The Friendly Road [7]
the rhubarb sauce, the great plates of new, hot gingerbread and, at the last, the custard pie--a great wedge of it, with fresh cheese. After the first ravenous appetite of hardworking men was satisfied, there came to be a good deal of lively conversation. The girls had some joke between them which Ben was trying in vain to fathom. The older son told how much milk a certain Alderney cow had given, and Mr. Stanley, quite changed now as he sat at his own table from the rather grim farmer of the afternoon, revealed a capacity for a husky sort of fun, joking Ben about his potato-planting and telling in a lively way of his race with me. As for Mrs. Stanley, she sat smiling behind her tall coffee pot, radiating good cheer and hospitality. They asked me no questions at all, and I was so hungry and tired that I volunteered no information.
After supper we went out for half or three quarters of an hour to do some final chores, and Mr. Stanley and I stopped in the cattle yard and looked over the cows, and talked learnedly about the pigs, and I admired his spring calves to his hearts content, for they really were a fine lot. When we came in again the lamps had been lighted in the sitting-room and the older daughter was at the telephone exchanging the news of the day with some neighbour--and with great laughter and enjoyment. Occasionally she would turn and repeat some bit of gossip to the family, and Mrs. Stanley would claim:
"Do tell!"
"Can't we have a bit of music to-night?" inquired Mr. Stanley.
Instantly Ben and the slim girl, Mary, made a wild dive for the front room--the parlour--and came out with a first-rate phonograph which they placed on the table.
"Something lively now," said Mr. Stanley.
So they put on a rollicking negro song called. "My Georgia Belle," which, besides the tuneful voices, introduced a steamboat whistle and a musical clangour of bells. When it wound up with a bang, Mr. Stanley took his big comfortable pipe out of his mouth and cried out:
"Fine, fine!"
We had further music of the same sort and with one record the older daughter, Kate, broke into the song with a full, strong though uncultivated voice--which pleased us all very much indeed.
Presently Mrs. Stanley, who was sitting under the lamp with a basket of socks to mend, began to nod.
"Mother's giving the signal," said the older son.
"No, no, I'm not a bit sleepy," exclaimed Mrs. Stanley.
But with further joking and laughing the family began to move about. The older daughter gave me a hand lamp and showed me the way upstairs to a little room at the end of the house.
"I think," she said with pleasant dignity, "you will find everything you need."
I cannot tell with what solid pleasure I rolled into bed or how soundly and sweetly I slept.
This was the first day of my real adventures.
CHAPTER II. I WHISTLE
When I was a boy I learned after many discouragements to play on a tin whistle. There was a wandering old fellow in our town who would sit for hours on the shady side of a certain ancient hotel-barn, and with his little whistle to his lips, and gently swaying his head to his tune and tapping one foot in the gravel, he would produce the most wonderful and beguiling melodies. His favourite selections were very lively; he played, I remember, "Old Dan Tucker," and "Money Musk," and the tune of a rollicking old song, now no doubt long forgotten, called "Wait for the Wagon." I can see him yet, with his jolly eyes half closed, his lips puckered around the whistle, and his fingers curiously and stiffly poised over the stops. I am sure I shall never forget the thrill which his music gave to the heart of a certain barefoot boy.
At length, by means I have long since forgotten, I secured a tin whistle exactly like Old Tom Madison's and began diligently to practise such tunes as I knew. I am quite sure now that I must have made a nuisance of myself, for it soon appeared to be the set purpose of every member of the family to break up my efforts. Whenever my father saw me with the whistle to my lips, he would instantly
After supper we went out for half or three quarters of an hour to do some final chores, and Mr. Stanley and I stopped in the cattle yard and looked over the cows, and talked learnedly about the pigs, and I admired his spring calves to his hearts content, for they really were a fine lot. When we came in again the lamps had been lighted in the sitting-room and the older daughter was at the telephone exchanging the news of the day with some neighbour--and with great laughter and enjoyment. Occasionally she would turn and repeat some bit of gossip to the family, and Mrs. Stanley would claim:
"Do tell!"
"Can't we have a bit of music to-night?" inquired Mr. Stanley.
Instantly Ben and the slim girl, Mary, made a wild dive for the front room--the parlour--and came out with a first-rate phonograph which they placed on the table.
"Something lively now," said Mr. Stanley.
So they put on a rollicking negro song called. "My Georgia Belle," which, besides the tuneful voices, introduced a steamboat whistle and a musical clangour of bells. When it wound up with a bang, Mr. Stanley took his big comfortable pipe out of his mouth and cried out:
"Fine, fine!"
We had further music of the same sort and with one record the older daughter, Kate, broke into the song with a full, strong though uncultivated voice--which pleased us all very much indeed.
Presently Mrs. Stanley, who was sitting under the lamp with a basket of socks to mend, began to nod.
"Mother's giving the signal," said the older son.
"No, no, I'm not a bit sleepy," exclaimed Mrs. Stanley.
But with further joking and laughing the family began to move about. The older daughter gave me a hand lamp and showed me the way upstairs to a little room at the end of the house.
"I think," she said with pleasant dignity, "you will find everything you need."
I cannot tell with what solid pleasure I rolled into bed or how soundly and sweetly I slept.
This was the first day of my real adventures.
CHAPTER II. I WHISTLE
When I was a boy I learned after many discouragements to play on a tin whistle. There was a wandering old fellow in our town who would sit for hours on the shady side of a certain ancient hotel-barn, and with his little whistle to his lips, and gently swaying his head to his tune and tapping one foot in the gravel, he would produce the most wonderful and beguiling melodies. His favourite selections were very lively; he played, I remember, "Old Dan Tucker," and "Money Musk," and the tune of a rollicking old song, now no doubt long forgotten, called "Wait for the Wagon." I can see him yet, with his jolly eyes half closed, his lips puckered around the whistle, and his fingers curiously and stiffly poised over the stops. I am sure I shall never forget the thrill which his music gave to the heart of a certain barefoot boy.
At length, by means I have long since forgotten, I secured a tin whistle exactly like Old Tom Madison's and began diligently to practise such tunes as I knew. I am quite sure now that I must have made a nuisance of myself, for it soon appeared to be the set purpose of every member of the family to break up my efforts. Whenever my father saw me with the whistle to my lips, he would instantly