Us and the Bottleman | Page 5

warm flannel
till Mother begged him to give them a military funeral. Jerry soaked all
the labels off a cigar-box, and then burned a most beautiful inscription
on the lid with his pyrography outfit. Part of the inscription was a poem
by Greg, which went like this:
"O little sparrow, Perhaps to-morrow You will fly in a blue house. And
perhaps you will run In the sun, Little field-mouse."
Jerry didn't see what Greg meant by a "blue house," but I did, and I
think it was rather nice. I copied the poem secretly, before the

cigar-box was buried at the end of the rose-bed. I think Greg really
cried, but he had so much black mosquito netting hanging over the
brim of his best hat that I couldn't be sure.
Fourth of July came and went--the very patriotic one, when everybody
saved their fireworks-money to buy W.S.S. with. We bought W.S.S.
and made very grand fireworks out of joss-sticks. Joss-sticks have
wonderful possibilities that most people don't know about. The three of
us went down to the foot of the garden after dark and did an exhibition
for the others. By whisking the joss-sticks around by their floppy
handles you can make all sorts of fiery circles. I made two little ones
for eyes, and Greg did a nose in the middle, and Jerry twirled a curvy
one underneath for a mouth that could be either smiling or ferocious. A
little way off you can't see the people who do it at all, and it looks just
like a great fiery face with a changing, wobbly expression.
Then Greg did a fire dance with two sparklers. He dances rather
well,--not real one-steps and waltzes, but weird things he makes up
himself. This one lasted as long as the sparklers burned, and it was
quite gorgeous. After that we had a candle-light procession around the
garden, and the grown people said that the candles looked very
mysterious bobbing in and out between the trees. We felt more like
high priests than patriots, but it was very festive and wonderful, and
when we ended by having cakes and lime-juice on the porch at
half-past nine, everybody agreed that it had been a real celebration and
quite different.
In spite of being up so late the night before, Greg was the first one
down to breakfast next morning. Our postman always brings the mail
just before the end of breakfast, and we can hear him click the gate as
he comes in. This morning Jerry and Greg dashed for the mail together,
and Greg squeezed through where Jerry thought he couldn't and got
there first. When they came back, Jerry was saying:
"Let me have it, won't you; it'll take you all day!" and dodging his arm
over Greg's shoulder.
"Messrs. Christopher, Gerald, and Gregory Holford; 17 Luke Street,"

Greg read slowly. Then he tripped over the threshold and floundered on
to me, flourishing the big envelope and shouting:
"It's funny paper, and it's funny writing, and I know it's from The
Bottle!"
"My stars!" said Jerry, with a final snatch.
But I had the envelope, and I looked at it very carefully.
"Boys," I said, "I truly believe that it is."
CHAPTER III
The envelope was a square, thinnish one, addressed in very small, black
handwriting.
"It must be from The Bottle," Jerry said; "otherwise they wouldn't have
thought you were a boy and put Christopher."
I had been thinking just the same thing while I was trying to open the
envelope. It was one of the very tightly stuck kind that scrumples up
when you try to rip it with your finger, and we had to slit it with a
fruit-knife before we could get at the letter. There were sheets of thin
paper all covered with writing, and when Jerry and Greg saw that, they
both fell upon it so that none of us could read it at all. I persuaded them
that the quickest thing to do would be to let me read it aloud, and as
we'd finished breakfast anyway, we each took our last piece of toast in
our hands and went out and sat on the bottom step of the porch. I read:
_Fellow Adventurers and Mariners in Distress:_
By this time there may be naught left of you but a whitening huddle of
bones, surf bleached on the end of Wecanicut,--for I know well what
meager fare are eiligugs' eggs and barnacles. However, I take the
chance of finding at least one of you alive, and address you fraternally
as a companion in distress.

I am myself stranded on a cheerless island where, against my will, I am
kept captive--for how long a time I cannot guess. I was brought here at
night, only forty-eight hours ago,