New Chronicles of Rebecca

  Produced by Theresa Armao

  NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA

  By Kate Douglas Wiggin

  CONTENTS

  First Chronicle Jack O'Lantern

  Second Chronicle Daughters of Zion

  Third Chronicle Rebecca's Thought Book

  Fourth Chronicle A Tragedy in Millinery

  Fifth Chronicle The Saving of the Colors

  Sixth Chronicle The State of Maine Girl

  Seventh Chronicle The Little Prophet

  Eighth Chronicle Abner Simpson's New Leaf

  Ninth Chronicle The Green Isle

  Tenth Chronicle Rebecca's Reminiscences

  Eleventh Chronicle Abijah the Brave and the Fair Emma Jane

  First Chronicle. JACK O'LANTERN

  I

  Miss Miranda Sawyer's old-fashioned garden was the pleasantest spot inRiverboro on a sunny July morning. The rich color of the brick housegleamed and glowed through the shade of the elms and maples. Luxurianthop-vines clambered up the lightning rods and water spouts, hangingtheir delicate clusters here and there in graceful profusion. Woodbinetransformed the old shed and tool house to things of beauty, and theflower beds themselves were the prettiest and most fragrant in allthe countryside. A row of dahlias ran directly around the gardenspot,--dahlias scarlet, gold, and variegated. In the very centre was around plot where the upturned faces of a thousand pansies smiled amidtheir leaves, and in the four corners were triangular blocks of sweetphlox over which the butterflies fluttered unceasingly. In the spacesbetween ran a riot of portulaca and nasturtiums, while in the moreregular, shell-bordered beds grew spirea and gillyflowers, mignonette,marigolds, and clove pinks.

  Back of the barn and encroaching on the edge of the hay field was agrove of sweet clover whose white feathery tips fairly bent under theassaults of the bees, while banks of aromatic mint and thyme drankin the sunshine and sent it out again into the summer air, warm, anddeliciously odorous.

  The hollyhocks were Miss Sawyer's pride, and they grew in a stately linebeneath the four kitchen windows, their tapering tips set thickly withgay satin circlets of pink or lavender or crimson.

  "They grow something like steeples," thought little Rebecca Randall, whowas weeding the bed, "and the flat, round flowers are like rosettes; butsteeples wouldn't be studded with rosettes, so if you were writing aboutthem in a composition you'd have to give up one or the other, and Ithink I'll give up the steeples:--

  Gay little hollyhock Lifting your head, Sweetly rosetted Out from your bed.

  It's a pity the hollyhock isn't really little, instead of steepling upto the window top, but I can't say, 'Gay TALL hollyhock.'... I mighthave it 'Lines to a Hollyhock in May,' for then it would be small; butoh, no! I forgot; in May it wouldn't be blooming, and it's so prettyto say that its head is 'sweetly rosetted'... I wish the teacher wasn'taway; she would like 'sweetly rosetted,' and she would like to hear merecite 'Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!' that I learnedout of Aunt Jane's Byron; the rolls come booming out of it just like thewaves at the beach.... I could make nice compositions now, everythingis blooming so, and it's so warm and sunny and happy outdoors. MissDearborn told me to write something in my thought book every single day,and I'll begin this very night when I go to bed."

  Rebecca Rowena Randall, the little niece of the brick-house ladies, andat present sojourning there for purposes of board, lodging, education,and incidentally such discipline and chastening as might ultimatelyproduce moral excellence,--Rebecca Randall had a passion for the rhymeand rhythm of poetry. From her earliest childhood words had always beento her what dolls and toys are to other children, and now at twelve sheamused herself with phrases and sentences and images as her schoolmatesplayed with the pieces of their dissected puzzles. If the heroine ofa story took a "cursory glance" about her "apartment," Rebecca wouldshortly ask her Aunt Jane to take a "cursory glance" at her oversewingor hemming; if the villain "aided and abetted" someone in committinga crime, she would before long request the pleasure of "aiding andabetting" in dishwashing or bedmaking. Sometimes she used the borrowedphrases unconsciously; sometimes she brought them into the conversationwith an intense sense of pleasure in their harmony or appropriateness;for a beautiful word or sentence had the same effect upon herimagination as a fragrant nosegay, a strain of music, or a brilliantsunset.

  "How are you gettin' on, Rebecca Rowena?" called a peremptory voice fromwithin.

  "Pretty good, Aunt Miranda; only I wish flowers would ever come up asthick as this pigweed and plantain and sorrel. What MAKES weeds be thickand flowers be thin?--I just happened to be stopping to think a minutewhen you looked out."

  "You think considerable more than you weed, I guess, by appearances. Howmany times have you peeked into that humming bird's nest? Why don't youwork all to once and play all to once, like other folks?"

  "I don't know," the child answered, confounded by the question, andstill more by the apparent logic back of it. "I don't know, AuntMiranda, but when I'm working outdoors such a Saturday morning as this,the whole creation just screams to me to stop it and come and play."

