 Chapter 8 of New Chronicles of Rebecca. New Chronicles of Rebecca. Chapter 8 of New Chronicles of Rebecca. Rebecca had now cut the bonds that bound her to the Riverborough District School, and had been for a week a full-fledged pupil at the Wareham Seminary, towards which goal she had been speeding ever since the memorable day when she rode into Riverborough on the top of Uncle Jerry Cobb's stagecoach and told him that education was intended to be the making of her. She went to and fro of Emma Jane and the other Riverborough boys and girls on the morning and evening trains that ran between the Academy Town and Millican's Mills. The six days had passed like a dream, a dream in which she sat in corners with her eyes cast down, flushed whenever she was addressed, stammered whenever she answered a question, and nearly died of heart failure when subjected to an examination of any sort. She delighted the committee when reading at sight from King Lear, but somewhat discouraged them when she could not tell the capital of the United States. She admitted that her former teacher, Miss Dearborn, might have mentioned it, but if so, she had not remembered it. In these first weeks among strangers she passed for nothing but an interesting-looking, timid, innocent country child, never revealing, even to the far-seeing Emily Maxwell, a hint of her originality, facility, or power in any direction. Rebecca was fourteen, but so slight, and under the paralyzing new conditions so shy that she would have been mistaken for twelve had it not been for her general advancement in the school curriculum. Growing up in the solitude of a remote farmhouse, transplanted to a tiny village where she had lived with two elderly spinsters, she was still the various child in all but the practical duties and responsibilities of life in those she had long been a woman. It was Saturday afternoon, her lessons for Monday were all learned, and she burst into the brick house sitting room with a flushed face and embarrassed mean that always foreshadowed a request. Requests were more commonly answered in the negative than in the affirmative at the brick house, a fact that accounted for the slight confusion in her demeanor. Aunt Miranda, she began, the fisherman says that Clara Bell Simpson wants to see me very much, but Mrs. Fogg can't spare her long at a time, you know, on account of the baby being no better, I could walk a mile up and I a mile down the road and we could meet at the pink house half way. Then we could rest and talk an hour or so and both be back in time for our suppers. I fed the cat, she had no appetite as it's only two o'clock and she had her dinner at noon, but she'll go back to her saucer and it's off my mind. I could go down cellar now and bring up the cookies and the pie and donuts for supper before I start. Aunt Jane saw no objection, but we thought I'd better ask you as to run no risks. Miranda Sawyer, who had been patiently waiting for the end of the speech, laid down her knitting and raised her eyes with a half-resigned expression that meant, is there anything unusual in heaven or earth or the waters under the earth that this child does not want to do? Will she ever settle down to the plain, comprehensible Sawyer ways, or will she to the end make these sudden and radical propositions suggesting at every turn that you're responsible Randall Ancestry? You know well enough, Rebecca, that I don't like you to be intimate with Abner since she was young. She said decisively, ain't fit company for anybody that's got Sawyer blood in their veins if it's ever so little. I don't know, I'm sure, how you're going to turn out. The fish-peller seems to be your best friend. Without its abadge of flag that you're everlastingly talking to lately, I should think you'd rather read some proven book than be chattering with Squire Bean's chore-boy. He isn't always going to be a chore-boy, explained Rebecca, but that's what we were considering. It's his career we talk about, and he hasn't got any father or mother to advise him. Besides, Clarabel kind of belongs to the village now that she lives with Mrs. Fogg, and she was always the best-behaved of all the girls, either in school or Sunday school. Children can't help having fathers. Everybody says Abner is turning over a new leaf, and if so, the family ought to be encouraged in every possible way, said Miss Jane, entering the room with her mending basket in hand. If Abner Simpson has turned over a new leaf or anything else in creation, it's only to see what's on the other side, remarked Miss Miranda promptly. Don't talk to me about new leaves. You can't change that kind of a man. He is what he is, and you can't make him no different. The grace of God can do considerable. Observe Jane piously. I ain't saying but it can if it sets out, but it has to begin early and stay late on a man like Simpson. Now, Miranda, Abner ain't more than forty. I don't know what the average age for repentance is in men-volks, but when you think of what an awful sight of him leaves it to their deathbeds, forty seems real kind of young. Not that I've heard Abner has experienced religion, but everybody's surprised at the good way he's conducting this fall. They'll be surprised all the way around when they come to miss their firewood and apples and potatoes again, affirmed Miranda. Claribel don't seem to have inherited from her father, Jane ventured again timidly. No wonder Mrs. Fogg's at such store by the girl. If it hadn't been for her, the baby would have been dead by now. Perhaps trying to save it was interfering with the Lord's will, was Miranda's retort. Folks can't stop to figure out just what's the Lord's will when a child's upset at the kettle of scalding water on himself, and as she spoke, Jane darned more excitedly. Mrs. Fogg knows well enough she hadn't ought to have left that baby alone in the kitchen with a stove, even if she did see Claribel coming across lots. She ought to have whited before driving off, but of course she was afraid of missing the train, and she's too good a woman to be held accountable. The minister's wife says, Claribel is a real— I can't think of the word chimed in, Rebecca. What's the female of Harrow? Whatever it is, that's what Mrs. Baxter called her. Claribel's the female of Simpson. That's what she is, Miss Miranda asserted. But she's been brought up to use her wits, and I ain't sayin' but she's used them. I should say she did, exclaimed Miss Jane, to put that screaming, suffering child in the baby carriage and run all the way to the doctors when there wasn't a soul on hand to advise her. Two or three more such actions could make the Simpson name sound considerable sweeter in this neighborhood. Simpson will always sound like Simpson to me about safe the elder sister, but we've talked enough about him to spare. You can go along, Rebecca, but remember that a child is known by the company she keeps. All right, Aunt Miranda. Thank you, cried Rebecca, leaping from the chair on which she had been twisting nervously for five minutes. And how does this strike you? Would you be in favor of my taking Claribel to the company tart? Don't Miss Fogg feed the young one? Now she's takin' her right into the family? Oh, yes, Rebecca answered. She has lovely things to eat, and Miss Fogg won't even let her drink skim milk. But I always feel that taking a present lets the person know you've been thinking about them and are extra glad to see them. Besides, unless we have company soon, those tarts will have to be eaten by the family and a new batch made. When I had, when I was rewarding myself last week, it was queer but nice, she added hastily. Maybe you could think of something of your own you could give away without taking my tarts, responded Miranda Tursley. The joints of her armor having been pierced by the fatally keen tongue of her niece who had insinuated that company tarts lasted a long time in the Burke House. This was a fact, indeed. The company tart was so named not from any idea that it would ever be eaten by guests, but because it was too good for everyday use. Rebecca's face crimsoned with shame that she had drifted into an impolite and what was worse, an apparently ungrateful speech. I didn't mean to say anything not nice on Miranda, she stammered. Truly, the tart was splendid, but not exactly like new dots all. And, oh, I know what I can take to Clarabel. A few chocolate drops out of