them for their future. What do any of us have to look forward to but a short life ended by the hangman?”
The bleak pronouncement fell on the children like a shroud, stunning Clara with its poisoning resentment. What in heaven’s name had got into the boy?
A tug at her sleeve made her glance down to where Timothy Perkins cuddled close to her on her right. “I wanna hear about the grasshopper going to the ball.”
She had to think a minute, but when she realized what he was talking about, relief swelled through her. “Ah, yes, ‘The Butterfly’s Ball.’” When Timothy bobbed his head enthusiastically, she added, “Excellent choice, my boy.” A dose of William Roscoe’s whimsical verse might be just the antidote for Johnny’s gloomy predictions.
Twisting to scan the shelf behind her, she found the volume she wanted, then opened it and began to read:
“ Come take up your Hats, and away let us haste
To the Butterfly’s Ball, and the Grasshopper’s Feast .
The Trumpeter , Gad-fly, has summon’d the Crew ,
And the Revels are now only waiting for you .”
She paused to glance at the still somber lads in the back. Then an idea struck. “Since it’s almost time for our own dinner, we should do this tale properly. David, you be the grasshopper. Mary, you can be the butterfly. Johnny, we’ll need a blind beetle…”
The poem had seventeen bugs in all, and by the time she finished assigning roles—doubling them where necessary—even the older boys reluctantly entered into the spirit of things. As she lined them up to head into the hall, Robbie, the bee, buzzed at her and the two moths flapped their wings, giggling. After Tim begged him, even Johnny grudgingly agreed to heft his brother on his back as the beetle in the poem did to the emmet.
Then they all marched through the Home. She read the poem loudly, each child creeping or hopping his way through his role when it was his or her chance to shine. By the time they’d crawled and jumped and glided their way to the dining room, the children had collapsed into laughter, and one storm had passed.
As she watched Johnny swing his squealing brother into a chair at the table, her heart twisted in her chest. The poor boys—what was to become of them? When Johnny left Tim’s side, his momentary smile subsiding into the perpetual frown he’d worn all day, Clara decided to find out what Lucy had told him to make him so forlorn.
So she stopped him as he passed in front of her. “I haven’t had a chance to ask you how your sister is doing.”
He glanced away, a muscle ticking beneath his beardless jaw. “She’s all right.”
“Did she say if she’d be coming to visit Tim soon? He’s anxious to see her.”
Johnny’s angry gaze shot to her. “Lucy ain’t coming hereno more. And she told me to leave her be, too. She said I wasn’t to visit her at all. Nor Tim neither.”
“What?” Clara shook her head, unable to believe it. “Are you sure you understood her correctly? She’s always been so concerned about the two of you and—”
“She don’t want us around, I tell you! Says she’s got…important things to worry about.” He struck a pose of nonchalance so false that even someone who wasn’t familiar with him would have seen beneath it. “Looks like you’re stuck with us for good, m’lady.”
He threw the words out like a challenge, but she glimpsed the fear lurking behind them. “If you follow the rules, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
That seemed to deflate all his bravado. “All right then,” he mumbled, then stalked off, still frowning.
She glanced to where a giggling Tim scooped up gravy-soaked bread. Johnny had clearly not yet told the child about their sister’s pronouncement. Poor Tim. He eagerly anticipated every visit from his beloved sister, and her abandonment would sorely wound him. Even having Clara there to comfort him couldn’t possibly be the same as having his sister around.
Ah, Clara, what a pity
The bleak pronouncement fell on the children like a shroud, stunning Clara with its poisoning resentment. What in heaven’s name had got into the boy?
A tug at her sleeve made her glance down to where Timothy Perkins cuddled close to her on her right. “I wanna hear about the grasshopper going to the ball.”
She had to think a minute, but when she realized what he was talking about, relief swelled through her. “Ah, yes, ‘The Butterfly’s Ball.’” When Timothy bobbed his head enthusiastically, she added, “Excellent choice, my boy.” A dose of William Roscoe’s whimsical verse might be just the antidote for Johnny’s gloomy predictions.
Twisting to scan the shelf behind her, she found the volume she wanted, then opened it and began to read:
“ Come take up your Hats, and away let us haste
To the Butterfly’s Ball, and the Grasshopper’s Feast .
The Trumpeter , Gad-fly, has summon’d the Crew ,
And the Revels are now only waiting for you .”
She paused to glance at the still somber lads in the back. Then an idea struck. “Since it’s almost time for our own dinner, we should do this tale properly. David, you be the grasshopper. Mary, you can be the butterfly. Johnny, we’ll need a blind beetle…”
The poem had seventeen bugs in all, and by the time she finished assigning roles—doubling them where necessary—even the older boys reluctantly entered into the spirit of things. As she lined them up to head into the hall, Robbie, the bee, buzzed at her and the two moths flapped their wings, giggling. After Tim begged him, even Johnny grudgingly agreed to heft his brother on his back as the beetle in the poem did to the emmet.
Then they all marched through the Home. She read the poem loudly, each child creeping or hopping his way through his role when it was his or her chance to shine. By the time they’d crawled and jumped and glided their way to the dining room, the children had collapsed into laughter, and one storm had passed.
As she watched Johnny swing his squealing brother into a chair at the table, her heart twisted in her chest. The poor boys—what was to become of them? When Johnny left Tim’s side, his momentary smile subsiding into the perpetual frown he’d worn all day, Clara decided to find out what Lucy had told him to make him so forlorn.
So she stopped him as he passed in front of her. “I haven’t had a chance to ask you how your sister is doing.”
He glanced away, a muscle ticking beneath his beardless jaw. “She’s all right.”
“Did she say if she’d be coming to visit Tim soon? He’s anxious to see her.”
Johnny’s angry gaze shot to her. “Lucy ain’t coming hereno more. And she told me to leave her be, too. She said I wasn’t to visit her at all. Nor Tim neither.”
“What?” Clara shook her head, unable to believe it. “Are you sure you understood her correctly? She’s always been so concerned about the two of you and—”
“She don’t want us around, I tell you! Says she’s got…important things to worry about.” He struck a pose of nonchalance so false that even someone who wasn’t familiar with him would have seen beneath it. “Looks like you’re stuck with us for good, m’lady.”
He threw the words out like a challenge, but she glimpsed the fear lurking behind them. “If you follow the rules, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
That seemed to deflate all his bravado. “All right then,” he mumbled, then stalked off, still frowning.
She glanced to where a giggling Tim scooped up gravy-soaked bread. Johnny had clearly not yet told the child about their sister’s pronouncement. Poor Tim. He eagerly anticipated every visit from his beloved sister, and her abandonment would sorely wound him. Even having Clara there to comfort him couldn’t possibly be the same as having his sister around.
Ah, Clara, what a pity
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