  "Well, you needn't go if it does!" responded her aunt sharply. "It don'tscream to me when I'm rollin' out these doughnuts, and it wouldn't toyou if your mind was on your duty."

  Rebecca's little brown hands flew in and out among the weeds as shethought rebelliously: "Creation WOULDN'T scream to Aunt Miranda; itwould know she wouldn't come."

  Scream on, thou bright and gay creation, scream! 'Tis not Miranda that will hear thy cry!

  Oh, such funny, nice things come into my head out here by myself, I dowish I could run up and put them down in my thought book before I forgetthem, but Aunt Miranda wouldn't like me to leave off weeding:--

  Rebecca was weeding the hollyhock bed When wonderful thoughts came into her head. Her aunt was occupied with the rolling pin And the thoughts of her mind were common and thin.

  That wouldn't do because it's mean to Aunt Miranda, and anyway it isn'tgood. I MUST crawl under the syringa shade a minute, it's so hot, andanybody has to stop working once in a while, just to get their breath,even if they weren't making poetry.

  Rebecca was weeding the hollyhock bed When marvelous thoughts came intoher head. Miranda was wielding the rolling pin And thoughts at suchtimes seemed to her as a sin.

  How pretty the hollyhock rosettes look from down here on the sweet,smelly ground!

  "Let me see what would go with rosetting. AIDING AND ABETTING, PETTING,HEN-SETTING, FRETTING,--there's nothing very nice, but I can makefretting' do.

  Cheered by Rowena's petting, The flowers are rosetting, But Aunt Miranda's fretting Doth somewhat cloud the day."

  Suddenly the sound of wagon wheels broke the silence and then a voicecalled out--a voice that could not wait until the feet that belonged toit reached the spot: "Miss Saw-YER! Father's got to drive over to NorthRiverboro on an errand, and please can Rebecca go, too, as it's Saturdaymorning and vacation besides?"

  Rebecca sprang out from under the syringa bush, eyes flashing withdelight as only Rebecca's eyes COULD flash, her face one luminous circleof joyous anticipation. She clapped her grubby hands, and dancing upand down, cried: "May I, Aunt Miranda--can I, Aunt Jane--can I, AuntMiranda-Jane? I'm more than half through the bed."

  "If you finish your weeding tonight before sundown I s'pose you can go,so long as Mr. Perkins has been good enough to ask you," responded MissSawyer reluctantly. "Take off that gingham apron and wash your handsclean at the pump. You ain't be'n out o' bed but two hours an' your headlooks as rough as if you'd slep' in it. That comes from layin' on thegr
ound same as a caterpillar. Smooth your hair down with your hands an'p'r'aps Emma Jane can braid it as you go along the road. Run up and getyour second-best hair ribbon out o' your upper drawer and put onyour shade hat. No, you can't wear your coral chain--jewelry ain'tappropriate in the morning. How long do you cal'late to be gone, EmmaJane?"

  "I don't know. Father's just been sent for to see about a sick womanover to North Riverboro. She's got to go to the poor farm."

  This fragment of news speedily brought Miss Sawyer, and her sister Janeas well, to the door, which commanded a view of Mr. Perkins and hiswagon. Mr. Perkins, the father of Rebecca's bosom friend, was primarilya blacksmith, and secondarily a selectman and an overseer of the poor, aman therefore possessed of wide and varied information.

  "Who is it that's sick?" inquired Miranda.

  "A woman over to North Riverboro."

  "What's the trouble?"

  "Can't say."

  "Stranger?'

  "Yes, and no; she's that wild daughter of old Nate Perry that used tolive up towards Moderation. You remember she ran away to work in thefactory at Milltown and married a do--nothin' fellow by the name o' JohnWinslow?"

  "Yes; well, where is he? Why don't he take care of her?"

  "They ain't worked well in double harness. They've been rovin' round thecountry, livin' a month here and a month there wherever they could getwork and house-room. They quarreled a couple o' weeks ago and he lefther. She and the little boy kind o' camped out in an old loggin' cabinback in the woods and she took in washin' for a spell; then she gotterrible sick and ain't expected to live."

  "Who's been nursing her?" inquired Miss Jane.

  "Lizy Ann Dennett, that lives nearest neighbor to the cabin; but Iguess she's tired out bein' good Samaritan. Anyways, she sent word thismornin' that nobody can't seem to find John Winslow; that there ain'tno relations, and the town's got to be responsible, so I'm goin' over tosee how the land lays. Climb in, Rebecca. You an' Emmy Jane crowd backon the cushion an' I'll set forrard. That's the trick! Now we're off!"

  "Dear, dear!" sighed Jane Sawyer as the sisters walked back into thebrick house. "I remember once seeing Sally Perry at meeting. She was ahandsome girl, and I'm sorry she's come to grief."

