IN WHICH MARTHA MARY HAS A WONDERFUL DAY
AND LEARNS THE LOVELIEST OF SECRETS AND
FLIP’S ASPIRATIONS ARE EXPLAINED
IT was Martha Mary’s birthday; the brightest, happiest birthday she could remember. But, of course, the last birthday a person has always seems the nicest. Everyone had presents for her. From Father and Uncle Captain Mick there were oodles of books and ribbons and things for a sewing-basket. John borrowed fifty cents from Levy, the butcher, and bought a perfectly good spy-glass. Martha Mary could use it, he said, to spy out the rest of the family when she wanted company, or Liza when she got lost. Personally, I think he expected some pretty good times with it himself. Walter and Edward Lee sold forty bottles to the rags-bottles-sacks-man for fifteen cents, and with the aid of a nail managed to get eleven cents more out of their penny-bank. They bought five molasses sticks, one for each of the children, which left just a penny over. Mother’s presents were the nicest of all. First there was a white linen cushion to be embroidered with golden poppies; then there was a book of the Secret Garden and a perfectly beautiful edition of Peter Pan. Best of all! Guess what! There was a corset! It wasn’t a really and truly corset because Mother Dear did not approve of them, not even for grown-up women, but it had whalebone all up and down it like the strait-jacket they keep prisoners in.
Martha Mary went under the trees with all her presents, and John was particularly nice and not at all grown-upish. He built a throne on the stump of the old oak tree and Martha Mary sat there, surrounded by the trees and flowers and birds, and John made her a wreath of buttercups and a daisy chain. Then he tooted a blast on the cook’s dinner-horn and called all the court to do homage to Queen Mary.
Flip was out in the field planting alfalfa. When he heard the horn he stopped work, although he was quite sure it was not lunch time. Still, he wasn’t going to take any chances because he certainly did like to eat. Across the lawn he came and there he saw the queen, surrounded by all her subjects.
“What is this?” asked Flip. “Why the celebration?”
“Please,” said Martha Mary, a little bit choky, “you have forgotten, Flip, and I did not want you to forget.”
“What did I forget, Ladykin Dear?” asked Flip.
Martha Mary would not tell because she did not want him to feel badly. Neither would John.
“You tell me, Butterfly,” Flip coaxed Liza.
“It’s her birfday,” said Liza, “and there is going to be cake with candles for tea.”
Well, at first Flip felt so badly that he couldn’t talk at all; then he got an idea.
“Queen Mary,” he said, “I did forget and it was hateful of me. But there was a reason for my forgetting. You see I have a secret, too, and I’ve been thinking and thinking about it and almost forgot everything else. Will you forgive me?”
“Please,” said Martha Mary. “Yes, but I should like to know the secret.”
Flip bit his lip. He really wanted to tell but did not know if he had the right. You see when people know nice things it is much more fun to tell them to everybody. So he agreed. He said the secret was only for Martha Mary, so the boys and Liza would have to go away for ten minutes. Martha Mary raised her willow branch scepter and ordered them away. Then Flip lay on the grass and rested his head against Martha Mary’s knees and closed his eyes.
“Please,” said Martha Mary. “I am waiting.”
“It’s hard to tell, Silly,” said Flip.
“But you promised.”
“Well,” said Flip, and got all red. “I’m in love!”
“Flip!” said Martha Mary, so surprised that she almost tumbled off her throne. “Only grown-ups fall in love.”
“But I am grown-up. I’m more than twenty-four years old.”
“Is that old enough?”
“Yes, if the person you love is more sensible than you are.”
“Is she? And is she nice?”
“Nice! Martha Mary, let me tell you about her. In the first place, she is very small for such a grown-up person. She looks no more than fifteen, but she is all of twenty years old. And she is so fine—and really very pretty, Ladykin. She has oodles and oodles of brown hair and the kindest, softest brown eyes and the dearest funny little nose and a strong, mannish jaw. You couldn’t help liking her. And she likes nice things; birds and flowers and books—and fairies, too. And she likes me!”
“Now I know,” said Martha Mary.
“What?”
“You told Mother Dear when you came that you had aspirations. Mother would not tell me what aspirations were, but now I know. She is it.”
“Not exactly,” said Flip. “But she has to do with them. Shall I tell you all about them?”
“Please,” said Martha Mary.
“Well, it began years and years ago. I lived in San Francisco with a splendid father and a mother as lovely and fine as Mother Dear. My best friend was a little, brown-haired girl. Her name was Janet, but that was too grown-up and old-fashioned, so we called her Jane although that is rather old-fashioned, too. But, you see, Jane was an old-fashioned girl. We played the nicest games, Martha Mary, and when we were tired I would tell Jane stories just like I tell you. One day a man came to Jane’s house. He stood behind the door and listened to one of my stories. Later he made me tell him others. When I had finished he said that when I was older I would be an author and write books. That became my aspiration. I made up my mind to be an author; not a great one who would try to change the world, but just a simple, quiet one who could tell stories that would make people just a little more happy. Then, Ladykin, one night something awful happened. I will not tell you much about it. There came a terrible earthquake. I don’t like to talk about it. A brick chimney fell right on my mother and father’s bed and killed them. It was awfully lonely then. I had learned to love Jane meanwhile but I was quite poor and so I had to go away. I couldn’t make money writing stories because my work was not good enough and I was not known. So I decided to work on a farm and write when I found the time. And here I am. Now, Martha Mary, guess what!”
“What?” asked Martha Mary.
“I have been working very hard every night on my stories all the time I have been here. Did you see the envelope the postman brought for me this morning?”
“Yes.”
“It was from the publishers who print books. They have really and truly bought my stories and sent a perfectly good check and—I am an author.”
Martha Mary’s eyes were all watery. “Flip,” she said, “I am so happy I have to hug you.” She hugged him and then remembered about her birthday.
“I forgive you and excuse you altogether for forgetting,” she said. “Your secret is the nicest thing that has happened to-day.”
“But that is not the secret.”
“There is.”
“Tell me, please.”
“I was so excited when my letter came that Mother Dear said when she heard of it—guess what!”
“I give up.”
“She said I could ’phone to Jane and tell her to come right down so that she could tell me how happy she is.”
“And will she?”
“Will she! I should just say so! She is on her way now and will be here in an hour.”
“Oh!” said Martha Mary; “I didn’t know that so many wonderful things could happen in one day. Now I want to call the children.”
Flip blew the horn and across the lawn came all of the queen’s court.
“I want to know the secret,” said John.
“Can’t tell,” said Martha Mary. “But it is nice. Someone is coming.”
“Captain Mick,” shouted Walter.
“Not at all. It is a girl-person.”
“Do we know her?”
“No, but you will and you will like her,” said Flip. “Her name is Jane.”
“I wish an hour was not so long,” said Martha Mary.
“Perhaps,” said John, “if you told us a story, Philip, it wouldn’t seem so long.”
“Perhaps,” said Flip. Then because it was a birthday and Martha Mary was queen, he told a queen story with Kings and Knights and Ladies. This was it: