Golden Stories | Page 9

of view. Generally, it was thought that Katrina Prentiss was to
remain at home under the eye of Grandfather McBride. Particularly,
was this Grandfather McBride's reading of the unspoken word. But
Miss Prentiss, herself, thought so otherwise that the situation
completely reversed itself. To Miss Prentiss, Grandfather McBride was
left absolutely under her eye.
Meanwhile the Jasper Prentisses, characteristically explaining nothing,
commanding nothing, leaving events to work themselves out somehow,
as events have been known to do, were off for their month's fishing
without undue worry.
"Grandfather will smoke his pipe all over the house," remarked Mrs.
Prentiss easily, as they drove away.
"Oh, Katrina will manage somehow," returned Mr. Prentiss, as easily.
"They'll come to terms. By the way, Kitty, we mustn't forget that
marmalade." And, absorbed in their list of supplies, the Jasper
Prentisses disappeared from view.
Grandfather McBride, eighty-one, dependent, save in moments of
excitement, upon his knotted stick, hard-featured, with a rusty beard
and a shabby black hat, departed slowly for his own quarters. Miss
Prentiss, twenty-one, hazel-eyed and graceful, with a wonderful creamy
skin, under a crown of auburn braids, sank dreamily upon the broad
porch step and gazed across the green lawn into the future.
"A whole month," thought Miss Prentiss, "of doing as I
please--consulting nobody, ordering things, going to places, and
coming home to--freedom." Miss Prentiss spread out her hands with a
sigh of content. "Not that I'm interfered with--ever," she added,
reproaching herself, "but now--well, I'm it."
She rose swiftly and turned up the steps. In the wide doorway stood
Grandfather McBride, stick in hand, hat jammed down, and in his
mouth, at a defiant angle, a battered black pipe. A red flag, backed up
by a declaration of the rights of man, could not have spoken more
plainly. Miss Prentiss drew back; Mr. McBride stepped forward. Their

eyes met. Then the old gentleman flung down his challenge. He
removed the pipe and held it poised in his hand.
"What you goin' to do to-day, Triny?" he asked, briskly. "When you
goin' over to see the Deerings' parrot? There ain't another such bird in
America. You go over there this morning and see that parrot. Don't loll
about the house. Don't be lazy!" Whereupon, with less profanity, but as
much of autocracy as was ever displayed by an Irish boss whipping into
shape the lowliest of his Italian gang, Mr. McBride replaced his pipe
elaborately, and walked off with the honors. Katrina, utterly astonished,
stared after him, then shrugged, then smiled.
"Poor Grandfather," she reached at length, "in minor matters I'll let him
have his way."
The next day, Grandfather McBride smoked his pipe on the porch. On
the third morning he smoked it in the drawing-room--out of sheer
defiance, for he never entered the room save under compulsion. Katrina,
reminding herself that peace was to be desired above victory, shrugged
once more, smiled, and went for a ride. When she swept in, an hour or
so later, Grandfather McBride was in the back garden with John, and
the smoke of a huge bonfire obscured the sunlight. This was revolution,
simple and straightforward, and Katrina went at once to the back
garden.
"John," she said, "what is the meaning of this? Don't you know that Mr.
Prentiss never allows bonfires? The rubbish is to be carted away, not
set on fire."
John, apologetic, perturbed, nodded toward the old gentleman. "Yes,
miss, I know. I told Mr. McBride, miss----"
Grandfather McBride turned coldly upon Katrina. "I ordered this
bonfire," he said.
"But, Grandfather, you know the old orders. Father never allows them."
"I allow them," said Mr. McBride. "Your father's away fishing, and I'm

in charge. This is my bonfire. I order bonfires when I please. I like 'em.
I like the smell of 'em, I like the smoke----" Here an unexpected cough
gave Katrina a word.
"But, Grandfather," she began again, only to be cut short.
"When the folks are home, I sit still and mind my own business. Now
they're away, I'm goin' to do things. I'm on a vacation myself," said Mr.
McBride, "and I'll have a bonfire on the front lawn if I say so. You go
back to the house, Katriny, and read Gibson."
"Ibsen," flashed Katrina.
"I don't care what his Dutch name is--read him. Or else"--a grim light
of humor in his hard gray eye--"go over and see that parrot."
Katrina almost stamped her foot. "I loathe parrots," she cried, "and I
came out to talk about this bonfire."
"I know you did," said Mr. McBride, "but this parrot ain't like other
parrots. It's a clown. It would make a rag baby laugh."
Katrina, flushed, angry, at a loss what to say, decided to say nothing.
The sight of John, discreetly gazing at the roof of the