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A GRAY DREAM 
 
A GRAY DREAM 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES OF 
 NEW ENGLAND LIFE 
 
 BY 
 LAURA WOLCOTT 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE 
 
 NEW HAVEN- 
 YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 LONDON • HUMPHREY MILFGRD • OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 MDCCCCXVIII 
 
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 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY 
 YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 DEC 23 1918 
 
 ©Ci.A511031 
 
Seven of the sketches in this volume 
 have already appeared in papers and 
 periodicals, through whose courtesy they 
 are here collected and reprinted. 
 
A GRAY DREAM 
 
 BY 
 LAURA WOLCOTT 
 
 VOLUME I 
 
 NEW HAVEN 
 
 YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 MDCCCCXVIII 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 VOLUME I: A GRAY DREAM 
 
 Introduction . . . . . 
 
 11 
 
 The Embarrassment of Years 
 
 15 
 
 Rachel Eliot . . . . . 
 
 22 
 
 Emilia ...... 
 
 42 
 
 Grandmother 
 
 50 
 
 A Gray Dream . . . . 
 
 53 
 
 A New England Lady 
 
 59 
 
 The Story of the Two Betsys . 
 
 68 
 
 A Dominant Mother 
 
 90 
 
 Miss 'Dassah's Philosophy 
 
 131 
 
 The Wooing of Dangerfield Clay 
 
 146 
 
 A New England Festival . 
 
 163 
 
 VOLUME II: THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 Introduction ..... 203 
 
 Stories of 1838 
 
 The Child's Christmas Eve . . 207 
 
 The Child's Christmas ... 217 
 
 The Child's Two Mysteries . . 223 
 
 The Child's Eden . . . . 229 
 
 Twentieth Century Stories 
 
 How Dickon Climbed with a Hoe . 255 
 
 How Dickon Made a Bird's Nest . . 263 
 
 Dickon Goes a-Fishing . . . 271 
 
 Grandmother's Cosset-Lamb Story . 287 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 1 HE group of sketches and stories that make 
 up this volume are chiefly of New England in 
 former days. Their author knew New England, 
 not as an onlooker, but as a partaker of its 
 life, which she shared for more than eighty 
 years. But while she delighted in its manner 
 of speech and all its little daily ways, she saw its 
 life also in the light of a large setting; as a child 
 wandering out into the morning sees its own 
 familiar little places bright with the hopes and 
 adventures of a great world. In these stories 
 meagre, unknown lives, hidden away among 
 the New England hills, narrowed and hampered 
 in many a way, give out their own note of joy 
 and triumph. To one with seeing eyes, who 
 knows what has gone into the making of such 
 lives, and under what great skies all lives dwell, 
 they shine out, like the papers in the box labeled 
 "si-gnal failures," touched with vitality and 
 beauty, — part of the great heart of things. 
 
 E. E. M. 
 
12 INTRODUCTION 
 
 "My fireplace glowed with fragrant applewood 
 embers, sending up spires of flame as I thrust 
 in the poker. I took up sheaf after sheaf of 
 papers from my large box labeled 'Signal 
 Failures,' but they would not drop of their 
 own accord. As my inward gaze stared into 
 the very heart of these sketches they came 
 forth bright and keen, very phoenixes from 
 their ashes to be. The days ran trooping back 
 when I had sat at my desk with sleet rattling 
 on my window, or the 'soft- footed snow'; 
 when I had wandered later under the apple 
 trees in bloom and taken to heart earth's un- 
 stinted gifts. I could see June's exquisite pink 
 and whiteness, feel along my nerve footpaths 
 the tingle of its fragrance; hear the robin's 
 pre-empting cry as he took possession of a 
 crotch above cat-reach; and the memory of it 
 held my hand. 
 
 "No one suspects that this battered body of 
 ours will rise with all its scars, its vestiges of 
 defeat. If I brighten my room with the fitful 
 blaze of my heart that I hold in my undecided 
 hand, shall I create a new spring, a real resur- 
 rection from these outworn leaves? 
 
 "Here is a page just rescued from a curling 
 
INTRODUCTION 13 
 
 tongue of flame that licked at it greedily. How 
 happy I was over the writing! How thoughts 
 came circling around my theme like homing 
 pigeons, crowding wing on wing! I will keep 
 this — ^just this one more, I said, as the flame 
 crept serpent-like over my logs, and soaring 
 upward carried me victorious, above smoke and 
 ashes. Yes, I will keep this; and I laid its 
 somewhat charred edges tenderly away down 
 in the bottom of the box. 
 
 "Then came another, written in perfect sun- 
 shine when a bit of good news came flying to 
 me by wire; news altogether too good to be 
 true. The joy, the rapture of life was in every 
 line of it. That must not die. My very hopes 
 would shrink in the flame that consumed it ; my 
 desires fall into ashes. 
 
 "I put them back, one by one. And I locked 
 the box with decision. 
 
 "Securities they are supposed to be by the 
 unenlightened; stocks and bonds, notes and 
 deeds. Securities they are; spiritual bonds 
 and deeds. They are a part of my life; the 
 blood of my veins ; the tension of nerve and 
 muscle; the systole and diastole of my heart. 
 Useless to any other, they have borne me on 
 
14 INTRODUCTION 
 
 wings over hard places ; they have given me 
 tears of joy, exquisite memories, immortal 
 hopes. The old label shall become futile ashes, 
 and in the place of Signal Failures I will write 
 Glorious Successes,'^ 
 
THE EMBARRASSMENT OF YEARS 
 
 ijUT why should you make visits?" the Nice 
 Young Person said. "At your time of life why 
 
 not let your friends come to you instead?" 
 
 What is my time of life? The phrase is 
 superfluous. "Impertinent?" you ask. Oh, not 
 from my friendliest Nice Young Person! But 
 really — 
 
 At my time of life? I can go up many flights 
 of stairs — ^with landings. I climb hills also, 
 with the added pleasure of pausing to view the 
 landscape, which younger people miss. 
 
 I remember dates, and people's names, and 
 current events ; and the past is no more charm- 
 ing to me than the present, except that it was 
 in itself more charming. 
 
 I can weed flower beds, even like Celia Thax- 
 ter of vivid memory, at Appledore. I love all 
 human kind from soft babyhood for play to 
 hard age withering and waiting to be consoled. 
 
 My time of life! I can thread needles. 
 Points may come first, in the exasperating way 
 of modem needles, but in time — 
 
16 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 I can read into the small hours of the morn- 
 ing and then lie down to cheerful dreams or 
 dreamless sleep like a babe on its mother's 
 breast. 
 
 I can thrill to bird songs, from the exultant 
 wood thrush's freedom song to the lonesome 
 whippoorwill's complaint. 
 
 I love the meanest flower — yes, weed — that 
 blows. It does not suggest thoughts too deep 
 for tears. All my thoughts are of the exquisite 
 bliss of living. If sunshine have its charm, so 
 has the rain. Was it not Elizabeth Stuart 
 Phelps who deplored the old hymn sung on piti- 
 less July Sundays? — 
 
 No midnight shade, no clouded sun. 
 But sacred, high eternal noon. 
 
 I go out into my dewy garden and watch 
 every seed that sends up from the mystery 
 below two tiny leaves like to the far-away 
 spread of bird wings against the blue; just 
 two crooked lines full of expectation. 
 
 "Fine salads some day," says the Nice Young 
 Person, peering for the tiny growth and trying 
 to look sympathetic. 
 
 Some day.? Perhaps. But my life is in the 
 Now. What are green-white curly leaves under 
 
THE EMBARRASSMENT OF YEARS 17 
 
 Lucca oil and lemon juice with talkative folk 
 about the table but ministers to a lower sense? 
 The spirituality of the salad lies in its Antsean 
 touch — its slow sucking out of disreputable 
 earth that which lifts its head to the skies. 
 
 From my south window I watch a wabbly 
 robin tilting on a Norway spruce limb against 
 the high wind; shifting its clinging feet, half- 
 spreading foolish, untried wings that know no 
 joy of the air, only terror of the earth. Under 
 the dull, ruffled feathers a timid heart, pea-size, 
 quakes up and down as the branch flies ; a wide 
 bill opens to let out ^^yes, ma'am, yes, ma^am,^^ 
 trailing off in quick " '5 ma'ams*' as the high 
 wind wrestles with the tree — as if remembering 
 its promise to sit still till mother came, forced 
 to break the letter, but keeping the spirit, and 
 sustained by a quivering hope. 
 
 Gladly would I fetch the looked-for worm, 
 except that courtesies of the sort are apt to be 
 misunderstood even in human society. And the 
 swaying limb is high. Ah, the mother is return- 
 ing with her prey, delved for successfully in the 
 richness of my lawn. Both their cups of bliss 
 are full; the mother's with service, the baby's 
 with being served. 
 
18 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 I can see them as plainly as I could — a cer- 
 tain number of years ago. And the joy of it 
 all is greater by far. In youth one's eyes focus 
 on larger things and the mind follows. 
 
 For reading I confess to glasses, though 
 headings and posters are still clear to the un- 
 helped vision. 
 
 At my age indeed! 
 
 Now that I think of it, my Nice Young Per- 
 son does come to see me very often. She is 
 always welcome, as she well knows ; but a sudden 
 suggestion from an over-sensitive mind that it 
 is to spare me sends the blood back to my 
 heart ! 
 
 (Why did I meanly think of that.?) 
 
 To be sure, she always takes my elbow and 
 says, "Here are four steps," when she comes 
 out of an unaccustomed house with me. Does 
 she think I cannot count as well as the crow.? 
 "Two, but not three," the legend says. Why 
 not four.? And do I not know the feel of mother 
 earth, of stepmother pavement, as my foot 
 touches it.? Why say, "Now you are down!" 
 with an offensive hint of superior sense.? — as 
 if one would naturally stay up and not know it ! 
 
 On traveling days, why do car conductors 
 
THE EMBARRASSMENT OF YEARS 19 
 
 grasp me by an arm that is seldom free from 
 bruised finger-marks and always painful at the 
 time? And on a street car, why will no one 
 allow me to ride backward — my own choice? 
 They rise alarmingly, embarrassingly, to a 
 man, to a woman even, and leave me the forward 
 privilege. If I decline it seems ungracious 
 after all their inconvenience. So the wind 
 blows in my face instead of being tempered by 
 the window back of the motorman. 
 
 I can cross a crowded street at my age ( !) 
 quicker than my younger friends and escape 
 daredevil automobiles while they are holding 
 me back by one elbow in the very forefront of 
 danger. 
 
 "If I hadn't been here!" the Nice Young 
 Person gasps. Yes, my dear, if you hadn't I 
 should have been safely across in time to escape 
 the odious, smothering blast in the trail of the 
 monster. 
 
 "Be sure you step in the middle of the canoe," 
 they say, when we go out on the lake. Yes, two 
 or three say it at once. A well-meant but dis- 
 courteous chorus. Why, I knew that before 
 they were born! I always step in the exact 
 middle. I balance, adjust myself, sit down 
 
20 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 discreetly. Long practice has made me perfect. 
 There is something to be said in favor of the 
 flight of time. Yet I know that behind my 
 back, with raised eyebrows they are saying 
 "Wonderful !" or its equivalent in polite panto- 
 mime. 
 
 I commiserate Methuselah with all his de- 
 scendants ; — even more, dim, pathetic old Priam 
 with a son to set him right at every turn. 
 "Father, the predictions are that there will be 
 a flood. Don't go out in sandals. And do be 
 careful of the heavy dew at your time of life ! 
 Here are your highest pattens ; don't forget." 
 Or, "The Greek arrows are so swift, the 
 chariots rush along at such a mad pace — and 
 you know you don't see as far as you once did !" 
 Poor old heroes ! Better Abel dying in his 
 young beauty by the altar that blazed so well — 
 a comely sight; better splendid Hector, his 
 plume bedraggled, laid on his lofty funeral 
 pyre! 
 
 But no ! Ah, no ! 
 
 "Whom the gods love die old"; full of the 
 wealth of years and deathless memories. At 
 my time of life the world is ripe fruit to be 
 tasted with zest, its juices concentrated, its 
 
THE EMBARRASSMENT OF YEARS 21 
 
 acridity turned to sweetness. Poor young 
 Abel! Poor young Hector! 
 
 My age — whatever it may be — is but the 
 lengthening record of delectable days ; of happy 
 summers with sunshine and June roses ; of cosy 
 hearth-fires and soft snowfalls, muffling all 
 harsh sounds, and a world diamonded with ice; 
 a record of more thrills and ecstasies than 
 callow sixteen so much as dreams of. 
 
 In my indiscriminating youth I was terribly 
 afraid of people. Now I find them no more 
 alarming than myself. As for my years, they 
 jog on merrily and keep no count. 
 
 I know now that there are horizons beyond 
 horizons. 
 
 But my Nice Young Person is limited, dear 
 soul ! by the things she sees and hears, the mul- 
 titudinous things she knows. Always beyond 
 her depth in the salt sea of promiscuous chari- 
 ties, committees, clubs, schemes for the heathen 
 who will soon send missionaries to teach us 
 respect and veneration, projects for the ame- 
 lioration of man — ^what weary years she must 
 wait, till at my age she may possibly sit down 
 with her life a-cool, and rest it, and see the 
 belated glory of it all. 
 
RACHEL ELIOT 
 
 When I say that Rachel Eliot stood alone 
 at the end of a long line of divines, I trust I 
 shall not be misunderstood by a later genera- 
 tion. 
 
 We have all seen pictures of the divine of the 
 past, in no way related to the clergyman, 
 minister, priest or parson of today. He was 
 tall and spare, with nerve but no nerves, and 
 with less muscle than intellect. His forehead 
 was high rather than broad; his face a long 
 oval, his nose and lips thin ; and his color came 
 from the fireside and his mug of hot flip. 
 
 When his picture was made he sat at his 
 table pen in hand, his Bible open before him, 
 and one long, thin finger holding the leaves 
 apart at the Decalog. His neckcloth, unnatu- 
 rally white, ended in two tabs, thus stamping 
 his profession upon him like a seal. He did 
 not look like a fighting parson; but a differ- 
 ence of opinion on a given point, or a sudden 
 invasion of Indians, was enough to bring the 
 warrior's quality to the fore. 
 
RACHEL ELIOT 23 
 
 And the subject of the miniature lying before 
 me — the meekest divine of them all — ^kept his 
 flintlock under the pulpit cushions. But that 
 was away back in the dim past, near the top 
 of the ladder that reached like Jacob's ladder 
 to heaven, and had landed many generations 
 safely beyond the skies. 
 
 Poor Rachel on its lowest rung had cut off 
 high hopes all unaware — though in time she 
 was to know it and feel her own inopportune- 
 ness. In a word, Rachel Eliot was a distinct 
 disappointment. Not one whit more fervently 
 did the mother of little Samuel desire a son of 
 the Lord than did the Puritan wife of Parson 
 Eliot; never could she have been a woman of 
 more sorrowful countenance than was this godly 
 mother when denied by the inopportune coming 
 of a daughter who in all innocence put a period 
 to the apostolic succession. 
 
 To say that Madam Eliot was indignant — 
 that she was tempted to doubt the ways of 
 Providence — is to say very little to the point; 
 without doubt the tears shed over the bright 
 head of the offending babe were bitter as waters 
 of Marah. But such being the will of God 
 there was nothing to be said about it, even if 
 
24 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 the rebellious thinking kept on. Was not dis- 
 cipline the common lot, not only to be endured 
 but to be given thanks for, as an earnest in 
 some uncomprehended way of salvation? 
 
 Mrs. Beams, the elder deacon's wife, smiled 
 sanctimoniously at the dolorous length of Mrs. 
 Eliot's face when Rachel was presented at the 
 altar of Whitley church for baptism, and Mrs. 
 Eliot was aware of it. Worst of all, like insult 
 superadded to injury, Rachel was an only 
 child — the child of old age. It was little she 
 who had given occasion to many to look down 
 on godly Parson Eliot,, whose sad heart had 
 been securely set upon a worthy son to succeed 
 him. Would Rachel have proved such a son in 
 her parents' eyes if their prayers had been 
 answered.^ I often ask, looking back on the 
 old days. But that is neither here nor there. 
 
 Rachel was. 
 
 And when her mother stopped apologizing 
 for her, when she was too tall to have her ears 
 boxed, too strong to be shut into a closet — the 
 ways of Providence were past finding out. 
 
 Far back of my day — of our young days — 
 Rachel had been sent or suffered to go to a 
 proper seminary for young ladies in a college 
 
RACHEL ELIOT 25 
 
 town, where a maternal aunt was supposed to 
 rule with a rod of iron and to be expert in the 
 use of lock and key. 
 
 How it happened no one knows, but it is 
 true — for I once saw the pretty, white satin 
 slippers — that Rachel Eliot by some means 
 went to a commencement ball and danced all 
 night, or nearly all, with the long-haired, high- 
 stocked, unregenerate youth of the day. It 
 made a terrible scandal in Whitley that was 
 not hushed up any the sooner because it was 
 the parson's daughter. How or where she had 
 learned to dance, at a period when dancing was 
 considered an ungodly amusement, I cannot say, 
 for no one seemed to know. It was not for lack 
 of prying; this only I am sure of. I always 
 thought it came by nature, as flying does to 
 winged creatures. But if the parson and Mrs. 
 Eliot knew, they did not choose to tell; and 
 as for Rachel, she held her young head so high 
 that the bravest quailed and fell back before 
 the light of her eyes when they ran to ask her. 
 
 After this, on February fourteenth, strange 
 letters passed through the postmaster's hands, 
 addressed with many curlycues to Miss Rachel 
 Eliot. Perfumed and belaced they were, with 
 
26 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 doves and hearts and arrows quite lavishly 
 displayed, and worst of all, with little heathen 
 cupids on the great wax seals ; but not all the 
 candles in the inner room of the post office 
 revealed the iniquity within the covers. 
 
 If Rachel's father had not died about that 
 time, the matter might have come up in church 
 conference. But Mrs. Eliot had a high head 
 also, and signified in answer to impertinent 
 questions that Rachel was her own and that 
 she was still competent to take care of her; 
 which the community accepted with much salt, 
 and went its way to wonder, defeated tempo- 
 rarily. 
 
 It was about this time that Rachel came to 
 belong to us youngsters. Just how it began I 
 cannot say ; but one of my earliest recollections 
 is of a tall lady, full grown and therefore old, 
 like our mothers, sweeping down like a sudden 
 breeze upon the little schoolhouse under the hill 
 as soon as its four o'clock doors opened, and 
 carrying all before her. We went with her 
 hilariously, as we would have followed the 
 will-o'-the-wisp or the Pied Piper. 
 
 Sometimes we picked daisies on the hill and 
 crowned her with awkward little wreaths, and 
 
RACHEL ELIOT 27 
 
 she said not a word about the midges that 
 tickled her ears and ran down her neck in spite 
 of all our brushing. Sometimes we filled the 
 little baskets she made for us of leaves or reeds, 
 with wild strawberries, with huckleberries or 
 blueberries in their season, or gathered chest- 
 nuts, when she pulled the burr prickles out of 
 our fingers and kissed the place ; or made acorn 
 cups and played at tea party with mallow- 
 cheeses for cake; or sailed paper boats in the 
 brook and caught imaginary fish with a bent 
 pin and a string. How well I remember to this 
 day the grief of Benny Clews when his little 
 brother died, that the poor little fellow never 
 had a real fishhook ! 
 
