Benjamin West and His Cat Grimalkin by Marguerite Henry
Then he promptly forgot his words as he and Jacob tumbled down the stairs and into the bustling activity of the kitchen. Mamma was moving silently and swiftly from fire to table. Benjamin’s four sisters seemed everywhere at once—filling the salt and sugar boxes, putting chairs and benches in place. Even Jacob’s mother was helping.
“Benjamin!” said Sarah, his oldest sister, “wash thy face at once. Then blow on the conch shell. Breakfast is ready.”
Benjamin was so used to Sarah’s chatter that he hardly heard her. He and Jacob were over in the chimney corner on their hands and knees. They were peering into the egg basket in awe. Elmira was still there! And someone had brought in all of her own white kittens. And the black kitten was there, too. He was a smart one, snuggled in among all the white kittens for warmth.
Benjamin looked up and caught Mamma’s eye. She smiled first at Benjamin, then at Jacob. “The black kitten will be as strong as any,” she said softly. “Now off to the wash bench.”
Both boys splashed their faces with cold water. Then they took turns blowing on the conch shell until Mr. West and Benjamin’s four brothers came in from the woods and fields, and the guests flocked in from wagon shed and courtyard.
Papa sat down at the head of the table, straight and proud. In true Quaker fashion he kept his hat on. It looked as if it had grown there. He waited patiently while his five sons and his twenty guests sat down to table. Then he nodded his head in pleasure. He liked to see every chair and stool and bench and chest occupied. His blue eyes wandered over the table and lingered a moment on the cinnamon buns. He smiled in approval.
When at last a stillness came over the room, he closed his eyes and folded his hands. For a long time no sound escaped his parted lips.
Benjamin could feel little shivers racing up and down his spine. He hoped his father’s voice would tremble and quake until the very roof timbers shook.
“Al-migh-ty God,” the trembling began.
At the unexpected quaking sound Jacob jumped and almost fell off his stool.
“Be not frightened,” whispered Benjamin; “that is why we are called Quakers.”
“It is the duty of man,” Papa was praying, “to care for all living creatures, large and small. The lowliest creature has a work to do. The wren protects the fruit of the orchard. The barn cat protects the grain. The house cat protects man’s food. We thank Thee, O Lord, for sparing the life of a plain black kitten.”
Benjamin opened one eye and looked around the table. His brothers, John, Thomas, Samuel and Joseph, sat thoughtful and grave, their eyes straight ahead, yet seeing nothing. The heads of the guests were bowed low.
Mamma and the girls stood behind the table. They were waiting to pour the tea, to refill the serving dishes.
Of all the people in the room only Benjamin let his eyes wander. He watched the wisps of steam rising from the serving bowls. He could almost taste the flavorsome scrapple on his tongue. And just when he thought he could not wait another moment, Papa began to look natural once more. He spoke to the traveler beside him in his regular voice. It was the signal to eat. Immediately knives and spoons clattered against wooden plates. Meanwhile, over in the rush basket, the kittens squirmed and slept and made small mewing sounds.
All too soon, breakfast was over. Whips cracked. Axles creaked. Oxcarts began rumbling out of the innyard.
Benjamin and Jacob stood over the kittens in an awkward silence.
It was Jacob who spoke first.
“Benjamin,” he said.
“Yes?”
“A wish I make. You could paint so fine a picture of Grimalkin that anyone could tell iss a cat you paint.”
Benjamin glanced around quickly to see if anyone had heard. Then their eyes locked.
“I make a wish, too,” he whispered. “One day in Philadelphia I will find thee building a great sailship. And I shall set up my easel on the bank. And I shall paint the whole harbor!”
“Jacob! Come! Already we go,” his mother called.
Arm in arm Jacob and Benjamin walked slowly out of the inn.
“Good-by, Benjamin,” said Jacob with a catch in his voice. “I wish you could go with.” He looked back over his shoulder toward the inn. “Good-by, Grimalkin,” he said, scarcely above a whisper.
Then he let go of Benjamin’s arm and took his place alongside his father. Today he would not climb aboard the wagon. Today he would help lead the oxen. It was as if he had grown into a man overnight.
