Randy and Her Friends by Amy Brooks

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"Your loving sister,
RANDY."

All the children were invited to come on Saturday and see the wonderful
doll, and Randy Helen Weston was made to open and shut her lovely eyes, to
turn her head, to extend her beautifully jointed arm to her callers; to
cry, to stand alone upon her daintily-slippered feet, and, in fact, to
astonish them as much as possible and allow them to depart, glad of Prue's
happiness, or green with envy, according as their dispositions prompted
them.

Prue was wild with delight, and was about to print a letter for Randy,
when it was proposed at school that the long letter from her schoolmates
should be written and little Prue was invited to have a part in it.

The letter was a most amusing one, and Randy and Helen laughed heartily as
they saw the characteristics of the writers, as manifest, as if each had
been present.

They had taken half sheets of paper and pasted the ends together so that a
long strip of writing paper was obtained. Then each friend had written
and signed his contribution, and truly the result was unique. Prue had
been given ample space for her part of what she termed the "party letter,"
and with great care she printed it. Her spelling was phonetic.

"DEAR RANDY:--Nobudy ever had a dolly so lovely as mine you
sended me. I ust tu take Tabby tu bed wiv me but now I take mi
dolly. 1 day Tabby washed her hare, I meen my dollys hare I gess
she thort it waz 1 of her kittns. Tabbys got tu kittns. They has
not got thay ize open yet, so I tryd tu pick um opn, but arnt
Prudence sed that wood be cruil. If thay cant git thay ize opn
thayselfs why aint I good tu pick um opn wiv my fingus

"Yor little
PRUE."

"What _will_ Prue do next, I wonder?" said Randy.

"The idea of thinking that because those little cats could not open their
eyes, it would be a fine idea to 'pick' them open!"

Randy pitied those kittens, but she could not help laughing as she thought
of Prue's efforts to help them.

"She is probably wild to have those kittens see her new doll," said Miss
Dayton.

The long letter from her schoolmates at home had reached Randy on a stormy
Saturday morning, when the wind was blowing the snow against the windows
with such force that it sounded like hail. She thought of the horses
harnessed to the rough snow ploughs "breaking out" the roads at home, of
the pine trees laden with what looked to be giant masses of white fruit,
of the snow-capped mountains and of little Prue, with hood and mittens, at
play with Johnny Buffum, and she wished to be borne there by some
magician, if only for a moment, that she might see it all as she had seen
it, ever since she could remember.

Randy was, from the first, one of the most promising scholars at the
private school which she had entered a week after her arrival in Boston,
and her letters to father and mother, Aunt Prudence and to her friends at
the little district school were full of enthusiasm for study and ambition
to excel.

Saturdays she spent in recreation, but this day she had especially wished
might be fair. Aunt Marcia had predicted snow the night before, but Randy
had laughingly refused to listen to it, preferring to believe that the sun
would shine.

There was to be a fine concert in the afternoon, and Helen had secured
tickets for Randy, Aunt Marcia and herself, and as this was the first
concert that Randy had ever dreamed of attending, she was naturally
anxious for a fine day.

"It blows a gale," said Aunt Marcia, at the breakfast table. "Really,
Helen, if it is such a hurricane as this, I would not advise you to go
this afternoon."

"There are always concerts which are well worth attending," said Helen,
"so if it continues to blow and snow like this, I think we shall stay
cosily at home and attend some other concert next Saturday."

To Helen one concert more or less meant little; but Randy watched the sky
with anxious eyes, and just before eleven, a tiny bit of blue sky was
visible. How she watched it! At half past eleven it was a large blue
opening, and when the soft chiming of the clock announced in silvery tones
that twelve o'clock had arrived, there was no doubt that the afternoon
would be fair.

Lunch was served earlier than usual, and Randy hastened to her room to
dress for the concert. Twice she stepped from the dressing case to the
window to see if the blue sky was still visible, and when at last the
sunlight lay upon the carpet she laughed, and pinning her blue hat with
its soft feathers securely in place she hurried from the room and down the
stairway where in the hall she waited for Helen.

Usually Randy thought it luxurious to nestle close to Helen in the
carriage, but this afternoon she wished that she might have walked, just
because her excitement made it difficult for her to placidly ride to the
great hall where Miss Dayton had told her that she should hear the
sweetest of music. As they rode along, Randy wondered if all the carriages
which she saw, were conveying their occupants to the concert, and she was
conscious of a mild regret for pedestrians who were wending their way in
an opposite direction.

