FullReads

“All right then,” said my Father. “Fire away!”

I looked at my Father. I looked at my Mother. I didn’t know just which one to begin with. Carol kicked me in the shins for encouragement. I decided to begin with my Mother.

“Oh Mother,” I said. “If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a Beautiful Mother,–what Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world–would you choose to be?”

“Eh? What’s that? What?” said my Father. “Well, of all the idiotic foolishness! Of all the–“

“Why no–not at all,” said my Mother. “Why–Why I think it’s rather interesting! Why–Why–Though I must admit,” she laughed out suddenly, “that I never quite thought of things in just that way before!” She looked out the window. She looked in the fire-place. She looked at my Father. She looked at Carol. She looked at me. She began to clap her hands. “I’ve got it!” she said. “I know what I’d choose! A White Iris! In all the world there’s no perfume that can compare with the perfume of a White Iris!–Orris root they call it. Orris–“

“Humph! What’s the matter with Tulips?” said my Father.

“Oh but Tulips don’t have any smell at all,” said my Mother. “Except just the nice earthy smell of Spring winds and Spring rains and Spring sunbeams!–Oh of course they look as though they were going to smell tremendously sweet!” she acknowledged very politely. “But they’re just so busy being gay I suppose that–“

“The Tulip Goldfinch,” said my Father coldly, “is noted for its fragrance.”

“Oh dear–Oh dear–Oh dear,” said my Mother. She seemed very sorry. She folded her hands. “Oh very well,” she said. “Mondays,–Wednesdays,–Fridays,–and Sundays,–I will be the fragrance of the Tulip Goldfinch. But Tuesdays,–Thursdays and Saturdays I really must insist on being the fragrance of a White Iris!”

“Humph!” said my Father. “There aren’t any of them that are worth the nice inky lithograph smell of the first Garden Catalogues that come off the presses ‘long about February!”

My Mother clapped her hands again.

“Oh Goodie!” she said. “Write Father down as choosing to smell like ‘the nice inky lithograph smell of the first Garden Catalogues that come off the presses ‘long about February’!”

My Father had to tell us how to spell “Lithograph.” Carol wrote it very carefully. My Mother laughed.

“Well really,” said my Mother, “I’m beginning to have a very good time.–What is Question No. 2?”

“Question No. 2,” I said, “is:–If you were a Beautiful Sound instead of a Beautiful Father and Mother,–what Beautiful Sound in the whole wide world would you choose to be?”

My Father felt better almost at once.

“Oh Pshaw!” he said. “That’s easy. I’d be the Sound of Gold Pieces jingling in the pocket of a man–of a man–” He looked at my Mother. “–Of a man who had a Brown-Eyed Wife who looked something like my Brown-Eyed Wife–and three children whose names–when you spoke ’em quickly sounded very similar–yes, very similar indeed to ‘Ruthy’ and ‘Carol’ and ‘Rosalee’!”

“Oh what nonsense!” said my Mother.

“What does the jingle of Gold Pieces amount to?–Now if I could be any Sound I wanted to–I’d choose to be the sweet–soft–breathy little stir that a nice little family makes when it wakes up in the morning–so that no matter how much you’ve worried during the long black night you can feel at once that everything’s all right! And that everybody’s all there!–In all the world,” cried my Mother, “I know of no sweeter sound than the sound of a nice little family–waking up in the morning!”

I turned to Carol’s page. I laughed and laughed. “Bubbling Fat is what Carol would like to sound like!” I cried. “The noise that Bubbling Fat makes when you drop doughnuts into it!–But I?–If I could be any lovely Sound I wanted to,–I’d like to be the Sound of Rain on a Tin Roof–at night! All over the world people would be lying awake listening to you! And even if they didn’t want to listen they’d have to! Till you were good and ready to stop!”