Slowly the cart rattled out of the courtyard, past the signboard swinging from the buttonwood tree, past the yapping dogs, and off into the wilderness.
Benjamin watched until Jacob and finally the whole cart were swallowed up and lost among the black tree trunks.
Then he kicked the upping block to keep from crying.
Chapter 3
A GOOD FISHING DAY
There was a kind of magic in the way Grimalkin grew. His fur began to fluff out, soft and black and shining. His tail became thick and uncommonly long. His body waxed strong and very nimble.
And it was like magic the way he took possession of Door-Latch Inn. Almost as soon as Elmira and her kittens were returned to the barn, he began to look after things.
Indoors and out, he set his own tasks. If one of the hound dogs so much as showed his nose in the parlor, Grimalkin cuffed him smartly and sent him yammering out the door. If the chickens got into Mamma’s kitchen garden, it was Grimalkin who chased them out. He also took care of the ground hogs and rabbits and snakes. There were the mouse holes to watch too. And the cows to bring in. He not only helped round them up; he also thought it wise to be on hand during the milking. No matter who did the milking—John or Thomas or Samuel or Joseph, or even Papa—he would squirt some of the fresh milk right into Grimalkin’s mouth. Grimalkin had to be there to catch it!
Never was a cat so busy. Nor so independent. He slept where he pleased—on the candle shelf, or in a drawer atop Mamma’s newly spun cloth, or on Papa’s basket-bottom chair. But if the weather was cold, he liked to toast his bones before the fire or crawl into bed with Benjamin. Often, in the dead of night when the moon was full, he would take it into his head to go hunting. And being as clever as he was independent, he asked no one to let him out. With one paw he could lift the door latch as neatly as if he had four fingers and a thumb.
In no time at all Grimalkin was everyone’s pet. Papa and Benjamin’s four brothers liked him because he was a great ratter and mouser. Mamma and Benjamin’s four sisters liked him because, as Mamma so often said, “A more mannerly cat thee would not find anywhere. What other cat in all the Province wipes his paws on the doormat before entering the kitchen? Polite and tidy!” she added with a bright nod.
Even Nanny Luddy, Papa’s big mare, liked Grimalkin. She would sleep standing if Grimalkin chose to lie on her bed of straw. Yet Grimalkin treated Nanny Luddy as if he were a king and she his slave. If he leaped upon her back to warm his paws, one would have thought, by the airs he put on, that he was doing her quite a favor.
As for the guests who came and went, Grimalkin openly disapproved them. After investigating them with his nose he left them strictly alone. And when their carts rattled out of the innyard, he helped chase them on their way and then flew back to the inn as if to say, “At last! At last! I have The Family all to myself!”
But if he felt this way toward The Family, he treated Benjamin almost as if he knew that Benjamin had saved his life.
There was nothing he would not do for Benjamin. He would jump through a barrel hoop for him. He would roll over when told. He would box. He would play hide and seek, and a fairly good game of catch and toss. But, more than all this, he was a partner in everything that Benjamin did. And such an understanding grew up between them that strangers would remark on it. “I vow and declare!” they would say. “Grimalkin’s tail twitches with excitement and he begins purring at the mere sound of Benjamin’s voice.”
What these strangers did not know was that Benjamin and Grimalkin could talk to ea
ch other almost as person with person. Grimalkin would prick his ears forward and listen gravely to each word of Benjamin’s. Then he would make eager little mewing replies, his talk growing louder and louder until he felt certain that Benjamin understood.
There was the day that Benjamin and Grimalkin were left alone to mind Sally. Sally was Benjamin’s baby niece.
It was a day made for fishing. Sky overcast. Winds gentle. For a whole hour Benjamin had been sharpening a long pole. He was going to try spearing for trout the way his friends the Indians did.
He had already promised Grimalkin a fishing trip, with all the minnows he could eat.
But just as Benjamin was tucking an apple and some johnnycake into his shirt, he heard the cloppety-clop of a horse’s hoofs. And then such a hubbub! Rachel, Benjamin’s married sister, came flouncing into the house, carrying baby Sally.