"They are not to enjoy the concert," she thought.

"A penny for what is in your mind, Randy," said Helen, laying her hand
upon Randy's arm.

"I was just wondering how many of the people whom I see on foot and in
carriages are going to the concert," said Randy.

"Does the concert mean so much to you?" said Helen.

"I cannot tell you how much," Randy answered, "but I have watched the
clouds, and hoped it would be fair this afternoon, and when I saw the
sunlight upon the floor, just before we started, I danced across my room
and down the stairs to meet you. I have heard you play and sing, oh, so
sweetly, I have heard little Janie's bird-like voice at home, and Sandy
McLeod has often played his pipes for me, but to-day I am to hear the
violins and listen to the great singer of whom you have told me. Oh, I can
hardly wait to get there, and to hear the music."

"Well you haven't much longer to wait," said Helen, as the carriage
stopped before the entrance to the great hall.

As the crowd surged toward the doorway, Randy began to think that all the
people whom she had seen and many more had decided that the concert was
too great a treat to miss.

Once in their seats, Randy looked about her, and found great delight in
studying the faces and costumes of the vast audience. She smiled as she
thought of that summer day when in old Nathan Lawton's front parlor she
took part in the school exhibition and received the prize in the presence
of an assemblage of fifty persons, and considered it a "crowd."

A slight commotion caused Randy to turn just in time to see the members of
the great orchestra taking their places. Then some late arrivals attracted
her attention. Two ladies with a beautiful little girl were seating
themselves on the opposite side of the aisle, and the child's face, with
her soft curls and brown eyes reminded Randy of the little sister at home.
Then a strange hush pervaded the hall, and as the director swayed his
baton, twenty bows were drawn across the strings of as many violins in one
grand chord of sweetest harmony.

Randy started, and laid her hand upon Helen's, while with parted lips she
gazed at the musicians who were making the fairy-like music which so
enthralled her. Her sensitive lips quivered, and her breath came quickly
as the orchestra played the varying movements of a grand sonata.

Enraptured with the music, tears filled her eyes during the gentle adagio,
and a bright smile chased away the tears when the next movement, a
brilliant polacca, filled the hall with its tripping measures. When the
last chord had died away Randy turned toward Helen and whispered, "Oh, I
never heard anything like that! Will they play again?"

With a smile, Helen pointed to the other numbers upon the program which
the orchestra would perform, and Randy, with a contented little sigh,
leaned back to await the next number, when the Prima Donna, a vision of
loveliness, came forward to sing.

Randy watched and listened and wondered, vaguely, if an angel could sing
like that.

Her solo ended, the singer, bowing low, retired, but not for long, for
others beside Randy realized the beauty of the song and the wonderful
voice of the vocalist, and round after round of applause pleaded for her
return.

Yet more applause, and again she stood before them, gracefully bowing her
acknowledgment of the compliment.

Again the sweet notes filled the hall, and Randy leaned eagerly forward to
catch each silvery tone.

When the song was finished, Helen said "Was not that a wonderful bit of
music?"

"Oh, yes," said Randy, "how I wish that I could tell her that I think her
voice is like the violins."

"I know her very well," Helen replied, "and I will tell her how her
singing has entranced you."

"Tell her," said Randy, eagerly, "that I think nothing in all the world
was ever half so sweet."

Then another number by the orchestra held Randy's attention and thus
through the afternoon until she felt as if her pulses were throbbing with
the rhythm of the music. She marveled that between the numbers many of the
vast audience talked and chatted merrily. The lovely little girl across
the aisle was fast asleep. Why were they ready to talk after listening to
such grand music, and how could anyone, even a child, sleep when there was
yet another witching air to be sung, another composition for those
wonderful musicians to execute!

Miss Dayton found it an interesting study to watch Randy's face, and to
see portrayed there the varying movements of each composition.

Just before the last selection was rendered, Helen penciled a hasty note
upon her card, and giving it to an usher, bade him take it to the great
singer and wait for a word in reply. The man took the card and hastened to
the room at the rear of the stage returning almost immediately with the
card which bore upon the reverse side these words,

"A cordial welcome after the concert to Miss Helen Dayton and her friend."