  "If she'd kep' on goin' to meetin' an' hadn't looked at the men folksshe might a' be'n earnin' an honest livin' this minute," said Miranda."Men folks are at the bottom of everything wrong in this world," shecontinued, unconsciously reversing the verdict of history.

  "Then we ought to be a happy and contented community here in Riverboro,"replied Jane, "as there's six women to one man."

  "If 't was sixteen to one we'd be all the safer," responded Mirandagrimly, putting the doughnuts in a brown crock in the cellar-way andslamming the door.

  II

  The Perkins horse and wagon rumbled along over the dusty country road,and after a discreet silence, maintained as long as human flesh couldendure, Rebecca remarked sedately:

  "It's a sad errand for such a shiny morning, isn't it, Mr. Perkins?"

  "Plenty o' trouble in the world, Rebecky, shiny mornin's an' all," thatgood man replied. "If you want a bed to lay on, a roof over your head,an' food to eat, you've got to work for em. If I hadn't a' labored earlyan' late, learned my trade, an' denied myself when I was young, I mighta' be'n a pauper layin' sick in a loggin' cabin, stead o' bein' anoverseer o' the poor an' selectman drivin' along to take the pauper tothe poor farm."

  "People that are mortgaged don't have to go to the poor farm, do they,Mr. Perkins?" asked Rebecca, with a shiver of fear as she remembered herhome farm at Sunnybrook and the debt upon it; a debt which had lain likea shadow over her childhood.

  "Bless your soul, no; not unless they fail to pay up; but Sal Perry an'her husband hadn't got fur enough along in life to BE mortgaged. Youhave to own something before you can mortgage it."

  Rebecca's heart bounded as she learned that a mortgage represented acertain stage in worldly prosperity.

  "Well," she said, sniffing in the fragrance of the new-mown hay andgrowing hopeful as she did so; "maybe the sick woman will be better sucha beautiful day, and maybe the husband will come back to make it up andsay he's sorry, and sweet content will reign in the humble habitationthat was once the scene of poverty, grief, and despair. That's how itcame out in a story I'm reading."

  "I hain't noticed that life comes out like stories very much," respondedthe pessimistic blacksmith, who, as Rebecca privately thought, had readless than half a dozen books in his long and prosperous career.

  A drive of three or four miles brought the party to a patch of woodlandwhere many of the tall pines had been hewn the previous winter. The roofof a ramshackle hut was outlined against a background of young birches,and a rough path made in hauling the logs to the main road led directlyto its door.

  As they drew near the figure of a woman approached--Mrs. Lizy AnnDennett, in a gingham dress, with a calico apron over her head.

  "Good morning, Mr. Perkins," said the woman, who looked tired andirritable. "I'm real glad you come right over, for she took worse afterI sent you word, and she's dead."

  Dead! The word struck heavily and mysteriously on the children's ears.Dead! And their young lives, just begun, stretched on and on, alldecked, like hope, in living green. Dead! And all the rest of the worldreveling in strength. Dead! With all the daisies and buttercups wavingin the fields and the men heaping the mown grass into fragrant cocksor tossing it into heavily laden carts. Dead! With the brooks tinklingafter the summer showers, with the potatoes and corn blossoming, thebirds singing for joy, and every little insect humming and chirping,adding its note to the blithe chorus of warm, throbbing life.

  "I was all alone with her. She passed away suddenly jest about break o'day," said Lizy Ann Dennett.

  "Her soul passed upward to its God Just at the break of day."

  These words came suddenly into Rebecca's mind from a tiny chamber wheresuch things were wont to lie quietly until something brought them to thesurface. She could not remember whether she had heard them at a funeralor read them in the hymn book or made them up "out of her own head," butshe was so thrilled with the idea of dying just as the dawn was breakingthat she scarcely heard Mrs. Dennett's conversation.

  "I sent for Aunt Beulah Day, an' she's be'n here an' laid her out,"continued the long suffering Lizy Ann. "She ain't got any folks, an'John Winslow ain't never had any as far back as I can remember. Shebelongs to your town and you'll have to bury her and take care ofJacky--that's the boy. He's seventeen months old, a bright littlefeller, the image o' John, but I can't keep him another day. I'm allwore out; my own baby's sick, mother's rheumatiz is extry bad, and myhusband's comin' home tonight from his week's work. If he finds a childo' John Winslow's under his roof I can't say what would happen; you'llhave to take him back with you to the poor farm."

  "I can't take him up there this afternoon," objected Mr. Perkins.

  "Well, then, keep him over Sunday yourself; he's good as a kitten. JohnWinslow'll hear o' Sal's death sooner or later, unless he's gone out ofthe state altogether, an' when he knows the boy's at the poor farm, Ikind o' think he'll come and claim him. Could you drive me over to thevillage to see about the coffin, and would you children be afraid tostay here alone for a spell?" she asked, turning to the girls.

