CHAPTER II
Our Angel Boy
"I had a brother once--a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy,--there was the look
Of heaven upon his face."
It was supper time when we reached home, and Bobby was at the
front gate to meet me. He always hunted me all over the place
when the big bell in the yard rang at meal time, because if he
crowed nicely when he was told, he was allowed to stand on the
back of my chair and every little while I held up my plate and
shared bites with him. I have seen many white bantams, but never
another like Bobby. My big brothers bought him for me in Fort
Wayne, and sent him in a box, alone on the cars. Father and I
drove to Groveville to meet him. The minute father pried off the
lid, Bobby hopped on the edge of the box and crowed--the biggest
crow you ever heard from such a mite of a body; he wasn't in the
least afraid of us and we were pleased about it. You scarcely
could see his beady black eyes for his bushy topknot, his wing
tips touched the ground, his tail had two beautiful plumy feathers
much longer than the others, his feet were covered with feathers,
and his knee tufts dragged. He was the sauciest, spunkiest little
fellow, and white as muslin. We went to supper together, but no
one asked where I had been, and because I was so bursting full
of importance, I talked only to Bobby, in order to be safe.
After supper I finished Hezekiah's trousers, and May cut his coat
for me. School would begin in September and our clothes were being
made, so I used the scraps to dress him. His suit was done by
the next forenoon, and father never laughed harder than when Hezekiah
hopped down the walk to meet him dressed in pink trousers and
coat. The coat had flowing sleeves like the Princess wore, so
Hezekiah could fly, and he seemed to like them.
His suit was such a success I began a sunbonnet, and when that
was tied on him, the folks almost had spasms. They said he wouldn't
like being dressed; that he would fly away to punish me, but he
did no such thing. He stayed around the house and was tame as
ever.
When I became tired sewing that afternoon, I went down the lane
leading to our meadow, where Leon was killing thistles with a
grubbing hoe. I thought he would be glad to see me, and he was.
Every one had been busy in the house, so I went to the cellar
the outside way and ate all I wanted from the cupboard. Then I
spread two big slices of bread the best I could with my fingers,
putting apple butter on one, and mashed potatoes on the other.
Leon leaned on the hoe and watched me coming. He was a hungry
boy, and lonesome too, but he couldn't be forced to say so.
"Laddie is at work in the barn," he said.
"I'm going to play in the creek," I answered.
Crossing our meadow there was a stream that had grassy banks,
big trees, willows, bushes and vines for shade, a solid pebbly
bed; it was all turns and bends so that the water hurried until
it bubbled and sang as it went; in it lived tiny fish coloured
brightly as flowers, beside it ran killdeer, plover and solemn
blue herons almost as tall as I was came from the river to fish;
for a place to play on an August afternoon, it couldn't be beaten.
The sheep had been put in the lower pasture; so the cross old
Shropshire ram was not there to bother us.
"Come to the shade," I said to Leon, and when we were
comfortably seated under a big maple weighted down with trailing
grapevines, I offered the bread. Leon took a piece in each hand
and began to eat as if he were starving. Laddie would have kissed
me and said: "What a fine treat! Thank you, Little Sister."
Leon was different. He ate so greedily you had to know he was
glad to get it, but he wouldn't say so, not if he never got any
more. When you knew him, you understood he wouldn't forget it,
and he'd be certain to do something nice for you before the day
was over to pay back. We sat there talking about everything we
saw, and at last Leon said with a grin: "Shelley isn't getting
much grape sap is she?"
"I didn't know she wanted grape sap."
"She read about it in a paper. It said to cut the vine of
a wild grape, catch the drippings and moisten your hair. This
would make it glossy and grow faster."
"What on earth does Shelley want with more hair than she
has?"
"Oh, she has heard it bragged on so much she thinks people
would say more if she could improve it."
I looked and there was the vine, dry as could be, and a milk crock
beneath it.
"Didn't the silly know she had to cut the vine in the spring
when the sap was running?"
"Bear witness, O vine! that she did not," said Leon,
"and speak, ye voiceless pottery, and testify that she expected
to find you overflowing."
"Too bad that she's going to be disappointed."
"She isn't! She's going to find ample liquid to bathe her
streaming tresses. Keep quiet and watch me."
He picked up the crock, carried it to the creek and dipped it
full of water.
"That's too much," I objected. "She'll know she
never got a crock full from a dry vine."
"She'll think the vine bled itself dry for her sake."
"She isn't that silly."
"Well then, how silly is she?" asked Leon, spilling
out half. "About so?"
"Not so bad as that. Less yet!"
"Anything to please the ladies," said Leon, pouring
out more. Then we sat and giggled a while.
"What are you going to do now?" asked Leon.
"Play in the creek," I answered.
"All right! I'll work near you."
He rolled his trousers above his knees and took the hoe, but he
was in the water most of the time. We had to climb on the bank
when we came to the deep curve, under the stump of the old oak
that father cut because Pete Billings would climb it and yowl
like a wildcat on cold winter nights. Pete was wrong in his head
like Paddy Ryan, only worse. As we passed we heard the faintest
sounds, so we lay and looked, and there in the dark place under
the roots, where the water was deepest, huddled some of the cunningest
little downy wild ducks you ever saw. We looked at each other
and never said a word. Leon chased them out with the hoe and they
swam down stream faster than old ones. I stood in the shallow
water behind them and kept them from going back to the deep place,
while Leon worked to catch them. Every time he got one he brought
it to me, and I made a bag of my apron front to put them in. The
supper bell rang before we caught all of them. We were dripping
wet with creek water and perspiration, but we had the ducks, every
one of them, and proudly started home. I'll wager Leon was sorry
he didn't wear aprons so he could carry them. He did keep the
last one in his hands, and held its little fluffy body against
his cheeks every few minutes.
