THE WRONG HOUTHE.

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 147, 23 June 1928, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE WRONG HOUTHE.

Rap! Hap! Rap!

"Dash!" I exclaimed, as I dropped my book and started off to the front door for the fourth time that morning. Mum had gone out, and I was alone in the house. I strode to tlie door, aud.. throwing it open, glowpred horribly at the bold person who dared to violate my rest. An old lady stood on the step, and when she saw me she gasped: "Oh, Daithy, how you have grown, to be thure!" She spoke with a lisp, and was evidently deaf, as I noticed an eartrumpet protruding from her big shopping basket. "B-but," I began. To my amazement she walked past me iuto the hall. "Yetli, the latlit time I thaw you you were only tho high. And how ith your dear mother? Ith the at home? And ith father quite well? No more rheumatithm? He uthed to thuffer with it tho badly yearth ago." She sighed comfortably. "Your mother will be thurprithed to thee me again. Dear me, I don't believe I ecthplained to you who I am! I do ramble on though when I am ecthited." While she was speaking, tho old lady had walked calmly into the sitting room and ensconced herself comfortably in an easy chair. I shut the front door with a philosophical shrug and followed her. Slio had certainly come to the wrong house, and I should have to explain to her. I began. "Madam," I said firmly, "you must have come to the wrong—" She took her ear-trumpet from the basket, and held it to her ear. "Your mother. won't be long? Oh, that'th all right, then; I'll wait for her." "Oh, no," I said, "you don't understand me." She looked puzzled. "'Did you thay to thtand?" "No:" I shouted desperately. "This is the wrong house!" "Eh? A mouthe! Eh, where*"" And my visitor drew her voluminous skirts together, and looked around nervously. I sighed. "No!" I bawled into the objectionable trumpet. "Not mouse— house 1" She heard ill "Oh, 1 thee!" she nodded and smiled. "Yeth, houthc! But what about houthe, my dear?" I gasped, and tried again, speaking very distinctly. "This is the wrong house!" "But why arc you here if thitli ith the wrong houthe?" She looked around with a bewildered air. "I am not Daith—cr —Daisy. My name is Meg." "Oh, I tliee," she beamed again. "Your mother calltli you Meg now, doeth the? Well. well. But you uthed to be called Daithy when you" were a baby." I gave that up, and tried another way. "You haven't told me your name!" 1 .roared. "You want lo know why I came? TMjy, to thee your mother again, to be th ure!" I blushed horribly, and began to wave my arms about wildly. "No! No! Who —are —you V "Oh, didn't 1 tel] you?" She became nearly as agitated as I was. "I'm Mrs. I Allan—l knew your mother when the

waili a little girl like you!" She smiled benevolently on me. I writlaed, and bawled: "What — was — the — name — of —: the — th* — street — yon — -wanted!" (I was picking up her lisping myself in my agitation 1) "Why, thlM street —• Patterthon threet "Thith —this is Plowman Street!" I cried triumphantly, and iu my excitement I yelled louder than ever, thus causing a great sensation down the whole length of the street (as I discovered later). She rose abruptly. "Good grathiouth! Then—oh —you meant that thith ith the wrong houthe?" I nodded speechlessly. She was very apologetic, as I saw her out the door, and directed her to the right houthe—sorry, house. I shut the door and staggered limply back to my book, a sadder and wiser girl.