 When winter came we all slid down hill 
 together, and one special noon, when the 
 teacher had gone home to dinner, it was Rachel 
 who suggested dragging out a long bench, turn- 
 ing it upside down, filling it with children, and 
 trying the crust back of the meeting house. 
 She steered, I well remember ; for not a boy of 
 them all dared, and two or three were pretty 
 big. It was a hill of glass, covered with snow 
 upon snow and sleet upon sleet, and at last 
 polished to perfection by a fine rain that froze 
 
28 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 as it fell. Oh! it was a maddening joy, worth 
 all the bumps and strains, all the after-aches 
 and black-and-bluenesses not reported at home. 
 But some sneak told; and the story flew like 
 wildfire that Rachel Eliot piled all the boys and 
 girls on a bench upside down, steering by two 
 of its legs, and that it struck a bumper and 
 rose in the air, and the legs came out with 
 Rachel clinging to them, one in each hand, and 
 that they all rolled and bumped and bounced 
 to the bottom together, bench and all, scared 
 to death, and a mercy they did not all get killed 
 in a heap. 
 
 This was town talk for so long that it quite 
 obscured the former story of Rachel's climbing 
 to the belfry, which had grown shaky with age, 
 to rescue an unhappy kitten clinging outside 
 in deadly peril, a feat which no one else offered 
 to attempt. 
 
 A scandalous creature was Rachel Eliot in 
 those days, when the elders thought her a for- 
 ward, overgrown child to be punished; and we, 
 an old lady to be worshiped. Not that one of 
 us really thought her old, except that like our 
 mothers she had stopped growing. She must 
 
RACHEL, ELIOT 29 
 
 have been about twenty-one then, and had left 
 off black dresses for her father. 
 
 The fourteenth of February came in vain 
 now; for the golden college youth of her day 
 had borne off and probably framed their pre- 
 cocious sheepskins, and were writing laborious 
 briefs or compounding mysterious drugs in 
 high-smelling laboratories, or musing over 
 fifthlies and sixthlies in country sitting-rooms, 
 even perilously leading flocks of their own in 
 the way they should go before fairly knowing 
 the path themselves. 
 
 But all this we may safely leave to them, and 
 return to stately Miss Rachel, who had a way 
 of asking our little flock to tea at the parson- 
 age. This was no simple five o'clock affair of 
 the present century, but high tea, where all 
 sat at table, on chairs a little too low for the 
 majority, and only the elders were quite at 
 ease ; where thin slices of pink ham and 
 tongue held places of honor on shining damask, 
 and creamed potatoes kept them worthy com- 
 pany ; where flaky, hot tea-biscuit, and golden 
 butter and still more golden honey in the comb, 
 made by real bees beside the mignonette beds in 
 the parsonage garden, not done to order with 
 
30 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 a creditable bee dropped in for affidavit, had 
 high though subordinate place; where fragrant 
 loaf cake and frosted cup cakes, ring crullers 
 and snowy sugared doughnuts tempted appe- 
 tites that good digestion waited on loyally. 
 If in some rare case a dose of home picra coming 
 in a generous cup at bedtime supplemented 
 the feast, was it not worth it all, — the face one 
 made, the nauseous final gulp with starting 
 tears ? For did not our Rachel in all her glory 
 of befrilled muslin sit at the foot of the table, 
 her curly hair making a halo round her head, 
 beguiling us with fairy stories, tucking sly 
 pink-and-white peppermints into our pockets, 
 and all under the sharp eyes of Madam Eliot, 
 in a cap with streamers and a false front, sit- 
 ting grim and forceful at the head of the table. 
 Here she said grace and added as if it had been 
 part of it, "Don't eat fast, and mind your 
 manners," fixing some unlucky urchin with a 
 severe eye which we felt to be symbolic of the 
 eye of Providence. Warnings against scuffing 
 our feet or leaving our spoons in the teacup, 
 which sounded ominous long after in the still- 
 ness of night and the dark, were robbed of 
 terror at the time by some absorbing, frisky 
 
RACHEL ELIOT 31 
 
 little story of "How the Chipmunk Lost His 
 Tail," or "When the Hoot-Owl Took Singing 
 Lessons." 
 
 How Rachel played at hide-and-seek in the 
 garret with us on cold Saturdays when we were 
 released from our five days' bondage, when the 
 snow settled softly on the window ledges or was 
 driven past like a tramping army by the wind 
 "keening" round the chimney ! Nobody could 
 hear what we did then, no, not if we shouted; 
 and some of us, shaky in our knees, and unable 
 to do anything with our fast-growing, super- 
 fluous hands and feet, went gaily to the Vir- 
 ginia Reel with no thought of its sinfulness, and 
 even learned the polka steps and forgot the 
 pokerish quality of our muscles then and 
 forever. 
 
 Soon our understandings began to grow too ; 
 and once somebody in a dark corner whispered 
 that Rachel Eliot had a "follower," according 
 to S ally-in- the-kit chen ; and wondering mouths 
 took it up, and clumsy fingers wrote it on a 
 slate and weren't quick enough to rub it out, 
 and so had it paraded before the tittering 
 school till the teacher, who had considered it 
 only as an ordinary communication, looked 
 
32 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 again, and returned the obscured record, ex- 
 pressing herself with the ferrule. 
 
 But even as "a baby is a poor thing to hide 
 with," a secret once let loose is as water spilled 
 on the ground that cannot be gathered up 
 again. We went less often to the parsonage 
 now. Our playmate was not quite all our own, 
 and old lady Eliot looked at us suspiciously, 
 we thought, as if we had done it. 
 
 It was nobody's fault but his, and why did 
 he do it? He was a harmless enough elderly 
 person in our eyes, graduated from college 
 some four or five years before the valentine 
 period when great envelopes with decorated 
 borders, hearts and darts and Cupid seals in 
 great splashes of red wax came to Miss Rachel 
 Eliot. He wore a high stock with a great bow, 
 and shining boots, and his hair came down on 
 his coat collar, while his whiskers — ah, but they 
 didn't look as they would in this year of grace, 
 and nobody thought of jeering at them. 
 
 Once, as we were saying good-night at the 
 door after a special feast, we ran into a big 
 man with his hand on the knocker, and nearly 
 upset him, and giggled as we picked ourselves 
 up, for it was some one or two of us who really 
 
RACHEI. ELIOT 33 
 
 fell. And there was an awful rumor whispered 
 about next day but not confided this time to 
 any treacherous slate, that the last one out, 
 little freckled Sammy Coles, had heard Mrs. 
 Eliot, who was growing deaf, say in an awful 
 voice, "Rachel, here comes your gentleman 
 farmer." 
 
 What that might be none of us knew, but it 
 sounded unlawful; and though we put our 
 brains together like the game of consequences, 
 as it were, the result was zero. But this 
 creature-whatever, though he looked very much 
 like any man not a minister, had taken away 
 and lost to us our Rachel Eliot, and it was a 
 long time before we saw her properly again. 
 
 Sally-in-the-kitchen waylaid us sometimes as 
 we lingered past the door, and whispered that 
 "He kep' a-comin'," or that "She don't relish 
 it"; which we understood to mean Madam 
 Eliot ; or that "Rachel, she never see the day 
 she didn't do what she set out for" ; or "Lawsey ! 
 She'll get him yet" ; all of which was weird and 
 unbelievable to ears immature and of small 
 experience in love affairs. We used to peep 
 out behind our elders in the aisle to see Na- 
 thaniel Giles offer his arm to our Miss Rachel 
 
34 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 at the church door and walk composedly with 
 her across the green in the face of the entire 
 congregation, and as solemnly walk away after 
 leaving her at the parsonage door. It was 
 well understood in Whitley, where everybody 
 knew every other body's thoughts, that he was 
 not made welcome inside, where old lady Eliot, 
 a good deal crippled by rheumatism and there- 
 fore debarred from church services, sat in her 
 elbow chair of state, a stout hickory stick by 
 her side. 
 
 One of us wondered aloud once at the allur- 
 ing kitchen door if she ever corrected our 
 Rachel with it; but Sally rattling away at the 
 dishes whispered, "She dassent !", which was 
 final and set our perplexed thoughts at rest. 
 So we had still greater respect for our idol. 
 And as we grew older, strangely enough she 
 grew younger; and many a consultation we 
 held at recess or on the way home from school 
 as to the reason of this. Since then the flying 
 years have landed us on the same levels. 
 
 But at that time the breeziness was not all 
 gone, though it was no longer a tornado that 
 caught and carried us away in its vortex but 
 an exquisite west wind that sought and 
 
RACHEL ELIOT 35 
 
 gathered us in little whorls like loosened leaves 
 still green, and set us down again where the 
 diversions were tales and poems, songs and 
 Border ballads. Figuratively, she gently drew 
 away our morbid reading, the sad tales of early 
 death and precocious piety, and inspired us 
 with deeds of valor and chivalry and greatness. 
 We never questioned how she knew these things ; 
 but just as she had made the boys kind to the 
 weak, thoughtful for the old, and courteous to 
 all — things that perhaps came more by nature 
 to the girls — she told us that we must belong 
 to the aristocracy of letters. At first we turned 
 one to another in wonder, for she never ex- 
 plained; and presently the truth dawned upon 
 us as it never does when expressed in a mathe- 
 matical formula. 
 
 Occasionally our walks led past Nathaniel 
 Giles's tidy garden where he pottered among 
 his flowers and trained his vines, and we began 
 to see, though dimly, why he was called the 
 gentleman farmer, with a little note of supe- 
 riority in the tone of those who were not afraid 
 to do their own farming. It was a rather dis- 
 graceful thing for a man to go a-fishing in 
 haying time or when harvests should be gath- 
 
36 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 ered in, and argued something lacking in the 
 man. A college education was supposed to be 
 in some way responsible for this falling away 
 from ancestral tradition. It was all well 
 enough for a parson, but a man — 
 
 Still we admired and held our breath and 
 went by on tiptoe whenever Nathaniel Giles 
 rose above our horizon with rod in hand, and 
 book beside him, though other men were doing 
 the work of the farm. Sometimes we wondered 
 to each other why he didn't marry Rachel, — 
 dash across the green on a foaming red roan 
 steed, snatch her up in the saddle and be off 
 and away ere the break of day, or old lady 
 Eliot had time to reach her stick. 
 
 Sally-in-the-kitchen said, in those days when 
 we were not a bit ashamed to listen, that many's 
 the time she heard the mother tell Rachel that 
 Eliot was too good a name to change for Giles 
 that didn't come over in the Mayflower or any- 
 thing else, likely; and when Rachel insisted on 
 her right, the reply was always the same, "If 
 you will have your own head, wait till I'm gone, 
 for it's more'n I can a-bear." And though 
 Madam Eliot was a purist in speech, and Sally 
 but an indifferent reporter, being cut off from 
 
RACHEL ELIOT 37 
 
 school privileges in early youth, we sensed it, 
 as she often said, and went away pondering. 
 
 Presently we grew up in the same amazing 
 way that our children do now, without obser- 
 vation, like the coming of the kingdom of 
 heaven, and drifted off to school or farm or 
 merchandise — always belonging to Rachel 
 Eliot, who dominated the town of Whitley and 
 made what she would of its young. She might 
 not have done better if she had been a real 
 divine in straight line of descent. But what she 
 did was once for all. If we proved poor work- 
 men it was not from any flaw in the tools she 
 put into our hands and taught us to use. 
 
 I was the youngest of the little group so 
 early swept away from the schoolhouse under 
 the hill to that other education of Life, the 
 greatest of all schoolmasters. And thus it 
 came about that I was still in town and much 
 at the parsonage when Nathaniel Giles was 
 rumored to have had a "stroke." 
 
 "Now will the old lady say, 'Wait till I'm 
 gone,' I wonder?" was Sally's greeting, as I 
 stole softly to the kitchen door dreading to 
 hear that it was true. And there Rachel Eliot 
 found me, and drawing me close to her whis- 
 
38 A GRAY DREAM ' 
 
 pered in a voice that seemed to belong to 
 another world, "Stay with mother till I come 
 back." 
 
 It was not an altogether pleasant duty. 
 But one of the first lessons of our later school 
 is that pleasure and duty seldom go hand in 
 hand. So I waited on the stern old lady hour 
 after hour, found her glasses, set her stick 
 beside her, read in her Bible to her — it was in 
 Judges, I remember — chapters of her own 
 choosing, and longed with all my heart to have 
 Rachel come back. Imperative duties at my 
 own home had been set aside as of no conse- 
 quence in the face of probable death and instant 
 needs of the living. 
 
 It was dusk, just turning to evening, with 
 a slender horn of moon in the sky, I well 
 remember, when Rachel came, serene and high 
 in spirit. She did not see me but went straight 
 to her mother's chair and dropped on one 
 knee. 
 
 "I'm Rachel Giles now, mother," she said, in 
 a voice which had a deeper sweetness than any 
 I ever heard. "I'm Rachel Giles now, married 
 by his death bed, and I want your blessing." 
 
 There was a cruel pause. The hickory stick 
 
RACHEL EMQT 39 
 
 rattled on the floor, the clock ticked raspingly 
 and slowly struck the hour, whirring as the 
 weights ran down. My breath came chokingly 
 hard as I, too, waited for the reply. "My 
 blessing, is it.^ — that's what you won't have. 
 Rachel Eliot you are and Rachel Eliot you 
 shall be to your dying day." 
 
 There was no faltering in the voice that 
 denied her only child a blessing — the stern voice 
 of a woman whom the Almighty denied when 
 she pleaded with Him for a son. 
 
 I can see the girl now — for girl she always 
 was to me since I began to grow to her age — 
 young with an immortal youth, as she stood 
 tall and straight and beautiful as an angel to 
 my adoring eyes. She laid one firm hand on 
 my shoulder, but her sight was far away. At 
 last, "Will you stay?" she said. "My place is 
 there." 
 
 It was a week and more when she came back 
 home and had her widow's mourning made. 
 The old lady set her teeth and said nothing. 
 And the town seethed and seethed and settled 
 down again. But it always said "Rachel 
 Eliot." 
 
 The years flew by on the wings of the wind. 
 
40 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 as they do in these latter days. The day before 
 Christmas was a week once, and so is the night 
 before the Fourth still to my boys. Some of 
 us stayed on in Whitley, and some married and 
 came back to show our children to Rachel. 
 
 And she gathered them in her arms, and 
 blessed them literally. And soon they, too, 
 became little boys and girls, and sat at the 
 parsonage table with old lady Eliot wheeled 
 to her place and saying grace grimly, which 
 was not of the nature of a blessing, and cor- 
 recting small faulty table manners. I can 
 hear her loud Amen now across all the years, 
 followed by, "Jane, take your feet off the 
 chair"; and later, "Don't leave your spoon in 
 the teacup." 
 
 Rachel wore her widow's cap always, and if 
 possible it added to her beauty as she sat in 
 her place at the foot of the table, with her 
 smooth, black gown trig and trim, and her 
 dainty mull collars and cuif s ; pouring tea from 
 the polished old teapot, balancing lumps of 
 sugar, pouring thick cream from the high- 
 shouldered jug into the Scotch thistle teacups 
 that had endured the better part of a century 
 without a nick. Afterward she was busy with 
 
r.i 
 
 RACHEL ELIOT 41 
 
 the pink-and-white peppermints, and telling |i 
 
 frisky little stories to shy young ones afraid at tj 
 
 first to laugh. : I 
 
 The old lady took pains, we found, to say fl 
 
 Rachel Eliot, which the other always corrected, | 
 
 and at which the old, sharp eyes flashed. li 
 
 For Rachel the Undesired had followed her | 
 
 high calling of womanhood, and she had not | 
 
 waited till the mother was gone. It would not | 
 
 have been soon enough in any event. Not long I 
 
 since a word from Sally found me, far away | 
 
 from Whitley. She wrote, in substance : "They ' 
 
 said I was to tell you old lady Eliot is gone at ^^ 
 
 last. She held on to ninety-eight and rising, ■= 
 
 and went out like a candle when the wick drops. I 
 
 To her dying day she fretted because Rachel ^ 
 
 wasn't a man and a minister. But, if I get my | 
 guess, they've told her where she's gone, by this 
 time, what Rachel done all her life long and 
 got no credit for here. She couldn't preach — 
 Rachel — ^but my lawsey ! she didn't need to." 
 
EMILIA 
 
 JcjMILIA was nearly two years older than I 
 and I was her friend. There was a slight tie of 
 relationship between us, so that when my 
 family came to a new home in the town where 
 Emilia lived, I was asked to spend the night 
 in hers. There were older brothers and sisters 
 of whom I stood in awe, as well as parents who 
 were so far removed from my small world that 
 they seemed like Ruskin's "forces of nature," 
 and might have belonged to another and dif- 
 ferent planet. 
 
 But Emilia, nine years and three inonths old, 
 nearer my own level, was the responsible child 
 of the large family and I was at once delivered 
 into her care. She led me upstairs, I well 
 remember, by one unresisting hand, and looked 
 so grown-up that it seemed entirely reasonable, 
 as if I were following my patron saint. 
 
 When she unbraided and brushed my hair 
 for the night, I was not a little embarrassed to 
 confess in answer to her question that I forgot 
 to bring my toothbrush. Her look of distinct 
 
EMILIA 43 
 
 disapproval lasted longer than all the "thou 
 shalts" of parental discipline. 
 
 Emilia was of a blue and white fairness with- 
 out the creamy tints that usually accompany 
 such fineness of texture, delicately pink cheeks, 
 and straight, fine hair, glossy as a purple 
 grackle's wing and very long. I lay sleepily 
 awake and watched her as she brushed it with 
 slow, even strokes, braided it and put on her 
 nightcap, a plain little Quakerish adornment 
 though with no such design. 
 
 That was the last I knew until I saw her 
 standing in the first light of morning, dusting 
 her bureau and silently waiting for me to wake. 
 
 She was to take me to my family and my new 
 home on her way to school; and after my fret- 
 ting a little inwardly at the need of waiting for 
 breakfast, we started hand in hand. At sight 
 of the first house I asked eagerly, "Is this it?" 
 skipping ahead for a good look. "No," she 
 said, securing my hand again; "I'll tell you 
 when we come to it." I remember asking the 
 same question as house after house came into 
 sight and her calm, unvarying reply, "No, I'll 
 tell you when we come to it." 
 
 The way was long, but I doubled and trebled 
 
44 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 it, skipping around her whenever my hand was 
 released from her firm grasp, like an un- 
 tethered puppy. Indeed, in my glee of pure 
 living I could have barked if something in her 
 face had not made me think better of it. And 
 yet there was no reproof there. The child 
 simply recognized a quality without a name 
 which stood Emilia in good stead not only then 
 but throughout her life. At school she was in- 
 variably chosen umpire in all the games. One 
 never had to give it a thought. And Emilia 
 was never an unjust judge. A certain clear- 
 ness of sight was born in her — a detached sort 
 of background against which all things stood 
 out in high relief. 
 
 One day I went with her on an errand to a 
 large house set in a deep orchard. The path 
 wound in and out among shadows that made it 
 a very fairyland to me. 
 
 A basket of ruddy and yellow apples stood 
 invitingly on the table in the hall, and without 
 as much thought as Eve, I took one and began 
 to eat it after the errand was done and we went 
 together down the walk. Suddenly Emilia, 
 who had been absently absorbed in the message 
 
EMIIilA 45 
 
 she was charged with, said, "That isn't your 
 apple." 
 
 I have wondered if the dread Judgment 
 Day could bring greater awakening to any 
 poor soul at the Bar. 
 
 Innocence attempted no plea. I had picked 
 it up with as little concern as if it had lain on 
 the grass in the home garden. 
 
