Etext » books

I understand, agree to and accept the "Small Print!" statement.

Project Gutenberg Etext of Painted Windows, by Elia W. Peattie

#1 in our series by Elia W. Peattie

the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.

We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an

electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this.

**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and

further information is included below. We need your donations.

Painted Windows

by Elia W. Peattie

September, 1998 [Etext #1875]

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Painted Windows by Elia W. Peattie

******This file should be named pwnds10.txt or pwnds10.zip******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, pwnds11.txt

VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, pwnds10a.txt

This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE

Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,

all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a

in compliance with any particular paper edition, usually otherwise.

We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance

of the official release dates, for time for better editing.

Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till

midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.

The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at

Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A

preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment

and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an

up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes

in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has

a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a

look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a

new copy has at least one byte more or less.

Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The

fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take

to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright

searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This

projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value

per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2

million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text

files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1998 for a total of 1500+

If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the

total should reach over 150 billion Etexts given away.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext

Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion]

This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,

which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001

should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it

will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001.

We need your donations more than ever!

All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are

tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie-

Mellon University).

For these and other matters, please mail to:

Project Gutenberg

P. O. Box 2782

Champaign, IL 61825

When all other email fails try our Executive Director:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

We would prefer to send you this information by email

(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail).

If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please

FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives:

[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type]

ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu

password: your@login

cd etext/etext90 through /etext96

or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information]

dir [to see files]

get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]

GET INDEX?00.GUT

for a list of books

and

GET NEW GUT for general information

and

MGET GUT* for newsletters.

**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**

(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***

Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.

They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with

your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from

someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our

fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement

disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how

you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT

By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm

etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept

this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive

a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by

sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person

you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical

medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS

This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-

tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor

Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at

Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other

things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright

on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and

distribute it in the United States without permission and

without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth

below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext

under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable

efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain

works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any

medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other

things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or

corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other

intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged

disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer

codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES

But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,

[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this

etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all

liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including

legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR

UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,

INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE

OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE

POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of

receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)

you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that

time to the person you received it from. If you received it

on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and

such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement

copy. If you received it electronically, such person may

choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to

receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER

WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS

TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT

LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A

PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or

the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the

above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you

may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY

You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,

officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost

and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or

indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:

[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,

or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"

You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by

disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this

"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,

or:

[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this

requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the

etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,

if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable

binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,

including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-

cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as

*EITHER*:

[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and

does *not* contain characters other than those

intended by the author of the work, although tilde

(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may

be used to convey punctuation intended by the

author, and additional characters may be used to

indicate hypertext links; OR

[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at

no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent

form by the program that displays the etext (as is

the case, for instance, with most word processors);

[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at

no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the

etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC

or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this

"Small Print!" statement.

[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the

net profits you derive calculated using the method you

already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you

don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are

payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon

University" within the 60 days following each

date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)

your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?

The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,

scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty

free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution

you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg

Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".

*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE

PAINTED WINDOWS

ELIA W. PEATTIE

Will you come with me into the chamber of memory

and lift your eyes to the painted windows where the figures

and scenes of childhood appear? Perhaps by looking with

kindly eyes at those from out my past, long wished-for

visions of your own youth will appear to heal the wounds

from which you suffer, and to quiet your stormy and

restless heart.

CONTENTS

I NIGHT

II SOLITUDE

III FRIENDSHIP

IV FAME

V REMORSE

VI TRAVEL

PAINTED WINDOWS

NIGHT

YOUNG people believe very little

that they hear about the compen-

sations of growing old, and of living

over again in memory the events of the

past. Yet there really are these com-

pensations and pleasures, and although

they are not so vivid and breathless as

the pleasures of youth, they have some-

thing delicate and fine about them that

must be experienced to be appreciated.

Few of us would exchange our mem-

ories for those of others. They have

become a part of our personality, and

we could not part with them without

losing something of ourselves. Neither

would we part with our own particular

childhood, which, however difficult it

may have been at times, seems to each

of us more significant than the child-

hood of any one else. I can run over

in my mind certain incidents of my

childhood as if they were chapters in a

much-loved book, and when I am wake-

ful at night, or bored by a long journey,

or waiting for some one in the railway-

station, I take them out and go over

them again.

Nor is my book of memories without

its illustrations. I can see little vil-

lages, and a great city, and forests and

planted fields, and familiar faces; and

all have this advantage: they are not

fixed and without motion, like the pic-

tures in the ordinary book. People

are walking up the streets of the vil-

lage, the trees are tossing, the tall

wheat and corn in the fields salute me.

I can smell the odour of the gathered

hay, and the faces in my dream-book

smile at me.

Of all of these memories I like best

the one in the pine forest.

I was at that age when children think

of their parents as being all-powerful.

I could hardly have imagined any cir-

cumstances, however adverse, that my

father could not have met with his

strength and wisdom and skill. All chil-

dren have such a period of hero-wor-

ship, I suppose, when their father

stands out from the rest of the world

as the best and most powerful man

living. So, feeling as I did, I was made

happier than I can say when my father

decided, because I was looking pale and

had a poor appetite, to take me out of

school for a while, and carry me with

him on a driving trip. We lived in

Michigan, where there were, in the days

of which I am writing, not many rail-

roads; and when my father, who was

attorney for a number of wholesale mer-

cantile firms in Detroit, used to go

about the country collecting money due,

adjusting claims, and so on, he had no

choice but to drive.

And over what roads! Now it was

a strip of corduroy, now a piece of well-

graded elevation with clay subsoil and

gravel surface, now a neglected stretch

full of dangerous holes; and worst of

all, running through the great forests,

long pieces of road from which the

stumps had been only partly extracted,

and where the sunlight barely pene-

trated. Here the soaked earth became

little less than a quagmire.

But father was too well used to hard

journeys to fear them, and I felt that,

in going with him, I was safe from all

possible harm. The journey had all the

allurement of an adventure, for we

would not know from day to day where

we should eat our meals or sleep at

night. So, to provide against trouble,

we carried father's old red-and-blue-

checked army blankets, a bag of feed

for Sheridan, the horse, plenty of bread,

bacon, jam, coffee and prepared cream;

and we hung pails of pure water and

buttermilk from the rear of our buggy.

We had been out two weeks without

failing once to eat at a proper table or

to sleep in a comfortable bed. Some-

times we put up at the stark-looking ho-

tels that loomed, raw and uninviting,

in the larger towns; sometimes we had

the pleasure of being welcomed at a

little inn, where the host showed us a

personal hospitality; but oftener we

were forced to make ourselves "paying

guests" at some house. We cared noth-

ing whether we slept in the spare rooms

of a fine frame "residence" or crept

into bed beneath the eaves of the attic

in a log cabin. I had begun to feel that

our journey would be almost too tame

and comfortable, when one night some-

thing really happened.

Father lost his bearings. He was

hoping to reach the town of Gratiot by

nightfall, and he attempted to make a

short cut. To do this he turned into

a road that wound through a magnifi-

cent forest, at first of oak and butter-

nut, ironwood and beech, then of

densely growing pines. When we en-

tered the wood it was twilight, but no

sooner were we well within the shadow

of these sombre trees than we were

plunged in darkness, and within half an

hour this darkness deepened, so that

we could see nothing -- not even the

horse.

"The sun doesn't get in here the

year round," said father, trying his

best to guide the horse through the

mire. So deep was the mud that it

seemed as if it literally sucked at the

legs of the horse and the wheels of the

buggy, and I began to wonder if we

should really be swallowed, and to fear

that we had met with a difficulty that

even my father could not overcome. I

can hardly make plain what a tragic

thought that was! The horse began to

give out sighs and groans, and in the

intervals of his struggles to get on, I

could feel him trembling. There was

a note of anxiety in father's voice as

he called out, with all the authority and

cheer he could command, to poor Sheri-

dan. The wind was rising, and the long

sobs of the pines made cold shivers run

up my spine. My teeth chattered,

partly from cold, but more from fright.

"What are we going to do?" I asked,

my voice quivering with tears.

"Well, we aren't going to cry, what-

ever else we do!" answered father,

rather sharply. He snatched the

lighted lantern from its place on the

dashboard and leaped out into the road.

I could hear him floundering round in

that terrible mire and soothing the

horse. The next thing I realised was

that the horse was unhitched, that fa-

ther had -- for the first time during our

journey -- laid the lash across Sheri-

dan's back, and that, with a leap of in-

dignation, the horse had reached the

firm ground of the roadside. Father

called out to him to stand still, and a

moment later I found myself being

swung from the buggy into father's

arms. He staggered along, plunging

and almost falling, and presently I, too,

stood beneath the giant pines.

"One journey more," said father,

"for our supper, and then we'll bivouac

right here."

Now that I was away from the buggy

that was so familiar to me, and that

seemed like a little movable piece of

home, I felt, as I had not felt before,

the vastness of the solitude. Above me

in the rising wind tossed the tops of the

singing trees; about me stretched the

soft blackness; and beneath the dense,

interlaced branches it was almost as

calm and still as in a room. I could see

that the clouds were breaking and the

stars beginning to come out, and that

comforted me a little.

Father was keeping up a stream of

cheerful talk.

"Now, sir," he was saying to Sheri-

dan, "stand still while I get this har-

ness off you. I'll tie you and blanket

you, and you can lie or stand as you

please. Here's your nose-bag, with

some good supper in it, and if you don't

have drink, it's not my fault. Anyway,

it isn't so long since you got a good nip

at the creek."

I was watching by the faint light of

the lantern, and noticing how unnat-

ural father and Sheridan looked. They

seemed to be blocked out in a rude kind

of way, like some wooden toys I had at

home.

"Here we are," said father, "like

Robinson Crusoes. It was hard luck

for Robinson, not having his little girl

along. He'd have had her to pick up

sticks and twigs to make a fire, and that

would have been a great help to him."