“Oh, Mamma!” she cried. “I have been homesick for thee and Benjamin—and everyone.”
Benjamin tried hard to look pleased, but in his mind’s eye he saw a trout jump out of the water with a silver splash.
Mamma made little cooing noises to the baby. Then she hung Rachel’s hood and cloak on a peg as if she were company.
“Benjamin!” she said. “Run up to the front bedchamber and fetch down the cradle we let the little Scotch baby sleep in last night.”
With Grimalkin at his heels, Benjamin took the stairs two at a time. He returned breathless with a basket which looked like a great bird’s nest on rockers. Grimalkin sat inside it, looking enormously pleased with himself.
“Come, Grimalkin,” whispered Benjamin, as he set the cradle down and began edging toward the door.
“Thee, Benjamin!” called Mamma. “Please to fetch thy sisters. They will want to see our dear Sally.”
“Where are they, Mamma?” asked Benjamin in despair.
“They are gathering wild mint by the creek!”
“Oh, Benjamin,” cried Rachel in her most pleading manner, “I long to be out there with them. If thee were to mind Sally, Mamma and I could have a little outing.”
Benjamin bit his lips. He did not mind fetching wood or water. He did not even mind cleaning out the hen house—very much. But minding the baby on a good fishing day!
At a sharp look from Mamma, however, he sat down quickly.
“Oh, thank thee, brother,” smiled Rachel. “Here is the flytrap. Please to keep the flies away from Sally’s face.”
Before Benjamin could say a word, he found himself face to face with the wailing Sally.
“Why, she’s mostly mouth!” he said with disgust.
Grimalkin’s ears were thrown backward in disapproval. “Can’t thee do something about this noise?” he seemed to ask.
“Why, of course, I can,” replied Benjamin. “I can rock the cradle.”
The wailing stopped at once.
The room grew so quiet that Benjamin fancied he could hear the bread rising.
The minutes seemed like hours. The day was going to waste! Benjamin kept tiptoeing to the door to watch for Mamma and Rachel.
“Poor Grimalkin,” he sighed. “I promised thee some minnows. And here we are, caught like insects in a web.”
He looked about the room. Suddenly his eyes fell on the wells of red ink and black ink on Papa’s counter. Beside them lay a goose-quill pen, a sand box for blotting the ink, and a fresh sheet of paper. How smooth and clean the paper looks! thought Benjamin. Then he turned to see if the flies were bothering Sally. And at that precise moment, the baby happened to smile in her sleep.
“Why, Grimalkin!” Benjamin cried. “Sally is less funny-looking when she smiles. She is quite fair.” His fingers reached for the goose-quill pen. “I could draw her picture!” he said in amazement. “I believe I could!”
Grimalkin smoothed his whiskers against Benjamin’s leg. Then he gazed up with mischievous green eyes. “Well, why doesn’t thee do it?” he purred, as plainly as words. “Who is to stop thee?”
Chapter 4
ONLY A PIECE OF PAPER
Benjamin had to work rapidly. Sally’s pleasant dream would not last forever. Besides, Mamma and the girls might walk in any minute.
He placed the clean sheet of paper and Papa’s ink wells and sand box on a bench beside the cradle. He knelt down on the floor. He dipped the goose-quill pen into the black ink.
Scratch! Scratch! went the pen. With quick strokes he sketched the outline of Sally’s head. Then, very lightly, he drew her features. The faint eyebrows. The closed lids. The rounded nose. The smiling lips.
His eyes darted back and forth from Sally’s face to his drawing. He forgot about the spear he had made. He forgot about the beautiful red-bellied trout. He forgot everything in the excitement of making his first sketch.
There! He could try the red ink now. He wiped the pen in his hair as he had seen the travelers do. Then he dipped it in the red ink and gave Sally an orange-red mouth. With round-and-round lines he sketched her silken curls. “Why, the color nigh matches her own!” he exclaimed.
Just then Grimalkin leaped on his shoulder and patted his cheek with a gentle forepaw.
“Can thee see any likeness to our Sally?” Benjamin asked of him.
