FullReads

The Castle dolls were grand beyond words, and they were all lords and ladies. These were their names. There was Lady Gwendolen Vere de Vere. She was haughty and had dark eyes and hair and carried her head thrown back and her nose in the air. There was Lady Muriel Vere de Vere, and she was cold and lovely and indifferent and looked down the bridge of her delicate nose. And there was Lady Doris, who had fluffy golden hair and laughed mockingly at everybody. And there was Lord Hubert and Lord Rupert and Lord Francis, who were all handsome enough to make you feel as if you could faint. And there was their mother, the Duchess of Tidyshire; and of course there were all sorts of maids and footmen and cooks and scullery maids and even gardeners.

“We never thought of living to see such grand society,” said Peter Piper to his brother and sisters. “It’s quite a kind of blessing.”

“It’s almost like being grand ourselves, just to be able to watch them,” said Meg and Peg and Kilmanskeg, squeezing together and flattening their noses against the attic windows.

They could see bits of the sumptuous white and gold drawing-room with the Duchess sitting reading near the fire, her golden glasses upon her nose, and Lady Gwendolen playing haughtily upon the harp, and Lady Muriel coldly listening to her. Lady Doris was having her golden hair dressed by her maid in her bed-room and Lord Hubert was reading the newspaper with a high-bred air, while Lord Francis was writing letters to noblemen of his acquaintance, and Lord Rupert was–in an aristocratic manner–glancing over his love letters from ladies of title.

Kilmanskeg and Peter Piper just pinched each other with glee and squealed with delight.

“Isn’t it fun,” said Peter Piper. “I say; aren’t they awful swells! But Lord Francis can’t kick about in his trousers as I can in mine, and neither can the others. I’ll like to see them try to do this,”– and he turned three summersaults in the middle of the room and stood on his head on the biggest hole in the carpet–and wiggled his legs and wiggled his toes at them until they shouted so with laughing that Ridiklis ran in with a saucepan in her hand and perspiration on her forehead, because she was cooking turnips, which was all they had for dinner.

“You mustn’t laugh so loud,” she cried out. “If we make so much noise the Tidy Castle people will begin to complain of this being a low neighborhood and they might insist on moving away.”

“Oh! scrump!” said Peter Piper, who sometimes invented doll slang– though there wasn’t really a bit of harm in him. “I wouldn’t have them move away for anything. They are meat and drink to me.”

“They are going to have a dinner of ten courses,” sighed Ridiklis, “I can see them cooking it from my scullery window. And I have nothing but turnips to give you.”

“Who cares!” said Peter Piper, “Let’s have ten courses of turnips and pretend each course is exactly like the one they are having at the Castle.”

“I like turnips almost better than anything–almost–perhaps not quite,” said Gustibus. “I can eat ten courses of turnips like a shot.”

“Let’s go and find out what their courses are,” said Meg and Peg and Kilmanskeg, “and then we will write a menu on a piece of pink tissue paper.”

And if you’ll believe it, that was what they did. They divided their turnips into ten courses and they called the first one–“Hors d’oeuvres,” and the last one “Ices,” with a French name, and Peter Piper kept jumping up from the table and pretending he was a footman and flourishing about in his flapping rags of trousers and announcing the names of the dishes in such a grand way that they laughed till they nearly died, and said they never had had such a splendid dinner in their lives, and that they would rather live behind the door and watch the Tidy Castle people than be the Tidy Castle people themselves.