the box Mr. Lad gave me on my birthday. You go down cellar and get that tart same as I told you, commanded Miranda. And when you fill it, don't uncover a new tumbler of jelly. There's some dried apple preserves open that'll do. Wear your rivers in your thick jacket after running all the way down there for your legs never seem to be ready for walking like other girls. You'll sit down on some damp stone or other and catch your death a cold. And your Aunt Jane and I'll be kip-up nights nursing you and lugging your meals upstairs to you on a waiter. Here, Miranda leaned her head against the back of a rocking chair, dropped her knitting and closed her eyes weirdly. For when the immovable body is opposed by the irresistible force, there is a certain amount of jar and disturbance involved in the operation. Rebecca moved toward the side door, shooting a questioning glance at Aunt Jane as she passed. The look was full of mysterious suggestion and was accompanied by a most imperceptible gesture. Miss Jane knew that certain articles were kept in the entry closet, and by this time she had become sufficiently expert in telegraphy to know that Rebecca's unspoken query meant could you permit the hat with the red wings at being Saturday fine, subtle weather and a pleasure excursion? These confidential requests, brought with embarrassment when Miranda was in the room, gave Jane much secret joy. There was something about them that stirred her spinster heart. They were so gay, so appealing, so unsoyer and unriverboro-like. The longer Rebecca lived in the brick house, the more her Aunt Jane marveled at the child. What made her so different from everybody else? Could it be that her graceless pop and joy of a father, Lorenzo de Medici Randall, had bequeathed her some strange combination of gifts instead of fortune? Her eyes, her brows, the color of her lips, the shape of her face, as well as her ways and words, proclaimed her a changeling in the Sawyer tribe. But what an enchanting changeling, bringing wit and nonsense and color and delight into the gray monotony of the dragging years. There was frost in the air, but a bright, cheery sun as Rebecca walked decorously out of the brick house yard, and Majane Perkins was away over Sunday on a visit to a cousin in moderation. Alice Robinson and Candice Millican were having measles, and Riverboro was very quiet. Still, life was seldom anything but a gay adventure to Rebecca, and she started to fresh every morning to its conquest. She was not exacting the asthmadine feet of spinning a sand heap into twine, was, poetically speaking, always in her power, so that the mile walked to the pink house gate, and the trist with freckle-faced red-haired Claribel Simpson, whose face Ms. Miranda said looked like a raw pie in an oven. These commonplace incidents were sufficiently exhilarating to brighten her eye and quicken her step. As the great bear horse chestnut pink house gate loomed into view, the red, Lindsay Woolsey speck, growing down the road, spied the blue Lindsay Woolsey speck coming up, and both specks flew over the intervening distance and meeting, embraced each other ardently, somewhat to the injury of the company tart. Didn't it come out splendidly, exclaimed Rebecca? I was so afraid the fishermen wouldn't tell you to start too, or that one of us would walk faster than the other. But we met at the very spot. It was a very uncommon idea, wasn't it? Almost romantic. And what do you think, as Claribel prowling? Look at this! Ms. Fogg lent me her watch to come home by. Oh, Claribel, how wonderful! Mrs. Fogg gets kinder and kinder to you, doesn't she? You're not homesick any more, are you? No. Not really. Only when I remember there's only little Susan to manage the twins, though they're getting on real well without me. But I kind of think, Rebecca, that I'm going to be giving away to the Fogg's for good. Do you mean adopted? Yes, I think Fogg's going to sign papers. You see, we can't tell how many years it'll be before the poor baby outgrows its burns. And Mrs. Fogg will never be the same again, and she must have decided to help her. You'll be their real daughter, then, won't you, Claribel? And Mr. Fogg is a deacon, and a selectman, and a road commissioner, and everything's blended. Yes, I'll have board and clothes and school and be named Fogg, and hear her voice sing to an odd whisper. The upper farm, if I should ever get married, Ms. Dearborn told me that herself, when she was persuading me not to mind being given away. Claribel Simpson exclaimed Rebecca in a transport. Who'd have thought you'd be a female hero and an heiress besides? It's just like a bookstore and it happened in Riverboro. I'll make Uncle Jerry Cobb allow there can be Riverboro stories. You see if I don't. Of course I know it's all right, Claribel replied soberly. I'll have a good home and Father can't keep us all, but it's kind of dreadful to be given away like a piano or a horse and carriage. Rebecca's hand went out in sympathy to Claribel's freckled paw. Suddenly her own face clouded and she whispered, I'm not sure, Claribel, but I'm given away too. Do you suppose I am? Poor Father left us in debt, you see. I thought I came away from Sunnybrook to get an education and then help pay off the mortgage, but Mother doesn't say anything about my coming back and our family is one of those two big ones, you know? Just like yours. Did your mother sign papers to your aunts? If she did, I never heard anything about it, but there's something pinned up to the mortgage that Mother keeps in the drawer of the bookcase. You'd know if it was adoption papers. I guess you're just lent, Claribel said cheeringly. I don't believe anybody'd ever give you away. And, oh, Rebecca, Father's getting on so well. He works on Dally's farm where they raise lots of horses and cattle, too. And he breaks all the young colts and trains them and swaps off the poor ones and drives all over the country. Dally told Mr. Falk he was splendid with stock and Father says it's just like play. He sent home money three Saturday nights. I'm so glad, explained Rebecca sympathetically. Now your mother will have a good time in a black silk dress, won't she? I don't know, sighed Claribel, and her voice was grave. Ever since I can remember, she's just washed and cried and cried and washed. Mr. Born has been spending her vacation up to Acreville, you know, and she came yesterday to board next door to Miss Fawkes. I was talking last night when I was getting the baby to sleep. I couldn't help it, they were so close. And Miss Dearborn said, mother doesn't like Acreville. She says nobody takes any notice of her and they don't give her any more work. Miss Fawkes said, well, they were dreadful stiff and particular up that way and they like women to have wedding rings. Hasn't your mother got a wedding ring? I thought everybody had to have them just as they do sofa in a kitchen stove. I never noticed she didn't have one. But when they spoke, I remembered mother's hands washing and ringing and she doesn't wear one, I know. She has got any jewelry, not even a breast pin. Rebecca's tone was somewhat sensorious. Your father's been so poor, perhaps he couldn't afford breast pins. But I should have thought he'd have given your mother a wedding ring when they were first married. And that's the time to do it right at the very first. They didn't have any real church dress-up wedding exclaimed, Claribel extenuatingly. You see, the first mother, mine, had the nine boys and me and then she died when we were little. Then after a while, this mother came to housekeep and she stayed and by and by she was Mrs. Simpson and Susan and the twins and the baby are hers and she and father didn't have any time for a regular wedding and church. They don't have veils and bridesmaids and refreshments round here like Miss Dearborn's sister did. Do they cost a great deal wedding rings? asked Rebecca thoughtfully. They're solid gold so I suppose they do. If they were cheap, we might buy one. I've got seventy-four cents saved up. How much of you? Fifty-three, Claribel responded in a depressing tone. And anyway, there are no stores nearer than Milltown. We'd have to buy it secretly or I wouldn't want to make father angry or shame his pride. Now he's got to study work and mother would know I had spent all my savings. Rebecca looked nonplussed. I declare, she said, I think the Acreville people must