Grimalkin seemed to gaze fixedly at the picture. Then he opened his wide pink mouth. “Mrr-aow,” he said, in complete approval.
Benjamin laughed out for joy. But his laughter was cut short. There, in the doorway, stood Mamma and Rachel and Sarah and Hannah and Mary and Elizabeth.
Benjamin sprang to his feet, upsetting the sand box, and almost upsetting the ink wells. He hid his drawing behind him. He could almost hear Mamma say: “If the world’s people wish to draw, well and good. But thee is a Quaker, son. Thy grandfather was chief councilor for William Penn himself!”
Mamma stood rigid, holding bunches of bright green mint in her hands. Behind her clustered the girls, their eyes questioning.
At last Mamma came toward Benjamin with slow, measured steps.
“Benjamin!” she said crisply.
“Y-y-yes, Mamma.”
“What is thee hiding?”
“Only a piece of paper, Mamma.”
“I would see it.”
Benjamin winced. He handed her the picture and waited for the shocked, hurt look to cross her face. He watched Rachel and Sarah and Hannah and Mary and Elizabeth gather around the picture. He heard their little gasps of surprise.
Then something happened which Benjamin did not in the least expect. Mamma clapped her hand over her mouth as if to smother an outcry of pleasure. Her eyes grew big with wonder.
“Why, ’tis our Sally!” she exclaimed. “An excellent likeness of our dear Sally.” And then she smiled down at Benjamin. “How would thee and Grimalkin like to go fishing now?” she asked. “Papa ever was fond of fresh trout. But what he will say to picture-making, I do not know.”
Benjamin’s face grew as red as a coxcomb. Why, Mamma had not minded at all!
“What did I tell thee?” Grimalkin seemed to say as he reared up on his hind legs and put his forepaws into Benjamin’s hand.
Benjamin’s heart danced. He picked up his spear, his apples and his johnnycake, and turned to go.
“We’ll be back in time to bring home the cows,” he sang out.
Grimalkin lifted the latch, and together the boy and the cat set off across the innyard.
“Oh-ho!” laughed Benjamin. “Thy tail is a weather vane, Grimalkin. It stands straight as a poker whenever thee is happy.”
Grimalkin led the way, and the sound of his purring was like the gladness in Benjamin’s heart.
Chapter 5
THE IMAGE OF SALLY
Weeks went by before Papa saw the picture of Sally. By day he was busy planting Indian corn and pumpkins. By night the guests hovered around him like bees after honey. They hung on his every word, for while Papa was a man of few words, each one counted.
By the time he had a moment to spare, there was not only the picture of Sally to show him. There was a whol
e stack of pictures, done on poplar boards, on birch bark—on anything that would hold a pen stroke or a smudge of charcoal.
It was midmorning of a bright May day when Papa first heard about the pictures.
“Benjamin!” he called out as he came into the kitchen, bringing the smell of rich black earth with him. “Nanny Luddy has lost a shoe. See if the smith can attend her at once.”
“Oh, yes, Papa,” replied Benjamin quickly. He grinned at the thought that now Sarah or Hannah or Mary or Elizabeth would have to come down from her bedmaking and take over his job. He was doing a hot and tiresome chore at the time. He was sitting on the hearthstone, turning the crank handle that turned a joint of meat before the fire. And every now and then he had to baste the meat with the brown gravy that dripped into the pan beneath.
Grimalkin sat watchful at Benjamin’s feet. Memory told him that sometimes the gravy spattered on the hearthstone, and all of the spatters belonged to him.
“The sun has great power this morning,” Papa remarked. “It is pleasant and cool inside.”
Cool! thought Benjamin as he wiped the beads of perspiration from his upper lip.
Papa sat down at the table. He began sampling the wild strawberries that Mamma was putting in a pie. Then, looking as sheepish as a boy, he reached over and scooped up on one finger some of the floating island pudding that stood cooling in a bowl. He smiled up at Mamma. “The pudding is exactly to my taste,” he observed.
“Benjamin,” said Mamma, “this would be the time to show Papa thy pictures.”
