CHAPTER VI.
UNKER DOCKER'S BEARD.
Weezy's Sambo had hardly rallied from the mumps when she herself was attacked by the same disease. One afternoon her face and throat began to swell, and by the next morning she looked like a fat young Eskimo.
"Oh, ho! What a cheeky little girl! I never saw a little girl so cheeky," cried Kirke, laughing merrily, at his first glimpse of her, bolstered up in her mother's bed.
"I isn't _sheeky_ 'ittle girl. Make him 'top, mamma," moaned wretched little Weezy, beginning to cry.
"Now, mamma, I didn't mean to tease her. I didn't, _honest_," exclaimed Kirke, balancing himself across the foot-board. "She cries as easy as a wink."
"Oh, she does, does she?" said Dr. Wyman, bustling in. "Well, my young man, we must forgive her. Mumps seldom make people jolly."
"O unker Docker, I don't want any more mumps," wailed Weezy, reaching out both hands.
One held the comb with which she had been arranging Viola Maud's blonde wig. Viola Maud was the lovely great wax doll that Mrs. Rowe called "her own," and _lent_ to Weezy only when the little girl was ill or unhappy.
"Of course you don't want any more mumps, dearie, and so you're going to stay in mamma's room, and keep quiet," said her uncle cheerfully, sitting down beside the bed.
"But the mumps is _here_, unker Docker. They's got _in_," replied Weezy, in a discouraged tone.
"Is that so?" asked Dr. Wyman, pretending to be very serious. "Then, I tell you what we'll do to get 'em out. We'll take some castor-oil. Mumps don't like castor-oil."
"Don't they?" said Weezy, deeply interested.
"I was afraid she would object to taking medicine, and I am agreeably disappointed," thought the doctor, sending Kirke at once for a teaspoon, and a little milk in an egg-glass.
But when Dr. Wyman had poured some oil into the milk, and brought it to Weezy, it became evident that there had been a misunderstanding.
"No, no. _Unker Docker_ take slippy oil _hisse'f_. _Unker Docker_ make naughty mumps go 'way. _Weezy_ don't want slippy oil," cried she, putting her hands over her mouth.
Plainly she reasoned that, provided the medicine was swallowed, it did not matter who swallowed it; and if unker Docker had not meant to do his part in driving out the mumps, why had he said, "_We'll_ take some castor-oil"?
Dr. Wyman disliked to scold a little girl who looked so feverish and heavy-eyed, and he began to talk to Weezy in a coaxing manner.
"Come, darling," said he, "if you'll take this like a good little lady, the minute you are well, I'll give you a nice long ride."
Weezy shook her head, being sufficiently shrewd to know that she could have the drive without the medicine.
"Well, if you'll take it, I'll tell you a story."
"A great long 'tory," said Weezy, pricking up her ears; "a 'tory long as this house?"
"Not quite as long as this house, perhaps," returned Dr. Wyman, "but as long as,--as a hen-house, we'll say. It's a story about a chicken."
"About a truly chicken--a egg-chicken?"
"Yes, about a truly egg-chicken. Now, open your mouth."
"And may I comb _yous_ whixers all the time what you's telling?" persisted Weezy, pausing with the cup at her lips.
"Yes, yes," said her uncle with a wry face; for his whiskers were nearly as long as Weezy's arm, and he always winced when she dragged the comb through them.
Without another word, Weezy shut her eyes, and emptied the glass. After Kirke had carried the teaspoon and glass down-stairs, and gone off to school, Dr. Wyman began his story:--
"Chicken Little came to town very unexpectedly."--
"Did he _wide_?" interrupted his listener, flourishing her brush.
"Yes. He rode all wrapped up in an egg-shell blanket. If you don't believe it, you can ask my aunt Lovejoy, when she comes this summer. She lives in Indianapolis; and the first call Chicken Little made in the city, he made at her house."
"_Who_ did he call?" asked Weezy, beginning to braid her uncle's beard into little tails.