  "Afraid?" they both echoed uncomprehendingly.

  Lizy Ann and Mr. Perkins, perceiving that the fear of a dead presencehad not entered the minds of Rebecca or Emma Jane, said nothing, butdrove off together, counseling them not to stray far away from the cabinand promising to be back in an hour.

  There was not a house within sight, either looking up or down the shadyroad, and the two girls stood hand in hand, watching the wagon out ofsight; then they sat down quietly under a tree, feeling all at once anameless depression hanging over their gay summer-morning spirits.

  It was very still in the woods; just the chirp of a grasshopper nowand then, or the note of a bird, or the click of a far-distant mowingmachine.

 
"We're WATCHING!" whispered Emma Jane. "They watched with Gran'paPerkins, and there was a great funeral and two ministers. He left twothousand dollars in the bank and a store full of goods, and a paperthing you could cut tickets off of twice a year, and they were just likemoney."

  "They watched with my little sister Mira, too," said Rebecca. "Youremember when she died, and I went home to Sunnybrook Farm? It waswinter time, but she was covered with evergreen and white pinks, andthere was singing."

  "There won't be any funeral or ministers or singing here, will there?Isn't that awful?"

  "I s'pose not; and oh, Emma Jane, no flowers either. We might get thosefor her if there's nobody else to do it."

  "Would you dare put them on to her?" asked Emma Jane, in a hushed voice.

  "I don't know; I can't tell; it makes me shiver, but, of course, weCOULD do it if we were the only friends she had. Let's look intothe cabin first and be perfectly sure that there aren't any. Are youafraid?"

  "N-no; I guess not. I looked at Gran'pa Perkins, and he was just thesame as ever."

  At the door of the hut Emma Jane's courage suddenly departed. Sheheld back shuddering and refused either to enter or look in. Rebeccashuddered too, but kept on, drawn by an insatiable curiosity about lifeand death, an overmastering desire to know and feel and understand themysteries of existence, a hunger for knowledge and experience at allhazards and at any cost.

  Emma Jane hurried softly away from the felt terrors of the cabin, andafter two or three minutes of utter silence Rebecca issued from theopen door, her sensitive face pale and woe-begone, the ever-ready tearsraining down her cheeks. She ran toward the edge of the wood, sinkingdown by Emma Jane's side, and covering her eyes, sobbed with excitement:

  "Oh, Emma Jane, she hasn't got a flower, and she's so tired andsad-looking, as if she'd been hurt and hurt and never had any goodtimes, and there's a weeny, weeny baby side of her. Oh, I wish I hadn'tgone in!"

  Emma Jane blenched for an instant. "Mrs. Dennett never said THERE WASTWO DEAD ONES! ISN'T THAT DREADFUL? But," she continued, her practicalcommon sense coming to the rescue, "you've been in once and it's allover; it won't be so bad when you take in the flowers because you'llbe used to it. The goldenrod hasn't begun to bud, so there's nothingto pick but daisies. Shall I make a long rope of them, as I did for theschoolroom?"

  "Yes," said Rebecca, wiping her eyes and still sobbing. "Yes, that's theprettiest, and if we put it all round her like a frame, the undertakercouldn't be so cruel as to throw it away, even if she is a pauper,because it will look so beautiful. From what the Sunday school lessonssay, she's only asleep now, and when she wakes up she'll be in heaven."

  "THERE'S ANOTHER PLACE," said Emma Jane, in an orthodox and sepulchralwhisper, as she took her ever-present ball of crochet cotton from herpocket and began to twine the whiteweed blossoms into a rope.

  "Oh, well!" Rebecca replied with the easy theology that belonged to hertemperament. "They simply couldn't send her DOWN THERE with that littleweeny baby. Who'd take care of it? You know page six of the catechismsays the only companions of the wicked after death are their father thedevil and all the other evil angels; it wouldn't be any place to bringup a baby."

  "Whenever and wherever she wakes up, I hope she won't know that the bigbaby is going to the poor farm. I wonder where he is?"

  "Perhaps over to Mrs. Dennett's house. She didn't seem sorry a bit, didshe?"

  "No, but I suppose she's tired sitting up and nursing a stranger. Motherwasn't sorry when Gran'pa Perkins died; she couldn't be, for he wascross all the time and had to be fed like a child. Why ARE you cryingagain, Rebecca?"

  "Oh, I don't know, I can't tell, Emma Jane! Only I don't want to die andhave no funeral or singing and nobody sorry for me! I just couldn't bearit!"

  "Neither could I," Emma Jane responded sympathetically; "but p'r'apsif we're real good and die young before we have to be fed, they willbe sorry. I do wish you could write some poetry for her as you did forAlice Robinson's canary bird, only still better, of course, like thatyou read me out of your thought book."

