THE PRIMROSE RING

Bridget, oldest of the ward, general caretaker and best beloved, hunched herself up on her pillows until she was sitting reasonably straight, and clapped her hands.  “Whist!” she called, softly.  “Whist there, all o’ ye!  What’s ailin’?”

Eight woebegone pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

“Ye needn’t be afeared o’ speakin’.  Miss Peggie give us leave to talk quiet.”

“It’s them trusters,” wailed Peter.  “They come a-peekin’ round to see we don’t get well.”

“They alters calls us ‘uncurables,’” moaned Susan.

“Pig of water-drinking Americans!” came from the last cot.

“Ye shut up, Michael!  Who did ye ever hear say that?”

“Mine fader.”  And Michael spat in a perfect imitation thereof.

“Well, don’t ye ever say it ag’in do ye hear?  Miss Peggie’s American, and so’s the House Surgeon, an’ it’s the next best thing to bein’ Irish which every one can’t be, the Lord knows.  Now them trusters is heathen, an’ they don’t know nothin’ more’n heathen, an’ we ought to be easy on ’em for bein’ so ignorant.”

“They ken us ‘ll nae mair be gettin’ weel,” said Sandy, mournfully.

“Aw, ye’re talkin’ foolish entirely.  What do ye think that C on the door means?”

A silence, significant of much brain-racking, followed.

“C stands for children,” announced Susan, triumphantly.

“Aye, it does that, but there be’s somethin’ more.”

“Crutches,” suggested Pancho, tentatively.

“Aw, go on wid ye,” laughed Bridget.  “Ye’re ’way off.”  She paused a moment impressively.  “C means ‘cured.’ ‘Childher Cured,’ that’s what!  Now all we’ve got to do is to forget trusters an’ humps an’ pains an’ them disagreeable things, an’ think o’ somethin’ pleasant.”

“Ain’t nothin’ pleasant ter think of in er horspital,” wailed John, the present disheartenment clouding over all past happiness.

“Ain’t, neither,” agreed James.

“Aye, there be,” contradicted Sandy.  “Dinna ye ken the wee gray woman ‘at cam creepity round an’ smiled?”

“She was nice,” said Susan, with obvious approval.  “Do ye think, now, she might ha’ been me aunt?”

A chorus of positive negation settled all further speculation, while Bridget bluntly inquired.  “Honest to goodness, Susan, do ye think the likes o’ ye could belong to the likes o’ that?”

Pancho broke the painful silence by reverting to the original topic in hand.  “Mi’ Peggie pleasant too,” he suggested, smiling adorably.

“But we’ve not got either of ’em no longer, so they’re no good now,” Peter unfortunately reminded every one.

“Don’t ye know there be’s always somethin’ pleasant to think about if ye just hunt round a bit, an’ things an’ feelin’s never get that bad ye can’t squeeze out some pleasantment.  Don’t ye mind the time the trusters had planned to give us all paint-boxes for Christmas, an’ half of us not able to hold a brush, let alone paint things, an’ Miss Peggie blarneyed them round into givin’ us books?  Don’t ye mind?  Now we’ve got somethin’ pleasant here, right now ” And Bridget smiled.

“What?”

“May Eve.”

“What’s that?”

“’Tain’t nothin’,” said Susan, sliding back disappointedly on her pillow.

“Sure an’ it is,” said Bridget; “it’s somethin’ grand.”

“’Tain’t nothin’,” persisted Susan, “but a May party in Cen’ral Park.  Every one takes somethin’ ter eat in a box, an’ the boys play ball an’ the girls dance round, an’ the cops let you run on the grass.  I knows all about it, fer my sister Katie was ‘queen’ onct.”

“We couldn’t play ball, ner run on the grass, ner anything,” said Peter, regretfully.

“’Tisn’t what Susan says at all,” said Bridget, by way of consolation.  “If ye’ll harken to me a minute, just, I’ll be afther tellin’ ye what it is.”

Ward C became instantly silent hopefully expectant; Bridget had led them into pleasant places too often for them not to believe in her implicitly and do what she said.

“May Eve,” began Bridget, slowly, “is the night o’ the year when the faeries come throopin’ out o’ the ground to fly about on twigs o’ thorn an’ dance to the music o’ the faery pipers.  They’re all dthressed in wee green jackets an’ caps, an’ ’tis grand luck to any that sees them.  And all the wishes good childher make on May Eve are sure to come thrue.”  She stopped a moment.  “Let’s make believe; let’s make believe ” Her eyes fell on the primroses, and for the first time she recognized them.  “Holy Saint Bridget! them’s faery primroses!”

Ward C was properly impressed.  Eight little figures sat up as straight as they could; eight pairs of eager eyes followed Bridget’s pointing finger and gazed in speechless wonder at the green Devonshire bowl.

“Do ye think, Sandy, that ye could scrooch out o’ bed an’ hump yerself over to them?  If Pether tries he’s sure to tumble over, an’ some one might hear.”