"Couldn't anything be prettier than a young duck."
"Except a little guinea," I said.
"That's so!" said Leon. "They are most as pretty
as quail. I guess all young things that have down are about as
cunning as they can be. I don't believe I know which I like best,
myself."
"Baby killdeers."
"I mean tame. Things we raise."
"I'll take guineas."
"I'll say white turkeys. They seem so innocent. Nothing of
ours is pretty as these."
"But these are wild."
"So they are," said Leon. "Twelve of them. Won't
mother be pleased?"
She was not in the least. She said we were a sight to behold;
that she was ashamed to be the mother of two children who didn't
know tame ducks from wild ones. She remembered instantly that
Amanda Deam had set a speckled Dorking hen on Mallard duck eggs,
where she got the eggs, and what she paid for them. She said the
ducks had found the creek that flowed beside Deams' barnyard before
it entered our land, and they had swum away from the hen, and
both the hen and Amanda would be frantic. She put the ducks into
a basket and said to take them back soon as ever we got our suppers,
and we must hurry because we had to bathe and learn our texts
for Sunday-school in the morning.
We went through the orchard, down the hill and across the meadow
until we came to the creek. By that time we were tired of the
basket. It was one father had woven himself of shaved and soaked
hickory strips, and it was heavy. The sight of water suggested
the proper place for ducks, anyway. We talked it over and decided
that they would be much more comfortable swimming than in the
basket, and it was more fun to wade than to walk, so we went above
the deep place, I stood in the creek to keep them from going down,
and Leon poured them on the water. Pigs couldn't have acted more
contrary. Those ducks LIKED us. They wouldn't go to Deams'. They
just fought to swim back to us. Anyway, we had the worst time
you ever saw. Leon cut long switches to herd them with, and both
of us waded and tried to drive them, but they would dart under
embankments and roots, and dive and hide.
Before we reached the Deams' I wished that we had carried them
as mother told us, for we had lost three, and if we stopped to
hunt them, more would hide. By the time we drove them under the
floodgate crossing the creek between our land and the Deams' four
were gone. Leon left me on the gate with both switches to keep
them from going back and he ran to call Mrs. Deam. She had red
hair and a hot temper, and we were not very anxious to see her,
but we had to do it. While Leon was gone I was thinking pretty
fast and I knew exactly how things would happen. First time mother
saw Mrs. Deam she would ask her if the ducks were all right, and
she would tell that four were gone. Mother would ask how many
she had, and she would say twelve, then mother would remember
that she started us with twelve in the basket--Oh what's the use!
Something had to be done. It had to be done quickly too, for I
could hear Amanda Deam, her boy Sammy and Leon coming across the
barnyard. I looked around in despair, but when things are the
very worst, there is almost always some way out.
On the dry straw worked between and pushing against the panels
of the floodgate, not far from me, I saw a big black water snake.
I took one good look at it: no coppery head, no geometry patterns,
no rattlebox, so I knew it wasn't poisonous and wouldn't bite
until it was hurt, and if it did, all you had to do was to suck
the place, and it wouldn't amount to more than two little pricks
as if pins had stuck you; but a big snake was a good excuse. I
rolled from the floodgate among the ducks, and cried, "Snake!"
They scattered everywhere. The snake lazily uncoiled and slid
across the straw so slowly that--thank goodness! Amanda Deam got
a fair look at it. She immediately began to jump up and down and
scream. Leon grabbed a stick and came running to the water. I
cried so he had to help me out first.
"Don't let her count them!" I whispered.
Leon gave me one swift look and all the mischief in his blue eyes
peeped out. He was the funniest boy you ever knew, anyway. Mostly
he looked scowly and abused. He had a grievance against everybody
and everything. He said none of us liked him, and we imposed on
him. Father said that if he tanned Leon's jacket for anything,
and set him down to think it over, he would pout a while, then
he would look thoughtful, suddenly his face would light up and
he would go away sparkling; and you could depend upon it he would
do the same thing over, or something worse, inside an hour. When
he wanted to, he could smile the most winning smile, and he could
coax you into anything. Mother said she dreaded to have to borrow
a dime from him, if a peddler caught her without change, because
she knew she'd be kept paying it back for the next six months.
Right now he was the busiest kind of a boy.
"Where is it? Let me get a good lick at it! Don't scare the
ducks!" he would cry, and chase them from one bank to the
other, while Amanda danced and fought imaginary snakes. For a
woman who had seen as many as she must have in her life, it was
too funny. I don't think I could laugh harder, or Leon and Sammy.
We enjoyed ourselves so much that at last she began to be angry.
She quit dancing, and commenced hunting ducks, for sure. She held
her skirts high, poked along the banks, jumped the creek and didn't
always get clear across. Her hair shook down, she lost a sidecomb,
and she couldn't find half the ducks.
"You younguns pack right out of here," she said. "Me
and Sammy can get them better ourselves, and if we don't find
all of them, we'll know where they are."
"We haven't got any of your ducks," I said angrily,
but Leon smiled his most angelic smile, and it seemed as if he
were going to cry.
"Of course, if you want to accuse mother of stealing your
ducks, you can," he said plaintively, "but I should
think you'd be ashamed to do it, after all the trouble we took
to catch them before they swam to the river, where you never would
have found one of them. Come on, Little Sister, let's go home."
He started and I followed. As soon as we got around the bend we
sat on the bank, hung our feet in the water, leaned against each
other and laughed. We just laughed ourselves almost sick. When
Amanda's face got fire red, and her hair came down, and she jumped
and didn't go quite over, she looked a perfect fright.
"Will she ever find all of them?" I asked at last.
"Of course," said Leon. "She will comb the grass
and strain the water until she gets every one."
"Hoo-hoo!"