  "I could, easy enough," exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by theidea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an emergency."Though I don't know but it would be kind of bold to do it. I'm allpuzzled about how people get to heaven after they're buried. I can'tunderstand it a bit; but if the poetry is on her, what if that shouldgo, too? And how could I write anything good enough to be read out loudin heaven?"

  "A little piece of paper couldn't get to heaven; it just couldn't,"asserted Emma Jane decisively. "It would be all blown to pieces anddried up. And nobody knows that the angels can read writing, anyway."

  "They must be as educated as we are, and more so, too," agreed Rebecca."They must be more than just dead people, or else why should they havewings? But I'll go off and write something while you finish the rope;it's lucky you brought your crochet cotton and I my lead pencil."

  In fifteen or twenty minutes she returned with some lines written on ascrap of brown wrapping paper. Standing soberly by Emma Jane, she said,preparing to read them aloud: "They're not good; I was afraid yourfather'd come back before I finished, and the first verse sounds exactlylike the funeral hymns in the church book. I couldn't call her SallyWinslow; it didn't seem nice when I didn't know her and she is dead, soI thought if I said friend' it would show she had somebody to be sorry.

  "This friend of ours has died and gone From us to heaven to live. If she has sinned against Thee, Lord, We pray Thee, Lord, forgive.

  "Her husband runneth far away And knoweth not she's dead. Oh, bring him back--ere tis too late-- To mourn beside her bed.

  "And if perchance it can't be so, Be to the children kind; The weeny one that goes with her, The other left behind."

  "I think that's perfectly elegant!" exclaimed Emma Jane, kissing Rebeccafervently. "You are the smartest girl in the whole State of Maine, andit sounds like a minister's prayer. I wish we could save up and buy aprinting machine. Then I could learn to print what you write and we'dbe partners like father and Bill Moses. Shall you sign it with your namelike we do our school compositions?"

  "No," said Rebecca soberly. "I certainly shan't sign it, not knowingwhere it's going or who'll read it. I shall just hide it in the flowers,and whoever finds it will guess that there wasn't any minister orsinging, or gravestone, or anything, so somebody just did the best theycould."

  III

  The tired mother with the "weeny baby" on her arm lay on a longcarpenter's bench, her earthly journey over, and when Rebecca stolein and placed the flowery garland all along the edge of the rude bier,death suddenly took on a more gracious and benign aspect. It was onlya child's sympathy and intuition that softened the rigors of the sadmoment, but poor, wild Sal Winslow, in her frame of daisies, lookedas if she were missed a little by an unfriendly world; while the weenybaby, whose heart had fallen asleep almost as soon as it had learned tobeat, the weeny baby, with Emma Jane's nosegay of buttercups in its tinywrinkled hand, smiled as if it might have been loved and longed for andmourned.

  "We've done all we can now without a minister," whispered Rebecca. "Wecould sing, God is ever good' out of the Sunday school song book, butI'm afraid somebody would hear us and think we were gay and happy.What's that?"

  A strange sound broke the stillness; a gurgle, a yawn, a merry littlecall. The two girls ran in the direction from which it came, and there,on an old coat, in a clump of goldenrod bushes, lay a child just wakingfrom a refreshing nap.

  "It's the other baby that Lizy Ann Dennett told about!" cried Emma Jane.

  "Isn't he beautiful!" exclaimed Rebecca. "Come straight to me!" and shestretched out her arms.

  The child struggled to its feet, and tottered, wavering, toward the warmwelcome of the voice and eyes. Rebecca was all mother, and her maternalinstincts had been well developed in the large family in which she wasnext to the eldest. She had always confessed that there were perhaps atrifle too many babies at Sunnybr
ook Farm, but, nevertheless, had sheever heard it, she would have stood loyally by the Japanese proverb:"Whether brought forth upon the mountain or in the field, it mattersnothing; more than a treasure of one thousand ryo a baby precious is."

  "You darling thing!" she crooned, as she caught and lifted the child."You look just like a Jack-o'-lantern."

  The boy was clad in a yellow cotton dress, very full and stiff. His hairwas of such a bright gold, and so sleek and shiny, that he looked likea fair, smooth little pumpkin. He had wide blue eyes full of laughter,a neat little vertical nose, a neat little horizontal mouth with hisfew neat little teeth showing very plainly, and on the whole Rebecca'sfigure of speech was not so wide of the mark.

  "Oh, Emma Jane! Isn't he too lovely to go to the poor farm? If only wewere married we could keep him and say nothing and nobody would know thedifference! Now that the Simpsons have gone away there isn't a singlebaby in Riverboro, and only one in Edgewood. It's a perfect shame, butI can't do anything; you remember Aunt Miranda wouldn't let me have theSimpson baby when I wanted to borrow her just for one rainy Sunday."

  "My mother won't keep him, so it's no use to ask her; she says mostevery day she's glad we're grown up, and she thanks the Lord therewasn't but two of us."

