Under the Lilacs (18 page)

“Can’t do it, anyway. Got to pick up mother at the corner, and that will be all I can carry. It’s lifting a little; hurry
along, Lizzie, and let us get out of this as quick as possible,” said Uncle Eben, impatiently; for going to a circus with
a young family is not an easy task, as everyone knows who has ever tried it.

“Ben, I’m real sorry there isn’t room for you. I’ll tell Bab’s mother where she is, and maybe someone will come for you,”
said Billy, hurriedly, as he tore himself away, feeling rather mean to desert the others, though he could be of no use.

“Cut away, and don’t mind us. I’m all right, and Bab must do the best she can,” was all Ben had time to answer before his
comrade was hustled away by the crowd pressing round the entrance with much clashing of umbrellas and scrambling of boys and
men, who rather enjoyed the flurry.

“No use for us to get knocked about in that scrimmage. We’ll wait a minute and then go out easy. It’s a regular rouser, and
you’ll be as wet as a sop before we get home. Hope you’ll like that,” added Ben, looking out at the heavy rain pouring down
as if it never meant to stop.

“Don’t care a bit,” said Bab, swinging on one of the ropes with a happy-go-lucky air, for her spirits were not extinguished
yet, and she was bound to enjoy this exciting holiday to the very end. “I like circuses so much! I wish I lived here all the
time, and slept in a wagon, as you did, and had these dear little colties to play with.”

“It wouldn’t be fun if you didn’t have any folks to take care of you,” began Ben, thoughtfully looking about the familiar
place where the men were now feeding the animals, setting their refreshment tables, or lounging on the hay to get such rest
as they could before the evening entertainment. Suddenly he started, gave a long look, then turned to Bab, and thrusting Sancho’s
strap into her hand, said, hastily: “I see a fellow I used to know. Maybe he can tell me something about father. Don’t you
stir till I come back.”

Then he was off like a shot, and Bab saw him run after a man with a bucket who had been watering the zebra. Sancho tried to
follow, but was checked with an impatient—

“No, you can’t go! What a plague you are, tagging around when people don’t want you.”

Sancho might have answered, “So are you,” but, being a gentlemanly dog, he sat down with a resigned expression to watch the
little colts, who were now awake and seemed ready for a game of bo-peep behind their mammas. Bab enjoyed their funny little
frisks so much that she tied the wearisome strap to a post, and crept under the rope to pet the tiny mouse-colored one who
came and talked to her
with baby whinnies and confiding glances of its soft, dark eyes.

Oh, luckless Bab! why did you turn your back? Oh, too accomplished Sancho! why did you neatly untie that knot and trot away
to confer with the disreputable bulldog who stood in the entrance beckoning with friendly wavings of an abbreviated tail?
Oh, much afflicted Ben! why did you delay till it was too late to save your pet from the rough man who set his foot upon the
trailing strap, and led poor Sanch quickly out of sight among the crowd?

“It
was
Bascum, but he didn’t know anything. Why, where’s Sanch?” said Ben, returning.

A breathless voice made Bab turn to see Ben looking about him with as much alarm in his hot face as if the dog had been a
two years’ child.

“I tied him — he’s here somewhere — with the ponies,” stammered Bab, in sudden dismay, for no sign of a dog appeared as her
eyes roved wildly to and fro.

Ben whistled, called, and searched in vain, till one of the lounging men said, lazily—

“If you are looking after the big poodle you’d better go outside; I saw him trotting off with another dog.”

Away rushed Ben, with Bab following, regardless of the rain, for both felt that a great misfortune had befallen them. But,
long before this, Sancho had vanished, and no one minded his indignant howls as he was driven off in a covered cart.

“If he is lost I’ll never forgive you; never, never, never!” and Ben found it impossible to resist giving Bab several hard
shakes, which made her yellow braids fly up and down like pump handles.

“I’m dreadful sorry. He’ll come back — you said he always did,” pleaded Bab, quite crushed by her own afflictions,
and rather scared to see Ben look so fierce, for he seldom lost his temper or was rough with the little girls.

