Suzanna Stirs the Fire | Page 3

the house was in a bustle. The baby was crying, Peter,
the five-year-old, was sliding in his usual exuberant manner down the
banisters, and at the stove in the kitchen, Mrs. Procter, the mother, was
filling pans and opening and closing the oven door with quick,
somewhat noisy movements.
When in time all were gathered about the dining table, they were an
interesting looking family. Mrs. Procter, young, despite her four
children, wore a little worried frown strangely at conflict with her
palpable desire to make the best of things. She darted here and there,
soothing the baby with a practiced hand, pouring her husband's coffee,

helping voracious Peter, her busy mind anticipating all the day's tasks.
Suzanna loved and admired her mother. She loved the way the
luxuriant dark hair was wound round and round the small head. She
loved the rare smile, the soft blue eyes fringed in black lashes. She
liked to meet those eyes when they were filled with understanding,
when they seemed to speak as plainly as the tender lips made just for
lullabies--and encouragements when the inventor-father stumbled, lost
his belief in himself and in his Machine.
Maizie, younger than Suzanna by only a year, looked like her
mother--sweet, very practical, always in a wide-eyed condition of
surprise at Suzanna's wonderful imagination; a dependable little body
who rarely fell from grace by reason of naughtiness.
Peter, a strange composite of his dreamy father and practical mother,
sat near the baby. Peter had had a twin, a little girl, who died when she
was three years old. Sometimes, even now, Peter cried himself to sleep
for Helen.
The baby, now crowing in his armchair beside his mother, was a bright
little chap of not quite a year. Too plump to even try his sturdy legs, he
was oftentimes very much of a burden to his devoted sisters.
Mrs. Procter's eyes had taken in at once Suzanna's finery, but Mrs.
Procter knew Suzanna; besides she did not always ask a direct question.
Suzanna's mind worked clearly, but it worked by its own laws. So now
the mother waited and toward the end of the meal she was rewarded for
her patience. Suzanna put down her fork and began:
"Mother, this is my first tucked-in day to do as I please in. I know
Monday's supposed to be wash day, but you said it wasn't a big wash
and I did all the sorting Saturday night. I am all fixed up for a princess,
and something inside me tells me I must wander about my palace and
perhaps find paths leading to far-off snow countries."
It was Maizie who looked now questioningly at her mother. Could it be
that Suzanna would be given her own way? In truth the entire table
awaited breathlessly Mrs. Procter's answer. It came at last:

"Very well, Princess, you may have your tucked-in day."
There followed a short silence. At last:
"Mother, I must be honest with you," said Suzanna, "there are to be two
tucked-in days. In my next space I want to be an Only Child."
Again her mother agreed. Rarely could she deny Suzanna her jaunts
into the land of dreams.
So after breakfast, quite free, Suzanna left the house. The little town lay
quiet, except for the rhythmic noises coming from the big Massey Steel
Mills. Suzanna looked in their direction and stood a moment watching
the sparks coming from the big round chimneys. Over across fields
were the tumble-down cottages occupied by the employees of the
Massey Steel Mills. Suzanna did not often go in their direction. The
squalor made her unhappy and set in train so many questions she was
quite unable to answer.
The day was early July with a spicy breeze that promised its delight for
many hours. Suzanna walked out into the road, and turned to gaze at
the little home in which she had been born. She loved it with its many
memories. She fancied it held its head high because it sheltered her
father's great Machine. At length she turned south toward the country.
She breathed deeply as she went, feeling how wonderful it was to be a
princess and to wander about as she pleased.
Throbbing with life and the beauty of it, the marvel of it, she began to
dance. Strange thoughts flowed through her, strange understandings,
that, little child as she was, she could find no words for. Only it seemed
color lay within her, rich color for a thought of love; a wistful rose
shade for a passing desire, a brilliant orange for the uplifting
knowledge that just to be alive was great. She stopped to gather a
passion flower because with its deep purple, its hidden heart that she
could very gently discover and gaze into, it fitted