Page:Emily Climbs.pdf/120

 Andrew. ‘And you must speak respectfully and  him.’

“‘Piffle!’ said Aunt Ruth.

“But a cat’s a cat for a’ that.

“November 8, 19—

“The nights are cold now. When I came back Monday I brought one of the New Moon gin jars for my comforting. I cuddle down with it in bed and enjoy the contrasting roars of the storm wind outside in the Land of Uprightness, and the rain whirling over the roof. Aunt Ruth worries for fear the cork will come out and deluge the bed. That would be almost as bad as what really did happen night before last. I woke up about midnight with the most wonderful idea for a story. I felt that I must rise at once and jot it down in a Jimmy-book before I forgot it. Then I could keep it until my three years are up and I am free to write it.

“I hopped out of bed and, in pawing around my table to find my candle, I upset my ink bottle. Then of course I went mad and couldn’t find ! Matches—candles—everything had disappeared. I set the ink bottle up, but I knew there was a pool of ink on the table. I had ink all over my fingers and dare not touch anything in the dark and couldn’t find anything to wipe it off. And all the time I heard that ink drip-dripping on the floor.

“In desperation I opened the door—with my because I dare not touch it with my inky hands—and went downstairs where I wiped my hands on the stove rag and got some matches. By this time, of course, Aunt Ruth was up, demanding whys and motives. She took my matches, lighted her candle, and marched me upstairs. Oh, ’twas a gruesome sight! How could a small stone ink-bottle hold a quart of ink? There have been a quart to have made the mess it did.

“I felt like the old Scotch emigrant who came home one evening, found his house burned down and his entire