“If he doesn’t come back, don’t you speak to me for a year. Now, I’m going home.” And, feeling that words were powerless to
express his emotions, Ben walked away, looking as grim as a small boy could.

A more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found than Bab was, as she pattered after him, splashing recklessly through the
puddles, and getting as wet and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her sins. For a mile or two she trudged stoutly
along, while Ben marched before in solemn silence, which soon became both impressive and oppressive because so unusual, and
such a proof of his deep displeasure. Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of relenting; and when none came, she
began to wonder how she could possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful threat and did not speak to her for a whole year.

But presently her own discomfort absorbed her, for her feet were wet and cold as well as very tired; popcorn and peanuts were
not particularly nourishing food; and hunger made her feel faint; excitement was a new thing, and now that it was over she
longed to lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with a circus at the end seemed a very different affair from the homeward
trip with a distracted mother awaiting her. The shower had subsided into a dreary drizzle, a chilly east wind blew up, the
hilly road seemed to lengthen before the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure going on so fast with never a look
or sound, added the last touch to Bab’s remorseful anguish.

Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered a ride. Men and boys went by with rough jokes on the forlorn pair, for
rain soon made them look like young tramps. But there was no brave Sancho to resent the impertinence,
and this fact was sadly brought to both their minds by the appearance of a great Newfoundland dog who came trotting after
a carriage. The good creature stopped to say a friendly word in his dumb fashion, looking up at Bab with benevolent eyes,
and poking his nose into Ben’s hand before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled over his back.

Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers, gave the soft head a lingering pat, and watched the dog out of sight through
a thicker mist than any the rain made. But Bab broke down; for the wistful look of the creature’s eyes reminded her of lost
Sancho, and she sobbed quietly as she glanced back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging along in the rear.

Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep over his shoulder, seeing such a mournful spectacle that he felt appeased,
saying to himself as if to excuse his late sternness—

“She
is
a naughty girl, but I guess she is about sorry enough now. When we get to that signpost I’ll speak to her, only I won’t forgive
her till Sanch comes back.”

But he was better than his word; for, just before the post was reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped over the root of a
tree, and, rolling down the bank, landed in a bed of wet nettles. Ben had her out in a jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort
her; but she was past any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally as she wrung her tingling hands, with great drops
running over her cheeks almost as fast as the muddy little rills ran down the road.

“Oh dear, oh dear! I’m all stinged up, and I want my supper; and my feet ache, and I’m cold, and everything is
so
horrid!” wailed the poor child lying on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch that the sternest parent would have
melted at the sight.

“Don’t cry so, Babby; I was real cross, and I’m sorry. I’ll forgive you right away now, and never shake you anymore,” cried
Ben, so full of pity for her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a generous little man.

“Shake me again, if you want to; I know I was very bad to tag and lose Sanch. I never will anymore, and I’m so sorry, I don’t
know what to do,” answered Bab, completely bowed down by this magnanimity.

“Never mind; you just wipe up your face and come along, and we’ll tell Ma all about it, and she’ll fix us as nice as can be.
I shouldn’t wonder if Sanch got home now before we did,” said Ben, cheering himself as well as her by the fond hope.

“I don’t believe
I
ever shall. I’m so tired my legs won’t go, and the water in my boots makes them feel dreadfully. I wish that boy would wheel
me a piece. Don’t you s’pose he would?” asked Bab, wearily picking herself up as a tall lad trundling a barrow came out of
a yard nearby.

“Hullo, Joslyn!” said Ben, recognizing the boy as one of the “hill fellows” who came to town Saturday nights for play or business.

“Hullo, Brown!” responded the other, arresting his squeaking progress with signs of surprise at the moist tableau before him.

“Where goin’?” asked Ben with masculine brevity.

“Got to carry this home, hang the old thing!”

“Where to?”

“Batchelor’s, down yonder,” and the boy pointed to a farmhouse at the foot of the next hill.

“Goin’ that way, take it right along.”

“What for?” questioned the prudent youth, distrusting such unusual neighborliness.

“She’s tired, wants a ride; I’ll leave it all right, true as I live and breathe,” explained Ben, half ashamed yet anxious
to get his little responsibility home as soon as possible, for mishaps seemed to thicken.

