Free The Book of Small by Emily Carr Page A

caterpillar following her to the drawing-room.
    Of course she knew it was me, because she had told me to sit there, but she put me through five separate agonies, her pointing finger getting longer and her voice deeper, with every “Did you do it?” When it came to me, her finger touched the antimacassar and her voice dragged me into a deep pit. When I said my, “Yes, Mrs. Crane,” she said that I had desecrated the work of her dear dead mother’s hands, that it was Satan that had told my idlefingers to do it, that I was a naughty mischievous child and that after breakfast I must undo all the little pigtails.
    Not the boom of the breakfast gong, nor the bellow of Mr. Crane’s family prayers, nor the leather cushion that always smelt so real and nice when your nose went into it, could drown those horrid sobs. They couldn’t be swallowed nor would they let my breakfast pass them. So Mrs. Crane excused me and I went to the beastly antimacassar and wished her mother had taken it to Heaven with her. Mrs. Miles came and sat near and blinked and clicked, blinked and clicked.
    â€œPlease! Please! Mrs. Crane, can’t we go home?”
    â€œAnd make your poor mama worse?”
    I did not even want to ride Cricket that day.
    After tea we went to visit a friend of Mrs. Crane’s. We went in the boat. Mr. Crane rowed. Night came. Under the bridges the black was thick and the traffic thundered over our heads. Then we got into a boom of loose logs. They bumped our boat and made it shiver and when Mr. Crane stood up and pushed them away with his oar, it tipped. Helen and I were one on each side of Mrs. Crane in the stern. When she pulled one tiller rope her elbow dug into me, when she pulled the other her other elbow dug into Helen.
    The ropes rattled in and out and the tiller squeaked. I began to shake and my teeth to chatter.
    â€œStop it, child!” said Mrs. Crane.
    But I could not stop. I stared down into the black water and shook and shook and was deadly cold.
    Mrs. Crane said I must have taken a chill. I had not eaten anything all day, so she gave me a large dose of castor oil when we got home. I felt dreadfully bad, especially in bed, when Alice said, “Why can’t you behave? You’ve annoyed Mrs. Crane all day.”
    â€œI hate her! I hate her!” I cried. “She’s got a pig’s heart.”
    Alice said, “For shame!”—hitched the bedclothes over her shoulder and immediately long breaths came from her.
    Next morning was wet, but about noon there was meek sunshine and Helen and I were sent to run up and down the drive.
    EVERYTHING WAS SO opposite at Mrs. Crane’s that sometimes you had to feel your head to be sure you were not standing on it. For instance you could do all sorts of things in the garden, climb trees and swing on gates. It was not even wicked to step on a flower bed. But it was naughty to play in the stable yard among the creatures, or to tumble in the hay in the loft, or to lift a chicken, or to hold a puppy. Every time we came to the stable end of the drive, I just
had
to stop and talk to Cricket through the bars and peer into his great big eyes and whisper into his ears.
    IN THE YARD behind Cricket I saw a hen.
    â€œOh Helen, just look at that poor hen! How bad she does feel!
    â€œHow do you know she feels bad?”
    â€œWell, look at her shut eyes and her head and tail and wings all flopped. She feels as I did yesterday. Maybe oil…”
    â€œI’ll pour if you’ll hold,” said Helen.
    We took the hen to the nursery. She liked the holding, but was angry at the pouring. When her throat was full she flapped free. I did not know a hen could fly so high. She knocked several things over and gargled the oil in her throat, then her big muddy feet clutched the top of the bookcase and she spat the oil over Mrs. Crane’s books so that she could cackle. She had seemed so meek and sick we could not believe it. I was