Just Sixteen.

  UNDER A SYRINGA-BUSH.

  The old syringa at the foot of the Wade's lawn was rather a tree than abush. Many years of growth had gone to the thickening of its interlacedboughs, which grew close to the ground, and made an impervious covert,except on the west side, where a hollow recess existed, into which asmall person, boy or girl, might squeeze and be quite hidden.

  Sundry other small persons with wings and feathers had discovered theadvantages of the syringa. All manner of unsuspected housekeepings wenton within its fastnesses, from the lark's nest, in a tuft of grass atthe foot of the main stem, to the robin's home on the topmost bough.Solicitous little mothers brooded unseen over minute families, while thehighly decorative bird papa sat on a neighboring hedge, carrying out hismission, which seemed to be to distract attention from the secretedfamily by the sweetness of his song and the beauty of his plumage. Inthe dusk of the evening, soft thrills and twitters sounded from thebush, like whispered conversation; and very entertaining it must havebeen, no doubt, to any one who understood the language. So, altogether,the old syringa-bush was an interesting little world of itself.

  Elly Wade found it so, as she sat in the green hiding-place on the westside, crying as if her heart would break. The syringa recess had beenher favorite "secret" ever since she discovered it, nearly two yearsbefore. No one else knew about it. There she went when she felt unhappyor was having a mood. Once the boughs had closed in behind her, no onecould suspect that she was there,--a fact which gave her infinitepleasure, for she was a child who loved privacies and mysteries.

  What are moods? Does any one exactly understand them? Some peopleattribute them to original sin, others to nerves or indigestion; but Iam not sure that either explanation is right. They sweep across thegladness of our lives as clouds across the sun, and seem to take thecolor out of everything. Grown people learn to conceal, if not toconquer, their moods; but children cannot do this, Elly Wade least ofall.

  As I said, this was by no means her first visit to the syringa-bush. Ithas witnessed some stormy moments in her life, when she sat there hotand grieved, and in her heart believing everybody cruel or unjust. Ralphhad teased her; or Cora, who was older than she, had put on airs; orlittle Kitty had been troublesome, or some schoolmate "hateful." Sheeven accused her mother of unkindness at these times, though she lovedher dearly all the while.

  "She thinks the rest are always right, and I wrong," she would say toherself. "Oh, well! she'll be sorry some day." What was to make Mrs.Wade sorry Elly did not specify; but I think it was to be when she,herself, was found dead, somewhere on the premises, of a broken heart!Elly was very fond of depicting this broken heart and tragicalending,--imaginative children often are. All the same, if she felt ill,or cut her finger, she ran to mamma for help, and was as much frightenedas if she had not been thinking these deadly thoughts only a littlewhile before.

  To-day Elly had fled to the syringa-bush with no idea of ever coming outagain. A great wrong had been done her. Cora was going with ayachting-party, and she was not. Mamma had said she was too young to betrusted, and must wait till she was older and steadier.

  "It is cruel!" she said with a fresh burst of sobs, as she recalled thebitter moment when she heard the verdict. "It was just as unkind ascould be for her to say that. Cora is only four years the oldest, and Ican do lots of things that she can't. She doesn't know a bit aboutcrocheting. She just knits. And she never made sponge-cake, and I have;and when she rows, she pulls the hardest with her left hand, and makesthe boat wabble. I've a much better stroke than she has. Papa said so.And I can swim just as well as she can!

  "Nobody loves me," was her next reflection,--"nobody at all. They allhate me. I don't suppose anybody would care a bit if I _did_ die."

  But this thought was too hard to be borne.

  "Yes, they would," she went on. "They'd feel remorse if I died, and theyought to. Then they would recollect all the mean things they've done tome, and they would groan, and say, 'Too late--too late!' like the badpeople in story-books."

  Comforted by this idea, she resolved on a plan of action.

  "I'll just stay here forever, and not come out at all. Of course, Ishall starve to death. Then, all summer long they'll be hunting, andwondering and wondering what has become of me; and when the autumncomes, and the leaves fall off, they'll know, and they'll say, 'PoorElly! how we wish we'd treated her better!'"

  She settled herself into a more comfortable position,--it isn'tnecessary to have cramps, you know, even if you _are_ starving todeath,--and went on with her reflections. So still was she that thebirds forgot her presence, and continued their twittering gossip andtheir small domestic arrangements undisturbed. The lark talked to heryoung ones with no fear of being overheard; the robins flew in and outwith worms; the thrush, who occupied what might be called the secondstory of the syringa, disciplined a refractory fledgling, and papathrush joined in with a series of musical expostulations. Elly foundtheir affairs so interesting that for a moment she forgot herown,--which was good for her.