Leaning toward Helen, Randy read the invitation signed by the name of the
singer, and she caught her breath as she realized that she was about to
meet one who seemed to her so far above the realm of ordinary mortals.

When the audience began to leave the hall and Helen led the way to the
dressing room, Randy walked beside her, sure that no girl was ever before
so favored. To hear the wonderful voice was rapture, to talk with the
singer,--Randy could hardly believe that in a few moments she should
experience so great a pleasure.

When at last they reached the pretty room, they found the great vocalist
chatting merrily with the lovely child who had sat opposite Randy and had
slept through half of the afternoon.

"And so you became tired," the lady was saying.

"Not when you were singing," said the little girl, frankly, "but when the
violins and flutes and all the other things had played and played, they
made me sleepy, and I just lay back in my seat and shut my eyes a minute
when mama said:--

"'Come Marguerite, it is time to go, if you wish to see Madam Valena.' and
that made me open my eyes wide, I did so wish to see you."

Quite like a miniature lady she made the little courteous speech, but she
was every inch a child as she clambered up into a chair where, upon
tip-toe she offered her lips for a kiss. Then away like a gay little
butterfly she flew to join her friends.

Helen, taking Randy's hand, led her across the room and presented her.

The singer and Miss Dayton's mother had been firm friends, and Helen was
always accorded a most cordial welcome.

The table was heaped with flowers, and Randy, seeing such a profusion of
blossoms, wondered that she had thought for a moment of offering the
lovely rose which she held in her hand, to one to whom a single blossom
must seem of little value.

With the cordial greeting and firm handclasp, Randy realized that the
sweet face bending over her, belonged to a woman as lovely in character,
as in person, and she gathered courage to speak the words which were
nearest her heart.

"I did not know that any living being could sing as you sang this
afternoon," she said, "it made me think of the birds in the trees at home,
of the brook in the woods, of the white rose in my hand, and I longed to
give it to you, but when I saw all these lovely flowers, I felt that you
would not care for my one blossom, you would not understand,--" with a
queer little break in her voice, Randy ceased speaking and looking up into
the brilliant face was surprised to see two bright tears upon her cheek.

"Not care for your flower? I want it more than all of these," she said,
gently taking the rose from the slender hand which held it, and placing it
in the folds of lace upon her breast.

"With all the honors which I have won, with all the praise for my work
which I have received, no compliment ever offered me was more genuine, or
sincere, and this rose I shall keep in memory of the girl who gave it.

"Let me give some of my flowers to you, in return for your words which
have moved me more than you think.

"O! Helen," she continued. "I received my first inspiration from the birds
and the brook at home, when as a little country girl I listened to their
voices, and longed to make my tones as pure as theirs. This young girl has
brought it all back to me so clearly, that I see myself, a little barefoot
child, wading in the brook and mocking the birds which sang in the
branches above me."

A maid approached, and laid a long fur wrap about Madam Valena's
shoulders, at the same time announcing that her carriage was waiting.

Clasping the great cluster of brilliant blossoms closely, Randy said as
they parted,

"I shall never forget you," and looking from her carriage window the
singer smiled as she said,

"I shall keep your rose in memory of you."

As they rode homeward Helen told Randy much of Madam Valena's life as her
mother had known her, of her close application to study, and of her
success, and when at home they found Aunt Marcia seated before the fire
place, placidly watching the dancing flames, Randy rushed in, and sitting
upon a low hassock, she related all the wonders of the afternoon, ending
with,

"And oh, I wish that you had been there to see and hear it all."

"Why, Randy, child!" exclaimed Aunt Marcia laughing, "I thought it rather
cold this afternoon, and stayed cosily at home instead of accompanying you
and Helen, but now your eyes shine like stars, and I begin to believe
that I missed much by not attending the concert. I knew the program was a
fine one, and Madam Valena is truly a most charming person."

"Indeed she is," assented Randy, "and she looked so queenly, I never
thought she would really talk to me, but oh, do you know that she was once
a little country girl? When I looked at her I could not imagine it."

"I know a little country maid, who no one would suppose had not spent all
her life in the city," said Aunt Marcia, with a smile, "only that she
enjoys every pleasure with a keen delight unknown to the girl who feels
that she has seen all that there is to be seen many, many times."