I looked at Leon. He was so intently watching an old turkey buzzard
hanging in the air, he never heard the call that meant it was
time for us to be home and cleaning up for Sunday. It was difficult
to hurry, for after we had been soaped and scoured, we had to
sit on the back steps and commit to memory verses from the Bible.
At last we waded toward home. Two of the ducks we had lost swam
before us all the way, so we knew they were alive, and all they
needed was finding.
"If she hadn't accused mother of stealing her old ducks,
I'd catch those and carry them back to her," said Leon. "But
since she thinks we are so mean, I'll just let her and little
Sammy find them."
Then we heard their voices as they came down the creek, so Leon
reached me his hand and we scampered across the water and meadow,
never stopping until we sat on the top rail of our back orchard
fence. There we heard another call, but that was only two. We
sat there, rested and looked at the green apples above our heads,
wishing they were ripe, and talking about the ducks. We could
see Mrs. Deam and Sammy coming down the creek, one on each side.
We slid from the fence and ran into a queer hollow that was cut
into the hill between the never-fail and the Baldwin apple trees.
That hollow was overgrown with weeds, and full of trimmings from
trees, stumps, everything that no one wanted any place else in
the orchard. It was the only unkept spot on our land, and I always
wondered why father didn't clean it out and make it look respectable.
I said so to Leon as we crouched there watching down the hill
where Mrs. Deam and Sammy hunted ducks with not such very grand
success. They seemed to have so many they couldn't decide whether
to go back or go on, so they must have found most of them.
"You know I've always had my suspicions about this place,"
said Leon. "There is somewhere on our land that people can
be hidden for a long time. I can remember well enough before the
war ever so long, and while it was going worst, we would find
the wagon covered with more mud in the morning than had been on
it at night; and the horses would be splashed and tired. Once
I was awake in the night and heard voices. It made me want a drink,
so I went downstairs for it, and ran right into the biggest, blackest
man who ever grew. If father and mother hadn't been there I'd
have been scared into fits. Next morning he was gone and there
wasn't a whisper. Father said I'd had bad dreams. That night the
horses made another mysterious trip. Now where did they keep the
black man all that day?"
"What did they have a black man for?"
"They were helping him run away from slavery to be free in
Canada. It was all right. I'd have done the same thing. They helped
a lot. Father was a friend of the Governor. There were letters
from him, and there was some good reason why father stayed at
home, when he was crazy about the war. I think this farm was what
they called an Underground Station. What I want to know is where
the station was."
"Maybe it's here. Let's hunt," I said. "If the
black men were here some time, they would have to be fed, and
this is not far from the house."
So we took long sticks and began poking into the weeds. Then we
moved the brush, and sure as you live, we found an old door with
a big stone against it. I looked at Leon and he looked at me.
"Hoo-hoo!" came mother's voice, and that was the third
call.
"Hum! Must be for us," said Leon. "We better go
as soon as we get a little dryer."
He slid down the bank on one side, and I on the other, and we
pushed at the stone. I thought we never would get it rolled away
so we could open the door a crack, but when we did what we saw
was most surprising. There was a little room, dreadfully small.
but a room. There was straw scattered over the floor, very deep
on one side, where an old blanket showed that it had been a bed.
Across the end there was a shelf. On it was a candlestick, with
a half-burned candle in it, a pie pan with some mouldy crumbs,
crusts, bones in it, and a tin can. Leon picked up the can and
looked in. I could see too.
It had been used for water or coffee, as the plate had for food,
once, but now it was stuffed full of money. I saw Leon pull some
out and then shove it back, and he came to the door white as could
be, shut it behind him and began to push at the stone. When we
got it in place we put the brush over it, and fixed everything
like it had been.
At last Leon said: "That's the time we got into something
not intended for us, and if father finds it out, we are in for
a good thrashing. Are you just a blubbering baby, or are you big
enough to keep still?"
"I am old enough that I could have gone to school two years
ago, and I won't tell!" I said stoutly.
"All right! Come on then," said Leon. "I don't
know but mother has been calling us."
We started up the orchard path at the fourth call.
"Hoo-hoo!" answered Leon in a sick little voice to make
it sound far away. Must have made mother think we were on Deams'
hill. Then we went on side by side.
"Say Leon, you found the Station, didn't you?"
"Don't talk about it!" snapped Leon.
I changed the subject
"Whose money do you suppose that is?"
"Oh crackey! You can depend on a girl to see everything,"
groaned Leon. "Do you think you'll be able to stand the switching
that job will bring you, without getting sick in bed?"
Now I never had been sick in bed, and from what I had seen of
other people who were, I never wanted to be. The idea of being
switched until it made me sick was too much for me. I shut my
mouth tight and I never opened it about the Station place. As
we reached the maiden's-blush apple tree came another call, and
it sounded pretty cross, I can tell you. Leon reached his hand.
"Now, it's time to run. Let me do the talking."
We were out of breath when we reached the back door. There stood
the tub on the kitchen floor, the boiler on the stove, soap, towels,
and clean clothing on chairs. Leon had his turn at having his
ears washed first, because he could bathe himself while mother
did my hair.
"Was Mrs. Deam glad to get her ducks back?" she asked
as she fine-combed Leon.
"Aw, you never can tell whether she's glad about anything
or not," growled Leon. "You'd have thought from the
way she acted, that we'd been trying to steal her ducks. She said
if she missed any she'd know where to find them."
"Well as I live!" cried mother. "Why I wouldn't
have believed that of Amanda Deam. You told her you thought they
were wild, of course."
"I didn't have a chance to tell her anything. The minute
the ducks struck the water they started right back down stream,
and there was a big snake, and we had an awful time. We got wet
trying to head them back, and then we didn't find all of them."
"They are like little eels. You should have helped Amanda."
"Well, you called so cross we thought you would come after
us, so we had to run."
"One never knows," sighed mother. "I thought you
were loitering.
