Free Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink Page B

I could, but folks thought me too small and young to be entrusted with much. I was a lively lad, as gay as a cricket, in spite of my troubles. I had learned to dance and I begged my mother for a pair of clogs. The poor, good woman had no money to spare for dancing clogs, as I well know now. But, I daresay, I left her no peace, and suddenly she had an idea for granting my request and at the same time adding something to our income. She bought me the clogs and made me a little green jacket and a pair of red breeches. There was a green cap, too, with a red feather, and so I danced,and people threw me coppers as if I had been a monkey.”
    â€œDid you make a lot of money, Father?”
    â€œNo, but I made enough to help a bit, and sometimes they even engaged me in cheap music halls to do a week’s turn or two. That was a great event.”
    â€œOh, Father, can you still dance?” cried Caddie.
    â€œI’ve still got two legs,” said Mr. Woodlawn, gay once more.
    â€œOh, do! do!” the children cried, seizing him by the hands and pulling him out of his chair. “Oh, Father, dance! Do!”
    Mr. Woodlawn laughed. Then suddenly he pursed his lips and began to whistle an old-fashioned jig. Tap! tap! tap! went toe and heel, and suddenly he was jigging and clogging and snapping his fingers to the astonishment of the open-mouthed children. They formed a delighted ring about him, clapping and shouting, and keeping time with their feet.
    Mrs. Woodlawn got up quickly and went into her bedroom. Nobody missed her, nor heard her opening the drawers in the chest where the linen was kept. When the dance was over, and Father sank, breathless and laughing, into his chair, Mrs. Woodlawn came out with a small oil painting in her hands.
    â€œYour father will never show you this,” she said, “so I am going to.”
    â€œNo, no, Harriet,” begged Mr. Woodlawn, still laughing and panting. “It’s too foolish.”
    â€œThe children shall judge of that,” said his wife, and she propped the canvas up on the table. It was a dim picture, painted in an old style, of a very funny little boy. The little boy seemed scarcely more than a baby and he was dressed in a quaint little sailor suit with a wide-brimmed hat. Two tufts of bright red hair were pulled down on either side of the face, beneath the brim of the hat. Everybody began to laugh. And yet there was something sad and wistful, too, in the eyes of the strange little boy who looked at them.
    â€œIt’s your father,” said Mrs. Woodlawn, “and it was his poor, dear father who painted it. Your father was only three years old.”
    The children shouted with laughter, but Caddie felt a little bit as if she wanted to cry, too, and she reached for Father’s hand and squeezed it.
    â€œIt’s a wicked shame!” continued Mrs. Woodlawn tartly. “All that land in England, that great stone house, even the peacocks—they ought to belong in part to your father, perhaps entirely. Who knows? Think, children, all of you might have been lords and ladies!”
    â€œNo, no, Harriet,” said Mr. Woodlawn, growing grave again. “It was a hard struggle, but what I havein life I have earned with my own hands. I have done well, and I have an honest man’s honest pride. I want no lands and honors which I have not won by my own good sense and industry.”
    Just then the clocks all over the house began to chime ten.
    â€œAh! my dears!” cried Mrs. Woodlawn. “When have you ever gone so late to bed! Scamper now, as fast as you can!”
    Frightened by the idea of sitting up so late, the little children scurried to obey. Clara and Caddie went more slowly upstairs together. Clara’s slender shoulders were lifted with a new pride and her dark eyes shone.
    â€œPeacocks on the lawn, Caddie,” she whispered. “Just think!”
    â€œPeacocks!” repeated Caddie softly, and then suddenly she