Father began breaking fallen

branches over his knee, and I groped

round and filled my arms again and

again with little fagots. So after a few

minutes we had a fine fire crackling in

a place where it could not catch the

branches of the trees. Father had

scraped the needles of the pines to-

gether in such a way that a bare rim of

earth was left all around the fire, so that

it could not spread along the ground;

and presently the coffee-pot was over

the fire and bacon was sizzling in the

frying-pan. The good, hearty odours

came out to mingle with the delicious

scent of the pines, and I, setting out

our dishes, began to feel a happiness

different from anything I had ever

known.

Pioneers and wanderers and soldiers

have joys of their own -- joys of which

I had heard often enough, for there had

been more stories told than read in our

house. But now for the first time I

knew what my grandmother and my

uncles had meant when they told me

about the way they had come into the

wilderness, and about the great happi-

ness and freedom of those first days. I,

too, felt this freedom, and it seemed to

me as if I never again wanted walls to

close in on me. All my fear was gone,

and I felt wild and glad. I could not

believe that I was only a little girl. I

felt taller even than my father.

Father's mood was like mine in a

way. He had memories to add to his

emotion, but then, on the other hand,

he lacked the sense of discovery I had,

for he had known often such feelings

as were coming to me for the first time.

When he was a young man he had been

a colporteur for the American Bible So-

ciety among the Lake Superior Indians,

and in that way had earned part of the

money for his course at the University

of Michigan; afterward he had gone

with other gold-seekers to Pike's Peak,

and had crossed the plains with oxen,

in the company of many other adven-

turers; then, when President Lincoln

called for troops, he had returned to

enlist with the Michigan men, and had

served more than three years with Mc-

Clellan and Grant.

So, naturally, there was nothing he

did not know about making himself

comfortable in the open. He knew all

the sorrow and all the joy of the home-

less man, and now, as he cooked, he be-

gan to sing the old songs -- "Marching

Through Georgia," and "Bury Me Not

on the Lone Prairie," and "In the

Prison Cell I Sit." He had been in a

Southern prison after the Battle of the

Wilderness, and so he knew how to sing

that song with particular feeling.

I had heard war stories all my life,

though usually father told such tales in

a half-joking way, as if to make light of

everything he had gone through. But

now, as we ate there under the tossing

pines, and the wild chorus in the tree-

tops swelled like a rising sea, the spirit

of the old days came over him. He was

a good "stump speaker," and he knew

how to make a story come to life, and

never did all his simple natural gifts

show themselves better than on this

night, when he dwelt on his old cam-

paigns.

For the first time I was to look into

the heart of a kindly natured man,

forced by terrible necessity to go

through the dread experience of war.

I gained an idea of the unspeakable

homesickness of the man who leaves

his family to an unimagined fate, and

sacrifices years in the service of his

country. I saw that the mere foregoing

of roof and bed is an indescribable dis-

tress; I learned something of what the

palpitant anxiety before a battle must

be, and the quaking fear at the first

rattle of bullets, and the half-mad rush

of determination with which men force

valour into their faltering hearts; I

was made to know something of the

blight of war -- the horror of the battle-

field, the waste of bounty, the ruin of

homes.

Then, rising above this, came stories

of devotion, of brotherhood, of service

on the long, desolate marches, of cour-

age to the death of those who fought

for a cause. I began to see wherein

lay the highest joy of the soldier, and

of how little account he held himself,

if the principle for which he fought

could be preserved. I heard for the

first time the wonderful words of Lin-

coln at Gettysburg, and learned to re-

peat a part of them.

I was only eight, it is true, but emo-

tion has no age, and I understood then

as well as I ever could, what heroism

and devotion and self-forgetfulness

mean. I understood, too, the meaning

of the words "our country," and my

heart warmed to it, as in the older times

the hearts of boys and girls warmed

to the name of their king. The new

knowledge was so beautiful that I

thought then, and I think now, that

nothing could have served as so fit an

accompaniment to it as the shouting of

those pines. They sang like heroes,

and in their swaying gave me fleeting

glimpses of the stars, unbelievably

brilliant in the dusky purple sky, and

half-obscured now and then by drifting

clouds.

By and by we lay down, not far apart,

each rolled in an army blanket, frayed

with service. Our feet were to the fire

for it was so that soldiers lay, my fa-

ther said -- and our heads rested on

mounds of pine-needles.

Sometimes in the night I felt my fa-

ther's hand resting lightly on my shoul-

ders to see that I was covered, but in

my dreams he ceased to be my father

and became my comrade, and I was a

drummer boy, -- I had seen the play,

"The Drummer Boy of the Rappahan-

nock," -- marching forward, with set

teeth, in the face of battle.

Whatever could redeem war and

make it glorious seemed to flood my

soul. All that was highest, all that was

noble in that dreadful conflict came to

me in my sleep -- to me, the child who

had been born when my father was at

"the front." I had a strange baptism

of the spirit. I discovered sorrow and

courage, singing trees and stars. I was

never again to think that the fireside

and fireside thoughts made up the whole

of life.

My father lies with other soldiers by

the Pacific; the forest sings no more;

the old army blankets have disap-

peared; the memories of the terrible

war are fading, -- happily fading, -- but

they all live again, sometimes, in my

memory, and I am once more a child,

with thoughts as proud and fierce and

beautiful as Valkyries.

SOLITUDE

AMONG the pictures that I see

when I look back into the past, is

the one where I, a sullen, egotistic per-

son nine years old, stood quite alone in

the world. To he sure, there were fa-

ther and mother in the house, and there

were the other children, and not one

among them knew I was alone. The

world certainly would not have re-

garded me as friendless or orphaned.

There was nothing in my mere appear-

ance, as I started away to school in my

clean ginghams, with my well-brushed

hair, and embroidered school-bag, to

lead any one to suppose that I was a

castaway. Yet I was -- I had discovered

this fact, hidden though it might be

from others.

I was no longer loved. Father and

mother loved the other children; but not

me. I might come home at night, fairly

bursting with important news about

what had happened in class or among

my friends, and try to relate my little

histories. But did mother listen? Not

at all. She would nod like a mandarin

while I talked, or go on turning the

leaves of her book, or writing her letter.

What I said was of no importance to

her.

Father was even less interested. He

frankly told me to keep still, and went

on with the accounts in which he was

so absurdly interested, or examined

"papers" -- stupid-looking things done

on legal cap, which he brought home

with him from the office. No one kissed

me when I started away in the morn-

ing; no one kissed me when I came home

at night. I went to bed unkissed. I

felt myself to be a lonely and misunder-

stood child -- perhaps even an adopted

one.

Why, I knew a little girl who, when

she went up to her room at night, found

the bedclothes turned back, and the

shade drawn, and a screen placed so as

to keep off drafts. And her mother

brushed her hair twenty minutes by the

clock each night, to make it glossy; and

then she sat by her bed and sang softly

till the girl fell asleep.

I not only had to open my own bed,

but the beds for the other children, and

although I sometimes felt my mother's

hand tucking in the bedclothes round

me, she never stooped and kissed me on

the brow and said, "Bless you, my

child." No one, in all my experience,

had said, "Bless you, my child." When

the girl I have spoken of came into the

room, her mother reached out her arms

and said, before everybody, "Here

comes my dear little girl." When I

came into a room, I was usually told to

do something for somebody. It was

"Please see if the fire needs more

wood," or "Let the cat in, please," or

"I'd like you to weed the pansy bed be-

fore supper-time."

In these circumstances, life hardly

seemed worth living. I decided that I

had made a mistake in choosing my

family. It did not appreciate me, and

it failed to make my young life glad.

I knew my young life ought to be glad.

And it was not. It was drab, as drab

as Toot's old rain-coat.

Toot was "our coloured boy." That

is the way we described him. Father

had brought him home from the war,

and had sent him to school, and then

apprenticed him to a miller. Toot did

"chores" for his board and clothes,

but was soon to be his own man, and to

be paid money by the miller, and to

marry Tulula Darthula Jones, a nice

coloured girl who lived with the Cut-

lers.

The time had been when Toot had

been my self-appointed slave. Almost

my first recollections were of his carry-

ing me out to see the train pass, and

saying, "Toot, toot!" in imitation of

the locomotive; so, although he had

rather a splendid name, I called him

"Toot," and the whole town followed

my example. Yes, the time had been

when Toot saw me safe to school, and

slipped little red apples into my pocket,

and took me out while he milked the

cow, and told me stories and sang me

plantation songs. Now, when he passed,

he only nodded. When I spoke to him

about his not giving me any more ap-

ples, he said:

"Ah reckon they're your pa's ap-

ples, missy. Why, fo' goodness' sake,

don' yo' he'p yo'se'f?"

But I did not want to help myself.

I wanted to be helped -- not because I

was lazy, but because I wanted to be

adored. I was really a sort of fairy

princess, -- misplaced, of course, in a

stupid republic, -- and I wanted life con-

ducted on a fairy-princess basis. It was

a game I wished to play, but it was one

I could not play alone, and not a soul

could I find who seemed inclined to play

it with me.

Well, things went from bad to worse.

I decided that if mother no longer loved

me, I would no longer tell her things.

So I did not. I got a hundred in spell-

ing for twelve days running, and did

not tell her! I broke Edna Grantham's

mother's water-pitcher, and kept the

fact a secret. The secret was, indeed,

as sharp-edged as the pieces of the

broken pitcher had been; I cried under

the bedclothes, thinking how sorry Mrs.

Grantham had been, and that mother

really ought to know. Only what was

the use? I no longer looked to her to

help me out of my troubles.

I had no need now to have father and

mother tell me to hurry up and finish

my chatter, for I kept all that hap-

pened to myself. I had a new "intimate

friend," and did not so much as men-

tion her. I wrote a poem and showed

it to my teacher, but not to my unin-

terested parents. And when I climbed

the stairs at night to my room, I swelled

with loneliness and anguish and resent-

ment, and the hot tears came to my eyes

as I heard father and mother laughing

and talking together and paying no at-

tention to my misery. I could hear

Toot, who used to be making all sorts

of little presents for me, whistling as

he brought in the wood and water, and

then "cleaned up" to go to see his

Tulula, with never a thought of me.

