Free Cherry Ames 05 Flight Nurse by Helen Wells

Jerries killed her. She’s beautiful in her picture. I have a dog, though. A jolly brown dog named Lilac. My father says Lilac—” The child stopped. Her brows drew together. Cherry wondered whether she were looking so troubled about Lilac or about her father.
    “Will we have a sweet at luncheon? I’m frightfully tired of porridge all the time,” the piping voice went on. “You see, Lilac and Grandmother and I, we all eat porridge. Lilac doesn’t like porridge a bit better than I do.”
    “I don’t like oatmeal much myself. You shall have dessert at lunch and some chocolate to take home,” Cherry promised.

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    “Chocolate,” Muriel breathed. “My father brought it to me sometimes. Is luncheon served presently?”
    “Immediately! Let’s walk over.”
    “Right-o.”
    The walk over to Officers’ Mess was virtually a triumphal parade of two. The other nurses oh’d and ah’d when they saw Cherry’s small visitor. The pilots were no less smitten by this grave elf of a girl. At the long table, surrounded by grownups, Muriel was so smothered with attentions that she was bewildered. Gwen, across the table, gave her, her pat of butter and her pick-les. Dick Greenberg hunted up a glass of milk with—
    bliss!—chocolate syrup in it. Wade left his chair on Muriel’s other side and canvassed the room, frankly asking nurses and pilots to contribute some of their cookies. Even Major Thorne came over, plump and beaming, to shake Muriel’s small hand and present her with a package of chewing gum. She was overwhelmed, unable to say anything to anybody beyond whispered thank-you’s.
    “Now you must eat,” Cherry said in a low voice. She drew Muriel’s chair closer to her own and cut up her lamb for her. Muriel leaned over to Cherry.
    “When may I chew the gum?”
    “After lunch. Come now, this is awfully good—” Muriel automatically opened her mouth, chewed, swallowed hastily, and leaned close again to whisper,
    “Please, is Captain Cooper your friend? I do like him .

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    Only why do Americans hold their forks in the wrong hand?”
    Cherry explained and urged her to eat. After protesting she was not hungry, Muriel settled down and finished her portion, including a nibble off Cherry’s plate, and a taste of Wade’s coffee, and Wade’s, Maggie’s and Gwen’s jello. She looked profoundly happy and sleepy.
    “Want to take a nap?” Cherry asked.
    “Oh, no! I wouldn’t waste a minute! This is fun no end!”
    She trotted along at Cherry’s side, lugging Wade’s cookies, the chewing gum, her purse and a handful of lump sugar “for Lilac.” Bill Mason’s Pacific theater ribbon was pinned conspicuously on her jacket. She and Cherry walked as far as the lounge of Officers’
    Mess, when a delegation of nurses met them.
    “Halt!” said Gwen, holding up her hand. “Lieutenant Cherry, we have conferred, and decided that Miss Muriel Grainger should not be your guest alone. Our whole squadron would like to invite her to be—ahem!—
    our mascot! Major Thorne has given his permission.” The little girl edged closer to Cherry and clung to her jacket.
    Cherry bent down and whispered, “Would you like that?”
    “What is a mascot?” Muriel whispered back. “What does a mascot have to do?”

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    Cherry explained this, too. “It’s a great compliment, and lots of fun.”
    Muriel whispered, “Please tell them, yes, thank you.”
    “Don’t you want to tell them yourself?” But this was beyond the six-year-old’s courage. As Cherry accepted for her, she stared solemnly at the nurses, a little flush of color in her cheeks.
    There was an outburst of applause, there in the foyer.
    Muriel dodged behind a chair. Her reticent expression said clearly that these hearty Americans were too much for her. But when Cherry fished her out, she was smiling.
    Muriel’s shyness gradually wore off on her subse-quent