be perfectly horrid not to call on your mother only because she hasn't got any jewelry. You wouldn't dare tell your father what Miss Dearborn heard so he'd and by the ring? No, I certainly would not and Claribel slips close tightly and decisively. Rebecca sat quietly for a few moments then she exclaimed jubilantly I know where we could get it from Mr. Aladdin and then I needn't tell him who it's for. He's coming to stay over tomorrow with his aunt and I'll ask him to buy a ring for us in Boston. I won't explain anything, you know. I'll just say I need a wedding ring. That would be perfectly lovely, replied Claribel, a look of hope dawning in her eyes and we can think afterwards how to get it over to mother. Perhaps you could send it to father instead but I wouldn't dare do it myself. You won't tell anybody Rebecca? Cross my heart Rebecca exclaimed dramatically and then with a reproachful look you know I wouldn't repeat a sacred secret like that. Well, we meet next Saturday afternoon and I tell you what's happened. Why, Claribel, isn't that Mr. Lad watering his horse at the foot of the hill this very minute? It is, and he's driven up from Milltown instead of coming on the train from Boston to Edgewood. He's all alone and I can ride home with him and ask him about the ring right away. Claribel kissed Rebecca fervently and started on her homeward walk while Rebecca waited at the top of the long hill fluttering her handkerchief as a signal. Mr. Aladdin, Mr. Aladdin, she cried as the horse and wagon came nearer. Adam Lad drew up quickly at the sound of the eager young voice. Well, well, here is Rebecca Rowena fluttering along the high road like a red winged blackbird. Are you going to fly home or drive with me? Rebecca clambered into the carriage laughing and blushing with delight at his nonsense and with joy at seeing him again. Claribel and I were just talking about you this minute and I am so glad you came this way for there's something very important to ask you about. She began rather breathlessly. No doubt left Adam Lad who had become in the course of his acquaintance with Rebecca a sort of high court of appeals. I do hope the premium banquet lamp doesn't smoke when it's older. Now Mr. Aladdin, you will not remember nicely. Mr. Simpson swapped off the banquet lamp when he was moving the family to Acreville. It's not the lamp at all, but once when you were here last time you said you'd make up your mind what you were going to give me for Christmas. Well, and I do remember that much quite nicely. Well, is it bought? No, I'd rather buy Christmas presents before Thanksgiving. Then dear Mr. Aladdin, would you buy me something different, something that I want to give away and buy it a little sooner than Christmas? That depends. I don't relish having my Christmas presents given away. I like to have them kept forever in little girls bureau drawers all wrapped in pink tissue paper. But explain the matter and perhaps I'll change my mind. What is it I need a wedding ring dreadfully said Rebecca, but it's a sacred secret. Adam Ladd's eyes flashed with surprise, and he smiled to himself with pleasure. Had he on his list of acquaintances he asked himself, a person of any age or sex who altogether irresistible and unique as this child then he turned to face her with a merry teasing look that made him so delightful to young people. I thought it was perfectly understood between us, he said that if you could ever contrive to grow up and I were willing to wait, that I was to ride up to the brick house on my snow white coal black corrected Rebecca with a sparkling eye and warning finger. Coal black charger put a gold circlet on your lily white finger, draw you up behind me on my pillion and Emma Jane too, Rebecca interrupted. I think I didn't mention Emma Jane like you'd Mr. Ladd three on a pillion is very uncomfortable. I think Emma Jane leaps on the back of a prancing chestnut and we all go off to my castle in the forest. Emma Jane never leaps and she'd be afraid of a prancing chestnut objected Rebecca. Then she'll have to have a gentle cream colored pony, but now without any explanation you ask me to buy you a wedding ring but it shows plainly that you are planning to ride off on a snow white I mean coal black charger with somebody else. Rebecca dimpled and laughed joy at the nonsense. In her prosaic world, no one but Adam Ladd played the game and answered the fool according to his folly. Nobody else talk delicious fairy story twaddle but Mr. Laddon. The ring isn't from me, she explained carefully. You know well, the Emma Jane nor I can't be married till we're through quack and bros grammar, green leaves arithmetic, and big enough to wear long trails and run a sewing machine. The ring is for a friend. But why doesn't the groom give it to the bride himself? Because he's poor and kind of thoughtless, in any way she isn't a bride anymore, she has three step and three other kind of children. Adam Ladd put the whip back in the socket thoughtfully, and then stooped to tuck in the rug of Rebecca's feet on his own. When he raised his head again, he asked, why not tell me a little more, Rebecca? I'm safe. Rebecca looked at him, feeling his wisdom and strength, and above all his sympathy. Then she said hesitatingly, you remember I told you all about the Simpsons that day on your aunt's porch when you bought the soak because I told you how the was, and how much they needed a banquet lamp. Mr. Simpson, Clairbaugh's father, has always been very poor, and not always very good, but a little vivish, you know? But oh, so pleasant and nice to talk to. And now he's turning over a new leaf, and everybody in Riverborough liked Mrs. Simpson when she came here a stranger, because they were sorry for her, and she was so patient and such a hard worker to bring to the children that where she lives now, though they used to know her when she was a girl, they're not polite to her, and don't give her scrubbing and washing. And Clairbaugh heard our teacher say to Mrs. Fogg that the Acreville people were stiff, and despised her because she didn't wear a wedding ring like all the rest. And Clairbaugh and I thought, if they were so mean as that, we'd love to give her one, and then we'd be happier and have more work, and perhaps Mr. Simpson, if he gets along better, will buy her a breastpin and earrings, and she'll be fitted out like the others. I know Mrs. Peter Miserve is looked up to by everybody in Edgewood on account of her gold bracelets and moss egg egg necklace. Adam turned again to me the luminous innocent eyes that glowed under the delicate brows and long lashes, feeling as he had more than once felt before, and with his worldly wise grown-up thoughts had been bathed in some purifying spring. And how shall you send the ring to Mrs. Simpson, he asked with interest. We haven't settled yet. Clairbaugh's afraid to do it, and thinks I could manage better. Will the ring cost much? Because, of course, if it does, I must ask Aunt Jane first. There are things I have to ask Aunt Miranda, and other things that belong to Aunt Jane. It costs the merest trifle. I'll buy one and bring it to you and we'll consult about it. But I think, as your great friends with Mr. Simpson, you'd better send it to him in a letter, letters being your strong point. It's a present a man ought to give his own wife but it's worth trying, Rebecca. You and Clairbaugh can manage it between you, and I'll stay in the background where nobody will see me. End of the Eighth Chronicle Chapter 9 of New Chronicles of Rebecca This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recorded by Lucy Burgoyne. New Chronicles of Rebecca by Kate Douglas Wigan. Ninth Chronicle The Green Isle Many a green isle needs must be in the deep sea of misery or the mariner, worn and wane, never thus could voyage on day and night and night and day, drifting on his weary way. Shelley Meantime in these frosty autumn days life was crowded with events in the lonely Simpson House at Acreville. The tumble-down dwelling stood on the edge of Pliny's pond. So-called because Old Colonial Richardson left his lands to be divided in five equal parts, each shared to be chosen in turn by one of his five sons. Pliny, the eldest, having priority of choice. Pliny Richardson having little taste for farming and being ardently fond of fishing, rowing and swimming, acted up to his reputation of being a little might odd and