 "What shall I do.^" I asked, with eyes grown 
 suddenly hot, and a miserable distaste for the 
 "Seek-no-further" whose juices turned dry and 
 bitter in my mouth. Emilia went silently on. 
 At the gate she turned and said, 
 
 "You ought to tell." 
 
 I think my conscience came into being, full- 
 grown on the instant. 
 
 "Oh, Emilia!— how can I.?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Must I?" 
 
 "7 should." 
 
 And I knew very well that she would; but it 
 was different with me. I should have buried 
 the apple and tried to forget even though it 
 rose before me in the dark like an accusing 
 spirit. 
 
 Shrinking and quaking, I stopped. 
 
46 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 "You come too !" 
 
 "No, I can't. I promised to go straight 
 home." And she did. I looked after her reso- 
 lute back, her decided step, with a great long- 
 ing for help, a feeling of injustice that burnt 
 like hot iron. 
 
 "Don't leave me !" I cried weakl}^, but she 
 was out of hearing. For a cruel time I lay 
 sobbing without tears on the grass where I 
 had flung myself down, abandoned in the first 
 great strait of my life, and forced to think for 
 myself. It was quite beyond me, and for one 
 blighting moment I hated Emilia and longed 
 to hurt her. 
 
 The room looked august as I crept quiver- 
 ing in at the wide open door. No one was in 
 sight. The lump in my throat was as if I had 
 swallowed the apple whole. Presently the 
 daughter of the house appeared, drawing on 
 her gloves and carrying an entrancing blue veil, 
 gauzy as a butterfly's wing, over her arm. I 
 could paint her picture today. 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed cheerfully and just a bit 
 surprised; "you are the little girl that came 
 with Emilia. Did you forget anything.''" 
 
 It was then I burst. Between mortifying 
 
EMILIA 47 
 
 sobs and tears that ran down and splashed on 
 my clean apron I said convulsively, "I sto — 
 took an apple." 
 
 "Oh, is that it?" She smiled sweetly. "Take 
 all you want. Run along now, and don't 
 cry ; — that's a good child." 
 
 I think Emilia in the clear depths of her 
 Puritan heart never quite forgave a grown-up 
 young lady who failed to see her advantage 
 and work in a moral lesson. 
 
 But to me she was adorable, and my one joy 
 in going to church was to be able to look at her 
 and her beautiful veil all through the service. 
 One can easily see how the worship of saints 
 began. 
 
 At school, when the children whispered, 
 ''Teacher won't know," they quailed before 
 Emilia's eyes and her gentle, ''You will." 
 
 Many preachers of righteousness are not 
 loved. They rouse what we call human 
 nature — a thing that wants to strike back. 
 But Emilia lived up to her creed, and right and 
 wrong never crisscrossed in her honest mind. 
 We called her a seer, a prophetess, in our 
 girlish admiration. She seemed to know in 
 advance just which class would take the 
 
48 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 prize, just which trip to town would be use- 
 less or disastrous, just who would be too late 
 for the stage, just who would have to wait long 
 before it passed the corner, with an almost 
 uncanny time-sense. Would tomorrow be fair 
 for a picnic in the woods? "Ask Emilia", who 
 had weather-sense as well. And though the 
 day might seem doubtful, if she approved of 
 starting it invariably cleared before we had 
 gone far. This was after we had been trans- 
 ferred at a proper age to a school in town for 
 young ladies. The phrase conferred a sort of 
 distinction eagerly looked forward to by those 
 who had been simply "girls" in the village 
 school. 
 
 At Emilia's own home, where I often spent 
 a portion of my vacations, a swift brook called 
 Little River ran beyond the garden and 
 meadow, and the only means of crossing was 
 a slippery, barkless tree-trunk not over steady 
 at the best. "You'll fall in," Emilia said 
 calmly as one day in my rash, young desire for 
 applause I sprang up to run across it before 
 two small frightened children, to whom it was 
 probably forbidden. 
 
 And I did. 
 
EMILIA 49 
 
 Emilia drew me out with some difficulty, 
 dripping from shoes to sunbonnet, and wisely 
 omitted the usual platitude — "I told you so!" 
 
 It seemed great grace in her even then. The 
 only time I ever saw her in tears was one day 
 in town when she had been out for a book, some 
 blocks away, and two young men on the street 
 turned and stared admiringly at her, with 
 audible comments on her beauty. She had no 
 vanity and simply felt disgraced. Knowing 
 that I should have been secretly pleased at 
 such attention which never befell me, maddened 
 at sight of her tears, I cried out: "It wasn't 
 your fault ! It was God that made you so ! 
 I'd be glad of it!" But even as I was in the 
 act of consoling her, I quailed before the light 
 of her eyes as if she had accused me of taking 
 His name in vain. 
 
 Emilia may not have been great as the world 
 counts greatness. But the light she made for 
 other lives was like that of a fixed star, so far 
 beyond us that we cannot measure it while we 
 try to walk by its steady shining. 
 
GRANDMOTHER 
 
 Grandmother had completed her ninety- 
 fourth year. Many other things she had 
 finished as well, laid aside, and so passed on 
 hopefully to the next stage. Her eyes were 
 not dimmed, nor her interest in humanity 
 abated. Her always busy hands no longer 
 knitted, crocheted, or sewed. She no longer 
 did kind deeds, except in thought for the sick 
 or needy or those of her own household. 
 
 But she remembered, except when the veil 
 that gently shuts out things that distress us 
 of another generation dropped softly over her 
 senses for a time. All disturbing things 
 passed away. Her household was unreal, but 
 never unhappily so. Her son then became her 
 brother; her daughters, the kind ladies who 
 were so good to her. Her little dog became 
 two, and when he lay beside her she asked so 
 persistently for the other that presently he 
 was whisked away and brought in by the door, 
 and she accepted him as the other. She always 
 spoke of "them." 
 
GRANDMOTHER 51 
 
 At one time, while she was still able to walk 
 with help, she begged to go home, and was so 
 unhappy to feel herself away, as she thought, 
 that the daughters brought a carriage to the 
 door, and asked her to fill a basket with the 
 things she most wanted to take "home." These 
 were the large family Bible and larger diction- 
 ary, which went on the front seat while she was 
 carefully wrapped up and seated at the back, 
 the little dog sitting up very straight and smart 
 by the driver. They drove most peacefully 
 along the village street and slowly, very slowly, 
 up the hill and around the square, coming back 
 to the house by an unusual route — to her entire 
 satisfaction. She was at home ; and fancy sup- 
 plied whatever the surroundings may have 
 lacked. She was satisfied. So may it be in 
 that other home to which she has so peacefully 
 gone. 
 
 When she was unable to be taken to the 
 garden in her wheeled chair, or where she could 
 greet friends as they passed her door, she was 
 happy in the sunny room that looked into an 
 enclosed winter garden. Its walls held many 
 treasures that she had collected through the 
 long years — ^bits of China, old Delft, a broken- 
 
52 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 nosed pitcher that she had once caught in haste 
 on her way to the train, years before. For she 
 loved any sort of souvenir of the many places 
 she visited and was unhappy if she failed to 
 secure one. 
 
 Once, in the dead of night, she alarmed the 
 family by shouting Fire! excitedly. Her room 
 was searched to no eiFect, but at last on the 
 opposite side of the house, one discovered 
 through a window a house on fire on a hill a 
 mile or more away, where it was impossible for 
 her to see it. 
 
 She was particular about her dress, and once 
 said: "When we go to meet our Heavenly 
 Father we must wear our best clothes. It isn't 
 as it used to be, you know." 
 
 Tenacious of her own opinions, loving her 
 friends with devotion, generous in all her 
 thoughts, she gently slept life away without 
 a pang, and was beautiful in death with that 
 serenity that we so often see — that unusual 
 beauty that is given to the very old as if 
 in compensation for the losses that time 
 inevitably brings. 
 
A GRAY DREAM 
 
 1 T is really only a house. A gray, battered, 
 weatherworn, overgrown, crumbling, very old 
 house. Before it the sea — two fields and a 
 sand-dune away; behind it the forest, with a 
 long, low ledge of rock for foundation. Be- 
 tween it and the fields that are chiefly salt 
 marsh and pasture a crooked road wavering 
 uncertainly past its door, grass-grown and not 
 near enough for impertinence. 
 
 The house is mine by right of discovery. 
 Somebody lost it centuries ago, if its face like 
 our human ones, bears any relation to its age. 
 Yet good Nurse Nature long since took it into 
 her warm lap like a fresh babe in the wood, 
 swathed it in russet and green, and set all her 
 birds and winds singing to it till its sleep is 
 profound. 
 
 From the west, as one "tacks" with the irre- 
 sponsible road, its eaves rest on the stone wall 
 that guards its right of eminent domain. But 
 as you draw near, the gray stone chimney rises 
 like a watchtower in solid strength, and lifts 
 
54 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 the shingles that lap down like feathers on a 
 dove's breast, from the ridgepole to the old 
 Dutch door, above which runs a molding 
 beautiful to behold. 
 
 The ground beneath the lilac bushes is shiny 
 with shattered glass, and the ruined window 
 frames hang by one corner, leaving the entire 
 house-plan bare to every passer-by with quite 
 a shocking lack of reticence. 
 
 The battered door with its rusty lock opens 
 into what was once the living-room, with wide 
 fireplace, paneled corner cupboards, and little 
 tuck-away places above the mantel: places for 
 the Almanack, the laudanum bottle, the family 
 pill boxes, the rolls of old flannel and linen for 
 emergencies. Bits of these, moth-eaten and 
 frayed, are yellowing away to dust in the 
 corners still. 
 
 The spare room at the right of the Dutch 
 door sees the road but dimly through the 
 growth of lilac and syringa at its foot that 
 touches, then mounts far above the eaves. The 
 tiny fireplace has its own beautiful mantel 
 molding, the grooved chair rail is still un- 
 broken, the sturdy floor of oak planking shows 
 no sign of decay. 
 
A GRAY DREAM 55 
 
 But the glory of the house is its kitchen, 
 looking with blind eyes toward the garden now 
 reverted to type; hugging to itself a tangle of 
 everything a garden has a right to hold; look- 
 ing out for itself like a waif and estray, or a 
 street gamin; soaring where it may, creeping 
 where it must, but forever pushing, struggling, 
 fighting for its right to be. Into just such a 
 garden might Gualtier's serpent-woman have 
 gazed from her refuge in the Isle of Cos when 
 she beheld a human being and wept to be dis- 
 enchanted by a kiss. 
 
 Back among the shadows of tree and vine 
 the great old kitchen, still firm to the foot, 
 shows with pride such a fireplace as we only 
 dream of or recall from some state of previous 
 existence, in these sad days of impersonal 
 steam heat ; a cavern to which in the first frosty 
 mornings preceding the genuine winter with its 
 snow blockades, a yoke of oxen drew the back 
 log that did duty till the frogs began to peep. 
 A heart of warmth and good cheer, with its 
 oaken settles and its cavern within a cavern — a 
 brick oven, which archaic joy held the whole 
 Thanksgiving feast at once, from mince and 
 cranberry and apple and pumpkin pies to 
 
56 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 biscuit fine and white as manna, loaf cake to 
 be frosted later, ring jumbles, seed cookies, 
 turkey and chicken pie. Once in and adjusted 
 to its own place by the long-handled "peel," 
 each appropriated heat according to need, and 
 took the responsibility without demur. It was 
 as if each lent to its neighbor what left-over 
 sweetness of flavor floated about it ; an altruism 
 forever lost, or never known to the modem 
 range. For nothing in these comfortable days 
 can hope to know the brick-oven flavor of the 
 olden time. 
 
 The buttery — the right hand of the kitchen 
 —is in ruins now; the milkroom shelves fallen 
 and gnawed by mice and time; the spicy odors 
 lost on the winds that blow through and 
 through. And here one comes upon a false 
 note in the corner, a heap of battered cans, now 
 empty of potted meats and vegetables, but 
 with tawdry labels testifying to the fallen 
 estate of the ghostly old shell. They speak 
 raspingly of tenants belonging to a different 
 world from that which wheeled slowly about 
 the scene when the high priestess of the home 
 cooked as Fra Angelico painted. 
 
 Rising almost from the garden door, with 
 
A GRAY DREAM 57 
 
 thrifty economy of space, climb stairs with 
 slender banisters of beautiful handwork, mostly 
 out of sight, but "the gods will know"; 
 and above, still more stairs clinging desperately 
 to the rough face of the huge stone chimney; 
 a parlous way to the garret of loose floor 
 boards and cobwebby beams. Under the sud- 
 denly sloping roof an empty cradle, wooden, 
 long and narrow; overhead a rusty scythe. 
 Symbolism and reality hunting in couples. 
 
 A great, sunny room embraces the chimney, 
 and finds somewhere in its unappropriated 
 places a clothespress with wooden pegs. An- 
 other, where the west looks in without hin- 
 drance, is crowded with sunset light and 
 embalmed memories which do not show. Noth- 
 ing more. 
 
 There are nooks under the eaves where 
 children at candle-lighting time might huddle 
 in the shadows and scare themselves to death 
 with shuddery tales of ghosts and of drowned 
 men who went shrieking down from wrecked 
 ships in some awful storm almost in sight of 
 the sand-dunes. 
 
 What a book of life open and bare to any 
 gaze! Its sweet dignity, its fine modesty 
 
58 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 violated, its very roof-covering on the swift way 
 to dust; yet still sound in beam and stud and 
 rafter, hewn in the honest old days from oak 
 felled on its own hilltop. 
 
 The price one squanders on a summer's 
 outing in a caravansary of the mountains or 
 a Babel by the sea would bring back the gray 
 dream to a sunny reality, richer than anything 
 in new brick and mortar, lovelier than anything 
 in hewn stone. For the men who builded in the 
 fear of God, and so better than they knew, and 
 those who came after them, wrapped the home 
 place in an atmosphere of its own. Its walls 
 are low, its circumference small, but the heart 
 of it is great. 
 
 So I glory in it as a possession — a thing all 
 my own. For no one covets it, and my spirit 
 dwells there always, remote and unguessed. 
 
A NEW ENGLAND LADY 
 
 As I write the words, a quaint, small figure 
 steps noiselessly out of the past, a slight figure, 
 too, though well-knit, weighing scarcely ninety 
 pounds. The face is gently old and withered 
 like a late-hanging peach, keeping still a shade 
 of its youthful pinkiness. The hair, brown and 
 fine, with a wide, white parting and snug twist 
 that curls when released, is kept in unvarying 
 place by an old-fashioned back-comb. Two 
 small, flat curls are held close to the delicate 
 ears, partially covering them, by modern side- 
 combs. 
 
 The eyes, gray-blue and clear, look out on a 
 world that has been hard to their owner, who 
 has not repaid it in kind. She must have won- 
 dered often at its hardness in the years before 
 she accepted it bravely as something in the 
 general plan. 
 
 The gown, clean and becoming, is of fine, old- 
 fashioned calico — always of calico and always 
 clean — chocolate brown in color and lightly 
 sprinkled with tiny sprigs of white. A gingham 
 
60 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 apron of blue check is tied with smoothly ironed 
 tape strings around the waist, which is trim as 
 a young girl's. About the neck a kerchief of 
 thick muslin, that might be cousin to the Breton 
 coif, carries with it the thought of spotless 
 purity that always attached to Aunt Lois. 
 
 She was aunt to the town — never invited, but 
 always bidden to its festivities, to take the part 
 she loved best, without which tea party, sleigh- 
 ride supper, winter dance, and wedding feast 
 would be incomplete. When she appeared, 
 serene and capable, responsibility dropped at 
 once into her hands, and the satisfied house- 
 mother took no more thought for the day or the 
 morrow. 
 
 Aunt Lois was by no means the grande dame, 
 the fine lady, of whom we think and speak 
 vaguely. She was too fine, too grand, for care- 
 less speech. From her early youth she had been 
 a bearer of almost incredible burdens — ^burdens 
 borne in silence, with such dignity and sweet- 
 ness that they became blessings. 
 
 "You see, I never had rheumatism or any ail- 
 ment, not even a headache, so I could always 
 work right along day after day. My back 
 was strong, or I couldn't have done a great 
 
A NEW ENGLAND LADY 61 
 
 many things that were necessary. Many a 
 time I carried my first baby two or three miles 
 to do house cleaning, and back again at night. 
 He was so good I could put him to sleep and 
 tuck him away in a rocking-chair where nobody 
 could sit on him. So you see he wasn't much 
 hindrance. But I went a little early and stayed 
 later, of course, to make up the time I lost, and 
 right thankful I was to be able to do it." 
 
 Aunt Lois had mothered not only eight chil- 
 dren, but a good-natured, worthless husband 
 to boot, who sawed the wood for home use and 
 kept the kettle boiling whenever he could be 
 spared from the more hilarious pastimes of the 
 tavern. No work was too hard or too disagree- 
 able for Aunt Lois, no weather too wet or too 
 cold. She was happiest perhaps at those 
 embarrassing times when one family was mov- 
 ing out as another moved into a house, and she 
 as capable high priestess had charge of the 
 lares and penates of both. 
 
 "But what are you going to do for your 
 dinner.^" one would ask. "There is positively 
 nothing to eat in the house since that last load 
 went, not so much even as a spoonful of tea !" 
 
 "Now, child, don't you give it a single 
 
62 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 thought," Aunt Lois would reply comfortably. 
 "There's a kettle full of hot water. It's better 
 for most folks than tea, you know. I never was 
 much of a tea-drinker; and I put a cracker in 
 my pocket, too, this morning, for I knew you'd 
 be all stirred up today. It's all I want, certain. 
 'Tisn't so easy to starve as you think, and I 
 never was hungry like some folks. I rather 
 think the Lord knew when He made me what 
 sort of work he'd laid out for me." 
 
 And never was back more beautifully fitted 
 to its burden. On being remonstrated with one 
 day for carrying a heavy basket up three long 
 flights of stairs without stopping to take 
 breath, she said authoritatively, as she kept on : 
 "Don't say a word, don't say one word ! Some 
 folks don't have any stairs !" 
 
 When Aunt Lois was in full vigor and nearly 
 seventy years old, her youngest child, a life- 
 long invalid, died suddenly. This daughter was 
 the cheerer and comforter of her life, inheriting 
 the high courage and fearless faith of her 
 mother. The neighbors near and far, in tender 
 appreciation, sent flowers and messages to the 
 bereaved home, and two ventured to go in per- 
 son, dreading, as all did, to see this personi- 
 
A NEW ENGLAND LADY 63 
 
 fication of strength and cheer reduced to the 
 pitiful straits of ordinary humanity when its 
 last prop is gone. 
 
 The little house stood quite by itself, a mile 
 outside the town, which had gradually drawn 
 near. Poverty marked it for her own- — a little 
 one-story, dingily brown house. Its tenant was 
 one of the folks who had no stairs. Three rooms 
 and a roof to cover them were all she owned, 
 but these her labor of years had paid for. She 
 welcomed her guests with the same quiet com- 
 posure that attended her alike on solemn or 
 joyful occasions, giving them the two chairs 
 near the fire, fetching footstools, begging them 
 to remove and dry their wraps, for the night 
 was damp. 
 
 "Her face shone," said one of them after- 
 ward. "We couldn't speak of the dead, but she 
 did. Tears came when she asked us to take 
 her dear thanks to the people who had been so 
 kind to her. She had not expected such things. 
 She said heaven had always been rather a lone- 
 some spot to her. There seemed to be so little 
 to do there, according to all she had heard and 
 read. But now that Amy was there, as she 
 hoped, 'twas a good deal to look forward to. 
 
