The Primrose Ring Part 9

the middle to the wall yondther, 'twill be like enough."

With a doubtful eye Sandy spanned the distance. "Na--na. Gien a hustled a wud be a dee'd loonie afore a had 'em spilled."

"Aw, go on!" chorused the watchers.

"Thry, just," urged Bridget, "an' we'll sing 'Onward, Christian Soldier' to hearten ye up."

Eight shrill voices piped out the tune; and Sandy, caught by its martial spirit, before he knew it was limping a circle about the beds, marking his trail with golden blossoms. Luckily for Ward C, the nurse on duty during the dinner-hour was in the medical ward, with the door closed. And when she came back to her listening post in the corridor the last word had been sung, the last flower dropped, and Sandy was in his cot again, stretching tired little legs under the covers.

Perhaps the geometrician, or the accurate-minded reader, will doubt whether the primrose ring was made at all--seeing that the wall of Ward C cut off nearly thirty degrees of it. But in the world of fancy geometrical accuracy does not hold; and the only important thing is believing that the ring has been made. I have known of a few who could step inside the faery circle whenever they willed, and without a visible primrose about; but for most of us the blossoms are needed to make the enchantment.

This is one of the heritages that come to those who are lucky enough to dwell much in the world of fancy. They can wish for things and possess them, and enjoy them without actually grasping them with their two hands and saying, "These are my personal belongings." Material things are rather a nuisance, on the whole, for they have to be dusted and kept in order, repatched or repainted; and if one wishes to carry them about there are always the bother of packing and the danger of losing.

But these other possessions are different--they are with us wherever we go and whenever we want them--to-day, to-morrow, or for eternity.

"If we had the wee red wis.h.i.+n'-cap," said Bridget, thoughtfully, "we'd not have to be waitin' for what's likely to happen. We could just wish ourselves into Tir-na-n'Og."

"What's that?" demanded Peter.

"Tis the place the faeries live in, an' 'tis in Irelan'. Sure, 'tis easy gettin' the cap," continued Bridget, with conviction. "All ye need do is to say afther me, 'I wish--I wish for the wee red cap,' an'

ye have it."

Bridget extended her hands, palms upward, and the others followed her example; and together they whispered: "I wish--I wish for the wee red cap."

Immediately Bridget's hands closed over a cubic inch of atmosphere, and she cried, exultantly, "Hold on to it tight an' slip it on your head quick--afore it gets from ye!"

Only seven pairs of hands obeyed--Michael protested.

"I have nothinks got," he said, disgustedly.

"Shut up!" And Bridget shook a menacing fist at him. "He's foolish entirely. He thinks he hasn't anythin' foreby he can't see it. Now, all together, 'We wish--'"

"Can we go 'thout any clothes?" interrupted Susan. "We'd feel awful queer in nights.h.i.+rts."

"Don't ye worry, darlin'. Like as not when we get there the queen herself 'll open a monsthrous big chest where they keeps all the faery clothes, an' let us choose anythin' at all we wants to wear."

"Pants?" queried Peter, eagerly.

"Sure, an' silk dresses an' straw hats wi' ribbon on them, an--"

"Will shoes in the chest be?" Pancho was very anxious; he had never had a pair of shoes in all his six years.

Bridget beamed. "Not i' the chest; but I'll be tellin' ye how ye'll come by them. When we get there we'll look about for a blackthorn-bush--an' there--like as not--in undther it--will be a wee man wi' a leather ap.r.o.n across his knee--the leprechaun, big as life!"

"What's him?"

"Faith I'm tellin' ye--'tis the faery cobbler. An' the minute he slaps the tail of his eye on us he'll sing out: 'h.e.l.lo, Pancho an' Sandy an'

Susan an' all o' yez. I've your boots finished, just.' An' wi' that he'll fetch down the nine pairs an' hand them round."

A sigh of blissful contentment started from the cot by the door, burbled down the length of the ward, and vanished out of the window.

Is there anything dearer to the pride of a child than boots--new boots?