  "And Mrs. Peter Meserve is too nervous," Rebecca went on, taking thevillage houses in turn; "and Mrs. Robinson is too neat."

  "People don't seem to like any but their own babies," observed EmmaJane.

  "Well, I can't understand it," Rebecca answered. "A baby's a baby, Ishould think, whose ever it is! Miss Dearborn is coming back Monday;I wonder if she'd like it? She has nothing to do out of school, and wecould borrow it all the time!"

  "I don't think it would seem very genteel for a young lady like MissDearborn, who 'boards round,' to take a baby from place to place,"objected Emma Jane.

  "Perhaps not," agreed Rebecca despondently, "but I think if we haven'tgot any--any--PRIVATE babies in Riverboro we ought to have one for thetown, and all have a share in it. We've got a town hall and a town lamppost and a town watering trough. Things are so uneven! One house likemine at Sunnybrook, brimful of children, and the very next one empty!The only way to fix them right would be to let all the babies that everare belong to all the grown-up people that ever are,--just dividethem up, you know, if they'd go round. Oh, I have a thought! Don'tyou believe Aunt Sarah Cobb would keep him? She carries flowers to thegraveyard every little while, and once she took me with her. There's amarble cross, and it says: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SARAH ELLEN, BELOVEDCHILD OF SARAH AND JEREMIAH COBB, AGED 17 MONTHS. Why, that's anotherreason; Mrs. Dennett says this one is seventeen months. There's five ofus left at the farm without me, but if we were only nearer to Riverboro,how quick mother would let in one more!"

  "We might see what father thinks, and that would settle it," said EmmaJane. "Father doesn't think very sudden, but he thinks awful strong. Ifwe don't bother him, and find a place ourselves for the baby, perhapshe'll be willing. He's coming now; I hear the wheels."

  Lizy Ann Dennett volunteered to stay and perform the last rites withthe undertaker, and Jack-o'-lantern, with his slender wardrobe tied ina bandanna handkerchief, was lifted into the wagon by the reluctant Mr.Perkins, and jubilantly held by Rebecca in her lap. Mr. Perkins droveoff as speedily as possible, being heartily sick of the whole affair,and thinking wisely that the little girls had already seen and heardmore than enough of the seamy side of life that morning.

  Discussion concerning Jack-o'-lantern's future was prudently deferredfor a quarter of an hour, and then Mr. Perkins was mercilessly peltedwith arguments against the choice of the poor farm as a place ofresidence for a baby.

  "His father is sure to come back some time, Mr. Perkins," urged Rebecca."He couldn't leave this beautiful thing forever; and if Emma Jane and Ican persuade Mrs. Cobb to keep him a little while, would you care?"

  No; on reflection Mr. Perkins did not care. He merely wanted a quietlife and enough time left over from the public service to attend to hisblacksmith's shop; so instead of going home over the same road by whichthey came he crossed the bridge into Edgewood and dropped the childrenat the long lane which led to the Cobb house.

  Mrs. Cobb, "Aunt Sarah" to the whole village, sat by the window lookingfor Uncle Jerry, who would soon be seen driving the noon stage to thepost office over the hill. She always had an eye out for Rebecca, too,for ever since the child had been a passenger on Mr. Cobb's stagecoach,making the eventful trip from her home farm to the brick house inRiverboro in his company, she had been a constant visitor and the joyof the quiet household. Emma Jane, too, was a well-known figure in thelane, but the strange baby was in the nature of a surprise--a surprisesomewhat modified by the fact that Rebecca was a dramatic personage andmore liable to appear in conjunction with curious outriders, comrades,and retainers than the ordinary Riverboro child. She had run away fromthe too stern discipline of the brick house on one occasion, and hadbeen persuaded to return by Uncle Jerry. She had escorted a wanderingorgan grinder to their door and begged a lodging for him on a rainynight; so on the whole there was nothing amazing about the comingprocession.

  The little party toiled up to the hospitable door, and Mrs. Cobb cameout to meet them.

  Rebecca was spokesman. Emma Jane's talent did not lie in eloquentspeech, but it would have been a valiant and a fluent child indeedwho could have usurped Rebecca's privileges and tendencies in thisdirection, language being her native element, and words of assortedsizes springing spontaneously to her lips.