64 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 Other people had more ideas about it, she sup- 
 posed. A good many of her babies had gone 
 before when they were little things, but Amy — " 
 not a word of her own sore grief, of her utter 
 loneliness. 
 
 In straits of unexpected guests, in house 
 cleanings, weddings, funerals, nothing was ever 
 quite orthodox without Aunt Lois, who lived on 
 alone in her desolate house. Her husband had 
 died years ago, so little missed that the neigh- 
 bors soon forgot him; her one remaining child 
 had married hundreds of miles away, into pov- 
 erty more dreary than any she had ever known 
 at home, and her going was to the mother like 
 a child going out of the world. The son-in-law 
 was undesirable in various ways ; but Aunt Lois 
 when questioned said serenely: "Susan likes 
 him, and she's the one that's got him to live 
 with ; so if she can put up with his ways it isn't 
 for me to complain. It doesn't become me to 
 be talking about their aifairs. Most children 
 marry away from their home, and why should 
 I be treated different from other folks?" 
 
 Mother-confessor was Aunt Lois to half the 
 village, but never did anointed priest guard 
 more sacredly the secrets of the confessional 
 
A NEW ENGLAND LADY 65 
 
 than she. No engagement however unsuitable, 
 however queer, could surprise her, for had she 
 not stood sponsor to the fancy in its callow 
 infancy, long before it hardened into fact, and 
 attended the shrinking victim through the long 
 course of chills and fever preceding the con- 
 summation? All heartaches and backaches and 
 finger-aches went to Aunt Lois for consolation, 
 and the least of them never went in vain. She 
 knew the hidden virtues of all simples, and her 
 head carried an endless-chain procession of 
 recipes of all sorts, from wine-making to root 
 beer, and from raspberry shrub to catnip tea. 
 Measles and chicken pox, mumps and whooping 
 cough lost their terrors when Aunt Lois ap- 
 peared, confident and cheery, to charm away 
 crossness and fidgets with stories of when she 
 was a little girl. A plain and homely enough 
 little-girlhood, but one that made the utmost 
 of everything, and saw more possibilities in a 
 sand heap than modern children find in a fully 
 equipped doll house. 
 
 The rocking-chair creaked contentedly as 
 she crooned a tired baby to sleep, her own 
 calmness going out to the rasped nerves and 
 setting them in order and harmony. All night 
 
GQ A GRAY DREAM 
 
 long she could watch with the sick without a 
 wink of sleep, and no one could persuade her to 
 so interfere with the order of nature as to rest 
 by day. Work was her panacea; a dash of 
 cold water outside, a cup of weak hot tea for 
 refreshment, and her day was well begun. She 
 took no sugar in her tea nor butter on her bread 
 because these luxuries were not afforded at 
 home, and she could not be persuaded to pamper 
 herself elsewhere. 
 
 At spring cleanings she could take down a 
 sooty stovepipe tidily and set its perverse 
 joints together again with an unruffled spirit. 
 She could make wedding cake or clean a cellar, 
 scrub kitchen floors or do up laces, as if she 
 had been the proverbial angel called from gov- 
 erning a kingdom to sweep a street-crossing. 
 
 Gentle, refined in thought and speech, with 
 a low voice, a quiet step, a comforting presence, 
 a heart that held no suggestion of wrong, a 
 nature of utmost charity which believed no 
 fleeting gossip. Aunt Lois saw deep beneath 
 the surface to the honest heart of things, but 
 could never recognize any faults but her own. 
 
 Hating sin, she loved the sorry sinner, and 
 could find a ready excuse for any fault or 
 
A NEW ENGLAND LADY 67 
 
 incompetency outside her own door. From the 
 very slenderest store she gave so graciously 
 that the gift itself seemed great, whatever it 
 might be — a marigold growing by her door- 
 step, a plump head of fennel or dill, a root of 
 sweet cicely, a handful of checkerberries or 
 wild strawberries in their season, a few radishes 
 from her garden-bed, a stick of candy, per- 
 haps, to a child — the saved-up gift of some 
 lover of her own among the children — or bits of 
 silk to make a little girl's eyes shine, bright 
 fragments treasured from some wedding trous- 
 seau of the past. 
 
 The world was poorer when she went out of 
 it, to meet her Amy, we trust ; to sit resting in 
 the heavenly place with folded hands, perhaps, 
 and spotless kerchief — for we can only think 
 of her humanly — ministered unto at last, but 
 with the bright hope shining in her clear eyes 
 of ministering in turn, after earth's ninety 
 years of tiredness was past. 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 
 
 IT is no easy matter to tell the story of the 
 Two Betsys and at the same time glorify the 
 dormer-window house. So without going back 
 I will just break in at the point where the 
 driver said he was a stranger in town, but he 
 understood that the two Miss Betsys could 
 tell us everything about folks and places if 
 anybody could. 
 
 For a month before we had discovered a 
 house. The Miss Betsys did know all that we 
 wished to ; and from their clear, end-kitchen 
 window above the tiger cat sunning on its outer 
 ledge, we had a vision. 
 
 Both Cecily and I had gone a trifle mad over 
 dormer windows ; and here at the foot of the 
 long, crooked hill, rested comfortably a low- 
 studded, gray-shingled, sloping-eaved, dormer- 
 windowed, abandoned house. "Abandoned to 
 Providence," apparently, for lilacs and currant 
 bushes and hollyhocks stood together and com- 
 passed it about in an unhindered way till all its 
 paths were obliterated. 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 69 
 
 The Sound wrinkled in front, putting out 
 one's eyes where the sun struck it slantwise, 
 giving back myriad splendors for its one. The 
 tides battered on the Dutch door in great 
 storms, they told us. Its lawn was a smooth, 
 curving sweep of sand, strewn with gold and 
 silver shells, with here and there a conch or a 
 baby crab too weak to withstand the pounding, 
 together with great ribbons of shining green 
 seaweed that we tacked up beside our windows 
 till they dried ugly and black, and rattled in 
 the constant wind like baffled sea serpents. 
 
 But this is getting ahead of my story, for 
 it was almost a week — six impatient days, to be 
 exact — before we owned or occupied the house. 
 
 It was all ours, everything in sight. The sun 
 set in splendor across our bay, with only one 
 lone island, dining-table size, between us and it. 
 Our garden, reverted to type beyond the 
 crooked, mossy apple trees, stretched on and 
 on, up and up, partly over a scrubby hill all 
 huckleberry bushes and brambles, a straggling 
 path of the goat order turning aside often to 
 browse; and lo ! at the top the Two Betsys. 
 
 The gentle sisters were so precisely alike in 
 age, speech, health, dress and old-fashioned 
 
70 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 reserved manners — not hampered as two of a 
 kind are apt to be by grudging Mother Nature 
 — that we named them the "Two Betsys," in 
 loving remembrance of the two who live im- 
 mortal in the William Henry letters of every- 
 body's young days. 
 
 There was a Lame Betsy, which made our 
 early naming seem inspirational, — like the one 
 who cut William Henry's hair, with an apron 
 round his neck, while the Other looked on; but 
 as our Other had formed the same habit from 
 long keeping step, it was useless to guess which 
 was which. Cecily said they had probably 
 puzzled it out for themselves ; but we never 
 knew. So startlingly alike were they appar- 
 ently in their inmost thoughts that she insisted 
 on their going to heaven at last as a single soul, 
 with possibly a crease in the middle, but un- 
 divided responsibility for earthly peccadilloes. 
 
 They were equally pretty, with the prettiness 
 of old miniatures; fair and delicate, just wilted 
 a little like choice fruit laid by for winter, with 
 soft, graying hair drawn tidily across low fore- 
 heads over small ears and carried up with 
 similar twists to a high shell comb. 
 
 Their hands and feet were trim and fine, and 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 71 
 
 not even the early butcher ever saw them in 
 carpet slippers. 
 
 Before the summer was over we learned — ^but 
 not from them — that they had once danced at 
 a commencement ball, where they looked like 
 twin angels. We often wondered if they had 
 kept their gowns and if we might ask to see 
 them ; but as this suggested country gossip, we 
 denied ourselves, though with endless regret. 
 
 It was to these two-in-one that we went for 
 all our information and help. They lent us 
 Isril, or rather suffered him to come for slight 
 compensation in his noonings, when he worked 
 with the speed of ten and, in hurried fifteen 
 minutes snatched from his allotted sixty, dug 
 holes, set vines and shrubs, cut out ways 
 through our wilderness and even battered into 
 the hard earth a grape arbor, one post a day, 
 unless needed for more vital work, when we were 
 much tossed up and down in our wavering minds 
 as to whether we would have the guest-room 
 bed set up or another post set down to add to 
 the growing look outside. 
 
 One of the Two usually stood by to see that 
 Isril didn't shirk. Sometimes both came, ex- 
 
72 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 plaining that they had set aside their dinner 
 things to make sure that we were not cheated. 
 
 So speechless Isril, meekest, honestest of 
 mankind, had seldom an independent fifteen 
 minutes for his own. As he had no family nor 
 anything belonging in any way to him he slept 
 over the back kitchen near the tiger cat, where 
 he could be dosed easily with handy herbs if so 
 unfortunate as to take cold. Indeed, it seemed 
 somewhat of a grievance to both sisters that 
 Isril was so rugged. 
 
 Sometimes they brought to him in a red 
 napkin a doughnut or a wedge of apple pie to 
 eat on his way home if he had abridged his 
 dinner to come to us ; but, whatever it might be, 
 he laid it on the nearest stump and wasted no 
 fraction of time. Besides these noon labors, he 
 came daily to bring store of vegetables in their 
 season, with whatever the butcher on his rounds 
 had seen fit to leave with us at the Two Betsys. 
 Whether chop or neck cut, tenderloin, flank or 
 stewing piece, all were of a price; and we soon 
 learned to take gratefully whatever was left for 
 us. It might be that we had a special craving 
 for lamb; and "Mis' Smith (of the boarding- 
 house), she wanted the lamb"; or the fire pre- 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 73 
 
 pared for a roast, and the hotel-keeper at the 
 village "he had took all the roasts" ; so the 
 liver, or heart and lights, or a pig's foot or two, 
 or possibly a slice of ham, were left for us. It 
 was of no use pleading with Isril or sending 
 written messages by him. He was simply 
 Mercury at the bidding of the gods of traffic; 
 and when the gods stoop to do you a favor — 
 what then? 
 
 The very first Lord's day in our new home 
 we made the deplorable mistake of asking the 
 Two to our noon dinner, and blushed for days 
 whenever we met them. For they never went 
 out, they told us, except to meeting, and never 
 cooked anything during holy time. They pos- 
 sessed an infinity of leisure which has its root 
 and growth and blossoming only in the genuine 
 country. On week days they rose before the 
 sun blinked over the hill beyond, and the house 
 was in company order when we went for fresh 
 eggs for breakfast, all the butter worked over 
 into golden balls indebted to June only for 
 their color, all the cheeses on the high pantry 
 shelves rubbed and turned. But on the seventh 
 day they rose still earlier (as if the "other six 
 had no souls to save"), that they might lose 
 
74 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 none of its privileges. It was quaint and 
 saintly, and argued godly ancestry; but what 
 an intolerable amount of leisure they must have 
 had on hands that we fancied lying passive in 
 similar laps waiting for the going down of the 
 unconcerned sun ! I think we were both quite 
 melancholy after the morning service. But 
 this, too, passed. 
 
 Our daily breakfast-making was an act of 
 devotion; the incense of coffee rose to the god 
 of the morning. Sometimes when wind and 
 storm strove outside we made a fire of sweet- 
 smelling logs on the hearth like those of Leigh 
 Hunt in his "Earth Upon Heaven," and toasted 
 our bread before it devoutly. From the table 
 we could look out on white sails and fishing 
 dories and the more stately craft leaning and 
 dipping and gallantly bearing down before the 
 wind to unknown lands on the edge of the world 
 that no geography had despoiled — such flights 
 of fancy going with the house whose owner of 
 long ago had brought cargo of spices and 
 fragrant woods from the impossible East. 
 
 We thought we sniffed these in the garret, 
 but the Two Betsys had traditional knowledge 
 beyond our instincts, and said Cap'n Ben never 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 75 
 
 brought such things home but sold them all, 
 hide and hair, in New York, and came up the 
 Sound in water-ballast. Once he had landed 
 on the Sabbath day, and walked into the sanc- 
 tuary while prayers were being put up for his 
 safe return; which was considered a high- 
 handed proceeding. 
 
 We fancied the odor of spices still clinging 
 to garments folded away in the worm-eaten sea 
 chests. But the Two Betsys said Crazy Tim 
 probably broke in there in some of his wander- 
 ings, being crossed in love when this complaint 
 was fashionable, and forgot to take his things 
 when he went. But we silently discarded the 
 Crazy Tim theory, for why should he fold away 
 his clothes when he forgot to take them with 
 him.'' There are many mysteries about old 
 garrets, especially those by the sea. 
 
 There was carefree joy, and we were no 
 "shirkers of its nectar," in a fine sense of pos- 
 session without responsibility. If any choice 
 bit of china were nicked, Indian china from the 
 captain's store, — any great-grandmother dam- 
 ask coffee-stained, it was our own fault, and 
 one never visits transgressions on one's own 
 head. But these things did not occur. On 
 
76 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 sunny days when we could tear ourselves away 
 from our vines and the many transplanted 
 things dragged from hollows and hillsides to 
 perish miserably under care, we had picnic 
 luncheons, and once drove with the Two to a 
 grove far from the sea, to give variety to their 
 life and ours — a pastoral picture of a place, 
 with cows and sheep feeding near by. 
 
 But the sheep sped away on our approach 
 like the frightened hares from the serpent of 
 the legend suddenly transformed into a woman, 
 and the cows crowded too close for comfort and 
 sniffed at us to know if we were by chance 
 bearers of salt. 
 
 So to secure elbow room, Cecily and I climbed 
 a fence, which the Two said they preferred to 
 roll under. Indeed, they had great difficulty in 
 stopping, as the weeds they clutched came up 
 by the roots on this downhill slope, and both 
 of them grass-greened the scalloped freshly 
 ironed muslin aprons they had tied on at start- 
 ing, for company manners. 
 
 The Lame Betsy (as we thought) drove 
 home, holding the lines on a level with her chin, 
 one in each firm hand, while the Other explained 
 that as Job was getting old and apt to stumble 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 77 
 
 going down hill, we might all prefer to walk 
 and lead him. Cecily held the reins for safety 
 while they clambered out and could not be per- 
 suaded that there was no danger. To this day 
 she insists that they clung on behind to retard 
 speed, judging from certain following shadows ; 
 but as she has all the pertinacity of youth in 
 her rash statements, I did not dispute it. There 
 are many times, however, when silence does not 
 give consent. 
 
 Week by week, argue as we might, we could 
 never persuade the Lame One or the Other to 
 row out with us in the flat-bottomed boat that 
 went with the house and was another of our 
 happy possessions. They had illogical faith in 
 Man, but none whatever in the skill of woman- 
 kind. 
 
 The first time we pushed off in their sight 
 they said they should feel bad if we didn't come 
 back, and ran clucking up and down the bank 
 till we were out of reach. 
 
 Oftenest we rowed to the island, an island 
 with pine trees that the red sunsets quivered 
 through, and there built our Spanish chateaux 
 with fount ained courts and stately halls, where 
 willing guests responded to wireless invitations. 
 
78 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 guests whom we fed on honey dew and milk of 
 Paradise, with no final labor of dish-washing. 
 
 But the joys of picnicking and rowing, of 
 swimming in the curving bay with sand-peeps 
 keeping us company along the shining dunes, 
 even castle building on the enchanted island, 
 were minus quantities compared to those of new 
 house owners over growing things. 
 
 For here at last was the rapture of creation. 
 He who plants pears, our friends had solemnly 
 warned us, plants for his heirs. Selfish old 
 adage. We had planted pears, and watched 
 each feeble leaflet expanding miraculously 
 under our loving care. The harvest to be was 
 a small matter. One can buy pears anywhere. 
 Who wants a site selected, a house builded and 
 furnished, a wife wooed and won, children 
 adopted for him ! We felt that we were cheat- 
 ing our heirs. What is life at its best with no 
 element of expectation.'' 
 
 The Two Betsys often looked in upon us of 
 an evening, before the sun dropped, with Dido, 
 the tiger cat, purring close behind, and we in- 
 variably strolled back with them as the dew 
 began to fall, and the whippoorwill made night 
 weirdly solemn — learning scrap by scrap all the 
 
THE STORY OF THE, TWO BETSYS 79 
 
 ancient history of our house. Sometimes we 
 coaxed them to stay and sit by our fire, if we 
 had the smallest pretext for one. But this was 
 seldom, and we suspected that it was to them 
 an aiding and abetting of a sinful waste of fuel. 
 Their own keeping room had an air-tight stove, 
 polished to mirror brightness — one of those 
 rural idols that seldom ministered, but was 
 perpetually ministered to. 
 
 We rose like the Two before the sun tipped 
 the rim of the world with glory. It might be 
 only pottering around, but it looked like large 
 business to us. There were straight little elms 
 to be chosen and labeled for future planting, 
 cherry trees planted by the wind and careless 
 robins to be trimmed and straightened. Hop 
 vines on the fence escaped from ancient culture 
 were to be schooled in the way they should go 
 by precept and strong brown cord. Many 
 were already in leading strings when Isril con- 
 founded all our wisdom by his experience, and 
 we learned that hop vines are "nat'rally left- 
 handed creturs and twist agin the sun." 
 
 There seems on reflection to be altogether too 
 much of ourselves and our house, and alto- 
 gether too little of the Two Betsys, whose story 
 
80 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 this claims to be. Like most long-suffering 
 souls, these patient ones have been temporarily 
 obscured, yet never forgotten. There were days 
 when they gave us the freedom of their shining 
 house, where an unhappy fly was never for a 
 moment at home. 
 
 Sometimes they took us reverently to the 
 garret of stored spinning wheels and flax wheels 
 and reels, of long-handled warming pans and 
 foot stoves — tangible records of a dim past — 
 and thoughtfully opened low chests that held 
 treasures of other generations — ^bed quilts of 
 astounding color and patchwork, from "orange 
 quarters" to "rising suns," from "log cabins" 
 to bewildering "box" designs, from "Rose of 
 Sharon" to lily semblances that a wild iris 
 would shrink from, and applique leaves and 
 flowers. 
 
 There were bits of mother's gown and of 
 Sister Sally's, and a scrap of pink calico serv- 
 ing as a rosebud, that was the baby's — the one 
 that died young. Both sighed gently and said 
 she was the prettiest one of all, and there had 
 been eight. We fancied their ghosts looking over 
 our shoulders, peering wistfully into the dim 
 depths to recognize tokens of their earthly vest- 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 81 
 
 ments with the faint, still clinging odor of 
 mortality. 
 
 There was one white counterpane quilted in 
 scallop shells ; but not one of them all had seen 
 active service. As hidden store of gold to the 
 miser, to be gloated over at rare intervals, so 
 were these labors of countless years to the Two. 
 Once we were asked with the minister's wife to a 
 quilting, where a minute shell-and-rose pattern 
 was to cover the entire surface of a white 
 spread — a monumental piece of work, requiring 
 the willing labor of weeks. The memory of 
 marking-chalk under the finger nails is cause 
 for shuddering still. 
 
 At the close of this unusual session one Betsy 
 passed slices of fragrant loaf cake made from 
 a great-grandmother's recipe, while the other 
 carried a tray with tall, slim glasses of home- 
 made currant wine not to be compared in its 
 innocence with any sinful foreign brew. 
 
