“But suppose there hadn’t been a bun-day before the fifteenth?” said Mother.
“Oh, then, we meant to ask you to let us anti—antipate it, and go without when the bun-day came.”
“Anticipate,” said Mother. “I see. Certainly. It would be nice to put his name on the buns with pink sugar, wouldn’t it?”
“Perks,” said Peter, “it’s not a pretty name.”
“His other name’s Albert,” said Phyllis; “I asked him once.”
“We might put A. P.,” said Mother; “I’ll show you how when the day comes.”
This was all very well as far as it went. But even fourteen halfpenny buns with A. P. on them in pink sugar do not of themselves make a very grand celebration.
“There are always flowers, of course,” said Bobbie, later, when a really earnest council was being held on the subject in the hayloft where the broken chaff-cutting machine was, and the row of holes to drop hay through into the hayracks over the mangers of the stables below.
“He’s got lots of flowers of his own,” said Peter.
“But it’s always nice to have them given you,” said Bobbie, “however many you’ve got of your own. We can use flowers for trimmings to the birthday. But there must be something to trim besides buns.”
“Let’s all be quiet and think,” said Phyllis; “no one’s to speak until it’s thought of something.”
So they were all quiet and so very still that a brown rat thought that there was no one in the loft and came out very boldly. When Bobbie sneezed, the rat was quite shocked and hurried away, for he saw that a hayloft where such things could happen was no place for a respectable middle-aged rat that liked a quiet life.
“Hooray!” cried Peter, suddenly, “I’ve got it.” He jumped up and kicked at the loose hay.
“What?” said the others, eagerly.
“Why, Perks is so nice to everybody. There must be lots of people in the village who’d like to help to make him a birthday. Let’s go round and ask everybody.”
“Mother said we weren’t to ask people for things,” said Bobbie, doubtfully.
“For ourselves, she meant, silly, not for other people. I’ll ask the old gentleman too. You see if I don’t,” said Peter.
“Let’s ask Mother first,” said Bobbie.
“Oh, what’s the use of bothering Mother about every little thing?” said Peter, “especially when she’s busy. Come on. Let’s go down to the village now and begin.”
So they went. The old lady at the post-office said she didn’t see why Perks should have a birthday any more than anyone else.
“No,” said Bobbie, “I should like everyone to have one. Only we know when his is.”
“Mine’s tomorrow,” said the old lady, “and much notice anyone will take of it. Go along with you.”
So they went.
And some people were kind, and some were crusty. And some would give and some would not. It is rather difficult work asking for things, even for other people, as you have no doubt found if you have ever tried it.
When the children got home and counted up what had been given and what had been promised, they felt that for the first day it was not so bad. Peter wrote down the lists of the things in the little pocketbook where he kept the numbers of his engines. These were the lists:—
Given
A tobacco pipe from the sweet shop.
Half a pound of tea from the grocer’s.
A woollen scarf slightly faded from the draper’s, which was the other side of the grocer’s.
A stuffed squirrel from the Doctor.
Promised
A piece of meat from the butcher.
Six fresh eggs from the woman who lived in the old turnpike cottage.
A piece of honeycomb and six bootlaces from the cobbler, and an iron shovel from the blacksmith’s.
Very early next morning Bobbie got up and woke Phyllis. This had been agreed on between them. They had not told Peter because they thought he would think it silly. But they told him afterwards, when it had turned out all right.
They cut a big bunch of roses, and put it in a basket with the needle-book that Phyllis had made for Bobbie on her birthday, and a very pretty blue necktie of Phyllis’s. Then they wrote on a paper: “For Mrs. Ransome, with our best love, because it is her birthday,” and they put the paper in the basket, and they took it to the post-office, and went in and put it on the counter and ran away before the old woman at the post-office had time to get into her shop.
When they got home Peter had grown confidential over helping Mother to get the breakfast and had told her their plans.
“There’s no harm in it,” said Mother, “but it depends how you do it. I only hope he won’t be offended and think it’s charity. Poor people are very proud, you know.”
“It isn’t because he’s poor,” said Phyllis; “it’s because we’re fond of him.”
“I’ll find some things that Phyllis has outgrown,” said Mother, “if you’re quite sure you can give them to him without his being offended. I should like to do some little thing for him because he’s been so kind to you. I can’t do much because we’re poor ourselves. What are you writing, Bobbie?”
“Nothing particular,” said Bobbie, who had suddenly begun to scribble. “I’m sure he’d like the things, Mother.”
The morning of the fifteenth was spent very happily in getting the buns and watching Mother make A. P. on them with pink sugar. You know how it’s done, of course? You beat up whites of eggs and mix powdered sugar with them, and put in a few drops of cochineal. And then you make a cone of clean, white paper with a little hole at the pointed end, and put the pink egg-sugar in at the big end. It runs slowly out at the pointed end, and you write the letters with it just as though it were a great fat pen full of pink sugar-ink.
The buns looked beautiful with A. P. on every one, and, when they
