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Updated: May 28, 2025
Though the Policeman had made his suggestion only a second before, here was the former already leaning down to the stream; and, having dipped, was walking in the midst of the little company, glass in hand. Gwendolyn ran forward. "Fath-er!" she called; "please have a drink!" Her father shook his head. "I'm not thirsty," he declared, utterly ignoring the proffered glass.
Ignoring Miss Royle's oft-repeated lesson that "Nice little girls do not ask questions," or "worry father and mother," how easy it would have been to say, "Fath-er, what little bird tells things about you?" and, "Moth-er, have you really got a bee in your bonnet?" But the questions could still be asked. She was balked only temporarily.
He thrust out his head, pointing. "Look." She looked. Ahead the tops of the grass blades were swaying this way and that in a winding path as if from the passage of some crawling thing! "She tried to get me out of the way!" "Oh, tell me where is my fath-er!" "Why, of course. They say he's " He did not finish; or if he did she heard no end to the sentence.
Then, in a business-like tone; "Take two pairs of sandals, a dozen cheap gingham dresses with plenty of pockets and extra pieces for patches, and a bottle of something good for wild black-berry scratches." He bowed. "Mix all together with one strong medium-sized garden-hoe " "Oh, fath-er," cried Gwendolyn, her hoarse voice wistful with pleading, "you won't mind if I play with Johnnie, will you?"
She went around him and raised a smiling face caught at a hand, too; and felt her own happy tears make cool streaks down her cheeks. "I I don't see you often," she said, "bu-but I know you just the same. You're you're my fath-er!" At that, he glanced down at her stooped picked a candle and held it close to her face. "Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"
Until that moment she had forgotten her father and mother! "There's that harness of his," went on the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He thought a moment, pursing his lips and twiddling his thumbs. "We'll have to consider how we can get rid of it." She glanced up. "Where does he come?" she asked huskily; "my fath-er?" "Um! Yes, where?" He seemed uneasy; scratched his jaw; and rearranged a row of chins.
By the expression on his face, Gwendolyn judged that Robin Hood's Barn of which she had often heard was a most undesirable spot. "Is it far?" she asked, swallowing. "No. Only we'll have to go around it." Somehow, all at once, he seemed the one friend she had. She put out a hand to him. "You will go with me?" she begged. "Oh, I want to find my fath-er, and my moth-er!"
Then there poured forth all that had filled her heart during the past months: "I'd like to eat at the grown-up table with my fath-er and my moth-er," she declared; "and I don't want to have a nurse any more like a baby! and I want to go to day-school." Jane gasped, and her big hands fell from the round box. Thomas stared, and reddened even to his ears, which were large and over-prominent.
"Well, of course she knew the facts," he admitted "You see, she was the cook." "Oh!" "As long as that lump was on my tail," resumed the Bird, "anybody could catch me, and send me anywhere. And nobody ever seemed to want to take the horrid load off with salt so cheap." "Did you do errands for my fath-er?" Her father answered. "Messages and messages and messages," he murmured wearily.
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