CHAPTER XI
THE NINE GIFTS
TWO evenings later, Ken confronted his sister at the foot of the stairs as she came down from seeing Kirk to bed.
"Where," said Ken, "is your Braille slate?"
"What," said Felicia, "do you want with a Braille slate, if I may ask?"
"You may n't," said Ken, conclusively.
"But it makes a difference," Phil argued. "If you want to write Braille with it,—which seems unlikely,—I'll consider. But if you want it to prop open the door with, or crack nuts on, or something, you can't have it."
"I can think of lots better things to crack nuts on than a Braille slate," said Ken. "I want to use it for its rightful purpose. Come now, my girl, out with it!"
"Wish you luck," said Felicia, going to the educational shelf; "here it is."
Ken eyed it mistrustfully—a slab of wood, crossed by a movable metal strip which was pierced with many small, square openings.
"Also," said Ken, "the alphabet of the language."
"American Uncontracted, or Revised, Grade One and a Half?" Phil asked airily.
"They sound equally bad, but if there's any choice, give me the easiest. Sounds like geological survey stuff."
Phil rummaged again, and brought to light an alphabet which she had made for herself in her early Braille days.
"And the paper and stuff you use," Ken demanded.
"Here, take everything!" cried Felicia, thrusting out handfuls of irrelevant books and papers. "Stop asking for things in dribbles."
Ken settled himself at the table, scowled at the embossed alphabet, and then clamped a piece of the heavy paper into the slate. He grasped the little punch firmly, and, with a manner vigorous, if not defiant, he set to work.
"You just poke holes in the paper through the squares, eh, and they turn into humps?"
"The squares don't turn into humps; the holes do. Don't whack so hard."
There was silence for a short time, broken only by Ken's mutterings and the click of the stylus. Felicia looked up, then gazed meditatively across the table at the enterprise.
"Is it for a Hebrew person?" she inquired gently.
"Hebrew?" Ken said; "I should rather say not. Why?"
"You're writing it backward—like Yiddish."
"I'm doing it from left to right, which is the way one usually writes," said Ken, in a superior tone. "You're looking at it upside-down. You're twisted."
"The holes," said Felicia, mildly, "in order to become readable humps on the other side, have to be punched right to left."
"Oh!" said Ken. After a moment of thought he exclaimed, somewhat indignant: "You mean to say, then, that you have to reverse the positions of all these blooming dots, besides writing 'em backward?"
"Yes"
"You have to read 'em one way, and write 'em another, and remember 'em both?"
"You do."
"And—and Kirk does that?"
"Yes; and he knows Revised, Grade One and a Half, too, and our alphabet besides, and embossed music, a little, and arithmetic, and—"
"Don't," said Ken. "It makes a fellow feel cheap."
With which he removed the paper and clamped in a fresh sheet. The work progressed silently; Ken occasionally gnashed his teeth and tore away the paper, but after a time the mistakes grew fewer, and Felicia, looking across at her brother's brown, handsome face, found it tranquil and sober, an earnest absorption in his gray eyes and a gently whimsical smile about his mouth. She knew of whom he was thinking, and smiled tenderly herself as she watched his big hand plod systematically and doggedly across the unfamiliar way. Bedtime found Ken elated and exhibiting to his sister several neatly embossed sheets of paper.
"'All day my—'" read Felicia.
"Murder!" cried Ken. "I forgot you could read the stuff! Go to bed, go to bed!"
At a rather early hour the next morning, Felicia was awakened by the stealthy approach to her bedside of a small and cautious figure in pajamas. It stood quite still beside the bed, listening to find out whether or not she was asleep. She spread her arms noiselessly, and then flung them about the pajamaed one. When the confusion of kisses, hugs, and birthday greetings had subsided, and Kirk was tucked under the quilt, he said:
"Now see me a story."
"But I can't—not like Ken," Felicia protested.
"Oh, Phil!" Kirk said in a tone of withering reproach. "Silly! A birthday special one, please."
Felicia thought for some time; then she said:
"It's not very nice, but it's a sort of birthday one. It's called The Nine Gifts."
"One for each year," said Kirk, wriggling comfortably.