Of course if I had known you were having trouble with the ducks!
I think you had better go back and help them."
"Didn't I do enough to take them home? Can't Sammy Deam catch
ducks as fast as I can?"
"I suppose so," said mother. "And I must get your
bathing out of the way of supper. You use the tub while I do Little
Sister's hair."
I almost hated Sunday, because of what had to be done to my hair
on Saturday, to get ready for it. All week it hung in two long
braids that were brushed and arranged each morning. But on Saturday
it had to be combed with a fine comb, oiled and rolled around
strips of tin until Sunday morning. Mother did everything thoroughly.
She raked that fine comb over our scalps until she almost raised
the blood. She hadn't time to fool with tangles, and we had so
much hair she didn't know what to do with all of it, anyway. When
she was busy talking she reached around too far and combed across
our foreheads or raked the tip of an ear.
But on Sunday morning we forgot all that, when we walked down
the aisle with shining curls hanging below our waists. Mother
was using the fine comb, when she looked up, and there stood Mrs.
Freshett. We could see at a glance that she was out of breath.
"Have I beat them?" she cried.
"Whom are you trying to beat?" asked mother as she told
May to set a chair for Mrs. Freshett and bring her a drink.
"The grave-kiver men," she said. "I wanted to get
to you first."
"Well, you have," said mother. "Rest a while and
then tell me."
But Mrs. Freshett was so excited she couldn't rest.
"I thought they were coming straight on down," she said,
"but they must have turned off at the cross roads. I want
to do what's right by my children here or there," panted
Mrs. Freshett, "and these men seemed to think the contrivance
they was sellin' perfectly grand, an' like to be an aid to the
soul's salvation. Nice as it seemed, an' convincin' as they talked,
I couldn't get the consent of my mind to order, until I knowed
if you was goin' to kiver your dead with the contraption. None
of the rest of the neighbours seem over friendly to me, an' I've
told Josiah many's the time, that I didn't care a rap if they
wa'n't, so long as I had you. Says I, `Josiah, to my way of thinkin',
she is top crust in this neighbourhood, and I'm on the safe side
apin' her ways clost as possible.'"
"I'll gladly help you all I can," said my mother.
"Thanky!" said Mrs. Freshett. "I knowed you would.
Josiah he says to me, `Don't you be apin' nobody.' `Josiah,' says
I, `it takes a pretty smart woman in this world to realize what
she doesn't know. Now I know what I know, well enough, but all
I know is like to keep me an' my children in a log cabin an' on
log cabin ways to the end of our time. You ain't even got the
remains of the cabin you started in for a cow shed.' Says I, `Josiah,
Miss Stanton knows how to get out of a cabin an' into a grand
big palace, fit fur a queen woman. She's a ridin' in a shinin'
kerridge, 'stid of a spring wagon. She goes abroad dressed so's
you men all stand starin' like cabbage heads. All hern go to church,
an' Sunday-school, an' college, an' come out on the top of the
heap. She does jest what I'd like to if I knowed how. An' she
ain't come-uppety one morsel.' If I was to strike acrost fields
to them stuck-up Pryors, I'd get the door slammed in my face if
'twas the missus, a sneer if 'twas the man, an' at best a nod
cold as an iceberg if 'twas the girl. Them as want to call her
kind `Princess,' and encourage her in being more stuck up 'an
she was born to be, can, but to my mind a Princess is a person
who thinks of some one besides herself once in a while."
"I don't find the Pryors easy to become acquainted with,"
said mother. "I have never met the woman; I know the man
very slightly; he has been here on business once or twice, but
the girl seems as if she would be nice, if one knew her."
"Well, I wouldn't have s'posed she was your kind," said
Mrs. Freshett. "If she is, I won't open my head against her
any more.
Anyway, it was the grave-kivers I come about."
"Just what is it, Mrs. Freshett?" asked mother.
"It's two men sellin' a patent iron kiver for to protect
the graves of your dead from the sun an' the rain."
"Who wants the graves of their dead protected from the sun
and the rain?" demanded my mother sharply.
"I said to Josiah, `I don't know how she'll feel about it,
but I can't do more than ask.'"
"Do they carry a sample? What is it like?"
"Jest the len'th an' width of a grave. They got from baby
to six-footer sizes. They are cast iron like the bottom of a cook
stove on the under side, but atop they are polished so they shine
somethin' beautiful. You can get them in a solid piece, or with
a hole in the centre about the size of a milk crock to set flowers
through. They come ten to the grave, an' they are mighty stylish
lookin' things. I have been savin' all I could skimp from butter,
an' eggs, to get Samantha a organ; but says I to her: `You are
gettin' all I can do for you every day; there lays your poor brother
'at ain't had a finger lifted for him since he was took so sudden
he was gone before I knowed he was goin'.' I never can get over
Henry bein' took the way he was, so I says: `If this would be
a nice thing to have for Henry's grave, and the neighbours are
goin' to have them for theirn, looks to me like some of the organ
money will have to go, an' we'll make it up later.' I don't 'low
for Henry to be slighted bekase he rid himself to death trying
to make a president out of his pa's gin'ral."
"You never told me how you lost your son," said mother,
feeling so badly she wiped one of my eyes full of oil.