"I shall never feel that way," said Randy, "how could I tire of the sweet
music, or of watching the crowd in the city streets? I was never tired of
listening to the birds at home and I'm sure," she added with a laugh, "I
even enjoyed watching the people coming into our little church. There is
always something new everywhere; and I am looking for it."

"That is a part of the secret of your happiness, Randy," said Aunt Marcia,
"you intend to be delighted and usually succeed."

"Why, I am still holding the flowers which Madam Valena gave me," said
Randy, "I must place them in water," and she hastened to find a suitable
vase in which to arrange them. They formed a brilliant bit of color in the
centre of the table when dinner was served, and caused Randy to talk once
more of the concert.

"It was all so charming that I suppose I stared; at least Polly Lawrence
said that I did."

"I saw Polly with you just as we were leaving the hall," said Helen, "what
did you say that she said?"

"She said, 'Why Randy Weston, you are staring at everybody and everything
as if you'd never attended a concert before!'"

"How singularly rude," said Aunt Marcia, little pleased that Randy should
be thus spoken to.

"And what did you say to that, Randy," asked Helen, wondering if Polly's
speech had cut deeply.

With a frank smile Randy answered,--"I said, 'Well this _is_ my first
concert. Possibly _you_ would be surprised if you had never before
experienced such a pleasure.'"

Helen and her aunt were much amused that Randy could answer so readily a
remark which was intended to embarrass her, and they realized that Randy's
frankness in admitting herself a country girl quite unused to city
pleasures, would disarm a girl like Polly, more successfully than any
amount of artifice or pretense.

CHAPTER IX

A SCOTCH LINNET

The sky was a cold, leaden gray, and down from the mountains swept a
pitiless wind, which whistled through the bare branches of the trees and
tossed a few dried leaves before it, as it hurried on as if with a fixed
determination to reach every corner of the village and chill everything
which it could touch.

It leveled the few standing cornstalks and caused the dry twigs to rap a
tattoo upon the windows of the farm houses. It attacked the shivering form
of a lonely little cur who took his tail between his legs and scurried
away down the road in search of some sheltering barn or shed; it nipped
little Hi Babson's ears and snatching his cap, tossed it over the wall and
across the field where it lay, held fast in a clump of bushes.

Hi secured the cap, and as he pulled it down about his ears he looked back
in the direction from which the gust had blown, and shaking his little
fist exclaimed,

"Nasty old wind! I hate ye and ye know it. 'F I'd a been 'lowed ter stay
home an' whittle like I wanted ter, I wouldn't a lost my cap. I scratched
my fingers gittin' it, an' _that_ makes me mad."

Again he shook his little fist at his enemy, the wind, but as it did not
cease blowing, he drew on his mittens and sulkily plodded on toward
school. His cold fingers smarted where the briers had torn them, and he
felt resentful that he should be on his way toward the despised school
house, quite forgetting that by the fireside with his beloved whittling he
usually managed to cut his fingers.

Whistling lustily, Jack Marvin came down the road, overtaking Hi as he
stumbled along, a most disconsolate little figure.

"Hello, Hi," said Jack. "Why, look here little feller," as he noticed
tears in the bright black eyes.

"'Most frozen, and didn't want ter come ter school, either? Say, gimme yer
hand, mine are warm, an' you'n me'll be in school in no time. What's that?
Ain't done yer sums? Well, now, little chap, you jist come along quick,
an' 'fore ye know it ye'll be gittin' warm in the school room an' I'll
show ye 'bout yer sums 'fore the bell rings. My, but it takes you'n me ter
make good time over the road!"

Jack Marvin never could bear to see a child in tears, and his kind heart
was delighted when little Hi skipped along beside him, laughing gaily, in
spite of the traces of tears upon his cheeks.

Hi looked up to Jack as one of the best among the "big boys," and to race
along beside him and be assured of help with his lessons, took every care
from the little fellow's mind, and he laughed and whistled in company with
Jack.

The boys turned up their collars or ducked their chins beneath the folds
of woollen mufflers; and the girls drew their wraps about them and hurried
on, eager to reach the schoolhouse and gain shelter from the icy blast.

About the great stove they hovered, scorching their faces, while they
endeavored to get thoroughly warmed before the hands of the clock should
point to nine. Two girls were missing from the group around the stove.
Randy Weston, who had been at school in Boston for three months, and
Phoebe Small, whose incessant teasing had at last prevailed, and who had
six weeks before experienced the joy of going away to boarding school. It
was not that Phoebe did not love her home, or enjoy the friendship of her
mates, but she had long entertained the idea that a boarding school was
the only school worth attending.

