menu_book Chapter 5

Chapter 5 of Tilda Jane's Orphans This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kathleen Tilda Jane's Orphans by Marshall Saunders

Chapter 5 Tilda Jane's Mysterious Errand Before Hank gave up traveling to settle down in Siskeset, Tilda Jane and Grandpa used to take their meals in the kitchen. It was convenient and made less work for the little girl. When Hank came home and obtained work in Mr. Weissmuss' mill, he said, No more eating in the kitchen. We've got a small dining room, and what is it for? If not for use,

I'll fix it up. And night after night, when his work at the mill was done, he painted, papered, and refurnished. Until he made the dining room the pleasantest room in the house. It had one bay window looking toward the east, and in this window he had put up shells for Tilda Jane's houseplants. Tonight, however, the night of Milkweed's arrival home, the plants were carefully covered with newspapers to keep out the frost. The red curtains were drawn,

and a brisk fire burned in a tiny stove. Tilda Jane, whose notions of art were yet somewhat primitive, had bought a number of pictures to hang about the walls. There was a highly colored chromo of a hunting dog to suit her own fancy, a winter landscape for Grandpa, a lurid representation of a horse for Hank, and for general purposes, and for the good and enjoyment of the whole family. A bright and staring motto, worked in wool. God bless our home. Her eyes often rested on this

petition. The lonely girl who had so long prayed for the blessings of a home, never forgot to be grateful that she had at last attained to one. Whatever her trials and tribulations were, underneath ran the deep current of satisfaction that she had obtained the desire of her heart. In honor of Milkweed's arrival, there was an extra supper prepared, and Hank's lips curled appreciatively as he washed and brushed in the woodhouse. If that, Tilda Jane, ain't great,

he muttered as he buried his face in the clean roller towel. The neatest little housekeeper, and she only a young one, she'll never want for anything as long as I've got a crust. There'll always be two bites to it. Now, are we all here? he asked, cheerfully stamping it to the kitchen, and surveying the dogs who were under the stove licking their lips, and Tilda Jane, and Perletta, who were bending over it. Where's my old dad? Here, said a voice, and Grandpa came

hobbling from his room, supported by his two crutches. Let me clear the way, sir, and Hank moved some chairs and made a path for the old man to enter the dining room. Hey, father, we've got a tip-top spread tonight, exclaimed Hank, as he helped the old man establish himself in his big armchair. Cold chicken and potato salad and hot biscuits and plum preserve and fruit cake, and if my sense of smell don't deceive me, hotcakes and coffee to come. Now, ain't this better than

old widow-earing it alone? Grandpa, casting a backward thought at his lonely life before Tilda Jane, came to live with him, muttered, yes, yes, I guess so, yes, yes. It's a blessing your appetite holds out. Hank went on affectionately. It just warms the cockles of my heart to see you eat, and you sleep pretty good and hard, don't you? Yes, yes, said the old man suspiciously. Of course I sleep. What do I go to bed for? Never have dreams, said Hank good-naturedly,

nor nightmare. Nightmare, muttered his father indignantly. Don't know that kind of a mare. Never did, never want to. Do you hear that? Tilda said Hank, as the little girl entered the room holding a big coffee pot with both hands. Grandpa says he sleeps like a top, never has nightmare. Tilda Jane, as she put the pot on the table, turned her flushed face toward Hank with such an unhappy stare, that the young man made haste to change the subject. I say, he ejaculated hastily,

taking up the cream jug. Just look at that, thick and yellow as gold. Lots of rich folks in city can't get such cream for love nor money. That is a jewel of a cow. By the way, Tilda, you ain't named her yet. I asked you to get something to call her by. She's such a lady that I feel it ain't right to address her as if she was common cow flesh. A name, said Tilda Jane absently. Oh, call her after the person we were speaking about a spell ago, Ruth Ann. I just loved that woman. All right, Ruth

Ann let it be, Ruth Ann Minley. No, no, said the little girl with the shudder. I forgive Mrs. Minley, but I don't want to name any cows after her. Besides, Minley wasn't Ruth Ann's name. I don't know what it was. Well, we'll let it go at Dilsen, said Hank jovially. Ruth Ann Dilsen, give me a good strong cup of coffee and I'll drink to her health. The little girl had seated herself behind the coffee pot and the cups and saucers at the head of the table. Hank took the foot and old Mr. Dilsen

sat between them on the side away from the fire. Just as they were about to bow their heads for Tilda Jane's grace before a meet, her letter appeared in the doorway, a knife and fork and a plate in her hand. Tilda Jane and Grandpa scarcely glanced at her, for they had this performance three times a day. Hank was the one to attend to her, and hearing the rattle of the plate, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder at her. There's our hourree at the gate of paradise

again, he said ironically. Only no hourree ever was one-tenth as sassy. You've put the things on the table. What are you doing there? I'm just as good as you be, she said doggedly. I'm going to sit down with you. Oh no, you're not. Get back to the kitchen, she began her usual protest. In places where I lived before, they always had me at the table. I hope they enjoyed your company, said Hank relentlessly. You must have been among the aristocracy. We common folks don't appreciate you.

Get out now. When you stays out, I sits there, she said angrily, pointing to the warm side of the table. That's like you, to take advantage of my absence. Now, go, I'm boss here, and a girl that talks as rude as you do, ain't fit to sit down with decent conversing people. You turn over a new leaf and let it stay, and I'll admit you. I ain't proud, but I can't stand sass. Go now, eat your supper by the kitchen fire, and if you're a good girl, I'll let you help me clean the harness this evening.