"Law now, didn't I?" inquired Mrs. Freshett. "Well
mebby that is bekase I ain't had a chance to tell you much of
anythin', your bein' always so busy like, an' me not wantin' to
wear out my welcome. It was like this: All endurin' the war Henry
an' me did the best we could without pa at home, but by the time
it was over, Henry was most a man. Seemed as if when he got home,
his pa was all tired out and glad to set down an' rest, but Henry
was afire to be up an' goin'. His pa filled him so full o' Grant,
it was runnin' out of his ears. Come the second run the Gin'ral
made, peered like Henry set out to 'lect him all by hisself. He
wore every horse on the place out, ridin' to rallies. Sometimes
he was gone three days at a stretch. He'd git one place an' hear
of a rally on ten miles or so furder, an' blest if he didn't ride
plum acrost the state 'fore he got through with one trip. He set
out in July, and he rid right straight through to November, nigh
onto every day of his life. He got white, an' thin, an' narvous,
from loss of sleep an' lack of food, an' his pa got restless,
said Henry was takin' the 'lection more serious 'an he ever took
the war. Last few days before votin' was cold an' raw an' Henry
rid constant. 'Lection day he couldn't vote, for he lacked a year
of bein' o' age, an' he rid in with a hard chill, an' white as
a ghost, an' he says: `Ma,' says he, `I've 'lected Grant, but
I'm all tuckered out. Put me to bed an' kiver me warm.'"
I forgot the sting in my eyes watching Mrs. Freshett. She was
the largest woman I knew, and strong as most men. Her hair was
black and glisteny, her eyes black, her cheeks red, her skin a
clear, even dark tint. She was handsome, she was honest, and she
was in earnest over everything. There was something about her,
or her family, that had to be told in whispers, and some of the
neighbours would have nothing to do with her. But mother said
Mrs. Freshett was doing the very best she knew, and for the sake
of that, and of her children, anyone who wouldn't help her was
not a Christian, and not to be a Christian was the very worst
thing that could happen to you. I stared at her steadily. She
talked straight along, so rapidly you scarcely could keep up with
the words; you couldn't if you wanted to think about them any
between. There was not a quiver in her voice, but from her eyes
there rolled, steadily, the biggest, roundest tears I ever saw.
They ran down her cheeks, formed a stream in the first groove
of her double chin, overflowed it, and dripped drop, drop, a drop
at a time, on the breast of her stiffly starched calico dress,
and from there shot to her knees.
"'Twa'n't no time at all 'til he was chokin' an' burnin'
red with fever, an' his pa and me, stout as we be, couldn't hold
him down nor keep him kivered. He was speechifyin' to beat anythin'
you ever heard. His pa said he was repeatin' what he'd heard said
by every big stump speaker from Greeley to Logan. When he got
so hoarse we couldn't tell what he said any more, he jest mouthed
it, an' at last he dropped back and laid like he was pinned to
the sheets, an' I thought he was restin', but 'twa'n't an hour
'til he was gone."
Suddenly Mrs. Freshett lifted her apron, covered her face and
sobbed until her broad shoulders shook.
"Oh you poor soul!" said my mother. "I'm so sorry
for you!"
"I never knowed he was a-goin' until he was gone," she
said. "He was the only one of mine I ever lost, an' I thought
it would jest lay me out. I couldn't 'a' stood it at all if I
hadn't 'a' knowed he was saved. I well know my Henry went straight
to Heaven. Why Miss Stanton, he riz right up in bed at the last,
and clear and strong he jest yelled it: `Hurrah fur Grant!'"
My mother's fingers tightened in my hair until I thought she would
pull out a lot, and I could feel her knees stiffen. Leon just
whooped. Mother sprang up and ran to the door.
"Leon!" she cried. Then there was a slam. "What
in the world is the matter?" she asked.
"Stepped out of the tub right on the soap, and it threw me
down," explained Leon.
"For mercy sake, be careful!" said my mother, and shut
the door.
It wasn't a minute before the knob turned and it opened again
a little.
I never saw mother's face look so queer, but at last she said
softly: "You were thinking of the grave cover for him?"
"Yes, but I wanted to ask you before I bound myself. I heard
you lost two when the scarlet fever was ragin' an' I'm goin' to
do jest what you do. If you have kivers, I will. If you don't
like them when you see how bright and shiny they are, I won't
get any either."
"I can tell you without seeing them, Mrs. Freshett,"
said my mother, wrapping a strand of hair around the tin so tight
I slipped up my fingers to feel whether my neck wasn't like a
buck- eye hull looks, and it was. "I don't want any cover
for the graves of my dead but grass and flowers, and sky and clouds.
I like the rain to fall on them, and the sun to shine, so that
the grass and flowers will grow. If you are satisfied that the
soul of Henry is safe in Heaven, that is all that is necessary.
Laying a slab of iron on top of earth six feet above his body
will make no difference to him. If he is singing with the angels,
by all means save your money for the organ."
"I don't know about the singin', but I'd stake my last red
cent he's still hollerin' fur Grant. I was kind o' took with the
idea; the things was so shiny and scilloped at the edges, peered
like it was payin' considerable respect to the dead to kiver them
that-a-way."
"What good would it do?" asked mother. "The sun
shining on the iron would make it so hot it would burn any flower
you tried to plant in the opening; the water couldn't reach the
roots, and all that fell on the slab would run off and make it
that much wetter at the edges. The iron would soon rust and grow
dreadfully ugly lying under winter snow. There is nothing at all
in it, save a method to work on the feelings of the living, and
get them to pay their money for something that wouldn't affect
their dead a particle."
"'Twould be a poor idea for me," said Mrs. Freshett.
"I said to the men that I wanted to honour Henry all I could,
but with my bulk, I'd hev all I could do, come Jedgment Day, to
bust my box, an' heave up the clods, without havin' to hist up
a piece of iron an' klim from under it."
Mother stiffened and Leon slipped again. He could have more accidents
than any boy I ever knew. But it was only a few minutes until
he came to mother and gave her a Bible to mark the verses he had
to learn to recite at Sunday-school next day. Mother couldn't
take the time when she had company, so she asked if he weren't
big enough to pick out ten proper verses and learn them by himself,
and he said of course he was. He took his Bible and he and May
and I sat on the back steps and studied our verses. He and May
were so big they had ten; but I had only two, and mine were not
very long. Leon giggled half the time he was studying. I haven't
found anything so very funny in the Bible. Every few minutes he
would whisper to himself: "THAT'S A GOOD ONE!"