Sandy looked at the flowers without enthusiasm.  “Phat are ye wantin’ wi’ ’em?”

“I’ll tell ye when ye get there.  Just thry; ye’ll be yondther afore ye know it.”

Cautiously Sandy rolled over on his stomach and pushed two shrunken little legs out from the covers.  Putting them gingerly to the floor, he stood up, holding fast to the bed; then working his way from bed to bed, he reached the table at last, spurred on by Bridget’s irresistible blarney: 

“Sure ye’re walkin’ grand, Sandy.  I never saw any one puttin’ one leg past another smarther than what ye are.  Ye’d fetch up to Aberdeen i’ no time if ye kept on at the pace ye are goin’.”

Pride lies above pain; and Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.

“Phat wull a do the noo?” he asked.

In the excitement Bridget had pulled herself to the foot of the cot; and there, eyes shining and cheeks growing pinker and pinker, she held her breath while the pleasantest thought of all shaped itself somewhere under the shock of red curls.

“Ye could never guess in a hundthred years what I was thinkin’ this minute,” she burst forth, ecstatically.

Eight mouths opened wide in anticipated wonder; but no one thought of guessing.

“I’m thinkin’ I’m thinkin’ we could make a primrose ring the night.  Is there any knowledgeable one among ye that knows aught of a primrose ring?”

Eight heads shook an emphatic negative.

“Aye, wasn’t I sayin’ so!  Well, sure, a primrose ring is a faery ring; an’ any one that makes it an’ steps inside, wishin’ a wish, is like to have anythin’ at all happen them afore they steps out of it ag’in.”

Eight breaths were drawn in and sighed out with the shivering delight that always accompanies that feeling which lies between fear and desire; likewise, eight delicious thrills zigzagged up eight cold little spines.  Then Bridget shook a commanding finger at Sandy.

“Ye take them flowers out o’ the pot an’ dthrop them, one by one, till ye have the ground covered from the head of Pancho’s bed to the tail o’ Michael’s.  ‘Twon’t make the whole of a ring, but if ye crook it out i’ the middle to the wall yondther, ’twill be like enough.”

With a doubtful eye Sandy spanned the distance.  “Na na.  Gien a hustled a wud be a dee’d loonie afore a had ’em spilled.”

“Aw, go on!” chorused the watchers.

“Thry, just,” urged Bridget, “an’ we’ll sing ’Onward, Christian Soldier’ to hearten ye up.”

Eight shrill voices piped out the tune; and Sandy, caught by its martial spirit, before he knew it was limping a circle about the beds, marking his trail with golden blossoms.  Luckily for Ward C, the nurse on duty during the dinner-hour was in the medical ward, with the door closed.  And when she came back to her listening post in the corridor the last word had been sung, the last flower dropped, and Sandy was in his cot again, stretching tired little legs under the covers.

Perhaps the geometrician, or the accurate-minded reader, will doubt whether the primrose ring was made at all seeing that the wall of Ward C cut off nearly thirty degrees of it.  But in the world of fancy geometrical accuracy does not hold; and the only important thing is believing that the ring has been made.  I have known of a few who could step inside the faery circle whenever they willed, and without a visible primrose about; but for most of us the blossoms are needed to make the enchantment.

This is one of the heritages that come to those who are lucky enough to dwell much in the world of fancy.  They can wish for things and possess them, and enjoy them without actually grasping them with their two hands and saying, “These are my personal belongings.”  Material things are rather a nuisance, on the whole, for they have to be dusted and kept in order, repatched or repainted; and if one wishes to carry them about there are always the bother of packing and the danger of losing.  But these other possessions are different they are with us wherever we go and whenever we want them to-day, to-morrow, or for eternity.

“If we had the wee red wishin’-cap,” said Bridget, thoughtfully, “we’d not have to be waitin’ for what’s likely to happen.  We could just wish ourselves into Tir-na-n’Og.”

“What’s that?” demanded Peter.

“Tis the place the faeries live in, an’ ‘tis in Irelan’.  Sure, ’tis easy gettin’ the cap,” continued Bridget, with conviction.  “All ye need do is to say afther me, ‘I wish I wish for the wee red cap,’ an’ ye have it.”

Bridget extended her hands, palms upward, and the others followed her example; and together they whispered:  “I wish I wish for the wee red cap.”

Immediately Bridget’s hands closed over a cubic inch of atmosphere, and she cried, exultantly, “Hold on to it tight an’ slip it on your head quick afore it gets from ye!”

Only seven pairs of hands obeyed Michael protested.

“I have nothinks got,” he said, disgustedly.

“Shut up!” And Bridget shook a menacing fist at him.  “He’s foolish entirely.  He thinks he hasn’t anythin’ foreby he can’t see it.  Now, all together, ‘We wish ’”

“Can we go ’thout any clothes?” interrupted Susan.  “We’d feel awful queer in nightshirts.”

