Chapter IX Once a Year
Birth days,
Earth days,
Seem very few;
Year days,
Dear days,
When life is new.
By constant and hard work, the house was ready for occupancy on Ethelwyn’s birthday.
Two or three days before it was finished, Nan’s mother came over, the melancholy look on her face somewhat lifted. She brought with her the deed of the land adjoining the cottage and sloping down to the sea. This land she at once undertook to have equipped for a playground with swings, tennis courts, a ball ground and all the things that delight young hearts.
“It is for Philip,” she said simply. “I have put his money into it, and perhaps, by looking a little after homeless, suffering children, I can forget my own heartache.”
“You have chosen the very best way to do so,” said Mrs. Rayburn.
Nan’s “feeble” chair came the night before the opening, and all three of the children christened it, by getting in, and wheeling it over the shining floors at a high rate of speed, thereby proving it to be anything but feeble.
The morning train brought a bevy of pale-faced, joyless-looking waifs.
At first they were stiff and shy, but under the vigorous leadership of Nan, Ethelwyn, and Beth, they were soon organized into a Rough Riders Company, and slid down the banisters, and shot out into the playground with shrill yells of delight.
Dick was general, for he was not yet strong enough to run, so he sat in his wheel-chair, and directed the others.
“We made him general, for generals never have anything to do but boss others; they are never killed or anything,” explained Nan.
A doctor from the hospital had sent down a wagon and goat team. There were bicycles and a hobby-horse, and boats safely fastened; so they rode, ran, trotted, or sat in the boats, all the happy day.
Two things were almost forgotten in all the excitement. One was, that this was Ethelwyn’s birthday, and the other, that they had to go away the next day.
In the evening, however, there was a birthday cake, with eight candles on it. Then they had the fun of opening the box from Japan.
There was a whole family of quaint dolls for Elizabeth, labeled by Dorothy’s husband, “Heathen dolls: never baptized.”
“Nor never will be, by Nan,” said Elizabeth, fondly hugging them to her, and fixing guilty Nan with a steadfast glance.
There was the cunningest watch for Ethelwyn about the size of a quarter of a dollar.
“It’s a live one, though,” said its owner proudly, shaking it and holding it up to her ear.
There was a parasol and a sash for Nan, and three Japanese costumes complete for the “three little maids from school.” These, they at once put on. Then they all went out on the lawn, and hung Japanese lanterns in the trees, and Nan’s father set off the fireworks, which were also in the box; so the day closed in a blaze of glory.
At last they were in the sitting-room again.
The adopted children clean and dressed in white gowns were asleep in their dainty iron beds, and dreaming of happiness past, and to come.
Nan, her father, and mother, and Mrs. Stevens came in for a last word.
“I shall put on mourning to-morrow,” announced Nan in a melancholy voice, “for I shall be a widow. What makes you go away, Mrs. Rayburn?”
“School and business call us to town, Nan, but we shall come every summer, and spend Christmas here, too, I hope.”
“This has been the best birthday I ever spent or ever expect to,” said Ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. “It is such a good idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can do both, as happened this time, it covers everything.”
Then they were all quiet for a little while, until Mrs. Rayburn went to the piano, and touching the keys, sang softly:
“And does thy day seem dark,
All turned to rain?
Seek thou one out whose life
Is filled with pain.
Put out a hand to help
This greater need,
And lo! within thy life
The sun will shine indeed.”