"Whom did he call? Oh, he called aunt Lovejoy!" replied Dr. Wyman, laughing to himself. "You see, this was how it happened. It was a hot morning, and aunt Lovejoy was in the kitchen, stirring up a pudding for dinner, when Tilly--Tilly was her German girl--came home from market with a basket of eggs. Tilly set the basket on the table, and went round to the corner-grocery for something,--a yeast-cake, I think it likely: they eat bread at aunt Lovejoy's."
"_Course!_" put in Weezy, with disdain.
"Yes, sometimes it's _coarse_, and then again sometimes it is fine," continued her teasing uncle. "Well, all this while, you must understand, aunt Lovejoy was going on, stirring her pudding; and, as she stirred, she kept hearing a little sharp, clicking noise. At first, she supposed it was made by her spoon hitting the bowl; but, when she stopped stirring, she heard the noise just the same, and it seemed to come from the market-basket on the table. Aunt Lovejoy said to herself, that there must be a dreadful ringing in her ears; and I've no doubt she blamed her doctor for having given her so much quinine. But before she finished stoning her raisins, the sound had grown so loud, that she ran to the basket. As she raised the cover, something said to her, 'Peep, peep!'"
"I know, unker Docker, I know!" shouted Weezy, forgetting her sore throat. "Chicken 'Ittle was in the _baxet_."
"What a bright girl! How could you guess!" said her uncle. "Yes; you are right. There sat Chicken Little in an egg-shell, sticking his yellow head out just far enough to play 'peek-a-boo' with aunt Lovejoy."
"Had he got his eyes open?" asked Weezy anxiously, thinking of her blind kitten.
"Got his eyes open! I should say he had,--and his mouth too!" answered Dr. Wyman, cringing at an unexpected snarl in his beard. "Don't you believe the little fellow was glad to find somebody to speak to, that was alive? Those eggs must have been poor company for a wide-awake chicken."
"How did he get out?" asked Weezy, bringing her uncle back to the main point.
"After a while, he _broke_ out. He pecked and pecked with his bill, till he had made a hole in the egg-shell, big enough to squeeze through; and then he marched forth, stretching his wings, first one, and then the other, to show aunt Lovejoy how yellow and downy they were. He was pretty hungry by this time: so aunt Lovejoy mixed some corn-meal and water in a cup, and"--
Here the door flew open, and Kirke dashed in, crying,--
"Come, quick, uncle Doctor! Oh, please come quick as ever you can! My teacher's most killed! Not Miss Cumstan, but _pretty Miss Bailey_!"
"Where have they taken her?" asked Dr. Wyman, with a rueful glance at his beard, hopelessly tangled into six little tails, which Weezy called braids.
"Into my class-room. She came back to school only this morning, and a horse and carriage got frightened and ran into her," sobbed Kirke, half frantic. "They sent me and another boy to bring you. O uncle, do hurry!"
"I will, I'll go this instant," said he, rising.
He had been hastily attempting to comb out the braids; but he now threw down the comb in despair, and seized his hat.
"I look like a picture in a comic almanac," thought he, as he pressed on with the boys; "but that is no reason why I should keep that suffering girl waiting."
"They say Miss Bailey's broken her bones," Kirke further explained as they drew near the schoolhouse. "She's fainted all in a heap."
When Dr. Wyman entered the class-room, she had rallied from the fainting fit, and her arm was paining her severely. She was so weak and nervous, that at sight of tall, dignified Dr. Wyman, with his beard plaited like a girl's hair, she began to laugh, though it mortified her to be so rude.
"I wear my whiskers in this style because my little niece is ill, Miss Bailey," said the doctor humorously. "Now, if you please, I'll examine your arm."
It proved to be a small bone that had been fractured, and he was glad to be able to assure Miss Bailey that in a few weeks she would be as well as ever. Having properly attended to the arm, and promised to call the next day, Dr. Wyman went home through a back street, and spent a whole hour, by the clock, in smoothing out the comical little braids under his chin.