 There was a delectable kitchen corner, where 
 beside the window, under the shadow of the tiger 
 cat on the ledge, stood a two-story work table ; 
 on its lower shelf a market basket of gay flannel 
 *bits ready to be cut and braided into rugs. A 
 prettier basket, for show, stood on the top, 
 
82 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 filled with rainbow colors for quilts — always 
 quilts ! So Satan found no mischief still, ex- 
 cepting always the Sabbath day. Did he smile, 
 I wonder, when the seventh day swung round 
 with its stern command to cease from labor? 
 
 One keeps the best till the last, like children 
 with sugar plums. I was confident that the 
 Two had a history, as we say of folk with love 
 affairs, and strained imagination to give it 
 form and color. But not until the last night, 
 when we had coaxed them to come to dinner (we 
 called it tea to preserve our reputation for 
 sanity) — and bring the tiger cat, did it come 
 out. Even then it was delayed until the dishes 
 were washed. Each had brought a blue-check 
 gingham apron to tie on over the white muslin 
 company one, and neither would listen to leav- 
 ing the obvious duty until morning. 
 
 It was a sad disappointment that they would 
 not taste our broiled chicken, and as for 
 coffee — my ! they wouldn't sleep a wink. Just 
 a little hot water — mercy no ! not tea ! that 
 was worse yet; and a thought of milk to take 
 off the edge of the water. That and bread and 
 butter was all they ever had at night. They 
 hoped we would excuse them, and were so sorry 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 83 
 
 to make us trouble. So we set the chicken aside 
 and fared together like anchorites, while the cat 
 sniffed at the delicious odor of broiling, and the 
 aroma of coifee filled all the house. 
 
 But it was the beginning of their story, for 
 coffee suggested Isril, who had formerly been 
 addicted to it. They had been able to sub- 
 stitute cambric tea since he came to live with 
 them, and felt that they had won in a great 
 cause. He was a little peaked, they said, when 
 he came, because he had had a blow. Her 
 father wouldn't let him marry her, though both 
 their hearts were set on it, because he was, like 
 Melchizedek, without known descent. He had 
 been passed from hand to hand, a foundling, 
 and all his good qualities were of no avail. The 
 girl died soon after; a pretty creature. Lame 
 Betsy said, and the Other added, pretty as a 
 pink. "Brother Man," whispered Cecily as the 
 Two disappeared with a pile of plates while we 
 gathered up cups and glasses — "and I thought 
 he was just two long arms and a back !" 
 
 "Sister Woman," I added cautiously, but 
 Cecily shook her head. "Never repeat anything 
 that sounds improbable," she quoted. 
 
 It was the warm chimney corner that did the 
 
84 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 deed at last. Their own air-tight stove had no 
 atmosphere. And so as we gathered around 
 our cheerful blaze on a chilly summer night the 
 Lame One, with Dido asleep on her lap, began 
 the story. 
 
 Certainly there was a man in it, as I 
 had prophesied, just as there has been from 
 Adam on. 
 
 "She thought I was the one, and I thought 
 she was the one." 
 
 "And so when he was killed" — 
 
 — "time of the war that you don't remember 
 about, we put on black." 
 
 —"both of us"— 
 
 — "for a spell." 
 
 "I s'pose 'twas foolish !" 
 
 "But he wa'n't !" broke in the Lame One 
 briskly, gaining impetus from the pause. 
 
 "No," said the Other, "but he was a prisoner 
 ever so long, and a girl down there was good to 
 him, and I reckon he liked her — " 
 
 "Didn't have to bother," put in the Lame 
 Betsy, "for you see there wa'n't but one of her." 
 
 "And so they married and went out West," 
 added both in chorus. It was a thing they had 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 85 
 
 learned by heart in their youth. Then they 
 took it up singly. 
 
 "I guess he didn't want folks to know." 
 
 "Thought maybe we shouldn't hear." 
 
 "And yesterday, up the road he came and 
 walked right up the back steps." 
 
 "Caught us blacking the stove." 
 
 "And he was an old man." 
 
 "Proper good looking though, and pretty 
 spoken, just as he always was — " 
 
 "And the kindest heart ! Property didn't 
 make a mite of difference." 
 
 There was a long, silent moment. The cat 
 stirred in the Lame One's lap, and the clock 
 ticked as it had never ticked before. 
 
 "Well?" asked Cecily with shining eyes. 
 
 "It wasn't to marry us," explained Lame 
 Betsy, apprehensively. "We're too old — all of 
 us. He said his folks was all gone, all but one 
 nice little girl, his daughter's, and if anything 
 happened to him, would we bring her up ? He'd 
 made his will and left all his property to us 
 three." 
 
 "I declare!" said the Other softly, looking 
 through and beyond the fire as if she heard it 
 for the first time. But Cecily said afterward 
 
86 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 she thought she was wondering to herself if they 
 were all too old. 
 
 "He said something to her once," the Other 
 began in a far-away voice, deeper than her 
 everyday one, "and she didn't mention it, some- 
 way. And next day he took us both over to the 
 island, and she twisted her foot. You see, she 
 had thin slippers on, and 'twas pretty rough. 
 But she never let on ; and next day she was laid 
 up, and told me not to mention it. So that time 
 he walked down to the shore with me, and I took 
 a basket, though he wouldn't let me carry it, 
 and he dug a few clams for our breakfast, — 
 'twas a pretty evening, — and 'long the way 
 home he said about the same to me." 
 
 It was a long speech for the Other, the 
 longest I had ever heard her make; and when 
 she came to the end the Lame One spoke up 
 with alacrity: "He didn't know which was 
 which, and I mistrust he don't now!" 
 
 The tiger cat purred lazily, and all her heart 
 went out to its beauty and knowingness as she 
 stroked it lovingly. But the Other still looked 
 through and beyond the fire, and a red spot 
 glowed on the cheek toward me that was away 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 87 
 
 from it. And that night Cecily's theory of the 
 one soul had a shock. 
 
 It was with one long, last look, key in hand, 
 at the summer's close, that Cecily espied a 
 penciled au revoir tucked under the door latch, 
 and snatched it off because it looked silly. We 
 were leaving the little sentient place to its own 
 fears and imaginations ; its hearth-fire quenched, 
 its blind eyes seeing ghosts of the happy past 
 and knowing no future. It must shudder in 
 wintry storms, wondering dumbly why it should 
 be deserted after its little taste of cheerful life. 
 Some great, cruel storm might again batter at 
 its door and mock its unprotected state. Hence 
 the reassuring legend that Cecily would none of. 
 
 It was in the edge of a quiet evening, the 
 welcome lull that follows the Christmas time 
 and sets all hearts at rest again, that we sat 
 before another fire, Cecily and I, living over the 
 summer days, when a box with many wrappings 
 was brought in, a tangle of loosening strings, 
 together with a message from the stage driver 
 that the Miss Betsys sent it with their com- 
 pliments. 
 
 With curious, eager fingers, layer after layer 
 was unfolded, and lo ! in a sheet of whitest 
 
88 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 boughten tissue paper a generous wedge of 
 fragrant wedding cake ! 
 
 Cecily thinks it may be the Lame One after 
 all. But I do not think. I know. 
 
 Sometimes, as if by pure chance, we come 
 upon an orthodox garden plant, immutable to 
 our thought, that by some strange vagary of 
 Nature has put forth a bud after the first kill- 
 ing frost. 
 
 Next summer (D. V.) we go earlier to the 
 dormer-window house. But won't it be queer 
 at the Two Betsys' ! Cecily's one-soul theory 
 is utterly wrecked. No more a crease in the 
 middle, but two unequally developed wholes with 
 divided responsibility. 
 
 I doubt if the Other will ever halt again. 
 There is a stronger step to keep pace with — 
 another rhythm. 
 
 The harsh years will drop away, leaving their 
 fine tracery on the solitary figure only. Hope 
 and happiness are famous strippers of the husk 
 from the nut. 
 
 Already in fancy I see from afar (after 
 milking time) two severed from the third, pro- 
 pelled once more by the safe arm of Man, set- 
 ting out for the isle of Enchantment that red 
 
THE STORY OF THE TWO BETSYS 89 
 
 sunsets eternally quiver over. There we may 
 leave them hand in hand to their fair autumnal 
 dream. 
 
 Pray who of us all would barter for the 
 young unrest and flitting hopes of April the 
 durable content of "St. Martin's Little Sum- 
 mer".'' 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 
 
 In a cold corner of a New England town, 
 sometime during the last moments of the eight- 
 eenth century, a child called David Lammot 
 wailed out his first feeble protest. It was as 
 if the life he had not asked for were thrust upon 
 him against his feeble will; and Goodwife Dean, 
 as she coddled the tiny body, like that of a 
 callow bird, before the blazing forestick of the 
 great kitchen hearth, sighed audibly that it 
 was a solemn thing for a woman forty years old 
 to have a child to bring up. 
 
 Mary Lammot, lying white and still in the 
 little bedroom close by, lighted only by the 
 kitchen fire, heard the sigh, and thought in her 
 heart that it was a more solemn thing, this 
 late coming into life of her one child, than his 
 father's early going out of it had been. For 
 death early or late meant, to the good, wings 
 instead of weary feet ; and paradise, a blissful, 
 if vague existence beyond the stars, terribly 
 remote but perfectly secure. It was treasure 
 laid up in heaven, with dauntless faith; while 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 91 
 
 this small treasure on earth was open to all 
 the evils, pains, temptations and wickedness of 
 that fallen estate called, in irony, man's — an 
 estate quite beyond his jurisdiction that he was 
 burdened and handicapped with but could no 
 more escape than if he were the incapable heir 
 to a great kingdom. 
 
 It was Goodwife Dean who, on the eighth 
 day, according to Moses, presented this sem- 
 blance of a man child to the Lord at the altar 
 of the frozen meeting-house, well swaddled in 
 linen clothing, with a linen cap covering his 
 baldness. When Parson Crane broke the ice in 
 the christening bowl, and the symbolic water, 
 like the oil which ran down Aaron's beard, 
 trickled slowly over the babe's brow and eye- 
 lids, another protest, deeper than that which 
 lamented the day of his birth, made a precedent 
 in the sacred place. 
 
 Clearly this was not a proper child. Good- 
 wife Dean wrapped the human morsel in a plaid 
 homespun blanket, and hurried through the 
 nipping air across the creaking snow that 
 glistened on the green, to put him into his 
 mother's waiting arms before the comforting 
 fire. 
 
92 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 A grand magnificat was chanting itself in 
 the heart of Mary Lammot as she received 
 again from the Lord that which she had dedi- 
 cated anew to Him, together with an unreason- 
 ing longing to be left alone with the care of her 
 child. 
 
 Dame Dean had a kind heart and warm, 
 motherly hands, but a prying tongue and a 
 very bird-of-the-air way of whispering things 
 abroad; so that this night, as she set the bowl 
 of posset to warm on the hearth, she was 
 tempted to ask, "Didn't his father have a sort 
 of Frenchy name?" — to which Mrs. Lammot 
 responded, hastily, "God forbid!" and closed 
 the subject as promptly as if she had bolted a 
 door behind it. 
 
 Dame Dean asked no more questions ; but it 
 was known for a certainty that the man wait- 
 ing for the resurrection, with his head to the 
 east, in the old burying ground below the 
 meeting-house, had once taught French in the 
 great, vague city of New York; and the stigma 
 might hamper young David's career in the way 
 of godliness marked out from birth for every 
 child of Puritan blood. 
 
 Fight as she would against the evidence of 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 93 
 
 her senses, Mary Lammot could not conceal 
 from herself the fact that David was a puny 
 child. Clearly heaven should have dropped this 
 man-germ into mellower soil under sunnier skies 
 if it expected worthy growth. But heaven, as 
 we well know, has its own schemes, and in- 
 variably turns a sternly deaf ear to the well- 
 meant advice of mortal underlings. 
 
 When the babe slept in his long, wooden 
 cradle before the fire, and the mother ceased to 
 sing mournfully: 
 
 Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber. 
 
 Holy angels guard thy bed, 
 
 every quiver of his eyelids meant something, 
 and at night she listened with fear to his 
 breathing, and longed for the day when the 
 struggle for his life should not be so heavily 
 handicapped. 
 
 As the months went on, and he wrestled with 
 the croup that beleaguered every wind-swept 
 New England shelter, or grew white and wan 
 under the mysterious pangs of teething, the 
 mother felt that in invoking this precious exist- 
 ence she had done the child a wrong that only 
 her whole life could atone for. Year by year, 
 he went down to death, hand in hand with 
 
94? A GRAY DREAM 
 
 measles or mumps, whooping cough or canker 
 rash, the prototype of modern scarlet fever, 
 that long ago subdued the earth; and year by 
 year his triumphant mother led him up from 
 the very gates of the unknown, and gave her 
 little Samuel anew as a thank offering to the 
 Lord. 
 
 Other children went to the weather-beaten 
 schoolhouse under the hill, bringing their 
 dinner pails a mile or more to this one seat of 
 learning; climbing the steeps of knowledge 
 through peril, toil and pain, like martyrs of 
 an earlier time, in another cause. But David 
 learned his letters at his mother's knee, and so 
 was sheltered not only from the indignity of 
 the rod that quickened slow brains, but also 
 from the iniquity to be found in numbers. 
 
 One summer's night, when the boy had passed 
 his fourth year, the mother woke suddenly and 
 missed him from his little trundle-bed at the 
 foot of her own high-posted and curtained one. 
 A mysterious dream had snatched her from 
 sleep, and still held her in an unreal world. So 
 she lighted a candle at the covered embers on 
 the hearth and searched the house. The two 
 outer doors were barred and every window 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 95 
 
 closed against the summer air in the good old 
 way. Something in the likeness of terror 
 assailed her calm soul; but she met it with 
 resentment, and went up the long, steep stair- 
 case in the hallway, making on the white wall 
 a broken and quivering shadow of her weird 
 self, in short gown and petticoat and high- 
 crowned cap, that seemed to mock her futility. 
 
 Not until the spare room, with its high- 
 curtained and valanced feather bed, had been 
 lighted in every corner, and the east room and 
 garret thoroughly explored, did she think of 
 the meal room over the kitchen. As she un- 
 latched its door, a little figure in cap and night- 
 gown crept out with shining eyes from behind 
 the barrels and chests and floury bags, and 
 stood blinking in the candle light. 
 
 "My son, what does this mean?" the mother 
 asked severely, and David did not run to her 
 with easy confession, like a nineteenth-century 
 child, but stood still, shivering in the warm air, 
 with the shadow of. a great disappointment 
 clouding his face. 
 
 "Mother — mother — they said there was 
 spooks in the dark; and it isn't so. I've felt 
 all 'round." Then he broke down and sobbed 
 
96 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 quietly. The spell was broken by this harsh 
 awakening. 
 
 "Who said so, David?" 
 
 David named the boy Abner who did daily 
 chores about the house. The mother relented 
 at sight of the child's tears. A sense of her 
 own youth came haltingly back, when girlish 
 grief over nothing was possible, and she said 
 gently: 
 
 "What if you had found one, David?" 
 
 "Oh, I could keep him to play with nights. 
 But he isn't there." 
 
 "No, David ; there never was any such thing. 
 Abner told you a wrong story. There, come to 
 bed now, and don't cry." 
 
 Abner told no more wrong stories. His 
 comings and goings were zealously watched. 
 But David wearied for his spook. When he 
 shut his eyes at night and was trundled halfway 
 under his mother's bed, the dark was luminous 
 with spooks. They trooped over the meal 
 chests and hid behind the floury bags and 
 barrels, and wore stars in their hair like fire- 
 flies, to show the way. They sang, but the 
 words were not those of the Bay Psalm Book, 
 nor even of Doddridge's Authorized Collection. 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 97 
 
 Up and away. 
 Here comes the day, 
 Hurry and scurry and up and away. 
 Night's for the play. 
 Here comes the day. 
 
 The air of the song, too, was most secular. 
 A long-legged grasshopper, vaulting over the 
 ryeheads in the upland patch, might have sung 
 just such an one. 
 
 A great longing for school took possession 
 of David after the spook episode, and, reason- 
 ing for a long time with his small courage, he 
 took it up and went heavily with it to his 
 mother, who was spinning in the meal room. 
 He watched the fluffy rolls of wool, lying like 
 bits of summer cloud at his mother's hand, and 
 wondered why they did not fall apart and 
 vanish altogether as she attached one end to 
 the spindle and drew out the long, whirling 
 thread to the wailing music of the wheel. When 
 she stepped back for another roll, his courage 
 had deserted him ; yet he bravely stood his 
 ground and made his plea. 
 
 But Mrs. Lammot had carefully planned all 
 the little life before it was eight days old, and 
 took its first flight from her to the baptismal 
 
98 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 font. "I will teach you," she said, and stopped 
 the wheel. So every day he stood at her knee, 
 and in his mind saw the pin that guided his 
 wavering sight as an indispensable part of the 
 stately regiment called letters. 
 
 He had already seen, as in a lovely vision, 
 the muster of troops for spring training on the 
 green; and there was something martial and 
 inspiring in this small semblance of a sword 
 that rallied the interminable company. A was 
 like Parson Crane, and B like fat Colonel Royce, 
 and C like crooked Gaffer Kemp, leaning his 
 long chin down to his staff, and D — oh, D was 
 like the big bass drum full of the rapture and 
 fury of sound. 
 
 From his three-legged stool at the window 
 he had watched the gathering with shining 
 eyes. But this was a day when he did not walk 
 abroad holding his mother's hand. For, after 
 the opening prayer, the reading of religious 
 notices and the singing of a distorted psalm 
 from the Bay Psalm Book, strong drinks were 
 given out over the bar set up at the meeting- 
 house steps, and the beautiful army, with its 
 jingling swords and shouldered muskets and 
 heavenly music, marched only in the morning 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 99 
 
 with a troop of adoring boys at its heels. 
 David's stool was removed from the window 
 before those of his brave soldiers who were 
 able stumbled home at night. 
 
 After the big letters came the little letters — 
 oh, so queer! Little crooked g was Thankful 
 Crane, just beginning to walk alone, with her 
 hood tied under her round chin, and her blue 
 flannel gown almost covering her shoes. He 
 wished they had made just some little things 
 like shoes in front, if they could. And m was 
 like Goody Dean, who always filled up the road 
 so that he could not see past her when he walked 
 out with his mother, and said fatly, "Why, why, 
 little man !" 
 
 David stood on his footstool at table beside 
 his mother, and ate with his small knife what- 
 ever food she saw best to cut up and lay on his 
 own tin plate, until the day when Daniel Eddy, 
 the carpenter, made him a high chair and 
 painted it blue. This high chair was the talk 
 of the town for many a month, and the cause 
 of much prophesy as to how a child so pampered 
 might turn out. It savored of foreign ways. 
 
 It was by means of this same high chair that 
 David, looking down one day on the brown 
 
100 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 schoolhouse, saw a deed of shame that made 
 him cover his eyes. It was one of the cruel, 
 disgraceful public punishments, common enough 
 at that dark period of our history; but David 
 never again asked to go to school. It was then 
 that his mind turned toward and clung to the 
 thought of a little dog, a dog that should be 
 his very own. "If I could have a puppy," he 
 asked, tentatively, — "a very little bit of a 
 
 puppy?" 
 
 But the answer, as to most of his questions, 
 was ready made, like those in the primer. "A 
 puppy would track up the floor, David, and 
 bark nights." 
 