“Don’t ye worry, darlin’.  Like as not when we get there the queen herself ’ll open a monsthrous big chest where they keeps all the faery clothes, an’ let us choose anythin’ at all we wants to wear.”

“Pants?” queried Peter, eagerly.

“Sure, an’ silk dresses an’ straw hats wi’ ribbon on them, an

“Will shoes in the chest be?” Pancho was very anxious; he had never had a pair of shoes in all his six years.

Bridget beamed.  “Not i’ the chest; but I’ll be tellin’ ye how ye’ll come by them.  When we get there we’ll look about for a blackthorn-bush an’ there like as not in undther it will be a wee man wi’ a leather apron across his knee the leprechaun, big as life!”

“What’s him?”

“Faith I’m tellin’ ye ’tis the faery cobbler.  An’ the minute he slaps the tail of his eye on us he’ll sing out:  ‘Hello, Pancho an’ Sandy an’ Susan an’ all o’ yez.  I’ve your boots finished, just.’  An’ wi’ that he’ll fetch down the nine pairs an’ hand them round.”

A sigh of blissful contentment started from the cot by the door, burbled down the length of the ward, and vanished out of the window.  Is there anything dearer to the pride of a child than boots new boots?

Bridget took up the dropped thread and went on.  “An’ afther that the leprechaun reaches for his crock o’ gold an’ pulls out a penny.  Ye can buy anythin’ i’ the whole world wi’ a faery penny.”

“Anythinks!” said Michael, skeptically.

“That’s what I said.”

“Could yer buy a dorg?” Peter asked, opening one renegade eye.

“Sure a million dogs.”

“Don’t want a million.  Want jus’ one real live black dorg named Toby wiv yeller spots an’ half-legs an’ long ears an’ a stand-up tail an’ legs an’ long long long ” The renegade eye closed tight and Peter was smiling at something afar off.

An antiphonal chorus of yawns broke the hush that followed, while Bridget worked herself back under the covers.

“A ken the penny micht be buyin’ a hame,” came in a drowsy voice from Sandy’s crib. “‘Twad be a hame in Aberdeen wi’ trees an’ flo’ers an’ mickle wee creepit things an’ Miss Peggie an’ us

“Sure, an’ it could be buyin’ a grand home in Irelan’, the same,” Bridget beamed; and then she added, struck forcibly with an afterthought:  “But what would be the sense of a home anywheres but here furninst within easy reach of a crutch or a wheeled chair?  Tell me that!”

Sandy grunted ambiguously; and Bridget took up again the thread of her recounting.

“Ye could never be guessin’ half o’ the sthrange adventures we’ll be havin’!  Like as not Sandy ‘ll be gettin’ his hump lifted off him.  I mind the story me mother often told it me.  There was a humpy back in Irelan’, once, who went always about wi’ song in his heart an’ another on his lips; an’ one day he fetched up inside a faery rath.  The pipers were pipin’ an’ the Wee People was dancin’, an’ while they was dancin’ they was singin’ like this:  ‘Monday an’ Tuesday an’ Monday an’ Tuesday an’ Monday an’ Tuesday’ an’ it sounded all jerky and bad.  ‘That’s a terrible poor song,’ says the humpy, speakin’ out plain.  ‘What’s that?’ says the faeries, stoppin’ their dance an’ gatherin’ round him. ‘’Tis mortal poor music ye are making’ says the humpy ag’in.  ‘Can ye improve it any?’ asked the faeries.  ‘I can that,’ says the humpy.  ‘Add Wednesday to it an’ ye’ll have double as good a song.’  An’ when the faeries tried it it was so pretty, an’ they was so pleased, they took the hump off him.”

Sandy had curled up like a kitten; his eyes were shut, and he was smiling, too.  Every one was very quiet; only Rosita moved, reaching out a frightened hand to Bridget.

“Fwaid,” she lisped.  “All dark fwaid to do.”

“Whist, darlin’, ye needn’t be afeared.  Bridget ’ll hold tight to your hand all the way.  An’ the stars will be out there makin’ it bright so bright foreby the stars are the faeries’ old rush-lights.  When they’re all burned out, just, they throw them up i’ the sky far as ever they can an’ God reaches out an’ catches them.  Then He sets them all a-burnin’ ag’in, so’s the wee angel babies can see what road to be takin’.  An’ Sandy ‘ll lose his hump an’ Michael ’ll get a new heart maybe that won’t bump an’ they’ll put all the trusters in cages all but the nice Wee One cages like they have in the circus  An’ they’ll never get out to pesther us never never no more ” Bridget’s voice trailed off into the distance, carrying with it the last of Rosita’s fearing consciousness.

Ward C had suddenly become empty empty except for a row of tumbled beds and nine little tired-out, cast-off bodies.  They had been shed as easily as a boy slips out of his dusty, uncomfortable overalls on a late sultry afternoon, and leaves them behind him on a shady bank, while he plunges, head first, into the cool, dark waters of the swimming-pool just below him, which have been calling and calling and calling.