"Just you wait," cried Marjorie; "I'm not going to be in bed more than a few days, and I'm going to stay here all summer. There'll be plenty of time for your fishing and skating yet."
"But unless I get you pretty soon, I'll pine away with grief. And everybody out on the farm is lonesome for you. The horses, Ned and Dick, had made up their minds to take you on long drives along the mountain roads where the wild flowers bloom. They can't understand why you don't come out, and they stand in their stalls weeping, with great tears rolling down their cheeks."
Marjorie laughed gayly at Uncle Steve's foolery, and said: "If they're weeping so you'd better take them some of my pocket handkerchiefs."
"Too small," said Uncle Steve, scornfully; "one of your little handkerchiefs would get lost in Dick's eye or Ned's ear. And old Betsy is weeping for you too. Really, you'll have to get around soon, or those three horses will run away, I fear."
"What about the cow; does she miss me?" asked Marjorie, gravely, though her eyes were twinkling.
"The cow!" exclaimed Uncle Steve. "She stands by the fence with her head on the top rail, and moos so loud that I should think you could hear her yourself. She calls 'Mopsy, Mopsy, Moo,' from morning till night. And the chickens! Well, the incubator is full of desolate chickens. They won't eat their meal, and they just peep mournfully, and stretch their little wings trying to fly to you."
"And the dogs?" prompted Marjorie.
"Oh, the dogs—they howl and yowl and growl all the time. I think I'll have to bring the whole crowd of animals up here. They're so anxious to see you."
"Do, Uncle Steve. I'd be glad to see them, and I'm sure they'd behave nicely."
"I think so. The cow could sit in that little rocking-chair, and the three horses could sit on the couch, side by side. And then we could all have afternoon tea."
Marjorie shook with laughter at the thought of the cow sitting up and drinking afternoon tea, until Uncle Steve declared that if she laughed so hard she'd sprain her other ankle. So he said he would read to her, and selecting a book of fairy tales, he read aloud all the rest of the afternoon. It was delightful to hear Uncle Steve read, for he would stop now and then to discuss the story, or he would put in some funny little jokes of his own, and he made it all so amusing and entertaining that the afternoon flew by as if on wings.
Then Jane came again with the pretty tray of supper, and after that Grandma and Marjorie had a nice little twilight talk, and then the little girl was tucked up for the night, and soon fell asleep.
When she woke the next morning and lay quietly in bed thinking over of the events of the day before, she came to the conclusion that everybody had been very kind to her, but that she couldn't expect so much attention every day. So she made up her mind that when she had to spend hours alone, she would try to be good and patient and not trouble Grandma more than she could help.
Then she thought of the written list her mother had given her. She smiled to think how easy it was now to keep those commands. "Of course," she thought, "I can keep my hands clean and my hair tidy here, for Grandma looks after that herself; and, of course, I can't help obeying her while I'm here, for she doesn't command me to do anything, and I couldn't do it if she did."
Molly came again that morning, and as Grandma had asked her to stay to dinner with Marjorie, the girls prepared for a good morning's play.
It was astonishing how many lovely things there were to play, even when one of the players couldn't move about.
Molly had brought over her paper-doll's house, and as it was quite different from anything Marjorie had ever seen before, she wondered if she couldn't make one for herself, and so double the fun of the game.
Grandma was consulted, but it was Uncle Steve who brought them the necessary materials to carry out their plan.
A paper-doll's house is quite different from the other kind of a doll's house, and Molly's was made of a large blankbook.
So Uncle Steve brought a blankbook almost exactly like it for Marjorie, and then he brought her scissors, and paste, and several catalogues which had come from the great shops in the city. He brought, too, a pile of magazines and papers, which were crammed full of illustrated advertisements.
The two little girls set busily to work, and soon they had cut out a quantity of chairs, tables, beds, and furniture of all sorts from the pictured pages.
These they pasted in the book. Each page was a room, and in the room were arranged appropriate furniture and ornaments.
The parlor had beautiful and elaborate furniture, rugs, pictures, bric-a-brac, and even lace curtains at the windows. The library had beautiful bookcases, writing-desk, reading-table and a lamp, easy-chairs, and everything that belongs in a well-ordered library.
The dining-room was fully furnished, and the kitchen contained everything necessary to the satisfaction of the most exacting cook.
The bedrooms were beautiful with dainty brass beds, chintz-covered furniture, and dressing-tables fitted out with all sorts of toilet equipments.
All of these things were found in the catalogues and the magazine advertisements; and in addition to the rooms mentioned, there were halls, a nursery, playroom, and pleasant verandas fitted up with hammocks and porch furniture.