"Exactly. Once upon a time there was a nice person who lived in an old house on a hill. One autumn day was his birthday, but he was n't thinking of any gifts, because there could be no one to give him anything, and he was quite poor—as far as gold and silver went. So he was feeling just a little sad, because people like to have gifts. He came downstairs and unlocked his door, and opened it to the beautiful young day all strung with dew—"
"Could he see it?" asked Kirk.
"No," said Felicia, "he could n't."
"Then it was me."
"We-e-ll," said his sister, "possibly. But when he opened the door, in came the wind, all as fresh and dewy as a dawn-wind can be. It ruffled up his hair, and fluttered the curtains at the windows, and ran all about the room. Then it said:
"'I am the wind. I give you the breath of the dawn, and the first sigh of the waking fields and hedge-rows, and the cool stillness of the forest that is always awake. Take my birthday kiss upon your forehead!'
"And that was the First Gift. The person was quite surprised, but he was very much pleased, too. He went out and brought in some bread and milk for his breakfast, and then he went to get some water at the well. There was a gentle, delicious warmth all about in the air, and a far-off, round voice said:
"'I am the sun. I wrap you in a glowing mantle of warmth and light. I make the earth grow and sing for you. It is I who wake the dawn-wind and the birds. Take my warm kiss on your upturned face.'
"And that was the Second Gift. The person thanked the sun very much, and went in, with his heart all warmed, to eat his breakfast. As he sat eating, in at the window came all manner of little sounds—twitterings and sighings and warblings and rustlings, and all the little voices said together:
"'We are the sounds of the open. We are the birds in the russet meadow, and the whispering of the orchard trees, the cheep of the crickets in the long grass, and the whole humming, throbbing voice of out-of-doors. Take our kiss upon your waiting senses.'
"That was the Third Gift. The person ran out at the door to thank the little sounds, when what should meet him but a host of the most delicious scents!
"'We are the smell of the tawny grass, and the good tang of the wood-smoke. We are the fragrance of ripening apples in the orchard, and honeysuckle over the wall. We are the clean, cool, mellowing atmosphere of September. Breathe our sweetness!'
"That was the Fourth Gift. To be sure, the nice person was quite overwhelmed by this time, for he never had expected such a thing. As he stooped to thank the delicious scents, he touched a little clump of asters by the door-stone.
"'Greeting!' they piped. 'We are the flowers. We are the asters by the door, and burnished goldenrod in the orchard; trumpeting honeysuckle on the fence, sumach burning by the roadside, juicy milkweed by the gate. Take our cool, green kiss on your gentle fingers!'
"He stroked their little purple heads, and flung himself down beside them for a moment, to thank them. As he did so, a big, warm voice came from beneath him:
"'I am the earth. I am the cool clasp of the tall grass by the gate. I am the crispness of the heath—grass on the upland. I will rock you to sleep on my great, grass-carpeted breast. I will give you rest and security. Take my great kiss on your body.'
"That was the Sixth Gift. Dear me! the person was delighted. He lay with his cheek to the good earth's heart, thanking it, when a big gusty voice came swinging out of the east.
"'I am the sea. I give you the sound of water about the boat's bow, and the cry of the gulls; the wet, salt smack of me, the damp fog on your face, and the call out into the wide places.'
"The person jumped up and turned his face to the blue glint of the bay, and thanked the sea for the Seventh Gift. Then he went into the house to tidy up the hearth. As he came into the room, a queer, gentle, melodious voice, which seemed to come from the organ, said:
"'I am Music. I hold the key to enchantment. It is I who will sum up for you all the other gifts and make them mine—and yours. Take my kiss within your soul.'
"And that was the Eighth Gift," Felicia paused.
"But the ninth?" Kirk whispered.
"I'm trying to think of it."
Kirk clapped his hands suddenly.
"I know what it was!" he cried. "Don't you? Oh, don't you, Phil?"
"No, I don't. What was it?"
"Shall I finish?" Kirk asked.
"Please do."
"And the person said, 'Thank you,' to the organ," Kirk proceeded gleefully; "and then in the door what should stand but a beautiful lady. And she said: 'I'm your sister Felicia—Happiness.' And that was the most best gift of all!"
"Naughty person!" said Felicia. "After all those really nice gifts! But—but if you will have it that, she said, 'Take my kiss upon your heart of hearts.' Oh, Kirk—darling—I love you!"