I'll not clean no harness, she muttered as she shambled away, but they all knew that she would be delighted to do so. That girl is the most powerful argue fire I ever saw, remarked Hank in a disgusted voice. I don't see how you stand her all day, tilde. There's lots of good in her, said the little girl in a low voice, and I guess she'll get less obstreperous. She will if I have her long enough, said Hank grimly. I ain't one to take impudence with a laughing face.

Sass has its place in life, but you don't want it clear. I say that chicken's tender, sissy. Is it one of ours? Tilde Jane wrinkled her face. No, Hank, I got it in the market. I know it was like being rash with your money, but I just can't eat our chickens, and you won't kill them, nor per letta. So what can I do? You're all right, sissy, buy all the chickens you want, but what will you do with ours? Hens are powerful birds at the multiplication table. I don't know, Hank, perhaps

I can exchange them. Why is it that we let the hens have pretty little chickens and nurse and tend them, and then, just when they're grown up and company for us, we turn round and kill them? Hank shook his head. There's a good many mysteries in the world, sissy. That blood and thunder one is the worst. We've got to kill to get on. If we didn't, there'd be a worse state of things that there is now. Did you ever think how many chickens there'd be if we never killed any? No, Hank. After

supper, I'll get a pencil and do a bit of calculating. If every old hannin siskissette kept her chickens, I'll wager that in 10 years there wouldn't be enough food in the place for her and us too. We humans would have to go to the wall. That's the way we keep on top. We crowd everything and everybody. Oh, not everybody, Hank. Yes, everybody. Isn't Jake Wendell too mad to speak to me? Because I pushed him out of getting that place in the mill. Mr. Tracy was intending to offer it to him when you

plumped in and begged it for me. Tilda Jane paused with a tempting piece of butter biscuit halfway to her mouth. And am I to blame because Jake Wendell's family is suffering for comforts this winter? No, no, sissy, he said soothingly. You're not to blame. You'd rather he'd suffer than me. I'd rather no one would suffer, she said. Can't you get him something to do, Hank? Maybe I can, he said comfortably. But let him roust round and get something for himself. It's the smart ones that

get on. Tilda Jane looked round the room, so comfortable in the glowing firelight and lamplight. And if I wasn't here, Hank, there'd be some other girl here. I'm crowding someone out. That's it, Tilda, he said good-humoredly. I hope you'll lie right down and die now. Her glance traveled round the room once more, then came back to his shining face. Well, I just shan't, she said with one of her rare flashes of humor. I'm going to stay with you and

Grandpa. Hank burst into a roar of laughter and beat his hand on his knee. That's right, Tilda, do all the good you can to others, but hold on to your own job. If it's right, she said soberly, I know I'm right to bide here. If I thought I was wrong, Hank, an iron cage wouldn't hold me. You bet it wouldn't, he said. You're the kind of young one to run away with your cage on your back. Hey, Grandpa. Hello, said the old man in a gruff voice. Hello. He's gone deep, said Hank resignedly.

Doesn't want to talk. He was all right as well ago. Masticate him, Dad, he voice-affirmed, Romanesque cat and gravy. What's that, Hank? Inquired Tilda Jane, pricking up her ears. Latin, sissy, said the young man roguishly. You know I'm studying some evenings. I'd like to know languages, said the little girl wistfully. I can say some French I took from the melanchons. Let Perletta do some more work. I want you to study a lot, and that reminds me.

When will you begin going to school? Next Tuesday, Hank. Monday will be wash day. Bah, let Silverton there do the washing. You favor her too much, Tilda. I won't after this. She was new at first, and things look queer to her. Well, I've had a good supper, said Hank, getting up after a time, and I'm much obliged to you, sissy, for taking such a lot of pains to make this a special occasion. I guess I'll go out and tell Milkweed about it. Where's the lantern? In the

woodhouse, Hank, near the churn. And the little girl went to one of the kitchen windows to watch him going out, swinging the bright light, and sending exquisite rays over the banks of snow. Suddenly, she roused at herself with a start, and went back to the dining room. I must be going. I have work to do this evening. Grandpa, where do you want to sit? Here or in the kitchen? Grandpa, who had mysteriously acquired his hearing, said decidedly, here. Tilda Jane smiled as she turned

his armchair to the fire. Grandpa did not say much, but he did not like the new girl any better than Hank did. Perletta, said Tilda Jane, going into the kitchen. I have to run out a spell this evening. Run out? said the big girl in surprise. Where are you going? Never mind. If I wished you to know, I would tell you. While I'm gone, I want you to clear the table and wash the dishes. All alone? exclaimed Perletta in dismay. Yes, all alone. And be quick about it, so you can help Mr.

Hank when he comes in. Ain't you going out to the hen house with me, to grease them hens' legs? Not tonight, not till tomorrow. They're plum scaly. They will keep, said Tilda Jane with dignity. And she hurried away, while Perletta began to saunter lazily from dining room to kitchen, muttering under her breath, Yes, hens' legs can wait, no matter about hens. Girls must run the streets. Poor hens. Perletta will take the lantern and go all alone to grease their legs.

Cock-a-doodle-doo. And she gave a whoop that made poor Grandpa jump in his chair. End of chapter five.