While Caroline Was Growing | Page 8

ribbons and shrilled the refrain,
intoxicated with freedom and melody:
"Cock me cary, Kitty alone, Kitty alone and I!"

She drummed with her heels on the ground, the boy waved his cap, and
William Thayer rolled over and over, barking loudly for the chorus.
Suddenly the boy jumped up, pulled her to her feet, and with grotesque,
skipping steps pirouetted around the dying fire. The dog waltzed wildly
on his hind legs; Caroline's short petticoats stood straight out around
her as she whirled and jumped, a Bacchante in a frilled pinafore. The
little glade rang to their shouting:
"Kitty alone and I!"
He darted suddenly through an opening in the bushes, William Thayer
close behind, Caroline panting and singing as she gave chase. Through
a field, across a little bridge they dashed. He flung the empty
coffee-pail at an astonished group of men, who stopped their work,
their fence-posts in hand, to stare at the mad trio.
Breathless at last, they flung themselves on a bank by the road and
smiled at each other. Caroline laughed aloud, even, in sheer,
irresponsible light-headedness, but over the boy's face a little shadow
grew.
"It won't seem so nice alone after this, will it, William Thayer?" he said,
slowly.
Caroline stared.
"But--but I'm coming! I'll be there," she cried. "I'm coming with you!"
He went on as if he had not heard.
"Who'll there be to eat our dinner with us to-morrow, William Thayer?"
he questioned whimsically.
Caroline moved nearer and put her hand on his knee.
"There'll be--won't there be me?" she begged.
He shook his head.

"I guess not," he said bluntly.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"But--but you said I was a--a regular little chum," she whispered.
"Don't you like me?"
He was silent:
"Don't you? Oh, don't you?" she pleaded. "I don't need much to eat,
really!"
The lad looked at her with a strange longing. The fatherhood that lives
in every boy thrilled at the touch of her fat little hand on his knee; the
comradely glow in her round brown eyes warmed his restless, lonely
heart. He shook her off almost roughly.
"I guess they'd miss you more'n that salt-shaker," he said grimly. "I
wish I could take you with me--honest, I do. But you better stay home
and go to school. You don't want to grow up ignorant, and have your
folks ashamed of you."
"But you--you aren't ignorant!" she urged warmly, her admiration
shining in her eyes.
He blushed and kicked nervously at the grass.
"I am," he said angrily. "I am, too. Oh, dear, I wish--I wish--"
They looked at each other, troubled and uncertain.
"You're a girl," he began again, "and girls can't; they just can't. They
have to stay with their folks and keep nice. It's too bad, but that's the
way it is. You'd want to see 'em, too. You'd miss 'em nights."
Caroline winced, but could not deny. "Oh," she cried passionately,
"why do girls have to do all the missing? It's just what that Simms boy
says: 'If I couldn't be a boy, I'd rather be a dog!'"

"There, there," he said soothingly, "just think about it. You'll see. And
you're not exactly like a girl, anyhow. You're too nice."
He patted her shoulder softly, and they lay quietly against the bank. Her
breathing grew slow and regular; raising himself cautiously on one
elbow, he saw that she had fallen asleep, her arm about William Thayer,
her dusty boots pathetically crossed. He watched her tenderly, with
frequent glances up and down the road.
Presently an irregular beat of hoofs sounded around a bend, and a
clattering wagon drew steadily nearer.
The egg-and-chicken man jumped out and strode angrily toward the
little group.
"I've caught you, have I, you young----"
"'Sh!"
The boy put up a warning hand.
"She's fast asleep," he whispered. "Are you goin' to take her home?"
The man stared.
"Oh, I'm no child-stealer," said the boy lightly. "Here, just lift her soft
with me, and I'll bet we can put her in without waking her up at all."
Without a word, the man slipped his hands under Caroline's shoulders,
the boy lifted her dusty boots, and gently unloosing her arm from the
dog, they carried her lax little body carefully to the wagon and laid her
on the clean straw in the bottom, her head on a folded coat. She stirred
and half opened her eyes, murmured broken words, and sank yet deeper
into her dream.
The man pointed to a book on the seat.
"That's her lesson-book," he whispered hoarsely. It was the despised
geography.

"Her folks think a heap of her, I tell you," he added, still eying the boy
uncertainly. "She's about as bright as they make 'em, I guess."
"I guess she is," said the lad