He took the book and heard May do hers until she had them perfectly,
then he went and sat on the back fence with his book and studied
as I never before had seen him. Mrs. Freshett stayed so long mother
had no time to hear him, but he told her he had them all learned
so he could repeat them without a mistake.
Next morning mother was busy, so she had no time then. Father,
Shelley, and I rode on the front seat, mother, May, and Sally
on the back, while the boys started early and walked.
When we reached the top of the hill, the road was lined with carriages,
wagons, spring wagons, and saddle horses. Father found a place
for our team and we went down the walk between the hitching rack
and the cemetery fence. Mother opened the gate and knelt beside
two small graves covered with grass, shaded by yellow rose bushes,
and marked with little white stones. She laid some flowers on
each and wiped the dust from the carved letters with her handkerchief.
The little sisters who had scarlet fever and whooping cough lay
there. Mother was still a minute and then she said softly: "`The
Lord has given and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name
of the Lord.'"
She was very pale when she came to us, but her eyes were bright
and she smiled as she put her arms around as many of us as she
could reach.
"What a beautiful horse!" said Sally. "Look at
that saddle and bridle! The Pryor girl is here."
"Why should she come?" asked Shelley.
"To show her fine clothes and queen it over us!"
"Children, children!" said mother. "`Judge not!'
This is a house of worship. The Lord may be drawing her in His
own way. It is for us to help Him by being kind and making her
welcome."
At the church door we parted and sat with our teachers, but for
the first time as I went down the aisle I was not thinking of
my linen dress, my patent leather slippers, and my pretty curls.
It suddenly seemed cheap to me to twist my hair when it was straight
as a shingle, and cut my head on tin. If the Lord had wanted me
to have curls, my hair would have been like Sally's. Seemed to
me hers tried to see into what big soft curls it could roll. May
said ours was so straight it bent back the other way. Anyway,
I made up my mind to talk it over with father and always wear
braids after that, if I could get him to coax mother to let me.
Our church was quite new and it was beautiful. All the casings
were oiled wood, and the walls had just a little yellow in the
last skin coating used to make them smooth, so they were a creamy
colour, and the blinds were yellow. The windows were wide open
and the wind drifted through, while the birds sang as much as
they ever do in August, among the trees and bushes of the cemetery.
Every one had planted so many flowers of all kinds on the graves
you could scent sweet odours. Often a big, black- striped, brown
butterfly came sailing in through one of the windows, followed
the draft across the room, and out of another. I was thinking
something funny: it was about what the Princess had said of other
people, and whether hers were worse. I looked at my father sitting
in calm dignity in his Sunday suit and thought him quite as fine
and handsome as mother did. Every Sabbath he wore the same suit,
he sat in the same spot, he worshipped the Lord in his calm, earnest
way. The ministers changed, but father was as much a part of the
service as the Bible on the desk or the communion table. I wondered
if people said things about him, and if they did, what they were.
I never had heard. Twisting in my seat, one by one I studied the
faces on the men's side, and then the women. It was a mighty good-
looking crowd. Some had finer clothes than others--that is always
the way--but as a rule every one was clean, neat, and good to
see. From some you scarcely could turn away. There was Widow Fall.
She was French, from Virginia, and she talked like little tinkly
notes of music. I just loved to hear her, and she walked like
high-up royalty. Her dress was always black, with white bands
at the neck and sleeves, black rustly silk, and her eyes and hair
were like the dress. There was a little red on her cheeks and
lips, and her face was always grave until she saw you directly
before her, and then she smiled the sweetest smile.
Maybe Sarah Hood was not pretty, but there was something about
her lean face and shining eyes that made you look twice before
you were sure of it, and by that time you had got so used to her,
you liked her better as she was, and wouldn't have changed her
for anything. Mrs. Fritz had a pretty face and dresses and manners,
and so did Hannah Dover, only she talked too much. So I studied
them and remembered what the Princess had said, and I wondered
if she heard some one say that Peter Justice beat his wife, or
if she showed it in her face and manner. She reminded me of a
scared cowslip that had been cut and laid in the sun an hour.
I don't know as that expresses it. Perhaps a flower couldn't look
scared, but it could be wilted and faded. I wondered if she ever
had bright hair, laughing eyes, and red in her lips and cheeks.
She must have been pretty if she had.
At last I reached my mother. There was nothing scared or faded
about her, and she was dreadfully sick too, once in a while since
she had the fever. She was a little bit of a woman, coloured like
a wild rose petal, face and body--a piece of pink porcelain Dutch,
father said. She had brown eyes, hair like silk, and she always
had three best dresses. There was one of alpaca or woollen, of
black, gray or brown, and two silks. Always there was a fine rustly
black one with a bonnet and mantle to match, and then a softer,
finer one of either gold brown, like her hair, or dainty gray,
like a dove's wing. When these grew too old for fine use, she
wore them to Sunday-school and had a fresh one for best. There
was a new gray in her closet at home, so she put on the old brown
to-day, and she was lovely in it.
Usually the minister didn't come for church services until Sunday-school
was half over, so the superintendent read a chapter, Daddy Debs
prayed, and all of us stood up and sang: "Ring Out the Joy
Bells." Then the superintendent read the lesson over as impressively
as he could. The secretary made his report, we sang another song,
gathered the pennies, and each teacher took a class and talked
over the lesson a few minutes. Then we repeated the verses we
had committed to memory to our teachers; the member of each class
who had learned the nicest texts, and knew them best, was selected
to recite before the school. Beginning with the littlest people,
we came to the big folks. Each one recited two texts until they
reached the class above mine. We walked to the front, stood inside
the altar, made a little bow, and the superintendent kept score.