And I said to myself that the best thing

I could do was to grow up and get

away from a place where I was no

longer wanted.

No one noticed my sufferings further

than sometimes to say impatiently,

"What makes you act so strange,

child?" And to that, of course, I an-

swered nothing, for what I had to say

would not, I felt, be understood.

One morning in June I left home with

my resentment burning fiercely within

me. I had not cared for the things we

had for breakfast, for I was half-ill

with fretting and with the closeness of

the day, but my lack of appetite had

been passed by with the remark that

any one was likely not to have an ap-

petite on such a close day. But I was

so languid, and so averse to taking up

the usual round of things, that I begged

mother to let me stay at home. She

shook her head decidedly.

"You've been out of school too many

days already this term," she said.

"Run along now, or you'll he late!"

"Please --" I began, for my head

really was whirling, although, quite as

much, perhaps, from my perversity as

from any other cause. Mother turned

on me one of her "lastword" glances.

"Go to school without another word,"

she said, quietly.

I knew that quiet tone, and I went.

And now I was sure that all was over

between my parents and myself. I be-

gan to wonder if I need really wait till

I was grown up before leaving home.

So miserably absorbed was I in think-

ing of this, and in pitying myself with

a consuming pity, that everything at

school seemed to pass like the shadow

of a dream. I blundered in whatever

I tried to do, was sharply scolded for

not hearing the teacher until she had

spoken my name three times, and was

holding on to myself desperately in my

effort to keep back a flood of tears,

when I became aware that something

was happening.

There suddenly was a perfect silence

in the room -- the sort of silence that

makes the heart beat too fast. The

mist swimming before me did not, I per-

ceived, come from my own eyes, but

from the changing colour of the air, the

usual transparency of which was being

tinged with yellow. The sultriness of

the day was deepening, and seemed to

carry a threat with it.

"Something is going to happen,"

thought I, and over the whole room

spread the same conviction. Electric

currents seemed to snap from one con-

sciousness to another. We dropped our

books, and turned our eyes toward the

western windows, to look upon a

changed world. It was as if we peered

through yellow glass. In the sky soft-

looking, tawny clouds came tumbling

along like playful cats -- or tigers. A

moment later we saw that they were

not playful, but angry; they stretched

out claws, and snarled as they did so.

One claw reached the tall chimneys of

the schoolhouse, another tapped at the

cupola, one was thrust through the wall

near where I sat.

Then it grew black, and there was a

bellowing all about us, so that the com-

mands of the teacher and the screams

of the children barely could be heard.

I knew little or nothing. My shoulder

was stinging, something had hit me on

the side of the head, my eyes were full

of dust and mortar, and my feet were

carrying me with the others along the

corridor, down the two flights of wide

stairs. I do not think we pushed each

other or were reckless. My recollec-

tion is only of many shadowy figures

flying on with sure feet out of the build-

ing that seemed to be falling in upon us.

Presently we were out on the land-

ing before the door, with one more

flight of steps before us, that reached

to the street. Something so strong that

it might not be denied gathered me up

in invisible arms, whirled me round

once or twice and dropped me, not un-

gently, in the middle of the road. And

then, as I struggled to my knees and,

wiping the dust from my eyes, looked

up, I saw dozens of others being lifted

in the same way, and blown off into the

yard or the street. The larger ones

were trying to hold on to the smaller,

and the teachers were endeavouring to

keep the children from going out of the

building, but their efforts were of no

avail. The children came on, and were

blown about like leaves.

Then I saw what looked like a high

yellow wall advancing upon me -- a roar-

ing and fearsome mass of driven dust,

sticks, debris. It came over me that my

own home might be there, in strips and

fragments, to beat me down and kill

me; and with the thought came a swift

little vision out of my geography of the

Arabs in a sand-storm on the desert. I

gathered up my fluttering dress skirt,

held it tight about my head, and lay flat

upon the ground.

It seemed as if a long time passed,

a time in which I knew very little ex-

cept that I was fighting for my breath

as I never had fought for anything.

There were more hurts and bruises

now, but they did not matter. Just to

draw my own breath in my own way

seemed to be the only thing in the

world that was of any account. And

then there was a shaft of flame, an ear-

splitting roar, and the rain was upon

us in sheets, in streams, in visible riv-

ers.

I imagined that it would last a long

time, and wondered in a daze how I

could get home in a rain like that --

for I should have to face it. I could

see that in a few seconds the gutters

had begun to race, the road where I

lay was a stream, and then -- then the

rain ceased. Never was anything so

astonishing. The sky came out blue,

tattered rags of cloud raced across it,

and I had time to conclude that, whip-

ped and almost breathless though I

was, I was still alive.

And then I saw a curious sight. Down

the street in every direction came rush-

ing hatless men and women. Here and

there a wild-eyed horse was being

lashed along. All the town was coming.

They were in their work clothes, in

their slippers, in their wrappers -- they

were in anything and everything. Some

of them sobbed as they ran, some called

aloud names that I knew. They were

fathers and mothers looking for their

children.

And who was that -- that woman with

a white face, with hair falling about her

shoulders, where it had fallen as she

ran -- that woman whose breath came

between her teeth strangely and who

called my name over and over, bleat-

ingly, as a mother sheep calls its lamb?

At first I did not recognise her, and

then, at last, I knew. And that creature

with the rolling eyes and the curious

ash-coloured face who, mumbling some-

thing over and over in his throat, came

for me, and snatched me up and wiped

my face free of mud, and felt of me

here and there with trembling hands --

who was he?

And breaking out of the crowd of

men who had come running from the

street of stores and offices, was an-

other strange being, with a sort of bat-

tle light in his eyes, who, seeing me,

gathered me to him and bore me away

toward home. Looking back, I could

see the woman I knew following, lean-

ing on the arm of the boy with the roll-

ing eyes, whose eyes had ceased to roll,

and who was quite recognisable now as

Toot.

A happiness that was almost as ter-

rible as sorrow welled up in my heart.

I did not weep, or laugh, or talk. All

I had experienced had carried me be-

yond mere excitement into exultation.

I exulted in life, in love. My conceit

and sulkiness died in that storm, as did

many another thing. I was alive. I

was loved. I said it over and over to

myself silently, in "my heart's deep

core," while mother washed me with

trembling hands in my own dear room,

bound up my hurts, braided my hair,

and put me, in a fresh night-dress, into

my bed. I do not recall that we talked

to each other, but in every caress of

her hands as she worked I felt the un-

spoken assurances of a love such as I

had not dreamed of.

Father had gone running back to the

school to see if he could be of any as-

sistance to his neighbours, and had

taken Toot with him, but they were

back presently to say that beyond a few

sharp injuries and broken bones, no

harm had been done to the children. It

was considered miraculous that no one

had been killed or seriously injured,

and I noticed that father's voice trem-

bled as he told of it, and that mother

could not answer, and that Toot sobbed

like a big silly boy.

Then as we talked together, behold,

a second storm was upon us -- a sharp

black blast of wind and rain, not ter-

rifying, like the other, but with an

"I've-come-to-spend-the-day" sort of

aspect.

But no one seemed to mind very

much. I was carried down to the sit-

ting-room. Toot busied himself com-

ing and going on this errand and on

that, fastening the doors, closing the

windows, running out to see to the ani-

mals, and coming back again. Father

and mother set the table. They kept

close together; and now and then they

looked over at me, without saying any-

thing, but with shining eyes.

The storm died down to a quiet rain.

From the roof of the porch the drops

fell in silver strings, like beads. Then

the sun came out and turned them into

shining crystal. The birds began to

sing again, and when we threw open the

windows delicious odours of fresh earth

and flowering shrub greeted us. Mother

began to sing as she worked. And I

sank softly to sleep, thrilled with the

marvels of the world -- not of the tem-

pest, but of the peace.

The sweet familiarity of the faces

and the walls and the furniture and the

garden was like a blessing. There was

not a chair there that I would have ex-

changed for any other chair -- not a tree

that I would have parted with -- not a

custom of that simple, busy place that

I would have changed. I knew now all

my stupidity -- and my good fortune.

III

FRIENDSHIP

WHEN I look back upon the village

where I lived as a child, I can-

not remember that there were any divi-

sions in our society. This group went

to the Congregational church, and that

to the Presbyterian, but each family

felt itself to be as good as any other,

and even if, ordinarily, some of them

withdrew themselves in mild exclusive-

ness, on all occasions of public celebra-

tion, or when in trouble, we stood to-

gether in the pleasantest and most un-

affected democracy.

There were only the "Bad Madi-

gans" outside the pale.

The facts about the Bad Madigans

were, no doubt, serious enough, but the

fiction was even more appalling. As to

facts, the father drank, the mother fol-

lowed suit, the appearance of the house

--a ramshackle old place beyond the

fair-grounds -- was a scandal; the chil-

dren could not be got to go to school

for any length of time, and, when they

were there, each class in which they

were put felt itself to be in disgrace,

and the dislike focused upon the in-

truders, sent them, sullen and hateful,

back to their lair. And, indeed, the

Madigan house seemed little more than

a lair. It had been rather a fine house

once, and had been built for the oc-

cupancy of the man who owned the fair-

grounds; but he choosing finally to live

in the village, had permitted the house

to fall into decay, until only a family

with no sense of order or self-respect

would think of occupying it.

When there occurred one of the rare

burglaries in the village, when anything

was missing from a clothes-line, or a

calf or pig disappeared, it was gen-

erally laid to the Madigans. Unac-

counted-for fires were supposed to be

their doing; they were accorded respon-

sibility for vicious practical jokes; and

it was generally felt that before we

were through with them they would

commit some blood-curdling crime.

When, as sometimes happened, I had

met one of the Bad Madigans on the

road, or down on the village street, my

heart had beaten as if I was face to

face with a company of banditti; but

I cannot say that this excitement was

caused by aversion alone. The truth

was, the Bad Madigans fascinated me.

