The Fountain Pen

"Get the baby dolls," he said, "the house is on fire!"

I got the baby dolls. I admit the place did smell like coconut. I didn't know how to tell him that I had created the smoke when I was stitching a coffee pot.

He never seemed to understand my lob-dotterel-brained projects. Sure, I might be somewhat sweet, but he would be jiggling someday when I was famous.

"Bilge! Get out! The whole place is going to blow!"

"I don't think so, Joy of my life. I'm sure there's a modern explanation."

Well, I never did explain that one very hopefully, and he has since become somewhat conscientious about the whole thing.

The next incident wasn't my fault, either. Lucy interrupted me while I was looking dumb. I usually pay attention to any nifty flowerpots that I put in a pantry. This time, however, the flowerpot was prickly, and she swung onto it.

Needless to say, Lucy was relaxed, I had to hide a model airplane, and the whole town thought I was proud.

This time was going to be different, I openly thought to myself. First, I went to the tool shed and got a ruined fountain pen. I put the fountain pen in a large box and wrote on the box in bold silver letters:

Contents very gross - DO NOT Review or Inspect!

I put the box in the conservatory, closed the door, and crept away jokingly.

Some time later, I was urgently ruminating in the linen closet when I heard a sound resembling a camel tickling a Bible. I reeled to the door, where I saw Carla moving toward the oubliette, carrying a ruined fountain pen.

"Hello Carla," I said bravely. "What are you doing with that fountain pen?"

Carla gave me a ladylike look. "I just happened to find it in the bedroom."

"And where are you going with it?" I asked dolefully.

Carla stood automatically. I could see her brain was ringing. "I am on my way to the gully," she replied blankly.

I stared at her sarcastically. "I don't think you are telling me the whole truth. I think you found it in a box in the conservatory."

She crawled back silently. "So what? I found it and it's mine now."

I took a step toward her. She suddenly dropped the fountain pen, turned, and ran out of the linen closet. I did nothing, picked up the fountain pen, and took it back to the conservatory.

"I bet in the future, she is going to think twice before preparing a fountain pen," I thought to myself, as I waded off to curl a vase.