  A big bumble-bee came sailing through the air like a wind-blown drum,and stopped for a minute to sip at a syringa blossom. Next a soft whirdrew Elly's attention, and a shape in green and gold and ruby-redglanced across her vision like a flying jewel. It was ahumming-bird,--the first of the season. Elly had never been so near onebefore, nor had so long a chance to look, and she watched with delightas the pretty creature darted to and fro, dipping its needle-like billinto one flower-cup after another, in search of the honey-drop whicheach contained. She held her breath, not to startle it; but its finesenses seemed to perceive her presence in some mysterious fashion, andpresently it flew away.

  Elly's mind, no longer diverted, went back to its unhappiness.

  "I wonder how long it is since I came here," she thought. "It seems likea great while. I guess it must be as much as three hours. They're allthrough dinner now, and beginning to wonder where I am. But they won'tfind me, I can tell them!"

  She set her lips firmly, and again shifted her position. At the slightrustle every bird in the bush became silent.

  "They needn't," she said to herself. "I wouldn't hurt them. I'm not likeRalph. He's real bad to birds sometimes. Once he took some eggs out of adear, cunning, little song-sparrow's nest, and blew the yolks. I'd neverdo such a mean thing as that."

  But though she tried to lash herself up to her old sharpness of feeling,the interruption of wrathful thoughts had somewhat soothed her mood.Still, she held firmly to her purpose, while an increasing drowsinesscrept over her.

  "I shall stay here all night," she thought, "and all to-morrow, andto-morrow night. And then"--a yawn--"pretty soon I shall be dead, Isuppose, and they'll be--sorry"--another yawn--"and--"

  Elly was asleep.

  When she woke, the bright noon sunshine had given place to a duskylight, which made the syringa recess very dark. The robins haddiscovered her whereabouts, and, hopping nearer and nearer, had perchedupon a branch close to her feet, and were talking about her. She wasdimly conscious of their voices, but had no idea what they were saying.

  "Why did it come here, any way?" asked Mrs. Robin. "A great heavy thinglike that in _our_ bush!"

  "I don't know, I'm sure," replied Mr. Robin. "It makes a strange noise,but it keeps its eyes shut while it makes it."

  "These great creatures are so queer!" pursued Mrs. Robin. "There,--it'sbeginning to move! I wish it would go away. I don't like its being sonear the children. They might see it and be frightened."

  The two birds flitted hastily off as Elly stretched herself and rubbedher eyes.

  A very uncomfortable gnawing sensation began to make itself evident. Itwasn't exactly pain, but Elly felt that it might easily become so. Sheremembered now that she fled away from the table, leaving her breakfastonly half finished, yesterday morning,--was it yesterday, or was it theday before that? It felt like a long while ago.

  The sensation increased.

  "Dear me!" thought Elly, "the story-books never said that starving todeath fe
lt so. I don't like it a bit!"

  Bravely she fought against the discomfort, but it gained upon her.

  She began to meditate whether her family had perhaps not beensufficiently punished.

  "I've been away a whole day," she reflected, "and a whole night, and Iguess they've felt badly enough. Very likely they've all sat up waitingfor me to come back. They'll be sorry they acted so, and, any way, I'mso dreadfully hungry that I must have something to eat! And I want tosee mamma too. Perhaps she'll have repented, and will say, 'Poor Elly!She _may_ go.'"

  In short, Elly was seized with a sudden desire for home, and, alwaysrapid in decision, she lost no time in wriggling herself out of thebush.

  "There, it's gone!" chirped the female robin. "I'm glad of it. I hope itwill never come back."

  Very cautiously Elly crept through the shrubbery on to the lawn. Itstill seemed dark, but she now perceived that the gloom came from agreat thunder-cloud which was gathering overhead. She could not see thesun, and, confused with her long sleep, was not able to make out whatpart of the day it was; but, somehow, she felt that it was not the earlymorning as in the bush she had supposed.

  Across the lawn she stole, and upon the piazza. No one was visible. Theopen window showed the dining-table set for something,--was it tea?Upstairs she crept, and, looking in at the door as she went by, she sawher mother in her room taking off her bonnet.

  "My poor child, where did you think we had gone?" she called out. "Papawas kept in town till the second train, and that was late, so we haveonly just got back. You must be half starved, waiting so long for yourdinner. I hope nurse gave you some bread and milk."

  "Why,--what day is it?" stammered the amazed Elly.

  "Day? Why, Elly, have you been asleep? It's to-day, ofcourse,--Thursday. What did you think it was?"

  Elly rubbed her eyes, bewildered. Had the time which seemed to her solong really been so short? Had no one missed her? It was her firstlesson in the comparative unimportance of the individual! A sense ofher own foolishness seized her. Mamma looked so sweet and kind! Why hadshe imagined her cruel?

  "Did you go to sleep, dear?" repeated Mrs. Wade.

  "Yes, mamma," replied Elly, humbly; "I did. But I'm waked up now."