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In: Children & Young Adult Reading·Novels·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #76826.
The opening · free to read
JOCK sat on a big square stool, nursing his right leg and earnestly staring into the dancing flames. Every moment they took fresh shapes, curtsying one to another, and winding about the lumps of coal. A green tip crept out from a cave of fiery red, and then a purple tongue shot itself forth. Jock wondered what made them do it.
Behind him lay a long narrow room, with pictures on the walls, dimly visible in the firelight. It was getting dusk, but blinds had not yet been drawn down. As the flames danced, they cast a long shadow of Jock on the floor, with its thick blue carpet, and Jock turned to watch it. He swayed from side to side to make the shadow sway.
How funny it was that some flames should be green and others red. And why did they keep always going up and up? And why should a lump of black coal catch fire and turn red and burn and burn away, only because it happened to be close to another lump already burning? These and other questions jumped into Jock's mind, and all but jumped out at his lips.
But he peered round again at his mother, lying on the sofa. She had lain there, with her eyes shut, ever since he came in. If only she would open her eyes, and would talk. He was bursting with new ideas, and during a whole quarter of an hour he had not spoken one single word. Such a time to wait!
Grown-up people were so funny—liking to sleep in the day-time. "He" never wanted to sleep, not even when bed-time came. His nights were too long and his days too short; for there was always such an immense amount of things to be done. He couldn't get through half of them.
At the end of the street, round a corner, was a school for small boys, where he went every day, partly for lessons, partly for games and walks with the other boys. So he had plenty of companionship and plenty of fun, and when he came home it was to the dearest of mothers. Jock was devoted to her.
Many months earlier she had been ill, and when her husband went to India with his regiment, she could not go with him. She had to stay in England with Jock, and he felt himself to be in charge of her. His father's last words had been—"Take care of your mother, old chap."
He really had tried hard, and through the weeks when she was ill, he had been wonderfully good and quiet for such a little fellow.
But she was well now, for she often said so, and he felt free to rush up and down stairs, and to leap about the room, and to shout and sing at the top of his voice. Except when, as just now, he found her lying down, and then often, though not always, he would think of his father's words, and would keep still.
This was Tuesday, and next day Jock would be eight years old. Last birthday his father was at home, and he well remembered all the fun and romping and laughter. Would it be quite the same this year? He thought not. He could hardly expect that Mummie would tear madly upstairs with him, three steps at a time, or would swing him down again like a sack of corn; or that she would gallop round and round the garden with Jock on her shoulders. No, that would not be possible.
He was a spare, slim boy, rather small in make, with curly chestnut hair and eager grey eyes. He glanced round again, and ventured—"Mummie—are you awake?"
She stood up in reply, and came to his side. Anybody might have guessed her to be his mother, for she, too, was slim in make, with curly chestnut hair and grey eyes.
"Did I wake you up, Mum? Oh, I'm glad you weren't asleep. I've got such heaps of things I want to say. Jane told me you wasn't to be disturbed—not on no account, she said. So I had my tea all alone, and then I painted and painted—ever so long, till I couldn't see. Mummie, shall we have lots of fun to-morrow?"
"Won't four boys to tea be enough?"
Jock nodded. "It'll be most awf'ly jolly. Only I do want to know what I'm going to have for my birthday presents. I mean—from you and Daddy. Couldn't you just tell me now?"
"I think not. Last year Dad said—No. And you will enjoy to-morrow the more for not knowing beforehand."
Jock was doubtful. "It's a whole night—a fearful long time to wait."
"You will be asleep most of the time."
"Shall I? Mummy—what is a salamander like?"
"A big lizard—black and yellow. Why?"
"Jane says salamanders can live in the fire. And I wonder if one of them could live in there—" he pointed to a little red cave amid glowing coals.
Mrs. Munro laughed. "I doubt if the salamander would enjoy it," she said.
A VERY wide awake boy lay in bed, hoping each moment to hear the staircase clock strike six. He had been awake such an enormous time, and not once had the clock sounded, so he felt sure it must come directly.
Last year at six o'clock his father had come in from the next room, had picked up Jock bodily and had carried him off to his mother. And Jock had chattered happily till seven o'clock, when it had been decreed that the great business of presents might begin. But this year, being so much older, he was to jump up and go to her himself, only not until six. And Jock had promised.
So he waited and waited, and no sound came from beyond the closed door. Of course she was asleep.
He wondered and wondered what Mum's present would be. One thing he longed to possess, and that was—a real big man's pocket-book, like Dad's. But mother did not know this ardent desire of her little son. It meant so much and went so deep that he had not breathed it even to her. Perhaps he was afraid of being laughed at. Such a pocket-book could be of no possible use to a little fellow like him; none the less, he did want it, vehemently.
Then there was Dad, dear, kind, merry Dad, out in India. Most "certaintly" he would not have forgotten the birthday. And Grannie always sent something, and so did Aunt Judith—only from her it was commonly a book. And though Jock loved reading, there are books "and" books in the world. Aunt Judith's choice was not always the same that Jock's would have been.
"Dong—" came suddenly in a deep resounding tone. He lay still, and counted. "Dong—" that was two. "Dong—" that was three. "Dong—" four. "Dong—" five. One more—only one. It must "certaintly" be six.
But the one more "dong" failed to sound. He held his breath with listening, and soon he gave up hope. It was only five. Another whole long hour to wait. Jock kicked and squirmed and tossed to and fro in his disappointment, but nothing could alter the fact.
How to get through this terrifically long spell was the question. He had promised to stay in bed and to make no noise, but of course he couldn't lie there doing nothing.
First he tried counting. He counted up to a hundred, and then up to three hundred, and he was as wide awake as ever. Then he shut his eyes, and tried to see pictures and patterns, and still he was wide awake. Presently he started saying some of the multiplication-table backwards, which is no easy task, and even that failed to bring sleepiness.
Getting tired of figures he pranced about under the bed-clothes, and put his head where his feet were meant to be, while the said feet kicked about on the pillow.
This made a refreshing change, and he felt happy—till sudden fright seized him lest, under blankets and counterpane, he might fail to hear the clock. In a panic, he whirled himself right way round, and wondered if perhaps it had already struck. The time since five o'clock seemed enormously long; it almost "must" be past six now. This particular clock, unlike many big clocks, did not sound the quarters. Dire temptation arose to creep across the room, to open the door one tiny crack, and to whisper—"Mummie—are you awake?"
But what if it should be not quite six? And what of his promise?
He sighed like a grampus—if grampuses ever sigh—but he stayed in bed. And at last even that almost endless hour did come to an end. Again the deep-toned "Dong" sounded—six strokes. With one bound Jock was out of bed, racing across in the dark to the door, against which he banged.
"Gently, my boy—don't hurt yourself."
"Mummie—are you awake? May I come?" And in another instant he was cuddling down within her arms.
"God bless my own dear little son, and make him a good, true, brave man," she said softly. "Many, many happy returns, my darling."
"Mummie, it's been most awfully hard—waiting all that time. But I didn't disturb you, did I? Didn't you want my birthday to begin too?"
She held him fast and laughed a little. Had Jock been older, he might have heard in that soft laughter a note which told of tears not very far away.
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