Of course it required some imagination to think that these rooms were in the shape of a house, and not just leaves of a book, but both Midge and Molly had plenty of imagination, and besides it was very practical fun to cut out the things, and arrange them in their places. Sometimes it was necessary to use a pencil to draw in any necessary article that might be missing; but usually everything desired could be found, from potted palms to a baby carriage.
Marjorie grew absorbed in the work, for she dearly loved to make things, and her ingenuity suggested many improvements on Molly's original house.
CHAPTER V
SOME INTERESTING LETTERS
The family for the paper-doll house was selected from the catalogues that illustrate ready-made clothing. Beautiful gentlemen were cut out, dressed in the most approved fashions for men. Charming ladies with trailing skirts and elaborate hats were found in plenty. And children of all ages were so numerous in the prints that it was almost difficult to make a selection. Then, too, extra hats and wraps and parasols were cut out, which could be neatly put away in the cupboards and wardrobes which were in the house. For Marjorie had discovered that by pasting only the edges of the wardrobe and carefully cutting the doors apart, they could be made to open and shut beautifully.
Uncle Steve became very much interested in these wonderful houses, and ransacked his own library for pictures to be cut up.
Indeed, so elaborate did the houses grow to be, Molly's being greatly enlarged and improved, that they could not be finished in one morning.
But Grandma was not willing to let Marjorie work steadily at this occupation all day, and after dinner Molly was sent home, and the paper dolls put away until the next day.
"But I'm not ill, Grandma," said Marjorie; "just having a sprained ankle doesn't make me a really, truly invalid."
"No, but you must rest, or you will get ill. Fever may set in, and if you get over-excited with your play, and have no exercise, you may be in bed longer than you think for. Besides, I think I remember having heard something about implicit obedience, and so I expect it now as well as when you're up on your two feet."
"I don't think I can help obeying," said Marjorie, roguishly, "for I can't very well do anything else. But I suppose you mean obey without fretting; so I will, for you are a dear, good Grandma and awfully kind to me."
With a parting pat on her shoulder, Grandma left the little girl for her afternoon nap, and Marjorie would have been surprised at herself had she known how quickly she fell asleep.
Uncle Steve made it a habit to entertain her during the later hours of each afternoon, and, although they were already great chums, his gayety and kindness made Marjorie more than ever devoted to her uncle.
This afternoon he came in with a handful of letters.
"These are all for you," he said; "it is astonishing what a large correspondence you have."
Marjorie was amazed. She took the budget of letters her uncle handed her and counted five. They were all duly stamped, and all were postmarked, but the postmarks all read Haslemere.
"How funny!" exclaimed Marjorie; "I didn't know there was a post office at Haslemere."
"You didn't!" exclaimed Uncle Steve; "why, there certainly is. Do you mean to say that you don't know that there's a little post office in the lowest branch of that old maple-tree down by the brook?"
"You mean just where the path turns to go to the garden?"
"That's the very spot. Only this morning I was walking by there, and I saw a small post office in the tree. There was a key in the door of it, and being curious, I opened it, and looked in. There I saw five letters for you, and as you're not walking much this summer, I thought I'd bring them to you. I brought the key, too."
As he finished speaking, Uncle Steve drew from his pocket a little bright key hung on a blue ribbon, which he gravely presented to Marjorie. Her eyes danced as she took it, for she now believed there was really a post office there, though it was sometimes difficult to distinguish Uncle Steve's nonsense from the truth.
"Now I'm more than ever anxious to get well," she cried, "and go out to see that post office."
"Oh, no," said Uncle Steve, shaking his head; "you don't care about post offices and walks in the woods, and drives through the country. You'd rather slide down an old barn roof, and then lie in bed for a week."
"Catch me doing it again," said Marjorie, shaking her head decidedly; "and now, Uncle, suppose we open these letters."
"Why, that wouldn't be a bad idea. Here's a paper-cutter. Let's open one at a time, they'll last longer. Suppose you read this one first."
Marjorie opened the first letter, and quickly turned the page to see the signature.
"Why, Uncle Steve," she cried, "this is signed Ned and Dick! I didn't know horses could write letters."
"There are a great many things, my child, that you don't know yet. And so Ned and Dick have written to you! Now that's very kind of them. Read me what they say."
In great glee, Marjorie read aloud:
"DEAR MARJORIE:
NED AND DICK."
"Well, I do declare," said Uncle Steve, "I always said they were intelligent horses, but this is the first time I've ever heard of their writing a letter. They must be very fond of you, Marjorie."