I could see that mother appeared worried when Leon's name was
called for his class, for she hadn't heard him, and she was afraid
he would forget.
Among the funny things about Leon was this: while you had to drive
other boys of his age to recite, you almost had to hold him to
keep him from it. Father said he was born for a politician or
a preacher, if he would be good, and grow into the right kind
of a man to do such responsible work.
"I forgot several last Sabbath, so I have thirteen to-day,"
he said politely.
Of course no one expected anything like that. You never knew what
might happen when Leon did anything. He must have been about sixteen.
He was a slender lad, having almost sandy hair, like his English
grandfather. He wore a white ruffled shirt with a broad collar,
and cuffs turning back over his black jacket, and his trousers
fitted his slight legs closely. The wind whipped his soft black
tie a little and ruffled the light hair where it was longest and
wavy above his forehead. Such a perfect picture of innocence you
never saw. There was one part of him that couldn't be described
any better than the way Mr. Rienzi told about his brother in his
"Address to the Romans," in McGuffey's Sixth. "The
look of heaven on his face" stayed most of the time; again,
there was a dealish twinkle that sparkled and flashed while he
was thinking up something mischievous to do. When he was fighting
angry, and going to thrash Absalom Saunders or die trying, he
was plain white and his eyes were like steel. Mother called him
"Weiscope," half the time. I can only spell the way
that sounds, but it means "white-head," and she always
used that name when she loved him most. "The look of heaven"
was strong on his face now.
"One," said the recording secretary.
"Jesus wept," answered Leon promptly.
There was not a sound in the church. You could almost hear the
butterflies pass. Father looked down and laid his lower lip in
folds with his fingers, like he did sometimes when it wouldn't
behave to suit him.
"Two," said the secretary after just a breath of pause.
Leon looked over the congregation easily and then fastened his
eyes on Abram Saunders, the father of Absalom, and said reprovingly:
"Give not sleep to thine eyes nor slumber to thine eyelids."
Abram straightened up suddenly and blinked in astonishment, while
father held fast to his lip.
"Three," called the secretary hurriedly.
Leon shifted his gaze to Betsy Alton, who hadn't spoken to her
next door neighbour in five years.
"Hatred stirreth up strife," he told her softly, "but
love covereth all sins."
Things were so quiet it seemed as if the air would snap.
"Four."
The mild blue eyes travelled back to the men's side and settled
on Isaac Thomas, a man too lazy to plow and sow land his father
had left him. They were not so mild, and the voice was touched
with command: "Go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her
ways and be wise."
Still that silence.
"Five," said the secretary hurriedly, as if he wished
it were over. Back came the eyes to the women's side and past
all question looked straight at Hannah Dover.
"As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman
without discretion."
"Six," said the secretary and looked appealingly at
father, whose face was filled with dismay.
Again Leon's eyes crossed the aisle and he looked directly at
the man whom everybody in the community called "Stiff-necked
Johnny."
I think he was rather proud of it, he worked so hard to keep them
doing it.
"Lift not up your horn on high: speak not with a stiff neck,"
Leon commanded him.
Toward the door some one tittered.
"Seven," called the secretary hastily.
Leon glanced around the room.
"But how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell
together in unity," he announced in delighted tones as if
he had found it out by himself.
"Eight," called the secretary with something like a
breath of relief.
Our angel boy never had looked so angelic, and he was beaming
on the Princess.
"Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee,"
he told her.
Laddie would thrash him for that.
Instantly after, "Nine," he recited straight at Laddie:
"I made a covenant with mine eyes; why then should I think
upon a maid?"
More than one giggled that time.
"Ten!" came almost sharply.
Leon looked scared for the first time. He actually seemed to shiver.
Maybe he realized at last that it was a pretty serious thing he
was doing. When he spoke he said these words in the most surprised
voice you ever heard: "I was almost in all evil in the midst
of the congregation and assembly."
"Eleven."
Perhaps these words are in the Bible. They are not there to read
the way Leon repeated them, for he put a short pause after the
first name, and he glanced toward our father: "Jesus Christ,
the SAME, yesterday, and to-day, and forever!"
Sure as you live my mother's shoulders shook.
"Twelve."
Suddenly Leon seemed to be forsaken. He surely shrank in size
and appeared abused.
"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will
take me up," he announced, and looked as happy over the ending
as he had seemed forlorn at the beginning.
"Thirteen."
"The Lord is on my side; I will not fear; what can man do
unto me?" inquired Leon of every one in the church. Then
he soberly made a bow and walked to his seat.
Father's voice broke that silence. "Let us kneel in prayer,"
he said.
He took a step forward, knelt, laid his hands on the altar, closed
his eyes and turned his face upward.
"Our Heavenly Father, we come before Thee in a trying situation,"
he said. "Thy word of truth has been spoken to us by a thoughtless
boy, whether in a spirit of helpfulness or of jest, Thou knowest.
Since we are reasoning creatures, it little matters in what form
Thy truth comes to us; the essential thing is that we soften our
hearts for its entrance, and grow in grace by its application.
Tears of compassion such as our dear Saviour wept are in our eyes
this morning as we plead with Thee to help us to apply these words
to the betterment of this community."
Then father began to pray. If the Lord had been standing six feet
in front of him, and his life had depended on what he said, he
could have prayed no harder. Goodness knows how fathers remember.
He began at "Jesus wept" and told about this sinful
world and why He wept over it; then one at a time he took those
other twelve verses and hammered them down where they belonged
much harder than Leon ever could by merely looking at people.
After that he prayed all around each one so fervently that those
who had been hit the very worst cried aloud and said: "Amen!"
You wouldn't think any one could do a thing like that; but I heard
and saw my father do it.
When he arose the tears were running down his cheeks, and before
him stood Leon. He was white as could be, but he spoke out loudly
and clearly.