At the word picture Papa coughed and sat bolt upright. His hands tightened on his whip handle until the knuckles stood out white and big. His face went redder than the strawberries. He fixed his hat more firmly on his head.
Oh, oh! thought Benjamin. How quickly Papa can change!
Grimalkin rolled over and over to attract attention, but Papa took less notice of him than if he had been a fly.
“Ho, ho! Look at Grimalkin!” laughed Benjamin nervously.
“Benjamin!” said Sarah, his oldest sister, “wash thy face at once. Then blow on the conch shell. Breakfast is ready.”
Benjamin was so used to Sarah’s chatter that he hardly heard her. He and Jacob were over in the chimney corner on their hands and knees. They were peering into the egg basket in awe. Elmira was still there! And someone had brought in all of her own white kittens. And the black kitten was there, too. He was a smart one, snuggled in among all the white kittens for warmth.
Benjamin looked up and caught Mamma’s eye. She smiled first at Benjamin, then at Jacob. “The black kitten will be as strong as any,” she said softly. “Now off to the wash bench.”
Both boys splashed their faces with cold water. Then they took turns blowing on the conch shell until Mr. West and Benjamin’s four brothers came in from the woods and fields, and the guests flocked in from wagon shed and courtyard.
Papa sat down at the head of the table, straight and proud. In true Quaker fashion he kept his hat on. It looked as if it had grown there. He waited patiently while his five sons and his twenty guests sat down to table. Then he nodded his head in pleasure. He liked to see every chair and stool and bench and chest occupied. His blue eyes wandered over the table and lingered a moment on the cinnamon buns. He smiled in approval.
When at last a stillness came over the room, he closed his eyes and folded his hands. For a long time no sound escaped his parted lips.
Benjamin could feel little shivers racing up and down his spine. He hoped his father’s voice would tremble and quake until the very roof timbers shook.
“Al-migh-ty God,” the trembling began.
At the unexpected quaking sound Jacob jumped and almost fell off his stool.
“Be not frightened,” whispered Benjamin; “that is why we are called Quakers.”
“It is the duty of man,” Papa was praying, “to care for all living creatures, large and small. The lowliest creature has a work to do. The wren protects the fruit of the orchard. The barn cat protects the grain. The house cat protects man’s food. We thank Thee, O Lord, for sparing the life of a plain black kitten.”
Benjamin opened one eye and looked around the table. His brothers, John, Thomas, Samuel and Joseph, sat thoughtful and grave, their eyes straight ahead, yet seeing nothing. The heads of the guests were bowed low.
Mamma and the girls stood behind the table. They were waiting to pour the tea, to refill the serving dishes.
Of all the people in the room only Benjamin let his eyes wander. He watched the wisps of steam rising from the serving bowls. He could almost taste the flavorsome scrapple on his tongue. And just when he thought he could not wait another moment, Papa began to look natural once more. He spoke to the traveler beside him in his regular voice. It was the signal to eat. Immediately knives and spoons clattered against wooden plates. Meanwhile, over in the rush basket, the kittens squirmed and slept and made small mewing sounds.
All too soon, breakfast was over. Whips cracked. Axles creaked. Oxcarts began rumbling out of the innyard.
Benjamin and Jacob stood over the kittens in an awkward silence.
It was Jacob who spoke first.
“Benjamin,” he said.
“Yes?”
“A wish I make. You could paint so fine a picture of Grimalkin that anyone could tell iss a cat you paint.”
Benjamin glanced around quickly to see if anyone had heard. Then their eyes locked.
“I make a wish, too,” he whispered. “One day in Philadelphia I will find thee building a great sailship. And I shall set up my easel on the bank. And I shall paint the whole harbor!”
“Jacob! Come! Already we go,” his mother called.
Arm in arm Jacob and Benjamin walked slowly out of the inn.
“Good-by, Benjamin,” said Jacob with a catch in his voice. “I wish you could go with.” He looked back over his shoulder toward the inn. “Good-by, Grimalkin,” he said, scarcely above a whisper.
Then he let go of Benjamin’s arm and took his place alongside his father. Today he would not climb aboard the wagon. Today he would help lead the oxen. It was as if he had grown into a man overnight.
