When I Was a Little Girl/Chapter 4
IV
THE PICNIC
It was Delia Dart who had suggested our Arbour Day picnic. “Let's have some fun Arbour Day,” she said.
We had never thought of Arbour Day in that light. Exercises, though they presented the open advantage of escape from the school grind, were no special fun. Fun was something much more intimate and intangible, definite and mysterious, casual and thrilling—and other anomalies.
“Doing what?” we demanded.
“Oh,” said Delia, restlessly, “go off somewheres. And eat things. And do something to tell about and make their eyes stick out.”
We were not old enough really to have observed this formula for adventure. Hitherto we had always gone merely because we went. Yet all three motives appealed to us. And events fostered our faint intention. At the Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/74 Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/75 Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/76 Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/77 I went on to the house, but I went, looking back.
“Mother,” I said, “who is she? The little girl out there.”
While she put up my lunch in the Indian basket, Mother told me how Mary Elizabeth had come that morning asking for something to do. She had set her to work, and meanwhile she was finding out who she was. “I gave her something to eat,” Mother said. “And I have never seen even you so hungry.” Hungry and having no food. I had never heard of such a thing at first hand—not nearer than in books and in Sunday school. But {. . . hungry that way, and in our yard!
It was chiefly this that accounted for my invitation to her—this, and the fact that, as she came to the door to tell my Mother good-bye and to take what she had earned, she gave me again that slow, understanding-me smile. Anyway, as we walked toward the gate, I overtook her with my Indian basket.
“Don’t you want to come to the picnic with us?” I said.
She stared at me. “What do you do?” she asked.
“Why,” I said, “a picnic? Eat in the woods and—and get things, and sit on the grass. Don’t you think they’re fun?”
“I never was to one,” she answered, but I saw how she was watching me almost breathlessly.
“Come on, then,” I insisted carelessly.
“Honest?” she said. “Me?”
When she understood, I remember how she walked beside me, looking at me as if she might at any moment find out her mistake.
Delia, waiting impatiently at our gate with her own basket,—somehow I never waited at the gates of others, but it was always they who waited at mine,—bade me hurry, stared at Mary Elizabeth, and serenely turned her back on her.
“This,” I said, “is Mary Elizabeth. I asked her to go to our picnic. She’s going. I’ve got enough lunch. This is Delia.”
I suppose that they looked at each other furtively—so much of the stupidity of being a knight with one’s visor lowered yet hangs upon us—and then Delia plucked me, visibly, by the sleeve and addressed me, audibly, in the ear.
“What’d you go and do that for?” said she. And I who, at an early age, resented being plucked by the sleeve as a bird resents being patted on the head, or the wall of any person- ality trembles away when it is tapped, took Mary Elizabeth by the hand and marched on to meet the Rodmans and Calista.
Calista was a vague little soul, with no sense of facts. She was always promising to walk with two girls at recess, which was equivalent to asking two to be her partners in a quadrille. It simply could not be done. So Calista was forever having to promise to run errands with someone after school to make amends for not having walked with her at recess. She seldom had a grievance of her own, but she easily fell in with the grievances of others. When I pre- sented Mary Elizabeth to her, Calista received her serenely as a part of the course of human events; and so I think she would have continued to regard her, without great attention and cer- tainly with no criticism, had she not received the somewhat powerful suggestion of Delia and Margaret Amelia and Betty Rodman. The three fell behind Mary Elizabeth and me as we trotted down the long street on which the April sun smote with Summer heat.
"-over across the railroad tracks and picks up tin cans and old rubbers and sells 'em and drinks just awful and got ten children and got arrested," I heard Delia recounting.
"The idea. To our picnic," said Margaret Amelia's thin-edged voice.
"Without asking us," Betty whispered, anx- ious to think of something of account to say.
Mary Elizabeth heard. I have seen that look of dumb, unresentful suffering in many a human face in the faces of those who, by the laws of sport or society or of jurisprudence, find no escape. She had no anger, and what she felt must have been long familiar. "I'd better go home," she said to me briefly.
I still had her by the hand. And it was, I am bound to confess, as no errant but chiefly as antagonist to the others that I pulled her along. "You got to come,” I reminded her. "You said you would."
It was cruel treatment, by way of kindness. The others, quickly adapting themselves, fell into the talk of expeditions, which is never quite the same as any other talk; and the only further notice that they took of Mary Elizabeth was painstakingly to leave her out. They never said anything to her, and when she ventured some faint word, they never answered or noticed or seemed to hear. In later years I have had occasion to observe, among the undeveloped, these same traces of tribal antagonisms.
As we went, I had time to digest the hints which I had overheard concerning Mary Eliza- beth's estate. I knew that a family having many children had lately come to live across the tracks," and that, because of our anxiety to classify, the father was said to be a drunkard. I looked stealthily at Mary Elizabeth, with a certain respect born of her having experience so transcending my own. Telling how many drunken men and how many dead persons, if any, we had seen was one of our modes of rec- reation when we foregathered. Technically Mary Elizabeth was, I perceived, one of the vague "poor children" for whom we had long packed baskets and whom we used to take for granted as barbarously as they used to take for granted the plague. Yet now that I knew one such, face to face, she seemed so much less a poor child than a little girl. And though she said so little, she had a priceless manner of knowing what I was driving at, which not even Margaret Amelia and Betty Rodman had, and they were the daughters of an assemblyman, and had a furnace in their house, and had had gold watches for Christmas. It was very perplexing.
“First one finds a May-flower’s going to be a princess!” Delia shouted. Delia was singularly unimaginative; the idea of royalty was her single entrance to fields of fancy. The stories that I made up always began “Once there was a fairy”; Margaret and Betty started at gnomes and dwarfs; Calista usually selected a poor little match girl or a boot-black asleep in a piano box; but Delia invariably chose a royal family, with many sons.