They stood out from all the others,

proudly and disdainfully like Robin

Hood and his band, and I could not get

over the idea that they said: "Fetch

me yonder bow!" to each other; or,

"Go slaughter me a ten-tined buck!" I

felt that they were fortunate in not be-

ing held down to hours like the rest of

us. Out of bed at six-thirty, at table

by seven, tidying bedroom at seven-

thirty, dusting sitting-room at eight, on

way to school at eight-thirty, was not

for "the likes of them!" Only we,

slaves of respectability and of an inor-

dinate appetite for order, suffered such

monotony and drabness to rule. I knew

the Madigan boys could go fishing

whenever they pleased, that the Madi-

gan girls picked the blackberries before

any one else could get out to them, that

every member of the family could pack

up and go picnicking for days at a

time, and that any stray horse was

likely to be ridden bareback, within an

inch of its life, by the younger mem-

bers of the family.

Only once however, did I have a

chance to meet one of these modern

Visigoths face to face, and the feelings

aroused by that incident remained the

darling secret of my youth. I dared tell

no one, and I longed, yet feared, to have

the experience repeated. But it never

was! It happened in this way:

On a certain Sunday afternoon in

May, my father and mother and I went

to Emmons' Woods. To reach Em-

mons' Woods, you went out the back

door, past the pump and the currant

bushes, then down the path to the

chicken-houses, and so on, by way of

the woodpile, to the south gate. After

that, you went west toward the clover

meadows, past the house where the

Crazy Lady lived -- here, if you were

alone, you ran -- and then, reaching the

verge of the woods, you took your

choice of climbing a seven-rail fence or

of walking a quarter of a mile till you

came to the bars. The latter was much

better for the lace on a Sunday petti-

coat.

Once in Emmons' Woods, there was

enchantment. An eagle might come --

or a blue heron. There had been bears

in Emmons' Woods -- bears with roll-

ing eyes and red mouths from which

their tongues lolled. There was one

place for pinky trillium, and another

for gentians; one for tawny adders'

tongues, and another for yellow Dutch-

man's breeches. In the sap-starting

season, the maples dripped their lus-

cious sap into little wooden cups; later,

partridges nested in the sun-burned

grass. There was no lake or river, but

there was a pond, swarming with a

vivacious population, and on the hard-

baked clay of the pond beach the green

beetles aired their splendid changeable

silks and sandpipers hopped ridicu-

lously.

It was, curiously enough, easier to

run than to walk in Emmons' Woods,

and even more natural to dance than to

run. One became acquainted with

squirrels, established intimacies with

chipmunks, and was on some sort of

civil relation with blackbirds. And,

oh, the tossing green of the young wil-

lows, where the lilac distance melted

into the pale blue of the sky! And, oh,

the budding of the maples and the fring-

ing of the oaks; and, oh, the blossom-

ing of the tulip trees and the garner-

ing of the chestnuts! And then, the

wriggling things in the grass; the pro-

cession of ants; the coquetries of the

robins; and the Beyond, deepening,

deepening into the forest where it was

safe only for the woodsmen to go.

On this particular Sunday one of us

was requested not to squeal and run

about, and to remember that we wore

our best shoes and need not mess them

unnecessarily. It was hard to be re-

minded just when the dance was getting

into my feet, but I tried to have Sun-

day manners, and went along in the still

woods, wondering why the purple col-

ours disappeared as we came on and

what had been distance became near-

ness. There was a beautiful, aching

vagueness over everything, and it was

not strange that father, who had

stretched himself on the moss, and

mother, who was reading Godey's La-

dies' Book, should presently both of

them be nodding. So, that being a well-

established fact -- I established it by

hanging over them and staring at their

eyelids -- it seemed a good time for me

to let the dance out of my toes. Still

careful of my fresh linen frock, and

remembering about the best shoes, I

went on, demurely, down the green al-

leys of the wood. Now I stepped on

patches of sunshine, now in pools of

shadow. I thought of how naughty I

was to run away like this, and of what

a mistake people made who said I was

a good, quiet, child. I knew that I

looked sad and prim, but I really hated

my sadness and primness and good-

ness, and longed to let out all the in-

teresting, wild, naughty thoughts there

were in me. I wanted to act as if I were

bewitched, and to tear up vines and

wind them about me, to shriek to the

echoes, and to scold back at the squir-

rels. I wanted to take off my clothes

and rush into the pond, and swim like

a fish, or wriggle like a pollywog. I

wanted to climb trees and drop from

them; and, most of all -- oh, with what

longing -- did I wish to lift myself above

the earth and fly into the bland blue

air!

I came to a hollow where there was

a wonderful greenness over everything,

and I said to myself that I would be

bewitched at last. I would dance and

whirl and call till, perhaps, some kind

of a creature as wild and wicked and

wonderful as I, would come out of the

woods and join me. So I forgot about

the fresh linen frock, and wreathed my-

self with wild grape-vine; I cared noth-

ing for my fresh braids and wound

trillium in my hair; and I ceased to re-

member my new shoes, and whirled

around and around in the leafy mould,

singing and shouting.

I grew madder and madder. I seemed

not to be myself at all, but some sort

of a wood creature; and just when the

trees were looking larger than ever they

did before, and the sky higher up, a

girl came running down from a sort of

embankment where a tornado had made

a path for itself and had hurled some

great chestnuts and oaks in a tumbled

mass. The girl came leaping down the

steep sides of this place, her arms out-

spread, her feet bare, her dress no more

than a rag the colour of the tree-trunks.

She had on a torn green jacket, which

made her seem more than ever like

some one who had just stepped out of

a hollow tree, and, to my unspeakable

happiness, she joined me in my dance.

I shall never forget how beautiful she

was, with her wild tangle of dark hair,

and her deep blue eyes and ripe lips.

Her cheeks were flaming red, and her

limbs strong and brown. She did not

merely shout and sing; she whistled,

and made calls like the birds, and cawed

like a crow, and chittered like a squir-

rel, and around and around the two of

us danced, crazy as dervishes with the

beauty of the spring and the joy of be-

ing free.

By and by we were so tired we had

to stop, and then we sat down panting

and looked at each other. At that we

laughed, long and foolishly, but, after

a time, it occurred to us that we had

many questions to ask.

"How did you get here?" I asked the

girl.

"I was walking my lone," she said,

speaking her words as if there was a

rich thick quality to them, "and I

heard you screeling."

"Won't you get lost, alone like

that?"

"I can't get lost, "she sighed. "I 'd

like to, but I can't."

"Where do you live?"

"Beyant the fair-grounds."

"You're not -- not Norah Madigan?"

She leaned back and clasped her

hands behind her head. Then she

smiled at me teasingly.

"I am that," she said, showing her

perfect teeth.

I caught my breath with a sharp

gasp. Ought I to turn back to my par-

ents? Had I been so naughty that I

had called the naughtiest girl in the

whole county out to me?

But I could not bring myself to leave

her. She was leaning forward and

looking at me now with mocking eyes.

"Are you afraid?" she demanded.

"Afraid of what?" I asked, knowing

quite well what she meant.

"Of me?" she retorted.

At that second an agreeable truth

overtook me. I leaned forward, too,

and put my hand on hers.

"Why, I like you!" I cried. She be-

gan laughing again, but this time there

was no mockery in it. She ran her fin-

gers over the embroidery on my linen

frock, she examined the lace on my pet-

ticoat, looked at the bows on my shoes,

and played delicately with the locket

dangling from the slender chain around

my neck.

"Do you know -- other girls?" she al-

most whispered.

I nodded. "Lots and lots of 'em,"

I said. "Don't you?"

She shook her head in wistful denial.

"Us Madigans," she said, "keeps to

ourselves." She said it so haughtily

that for a moment I was almost per-

suaded into thinking that they lived

their solitary lives from choice. But,

glancing up at her, I saw a blush that

covered her face, and there were tears

in her eyes.

"Well, anyway," said I quickly, "we

know each other."

"Yes," she cried, "we do that!"

She got up, then, and ran to a great

tree from which a stout grape-vine was

swinging, and pulling at it with her

strong arms, she soon had it made into

a practical swing.

"Come!" she called -- "come, let's

swing together!"

She helped me to balance myself on

the rope-like vine, and, placing her feet

outside of mine, showed me how to

"work up" till we were sweeping with

a fine momentum through the air. We

shrieked with excitement, and urged

each other on to more and more frantic

exertions. We were like two birds, but

to birds flying is no novelty. With us

it was, which made us happier than

birds. But I, for my part, was no more

delighted with my swift flights through

the air than I was with the shining eyes

and flashing teeth of the girl opposite

me. I liked her strength, and the way

in which her body bent and swayed.

Once more, she seemed like a wood-

child -- a wild, mad, gay creature from

the tree. I felt as if I had drawn a play-

mate from elf-land, and I liked her a

thousand times better than those

proper little girls who came to see me

of a Saturday afternoon.

Well, there we were, rocking and

screaming, and telling each other that

we were hawks, and that we were fly-

ing high over the world, when the anx-

ious and austere voice of my mother

broke upon our ears. We tried to stop,

but that was not such an easy matter

to do, and as we twisted and writhed,

to bring our grape-vine swing to a

standstill, there was a slow rending and

breaking which struck terror to our

souls.

"Jump!" commanded Norah --

"jump! the vine's breaking!" We

leaped at the same moment, she safely.

My foot caught in a stout tendril, and

I fell headlong, scraping my forehead

on the ground and tearing a triangular

rent in the pretty, new frock. Mother

came running forward, and the expres-

sion on her face was far from being

the one I liked to see.

"What have you been doing?" she

demanded. "I thought you were get-

ting old enough and sensible enough to

take care of yourself!"

I must have been a depressing sight,

viewed with the eyes of a careful

mother. Blood and mould mingled on

my face, my dress needed a laundress

as badly as a dress could, and my shoes

were scratched and muddy.

"And who is this girl?" asked

mother. I had become conscious that

Norah was at my feet, wiping off my

shoes with her queer little brown frock.

"It's a new friend of mine," gasped

I, beginning to see that I must lose her,

and hoping the lump in my throat

wouldn't get any bigger than it was.

"What is her name?" asked mother.

I had no time to answer. The girl did

that.

"I'm Norah Madigan," she said.

