When the tale ended there was a brief silence.
Then Aunt Janet said severely, but with a sigh of
relief,
“Little girls shouldn’t tell such horrible
stories.”
This truly Aunt Janetian remark broke the spell.
The grown-ups laughed, rather shakily, and the Story
Girl—our own dear Story Girl once more,
and no Serpent Woman—said protestingly,
“Well, Uncle Roger asked me to tell it.
I don’t like telling such stories either.
They make me feel dreadful. Do you know, for
just a little while, I felt exactly like a snake.”
“You looked like one,” said Uncle Roger.
“How on earth do you do it?”
“I can’t explain how I do it,” said
the Story Girl perplexedly. “It just does
itself.”
Genius can never explain how it does it. It
would not be genius if it could. And the Story
Girl had genius.
As we left the orchard I walked along behind Uncle
Roger and Aunt Olivia.
“That was an uncanny exhibition for a girl of
fourteen, you know, Roger,” said Aunt Olivia
musingly. “What is in store for that child?”
“Fame,” said Uncle Roger. “If
she ever has a chance, that is, and I suppose her
father will see to that. At least, I hope he
will. You and I, Olivia, never had our chance.
I hope Sara will have hers.”
This was my first inkling of what I was to understand
more fully in later years. Uncle Roger and Aunt
Olivia had both cherished certain dreams and ambitions
in youth, but circumstances had denied them their
“chance” and those dreams had never been
fulfilled.
“Some day, Olivia,” went on Uncle Roger,
“you and I may find ourselves the aunt and uncle
of the foremost actress of her day. If a girl
of fourteen can make a couple of practical farmers
and a pair of matter-of-fact housewives half believe
for ten minutes that she really is a snake, what won’t
she be able to do when she is thirty? Here,
you,” added Uncle Roger, perceiving me, “cut
along and get off to your bed. And mind you don’t
eat cucumbers and milk before you go.”
We were all in the doleful dumps—at least,
all we “young fry” were, and even the
grown-ups were sorry and condescended to take an interest
in our troubles. Pat, our own, dear, frolicsome
Paddy, was sick again—very, very sick.
On Friday he moped and refused his saucer of new milk
at milking time. The next morning he stretched
himself down on the platform by Uncle Roger’s
back door, laid his head on his black paws, and refused
to take any notice of anything or anybody. In
vain we stroked and entreated and brought him tidbits.
Only when the Story Girl caressed him did he give
one plaintive little mew, as if to ask piteously why
she could not do something for him. At that
Cecily and Felicity and Sara Ray all began crying,
and we boys felt choky. Indeed, I caught Peter
behind Aunt Olivia’s dairy later in the day,
and if ever a boy had been crying I vow that boy was
Peter. Nor did he deny it when I taxed him with
it, but he would not give in that he was crying about
Paddy. Nonsense!