 How should this Puritan mother know that 
 when she shut one door to her boy his guardian 
 angel promptly opened another that neither 
 man nor woman could shut.'' Night after night 
 a curly tail wagged through David's dreams, 
 and beautiful muddy tracks crossed and criss- 
 crossed the white field of inner vision, keeping 
 time to the staccato music of most entrancing 
 barks, the clear "All hail!" of a comrade that 
 made the night more desirable than the day. 
 There, close beside the trundle-bed, were the 
 eager eyes, the one cocked ear, the cold nose 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 101 
 
 fumbling in his hand, the silky coat, like noth- 
 ing ever spun on wheel or woven on earthly 
 loom. 
 
 Two things made David's fifth winter mem- 
 orable. Once, when the snow lay deep and 
 crusted on the face of the earth, he cried out 
 from his high chair, where he was painfully 
 learning to knit, "Mother, mother ! those boys 
 are sliding down hill!" There were girls, too; 
 but David was not yet in accord with them, 
 so they did not signify. Some bold spirit had 
 devised the wild scheme during the short noon- 
 ing that took the master away. Led by an 
 older girl, the younger children had dragged 
 out a long bench, turned it upside down, filled 
 it from end to end with human freight, and, 
 steering by its two legs, tried the perilous 
 coast. Up it shot over hillocks of snow, down 
 it plunged into awful hollows, then reared and 
 shook off its riders. The leader shot into the 
 air, a bench leg in each hand, and all the wrig- 
 gling, shouting heap rolled and bumped with 
 infinite glee and peril to the level below. 
 
 David kicked his futile heels against the 
 chair legs and held his struggling heart in with 
 both hands. Such madness was not for him. 
 
102 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 Here was bliss past asking for. The ball of 
 yarn rolled under his chair, and the needles 
 dropped their few stitches. But Mrs. Lammot 
 had also looked on, unknown to the boy. Si- 
 lently she went up to the garret, and brought 
 down a sorry, battered sled made to withstand 
 the shock of generations. It had been the 
 proud possession of her only brother, dead 
 these forty years and more; and as she rubbed 
 off the dust and knotted a bit of bedcord to 
 drag it by she gave the tribute of a sigh to 
 the vanished past. Then she wrapped the child 
 in a warm cloak, brought his new scarlet tippet 
 and mittens that she had made from wool 
 carded, spun, dyed and knitted by her own 
 hands, and reached her own cloak and hood 
 down from the nail behind the bedroom door. 
 David made no sign, but his very heart was 
 liquid within him. Gently his mother led him 
 to the hill back of the meadow that sloped to 
 the brook pasture, and taught the boy to guide 
 the treacherous wooden horse away from dan- 
 ger. It was a day that David remembered with 
 a thrill to the end of his life. 
 
 The second epoch was the reopening of 
 the long-closed Episcopal Church across the 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 103 
 
 green, and the lighting it for Christmas. It 
 was the smallest brown box ever contrived to 
 hold slim worshipers, — like Horace Walpole's 
 temple of Vesta, just a trifle too large to hang 
 on one's watch chain. But when the candles 
 were set at the windows and lighted, row on 
 row, and David watched the tiny flames rise like 
 inscruta-ble incense to some unknown god, he 
 clapped his hands and cried aloud for joy and 
 wonder. "It is the worship of the Scarlet 
 Woman," said the mother under her breath; 
 but David heard. To him scarlet was the one 
 splendor of the visible universe. If the boy had 
 been born even a half-century later, he would 
 have found out the meaning of the strange 
 phrase. Day after day he climbed the stairs 
 to the freezing garret, and scratched the frost 
 from the small window panes, standing on tip- 
 toe and yearning for one little glimpse of the 
 supernal creature somewhere between porch 
 and altar. As he dragged his heavy sled from 
 hill to hill across his mother's stony acres, 
 he tried in vain to reach some height whence 
 he could look down upon the enshrined mystery. 
 For when the people had gone home the 
 Scarlet Woman was not with them; it was a 
 
104 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 moonlit night, and they went early, for David 
 slipped noiselessly from his bed more than once 
 to make sure. Why all the candles — and what 
 did the worshiped Woman do when they went 
 out? Could she find her bed in the dark? for 
 she must have one somewhere ; and did she feed 
 on manna, like the Children of Israel in the 
 stories his mother filled his mind with? 
 
 At first he had been carried in arms to the 
 meeting-house, and later led by the hand, to sit 
 in the high-backed, square pew, and look up 
 with reverence at Parson Crane in the highest 
 place of all, with a sounding board over his 
 head, — like Aaron, the boy thought, atoning 
 for the sins of the people. Sometimes David 
 sat with his back to the pulpit, warming his 
 feet on a corner of his mother's foot stove, and 
 looked over his bars at the high-collared and 
 short-waisted singers in the gallery. Oftener 
 he watched the big boys, set apart in the side 
 gallery and policed by a stern tithing-man, who 
 now and then hauled some giggling reprobate to 
 the warm noon house standing on the highway 
 close by. At such times the sounds that rose 
 and fell from this retreat, all out of harmony 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 105 
 
 with Parson Crane's mild voice, made David's 
 very soul quiver. 
 
 The boy never went to this noon house, where 
 the heads of families warmed their frozen 
 doughnuts and heated their mugs of flip at a 
 secular fire forbidden in the sacred place. His 
 own home was too near for that coveted privi- 
 lege. Besides, not infrequently, rude boys 
 lurked in the shadows and peered cautiously 
 in at the window of the house they might not 
 enter. There was evil everywhere except by 
 one's own hearthstone. 
 
 Toward spring David was so far advanced 
 in learning that the mystery of figures was 
 slowly revealed to him; and before the ferns 
 pushed their fists through the black mould by 
 the brook, or the daffodils showed yellow 
 through their sheaths, he could recite the multi- 
 plication table backward and forward as easily 
 as he could say his letters from A to Z, and from 
 Z back to A again. Then it was that Mary 
 Lammot once more searched her stronghold, 
 the garret, and brought from its secret treas- 
 ures a little marvel of a book, with dingy type 
 and wooden covers split with the wet and dry 
 of time, and pictures most wooden of all. In 
 
106 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 its very front was the appearance of a ball, 
 with the letters N. E. S. and W. marked at 
 equal intervals on its surface, and standing 
 beside these something that represented human 
 beings in tall hats and knee breeches, to show 
 that people do not fall when the world turns 
 over. David's horizon broadened in a flash, and 
 of his wonder there was no end. 
 
 "Are we up now.''" he would ask with wide 
 eyes. "And shall we be down tonight.''" And 
 his mother would answer truthfully, "I do not 
 know when we are up or when we are down." 
 
 "And might we fall off in the night.''" the 
 child once asked falteringly, with the fascinat- 
 ing book open and a terrible fear clutching at 
 his heart. 
 
 "No, David." 
 
 "What would keep us on ?^^ 
 
 "God." 
 
 "And He would never, never, never let us 
 fall.?" 
 
 "No, David." 
 
 And so the child went night by night to his 
 little trundle-bed, secure in a sublime faith in 
 his God and his mother, those tremendous kin- 
 dred faiths that uphold the universe. 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 107 
 
 Mysteriously separated in spirit as far as 
 the north and south poles in the wooden- 
 covered geography, mother and child walked, 
 their lives interwoven mesh and mesh, hers all 
 warp, his all woof. 
 
 When a new summer came, the man who 
 worked the farm on shares and yearly dug up 
 the garden patch made in a sunny corner by 
 the south fence a little flower bed for the child, 
 and opened his understanding to the miracle 
 of seeds, and the evil tendencies, since Adam, of, 
 pusley and pigweed. After the episode of the 
 Scarlet Woman, David's heart was wholly 
 given over to the splendor of the meadow lilies, 
 the scarlet runners and the flaming garden 
 poppies. So his mother walked with him in the 
 meadow after tea, where he could gather lilies 
 to his heart's content, and gave him her store 
 of poppy seed; and the flower bed filled all his 
 soul for a time. 
 
 One day, when his poppies were in bloom, he 
 saw above their heads a sight that sent all the 
 blood to his heart. It was only little Thankful 
 Crane, now secure on her feet, who had escaped 
 from her father's hand and was prancing up 
 and down the dusty highway like a very young 
 
108 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 colt let loose, in a scarlet gown and a sunbonnet 
 of the same glorious hue. When she saw David 
 she stopped at the fence and peered through; 
 but David, with masculine instinct, climbed to 
 the top and leaned over. 
 
 "You are a Scarlet Woman," he said. 
 "Wait." Back he ran to his garden, and 
 picked every poppy blossom, pulling up in his 
 haste a plant or two by the roots, which he 
 twisted off as he raced back. "Take them all," 
 he said, and pushed them through the fence. 
 Thankful grasped them by heads or stems 
 indifferently, and held up her lips to be kissed. 
 Now David did not know a kiss, but her action 
 signified friendliness, and the two stood smiling 
 at each other with the fence between, and 
 tilting up and down on heels and toes, like two 
 butterflies hovering over a thistle, till Parson 
 Crane came up and drew the little one away 
 without regarding David. 
 
 When the child in the blue high chair folded 
 his hands for the long blessing at supper, his 
 heart was so full of the joy of the afternoon 
 that he spoke out while his mother's head was 
 still bowed over her plate and her eyes closed. 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 109 
 
 "She's a Scarlet Woman." He was only 
 thinking aloud. 
 
 "Parson Crane's Thankful?" 
 
 The fence scene had not escaped the watchful 
 eyes at the window. David nodded, with his 
 mouth full of bread and milk. 
 
 "You mean she had on a red, gown." 
 
 The vision dropped to ashes in an instant, 
 and left nothing in its place. The name, as 
 well as the quality of scarlet, had taken pos- 
 session of the boy with its splendor of sight 
 and of sound. But a red gown was just a need- 
 ful something for everyday covering — ^like a 
 brown house, or a gray cloak. 
 
 As David grew older and stronger he had 
 his share in the labors of field and garden, pull- 
 ing up stout weeds, piling into pyramids great 
 heaps of red and yellow apples in the autumn, 
 trundling hugh pumpkins to cover in the cellar. 
 But, best of all, he loved the care of the sheep, 
 like the poet-king whose name he bore. Once 
 he was away during a thunder storm that 
 shook heaven and earth and sent a bolt down 
 the huge oak in the pasture, splintering two 
 of its limbs. The boy had only been with his 
 sheep. The little lambs were afraid, he said. 
 
110 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 and so he went into the sheepfold with them, 
 and put his arms around the little ones, and 
 they didn't shake so. 
 
 "And was my son afraid, too?" the mother 
 asked. 
 
 David shook his head confidently. "Why, no, 
 mother. But the little lambs didn't know about 
 God." 
 
 Of course, the boys who passed the house on 
 their way to and from school jeered at David, 
 and with insolent gestures called on him to come 
 out and fight. They threw stones at him once 
 or twice, which he returned so valiantly, and 
 with such direct aim, that it seemed impossible 
 for his mother not to know it. Indeed, very 
 few things escaped her eye. The boy had his 
 own happy days, fishing in the brook that ran 
 through the pasture, gathering chestnuts and 
 shagbarks, finding wintergreen berries, digging 
 sassafras roots, bringing armfuls of spearmint 
 and boneset for his mother to dry in the garret, 
 picking flocks of wool from the wild black- 
 berry thorns to save the robins' steps in the 
 nesting season. Many a time he climbed the 
 apple tree whose crooked branches creaked 
 against the bedroom window, and had the joy 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 111 
 
 of seeing the soft lining his own providence had 
 supplied protecting the blue eggs in the nest. 
 But his visits were well timed, and the mother 
 bird did not suspect them. Once he found an 
 unfledged robin dead under the tree and 
 brought it to his mother. 
 
 "It is dead," she said. "Throw it away." 
 
 "All the singing in it!" David faltered, with 
 quivering lip. 
 
 "Oh, no ; — young robins just cry, and open 
 their big mouths for worms. Throw it away 
 and wash your hands." 
 
 David obeyed, with a sinking heart, but 
 found a moment when he could gently bury and 
 cover with leaves the defeated plan of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 On Saturday afternoons, before the holy 
 sunset time, the two went hand in hand to the 
 burying ground under the hill, and pulled away 
 the weeds that obscured in rank growth the 
 headstone of the one grave they possessed in 
 common. There were many stones bearing 
 another name that Mary Lammot had wept 
 over in the young days, that David had no 
 share in. 
 
 After early supper, all work was set aside 
 
112 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 until sunset of the Lord's day. During this 
 time it was not decorous to walk abroad, except 
 to and from the meeting-house. 
 
 When David was ten years old he was intro- 
 duced to Bunyan, and a new planet swam into 
 his ken. He stood at the top of the meadow, 
 and through the golden gates of sunrise saw 
 the Celestial City, no longer vague and distant, 
 beyond the farthest star. For was it not just 
 across the stony pasture, where his own lambs 
 fed, awful in splendor, yet in some way home- 
 like and comforting, and within possible reach? 
 The God of Israel, who neither slumbers nor 
 sleeps, had hitherto been to the lad an all- 
 seeing, all-knowing Vastness, unformed and 
 terrible, swinging his world-toy in awful black- 
 ness of space for his own amusement and the 
 triumph of keeping folks and animals and 
 houses on his flying ball, — though, in some way 
 past finding out, a beneficent idol, to be wor- 
 shiped and loved even by the creatures he 
 policed and judged and sentenced. 
 
 About this time Parson Crane began to take 
 charge of the boy's education, drawing from his 
 own slender stores of knowledge such portions 
 as he judged profitable for a tender mind. So 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 113 
 
 David sat with awe at the sermon table, oppo- 
 site the high priest of the meeting-house, and 
 did his sums and studied his geography lesson, 
 while little Thankful, on the opposite side, 
 shielded also from the perils of the school- 
 house, learned her slow letters without joy or 
 vision, save such as came from companionship 
 in the toils and pains of knowledge. 
 
 Once as the parson sat at dusk with his good 
 wife before the kitchen fire, she knitting a long 
 stocking, he warming his mug of flip, his spirit, 
 which was musing over the boy in his charge, 
 spoke suddenly through his lips, as one thinks 
 aloud in the dark. 
 
 "The very model of his father — ^bulging 
 forehead, sloping chin, head in the clouds ; all 
 sorts of sense but common sense! What is the 
 widow going to do with that boy?" 
 
 "Why can't she make a minister of him?" 
 asked Goodwife Crane, as absently, and with 
 unsuspected and unthought irony. 
 
 "He's got yellow curls." The voice came 
 from a dim corner, where little unremembered 
 Thankful was nursing her corncob baby, in 
 high-crowned cap, short gown and petticoat. 
 
 It was not the custom of the age to allude to 
 
114 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 anything in particular before children, much 
 less to speak of individuals, and the parson's 
 color mounted to his high cheek bones as he 
 stirred his flip over and heard it hiss on the 
 clean hearth. 
 
 The uneventful years rolled slowly on, and 
 David worked and thought and studied. His 
 soul had gone starving and crying for more 
 light all these years. Then Shakespeare came. 
 If Shakespeare himself had stood before David 
 in the flesh the boy would not have known him. 
 It was the universal heart of things that he 
 yearned for; and their outward expression was 
 brought to him in a cart, by one of those mar- 
 velous old-time casualties, a tin-peddler — a 
 yellow, dog-eared copy, with both covers gone 
 and leaves missing here and there. But David 
 knew it by sight from a volume he had never 
 dared to ask about on the sermon table, and 
 hailed it from afar, and still unknown, as a 
 kindred soul. He bought his book at a great 
 price, though it seemed all too cheap to him — 
 an outgrown suit of homespun, a hat and a pair 
 of shoes. There were no poor in the town to 
 accept cast-off clothing; even the minister 
 received yearly two hundred dollars in solid 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 115 
 
 money. If Mrs. Lammot did not approve, 
 neither did she question the boy, who looked 
 gratefully after the man as he drove away 
 among his jingling wares to the ends of the 
 known world. 
 
 Sometimes when she knitted at her candle 
 stand beside the fire, he brought his book — The 
 Book — and read portions aloud, telling the 
 story in his own words. Many things shocked 
 him as he read, and he felt that they would 
 hurt his mother also; but the spell was upon 
 him, and a world like this was not to be had 
 without pain and struggle. The story of 
 Hermione in "Winter's Tale" he read with 
 many omissions; but the facts would appear — 
 facts which Mary Lammot refused to believe. 
 No man, not even a king, could leave a baby 
 to die, of his own free will, and not know where 
 his wife was for so many years, — and then to 
 have her made into a living statue, — it was all 
 play-acting. To be sure, the minister had read 
 it. But a man named Paine had written a book 
 that had led even righteous men astray, and 
 Parson Crane with all his godliness was but a 
 man. She cautioned David against the book. 
 
116 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 but her strongest argument against it was that 
 it was not true. 
 
 "Neither is Pilgrim's Progress," was the 
 ready answer; and the Puritan mother listened 
 half-heartedly to the recital of life in an un- 
 known world, the wit and splendor and waste- 
 fulness of which seemed a sin. 
 
 This was a time when great names and deeds 
 were borne on the air from the dim, seething 
 world beyond this little Xew England horizon. 
 Now and then the jar of its conflicts struck 
 faintly on David's young ears, and even Parson 
 Crane felt that wicked old Europe was shaken 
 by the hand of God. Napoleon, the invincible, 
 had fallen, risen to blaze again like a baleful 
 comet, and gone out in darkness at Waterloo. 
 Nelson, Pitt and Fox had died in the same 
 year. Our own Capitol at Washington had 
 been burned. George the Third had died and 
 George the Fourth come to the throne. 
 
 As David grew toward manhood his mother 
 saw the farm, barren and stony as it was, im- 
 prove under his new methods of tillage, and felt 
 the strong hand of the lad as she never had felt 
 that of the father. With his hoe he made havoc 
 among the Philistines of garden and field, and 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 117 
 
 many an hour plowed on the mountains of 
 Gibeah with King David for his ally. Often 
 the mother heard his strong young voice chant- 
 ing in its own way, as it had chanted the spook 
 song, the sublime words that she kept for the 
 seclusion of night. 
 
 There were wrestling matches on the green 
 in these days and David not only went without 
 his mother's consent but threw his man every 
 time, — and she was not displeased. The old 
 stone-throwing, jeering period was past; and 
 the boys who had dared him to fight in his 
 callow days were not forward when invited to 
 try their strength with the tall, well-knit lad, 
 before a crowd. Each Sabbath night, when the 
 supper table was cleared and the fire brightened, 
 David set out his mother's candle stand with 
 her knitting basket, and wound the tall clock 
 behind the buttery door, waiting for the in- 
 evitable question, "Going to Parson Crane's 
 tonight.?" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "Anywhere else.^^" 
 
 "No, mother." 
 
 "Don't be gone long, David." 
 
 "I'll be home before nine o'clock." 
 
118 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 The year 1820 drew to a close; and almost 
 to its last hours Mrs. Lammot had looked for 
 David's freedom suit, that he might with it 
 celebrate his entrance into man's estate. It 
 had been a long-cherished wish that this suit 
 should be of the finest broadcloth, of a certain 
 shade of blue, made according to exact measure- 
 ments by a famous clothier in New York. It 
 was as near a romance as anything that ever 
 brightened the winter days to her. But al- 
 though Colonel Royce had started early with 
 the collected orders of the town, and gone three 
 miles by ox cart and twenty by stage coach, 
 taking sailing packet at the nearest port, it was 
 now almost three weeks since he left. Prayers 
 were offered up in the meeting-house for his safe 
 return, on the Sabbath day before he took his 
 departure, and had been weekly renewed. But 
 winds and waves might be contrary, and more 
 than one anxious heart studied the signs in the 
 heavens. As mother and son sat listening to 
 the soft snowfall outside, a thought that had 
 been growing in David's mind came suddenly to 
 the surface. 
 
