"Well, Gladys says she is," Katherine insisted.

Gladys corrected this statement kindly but firmly: "What I said
was, that, for first calls, four was perhaps too big a crowd."

"Oh, I see. That is very different. No doubt Gladys is entirely
right. But you've made your first calls now, haven't you?--and
hereafter Margery can go with you just as well as not, can't she,
Gladys? Why, you know, really, in crowds, the more the merrier.
Besides"--and Margery knew just as though she were there the kind
of look her father was giving Gladys--"as a favor to me!"

Gladys was completely taken in.

"I'll be glad to do anything I can for you, Mr. Blair," she said
politely. Then she added gratuitously: "Everybody ought to be
kind to each other."

"That's it, exactly. As Gladys says, the big boys and girls
should always be kind and gentle to the smaller ones. Now Henry
was right, when he found his little sister doing something wrong,
to bring her home. But next time he's going to be more gentle
about it, aren't you, Henry?"

Yes, Henry was, and Margery hugged herself in wonder and
amazement. Why, her father was simply workin' 'em for all they
was worth! He was just jollyin' 'em to beat the band! And it was
all for her sake, too! Under the magic of his words, already they
were ceasing to regard her as an outcast. And Margery, like many
another who has sought to overturn the pillars of society, was
strangely happy at the thought of being able once again to mingle
with her own kind.

"But, papa," she heard Alice ask, "what'll you say to Freddy
Larkin's father on the car?"

"What will I say to Freddy Larkin's father on the car, Alice?"

"Yes, papa, when he--Gladys--she says he'll make fun of you on
account of Margery."

And then her father rose to the occasion magnificently.

"What will I say," he repeated in a loud, full voice, "to Freddy
Larkin's father when he makes fun of me for having a little girl
who went in swimming with the boys?"

He paused impressively, and suddenly Margery understood. He was
the only one of them all who knew that of course she was
listening! And he had known it all along and had been sending
messages, no, not of excuse for her naughtiness--they would have
that out together, later--but of love and encouragement for
herself. Oh, how she would try never to grieve him again!

"I'll tell you what I'll say," his adorable voice continued.
"I'll say, 'Well, I just bet you a great big round dollar that
Freddy will never see Margery do such a thing again!' Why, do you
know, Gladys, I'd be willing to risk five dollars!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Then he came into the house and her mother kept him a moment in
the library. She could not hear what her mother said, but her
father's answer, "Of course I shall be severe, if necessary," put
a sudden chill on her heart.

Then she heard his foot on the stairs; and she buried her face in
the pillow, pretending to be asleep.

Her father stood over her a moment, looking down at her quietly.
She could feel him looking. Then he said, "Margery," softly,
gently. It seemed to her that she had never heard her name
pronounced so sweetly, so lovingly. Whatever little ice of
rebellion had formed anew around her heart melted that instant,
and, like a whirlwind, she threw her arms about her father's neck
and crushed her chill little nose and her burning face against
his cheek. There she sobbed out her love and repentance.

"And papa--papa," she gasped as soon as she could speak, "you can
bet him ten dollars if you want to, and you won't lose! I promise
you, papa, you won't lose! You _won't!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

Her mother supposed that, as usual, Margery had cajoled her
father into an easy mood, for, when she saw them an hour later,
Margery was seated on her father's knee, quiet and happy. In all
apparent innocence she was saying:

"_And oh, papa! Ugh! It just squashes up between your toes like
worms!_"

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Hickory Limb" ***

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