My name is Kate and I’m eight years old. I hope I can tell you about the happiest summer morning in my whole life. You see, it was my father and mother’s wedding anniversary, and my father said: “Now, children, what shall we do to make this day really happy for father and mother?”
Oh, yes, we were all children still in our families. Mine had four–Rosy, Ned, baby Maurice, and me, and of course father and mother. “Let us pick flowers,” said Rosy. “No. Let us have a picnic,” said Ned. “No. I have it,” said baby Maurice, who was only two years old and could not say very much yet. “What is it, dear Maurice?” said father. “Mawwiage,” said baby Maurice, shaking his golden curls. Mother and father laughed and laugh
“Well, dear children,” said father, “we must do something for little Maurice, for it wouldn’t do to disappoint him, and the very best plan of all is the one which makes pleasant the happiest memories of one’s life.”
And my father talked and talked and made us all so excited. At last we discovered what the surprise was. It was that in the little festival we should really celebrate our parents’ wedding anniversary, and by doing so a very very old-fashioned village saying would be fulfilled which was: “The first bearers of father and mother, on their thirty years’ anniversary, were little baskets full of happy flowers and fruit, which were given them exactly at twelve o’clock noon. From that time, year after year, each family, so long as they existed, copied this example and made to produce with the newly born children something new in the culinary art every year.”
Yes, that is a very old saying indeed.
So I intuitively got out my crochet work and worked diligently, and little by little I mean to say we all started picking flowers and berries or doing any sort of necessary handiwork. All we were forbidden to forget was a large piece of chocolate cake, which was to be baked by both families. We thought we would find it very interesting.
At twelve o’clock exactly we heard the clock of the neighbouring village strike and all the birds pour out their jubilation. It was a lovely summer day. It was hot too, but what difference did that make? All the children of the neighbourhood had already gathered together armed with baskets, hats, tools, etc. In front of them was the cart with a piano carrying along behind. Little by little we reached the verdant plain on the bank of our little lake, which had been chosen for this quiet and happy gathering.
The children then all sang the following hymn: Morning Hymn for parents, friends, and family.
Ha! all the fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters clapped their hands when they heard, you do hear, it, the choir of children.
And what is still better, my dear children, the choirs of those happy children were heard and repeated by all the birds, hidden in the thickest foliage of the trees. And so I beg that you will also read and recite this lovely morning hymn.