Marjorie's eyes twinkled. She well knew Uncle Steve had written the letter himself, but she was always ready to carry out her part of a joke, so she replied:
"Yes, I think they must be fond of me, and I think I know somebody else who is, too. But it was nice of Ned and Dick to write and let me know that they hadn't forgotten me. And as soon as I can get downstairs, I shall be delighted to go driving with them. Where is Blossom Banks, Uncle?"
"Oh, it's a lovely place, a sort of picnic ground; there are several grassy banks, and blossoms grow all over them. They slope right down to the river; but, of course, you wouldn't think them nearly so nice as a sloping barn roof."
Marjorie knew she must stand teasing from Uncle Steve, but his smile was so good-natured, and he was such a dear old uncle anyway, that she didn't mind it very much.
"Suppose I read another letter," she said, quite ready to turn the subject.
"Do; open that one with the typewritten address. I wonder who could have written that! Perhaps the cow; she's very agile on the typewriter."
The mental picture of the cow using the typewriter produced such hilarity that it was a few moments before the letter was opened.
"It IS from the cow!" exclaimed Marjorie, "and she does write beautifully on the machine. I don't see a single error."
"Read it out, Midge; I always love to hear letters from cows."
So Marjorie read the cow's note:
Cow."
"Now, that's a first-class letter," declared Uncle Steve. "I always thought that cow was a poet. She looks so romantic when she gazes out over the bars. You ought to be pleased, Marjorie, that you have such loving friends at Haslemere."
"Pleased! I'm tickled to death! I never had letters that I liked so well. And just think, I have three left yet that I haven't opened. I wonder who they can be from."
"When you wonder a thing like that, it always seems to me a good idea to open them and find out."
"I just do believe I will! Why, this one," and Marjorie hastily tore open another letter, "this one, Uncle, is from old Bet!"
"Betsy! That old horse! Well, she must have put on her spectacles to see to write it. But I suppose when she saw Ned and Dick writing, she didn't want them to get ahead of her, so she went to work too. Well, do read it, I'm surely interested to hear old Betsy's letter."
"Listen then," said Marjorie:
"DEAR LITTLE MIDGE:
Your lonesome BET"
"Well, she is an affectionate old thing," said Uncle Steve; "and truly, Midget, I thought she was feeling lonesome this morning. She didn't seem to care to eat anything, and she never smiled at me at all."
"She's a good old horse, Uncle, but I don't like her as much as I do Ned and Dick. But don't ever tell Betsy this, for I wouldn't hurt her feelings for anything."
"Oh, yes, just because Ned and Dick are spirited, fast horses you like them better than poor, old Betsy, who used to haul you around when you were a baby."
"Oh, I like her well enough; and, anyway, I think a heap more of her now, since she wrote me such an affectionate letter. Now, Uncle, if you'll believe it, this next one is from the chickens! Would you have believed that little bits of yellow chickens, in an incubator, could write a nice, clear letter like this? I do think it's wonderful! Just listen to it:
"DEAR MOPSY:
"Well, that's certainly fine, Midget, for such little chickens. If it were the old hen, now, I wouldn't be so surprised, for I see her scratching on the ground every day. I suppose she's practising her writing lesson, but I never yet have been able to read the queer marks she makes. But these little yellow chickadees write plainly enough, and I do think they are wonderfully clever."
"Yes, and isn't it funny that they can rhyme so well, too?"
"It is, indeed. I always said those Plymouth Rocks were the smartest chickens of all, but I never suspected they could write poetry."
"And now, Uncle, I've only one left." Marjorie looked regretfully at the last letter, wishing there were a dozen more. "But I can keep them and read them over and over again, I like them so much. I'd answer them, but I don't believe those animals read as well as they write."
"No," said Uncle Steve, wagging his head sagely, "I don't believe they do. Well, read your last one, Mops, and let's see who wrote it."
"Why, Uncle, it's from the dogs! It's signed 'Nero and Tray and Rover'! Weren't they just darling to write to me! I believe I miss the dogs more than anything else, because I can have Puffy up here with me."
Marjorie paused long enough to cuddle the little heap of grey fur that lay on the counterpane beside her, and then proceeded to read the letter:
"That's a very nice letter," said Marjorie, as she folded it up and returned it to its envelope. "And I do think the animals at Haslemere are the most intelligent I have ever known. Uncle, I'm going to send these letters all down home for King and Kitty to read, and then they can send them back to me, for I'm going to keep them all my life."
"I'll tell you a better plan than that, Midget. If you want the children to read them, I'll make copies of them for you to send home. And then I'll tell you what you might do, if you like. When I go downtown I'll buy you a great big scrapbook, and then you can paste these letters in, and as the summer goes on, you can paste in all sorts of things; pressed leaves or flowers, pictures and letters, and souvenirs of all sorts. Won't that be nice?"