took his whole 20 acres in water hence Pliny's pond. The eldest Simpson boy had been working on a farm in Cumberland County for two years. Samuel, generally dubbed Cecil, had lately found a humble place in a single mill and was partially self-supporting. Clara Bell had been adopted by the Foggs. Thus there were only three mouths to fill. The capacious ones of Elijah and Alicia, the twin boys and of Lisping nine-year-old Susan, the capable house worker and mother's assistant. For the baby had died during the summer, died of discouragement at having been born into a family unprovided with food or money or love or care or even with desire for or appreciation of babies. There was no doubt that the erratic father at the house had turned over a new leaf exactly when he began or how or why or how long he would continue the praiseworthy process in a word whether there would be more leaves turned as the months went on. Mr. Simpson did not know and it is doubtful if any authority lower than that of Mr. Simpson's maker could have decided the matter. He had stolen articles for swapping purposes for a long time but had often avoided detection and always escaped punishment until the last few years. Three fines imposed for smaller fences were followed by several arrests and two imprisonments for brief periods and he found himself wholly out of sympathy with the wages of sin. Sin itself he did not especially mind but the wages thereof were decidedly unpleasant and irksome to him. He also minded very much the isolated position in the community which had lately become his for he was a social being and would almost rather not steal from a neighbour than have him find it out and cease intercourse. This feeling was working in him and rendering him unaccountably irritable and depressed when he took his daughter over to river borough at the time of the great plague raising. There are seasons of refreshment as well as seasons of drought in the spiritual as in the natural world and in some way or other Jews and reigns of grace fell upon Abna Simpson's heart during that brief journey perhaps the giving away of a child that he could not support had made the soil of his heart a little softer and readyer for planting than usual but when he stole the new flag of Mrs. Peter Mosev's doorsteps under the impression that the cotton cupboard bundle contained freshly washed clothes he unconsciously set certain forces in operation. It will be remembered that Rebecca saw an inch of red bunting peeping from the back of his wagon and asked the pleasure of a drive with him. She was no daughter of the regiment but she proposed to follow the flag. When she diplomatically requested the return of the sacred object which was to be the glory of the raising next day he thus discovered his mistake. He was furious with himself for having slipped into a disagreeable predicament and later when he unexpectedly faced a detachment of river borough society at the crossroads and met not only their wrath and scorn but the reproachful disappointed glance of Rebecca's eyes he felt degraded as never before. The night at the centre tavern did not help matters nor the jolly patriotic meeting of the three villagers at the flag raising next morning. He would have enjoyed being at the head and front of the festive preparations but as he had cut himself off from all such friendly gatherings he intended at any rate to sit in his wagon on the very outskirts of the assembled crowd and see some of the goatee for heaven knows he had little enough he who loved talk and song and story and laughter and excitement. The flag was raised the crowd cheered the little girl to whom he had lied the girl who was impersonating the state of Maine was on the platform speaking her peace and he could just distinguish some of the words she was saying for it's your star my star all the stars together that makes our country's flag so proud to float in the bright full weather then suddenly there was a clarion voice cleaving the air and he saw a tall man standing in the centre of the stage and heard him crying three cheers for the girl that saved the flag from the hands of the enemy he was sore and bitter enough already lonely, isolated enough with no lot nor share in the honest community life no hand to shake no neighbours meal to share and this unexpected public arraignment smoked him between the eyes with resentment newly kindled pride wounded vanity bleeding he flung a curse at the joyous throng and drove toward home the home where he would find his ragged children and meet the timid eyes of the woman who had been the loyal partner of his poverty it is probable that even then his extremely light hand was already on the new leaf the angels doubtless were not especially proud of the matter and manner of his reformation but I daresay they were glad to count him theirs on any terms so difficult is the reformation of this blind and foolish world they must have been for they immediately flung into his very lap a profitable and what is more to the point an interesting and agreeable situation where money could be earned by doing the very things his nature'd craved there were feats of daring to be performed inside of admiring and applauding stable boys the horses he loved his companions he was obliged to swap for Delhi his employer counted on him to get rid of all the undesirable stock power and responsibility of the sort were given him freely for Delhi was no puritan and felt himself amply capable of managing any number of simpsons so here were numberless within the man's grasp and wages besides Avna positively felt no temptation to steal his soul expanded with pride and the admiration and astonishment with which he regarded his virtuous present was only equal by the disgust with which he contemplated his past not so much a vicious past in his own generous estimation of it as a thundering foolish one Mrs. Simpson took the same view of Avna's new leaf as the angels she was thankful for even a brief season of honesty coupled with the Saturday night remittance and if she still washed and cried and cried and washed as clear a bell had always seen her it was either because of some hidden sorrow or because her poor strength seemed all at once to have deserted her just when employment and good fortune had come to the step children and her own were better fed and clothed than ever before the pain that had always looked constant but dull near her tired heart grew fierce and triumphantly strong clutching her in its talons biting, gnawing, worrying leaving her each week with slighter powers of resistance still hope was in the air and a greater content than had ever been hers was in her eyes a content that came near to happiness when the doctor ordered her and sent for clear a bell she could not wash any longer but there was the ever new miracle at the Saturday night remittance for household expenses is your pain bad today mother ask clear a bell who only lately given away was merely borrowed from mrs fog for what was thought to be a brief emergency well there I can't really tell clear a bell mrs simpson replied with a faint smile I can't seem to remember the pain these days without its extra bad the neighbors are so kind mrs little has sent me canned mustard greens and mrs venson chocolate ice cream and minced pies there's the doctors drops to make me sleep and these blankets the box of eatables from mr lad a new here to keep me company I declare I'm kind of dazed with comforts I never expected to see sherry wine in this house I ain't never draw the cork it does me good enough just to look at mr lad's bottle setting on the mantelpiece with the fire shining on the round glass simpson had come to see his wife and had met the doctor just as he was leaving the house she looks awful bad to me is she going to pull through all right same as the last time he asked the doctor nervously she's going to pull right through into the other world the doctor answered bluntly and as there don't seem to be anybody else to take the bull by the horns I'd advise you having made the woman's life about as hard and miserable as you could to try and help her to die easy abner surprised and crushed by the weight of this verbal chastisement sat down on the doorstep his head in his hands and thought a while solemnly thought was not an operation he was want to indulge and when he opened the gate a few minutes later and walked slowly