Slowly the cart rattled out of the courtyard, past the signboard swinging from the buttonwood tree, past the yapping dogs, and off into the wilderness.
Benjamin watched until Jacob and finally the whole cart were swallowed up and lost among the black tree trunks.
Then he kicked the upping block to keep from crying.
Chapter 3
A GOOD FISHING DAY
There was a kind of magic in the way Grimalkin grew. His fur began to fluff out, soft and black and shining. His tail became thick and uncommonly long. His body waxed strong and very nimble.
And it was like magic the way he took possession of Door-Latch Inn. Almost as soon as Elmira and her kittens were returned to the barn, he began to look after things.
Indoors and out, he set his own tasks. If one of the hound dogs so much as showed his nose in the parlor, Grimalkin cuffed him smartly and sent him yammering out the door. If the chickens got into Mamma’s kitchen garden, it was Grimalkin who chased them out. He also took care of the ground hogs and rabbits and snakes. There were the mouse holes to watch too. And the cows to bring in. He not only helped round them up; he also thought it wise to be on hand during the milking. No matter who did the milking—John or Thomas or Samuel or Joseph, or even Papa—he would squirt some of the fresh milk right into Grimalkin’s mouth. Grimalkin had to be there to catch it!
Never was a cat so busy. Nor so independent. He slept where he pleased—on the candle shelf, or in a drawer atop Mamma’s newly spun cloth, or on Papa’s basket-bottom chair. But if the weather was cold, he liked to toast his bones before the fire or crawl into bed with Benjamin. Often, in the dead of night when the moon was full, he would take it into his head to go hunting. And being as clever as he was independent, he asked no one to let him out. With one paw he could lift the door latch as neatly as if he had four fingers and a thumb.
In no time at all Grimalkin was everyone’s pet. Papa and Benjamin’s four brothers liked him because he was a great ratter and mouser. Mamma and Benjamin’s four sisters liked him because, as Mamma so often said, “A more mannerly cat thee would not find anywhere. What other cat in all the Province wipes his paws on the doormat before entering the kitchen? Polite and tidy!” she added with a bright nod.
Even Nanny Luddy, Papa’s big mare, liked Grimalkin. She would sleep standing if Grimalkin chose to lie on her bed of straw. Yet Grimalkin treated Nanny Luddy as if he were a king and she his slave. If he leaped upon her back to warm his paws, one would have thought, by the airs he put on, that he was doing her quite a favor.
As for the guests who came and went, Grimalkin openly disapproved them. After investigating them with his nose he left them strictly alone. And when their carts rattled out of the innyard, he helped chase them on their way and then flew back to the inn as if to say, “At last! At last! I have The Family all to myself!”
But if he felt this way toward The Family, he treated Benjamin almost as if he knew that Benjamin had saved his life.
There was nothing he would not do for Benjamin. He would jump through a barrel hoop for him. He would roll over when told. He would box. He would play hide and seek, and a fairly good game of catch and toss. But, more than all this, he was a partner in everything that Benjamin did. And such an understanding grew up between them that strangers would remark on it. “I vow and declare!” they would say. “Grimalkin’s tail twitches with excitement and he begins purring at the mere sound of Benjamin’s voice.”
What these strangers did not know was that Benjamin and Grimalkin could talk to ea
There was the day that Benjamin and Grimalkin were left alone to mind Sally. Sally was Benjamin’s baby niece.
It was a day made for fishing. Sky overcast. Winds gentle. For a whole hour Benjamin had been sharpening a long pole. He was going to try spearing for trout the way his friends the Indians did.
He had already promised Grimalkin a fishing trip, with all the minnows he could eat.
But just as Benjamin was tucking an apple and some johnnycake into his shirt, he heard the cloppety-clop of a horse’s hoofs. And then such a hubbub! Rachel, Benjamin’s married sister, came flouncing into the house, carrying baby Sally.
“Oh, Mamma!” she cried. “I have been homesick for thee and Benjamin—and everyone.”
Benjamin tried hard to look pleased, but in his mind’s eye he saw a trout jump out of the water with a silver splash.