 "This house isn't large enough for two 
 families, is it?" 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 119 
 
 The question was unlocked for at the mo- 
 ment, but its answer in general had long been 
 ready. 
 
 "No, David. Is there any family you want 
 here with us?" David missed the slight flavor 
 of guile in the reply. 
 
 "I was only thinking if I should be married." 
 
 "But you will not be, David, as long as I live, 
 you know." 
 
 Perhaps the freedom suit, which was delayed 
 for another week, had helped the thought ; but 
 David put it resolutely out of mind. How 
 could this mother see that she wielded a two- 
 edged sword to divide a loyal soul's allegiance 
 to his mother from an equal allegiance to his 
 wife. 
 
 The years rolled on as comfortably as if 
 people took pleasure in growing old. Goody 
 Dean, who now covered her gray hair with a 
 black false front, still came every autumn to 
 card and spin, to dye and to weave, and from 
 the long webs to make garments for mother and 
 son. Her heavy step jarred on David's think- 
 ing, as she paced to and fro in the meal room 
 overhead, and her presence at the table was 
 distasteful to him. The one name that he spoke 
 
120 A GEAY DREAM 
 
 reverently and only in his prayers was profaned 
 to him by gossip of the young girl's gowns and 
 tuckers and the fondness of the whole meeting- 
 house for her. It was like Coventry Patmore's 
 "Love blabbed of"; for the woman looked at 
 him covertly when she spoke, and was aware 
 almost as soon as he of the blood that throbbed 
 in the blue veins of his temples. David sang in 
 the choir now, on the men's side, and Thank- 
 ful's clear second followed his bass in the 
 wonderful fugues that chased the ludicrous 
 sacred words up and down the long road to the 
 end. But when the long service was ended 
 Thankful waited for her father, and David, 
 with his mother on his arm, walked reverently 
 home with silent thoughts. 
 
 When David neared his twenty-fifth year, 
 and his mother was still hale and hearty, wear- 
 ing her age like a silver crown, he fondly told 
 her and, not ashamed of it, sat down to talk 
 over with her a reasonable plan that had been 
 growing in his heart since the night he came 
 to man's estate. 
 
 "Mother," he began, "I have been thinking 
 that it would be easy to put a wing on the 
 house with a door on the west, close to the 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 121 
 
 kitchen. I could be as near you almost as I 
 am in the same house." 
 
 David did not go into detail. As in the old 
 days when he read Shakespeare aloud, there 
 were many omissions. But in his own mind 
 there grew a sunny addition to the house, with 
 a porch to the east, and dewy morning glories 
 in blossom there when he went out to his early 
 work. The birds would sing around it, and 
 scarlet poppies grow close to the doorstep, and 
 scarlet runners climb over the door ; and in their 
 season he would bring home heaps of meadow 
 lilies. And perhaps at evening, as he came 
 home down the lane, he would see from afar a 
 sunbonnet that he knew so well; and there 
 might be wild strawberries, or partridge blos- 
 soms, or purple grapes and blackberries, ac- 
 cording to the time of year, to pick on the way 
 home. 
 
 "If the house isn't large enough, you might 
 build on — after I am gone." 
 
 David's heart sank, and his lovely dream 
 faded; timber, joist and beam, porch to the 
 east, morning glories and scarlet poppies all 
 went down to dust, and were more thoroughly 
 swallowed up by mother earth than the proud 
 
122 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 Korah's troop of his outgrown catechism. A 
 tear shone for an instant on his lashes, but 
 the mother did not see it ; a few things escaped 
 her now. It was like that last silent tribute 
 over a grave that leaves no bitterness, only 
 infinite regret and longing. 
 
 And then, quite slowly, but surely, Mary 
 Lammot began to fail. Even David did not 
 realize that he always lifted her chair now, 
 hung the kettle on the crane, brought her 
 everything she needed, and kept all possible 
 care from her. A slowly creeping but painless 
 rheumatism made her conscious of the growing 
 years. She could no longer go to the meeting- 
 house without the support of David's strong 
 arm; and it was weeks since she had gone down 
 the hill to the burying ground. Once she 
 opened her Bible, seeking for a sign, instead 
 of trusting her own heart, and her finger rested 
 on the passage: For your ways are not my 
 ways^ neither are your thoughts my thoughts^ 
 saith the Lord. Half afraid lest this should be 
 forbidden ground, she set her lips and tried 
 again, this time in the New Testament: For 
 this cause shall a man leave father and mother 
 and cleave unto his wife. 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 123 
 
 The words gave her a kind of unreasoning 
 terror. Were there unseen powers in league 
 against her? Had she been fighting against 
 God while doing what seemed best to her? 
 Clearly it was not Bible doctrine that a man 
 should wait for the death of father or mother 
 before making his own home. For a whole year 
 she turned the matter over in her careful mind. 
 She was more alone than usual these years ; for 
 during the winter David taught in the brown 
 schoolhouse under the hill, giving his summers 
 to the care of the farm. In these still days 
 Mary Lammot reasoned with herself. She did 
 not need a daughter; David was all in all to 
 her ; and yet — perhaps she did not fill his whole 
 heart as he filled hers. For thirty years she 
 had had her boy; she had known every act of 
 his life, every thought of his heart. Had she? 
 Well, what she had not known she had guessed 
 at. But there were years precious to her that 
 no wife could have part or lot in; the soft, 
 baby hands on her breast, the sweet breath 
 on her cheek, the sorrows and pains that she 
 alone could comfort and help, — all these be- 
 longed to her, laid up forever where moth and 
 
124 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 rust could not corrupt, nor the most exacting 
 wife break through and steal. 
 
 When David turned the key of the school- 
 house for the first time, there was no doubt in 
 his mind as to the outcome of the experiment. 
 It was the open door of his life, and not only 
 of his, but of all those who called him master. 
 It was his simple belief that learning was a 
 pleasant thing, to be come at naturally; and 
 while the fathers, many of them of his own 
 generation, prophesied that a boy unbirched 
 would grow up a dullard, David set his face 
 steadily toward his ideals, and took counsel 
 only with himself. In his system there were 
 neither rewards nor penalties. He held that 
 the joy of accomplishment was the highest gift 
 of the gods ; a thing too sacred to be tampered 
 with. He could not foresee how many genera- 
 tions of men and women would use his name as 
 a thing to conjure by. For he changed the 
 course of events as effectually as he erased the 
 old, hard methods of doing sums from the 
 cracked slates that had been handed down from 
 father to son. 
 
 The thirtieth winter of David's life was one 
 of unusual snow and cold even for bleak New 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 125 
 
 England. Houses were snowed in as high as 
 the north garret windows ; and many families 
 lived like the Esquimaux, sheltered and warmed 
 by their sternest enemy. David's hands were 
 full, making his animal and his human flocks 
 comfortable. 
 
 During these weeks of David's absence, and 
 the long Sabbath days when even the diversion 
 of the meeting-house with its frozen atmos- 
 phere was forbidden Mrs. Lammot, her slow 
 thoughts circled round and round one single 
 theme, growing each time nearer the center. 
 As she was able, she looked over the treasures 
 of her wedding chest, and slowly matured her 
 plans. She forgot that she was lonely. The 
 passing bell scarcely gave her mournful 
 thoughts or suggested her own mortality as 
 it rang out on the clear air, for there was 
 strength of purpose and sound mind in her 
 still. When sixty-nine strokes for Colonel 
 Royce tolled heavily, she reflected that his life 
 had been well spent, and that he was now better 
 off, doubtless rejoicing with his wife dead these 
 many years, and leaving no child to mourn his 
 loss. And when a little later Goody Dean 
 folded her busy hands, every one of the eighty 
 
126 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 strokes told of good work faithfully done. It 
 was like writing one's record on the vibrant 
 air for all to read. 
 
 The evening of David's thirtieth birthday- 
 fell crisp, clear and moonlit. David drew the 
 round table to his mother's elbow chair, and by 
 the light of the fire spread the cloth, brought 
 from the corner cupboard the old Delft plates 
 and cups and shining pewter sugar bowl and 
 ewer with milk, butter and rye bread from the 
 cold buttery that was fragrant with mingled 
 odors of pumpkin pie, ginger and cinnamon; a 
 very meeting of north and south poles it had 
 seemed to the boy's youth. He raked out the 
 embers, brewed the tea on the hearth, and fried 
 thin slices of ham in the long-handled frying- 
 pan that his mother could no longer lift. When 
 they had supped together, he cleared the table 
 quietly, brought a basin of hot water softened 
 with milk, and read aloud, while she washed her 
 heirlooms for him to set away. He began wind- 
 ing the tall clock, slowly winding up the six 
 feet of cord that held the heavy weights, and 
 listening for the old-time formula, which was 
 to fail for the first time since his boyhood. 
 
 "Bring the candle stand, David, with my 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 127 
 
 Bible and the knitting work, and set on it the 
 brass candlestick and snuffers." 
 
 David took from the mantel one of the tall 
 candlesticks and lighted the candle at his 
 mother's right hand. Then he saw for the first 
 time that she was dressed with unusual care. 
 She wore a high tortoise-shell comb that he had 
 been allowed to hold in his boyish hands, and 
 a fine tucker, white and sheer. 
 
 "It is your thirtieth birthday, my son." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "I want you to put on your freedom suit. 
 Go into the parlor and open the highboy 
 drawers. You will find everything you need — 
 what your father wore when we were married; 
 you are his size. The linen I bleached this fall. 
 The lace ruffles are yellow, but I could not 
 touch those. They are just as they were 
 thirty- two years ago. In the bottom drawer 
 you will find the silk stockings and knee-buckles 
 and low shoes. When you are dressed, come 
 down and let me see you." 
 
 "The long stockings will not show, mother." 
 
 "I shall know. Then go to Parson Crane's 
 and bring Thankful home." 
 
 "To stay, mother.^" 
 
128 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 "To stay. I have set the house in order. 
 She will not find anything amiss." 
 
 David's heart was too full for speech as he 
 went up the steep staircase to the spare room, 
 for many years his own. He knelt beside the 
 bed in silence, and the words that came to his 
 trembling lips were those that God alone heard. 
 
 The eyes were dim that, an hour later, looked 
 at all this bravery of attire in the gilt-framed 
 glass on his chest of drawers ; but his mother's 
 eyes greeted him, wide and clear, as he stood 
 before her. Lover, husband and son ! — the 
 years were rolled together as a scroll. He 
 knelt before her as in the old days when he said 
 his Our Father^ and she laid two wrinkled 
 hands on his still sunny head. As he rose, 
 words failed her, and he waited. The clock in 
 the corner ticked on solemnly. 
 
 "Will Thankful like to live with an old 
 woman, David?" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "You have asked her?" 
 
 "There was no need, mother. I have known 
 her all these years." 
 
 Mary Lammot's clear eyes were troubled. 
 
 "But you have asked her to be your wife?" 
 
A DOMINANT MOTHER 129 
 
 "No, mother." 
 
 "David — David — and all men wanting her!" 
 
 "How could I, mother, when it was the price 
 of your life?" 
 
 A red flush rose slowly to the mother's eyes, 
 and, as if she had for an instant changed 
 places with her son, the slow, reproachful years 
 trooped past. It was the one vision of her life. 
 David raised the two thin hands to his lips, — 
 the first caress he had ever given her. 
 
 "But will she come, David.?" 
 
 "She will." 
 
 "How do you know.?" 
 
 "We have cared for each other always, 
 mother." 
 
 "You will come home early, David?" 
 
 "Yes, mother, before nine o'clock." 
 
 David went out in silence at the door so near 
 the wing of his young dreams, and Mary 
 Lammot turned painfully in her chair for a 
 last look at her own boy. 
 
 "She shall not live with an old woman. He 
 shall build his wing. I will have the trees cut 
 tomorrow, and Abner shall square the timbers." 
 
 But what the mother saw was only a bare 
 addition, without porch to the east, or dewy 
 
130 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 morning glories, or scarlet poppies looking in 
 at the door. There was no vision; but the 
 plain fact brought content. She laid aside the 
 knitting work, folded her hands on the open 
 Bible, and waited. 
 
MISS 'DASSAH'S PHILOSOPHY 
 
 Now, Miss Lucy, honey, whatever fetched 
 you to the laundry, eh? Here's your mummy's 
 pretty little ruffles all a-trying to get dry and 
 Mandy pesterin' me to tell her a story ! Mandy, 
 fetch Miss Lucy the rockin' chair. No, no ! 
 not there, — it's drafty, can't you see? and she 
 jest fa'rly out o' the measles. 
 
 "Fetch a little piller for her back, child, and 
 jest shet the kitchen door. If I'm go in' to 
 have company, all the etceterrys has got to be 
 'tended to. 
 
 "And you want the chicken story sure, lovey ? 
 Whoever told you 'bout that? Mandy, I'll be 
 bound, — she's that talky-talky ! My land ! I 
 shouldn't wonder if the minister'd be knowin' of 
 it next. 
 
 "Now's my lady all fixed? Real comfy? 
 And the chicken story 'tis ! 
 
 "Well, you see your pa, he knew las' time 
 how Grigson was all done up with ague and 
 roomatics, and he told Obed to take Jibsy's 
 head oif and give her to me for broth. Jibsy's 
 that yaller hen, you know, that can't stay in 
 
132 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 the chicken yard to save her neck. She's a 
 roamer, Jibsy is — leastways she was ; she'd fall 
 out o' the country, I do believe, and make as 
 though 'twas all right. And she set a bad 
 example to the rest, so they's always tryin' to 
 get out, not knowin' when they's well off, — 
 jest like folks. 
 
 "Old Jibsy's head always was ketched be- 
 tween the pickets, and somebody had to run 
 and back it in again. You see she didn't know 
 anything — even for a hen, and that's as small 
 as I can say, honey. But, then, maybe you 
 didn't want her head took off, and Mandy 
 hadn't ought to let on. You don't care? I'm 
 glad, honey, you didn't have your little heart 
 a' achin' 'bout that yaller hen. She's better 
 off. And she'd a pecked you any day if you 
 tried to back her in, jest like some folks, — even 
 if you did love her. 
 
 "What did I do with her.? Well, she hung 
 up on a nail in the stable head down'ard — only 
 she didn't have any — till I got my work done 
 and went home. 'Twas eight o'clock, dark, 
 dreary, and Jefferson lane's no fool of a walk 
 from here. Jibsy was jest such a bunch of 
 feathers, — you never did see. 'Why,' says I, 
 
MISS 'dassah's philosophy 133 
 
 'old ladj, you'll weigh ten pounds 'fore ever we 
 get home. Feathers enough for a little piller 
 too.' So I put my apron over her, for boys 
 will be 'round hootin' after dark, and I walked 
 and walked, thinkin' and thinkin', and like as 
 not talkin' to myself 'bout how Grigson would 
 admire that broth. And pretty soon, 'most 
 fore I was 'ware of it, I was that happy with 
 my plans, there I was home, and the shade 
 shoved up, and the curtain wide open and 
 Grigson sittin' all scrooged up over the fire. 
 I knew his aches was bad, for there was a storm 
 comin'. But there he was all alone, singin', 
 singin' away to pass the time; so I stood still 
 and peeked into the window. Well, he rubbed 
 his lame side a spell and then he reached out, 
 real stiff, and poked the fire so's 'twould be 
 bright when I got there, and all the time he 
 was singin' away to himself — for Grigson's got 
 a real good voice : 
 
 Swing low, sweet chariot, 
 
 Comin' for to carry me home. 
 
 If you get there before I do, 
 Comin' for to carry me home. 
 
 Look out for me, I'm comin' too, 
 Comin' for to carry me home. 
 
134 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 So when he come to 'Look out for me,' I jest 
 unlatched the door sof'ly and then I flung Jibsy 
 in — clear acrost the floor — flop ! 
 
 " 'Oh my, oh my !' says Grigson ; 'what's 
 that? What's that?' says he, all of a tremble, 
 'what's that?' 
 
 "Well, honey, I dropped right down on to 
 the floor and laughed like I'd die. 'Oh, Lord, 
 pick me up !' says I, 'or I never '11 get up again 
 in this world.' 
 
 "And Grigson, says he, 'Well, Miss Dassy, 
 I can't pick you up for sure, and the Lord, I 
 don't b'lieve he will, — so you jest best scrammle 
 'round.' And then we laughed and laughed till 
 you'd thought we was two silly young ones. 
 'What's that ! — what's that !' says he, and off 
 we went again. 'I thought mebbe 'twas a 
 cherub,' says he, 'all along of the singin'.' 
 When we could stop laughin' long enough I got 
 the kettle over and het water, and doused Jibsy 
 up and down, up and down, in the pail, — 
 steamin' hot 'twas and smelt real good and 
 chickeny, and whisked her feathers off, pin- 
 feathers and all ; and when Grigson went to bed 
 I had a bowl of the loveliest chicken broth for 
 him you ever set tongues on. And between the 
 
MISS 'dassah's philosophy 135 
 
 laughin' and that chicken broth, if he didn't get 
 up in the mornin' real limber ! 
 
 "'What's that?' says he first thing; 'what's 
 that?' It fairly makes me ache to think of it 
 now. 
 
 "What makes him call me 'Miss 'Dassah'? 
 Well now, what a child ! Such head pieces white 
 folks has ! They chris'ened me Hadassah, 
 deary, down in Maryland at the major's, where 
 I was raised, when the major's lady that was, 
 was jest comin' of age. You see my mummy 
 was old missus's nurse; and they kept us both 
 in the big house, and we lived with white folks 
 and learnt white folks 's ways. I never did 
 'sociate much with colored folks — and I could- 
 n't stand their ways. They said I was proud; 
 and I ain't denyin' it. — ^You see, honey, if you 
 live with white folks you get to talk like white 
 folks and to feel like white folks and to act 
 like white folks. 
 
 "Well, bymeby when little Miss Milly got 
 big enough to go to school I had to go 'long 
 with her and see to her, and the old major he 
 would have me be her nurse. Old missus had 
 another baby then and mammy had to take 
 care of him : so that's how I come to belong to 
 
136 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 Miss Milly. And I forgot to tell you my 
 mammy's name was Esther — jest as I forgot 
 to tell you Miss Milly was old missus's baby — 
 and so they got mine near to it as they could. 
 Don't sound a mite that way, does it, now? — 
 but they said 'twas the same in the Bible. And 
 they couldn't be callin' two Esthers every- 
 wheres — you know that, don't you, honey? 
 
 "Well, Grigson he was the major's man, 
 pretty near old enough to be father to me ; but 
 the fam'ly had all kind of set their hearts on it, 
 and what they set their hearts on gen'rally had 
 to go. He was in the house too, very curtseous 
 and 'spectful and that's how he come to call 
 me Miss 'Dassah. 
 
 "Bymeby he wanted to come up North after 
 the war, a-barberin', though he did jest hate to 
 leave the major. And one day says he to me, 
 'Miss 'Dassah, if the missus'd spare you we'd 
 go up to the big nor'ard together.' 
 
 " *Go long !' says I ; 'Grigson, — what put the 
 idea in your head?' 
 
 "I'd suspicioned it, honey, for a good while, 
 but I wouldn't let on. Old missus was gone and 
 Miss Milly was all the missus we had got left. 
 Well, he went and spoke to Miss Milly all un- 
 
MISS 'dassah's philosophy 137 
 
 beknownst to me, and she up and spoke to the 
 major, and betwixt and between them they got 
 it all fixed up, — day set and all. Miss Milly 
 said if I was agreeable we'd stand up and be 
 married in her own back-parlor the day he 
 started; and then he could come up here 
 a-barberin', and when he could say honest he'd 
 got a home for me I should go too, but not a 
 minute sooner. She was a good missus, lovey, 
 I tell you, and she knew what was for the best, 
 if anybody did. 
 