toward the barn for his horse he looked pale and unnerved it is uncommonly startling first to see yourself in another man's scornful eyes and then clearly in your own two days later he came again and this time it was decreed that he should find Gus and Carl tying his piebald mare at the post Clara Bell's quick eye had observed the minister as he alighted from his buggy and warning her mother she hastily smoothed the bed clothes arranged the medicine bottles and swept the half oh don't let him in while Mrs Simpson all of a flutter such a visitor oh dear they must think I'm over to the village that I'm dreadful sick all the minister would never think of calling don't let him in Clara Bell I'm afraid he will say hard words to me all pray to me and I ain't never been prayed to since I was a child is his wife with him no he's alone and he's reaching at the shed door that's worse than all and Mrs Simpson raised herself feebly on her pillows and clasped her hands in despair you mustn't let them too meet Clara Bell and you must send Mr Carl away your father wouldn't have a minister in the house nor speak to one for a thousand dollars be quiet mother lie down it'll be alright you'll only fret yourself into a spell the minister's just a good man he won't say anything to frighten you father's talking with him real pleasant and pointing the way to the front door the person knocked and was admitted by the excited Clara Bell who ushered him tremblingly into the sick room and then we took herself to the kitchen with the children as he gently requested her Abner Simpson left alone in the shed thumbled in his best pocket and took out an envelope which held a sheet of paper and a tiny packet wrapped in tissue paper the letter had been read once before and ran as follows Dear Mr Simpson this is a secret letter I heard that the Acreville people weren't nice to Mr Simpson because she didn't have any wedding ring like all the others I know you've always been poor Dear Mr Simpson and troubled with a large family like ours at the farm but you really ought to have given Mr Simpson a ring when you were married to her right at the very first for then it would have been over and done with as they are solid gold and last forever and probably she wouldn't feel like asking you for one because ladies are just like girls only grown up and I know I'd be ashamed to beg for jewelry when just bored and clothes cost so much so I send you a nice new wedding ring to save your buying thinking you might get Mr Simpson a bracelet or eardrops for Christmas it did not cost me anything as it was a secret present from a friend I hear Mr Simpson is sick and it would be a great comfort to her while she is in bed and has so much time to look at it when I had the measles Emma Jane Perkins lent me her mother's garnet ring and it helped me very much to put my wasted hand outside the bed clothes and see the ring sparkling please don't be angry with me dear Mr Simpson because I like you so much and I'm so glad you are happy with the horses and colts and I believe now perhaps you did think the flag was a bundle of washing when you took it that day so no more from your trusted friend Rebecca Rowena Randall Simpson tore the letter slowly and quietly into fragments and scattered the bits on the wood pile took off his hat and smoothed his hair pulled his moustaches thoughtfully straightened his shoulders and then holding the tiny packet in the palm of his hand he went round to the front door and having entered the house stood outside the sick room for an instant turned the knob and walked softly in then at last the angels might have enjoyed a moment of un-mixed joy for in that brief walk from the shed to the house Abner Simpson's conscious weight to life and attained sufficient strength to prick and sting to provoke remorse to incite penance to do all sorts of divine and beautiful things it was meant for that had never been allowed to do Clara Bell went about the kitchen quietly making preparations for the children's supper she had left Riverborough in haste for the worse in Mr. Simpson had been very sudden but since she had come she had thought more than once of the wedding ring she had wondered whether Mr. Ladd had bought it for Rebecca and whether Rebecca would find means to send it to Acreville but her cares had been so many and varied that the subject had now finally retired to the background of her mind the hands of the clock crept on and she kept hushing the strident tones of Elijah and Elisha opening and shutting the oven door to look at the cornbread advising Susan as to her dishes and marbling that the minister stayed so long at last she heard a door open and close and saw the old person come out wiping his spectacles and step into the buggy for his drive to the village then there was another period of suspense during which the house was as silent as the grave and presently her father came into the kitchen greeted the twins and Susan and said to Clara Bell don't go in there yet jerking his thumb towards the Simpsons room she's all beat out and she's just dropping off to sleep I'll send some groceries up from the store as I go along is the doctor making a second call tonight yes he'll be here pretty soon now Clara Bell answered looking at the clock alright I'll be here again tomorrow soon as it's light and if she ain't up any I'll send word back to Daly and stop here with you for a spell till she's better it was true Mrs Simpson was all beat out it had been a time of excitement and stress and the poor fluttered creature was dropping off into the strangest sleep a sleep made up of waking dreams the pain that had encompassed her heart like a band of steel lessened its cruel pressure and finally left her so completely that she seemed to see it floating above her head only that it looked no longer like a band of steel but a golden circle the frail bark in which she had sailed her life voyage had been rocking on a rough and tossing ocean and now it floated slowly into smoother waters as long as she could remember her boat had been flung about in storm and tempest lashed by angry winds born against rocks beaten torn, buffeted now the waves had subsided the sky was clear the sea was warm and tranquil the sunshine dried the sails the air was soft and balmy and now for sleep plays strange tricks the bark disappeared from the dream and it was she herself who was floating floating farther and farther away wither she neither knew nor cared it was enough to be at rest lulled by the lapping of the cool waves then there appeared a green isle rising from the sea an isle so radiant and fairy like that her famished eyes could hardly believe its reality that it was real for she sailed nearer and nearer to its shores and at last her feet skimmed the shining sands and she floated through the air as disembodied spirits float till she sunk softly at the foot of a spreading tree then she saw the green isle was a flowering isle every shrub and bush was blooming the trees were hung with rosy garlands and even the earth was carpeted with tiny flowers the rare fragrances the bird songs soft and musical the ravishment of colour all bore down upon a swimming senses at once taking them captive so completely that she remembered no past with conscience of no present look forward to no future she seemed to leave the body and the sad heavy things of the body the humming in her ears ceased the light faded the bird songs more fainter and more distant the golden circle of pain receded father and father until it was lost to view even the flowering isle gently drifted away and all was peace and silence it was time for the doctor now and claire bell too anxious to wait longer softly turned the knob of her mother's door the glow of the open fire illumined the darker side of the poor chamber there were no trees near the house and a full november moon streamed in at the unblinded uncurtained windows lighting up the bare interior the unpainted floor the grey plastered walls and the white counter pain her mother lay her mother lay quite still her head turned and drooping a little on the pillow her left hand was folded softly up against her breast the fingers of the right partly covering it as if protecting something precious was it the moonlight that made the patient brow so white and where were the lines of anxiety and pain the face of the mother who had washed and cried and cried and