Bridget took up the dropped thread and went on. "An' afther that the leprechaun reaches for his crock o' gold an' pulls out a penny. Ye can buy anythin' i' the whole world wi' a faery penny."

"Anythinks!" said Michael, skeptically.

"That's what I said."

"Could yer buy a dorg?" Peter asked, opening one renegade eye.

"Sure--a million dogs."

"Don't want a million. Want jus' one real live black dorg--named Toby--wiv yeller spots an' half-legs--an' long ears--an' a stand-up tail--an' legs--an' long--long--long--" The renegade eye closed tight and Peter was smiling at something afar off.

An antiphonal chorus of yawns broke the hush that followed, while Bridget worked herself back under the covers.

"A ken the penny micht be buyin' a hame," came in a drowsy voice from Sandy's crib. "'Twad be a hame in Aberdeen--wi' trees an' flo'ers an'

mickle wee creepit things--an'--Miss Peggie--an'--us--"

"Sure, an' it could be buyin' a grand home in Irelan', the same,"

Bridget beamed; and then she added, struck forcibly with an afterthought: "But what would be the sense of a home anywheres but here--furninst--within easy reach of a crutch or a wheeled chair? Tell me that!"

Sandy grunted ambiguously; and Bridget took up again the thread of her recounting.

"Ye could never be guessin' half o' the sthrange adventures we'll be havin'! Like as not Sandy 'll be gettin' his hump lifted off him. I mind the story--me mother often told it me. There was a humpy back in Irelan', once, who went always about wi' song in his heart an' another on his lips; an' one day he fetched up inside a faery rath. The pipers were pipin' an' the Wee People was dancin', an' while they was dancin'

they was singin' like this: 'Monday an' Tuesday--an' Monday an'

Tuesday--an' Monday an' Tuesday'--an' it sounded all jerky and bad.

'That's a terrible poor song,' says the humpy, speakin' out plain.

'What's that?' says the faeries, stoppin' their dance an' gatherin'

round him. ''Tis mortal poor music ye are making' says the humpy ag'in. 'Can ye improve it any?' asked the faeries. 'I can that,' says the humpy. 'Add Wednesday to it an' ye'll have double as good a song.'

An' when the faeries tried it it was so pretty, an' they was so pleased, they took the hump off him."

Sandy had curled up like a kitten; his eyes were shut, and he was smiling, too. Every one was very quiet; only Rosita moved, reaching out a frightened hand to Bridget.

"Fwaid," she lisped. "All dark--fwaid to do."

"Whist, darlin', ye needn't be afeared. Bridget 'll hold tight to your hand all the way. An' the stars will be out there makin' it bright--so bright--foreby the stars are the faeries' old rush-lights. When they're all burned out, just, they throw them up i' the sky--far as ever they can--an' G.o.d reaches out an' catches them. Then He sets them all a-burnin' ag'in, so's the wee angel babies can see what road to be takin'. An' Sandy 'll lose his hump--an' Michael 'll get a new heart--maybe--that won't b.u.mp--an' they'll put all the trusters in cages--all but the nice Wee One--cages like they have in the circus-- An' they'll never get out to pesther us--never--never--no--more--"

Bridget's voice trailed off into the distance, carrying with it the last of Rosita's fearing consciousness.

Ward C had suddenly become empty--empty except for a row of tumbled beds and nine little tired-out, cast-off bodies. They had been shed as easily as a boy slips out of his dusty, uncomfortable overalls on a late sultry afternoon, and leaves them behind him on a shady bank, while he plunges, head first, into the cool, dark waters of the swimming-pool just below him, which have been calling and calling and calling.

VII

AND BEYOND

What happened beyond the primrose ring is, perhaps, rather a crazy-quilt affair, having to be patched out of the squares and three-cornered bits of Fancy which the children remembered to bring back with them. I have tried to piece them together into a fairly substantial pattern; but, of course, it can be easily ripped out and raveled into nothing. So I beg of you, on the children's account, to handle it gently, for they believe implicitly in the durability of the fabric.