  "Aunt Sarah, dear," she said, plumping Jack-o'-lantern down on the grassas she pulled his dress over his feet and smoothed his hair becomingly,"will you please not say a word till I get through--as it's veryimportant you should know everything before you answer yes or no?This is a baby named Jacky Winslow, and I think he looks like aJack-o'-lantern. His mother has just died over to North Riverboro, allalone, excepting for Mrs. Lizy Ann Dennett, and there was another littleweeny baby that died with her, and Emma Jane and I put flowersaround them and did the best we could. The father--that's JohnWinslow--quarreled with the mother--that was Sal Perry on the ModerationRoad--and ran away and left her. So he doesn't know his wife and theweeny baby are dead. And the town has got to bury them because theycan't find the father right off quick, and Jacky has got to go to thepoor farm this afternoon. And it seems an awful shame to take him up tothat lonesome place with those old people that can't amuse him, andif Emma Jane and Alice Robinson and I take most all the care of him wethought perhaps you and Uncle Jerry would keep him just for a littlewhile. You've got a cow and a turn-up bedstead, you know," she hurriedon insinuatingly, "and there's hardly any pleasure as cheap as morebabies where there's ever been any before, for baby carriages andtrundle beds and cradles don't wear out, and there's always clothesleft over from the old baby to begin the new one on. Of course, we cancollect enough things to start Jacky, so he won't be much trouble orexpense; and anyway, he's past the most troublesome age and you won'thave to be up nights with him, and he isn't afraid of anybody oranything, as you can see by his just sitting there laughing and suckinghis thumb, though he doesn't know what's going to become of him. Andhe's just seventeen months old like dear little Sarah Ellen in thegraveyard, and we thought we ought to give you the refusal of him beforehe goes to the poor farm, and what do you think about it? Because it'snear my dinner time and Aunt Miranda will keep me in the whole afternoonif I'm late, and I've got to finish weeding the hollyhock bed beforesundown."

  IV

  Mrs. Cobb had enjoyed a considerable period of reflection during thismonologue, and Jacky had not used the time unwisely, offering severalunconscious arguments and suggestions to the matter under discussion;lurching over on the greensward and righting himself with a chuckle,kicking his bare feet about in delight at the sunshine and groping forhis toes with arms too short to reach them, the movement involving anentire upsetting of equilibrium followed by more chuckles.

  Coming down the last of the stone steps, Sarah Ellen's mother regar
dedthe baby with interest and sympathy.

  "Poor little mite!" she said; "that doesn't know what he's lost andwhat's going to happen to him. Seems to me we might keep him a spelltill we're sure his father's deserted him for good. Want to come to AuntSarah, baby?"

  Jack-o'-lantern turned from Rebecca and Emma Jane and regarded the kindface gravely; then he held out both his hands and Mrs. Cobb, stooping,gathered him like a harvest. Being lifted into her arms, he at once toreher spectacles from her nose and laughed aloud. Taking them from himgently, she put them on again, and set him in the cushioned rockingchair under the lilac bushes beside the steps. Then she took one of hissoft hands in hers and patted it, and fluttered her fingers like birdsbefore his eyes, and snapped them like castanets, remembering all thearts she had lavished upon "Sarah Ellen, aged seventeen months," yearsand years ago.

  Motherless baby and babyless mother, Bring them together to love one another.

  Rebecca knew nothing of this couplet, but she saw clearly enough thather case was won.

  "The boy must be hungry; when was he fed last?" asked Mrs. Cobb. "Juststay a second longer while I get him some morning's milk; then yourun home to your dinners and I'll speak to Mr. Cobb this afternoon. Ofcourse, we can keep the baby for a week or two till we see what happens.Land! He ain't goin' to be any more trouble than a wax doll! I guess heain't been used to much attention, and that kind's always the easiest totake care of."

  At six o'clock that evening Rebecca and Emma Jane flew up the hill anddown the lane again, waving their hands to the dear old couple who werewaiting for them in the usual place, the back piazza where they had satso many summers in a blessed companionship never marred by an unlovingword.

  "Where's Jacky?" called Rebecca breathlessly, her voice alwaysoutrunning her feet.

  "Go up to my chamber, both of you, if you want to see," smiled Mrs.Cobb, "only don't wake him up."

  The girls went softly up the stairs into Aunt Sarah's room. There, inthe turn-up bedstead that had been so long empty, slept Jack-o'-lantern,in blissful unconsciousness of the doom he had so lately escaped. Hisnightgown and pillow case were clean and fragrant with lavender, butthey were both as yellow as saffron, for they had belonged to SarahEllen.

  "I wish his mother could see him!" whispered Emma Jane.

  "You can't tell; it's all puzzly about heaven, and perhaps she does,"said Rebecca, as they turned reluctantly from the fascinating scene andstole down to the piazza.

  It was a beautiful and a happy summer that year, and every day it wasfilled with blissful plays and still more blissful duties. On theMonday after Jack-o'-lantern's arrival in Edgewood Rebecca founded theRiverboro Aunts Association. The Aunts were Rebecca, Emma Jane, AliceRobinson, and Minnie Smellie, and each of the first three promisedto labor for and amuse the visiting baby for two days a week, MinnieSmellie, who lived at some distance from the Cobbs, making herselfresponsible for Saturday afternoons.