"Please forgive me, sir; I didn't intend to hurt your feelings.
Please every one forgive me. I didn't mean to offend any one.
It happened through hunting short verses. All the short ones seemed
to be like that, and they made me think----"
He got no farther. Father must have been afraid of what he might
say next. He threw his arms around Leon's shoulders, drew him
to the seat, and with the tears still rolling, he laughed as happily
as you ever heard, and he cried: "`Sweeping through the Gates!'
All join in!"
You never heard such singing in your life. That was another wonderful
thing. My father didn't know the notes. He couldn't sing; he said
so himself. Neither could half the people there, yet all of them
were singing at the tops of their voices, and I don't believe
the angels in Heaven could make grander music. My father was leading:
"These, these are they, who in the conflict dire----"
You could tell Emanuel Ripley had been in the war from the way
he roared:
"Boldly have stood amidst the hottest fire----"
The Widow Fall soared above all of them on the next line; her
man was there, and maybe she was lonely and would have been glad
to go to him:
"Jesus now says, `Come up higher----'"
Then my little mother:
"Washed in the blood of the Lamb----"
Like thunder all of them rolled into the chorus:
"Sweepin, through the gates to the New Jerusalem----"
You wouldn't have been left out of that company for anything in
all this world, and nothing else ever could make you want to go
so badly as to hear every one sing, straight from the heart, a
grand old song like that. It is no right way to have to sit and
keep still, and pay other people money to sing about Heaven to
you. No matter if you can't sing by note, if your heart and soul
are full, until they are running over, so that you are forced
to sing as those people did, whether you can or not, you are sure
to be straight on the way to the Gates.
Before three lines were finished my father was keeping time like
a choirmaster, his face all beaming with shining light; mother
was rocking on her toes like a wood robin on a twig at twilight,
and at the end of the chorus she cried "Glory!" right
out loud, and turned and started down the aisle, shaking hands
with every one, singing as she went. When she reached Betsy Alton
she held her hand and led her down the aisle straight toward Rachel
Brown.
When Rachel saw them coming she hurried to meet them, and they
shook hands and were glad to make up as any two people you ever
saw. It must have been perfectly dreadful to see a woman every
day for five years, and not to give her a pie, when you felt sure
yours were better than she could make, or loan her a new pattern,
or tell her first who had a baby, or was married, or dead, or
anything like that. It was no wonder they felt glad. Mother came
on, and as she passed me the verses were all finished and every
one began talking and moving. Johnny Dover forgot his neck and
shook hands too, and father pronounced the benediction. He always
had to when the minister wasn't there, because he was ordained
himself, and you didn't dare pronounce the benediction unless
you were.
Every one began talking again, and wondering if the minister wouldn't
come soon, and some one went out to see. There was mother standing
only a few feet from the Princess, and I thought of something.
I had seen it done often enough, but I never had tried it myself,
yet I wanted to so badly, there was no time to think how scared
I would be. I took mother's hand and led her a few steps farther
and said: "Mother, this is my friend, Pamela Pryor."
I believe I did it fairly well. Mother must have been surprised,
but she put out her hand.
"I didn't know Miss Pryor and you were acquainted."
"It's only been a little while," I told her. "I
met her when I was on some business with the Fairies. They know
everything and they told me her father was busy"--I thought
she wouldn't want me to tell that he was plain CROSS, where every
one could hear, so I said "busy" for politeness--"and
her mother not very strong, and that she was a good girl, and
dreadfully lonesome. Can't you do something, mother?"
"Well, I should think so!" said mother, for her heart
was soft as rose leaves. Maybe you won't believe this, but it's
quite true. My mother took the Princess' arm and led her to Sally
and Shelley, and introduced her to all the girls. By the time
the minister came and mother went back to her seat, she had forgotten
all about the "indisposed" word she disliked, and as
you live! she invited the Princess to go home with us to dinner.
She stood tall and straight, her eyes very bright, and her cheeks
a little redder than usual, as she shook hands and said a few
pleasant words that were like from a book, they fitted and were
so right. When mother asked her to dinner she said: "Thank
you kindly. I should be glad to go, but my people expect me at
home and they would be uneasy. Perhaps you would allow me to ride
over some week day and become acquainted?"
Mother said she would be happy to have her, and Shelley said so
too, but Sally was none too cordial. She had dark curls and pink
cheeks herself, and every one had said she was the prettiest girl
in the county before Shelley began to blossom out and show what
she was going to be. Sally never minded that, but when the Princess
came she was a little taller, and her hair was a trifle longer,
and heavier, and blacker, and her eyes were a little larger and
darker, and where Sally had pink skin and red lips, the Princess
was dark as olive, and her lips and cheeks were like red velvet.
Anyway, the Princess had said she would come over; mother and
Shelley had been decent to her, and Sally hadn't been exactly
insulting. It would be a little more than you could expect for
her to be wild about the Princess. I believe she was pleased over
having been invited to dinner, and as she was a stranger she couldn't
know that mother had what we called the "invitation habit."
I have seen her ask from fifteen to twenty in one trip down the
aisle on Sunday morning. She wanted them to come too; the more
who came, the better she liked it. If the hitching rack and barnyard
were full on Sunday she just beamed. If the sermon pleased her,
she invited more. That morning she was feeling so good she asked
seventeen; and as she only had dressed six chickens--third table,
backs and ham, for me as usual; but when the prospects were as
now, I always managed to coax a few gizzards from Candace; she
didn't dare give me livers--they were counted. Almost everyone
in the church was the happiest that morning they had been in years.
When the preacher came, he breathed it from the air, and it worked
on him so he preached the best sermon he ever had, and never knew
that Leon made him do it.
Maybe after all it's a good thing to tell people about their meanness
and give them a stirring up once in a while.