We ran, shouting, across the stretch of scruboak which stretched where the town blocks of houses and streets gave it up and reverted to the open country. To reach this unprepossessing green place, usually occupied by a decrepit wagon and a pile of cord-wood, was like passing through a doorway into the open. We expressed our freedom by shouting and scrambling to be princesses—all, that is, save Mary Elizabeth. She went soberly about, a little apart, and I wished with all my heart that she might find the first May-flower; but she did not do so.
We hunted for wind-flowers. It was on Prospect Hill that these first flowers-wind-flowers, pasque flowers, May-flowers, however one has learned to say them were found in Spring- the anemone patens which, next to pussy-willows themselves, meant to us Spring. A week before Nellie Pitmouth had brought to school the first that we had seen. Nellie had our pity because she drove the cows to pasture before she came to school, but she had her reward, for it was always she who found the first spoils. I re- member those mornings when I would reach school to find a little group about Nellie in whose hands would be pussy-willows, or the first violets, or our rarely found white violets. For a little while, in the light of real events like these, Nellie enjoyed distinction. Then she relapsed into her usual social obscurity and the stigma of her gingham apron which she wore even on half holidays. This day we pressed hard for her laurels, scrambling in the deep mould and dead leaves in search of the star faces on silvery, silken, furry stems. We hoped untiringly that we might some day find arbutus, which grew in abundance only eighteen miles away, on the hills. In Summer we patiently looked for wintergreen, which they were always finding farther up the river. And from the undoubted dearth of both we escaped with a pretence to the effect that we were under a spell, and that some day, the witch having died, we should walk on our hill and find the wintergreen come and the arbutus under the leaves.
By five o’clock we had been hungry for two hours, and we spread our lunch on the crest. Prospect Hill was the place to which we took our guests when we had them. It was the wide west gateway of the town, where through few ventured, for it opened out on the bend of the little river, navigable only to rowboats and launches, and flowing toward us from the west. You stood at the top of a sharp declivity, and it was like seeing a river face to face to find it flowing straight toward you, out of the sky, bearing little green islands and wet yellow sandbars. It almost seemed as if these must come floating toward us and bringing us everything. . . . For these were the little days, when we still believed that everything was necessary.
We quickly despatched the process of “trading off,” a sandwich for an apple, a cooky for a cake, and so on, occasionally trading back before the bargain had been tasted. Mary Elizabeth sat at one side; even after I had di- vided my lunch and given her my basket for a plate, she sat a very little away from us - or it may be my remembrance of her aloofness that makes this seem so. Each of the others gave her something from her basket - but it was the kind of giving which makes one know what a sad word is the word "bestow." They "bestowed" these things. Since that time, when I have seen folk administering charity, I have always thought of the manner, ill-bred as is all condescension, in which we must have shared our picnic food with Mary Elizabeth.
I believe that this is the first conversation that ever I can remember. Up to this time, I had talked as naturally as the night secretes dreams, with no sense of responsibility for either to mean anything. But that day I became uncomfort- ably conscious of the trend of the talk.
"I have to have my new dress tried on before supper," Delia announced, her back to the river and her mouth filled with a jam sandwich. "It's blue plaid, with blue buttons and blue tassels on," she volunteered.
"My new dress Aunt Harriet brought me Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/87 mottled a dull, ugly purple, as if rough hands had been there.
Mary Elizabeth flushed. "Ain't you ever had any bruises on you ?" she inquired in a tone so finely modulated that Delia actually hastened to defend herself from the impeachment of inexperience.
"Sure," she said heartily. "I counted 'em last night. I got seven."
"I got five and a great long skin," Betty com- peted hotly.
"Pooh," said Calista, "I've got a scratch longer than my hand is. Teacher said maybe I'd get an infect," she added importantly.
Then we kept on neutral ground, such as blank-books and Fourth of July and planning to go bare-foot some day, until Calista attacked a pickled peach which she had brought.
"Our whole cellar's full of pickled peaches," I incautiously observed. "I could have brought some if I'd thought."
"We got more than that," said Delia, instantly. "We got a thousand glasses of jelly left over from last year."
"A thousand!" repeated Margaret Amelia, in derision. "A hundred, you mean." Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/89 part of a picnic. But hardly anyone would change trees with her, and by the design which masks as chance, everyone ran to another tree. At last she casually climbed her tree, agile as a cat, a feat which Delia alone was shabby enough to pretend not to see.
We started homeward when the red was flaming up in the west and falling deep in the heart of the river. By then Mary Elizabeth was almost at ease with us, but rather, I think, because of the soft evening, and perhaps in spite of our presence.
"Oh!" she cried. "Somebody grabbed the sun and pulled it down. I saw it go! !" Delia looked shocked. "You oughtn't to tell such things," she reproved her.
Mary Elizabeth flung up the arm with the torn sleeve and ran beside us, laughing with abandon. We were all running down the slope in the red light.
"We're Indians, looking for roots for the medicine-man," Delia called; "Yellow Thunder is sick. So is Red Bird. We're hunting roots." She was ahead and we were following. We caught at the dead mullein stalks and milk- weed pods and threw them away, and leaped up Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/91 Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/92 Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/93 Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/94 Page:When I Was a Little Girl (1913).djvu/95 “It was kind o’ nice to do that,” I observed, with some embarrassment.
“No, it wasn’t either,” rejoined Mary Elizabeth, modestly.
We stood kicking at the gravel for a moment. Then she went away.
I faced about to the quiet garden. And suddenly, for no reason that I knew, I found myself skipping on the path, in the dark, just as if the day were only beginning.