Flowers twined Kirk's chair at the breakfast table—golden honeysuckle, a sweet, second blooming, and clematis from the Maestro's hedge. Kirk hung above it, touching, admiring, breathing the sweetness of the honeysuckle; aware, also, of many others of the Nine Gifts already perceptible about the room. But his fingers encountered, as he reached for his spoon, a number of more substantial presents stacked beside his plate. There was the green jersey which Felicia had been knitting at privately for some time. He hauled it on over his head at once, and emerged from its embrace into his sister's. There was, too, a model boat, quite beautifully rigged and fitted, the painstaking care with which it was fashioned testifying to the fact that Ken had not been quite so forgetful of his brother's approaching birthday as he had seemed to be.
"She's called the Celestine," said Ken, as Kirk's fingers sought out rapturously the details of the schooner. "It's painted on her stern. She's not rigged according to Hoyle, I'm afraid; I was rather shaky about some of it."
"She has a flag," Kirk crowed delightedly. "Two of 'em! And a little anchor—and—" he became more excited as he found each thing: "oh, Ken!"
There was another gift—a flat one. A book of five or six short stories and poems that Kirk had loved best to hear his sister read—all written out in Braille for him in many of Felicia's spare hours. Now he could read them himself, when Phil had no time to give him. Breakfast was quite neglected; the cereal grew cold. Kirk, who had not, indeed, expected so much as the nine gifts of Phil's tale, was quite overcome by these things, which his brother and sister had feared were little enough. There was one thing more—some sheets of paper covered with Braille characters, tucked beside Kirk's plate.
"That's Ken's handiwork," Felicia said, hastily disclaiming any finger in the enterprise. "I don't know what you may find!"
"It's perfectly all right, now," Ken protested. "You'll see! You can read it, can't you, Kirk?"
Kirk was frowning and laughing at once.
"It's a little bit funny," he said. "But I did n't know you could do it at all. Oh, listen to it!"
He declaimed this, with some pauses:
"TO MY RELATIVE, K. S.
"While I am at my watery work
All up and down the bay,
I think about my brother Kirk
A million times a day.
"All day my job seems play to me,
My duties they are light,
Because I know I'm going to see
My brother Kirk that night.
"I ponder over, at my biz,
How nice he is
(That smile of his!),
And eke his cheerful, open phiz.
"And also I am proud of him,
I sing the praises loud of him,
And all the wondering multitude
At once exclaims: 'Gee Whiz!'"
"It seems this relative of mine
Is going to have a fête.
They tell me that he'll now be nine,
Instead of half-past eight.
How simply fine!
We'll dance and dine!
We'll pass the foaming bowl of wine!
And here's our toast
(We proudly boast
There isn't any need to urge us):
Hip, Hip, Hooray for Kirkleigh Sturgis!"
Ken gave the three cheers promptly, and then said: "That one's silly. The other's the way I really feel. Oh, don't read it aloud!"
Kirk, who had opened his mouth to begin the next page, closed it again, and followed the lines of Braille silently. This is what he read: read:
"At eight o'clock on the day you were born,
I found a fairy under a thorn;
He looked at me hard, he looked at me queerly,
And he said, 'Ah, Ken, you shall love him dearly.'
"I was then myself but a wee small lad,
But I well remember the look that he had;
And I thought that his words came wondrous true,
For whom could I love more dear than you?
"To-day at dawn I was out alone,
I found a wee fairy beside a stone;
And he said, as he looked at me, far above him,
'Ah, Ken, you have only begun to love him!'"
There could be no possible answer to this but a rush from Kirk and an onslaught of hugs, from which it was long before Ken could disentangle himself.
"Oh, what have I done!" Ken cried. "Yes, of course I mean it, silly! But do, do have a care—we're all mixed up with the marmalade and the oatmeal, as it is!"
Ken had proclaimed the day a half-holiday for himself, but Kirk was to go with him on the morning trip, and Phil, too, if she wanted to go. She did want, so Applegate Farm was locked up, and three radiant Sturgises walked the warm, white ribbon of Winterbottom Road to the Dutchman. Kirk was allowed to steer the boat, under constant orders from Ken, who compared the wake to an inebriated corkscrew. He also caught a fish over the stern, while Ken was loading up at Bayside. Then, to crown the day's delight, under the door at Applegate, when they returned, was thrust a silver-edged note from the Maestro, inviting them all to supper at his house, in honor of the occasion.