Mamma made little cooing noises to the baby. Then she hung Rachel’s hood and cloak on a peg as if she were company.
“Benjamin!” she said. “Run up to the front bedchamber and fetch down the cradle we let the little Scotch baby sleep in last night.”
With Grimalkin at his heels, Benjamin took the stairs two at a time. He returned breathless with a basket which looked like a great bird’s nest on rockers. Grimalkin sat inside it, looking enormously pleased with himself.
“Come, Grimalkin,” whispered Benjamin, as he set the cradle down and began edging toward the door.
“Thee, Benjamin!” called Mamma. “Please to fetch thy sisters. They will want to see our dear Sally.”
“Where are they, Mamma?” asked Benjamin in despair.
“They are gathering wild mint by the creek!”
“Oh, Benjamin,” cried Rachel in her most pleading manner, “I long to be out there with them. If thee were to mind Sally, Mamma and I could have a little outing.”
Benjamin bit his lips. He did not mind fetching wood or water. He did not even mind cleaning out the hen house—very much. But minding the baby on a good fishing day!
At a sharp look from Mamma, however, he sat down quickly.
“Oh, thank thee, brother,” smiled Rachel. “Here is the flytrap. Please to keep the flies away from Sally’s face.”
Before Benjamin could say a word, he found himself face to face with the wailing Sally.
“Why, she’s mostly mouth!” he said with disgust.
Grimalkin’s ears were thrown backward in disapproval. “Can’t thee do something about this noise?” he seemed to ask.
“Why, of course, I can,” replied Benjamin. “I can rock the cradle.”
The wailing stopped at once.
The room grew so quiet that Benjamin fancied he could hear the bread rising.
The minutes seemed like hours. The day was going to waste! Benjamin kept tiptoeing to the door to watch for Mamma and Rachel.
“Poor Grimalkin,” he sighed. “I promised thee some minnows. And here we are, caught like insects in a web.”
He looked about the room. Suddenly his eyes fell on the wells of red ink and black ink on Papa’s counter. Beside them lay a goose-quill pen, a sand box for blotting the ink, and a fresh sheet of paper. How smooth and clean the paper looks! thought Benjamin. Then he turned to see if the flies were bothering Sally. And at that precise moment, the baby happened to smile in her sleep.
“Why, Grimalkin!” Benjamin cried. “Sally is less funny-looking when she smiles. She is quite fair.” His fingers reached for the goose-quill pen. “I could draw her picture!” he said in amazement. “I believe I could!”
Grimalkin smoothed his whiskers against Benjamin’s leg. Then he gazed up with mischievous green eyes. “Well, why doesn’t thee do it?” he purred, as plainly as words. “Who is to stop thee?”
Chapter 4
ONLY A PIECE OF PAPER
Benjamin had to work rapidly. Sally’s pleasant dream would not last forever. Besides, Mamma and the girls might walk in any minute.
He placed the clean sheet of paper and Papa’s ink wells and sand box on a bench beside the cradle. He knelt down on the floor. He dipped the goose-quill pen into the black ink.
Scratch! Scratch! went the pen. With quick strokes he sketched the outline of Sally’s head. Then, very lightly, he drew her features. The faint eyebrows. The closed lids. The rounded nose. The smiling lips.
His eyes darted back and forth from Sally’s face to his drawing. He forgot about the spear he had made. He forgot about the beautiful red-bellied trout. He forgot everything in the excitement of making his first sketch.
There! He could try the red ink now. He wiped the pen in his hair as he had seen the travelers do. Then he dipped it in the red ink and gave Sally an orange-red mouth. With round-and-round lines he sketched her silken curls. “Why, the color nigh matches her own!” he exclaimed.
Just then Grimalkin leaped on his shoulder and patted his cheek with a gentle forepaw.
“Can thee see any likeness to our Sally?” Benjamin asked of him.
Grimalkin seemed to gaze fixedly at the picture. Then he opened his wide pink mouth. “Mrr-aow,” he said, in complete approval.
Benjamin laughed out for joy. But his laughter was cut short. There, in the doorway, stood Mamma and Rachel and Sarah and Hannah and Mary and Elizabeth.