Her tone was respectful, and, maybe,

sad. At any rate, it had a curious

sound.

"Norah Mad-i-gan?" asked mother

doubtfully, stringing out the word.

"Yessum," said a low voice. "Good-

bye, mum."

"Oh, Norah!" cried I, a strange pain

stabbing my heart. "Come to see

me --"

But my mother's voice broke in, firm

and kind.

"Good-bye, Norah," said she.

I saw Norah turn and run up among

the trees, almost as swiftly and silently

as a hare. Once, she turned to look

back. I was watching, and caught the

chance to wave my hand to her.

"Come!" commanded mother, and

we went back to where father was sit-

ting.

"What do you think!" said mother.

"I found the child playing with one of

the Bad Madigans. Isn't she a sight!"

The lump in my throat swelled to a

terrible size; something buzzed in my

ears, and I heard some one weeping.

For a second or two I didn't realise that

it was myself.

"Well, never mind, dear," said

mother's voice soothingly. "The frock

will wash, and the tear will mend, and

the shoes will black. Yes, and the

scratches will heal."

"It isn't that," I sobbed. "Oh, oh,

it isn't that!"

"What is it, then, for goodness

sake?" asked mother.

But I would not tell. I could not

tell. How could I say that the daughter

of the Bad Madigans was the first real

and satisfying playmate I had ever

had?

FAME

AS I remember the boys and girls

who grew up with me, I think of

them as artists, or actors, or travellers,

or rich merchants. Each of us, by the

time we were half through grammar

school, had selected a career. So far

as I recollect, this career had very lit-

tle to do with our abilities. We merely

chose something that suited us. Our

energy and our vanity crystallised into

particular shapes. There was a sort of

religion abroad in the West at that time

that a person could do almost anything

he set out to do. The older people, as

well as the children, had an idea that

the world was theirs -- they all were

Monte Cristos in that respect.

As for me, I had decided to be an

orator.

At the time of making this decision,

I was nine years of age, decidedly thin

and long drawn out, with two brown

braids down my back, and a terrific

shyness which I occasionally overcame

with such a magnificent splurge that

those who were not acquainted with my

peculiarities probably thought me a

shamefully assertive child.

I based my oratorical aspirations

upon my having taken the prize a num-

ber of times in Sunday-school for learn-

ing the most New Testament verses,

and upon the fact that I always could

make myself heard to the farthest cor-

ner of the room. I also felt that I had

a great message to deliver to the world

when I got around it, though in this, I

was in no way different from several

of my friends. I had noticed a number

of things in the world that were not

quite right, and which I thought needed

attention, and I believed that if I were

quite good and studied elocution, in a

little while I should be able to set my

part of the world right, and perhaps

even extend my influence to adjoining

districts.

Meantime I practised terrible vocal

exercises, chiefly consisting of a rau-

cous "caw" something like a crow's

favourite remark, and advocated by my

teacher in elocution for no reason that

I can now remember; and I stood be-

fore the glass for hours at a time mak-

ing grimaces so as to acquire the "ac-

tor's face," till my frightened little sis-

ters implored me to turn back into my-

self again.

It was a great day for me when I

was asked to participate in the Harvest

Home Festival at our church on

Thanksgiving Day. I looked upon it as

the beginning of my career, and bought

crimping papers so that my hair could

be properly fluted. Of course, I wanted

a new dress for the occasion, and I

spent several days in planning the kind

of a one I thought best suited to such a

memorable event. I even picked out the

particular lace pattern I wanted for the

ruffles. This was before I submitted the

proposition to Mother, however. When

I told her about it she said she could

see no use in getting a new dress and

going to all the trouble of making it

when my white one with the green

harps was perfectly good.

This was such an unusual dress and

had gone through so many vicissitudes,

that I really was devotedly attached to

it. It had, in the beginning, belonged

to my Aunt Bess, and in the days of

its first glory had been a sheer Irish

linen lawn, with tiny green harps on it

at agreeable intervals. But in the

course of time, it had to be sent to the

wash-tub, and then, behold, all the lit-

tle lovely harps followed the example

of the harp that "once through Tara's

hall the soul of music shed," and dis-

appeared! Only vague, dirty, yellow

reminders of their beauty remained,

not to decorate, but to disfigure the

fine fabric.

Aunt Bess, naturally enough, felt ir-

ritated, and she gave the goods to

mother, saying that she might be able

to boil the yellow stains out of it and

make me a dress. I had gone about

many a time, like love amid the ruins,

in the fragments of Aunt Bess's splen-

dour, and I was not happy in the

thought of dangling these dimmed re-

minders of Ireland's past around with

me. But mother said she thought I'd

have a really truly white Sunday best

dress out of it by the time she was

through with it. So she prepared a

strong solution of sodium and things,

and boiled the breadths, and every little

green harp came dancing back as if

awaiting the hand of a new Dublin poet.

The green of them was even more

charming than it had been at first, and

I, as happy as if I had acquired the

golden harp for which I then vaguely

longed, went to Sunday-school all that

summer in this miraculous dress of

now-you-see-them-and-now-you-don't,

and became so used to being asked if I

were Irish that my heart exulted when

I found that I might -- fractionally --

claim to be, and that one of the Fenian

martyrs had been an ancestor. For a

year, even, after that discovery of the

Fenian martyr, ancestors were a fa-

vorite study of mine.

Well, though the dress became some-

thing more than familiar to the eyes

of my associates, I was so attached to

it that I felt no objection to wearing

it on the great occasion; and, that be-

ing settled, all that remained was to

select the piece which was to reveal my

talents to a hitherto unappreciative --

or, perhaps I should say, unsuspecting

group of friends and relatives. It

seemed to me that I knew better than

my teacher (who had agreed to select

the pieces for her pupils) possibly

could what sort of a thing best repre-

sented my talents, and so, after some

thought, I selected "Antony and Cleo-

patra," and as I lagged along the too-

familiar road to school, avoiding the

companionship of my acquaintances, I

repeated:

I am dying, Egypt, dying!

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,

And the dark Plutonian shadows

Gather on the evening blast.

Sometimes I grew so impassioned, so

heedless of all save my mimic sorrow

and the swing of the purple lines, that

I could not bring myself to modify my

voice, and the passers-by heard my

shrill tones vibrating with:

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!

Glorious sorceress of the Nile!

Light the path to Stygian horrors

With the splendour of thy smile.

I wiped dishes to the rhythm of such

phrases as "scarred and veteran le-

gions," and laced my shoes to the music

of "Though no glittering guards sur-

round me."

Confident that no one could fail to

see the beauty of these lines, or the pro-

priety of the identification of myself

with Antony, I called upon my Sunday-

school teacher, Miss Goss, to report. I

never had thought of Miss Goss as a

blithe spirit. She was associated in my

mind with numerous solemn occasions,

and I was surprised to find that on this

day she unexpectedly developed a trait

of breaking into nervous laughter. I

had got as far as "Should the base ple-

beian rabble --" when Miss Goss broke

down in what I could not but regard as

a fit of giggles, and I ceased abruptly.

She pulled herself together after a

moment or two, and said if I would fol-

low her to the library she thought she

could find something -- here she hesi-

tated, to conclude with, "more within

the understanding of the other chil-

dren." I saw that she thought my feel-

ings were hurt, and as I passed a mir-

ror I feared she had some reason to

think so. My face was uncommonly

flushed, and a look of indignation had

crept, somehow, even into my braids,

which, having been plaited too tightly,

stuck out in crooks and kinks from the

side of my head. Incidentally, I was

horrified to notice how thin I was --

thin, even for a dying Antony -- and my

frock was so outgrown that it hardly

covered my knees. "Ridiculous!" I

said under my breath, as I confronted

this miserable figure -- so shamefully in-

significant for the vicarious emotions

which it had been housing. "Ridicu-

lous!"

I hated Miss Goss, and must have

shown it in my stony stare, for she put

her arm around me and said it was a

pity I had been to all the trouble to

learn a poem which was -- well, a trifle

too -- too old -- but that she hoped to find

something equally "pretty" for me to

speak. At the use of that adjective in

connection with William Lytle's lines, I

wrenched away from her grasp and

stood in what I was pleased to think a

haughty calm, awaiting her directions.

She took from the shelves a little vol-

ume of Whittier, bound in calf, hand-

ling it as tenderly as if it were a price-

less possession. Some pressed violets

dropped out as she opened it, and she

replaced them with devotional fingers.

After some time she decided upon a

lyric lament entitled "Eva." I was

asked to run over the verses, and found

them remarkably easy to learn; fatally

impossible to forget. I presently arose

and with an impish betrayal of the pov-

erty of rhyme and the plethora of sen-

timent, repeated the thing relentlessly.

O for faith like thine, sweet Eva,

Lighting all the solemn reevah [river],

And the blessings of the poor,

Wafting to the heavenly shoor [shore].

"I do think," said Miss Goss gently,

"that if you tried, my child, you might

manage the rhymes just a little better."

"But if you're born in Michigan," I

protested, "how can you possibly make

'Eva' rhyme with 'never' and 'be-

liever'?"

"Perhaps it is a little hard," Miss

Goss agreed, and still clinging to her

Whittier, she exhumed "The Pump-

kin," which she thought precisely fitted

for our Harvest Home festival. This

was quite another thing from "Eva,"

and I saw that only hours of study

would fix it in my mind. I went to my

home, therefore, with "The Pumpkin"

delicately transcribed in Miss Goss's

running hand, and I tried to get some

comfort from the foreign allusions glit-

tering through Whittier's kindly verse.

As the days went by I came to have a

certain fondness for those homely lines:

O -- fruit loved of boyhood! -- the old days re-

calling,

When wood grapes were purpling and brown

nuts were falling!

When wild, ugly faces we carved in the skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle

within!

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with

hearts all in tune,

Our chair a broad pumpkin -- our lantern the

moon,

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like

steam

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her

team!

On all sides this poem was considered

very fitting, and I went to the festival

with that comfortable feeling one has

when one is moving with the majority

and is wearing one's best clothes.

