INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION
To all the little children: - The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones - Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones. 

~James Whitcomb Riley

“The ice-house and the bees!”

“We hear that one all the time, I want the first time you saw a car . . . puh-leeze, Grandad?”

Grandad positioned the embroidered footstool using his toes, slipped off his shoes, and adjusted his bifocals.  He watched us with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I like the one about the pony,” said Erin quietly, blue eyes shining.  She couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4, which would have made me about 9.

I wasn’t the oldest cousin in the room – that was Randy, something like 14.  We were conspirators in all things regarding the cousins - he the ringleader, me the steady right hand - especially if there was mischief.  Grandad kept an eye on his audience, 7 squirming grandchildren, most tucked into beds and pallets on the floor, ranging in age from 3 to 8, plus Randy and me, calm and waiting.  I was keeping an eye on Randy, who seemed to be thinking about something . . .

“Tell us about playing soldiers and the guardhouse and basketball!”

It was tradition that, whenever Grandad M. was visiting us, or we were visiting Grandad and Grandma, the day ended with Grandad telling bedtime stories.  The themes might be historical (including Mad Anthony Wayne or Tecumseh or Annie Oakley or ancestors he’d been researching), or autobiographical (including any interesting aspect of growing up in early 20th century rural Indiana/Ohio).  Randy and I were really too old to be in with the little kids, but it was fun to watch them hearing the stories for the first time.

“Well, I don’t know,” Grandad said, stretching himself out with his hands behind his head and looking at the ceiling.  “We might only have time for one, it’s getting pretty late.”

A cold wind rattled the windows of the upstairs bedroom where we were gathered.  Grandad was mostly done with the renovations in their hundred-year-old home, but it didn’t stop the leaves from slapping up against the glass, nor the slight groans of the frame expanding and contracting by millimeters in the changing weather.

“Grandad, we haven’t heard about Little Orphan Annie in a long time.”

Trust Randy to come up with that one – it was so much better than the one I was thinking of, the one about the panther escaped from the circus . . . at night . . . on the long lane . . . but I read his mind . . . brilliant.

“Hmmmm, you want to hear about Little Orphan Annie?  Well, I’ll have to see if I can remember it.”

Cool.  Grandad was totally playing along.

“Let’s see . . . you guys need to settle down a little so I can think.”

The little kids burrowed down into their blankets, and tried to stay still.

“And Owl . . . maybe if you turned off the lights, it would help me concentrate.”

I smirked at Randy knowingly, and saw him nod slightly at me just as I flipped the switch.  I tiptoed to crouch next to Randy, where there was just enough light coming in from the hall light that I could see some of my cousins’ faces.

I heard Grandad’s feet scooting the stool a little, and the chair creaked as he leaned forward . . .

“Now . . .
 
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun,
A-listenin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
             Ef you
                  Don't
                      Watch
                          Out!”

It was pin-drop quiet now, so when Grandad paused to think about the next part of the story, I could tell that no one was fidgeting . . .

“So . . .

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, -
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: -
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
             Ef you
                  Don't
                      Watch
                          Out!”

“But . . . but,” Erin began.

“Shhhhhhhh,” answered everyone else.  Even in the dark, I could see their eyes getting bigger.

“An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'for she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
             Ef you
                  Don't
                      Watch
                          Out!”

The bare branches outside the window were grasping at the full moon coming out from behind a cloud.  It was dead quiet now, and Grandad started the next part like he was telling a secret.

“An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!”

Unseen currents rattled the windows . . .

“An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away,”

. . . All the eyes I could see were wide, wide, wide . . .

“You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
             Ef you
                  Don't . . .
                      Watch . . .”

A brush of cold fingertips on my cheek startled me sideways . . .

                          “Out!”

I dodged and rolled into the light spilling in the doorway.

A huge gasp came from inside the room as all the little kids got ready to scream. 

I caught myself before I yelled, but my heaving chest and enormous eyes must have given me away.  I instinctively looked for Randy, now standing and silently grinning ear to ear as he held out his hand to help me up.

I took his hand and kept to the shadows so I could finish shaking in peace.

He’s still one of my favorite cousins.

Dammit.

Text for the poem and the inscription were found on a website honoring James Whitcomb Riley, one of Grandad's favorite poets.

.