“Well,—what is one to do?” said Ellen Gray. Then she stopped and bit her lip, remembering that no one was supposed to know who wrote the separate papers.
“Aha! it’s your, is it, Ellen?” said Rose. “You’re an awfully clever girl, and an ornament to the S. S. U. C. Go on, Katy.”
Katy opened the second slip.
WORD.—Anything.
QUESTION.—Would you rather be a greater fool than you seem, or seem a greater fool than you are?
I wouldn’t seem a fool for anything, my dear,
If I could help it; but I can’t, I fear.
“Not bad,” said Rose, nodding her head at Sally Alsop, who blushed crimson.
The third paper ran,—
WORD.—Mahershahalhashbaz.
QUESTION.—Does your mother know you’re out?
Rose and Clover exchanged looks.
Why, of course my mother knows it,
For she sent me out herself.
She told me to run quickly, for
It wasn’t but a mile;
But I found it was much farther,
And my feet grew tired and weary,
And I couldn’t hurry greatly,
So I took a long, long while.
Beside, I stopped to read your word,
A stranger one I never heard!
I’ve met with Pa-pistical,
That’s pat;
But _Ma-hershahalhashbaz,
What’s that?
“Oh, Clovy, you bright little thing!” cried Rose, in fits of laughter.
But Mary Silver looked quite pale.
“I never heard of any thing so awful!” she said. “If that word had come to me, I should have fainted away on the spot,—I know I should!”
Next came—
WORD.—Buttons.
QUESTION.—What is the best way to make home happy?
To me ‘tis quite clear I can answer this right:
Sew on the buttons, and sew them on tight.
“I suspect that is Amy’s,” said Esther: “she’s such a model for mending and keeping things in order.”
“It’s not fair, guessing aloud in this way,” said Sally Alsop. Sally always spoke for Amy, and Amy for Sally. “Voice and Echo” Rose called them: only, as she remarked, nobody could tell which was Echo and which Voice.
The next word was “Mrs. Nipson,” and the question, “Do you like flowers?”
Do I like flowers? I will not write a sonnet,
Singing their beauty as a poet might do:
I just detest those on Aunt Nipson’s bonnet,
Because they are like her,—all gray and blue,
Dusty and pinched, and fastened on askew!
And as for heaven’s own buttercups and daisies,
I am not good enough to sing their praises.
Nobody knew who wrote this verse. Katy suspected Louisa, and Rose suspected Katy.
The sixth slip was a very brief one.
WORD.—When?
QUESTION.—Are you willing?
If I wasn’t willing, I would tell you;
But when— Oh, dear, I can’t!
“What an extraordinary rhyme!” began Clover, but Rose spied poor Mary blushing and looking distressed, and hastily interposed,—
“It’s very good, I’m sure. I wish I’d written it. Go on, Katy.”
So Katy went on.
WORD.—Unfeeling.
QUESTION.—Which would you rather do, or go fishing?
I don’t feel up to fishing or such;
And so, if you please, I’d rather do—which?
“I don’t seem to see the word in that poem,” said Rose. “The distinguished author will please write another.”
“The distinguished author” made no reply to this suggestion; but, after a minute or two, Esther Dearborn, “quite disinterestedly,” as she stated, remarked that, after all, to “don’t feel” was pretty much the same as unfeeling. There was a little chorus of groans at this, and Katy said she should certainly impose a fine if such dodges and evasions were practised again. This was the first meeting, however, and she would be merciful. After this speech she unfolded another paper. It ran,—
WORD.—Flea.
QUESTION.—What would you do, love?
What would I do, love? Well, I do not know.
How can I tell till you are more explicit?
If ‘twere a rose you held me, I would smell it;
If ‘twere a mouth you held me, I would kiss it;
If ‘twere a frog, I’d scream than furies louder’
If ‘twere a flea, I’d fetch the Lyons Powder.
Only two slips remained. One was Katy’s own. She knew it by the way in which it was folded, and had almost instinctively avoided and left it for the last. Now, however, she took courage and opened it. The word was “Measles,” and the question, “Who was the grandmother of Invention?” These were the lines:—
The night was horribly dark,
The measles broke out in the Ark:
Little Japher, and Shem, and all the young Hams,
Were screaming at once for potatoes and clams.
And “What shall I do,” said poor Mrs. Noah,
“All alone by myself in this terrible shower:
I know what I’ll do: I’ll step down in the hold,
And wake up a lioness grim and old,
And tie her close to the children’s door,
And giver her a ginger-cake to roar
At the top of her voice for an hour or more;
And I’ll tell the children to cease their din,
Or I’ll let that grim old party in,
To stop their squeazles and likewise their measles.”—
She practised this with the greatest success.
She was every one’s grandmother, I guess.
“That’s much the best of all!” pronounced Alice Gibbons. “I wonder who wrote it?”
“Dear me! did you like it so much?” said Rose, simpering, and doing her best to blush.
“Did you really write it?” said Mary; but Louisa laughed, and exclaimed, “No use, Rosy! you can’t take us in,—we know better!”
“Now for the last,” said Katy. “The word is ‘Buckwheat,’ and the question, ‘What is the origin of dreams?’”
When the nuns are sweetly sleeping,
Mrs. Nipson comes a-creeping,
Creeping like a kitty-cat from door to door;