I sat rigid with expectancy while my

schoolmates spoke their "pieces" and

sang their songs. With frozen faces

they faced each other in dialogues, lost

their quavering voices, and stumbled

down the stairs in their anguish of

spirit. I pitied them, and thought how

lucky it was that my memory never

failed me, and that my voice carried so

well that I could arouse even old Elder

Waite from his slumbers.

Then my turn came. My crimps

were beautiful; the green harps danced

on my freshly-ironed frock, and I had

on my new chain and locket. I relied

upon a sort of mechanism in me to say:

O greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run.

In this seemly manner Whittier's ode

to the pumpkin began. I meant to go

on to verses which I knew would de-

light my audience -- to references to the

"crook-necks" ripening under the Sep-

tember sun; and to Thanksgiving gath-

erings at which all smiled at the reun-

ion of friends and the bounty of the board.

What moistens the lip and brightens the eye!

What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin pie!

I was sure these lines would meet

with approval, and having "come down

to the popular taste," I was prepared

to do my best to please.

After a few seconds, when the golden

pumpkins that lined the stage had

ceased to dance before my eyes, I

thought I ought to begin to "get hold

of my audience." Of course, my mem-

ory would be giving me the right words,

and my facile tongue running along re-

liably, but I wished to demonstrate that

"ability" which was to bring me fa-

vour and fame. I listened to my own

words and was shivered into silence. I

was talking about "dark Plutonian

shadows"; I was begging "Egypt" to

let her arms enfold me -- I was, indeed,

in the very thick of the forbidden poem.

I could hear my thin, aspiring voice

reaching out over that paralysed audi-

ence with:

Though my scarred and veteran legions

Bear their eagles high no more;

And my wrecked and scattered galleys

Strew dark Actium's fatal shore.

My tongue seemed frozen, or some

kind of a ratchet at the base of it had

got out of order. For a moment -- a

moment can be the little sister of eter-

nity -- I could say nothing. Then I

found myself in the clutches of the in-

stinct for self-preservation. I felt it in

me to stop the giggles of the girls on

the front seat; to take the patronising

smiles out of the tolerant eyes of the

grown people. Maybe my voice lost

something of its piping insistence and

was touched with genuine feeling; per-

haps some faint, faint spark of the di-

vine fire which I longed to fan into a

flame did flicker in me for that one time.

I had the indescribable happiness of

seeing the smiles die on the faces of my

elders, and of hearing the giggles of my

friends cease.

I went to my seat amid what I was

pleased to consider "thunders of ap-

plause," and by way of acknowledg-

ment, I spoke, with chastened propri-

ety, Whittier's ode to the pumpkin.

I cannot remember whether or not I

was scolded. I'm afraid, afterward,

some people still laughed. As for me,

oddly enough, my oratorical aspira-

tions died. I decided there were other

careers better fitted to one of my

physique. So I had to go to the trouble

of finding another career; but just what

it was I have forgotten.

REMORSE

IT is extraordinary, when you come

to think of it, how very few days,

out of all the thousands that have

passed, lift their heads from the grey

plain of the forgotten -- like bowlders in

a level stretch of country. It is not

alone the unimportant ones that are for-

gotten; but, according to one's elders,

many important ones have left no mark

in the memory. It seems to me, as I

think it over, that it was the days that

affected the emotions that dwell with

me, and I suppose all of us must be the

same in this respect.

Among those which I am never to

forget is the day when Aunt Cordelia

came to visit us -- my mother's aunt,

she was -- and when I discovered evil,

and tried to understand what the use

of it was.

Great-aunt Cordelia was, as I often

and often had been told, not only much

travelled, rich and handsome, but good

also. She was, indeed, an important

personage in her own city, and it

seemed to be regarded as an evidence

of unusual family fealty that she

should go about, now and then, briefly

visiting all of her kinfolk to see how

they fared in the world. I ought to

have looked forward to meeting her, but

this, for some perverse reason, I did

not do. I wished I might run away

and hide somewhere till her visit was

over. It annoyed me to have to clean

up the play-room on her account, and

to help polish the silver, and to comb

out the fringe of the tea napkins. I

liked to help in these tasks ordinarily,

but to do it for the purpose of coming

up to a visiting -- and probably, a con-

descending -- goddess, somehow made

me cross.

Among other hardships, I had to take

care of my little sister Julie all day. I

loved Julie. She had soft golden-

brown curls fuzzing around on her

head, and mischievous brown eyes --

warm, extra-human eyes. There was a

place in the back of her neck, just below

the point of her curls, which it was a

privilege to kiss; and though she could

not yet talk, she had a throaty, beauti-

ful little exclamation, which cannot be

spelled any more than a bird note, with

which she greeted all the things she

liked -- a flower, or a toy, or mother.

But loving Julie as she sat in mother's

lap, and having to care for her all of

a shining Saturday, were two quite dif-

ferent things. As the hours wore along

I became bored with looking at the

golden curls of my baby sister; I had

no inclination to kiss the "honey-spot"

in the back of her neck; and when she

fretted from heat and teething and my

perfunctory care, I grew angry.

I knew mother was busy making cus-

tards and cakes for Aunt Cordelia, and

I longed to be in watching these pleas-

ing operations. I thought -- but what

does it matter what I thought? I was

bad! I was so bad that I was glad I

was bad. Perhaps it was nerves. May-

be I really had taken care of the baby

too long. But however that may be, for

the first time in my life I enjoyed the

consciousness of having a bad disposi-

tion -- or perhaps I ought to say that I

felt a fiendish satisfaction in the discov-

ery that I had one.

Along in the middle of the afternoon

three of the girls in the neighbourhood

came over to play. They had their

dolls, and they wanted to "keep house"

in the "new part" of our home. We

were living in a roomy and comfortable

"addition," which had, oddly enough,

been built before the building to which

it was finally to serve as an annex. That

is to say, it had been the addition be-

fore there was anything to add it to.

By this time, however, the new house

was getting a trifle old, as it waited for

the completion of its rather dispropor-

tionate splendours; splendours which

represented the ambitions rather than

the achievements of the family. It tow-

ered, large, square, imposing, with hints

of M. Mansard's grandiose architectu-

ral ideas in its style, in the very centre

of a village block of land. From the

first, it exercised a sort of "I dreamt I

dwelt in marble halls" effect upon me,

and in a vague way, at the back of my

mind, floated the idea that when we

passed from our modest home into

this commanding edifice, well-trained

servants mysteriously would appear,

beautiful gowns would be found await-

ing my use in the closets, and father

and mother would be able to take their

ease, something after the fashion of the

"landed gentry" of whom I had read

in Scotch and English books. The ceil-

ings of the new house were so high, the

sweep of the stairs so dramatic, the size

of the drawing-rooms so copious, that

perhaps I hardly was to be blamed for

expecting a transformation scene.

But until this new life was realised,

the clean, bare rooms made the best of

all possible play-rooms, and with the

light streaming in through the trees,

and falling, delicately tinged with

green, upon the new floors, and with

the scent of the new wood all about, it

was a place of indefinable enchantment.

I was allowed to play there all I pleased

except when I had Julie. There were

unguarded windows and yawning stair-

holes, and no steps as yet leading from

the ground to the great opening where

the carved front door was some time

to be. Instead, there were planks, in-

clined at a steep angle, beneath which

lay the stones of which the foundation

to the porch were to be made. Jagged

pieces of yet unhewn sandstone they

were, with cruel edges.

But to-day when the girls said, "Oh,

come!" my newly discovered badness

echoed their words. I wanted to go

with them. So I went.

Out of the corner of my eye I could

see father in the distance, but I

wouldn't look at him for fear he would

be magnetised into turning my way.

The girls had gone up, and I followed,

with Julie in my arms. Did I hear

father call to me to stop? He always

said I did, but I think he was mistaken.

Perhaps I merely didn't wish to hear

him. Anyway, I went on, balancing

myself as best I could. The other girls

had reached the top, and turned to look

at us, and I knew they were afraid. I

think they would have held out their

hands to help me, but I had both arms

clasped about Julie. So I staggered on,

got almost to the top, then seemed sub-

merged beneath a wave of fears -- mine

and those of the girls -- and fell! As

I went, I curled like a squirrel around

Julie, and when I struck, she was still

in my grasp and on top of me. But she

rolled out of my relaxing clutch after

that, and when father and mother came

running, she was lying on the stones.

They thought she had fallen that way,

and as the breath had been fairly

knocked out of her little body, so that

she was not crying, they were more

frightened than ever, and ran with her

to the house, wild with apprehension.

As for me, I got up somehow and fol-

owed. I decided no bones were broken,

but I was dizzy and faint, and aching

from bruises. I saw my little friends

running down the plank and making off

along the poplar drive, white-faced and

panting. I knew they thought Julie

was dead and that I'd be hung. I had

the same idea.

When we got to the sitting-room I

had a strange feeling of never having

seen it before. The tall stove, the

green and oak ingrain carpet, the green

rep chairs, the what-not with its shells,

the steel engravings on the walls,

seemed absolutely strange. I sat down

and counted the diamond-shaped figures

on the oilcloth in front of the stove;

and after a long time I heard Julie cry,

and mother say with immeasurable re-

lief:

"Aside from a shaking up, I don't

believe she's a bit the worse."

Then some one brought me a cupful

of cold water and asked me if I was

hurt. I shook my head and would not

speak. I then heard, in simple and em-

phatic Anglo-Saxon the opinions of my

father and mother about a girl who

would put her little sister's life in dan-

ger, and would disobey her parents.

And after that I was put in my moth-

er's bedroom to pass the rest of the

day, and was told I needn't expect to

come to the table with the others.

I accepted my fate stoically, and be-

ing permitted to carry my own chair

into the room, I put it by the western

window, which looked across two miles

of meadows waving in buckwheat, in

clover and grass, and sat there in a cu-

rious torpor of spirit. I was glad to

be alone, for I had discovered a new

idea -- the idea of sin. I wished to be

left to myself till I could think out what

it meant. I believed I could do that by

night, and, after I had got to the root

of the matter, I could cast the whole

ugly thing out of my soul and be good

all the rest of my life.