washed was as radiant as if the closed eye were beholding heavenly visions something must have cured her thought claire bell awed and almost frightened by the whiteness and the silence she tiptoed across the floor to look more closely at the still smiling shape and bending over its sore under the shadow of the caressing right hand a narrow gold band gleaming on the work-stained finger oh, the ring came after all she said in a glad whisper and perhaps it was that that made her better she put her hand on her mother's gently a terrified shiver a warning shudder touched the girl from head to foot at the chilling touch a dread presence she had never met before suddenly took shape it filled the room stifled the cry on her lips froze her steps to the floor stopped the beating of her heart just then the door opened oh, doctor, come quick she sobbed she put her hand for help and then covering her eyes come close, look at mother is she better or is she dead the doctor put one hand on the shoulder of the shrinking child and touched the woman with the other she is better he said gently and she is dead end of chapter 9 The New Chronicles of Rebecca by Kate Douglas-Wiggin 10th Chronicle Rebecca's Reminiscences Rebecca was sitting by the window in her room at the Warrum Female Seminary she was alone as her roommate was sitting by the window in her room she was alone as her roommate was sitting by the window in her room she was alone as her roommate, Emma Jane Perkins was reciting Latin down below in some academic vault of the old brick building a new and more ardent passion for the classics had been born in Emma Jane's hitherto unfertil brain for a by-ja flag who was carrying off all the prizes at Limerick Academy had written her a letter in Latin a letter which she had been unable to translate for herself even with the aid of a dictionary and which she had been apparently unwilling that Rebecca her bosom friend confidant and roommate should render into English an old-fashioned female seminary with its allotment of one medium-sized room to two medium-sized young females gave small opportunities for privacy by night or day for neither the double wash stand nor the thus far unimagined bathroom nor even indeed the humble and serviceable screen had been realized in these dark ages of which I write accordingly, like the irrational ostrich which defends itself by the simple process of not looking at its pursuers Emma Jane had kept her Latin letter in her closed hand in her pocket or in her open book flattering herself that no one had noticed these bewilderment and its only half-imagined contents all the fairies were not present at Rebecca's cradle a goodly number of them telegraphed that they were previously engaged or unavoidably absent from town the village of Temperance, Maine where Rebecca first saw the light was hardly a place on its own merits to attract large throngs of fairies her old personage who keeps her pocket full of merry leaves from the laughing tree took a fancy to come to the little birthday party and seeing so few of her sister fairies present she dowered the sleeping baby more richly than was her want because of its apparent lack of wealth in other directions so the child grew and the merry leaves from the laughing tree wrestled where they hung from the hood of her cradle and being fairy leaves when the cradle was given up they festooned themselves on the cribside and later on blew themselves up to the ceilings at Sunnybrook Farm and dangled there making fun for everybody they never withered even at the brick house and river borough where the air was particularly inimical to fairies for Miss Miranda Sawyer would have scared any ordinary elf out of her seventeen senses they followed Rebecca to wear them and during a byge of flags Latin correspondents with Emma Jane they fluttered about that young person's head in such a manner that Rebecca was almost afraid that she would discover them herself although this is something as a matter of fact that never does happen a week had gone by since the Latin missive had been taking from the post office by Emma Jane and now by means of much midnight oil burning by much cautious questioning of Miss Maxwell by such scrutiny of the moods and tenses of Latin verbs as well nigh destroyed her brain tissue she had mastered its romantic message if it was conventional in style Emma Jane never suspected it if some of the similes seemed to have been culled from the Latin poets and some of the phrases built up from Latin exercises Emma Jane was neither scholar nor critic the similes, the phrases, the sentiments when finally translated and written down in black and white English made in her opinion the most convincing and heart-melting document ever sent through the mails Mia cara Emma Cur adeo scribere Adtea espistulum Es mia dia Semper esse mia anima Semper esse mia anima Aeterem ad aeterem Es cummi in somnis Saepo video Tuas capios ari Tuas poultros Oculos similes Caello tuas genas Quasai rubentes Rosas en nive Tuas vox est Dulcio quam Cantas Aeterem ad aeterem Quam cantas Avam ad murmur Revule in montebas Cur sum ego tam miser Ad popper Ad indignis Ad tu tam dulcius Ad bona ad nobles Si cognitabes De me ero betes Tuas sola Puella quam amo Et semper eres Alias poes non aman Fyr Fote unum amobes Me sed zum indignis Sim, tes sum miser Cum tu es prope Mia vita omni est godam Val carissima carissa Puella Du te fedile servo E f My dear Emma Why dare I write to you a letter? You are to me a goddess Always you are in my heart Again and again you are with me in dreams Often I see your locks of gold Your beautiful eyes like the sky Your cheeks as red roses in snow Your voice is sweeter than the singing of birds Or the murmur of the stream in the mountains Why am I so wretched and poor and unworthy And you so sweet and good and noble If you will think of me I shall be happy You are the only girl that I love And always will be Other girls I have not loved Perhaps sometime you will love me But I am unworthy Without you I am wretched When you are near my life is all joy Farewell, dearest, dearest girl From your faithful slave, A.F. Emma Jane knew the letter by heart in English She even knew it in Latin Only a few days before a dead language to her But now one filled with life and meaning From beginning to end the epistle and the effect upon her As of an intoxicating elixir Often at morning prayers Or while eating her rice pudding at the noon dinner Or when sinking off to sleep at night She heard a voice murmuring in her ear Vale, Charisma, Charisma, Puella As the effect on her modest, contrived little heart Of the phrases in which Abijah stated She was a goddess and he her faithful slave That quite baffles description For it lifted her bodily out of the scenes In which she moved into a new, rosy, ethereal atmosphere In which even Rebekah had no place Rebekah did not know this, fortunately She only suspected And waited for the day when Emma Jane Would pour out her confidences, as she always did And always would until the end of time At the present moment she was busily employed In thinking about her own affairs A shabby composition book with modeled board covers Lay open on the table Before her And sometimes she wrote in it With feverish haste and absorption And sometimes she rested her chin In the cup of her palm And with the pencil poised in the other hand Looked dreamily out on the village Its huddle of roofs and steeples All blurred into positive beauty By the fast-falling snowflakes It was the middle of December And the friendly sky was softly dropping A great white mantle of peace and goodwill Over the little town Making already with in and without For the feast of the babe The main street, that in summer was made dignified By its splendid avenue of shade trees Now ran quiet and white between rows of stalwart trunks Whose leafless branches were all hanging heavy Upon their dazzling burden The path leading straight up the hill to the academy Was broken only by the feet of the hurrying Breathless boys and girls who ran up and down Carrying piles of books under their arms Books which they remembered so long As they were within the four walls of the recitation room And which they eagerly forgot As soon as they met one another In the living, laughing world Going up and down the hill It's very becoming to the universe snowy Snow is, thought Rebecca, looking out of the window dreamily