Patchwork Part 12

"Whew," he whistled as he glanced up and saw her at the little window of the attic. "What you doing up there?"

"Playin' primer donner. I just look something grand. Wait, I'll come down."

"Sure, come on down and let me see you. I'm going to hang around a while. Mom's here quilting, ain't she?"

"s.h.!.+" Phbe raised a warning finger, then placed her hands to her mouth to shut the sound of her voice from the people in the gray house. "You sneak round to the kitchen door, to the back one, so they can't hear you, and I'll come down. Aunt Maria mightn't like my hair and dress, and I don't want to make her cross on my birthday. Be careful, don't make no noise."

"Ha," laughed the boy. "Bet you're sneaking things, you little rascal."

Phbe lifted her finger, shook her head, then smiled and turned from the window. She tiptoed down the dark attic stairs, then down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen and slipped quietly to the little porch at the very rear of the house.

"Gee whiz!" exclaimed David. "You're a swell in that dress!"

"Ain't I--I mean am I--ach, David, it's hard sometimes to talk like Miss Lee says we should."

"Where'd you get the dress, Phbe?"

"Up in the garret. Aunt Maria said I dare go up and play 'cause it's my birthday."

"Hold on, that's just what I came for, to pull your ears."

"No you don't," she said crossly. "No you don't, David Eby, pull my ears." She clapped a hand upon each ear.

"Then I'll pull a curl," he said and suited the action to the word. He took one of the long light curls and pulled it gently, yet with a brusque show of savagery and strength--"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, and one to make you grow. Now who says I can't celebrate your birthday!"

"You're mean, awful mean, David Eby!" She tossed her head in anger. But a moment later she relented as she saw him smile. "Ach," she said in friendly tone, "I don't care if you pull my curls. It didn't hurt anyhow. You can't do it again for a whole year. But don't you think I look like a primer donner, David?"

"Oh, say it right! How can you expect to ever be what you can't p.r.o.nounce? It's pri-ma-don-na."

"Pri-ma-don-na," she repeated, shaking her curls at every syllable. "Do I look like a prima donna?"

"Yes, all but your face."

"My face--why"--she faltered--"what's wrong with my face? Ain't it pretty enough to be a prima donna?"

"Funny kid," he laughed. "Your face is good enough for a prima donna, but to be a real prima donna you must fix it up with cold cream, paint and powder."

"Powder!" she echoed in amazement. "Not the kind you put in guns?"

"Gee, no! It's white stuff--looks like flour; mebbe it is flour fixed up with perfume. Mary Warner had some at school last week and showed some of the girls at recess how to put it on. I was behind a tree and saw them but they didn't see me."

"I thought some of the girls looked pale--so that was what made them look so white! But how do you know all about fixing up to be a prima donna? Where did you learn?" She looked at him admiringly, justly appreciating his superior knowledge.

"Oh, when I had the mumps last winter I used to read the papers every day, clean through. There was a column called the 'Hints to Beauty'

column, and sometimes I read it just for fun, it was so funny. It told about fixing up the face and mentioned a famous singer and some other people who always looked beautiful because they knew how to fix their faces to keep looking young. But I wouldn't like to see any one I like fix their faces like it said, for all that stuff----"

"But do you think all prima donnas put such things on their faces?" she interrupted him.

"Guess so."

"What was it, Davie?"

"Cold cream, paint, powder--here, where are you going?" he asked as she started for the door.

"I'll be out in a minute; you wait here for me."

"Cold cream, paint, powder," she repeated as she closed the door and left David outside. "Cream's all in the cellar." She took a pewter tablespoon from a drawer, opened a latched door in the kitchen and went noiselessly down the steps to the cellar. There she lifted the lid from a large earthen jar, dipped a spoonful of thick cream from the jar, and began to rub it on her cheeks.

"That's _cold_ cream, anyhow," she said to herself. "It certainly is cold. Ach, I don't like the feel of it on my face; it's too sticky and wet." But she rubbed valiantly until the spoonful was used and her face glowed.

"Now paint, red paint--I don't dare use the kind you put on houses, for that's too hard to get off; let's see--I guess red-beet juice will do."

She stooped to the cool, earthen floor, lifted the cover from a crock of pickled beets, dipped the spoon into the juice and began to rub the colored liquid upon her glowing cheeks.

"If I only had a looking-gla.s.s, then I could see just where to put it on. But I don't dare to carry the juice up the steps, for if I spilled some just after Aunt Maria has them scrubbed for Sunday she'd be cross."

She applied the red juice by guesswork, with the inevitable result that her ears, chin, and nose were stained as deeply as her cheeks.

"Now the powder, then I'm through."

She tiptoed up to the kitchen again, took a handful of flour from the bin and rubbed it upon her face.

"Ugh, um," she sputtered, as some of the flour flew into her eyes and nostrils. "I guess that was too thick!" Then she knelt on a chair and looked into the small mirror that hung in the kitchen. She exclaimed in horror and disappointment at the vision that met her gaze.

"Why, I don't like that! I look awful! I'll rub off some of the flour. I have blotches all over my face. Do all prima donnas look this way, I wonder. But David knows, I guess. I'll ask him if I did it right."

She grabbed one end of the kitchen towel and disposed of some of the superfluous flour, then, still doubtful of her appearance, opened the door to the porch where the boy waited for her.

"Do I look----" she began, but David burst into hilarious laughter.

"Oh, oh," he held his sides and laughed. "Oh, your face----"

"Don't you laugh at me, David Eby! Don't you dare laugh!"

She was deeply hurt at his unseemly behavior, but the deluge was only beginning! The sound of David's laughter and Phbe's raised voice reached the front room where the quilting party was in progress.

"Sounds like somebody on the back porch," said Aunt Maria. "Guess I better go and see. With so many tramps around always abody can't be too careful."

The sight that met Maria Metz's eyes as she opened the back door left her speechless. Phbe turned and the two looked at each other in silence for a few long moments.

"Don't scold her," David said, sobered by the sudden appearance of the woman and frightened for Phbe--Aunt Maria could be stern, he knew.

"Don't scold her. I told her to do it."

"You did not, David; don't you tell lies for me! You just told me how to do it and I went and done it myself. I'm playing prima donna, Aunt Maria," she explained, though she knew it was a futile attempt at justification. "I'm playing I'm a big singer, so I had to fix up in this dress and put my hair down this way and fix my face."

"Great singer--march in here!" The woman had fully regained her voice.

"It's a bad girl you are! To think of your making such a monkey of yourself when I leave you go up in the garret to play! This ends playing in the garret. Next Sat.u.r.day you sew! Ach, yes, you just come in," she commanded, for Phbe hung back as they entered the house. "You come right in here and let all the women see how nice you play when I leave you go up in the garret instead of make you sew. This here's the tramp I found," she announced as she led her into the room where the women sat around the quilting frame and quilted.

"What!" several of them exclaimed as they turned from their sewing and looked at the child. Granny Hogendobler and David Eby's mother, however, smiled.