She had wished Randy good luck when she started for Boston, but she could
not stifle a feeling of envy, and it seemed impossible for her to stay
quietly at home attending the district school.

In vain Mrs. Small insisted that Phoebe would be homesick, that Randy was
with friends, while at boarding school all would be strangers. Phoebe
invariably answered,

"Well I'd just like to try it and see how it would seem. I could write
letters home to the girls as Randy does, and I think that would be just
grand."

At last it occurred to Mrs. Small that the best thing for Phoebe would be
to grant her wish.

"I know that she will be homesick before she's been away a week," she said
to her husband, "but she cannot be convinced, and perhaps if we allow her
to try it, she will get all and more than she wants of it, and come home
with a mind to be contented."

So one bright morning Phoebe was driven to the station on her way to a
school for girls which was under the direction of two ladies who were
friends of Mrs. Small. Immediately upon her arrival she sent a note to
her mother in which she told in glowing words of the pleasure of her ride
in the cars, and her reception by the two elderly ladies who presided over
the school.

Then, after a week had passed another letter came the general tone of
which was less cheerful. Then a fortnight slipped by, and a brief letter
told only of her studies, and said not a word of the delights of boarding
school life. Then, as time passed and the mail brought no letter from
Phoebe, her mother became anxious.

"I do hope she's well, and I must say I wish I'd never consented when she
begged to go," said Mrs. Small a dozen times a day, to which her husband
would reply,

"Oh, she's all right. If she was sick they'd let us know. Most likely
she's had 'nough of it, and hates ter say so."

"Well, all the same, if I don't get a letter from her to-day, I'll go
after her to-morrow." Mrs. Small answered, as the wind whistled around the
corner and down the chimney.

While this conversation was in progress at the Small homestead, the same
subject was being discussed at the village school. Because of the intense
cold, Miss Gilman permitted the scholars to enjoy the recess indoors and
they formed little groups about the great stove, eating their lunch and
discussing those topics which lay nearest their hearts.

"I guess my Randy knows 'most everything now," Prue was saying. "She has
such long lessons, and studies late, and she's seen the big stores, and
she's been to a concert full of fiddles where she saw a great big Primmy
Dommy!"

"Why, what's that?" asked little Hitty Buffum. "Wasn't she 'fraid when she
saw the Primny what yer call it comin'?"

"I do'no," said Prue, "she didn't say, but whatever 'twas, I guess 'twas
pretty big, my Randy said so."

Evidently the children considered that in Boston one might see strange
creatures of every type, and Randy Weston had been privileged to see one
of the largest. Just at this moment Hi Babson joined the little group.

"Want ter know what I done Saturday?" he asked, his black eyes gleaming
with mischief.

"I hadn't learnt my lessons fer Monday, and ma said I must stay up in the
spare room 'til I knew 'em all by heart. I didn't like ter stay up there
alone, but when I found I got ter, I set down on the mat an' 'twan't long
before I'd learnt half of 'em. Just 'bout that time I heard a awful
scratching an' then I 'membered that Uncle Joshua set a mouse trap down by
the beaury. When I looked, there was a little mouse in it, an' all to once
I knew what I'd like ter do.

"The bedclothes was pulled down over the foot-board, an' I could see the
slit in the tick where they poke in their hands to stir up the straw. I
put the trap with the mouse in it, in there among the straw, an' then I
went down just as quiet as I could, an' got old Tom an' tugged him
upstairs.

"When I put him on the bed an' held his head over the hole in the tick,
you'd oughter seen his tail switch! The mouse was a runnin' 'round in the
cage, an' Tom dove into the slit a scatterin' the straw all over the bed.
My! Didn't it fly?"

"Why you naughty, bad boy," said little Hitty Buffum.

"What _did_ they say to you," asked Prue.

"Ma didn't say much," said Hi. "I laid down on the floor and rolled over
an' over, a laughin' like anything 'til ma come in, an' she jest looked at
that bed, drove Tom out'n the room an' then she took hold er me, an' I,--I
had ter stop laughin' ter cry 'n Grandma Babson said, 'That boy'll yet
come to the gallus.'"

A group of the larger girls were comparing the letters which Randy had
sent with those which they had received from Phoebe Small.

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