There was a large upholstered chair

standing in front of me, and I put my

head down on the seat of that and

thought and thought. My thoughts

reached so far that I grew frightened,

and I was relieved when I felt the little

soft grey veils drawing about me which

I knew meant sleep. It seemed to me

that I really ought to weep -- that the

circumstances were such that I should

weep. But sleep was sweeter than

tears, and not only the pain in my mind

but the jar and bruise of my body

seemed to demand that oblivion. So I

gave way to the impulse, and the grey

veils wrapped around and around me

as a spider's web enwraps a fly. And

for hours I knew nothing.

When I awoke it was the close of day.

Long tender shadows lay across the

fields, the sky had that wonderful clear-

ness and kindness which is like a hu-

man eye, and the soft wind puffing in

at the window was sweet with field

fragrance. A glass of milk and a plate

with two slices of bread lay on the win-

dow sill by me, as if some one had

placed them there from the outside. I

could hear birds settling down for the

night, and cheeping drowsily to each

other. My cat came on the scene and,

seeing me, looked at me with serious,

expanding eyes, twitched her whiskers

cynically, and passed on. Presently I

heard the voices of my family. They

were re-entering the sitting-room. Sup-

per was over -- supper, with its cold

meats and shining jellies, its "floating

island" and its fig cake. I could hear

a voice that was new to me. It was

deeper than my mother's, and its ac-

cent was different. It was the sort of

a voice that made you feel that its

owner had talked with many different

kinds of people, and had contrived to

hold her own with all of them. I knew

it belonged to Aunt Cordelia. And now

that I was not to see her, I felt my curi-

osity arising in me. I wanted to look

at her, and still more I wished to ask

her about goodness. She was rich and

good! Was one the result of the other?

And which came first? I dimly per-

ceived that if there had been more

money in our house there would have

been more help, and I would not have

been led into temptation -- baby would

not have been left too long upon my

hands. However, after a few moments

of self-pity, I rejected this thought. I

knew I really was to blame, and it oc-

curred to me that I would add to my

faults if I tried to put the blame on any-

body else.

Now that the first shock was over and

that my sleep had refreshed me, I be-

gan to see what terrible sorrow had

been mine if the fall had really injured

Julie; and a sudden thought shook me.

She might, after all, have been hurt in

some way that would show itself later

on. I yearned to look upon her, to see

if all her sweetness and softness was in-

tact. It seemed to me that if I could

not see her the rising grief in me would

break, and I would sob aloud. I didn't

want to do that. I had no notion to

call any attention to myself whatever,

but see the baby I must. So, softly,

and like a thief, I opened the door com-

municating with the little dressing-

room in which Julie's cradle stood. The

curtain had been drawn and it was al-

most dark, but I found my way to

Julie's bassinet. I could not quite see

her, but the delicate odour of her

breath came up to me, and I found her

little hand and slipped my finger in it.

It was gripped in a baby pressure, and

I stood there enraptured, feeling as if

a flower had caressed me. I was

thrilled through and through with hap-

piness, and with love for this little crea-

ture, whom my selfishness might have

destroyed. There was nothing in what

had happened during this moment or

two when I stood by her side to assure

me that all was well with her; but I did

so believe, and I said over and over:

"Thank you, God! Thank you, God!"

And now my tears began to flow.

They came in a storm -- a storm I could

not control, and I fled back to mother's

room, and stood there before the west

window weeping as I never had wept

before.

The quiet loveliness of the closing

day had passed into the splendour of

the afterglow. Mighty wings as of

bright angels, pink and shining white,

reached up over the sky. The vault was

purple above me, and paled to lilac, then

to green of unimaginable tenderness.

Now I quenched my tears to look, and

then I wept again, weeping no more for

sorrow and loneliness and shame than

for gratitude and delight in beauty. So

fair a world! What had sin to do with

it? I could not make it out.

The shining wings grew paler, faded,

then darkened; the melancholy sound

of cow-bells stole up from the common.

The birds were still; a low wind rustled

the trees. I sat thinking my young

"night thoughts" of how marvellous it

was for the sun to set, to rise, to keep

its place in heaven -- of how wrapped

about with mysteries we were. What

if the world should start to falling

through space? Where would it land?

Was there even a bottom to the uni-

verse? "World without end" might

mean that there was neither an end to

space nor yet to time. I shivered at

thought of such vastness.

Suddenly light streamed about me,

warm arms enfolded me.

"Mother!" I murmured, and slipped

from the unknown to the dear familiar-

ity of her shoulder.

It was, I soon perceived, a silk-clad

shoulder. Mother had on her best

dress; nay, she wore her coral pin and

ear-rings. Her lace collar was scented

with Jockey Club, and her neck, into

which I was burrowing, had the inde-

scribable something that was not quite

odour, not all softness, but was com-

pounded of these and meant mother.

She said little to me as she drew me

away and bathed my face, brushed and

plaited my hair, and put on my clean

frock. But we felt happy together. I

knew she was as glad to forgive as I

was to be forgiven.

In a little while she led me, blinking,

into the light. A tall stranger, a lady

in prune-coloured silk, sat in the high-

backed chair.

"This is my eldest girl, Aunt Cor-

delia," said my mother. I went for-

ward timidly, wondering if I were

really going to be greeted by this per-

son who must have heard such terrible

reports of me. I found myself caught

by the hands and drawn into the em-

brace of this new, grand acquaintance.

"Well, I've been wanting to see

you," said the rich, kind voice. "They

say you look as I did at your age. They

say you are like me!"

Like her -- who was good! But no

one referred to this difference or said

anything about my sins. When we were

sorry, was evil, then, forgotten and sin

forgiven? A weight as of iron dropped

from my spirit. I sank with a sigh on

the hassock at my aunt's feet. I was

once more a member of society.

TRAVEL

IT was time to say good-bye.

I had been down to my little

brother's grave and watered the sorrel

that grew on it -- I thought it was sor-

row, and so tended it; and I had walked

around the house and said good-bye to

every window, and to the robin's nest,

and to my playhouse in the shed. I

had put a clean ribbon on the cat's neck,

and kissed my doll, and given presents

to my little sisters. Now, shivering be-

neath my new grey jacket in the chill

of the May morning air, I stood ready

to part with my mother. She was a

little flurried with having just ironed

my pinafores and collars, and with hav-

ing put the last hook on my new Stuart

plaid frock, and she looked me over

with rather an anxious eye. As for me,

I thought my clothes charming, and I

loved the scarlet quill in my grey hat,

and the set of my new shoes. I hoped,

above all, that no one would notice that

I was trembling and lay it down to fear.

Of course, I had been away before.

It was not the first time I had left

everything to take care of itself. But

this time I was going alone, and that

gave rather a different aspect to things.

To go into the country for a few days,

or even to Detroit, in the company of

a watchful parent, might be called a

"visit"; but to go alone, partly by

train and partly by stage, and to arrive

by one's self, amounted to "travel." I

had an aunt who had travelled, and I

felt this morning that love of travel

ran in the family. Probably even

Aunt Cordelia had been a trifle nervous,

at first, when she started out for Ha-

waii, say, or for Egypt.

Mother and I were both fearful that

the driver of the station 'bus hadn't

really understood that he was to call.

First she would ask father, and then I

would ask him, if he was quite sure the

man understood, and father said that

if the man could understand English

at all -- and he supposed he could -- he

had understood that. Father was right

about it, too, for just when we -- that is,

mother and I -- were almost giving up,

the 'bus horses swung in the big gate

and came pounding up the drive be-

tween the Lombardy poplars, which

were out in their yellow-green spring

dress. They were a bay team with a

yellow harness which clinked splendidly

with bone rings, and the 'bus was as

yellow as a pumpkin, and shaped not

unlike one, so that I gave it my instant

approval. It was precisely the sort of

vehicle in which I would have chosen

to go away. So absorbed was I in it

that, though I must have kissed mother,

I have really no recollection of it; and

it was only when we were swinging out

of the gate, and I looked back and saw

her standing in the door watching us,

that a terrible pang came over me, so

that for one crazy moment I thought

I was going to jump out and run back

to her.

But I held on to father's hand and

turned my face away from home with

all the courage I could summon, and we

went on through the town and out

across a lonely stretch of country to the

railroad. For we were an obstinate lit-

tle town, and would not build up to the

railroad because the railroad had re-

fused to run up to us. It was a new

station with a fine echo in it, and the

man who called out the trains had a

beautiful voice for echoes. It was cre-

ated to inspire them and to encourage

them, and I stood fascinated by the

thunderous noises he was making till

father seized me by the hand and thrust

me into the care of the train conductor.

They said something to each other in

the sharp, explosive way men have, and

the conductor took me to a seat and

told me I was his girl for the time be-

ing, and to stay right there till he came

for me at my station.

What amazed me was that the car

should be full of people. I could not

imagine where they all could be going.

It was all very well for me, who be-

longed to a family of travellers -- as wit-

ness Aunt Cordelia -- to be going on a

journey, but for these others, these

many, many others, to be wandering

around, heaven knows where, struck me

as being not right. It seemed to take

somewhat from the glory of my adven-

ture.

However, I noticed that most of them

looked poor. Their clothes were old

and ugly; their faces not those of pleas-

ure-seekers. It was very difficult to

imagine that they could afford a jour-

ney, which was, as I believed, a great

luxury. At first, the people looked to

be all of a sort, but after a little I be-

gan to see the differences, and to no-

tice that this one looked happy, and

that one sad, and another as if he had

much to do and liked it, and several

others as if they had very little idea

where they were going or why.

But I liked better to look from the

windows and to see the world. The

houses seemed quite familiar and as if

I had seen them often before. I hardly

could believe that I hadn't walked up

those paths, opened those doors and

seated myself at the tables. I felt that

if I went in those houses I would know

where everything was -- just where the

dishes were kept, and the Bible, and the

jam. It struck me that houses were

very much alike in the world, and that

led to the thought that people, too, were

probably alike. So I forgot what the

conductor had said to me about keeping

still, and I crossed over the aisle and

sat down beside a little girl who was

regrettably young, but who looked

pleasant. Her mother and grand-

mother were sitting opposite, and they

smiled at me in a watery sort of way

as if they thought a smile was expected

of them. I meant to talk to the little

girl, but I saw she was almost on the

verge of tears, and it didn't take me

long to discover what was the matter.