Really, there's little to choose between the world and heaven When a snowstorm is going on I feel as if I ought to look at it every minute I wish I could get over being greedy But it still seems to me at sixteen As if there weren't waking hours enough in the day And as if somehow I were pressed for time And continually losing something How well I remember Mother's story about me when I was four It was at early breakfast on the farm But I called all meals dinner then And when I had finished I folded up my bib inside Oh dear, only two more dinners Play a while and go to bed This was at six in the morning Lamp light in the kitchen, snow light outside Powdery, powdery, powdery Snow, making things lovely wherever you go Merciful, merciful, merciful snow Masking the ugliness hidden below Herbert made me promise to do a poem For the January pilot But I mustn't take the snow as a subject There has been too great competition Among the older poets And with that she turned in her chair And began writing again in the shabby book Which was already written In the shabby book Which was already three quarters filled With childish scribblings Sometimes in pencil And sometimes in violet ink With carefully shaded capital letters Squire Bean has had a sharp attack of rheumatism And a bija flag came back from Limerick For a few days to nurse him One morning the Burnham sisters From North Riverboro came over To spend the day with Aunt Miranda And the bija went down to put up their horse Commodatin bija was his pet name When we were all young He scaled the ladder to the barn chamber The dear old ladder that used to be my safety valve And pitched down the last fork full of grandfather's hay That will ever be eaten by any visiting horse They will be delighted to hear that it is all gone They have grumbled at it for years and years Not should a bija find at the bottom of the heap But my thought-book Hidden there two or three years ago and forgotten When I think of what it was to me The place it filled in my life The affection I lavished on it I wonder that I could forget it Even in all the excitement of coming to Warram school And that gives me an uncommon thought As I used to say That after we finished building an air castle We seldom live in it after all We sometimes even forget that we ever longed to Perhaps we have gone so far as to begin another castle On a higher hilltop And this is so beautiful Especially while we are building And before we live in it Like the outgrown shell of the Nautilus Passs off on the shore and never looks at again At least I suppose he doesn't But perhaps he takes one backward glance Half smiling, half serious Just as I am doing it my old thought-book And says, was that my shell? Goodness gracious, how did I ever squeeze myself into it? That bit about the Nautilus sounds like an extract From a school theme or a pilot editorial Or a fragment of one of dear Miss Maxwell's lectures But I think girls of sixteen are principally Imitations of the people and things they love and admire And between editing the pilot Writing out Virgil translations Searching for composition subjects And studying rhetorical models There is very little of the original Rebecca Rowena About me at the present moment I am just a member of the graduating class In regular standing We do our hair alike Dress alike as much as possible Eat and drink alike Talk alike I'm not even sure that we do not think alike And what will become of the poor world When we are all let loose upon it On the same day of June Will life, real life Bring our true selves back to us Will love and duty And sorrow and trouble and work Finally wear off the school stamp That has been pressed upon all of us Until we look like rows of shining copper scents Fresh from the mint Yet there must be a little difference Between us somewhere Or why does Abidja Flag Write Latin letters to Emma Jane Instead of to me There is one example on the other side Of the argument, Abidja Flag He stands out from all the rest Of the boys like the Rock of Gibraltar In the geography pictures Is it because he never went to school Until he was sixteen? He almost died of longing to go And the longing seemed to teach him More than going He knew his letters and could read simple things But it was I who taught him What books really meant When I was eleven and he thirteen We studied while he was husking corn Or cutting potatoes for seed Or shelling beans in the squire's barn His beloved Emma Jane didn't teach him Her father would not have let her Be friends with a chore boy It was I who found him after milking time Summer nights, suffering, yes, dying Of least common multiple And greatest common divisor I who struck the shackles from the slave And told him to skip it all And go on to something easier Like fractions, percentage, and compound interest As I did myself Oh, how he used to smell of the cows When I was correcting his sums On warm evenings But I don't regret it For he is now the joy of limerick And the pride of river-borrow And I suppose has forgotten the proper side On which to approach a cow If he wished to milk her This now unserviceable knowledge Is neatly enclosed in the outgrown shell He threw off two or three years ago His gratitude to me knows no bounds But he writes Latin letters to Emma Jane But as Mr. Perkins said About drowning the kittens I now quote from myself at thirteen It is the way of the world And how things have to be Well, I have read the thought-book all through And when I want to make Mr. Aladdin laugh I shall show him my composition On the relative values of punishment and reward As builders of character I am not at all the same Rebecca today at sixteen That I was then at twelve and thirteen I hope in getting rid of my failings That I haven't scrubbed and rubbed so hard That I have taken the gloss of the poor little virtues That lay just alongside of their faults For as I read the foolish dog-girl And the funny-funny reminiscences I see on the whole a nice, well-meaning, trusting Loving, heedless little creature That after all I'd rather build on Than outgrow altogether Because she is me The me that was made and born Just a little different from all the rest Of the babies in my birthday year One thing is alike in the child and the girl They both love to set thoughts down Black and white to see how they look How they sound and how they make one feel When one reads them over They both love the sound of beautiful sentences And the tinkle of rhyming words And in fact, of the three great hours of life They adore reading and writing As much as they abhor arithmetic The little girl in the old book Is always thinking of what she is going to be Uncle Jerry Cobb spoiled me a good deal in this direction I remember he said to everybody When I wrote my verses for the flag-raising Nary a rung on the ladder of fame But that child will climb it if you give her time Poor Uncle Jerry, he will be so disappointed in me As time goes on And still he would think I have already climbed Two rungs on the ladder Although it is only a little wear'em ladder For I am one of the pilot editors The first girl editor And I have taken a fifty dollar prize in composition And paid off the interest On a twelve hundred dollar mortgage with it High is the rank we now possess But higher we shall rise Though what we shall hereafter be Is hid from mortal eyes This hymn was sung in meeting The Sunday after my election And Mr. Aladdin was there that day And looked across the aisle and smiled at me Then he sent me a sheet of paper from Boston the next morning With just one verse in the middle of it She made the cleverest people quite ashamed And even the good with inward envy grown Finding themselves so very much exceeded In their own way by all the things that she did Miss Maxwell says it is Byron And I wish I had thought of the last rhyme Before Byron did My rhymes are always so common I am too busy doing nowadays To give very much thought to being Mr. Aladdin was teasing me one day About what he calls my cast-off careers What makes you aim at any mark In particular, Rebecca, he asked Looking at Miss Maxwell and laughing Women never hit what they aim at anyway But if they shut their eyes and shoot in the air They generally find themselves in the bullseye I think one reason that I have always dreamed Of what I should be when I grow up Was that even before father died Mother worried about the mortgage