Benjamin sprang to his feet, upsetting the sand box, and almost upsetting the ink wells. He hid his drawing behind him. He could almost hear Mamma say: “If the world’s people wish to draw, well and good. But thee is a Quaker, son. Thy grandfather was chief councilor for William Penn himself!”
Mamma stood rigid, holding bunches of bright green mint in her hands. Behind her clustered the girls, their eyes questioning.
At last Mamma came toward Benjamin with slow, measured steps.
“Benjamin!” she said crisply.
“Y-y-yes, Mamma.”
“What is thee hiding?”
“Only a piece of paper, Mamma.”
“I would see it.”
Benjamin winced. He handed her the picture and waited for the shocked, hurt look to cross her face. He watched Rachel and Sarah and Hannah and Mary and Elizabeth gather around the picture. He heard their little gasps of surprise.
Then something happened which Benjamin did not in the least expect. Mamma clapped her hand over her mouth as if to smother an outcry of pleasure. Her eyes grew big with wonder.
“Why, ’tis our Sally!” she exclaimed. “An excellent likeness of our dear Sally.” And then she smiled down at Benjamin. “How would thee and Grimalkin like to go fishing now?” she asked. “Papa ever was fond of fresh trout. But what he will say to picture-making, I do not know.”
Benjamin’s face grew as red as a coxcomb. Why, Mamma had not minded at all!
“What did I tell thee?” Grimalkin seemed to say as he reared up on his hind legs and put his forepaws into Benjamin’s hand.
Benjamin’s heart danced. He picked up his spear, his apples and his johnnycake, and turned to go.
“We’ll be back in time to bring home the cows,” he sang out.
Grimalkin lifted the latch, and together the boy and the cat set off across the innyard.
“Oh-ho!” laughed Benjamin. “Thy tail is a weather vane, Grimalkin. It stands straight as a poker whenever thee is happy.”
Grimalkin led the way, and the sound of his purring was like the gladness in Benjamin’s heart.
Chapter 5
THE IMAGE OF SALLY
Weeks went by before Papa saw the picture of Sally. By day he was busy planting Indian corn and pumpkins. By night the guests hovered around him like bees after honey. They hung on his every word, for while Papa was a man of few words, each one counted.
By the time he had a moment to spare, there was not only the picture of Sally to show him. There was a whol
It was midmorning of a bright May day when Papa first heard about the pictures.
“Benjamin!” he called out as he came into the kitchen, bringing the smell of rich black earth with him. “Nanny Luddy has lost a shoe. See if the smith can attend her at once.”
“Oh, yes, Papa,” replied Benjamin quickly. He grinned at the thought that now Sarah or Hannah or Mary or Elizabeth would have to come down from her bedmaking and take over his job. He was doing a hot and tiresome chore at the time. He was sitting on the hearthstone, turning the crank handle that turned a joint of meat before the fire. And every now and then he had to baste the meat with the brown gravy that dripped into the pan beneath.
Grimalkin sat watchful at Benjamin’s feet. Memory told him that sometimes the gravy spattered on the hearthstone, and all of the spatters belonged to him.
“The sun has great power this morning,” Papa remarked. “It is pleasant and cool inside.”
Cool! thought Benjamin as he wiped the beads of perspiration from his upper lip.
Papa sat down at the table. He began sampling the wild strawberries that Mamma was putting in a pie. Then, looking as sheepish as a boy, he reached over and scooped up on one finger some of the floating island pudding that stood cooling in a bowl. He smiled up at Mamma. “The pudding is exactly to my taste,” he observed.
“Benjamin,” said Mamma, “this would be the time to show Papa thy pictures.”
At the word picture Papa coughed and sat bolt upright. His hands tightened on his whip handle until the knuckles stood out white and big. His face went redder than the strawberries. He fixed his hat more firmly on his head.
Oh, oh! thought Benjamin. How quickly Papa can change!
Grimalkin rolled over and over to attract attention, but Papa took less notice of him than if he had been a fly.
“Ho, ho! Look at Grimalkin!” laughed Benjamin nervously.