RANNIE KIRSTED
Observing the monotonously proper behavior of the sun, man had an absurd idea and invented Time.Becoming still more absurd, man said, ``So much shall be a day; such and such shall be a week.All weeks shall be the same length.'' Yet every baby knows better! How long for Johnnie Watson, for Joe Bullitt, for Wallace Banks--how long for William Sylvanus Baxter was the last week of Miss Pratt? No one can answer.How long was that week for Mr.
Parcher? Again the mind is staggered.
Many people, of course, considered it to be a week of average size.Among these was Jane.
Throughout seven days which brought some tense moments to the Baxter household, Jane remained calm; and she was still calm upon the eighth morning as she stood in the front yard of her own place of residence, gazing steadily across the street.The object of her grave attention was an ample brick house, newly painted white after repairs and enlargements so inspiring to Jane's faculty for suggesting better ways of doing things, that the workmen had learned to address her, with a slight bitterness, as ``Madam President.''
Throughout the process of repair, and until the very last of the painting, Jane had considered this house to be as much her property as anybody's;
for children regard as ownerless all vacant houses and all houses in course of construction or radical alteration.Nothing short of furniture--intimate furniture in considerable quantity--hints that the public is not expected.However, such a hint, or warning, was conveyed to Jane this morning, for two ``express wagons'' were standing at the curb with their backs impolitely toward the brick house; and powerful-voiced men went surging to and fro under fat arm-chairs, mahogany tables, disarticulated bedsteads, and baskets of china and glassware; while a harassed lady appeared in the outer doorway, from time to time, with gestures of lamentation and entreaty.Upon the sidewalk, between the wagons and the gate, was a broad wet spot, vaguely circular, with a partial circumference of broken glass and extinct goldfish.
Jane was forced to conclude that the brick house did belong to somebody, after all.Wherefore, she remained in her own yard, a steadfast spectator, taking nourishment into her system at regular intervals.This was beautifully automatic: in each hand she held a slice of bread, freely plastered over with butter, apple sauce, and powdered sugar; and when she had taken somewhat from the right hand, that hand slowly descended with its burden, while, simultaneously, the left began to rise, reaching the level of her mouth precisely at the moment when a little wave passed down her neck, indicating that the route was clear.Then, having made delivery, the left hand sank, while the right began to rise again.And, so well had custom trained Jane's members, never once did she glance toward either of these faithful hands or the food that it supported; her gaze was all the while free to remain upon the house across the way and the great doings before it.
After a while, something made her wide eyes grow wider almost to their utmost.Nay, the event was of that importance her mechanical hands ceased to move and stopped stock-still, the right half-way up, the left half-way down, as if because of sudden motor trouble within Jane.
Her mouth was equally affected, remaining open at a visible crisis in the performance of its duty.
These were the tokens of her agitation upon beholding the removal of a dolls' house from one of the wagons.This dolls' house was at least five feet high, of proportionate breadth and depths the customary absence of a facade disclosing an interior of four luxurious floors, with stairways, fireplaces, and wall-paper.Here was a mansion wherein doll-duchesses, no less, must dwell.
Straightway, a little girl ran out of the open doorway of the brick house and, with a self-
importance concentrated to the point of shrewishness, began to give orders concerning the disposal of her personal property, which included (as she made clear) not only the dolls' mansion, but also three dolls' trunks and a packing-case of fair size.She was a thin little girl, perhaps half a year younger than Jane; and she was as soiled, particularly in respect to hands, brow, chin, and the knees of white stockings, as could be expected of any busybodyish person of nine or ten whose mother is house-moving.But she was gifted--if we choose to put the matter in the hopeful, sweeter way--she was gifted with an unusually loud and shrill voice, and she made herself heard over the strong-voiced men to such emphatic effect that one of the latter, with the dolls'
mansion upon his back, paused in the gateway to acquaint her with his opinion that of all the bossy little girls he had ever seen, heard, or heard of, she was the bossiest.
``THE worst!'' he added.
The little girl across the street was of course instantly aware of Jane, though she pretended not to be; and from the first her self-importance was in large part assumed for the benefit of the observer.After a momentary silence, due to her failure to think of any proper response to the workman who so pointedly criticized her, she resumed the peremptory direction of her affairs.
She ran in and out of the house, her brow dark with frowns, her shoulders elevated; and by every means at her disposal she urged her audience to behold the frightful responsibilities of one who must keep a thousand things in her head at once, and yet be ready for decisive action at any instant.
There may have been one weakness in this strong performance: the artistic sincerity of it was a little discredited by the increasing frequency with which the artist took note of her effect.During each of her most impressive moments, she flashed, from the far corner of her eye, two questions at Jane: ``How about THAT one?
Are you still watching Me?''