Her little pink hat was held on by an

elastic band, which, being put behind

her ears and under her chin, was cut-

ting her cruelly. I knew by experience

that if the band were placed in front of

her ears the tension would be lessened;

so, with the most benevolent intentions

in the world, I inserted my fingers be-

tween the rubber and her chubby

cheeks, drew it out with nervous but

friendly fingers, somehow let go of it,

and snap across her two red cheeks and

her pretty pug nose went the lacerat-

ing elastic, leaving a welt behind it!

"What do you mean, you bad girl?"

cried the mother, taking me by the

shoulders with a sort of grip I had

never felt before. "I never saw such a

child -- never!"

An old woman with a face like a hen

leaned over the back of the seat.

"What's she done? What's she

done?" she demanded. The mother

told her, as the grandmother comforted

the hurt baby.

"Go back to your seat and stay

there!" commanded the mother. "See

you don't come near here again!"

My lips trembled with the anguish I

could hardly restrain. Never had a

noble soul been more misunderstood.

Stupid beings! How dare they! Yet,

not to be liked by them -- not to be un-

derstood! That was unendurable.

Would they listen to the gentle word

that turneth away wrath? I was in-

clined to think not. I was fairly pant-

ing under my load of dismay and de-

spondency, when a large man with an

extraordinarily clean appearance sat

down opposite me. He was a study in

grey -- grey suit, tie, socks, gloves, hat,

top-coat -- yes, and eyes! He leaned

forward ingratiatingly.

"What do you think Aunt Ellen sent

me last week?" he inquired.

We seemed to be old acquaintances,

and in my second of perplexity I de-

cided that it was mere forgetfulness

that made me unable to recall just

whom he was talking about. So I only

said politely: "I don't know, I'm sure,

sir."

"Why, yes, you do!" he laughed.

"Couldn't you guess? What should

Aunt Ellen send but some of that white

maple sugar of hers; better than ever,

too. I've a pound of it along with me,

and I'd be glad to pry off a few pieces

if you'd like to eat it. You always

were so fond of Aunt Ellen's maple

sugar, you know."

The tone carried conviction. Of

course I must have been fond of it;

indeed, upon reflection, I felt that I had

been. By the time the man was back

with a parallelogram of the maple

sugar in his hand, I was convinced that

he had spoken the truth.

"Aunt Ellen certainly is a dear," he

went on. "I run down to see her every

time I get a chance. Same old rain-

barrel! Same old beehives! Same old

well-sweep! Wouldn't trade them for

any others in the world. I like every-

thing about the place -- like the 'Old

Man' that grows by the gate; and the

tomato trellis -- nobody else treats to-

matoes like flowers; and the herb gar-

den, and the cupboard with the little

wood-carvings in it that Uncle Ben

made. You remember Uncle Ben?

Been a sailor -- broke both legs -- had

'em cut off -- and sat around and carved

while Aunt Ellen taught school. Happy

they were -- no one happier. Brought

me up, you know. Didn't have a father

or mother -- just gathered me in. Good

sort, those. Uncle Ben's gone, but

Aunt Ellen's a mother to me yet.

Thinks of me, travelling, travelling,

never putting my head down in the same

bed two nights running; and here and

there and everywhere she overtakes me

with little scraps out of home. That's

Aunt Ellen for you!"

As the delicious sugar melted on my

tongue, the sorrows melted in my soul,

and I was just about to make some in-

quiries about Aunt Ellen, whose per-

sonal qualities seemed to be growing

clearer and clearer in my mind, when

my conductor came striding down the

aisle.

"Where's my little girl?" he de-

manded heartily. "Ah, there she is,

just where I left her, in good company

and eating maple sugar, as I live."

"Well, she hain't bin there all the

time now, I ken tell ye that!" cried the

old woman with a face like a hen.

"Indeed, she ain't!" the other

women joined in. "She's a mischief-

makin' child, that's what she is!" said

the mother. The little girl was look-

ing over her grandmother's shoulder,

and she ran out a very red, serpent-

like tongue at me.

"She's a good girl, and almost as

fond of Aunt Ellen as I am," said the

large man, finding my pocket, and put-

ting a huge piece of maple sugar in it.

The conductor, meantime, was gath-

ering my things, and with a "Come

along, now! This is where you

change," he led me from the car. I

glanced back once, and the hen-faced

woman shook her withered brown fist

at me, and the large man waved and

smiled. The conductor and I ran as

hard as we could, he carrying my light

luggage, to a stage that seemed to be

waiting for us. He shouted some di-

rections to the driver, deposited me

within, and ran back to his train. And

I, alone again, looked about me.

We were in the heart of a little town,

and a number of men were standing

around while the horses took their fill

at the watering-trough. This accom-

plished, the driver checked up the

horses, mounted to his high seat, was

joined by a heavy young man; two gen-

tlemen entered the inside of the coach,

and we were off.

One of these gentlemen was very old.

His silver hair hung on his shoulders;

he had a beautiful flowing heard which

gleamed in the light, the kindest of

faces, lit with laughing blue eyes, and

he leaned forward on his heavy stick

and seemed to mind the plunging of

our vehicle. The other man was mid-

dle-aged, dark, silent-looking, and, I

decided, rather like a king. We all

rode in silence for a while, but by and

by the old man said kindly:

"Where are you going, my child?"

I told him.

"And whose daughter are you?" he

inquired. I told him that with pride.

"I know people all through the state,"

he said, "but I don't seem to remember

that name."

"Don't you remember my father,

sir?" I cried, anxiously, edging up

closer to him. "Not that great and

good man! Why, Abraham Lincoln

and my father are the greatest men

that ever lived!"

His head nodded strangely, as he

lifted it and looked at me with his

laughing eye.

"It's a pity I don't know him, that

being the case," he said gently. "But,

anyway, you're a lucky little girl."

"Yes," I sighed, "I am, indeed."

But my attention was taken by our

approach to what I recognised as an

"estate." A great gate with high

posts, flat on top, met my gaze, and

through this gateway I could see a drive

and many beautiful trees. A little boy

was sitting on top of one of the posts,

watching us, and I thought I never had

seen a place better adapted to viewing

the passing procession. I longed to be

on the other gatepost, exchanging confi-

dences across the harmless gulf with

this nice-looking boy, when, most unex-

pectedly, the horses began to plunge.

The next second the air was filled with

buzzing black objects.

"Bees!" said the king. It was the

first word he had spoken, and a true

word it was. Swarming bees had set-

tled in the road, and we had driven un-

aware into the midst of them. The

horses were distracted, and made blind-

ly for the gate, though they seemed

much more likely to run into the posts

than to get through the gate, I thought.

The boy seemed to think this, too, for

he shot backward, turned a somersault

in. the air, and disappeared from view.

"God bless me!" said the king.

The heavy young man on the front

seat jumped from his place and began

beating away the bees and holding the

horses by the bridles, and in a few min-

utes we were on our way. The horses

had been badly stung, and the heavy

young man looked rather bumpy. As

for us, the king had shut the stage door

at the first approach of trouble, and

we were unharmed.

After this, we all felt quite well ac-

quainted, and the old gentleman told me

some wonderful stories about going

about among the Indians and about the

men in the lumber camps and the set-

tlers on the lake islands. Afterward I

learned that he was a bishop, and a

brave and holy man whom it was a

great honour to meet, but, at the time,

I only thought of how kind he was to

pare apples for me and to tell me tales.

The king seldom spoke more than one

word at a time, but he was kind, too, in

his way. Once he said, "Sleepy?" to

me. And, again, "Hungry?" He

didn't look out at the landscape at all,

and neither did the bishop. But I ran

from one side to the other, and the last

of the journey I was taken up between

the driver and the heavy man on the

high seat.

Presently we were in a little town

with cottages almost hidden among the

trees. A blue stream ran through

green fields, and the water dashed over

a dam. I could hear the song of the

mill and the ripping of the boards.

"We're here!" said the driver.

The heavy man lifted me down, and

my young uncle came running out with

his arms open to receive me. "What a

traveller!" he said, kissing me.

"It's been a tremendously long and

interesting journey," I said.

"Yes," he answered. "Ten miles

by rail and ten by stage. I suppose

you've had a great many adventures!"

"Oh, yes!" I cried, and ached to tell

them, but feared this was not the place.

I saw my uncle respectfully helping the

bishop to alight, and heard him inquir-

ing for his health, and the bishop an-

swering in his kind, deep voice, and

saying I was indeed a good traveller

and saw all there was to see -- and a lit-

tle more. The king shook hands with

me, and this time said two words:

"Good luck." Uncle had no idea who

he was -- no one had seen him before.

Uncle didn't quite like his looks. But

I did. He was uncommon; he was dif-

ferent. I thought of all those people in

the train who had been so alike. And

then I remembered what unexpected

differences they had shown, and turned

to smile at my uncle.

"I should say I have had adven-

tures!" I cried.

"We'll get home to your aunt," he

said, "and then we'll hear all about

them."

We crossed a bridge above the roar-

ing mill-race, went up a lane, and en-

tered Arcadia. That was the way it

seemed to me. It was really a cottage

above a stream, where youth and love

dwelt, and honour and hospitality, and

the little house was to be exchanged for

a greater one where -- though youth de-

parted -- love and honour and hospital-

ity were still to dwell.

"Travel's a great thing," said my

uncle, as he helped me off with my

jacket.

"Yes," I answered, solemnly, "it is

a great privilege to see the world."

I still am of that opinion. I have

seen some odd bits of it, and I cannot

understand why it is that other jour-

neys have not quite come up to that

first one, when I heard of Aunt Ellen,

and saw the boy turn the surprised

somersault, and was welcomed by two

lovers in a little Arcadia.

End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Painted Windows, by Elia W. Peattie