on the farm And what would become of us if it was foreclosed It was hard on children to be brought up On a mortgage that way But, oh, it was harder still on poor dear mother Who had seven of us then to think of And still has three at home to feed and clothe Out of the farm Aunt Jane says I am young for my age Aunt Miranda is afraid that I will never really grow up Mr. Aladdin says that I don't know the world any better Than the pearl inside of the oyster They none of them know the old, old thoughts I have Some of them going back years and years For they are never ones that I can speak about I remember how we children used to admire father He was so handsome and graceful and amusing Never crossed like mother Or too busy to play with us He never did any work at home Because he had to keep his hands nice For playing the church melodian Or the violin or piano for dances Mother used to say Hannah and Rebecca you must hold the strawberries Your father cannot help John, you must milk next year For I have not the time And it would spoil your father's hands All the other men in Temperance Village Were calico or flannel shirts except on Sundays But father never wore any but white ones With starched bosoms He was very particular about them And mother used to stitch and stitch On the pleats and press and press The bosoms and collars and cuffs Sometimes late at night Then she was tired and thin and grey With no time to sew on new dresses for herself And no time to wear them Because she was always taking care of the babies And father was happy and well and handsome But we children never thought much about it Until once, after father had mortgaged the farm There was going to be a sociable In Temperance Village Mother could not go As Jenny had a hooping cough And Mark had just broken his arm And when she was tying father's necktie The last thing before he started, he said I wish, Aurelia, that you cared a little more About your appearance and your dress It goes a long way with a man like me Mother had finished the tie And her hands dropped suddenly I looked at her eyes and mouth While she looked at father And in a minute I was ever so old With a grown-up ache in my heart It has always stayed there Although I admired my handsome father And was proud of him because he was so talented But now that I am older And have thought about things My love for mother is different from what it used to be Father was always the favourite when we were little He was so interesting And I wonder sometimes if we don't remember Interesting people longer and better Than we do those who are just good and patient If so, it seems very cruel As I look back I see that Miss Ross, the artist Who brought me, my pink parasol from Paris Sewed the first seeds in me of ambition To do something special Her life seemed so beautiful and so easy to a child I had not been to school then Or read George MacDonald So I did not know that ease Is the lovely result of forgotten toil Miss Ross sat out of doors and painted lovely things And everybody said how wonderful they were And bought them straight away And she took care of a blind father and two brothers And travelled wherever she wished It comes back to me now It comes back to me now That summer when I was ten And Miss Ross painted me sitting by the mill wheel While she talked to me of foreign countries The other day Miss Maxwell read something From Browning's poems to the girls of her literature class It was about David, the shepherd boy Who used to lie in his hollow watching one eagle Wheeling slow as in sleep He used to wonder about the wide world That that eagle beheld The eagle that was stretching his wings So far up in the blue While he, the poor shepherd boy Could only see the strip Twix the hill and the sky He lay in a hollow I told Mr. Baxter about it the next day Which was the Saturday before I joined the church I asked him if it was wicked To long to see as much as the eagle saw There was never anybody quite like Mr. Baxter Rebecca dear, he said It may be that you need not always lie in a hollow As the shepherd boy did But wherever you lie The strip you see Twix the hill and the sky Is able to hold all of earth And all of heaven If only you have the right sort of vision I was a long, long time About experiencing religion I remember Sunday afternoons At the brick house the first winter After I went there When I used to sit in the middle Of the dining room as I was bid Silent and still with the big family Bible on my knees Baxter's saints rest But her seat was by the window And she at least could give a glance Into the street now and then Without being positively wicked Aunt Jane used to read the pilgrim's progress The fire burned low The tall clock ticked Ticked so slowly and steadily That the pictures swam before my eyes And I almost fell asleep They thought by shutting everything else out I should see God But I didn't, not once I was so homesick for Sunnybrook and John That I could hardly learn my weekly hymns Especially the sad, long one beginning My thoughts on awful subjects roll Damnation and the dead It was Brother John for whom I was chiefly homesick on Sunday afternoons Because at Sunnybrook Farm Father was dead And mother was always busy Hannah never liked to talk Then the next year the missionaries from Syria Came to Riverboro And at the meeting Mr. Birch Saw me playing the Melodian And thought I was grown up in a church member And so he asked me to lead in prayer I didn't dare to refuse And when I prayed Which was just like thinking out loud I found I could talk to God A great deal easier than Aunt Miranda Or even to Uncle Jerry Cobb There were things I could say to him That I could never say to anybody else And saying them always made me happy And contented When Mr. Baxter asked me last year About joining the church I told him I was afraid I did not Understand God quite well enough To be a real member So you don't quite understand God Rebecca he asked smiling Well there is something else Much more important Which is that he understands you He understands you He understands your feeble love Your longings, desires, hopes Faults, ambitions, crosses And that after all Is what counts Of course you don't understand him You were overshadowed by his love His power His benignity His wisdom That is as it should be Why Rebecca dear If you could stand erect And unabashed in God's presence As one who perfectly Comprehended his nature or his purposes It would be sacrilege Don't be puzzled Out of your blessed inheritance Of faith my child Accept God easily and naturally Just as he accepts you God never puzzled me Mr. Baxter It isn't like that I said But the doctrines do worry me Dreadfully Let them alone for the present Mr. Baxter said Anyway Rebecca You can never prove God You can only find him Then do you think I have Really experienced religion Mr. Baxter I asked Am I the beginnings of a Christian You are a dear child Of the understanding God Mr. Baxter Said And I say it over to myself night and morning So that I can never forget it The year is nearly over And the next few months will be lived A long whirlwind of work That comes before graduation The bell for philosophy class Will ring in ten minutes And as I have been riding for nearly two hours I must learn my lessons going up The Academy Hill It will not be the first time It is a grand hill for learning I suppose After fifty years or so The very ground has become soaked With knowledge and every particle Of air in the vicinity is crammed With information I will put my book into my trunk Having no blessed Hamo Hear abouts And take it out again When shall I take it out again After graduation perhaps I shall be too grown up and too busy To write in a thought book But oh, if only something Would happen worth putting down Something strange, something unusual Something different From the things that happen every day I will never borrow an edgewood Graduation will surely take me a little out of the hollow Make me a little more like the soaring eagle Gazing at the whole wide world beneath him While he wheels slow as in sleep But whether or not I'll try not to be a discontented shepherd But remember what Mr. Baxter said That the little strip that I see Twicks the hill in the sky Is able to hold all of earth and all of heaven If only I have the eyes to see it Rebecca Rowena Randall Warrum Female Seminary December 1870 something End of chapter 10