“Ho,
you
couldn’t cart her all that way! she’s most as heavy as a bag of meal,” jeered the taller lad, amused at the proposition.

“I’m stronger than most fellers of my size. Try, if I ain’t,” and Ben squared off in such scientific style that Joslyn responded
with sudden amiability—

“All right, let’s see you do it.”

Bab huddled into her new equipage without the least fear, and Ben trundled her off at a good pace, while the boy retired to
the shelter of a barn to watch their progress, glad to be rid of an irksome errand.

At first, all went well, for the way was downhill, and the wheel squeaked briskly round and round; Bab smiled gratefully upon
her bearer, and Ben “went in on his muscle with a will,” as he expressed it. But presently the road grew sandy, began to ascend,
and the load seemed to grow heavier with every step.

“I’ll get out now. It’s real nice, but I guess I
am
too heavy,” said Bab, as the face before her got redder and redder, and the breath began to come in puffs.

“Sit still. He said I couldn’t. I’m not going to give in with him looking on,” panted Ben, and he pushed gallantly up the
rise, over the grassy lawn to the side gate of the Batchelors’ dooryard, with his head down, teeth set, and every muscle of
his slender body braced to the task.

“Did ever ye see the like of that now? Ah, ha!

’The streets were so wide, and the lanes were so narry,

He brought his wife home on a little wheelbarry,’”

sung a voice with an accent which made Ben drop his load and push back his hat, to see Pat’s red head looking over the fence.

To have his enemy behold him then and there was the last bitter drop in poor Ben’s cup of humiliation. A shrill approving
whistle from the hill was some comfort, however, and gave him spirit to help Bab out with composure, though his hands were
blistered and he had hardly breath enough to issue the command—

“Go along home, and don’t mind him.”

“Nice childer, ye are, runnin’ off this way, settin’ the women disthracted, and me wastin’ me time comin’ after ye when I’d
be milkin’ airly so I’d get a bit of pleasure the day,” grumbled Pat, coming up to untie the Duke, whose Roman nose Ben had
already recognized, as well as the roomy chaise standing before the door.

“Did Billy tell you about us?” asked Bab, gladly following toward this welcome refuge.

“Faith he did, and the Squire sint me to fetch ye home quiet and aisy. When ye found me, I’d jist stopped here to borry a
light for me pipe. Up wid ye, b’y, and not be wastin’ me time stramashin’ after a spalpeen that I’d like to lay me whip over,”
said Pat, gruffly, as Ben came along, having left the barrow in the shed.

“Don’t you wish you could? You needn’t wait for me; I’ll come when I’m ready,” answered Ben, dodging round the chaise, bound
not to mind Pat, if he spent the night by the roadside in consequence.

“Bedad, and I won’t then. It’s lively ye are; but four legs is better than two, as ye’ll find this night, me young man.”

With that he whipped up and was off before Bab could say a word to persuade Ben to humble himself for the sake
of a ride. She lamented and Pat chuckled, both forgetting what an agile monkey the boy was, and as neither looked back, they
were unaware that Master Ben was hanging on behind among the straps and springs, making derisive grimaces at his unconscious
foe through the little glass in the leathern back.

At the lodge gate Ben jumped down to run before with whoops of naughty satisfaction, which brought the anxious waiters to
the door in a flock; so Pat could only shake his fist at the exulting little rascal as he drove away, leaving the wanderers
to be welcomed as warmly as if they were a pair of model children.

Mrs. Moss had not been very much troubled after all; for Cy had told her that Bab went after Ben, and Billy had lately reported
her safe arrival among them, so, motherlike, she fed, dried, and warmed the runaways, before she scolded them.

Even then, the lecture was a mild one, for when they tried to tell the adventures which to them seemed so exciting, not to
say tragical, the effect astonished them immensely, as their audience went into gales of laughter, especially at the wheelbarrow
episode, which Bab insisted on telling, with grateful minuteness, to Ben’s confusion. Thorny shouted, and even tenderhearted
Betty forgot her tears over the lost dog to join in the familiar melody when Bab mimicked Pat’s quotation from Mother Goose.