  Minnie Smellie was not a general favorite among the Riverboro girls, andit was only in an unprecedented burst of magnanimity that they admittedher into the rites of fellowship, Rebecca hugging herself secretly atthe thought, that as Minnie gave only the leisure time of one day aweek, she could not be called a "full" Aunt. There had been long andbitter feuds between the two children during Rebecca's first summer inRiverboro, but since Mrs. Smellie had told her daughter that one morequarrel would invite a punishment so terrible that it could only behinted at vaguely, and Miss Miranda Sawyer had remarked that any nieceof hers who couldn't get along peaceable with the neighbors had bettergo back to the seclusion of a farm where there weren't any, hostilitieshad been veiled, and a suave and diplomatic relationship had replacedthe former one, which had been wholly primitive, direct, and barbaric.Still, whenever Minnie Smellie, flaxen-haired, pink-nosed, andferret-eyed, indulged in fluent conversation, Rebecca, remembering theold fairy story, could always see toads hopping out of her mouth. It wasreally very unpleasant, because Minnie could never see them herself; andwhat was more amazing, Emma Jane perceived nothing of the sort, beingalmost as blind, too, to the diamonds that fell continually fromRebecca's lips; but Emma Jane's strong point was not her imagination.

  A shaky perambulator was found in Mrs. Perkins's wonderful attic; shoesand stockings were furnished by Mrs. Robinson; Miss Jane Sawyer knitteda blanket and some shirts; Thirza Meserve, though too young for an aunt,coaxed from her mother some dresses and nightgowns, and was presentedwith a green paper certificate allowing her to wheel Jacky up and downthe road for an hour under the superintendence of a full Aunt. Eachgirl, under the constitution of the association, could call Jacky "hers"for two days in the week, and great, though friendly, was the rivalrybetween them, as they washed, ironed, and sewed for their adored nephew.

  If Mrs. Cobb had not been the most amiable woman in the world she mighthave had difficulty in managing the aunts, but she always had Jacky toherself the earlier part of the day and after dusk at night.

  Meanwhile Jack-o'-lantern grew healthier and heartier and jollier as theweeks slipped away. Uncle Jerry joined the little company of worshipersand slaves, and one fear alone stirred in all their hearts; not, as asensible and practical person might imagine, the fear that the recreantfather might never return to claim his child, but, on the contrary, thathe MIGHT do so!

  October came at length with its cheery days and frosty nights, its gloryof crimson leaves and its golden harvest of pumpkins and ripened corn.Rebecca had been down by the Edgewood side of the river and had comeup across the pastures for a good-night play with Jacky. Her literarylabors had been somewhat interrupted by the joys and responsibilities ofvice-motherhood, and the thought book was less frequently drawn from itshiding place under the old haymow in the barn chamber.

  Mrs. Cobb stood behind the screen door with her face pressed against thewire netting, and Rebecca could see that she was wiping her eyes.

  All at once the child's heart gave one prophetic throb and then stoodstill. She was like a harp that vibrated with every wind of emotion,whether from another's grief or her own.

  She looked down the lane, around the curve of the stone wall, red withwoodbine, the lane that would meet the stage road to the station. There,just mounting the crown of the hill and about to disappear on the otherside, strode a stranger man, big and tall, with a crop of reddish curlyhair showing from under his straw hat. A woman walked by his side, andperched on his shoulder, wearing his most radiant and triumphant mien,as joyous in leaving Edgewood as he had been during every hour of hissojourn there--rode Jack-o'-lantern!

  Rebecca gave a cry in which maternal longing and helpless, hopelessjealousy strove for supremacy. Then, with an impetuous movement shestarted to run after the disappearing trio.

  Mrs. Cobb opened the door hastily, calling after her, "Rebecca, Rebecca,come back here! You mustn't follow where you haven't any right to go. Ifthere'd been anything to say or do, I'd a' done it."

  "He's mine! He's mine!" stormed Rebecca. "At least he's yours and mine!"

  "He's his father's first of all," faltered Mrs. Cobb; "don't let'sforget that; and we'd ought to be glad and grateful that John Winslow'scome to his senses an' remembers he's brought a child into the world andought to take care of it. Our loss is his gain and it may make a man ofhim. Come in, and we'll put things away all neat before your Uncle Jerrygets home."

  Rebecca sank in a pitiful little heap on Mrs. Cobb's bedroom floorand sobbed her heart out. "Oh, Aunt Sarah, where shall we get anotherJack-o'-lantern, and how shall I break it to Emma Jane? What if hisfather doesn't love him, and what if he forgets to strain the milk orlets him go without his nap? That's the worst of babies that aren'tprivate--you have to part with them sooner or later!"

  "Sometimes you have to part with your own, too," said Mrs. Cobb sadly;and though there were lines of sadness in her face there was neitherrebellion nor repining, as she folded up the sides of the turn-upbedstead preparatory to banishing it a second time to the attic. "Ishall miss Sarah Ellen now more'n ever. Still, Rebe
cca, we mustn't feelto complain. It's the Lord that giveth and the Lord that taketh away:Blessed be the name of the Lord."