 "So Grigson went off, and powerful lonesome 
 the old place was. He was always singin' nights 
 on the back porch, and after he was gone the 
 whip-poor-wills most drove me crazy. 'Twas so 
 still they used to come up and say it right at 
 me ; you know, deary, it's the lonesomest sound. 
 The little hoot owl's creepier, but he ain't any- 
 thing like so lonesome. And I staid there ten 
 long years before he sent for me, deary. And 
 then Miss Milly took sick, and I couldn't leave 
 her, you know; and it was two years and a half 
 she was jest like a baby and I with all the care 
 of her. 
 
 "The old major he died all of a sudden two 
 weeks before she did. It seemed to kind of 
 
138 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 hurry her off. She wasn't contented to stay a 
 minute after that. And she told me all the 
 things I must do, — jest how to get here and all 
 that. She'd left me a little money, she said, but 
 not much, for they'd used up things as they 
 went along, — real generous, both of 'em, and 
 they's a lot of poor relations lookin' out for 
 the leavin's. But the day she died she made 
 me fetch all her things and she picked out all 
 the cotton sheets and piller cases and body 
 linen that was her ma's, and two table cloths 
 and a pile of towels, and had me pack 'em in a 
 big trunk before her eyes. And says she, 'That 
 all's for you, 'Dassah.' 
 
 " 'Not trunk and all?' says I. 
 
 " 'Yes,' says she, kind of low and faint like, 
 'trunk and all.' 
 
 "My, how I did break down and cry like I'd 
 lost my best friend, as I had — 'most. 
 
 "Well, I got here someways, but I tell you, 
 honey, 'twas the biggest job ever I undertook. 
 Tell you 'bout it? Well, sometime, p'raps. 
 Ask your mummy to let Obed drive over to my 
 house some real sunshiny day and you'll see 
 where I come to. 
 
 "Obed knows my house. There ain't a bad 
 
MISS 'dassah's philosophy 139 
 
 thing goin' there all along the row, — measles 
 nor mumps, nor yet chickenpock. Jest old folks 
 living in our lane. Many's the time Obed's 
 fetched me a big basket after Thanksgivin' and 
 Christmas time or when your mummy's had a 
 party. But you'll nigh die a-laughin', Miss 
 Lucy, when you come. There's a little sort of 
 path runnin' all sorts of ways, for all the world 
 like a pig bound for the woods, or Jibsy when 
 she had a roamin' fit on. And there's a heap o' 
 little colored houses, set cat-a-cornered and all 
 sorts o' ways, so's they've got a foot to stand 
 on. And there's a little chapel with a bell, 
 where there's a real Sunday-school. I tell you 
 we're religious folks over there. 
 
 "Well, Grigson he partly bought the house 
 and he partly built it. The other man cut off 
 a good bit of it and moved it away, and Grigson 
 tinkered up the end of it, odd times when he'd 
 get a few boards. And the stairs, — oh my ! how 
 I laughed and cried when I come to see the 
 stairs he'd made. You jest had to go up 'em 
 sideways with a rope to hold on by and bump 
 your head at the top if he didn't sing out to be 
 car'ful. But 'twas ever so much better'n a 
 ladder, because it's real boards, though they's 
 
140 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 no backsides to them. 'But,' says Grigson to 
 me, Vhat if they wasn't any at all !' And 
 there's two rooms down below and a real 
 cellar. I've got my mummy's painted picture 
 in a frame in the front room, with a lace collar 
 on and a finger ring that Miss Milly gave her. 
 It takes up 'most of one side of the room and 
 would 'stonish you, honey. 
 
 "The folks come in from Sunday-school to 
 look at it, — minister, too. A real painter did it, 
 a man that worked at such jobs for white folks. 
 Ah, didn't I tell you, lovey, I wasn't like the 
 colored folks .f^ 
 
 "She's lots of company for us, deary, there's 
 so much she don't say. And her eyes go 
 roamin' all over the room so I darsent have a 
 speck o' dust in sight. Miss Milly put her 
 own lace collar on her that was old missus's 
 when the painter man came, and she had a great 
 Bible in her lap that was a weddin' present from 
 the major. 
 
 "I reckon we wouldn't had it made so big if 
 we'd known what a little house would fit it, — 
 and a kind of a tight fit it was, — you'll see 
 when Obed fetches you. But then, as Miss 
 
MISS 'dassah's philosophy 141 
 
 Milly use' to say, you can't have too much of a 
 good thing. 
 
 "Well, and so we've got along. He's a pretty 
 old man now and sort o' stiff like with room- 
 atics, and I'm none too young myself, if only 
 I could ever remember it ! I can't never seem 
 to forget when I was a girl. Along summer 
 times we work in the little garden patch back 
 of the house, when I don't have laundry work. 
 You see he had to give up barberin', gettin' 
 clumsy like with his hands, and 'twas a great 
 blow; kind o' knocked our underpinnin' right 
 out. But he digs when he can, and gets a little 
 job in big gardens once in a while, though he 
 can't do much — Grigson can't. But we can 
 'most always sell our garden stuff, lettuces and 
 radishes and such like, and buy a bit of meat 
 now and then. Oh, we jog along. 
 
 "You feel sorry? Now don't do that, honey! 
 Lots o' folks hasn't any house to live in, say 
 nothin' o' friends and a garden patch. Now 
 let me tell you somethin' to make you laugh. 
 Your mummy won't like it if you go back 
 lookin' solemn. 
 
 "One night, time o' the big blizzard that we 
 hadn't had any 'xperience of — no, nor nobod}'^ 
 
142 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 else, for there never was such a scary time, — 
 the wind up and whipped a brick ofF'n the 
 chimney flop down onto the roof right over- 
 head. I thought the end o' the world was comin' 
 sure. 
 
 " 'My, oh my, what's that.'" says Grigson. 
 'What's that.'' Another chicken. Miss Dassy, 
 sure's you're born; but it's a tough one this 
 trip I bet! Didn't hit way ole Jibsy did — jest 
 a bunch o' feathers.' 
 
 "And, lovey, he laughed and squealed long o' 
 the wind, sort o' silly like, till I had to get up 
 and make him a good stiff cup o' boneset tea 
 to straighten out his nerves. Men will be silly 
 sometimes, honey, jest like women folks. I had 
 to make up the fire, for 'twas gone out by that 
 time, and cold — oh my ! And it took so long 
 that when I got it ready he pretended 'twas 
 Jibsy's chicken broth. 
 
 " 'Do tell,' says he, 'how you got it so 
 quick .P — Oh, you're a smart one!' says he, 'jest 
 like you was down to the ole major's.' 
 
 "And, Miss Lucy, I reckon he won't get over 
 that yaller hen and the way I flung her in at 
 him till his dyin' day, if he does then. 
 
 "You see, dearv, he was that low in his mind 
 
MISS 'dassah's philosophy 143 
 
 with all his aches and stitches, and waitin' so 
 long for me to come and get his supper, and 
 'twas a good thing to stir him up; kep' him 
 from thinkin' how hungry he was, — first off the 
 kind o' shock and then fillin' up his mind like, 
 with that chicken broth to come. 
 
 "What's that you say? — did we ever truly 
 go hungry, lovey ? Well there ! What for you 
 speirin' round to know! Might make you feel 
 bad, and your mummy wouldn't like that. — 
 We're use' to it, you see, and lawsy! we don't 
 mind way white folks does. The good Lord he 
 gen'rally sees to it that we get somethin'. To 
 be sure in the big blizzard we both took sick 
 and nobody could happen along such a time you 
 know, 'cept 'twas an angel, — and 'twa'n't a time 
 for flyin' neither. So we did run pretty short. 
 Fire out and some little odds and ends of bread 
 and a cold potato or two in the cupboard, and 
 a little raw codfish. 
 
 "But Grigson he crawled up and got the 
 things all together and a big pitcher o' water 
 and the teapot with a little cold tea in the 
 bottom powerful strong, and we jest had a 
 picnic there in bed and told stories three days 
 'running. 
 
144 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 "Yes, and we sung all the good old tunes Miss 
 Milly learnt me, and some others he knew: 
 'Mary and Martha', and 'Gospel Train', and 
 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.' And he made up 
 one out of his own head, all about New Jerusa- 
 lem and golden streets and milk and honey 
 runnin' everywheres. And he was that ferce 
 for it all, and that milk-and-honey-for-to-come 
 tasted so good to him, I jest broke down 
 a-laughin'. 'Goodness, but wouldn't the roads 
 be sticky !' says I. 
 
 " 'My, but won't you be a wild one up in 
 heaven !' says he. 'Oh my ! my ! but won't you 
 be a wild one up in heaven. Miss Dassy !' says 
 he. 'The Angel Gabri'l can't pitch the tune 
 when you're 'round.' Many's the time I wake 
 up in the night and think o' that. — 'Can't pitch 
 the tune,' says he, 'when you're 'round.' 
 
 "I tell you, lovey, we have happy times. 
 Why, the blessed Lord himself was cold and 
 hungry, I've heard tell. One time a white 
 minister preached to us, and says he, 'Did you 
 ever think how our dear Lord walked and 
 walked the way we do, and took the sun and 
 the wind in his face and the rain on his side 
 so to keep it off 'n us, as 'twere? And He 
 
MISS 'dassah's philosophy 14)5 
 
 hadn't where to lay his head. Now think o' 
 that !' 
 
 "Miss Lucy, honey, let me tell you and don't 
 you ever forget there's always somethin' to be 
 happy for in this world if we don't try to shove 
 it out o' sight, grumblin' about what we haven't 
 got. We're all a-steppin' along to glory, and 
 it's no way wrong, says I, to have your laugh 
 and joke and your good time and pass it all 
 along the road to downcast ones that can't see 
 the sun shine. And hows'ever pinched we've 
 been, me and Grigson, I tell you true, honey, 
 'twas a sing'lar unlucky day when we couldn't 
 find something to laugh about, and be thankful 
 to the good Lord for. If you've got religion, 
 even if you haven't got learnin', it's like havin' 
 wings to know how to laugh. And I reckon. 
 Miss Lucy, when Gabriel does blow his trumpet 
 we'll be steppin' along right after the white 
 folks, spry as anybody exceptin' it's the min- 
 ister." 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD 
 CLAY 
 
 One Saturday afternoon three men sat in the 
 open store door of a little hamlet. It was a 
 warm delusive day in early springtime. Robins 
 were building cheerfully in the orchard apple- 
 trees that were budding prematurely. 
 
 Eben Hull, owner of the store, leaned across 
 the long counter in intervals of coffee-grinding 
 when the conversation fell to a dead level or 
 ceased altogether. The deacon had stopped 
 to discuss town politics ; the teacher had hours 
 of spare time; the doctor was on his slow way 
 home from the single patient whom he cheered 
 and amused semi- weekly at the rate of two 
 shillings a visit. 
 
 As conversation languished at the store door 
 and the coffee-grinding began again, a white 
 horse with long neck, thin mane, hollow back 
 and jerking legs, came over the brow of the hill, 
 followed leisurely by a dingy top-buggy that 
 creaked its uncertain way across the bridge and 
 past the sawmill. 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD CLAY 147 
 
 "Dangerfield Clay," explained the deacon, 
 sitting upright in the wooden-bottomed chair 
 he had just tilted comfortably back against 
 the do or- jamb. 
 
 "Dangerfield Clay?" the doctor asked 
 thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder, and 
 the teacher added, "Dangerfield Clay; and 
 upon my word, he's going to hitch his horse." 
 
 "A wise precaution," said the doctor with a 
 twinkle, and the teacher nodded silently. 
 
 "He's got something on his mind," said the 
 doctor, who had notable powers of observation. 
 
 "Won't keep it there long," commented Eben 
 Hull, rolling down his sleeves. "Jest like a 
 si've." 
 
 "Fixin' up, be ye?" complained the deacon. 
 "I reckoned we was comp'ny." 
 
 "He might be shocked," said the teacher, 
 straightening his tie and glancing critically at 
 his shoes. "Ever see him when he wasn't in 
 apple-pie order?" 
 
 "Come in, Mr. Clay," called the doctor cheer- 
 fully, playing the host, when the white horse 
 was unchecked and encouraged to nip the short 
 grass by the roadside. "Glad to have a 
 quorum." 
 
148 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 The newcomer lifted a broad-brimmed hat 
 and bowed courteously as he approached the 
 group. No one stirred, though Dr. Swift who 
 had taken the initiative, held out two fingers 
 which were cordially shaken. 
 
 "You all looked so inviting," he apologized 
 in a soft, slow baritone. "I'd no other call to 
 stop — or — none to speak of. Coffee.'' No, 
 thank you, suh. But the air is quite redolent 
 of its perfume. Quite so. A tempting odor, 
 gentlemen. You are very kind; thank you, I 
 will take a chair for a moment." 
 
 "Must be kind o' lonesome up amongst them 
 pine-trees," suggested the deacon. 
 
 " 'Tis so, suh ; too lonesome for a man's 
 health. I've been thinking, gentlemen," he 
 added, "of begging your kind offices in a matter 
 I have much at heart." 
 
 A murmur of assent, or possibly only of 
 interest, passed like a slow wave around the 
 little group — ^like a ripple of the tide against 
 boulders. 
 
 "You may not know, gentlemen," he con- 
 tinued hesitatingly, "but I am a kind of for- 
 saken man. My ties are all broken. I may say 
 I am adrift." 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD CLAY 149 
 
 "Mm," murmured the deacon, and the 
 teacher sighed, while Eben Hull looked alert. 
 
 "I have wandered east and west," the soft 
 voice went on, "east and west, wearifully, with- 
 out pleasure or profit." 
 
 He paused, but no one broke the disconcert- 
 ing silence. A round-eyed robin with two 
 straws in his beak alighted for an instant 
 before the door, with a wondering look at the 
 idle group. Dangerfield Clay picked up the 
 dropped thread of his narrative: "For a half 
 year I have lived among you without finding — " 
 
 "What you lack," supplemented the deacon. 
 "Mm." 
 
 "You will pardon me, gentlemen," the low 
 voice continued; "but I rose this morning with 
 my mind fully made up. I left my sunny 
 plantation," he went on reminiscently, "and my 
 first Mrs. Clay at the outbreak of hostilities. 
 I am not a fighting man, gentlemen. I crossed 
 the border. My second Mrs. Clay I parted 
 with, later, beyond the Missouri — far beyond." 
 
 The teacher joined the lounger behind the 
 counter, and the deacon moved restlessly in his 
 chair. "Where be they now.?" he asked se- 
 
150 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 verely, with raised eyebrows. "Did they stand 
 by each other?" 
 
 "No, suh — that is to say, one sleeps beneath 
 a yew tree on the old plantation; the other on 
 the wide prairie." 
 
 "Mm," murmured the deacon, suddenly sit- 
 ting bolt upright; "I see, I see." 
 
 There was a dramatic pause of two or three 
 embarrassing seconds. The deacon broke the 
 silence. "I calc'late you're on the lookout for 
 a third," he said emphatically. 
 
 "To put it somewhat — baldly — as one may 
 say, I could wish for a suitable companion in 
 my solitude. I should have no objection, under 
 the circumstances, to a widow." 
 
 "With a little prop'ty," suggested the 
 deacon. 
 
 "I was about to mention that, suh; under 
 the circumstances it would not be an obstacle." 
 
 "Mrs. Mixer is meditating a separation," 
 the doctor began with a twinkle, but checked 
 himself and listened as the other coming back 
 from the past continued : 
 
 "My hearthstone, as you gentlemen know, 
 overlooks a vast, a lonely pine forest ; the wail- 
 ing of the wind at night suggests — well, there 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD CLAY 151 
 
 are few things that it does not suggest. I 
 often shiver through the sleepless small hours, 
 and the coming of daylight is a welcome thing. 
 I talk to myself, sometimes, but it isn't inspir- 
 ing." 
 
 "No, indeed," breathed the teacher, in a tone 
 of fervent if misplaced sympathy. 
 
 "I know what you want," said the man lean- 
 ing over the counter, with the briskness of a 
 fresh idea. "A re'el good cook. That's what 
 you want." 
 
 "More than that, suh; I need a congenial 
 spirit." 
 
 "Melissa Green,." suggested the doctor in 
 parenthesis to the teacher, whose narrow face 
 broadened into a hilarious smile. 
 
 "Did I understand you to — " 
 
 "Well," said the doctor, in half-repentant 
 mood, "there is a woman living a mile or so out 
 of town — not a widow, and really I don't think 
 she would suit you — no, I really do not." 
 
 "Go on, go on," called Eben Hull gleefully. 
 "He ain't real farse for a widow, far's I'm a 
 judge. Go on, doctor." 
 
 Doctor Swift shifted uneasily in his chair, 
 for he was kind at heart in an unthinking way. 
 
152 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 "Mr. Clay," he said candidly, "this was a little 
 joke of mine that we won't carry further." 
 
 "Dr. Swift," responded the other, "you are 
 familiar with the adage about many a word 
 spoken in jest.*' 
 
 "Yes, yes, but we'll drop it, we'll drop it," 
 insisted the doctor, "Melissa's too old for you, 
 and—" 
 
 "My dear suh," interrupted Dangerfield 
 Clay, "Mahomet's wife was seventeen years his 
 senior; I humbly hope that I also am a chival- 
 rous man." 
 
 The silence grew embarrassing. 
 
 "The best farm in the country," began the 
 deacon. 
 
 "And the best policed," added the teacher. 
 
 "Ah-h, a capable woman?" 
 
 "Ex-actly," smiled Eben Hull. 
 
 "She can keep two hired men a-buzzin' year 
 in and year out," added the deacon. 
 
 "Which way does Miss — Melissa live.^" 
 asked Dangerfield Clay. "I should like to drive 
 that way and take a look at the farm; — make 
 some inquiries about it." 
 
 "Like's if you thought o' buying it — mm," 
 commented the deacon. 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD CLAY 153 
 
 "Take a look at her, too; why not?" asked 
 Eben Hull, going back to his coffee mill. 
 
 "Gentlemen, I'm obliged to you. I will do 
 it. I am not a man of words but of deeds. If 
 I am successful" — a pale pink wave flushed his 
 cheek as the speaker raised a worn cardcase in 
 his blue-veined hand — "I will be at church with 
 Miss Melissa tomorrow." 
 
 "Hear! hear!" cried the doctor, thumping 
 the floor with his hickory stick ; and "he ! he !" 
 tittered the deacon; "she ain't seen the inside 
 of the meetin' 'us this thirty year." 
 
 "All the better, suhs," said Dangerfield Clay ; 
 "and now, gentlemen, I invite you individ- 
 ually" — he swept the group with his card- 
 case — "to my wedding breakfast, in futuro.** 
 
 "Lord! she'll kill him!" said Eben Hull, from 
 the depths of the coffee sack. 
 
 "If you'll onhitch and follow me," said the 
 deacon generously, "I'll turn ye off, down to 
 the forks, onto a straight road that don't pass 
 a house till ye fetch up at Melissy's. Ye can't 
 lose the way if ye try; — fool-critter though ye 
 be !" he added to himself. 
 
 "Take me along .f^" asked the doctor. 
 
 "Why sartin', if so be you're going my way." 
 
154 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 "I am," said the doctor, and shut his mouth 
 like a knife with a stiff spring. 
 
 The deacon's team led the way, down past 
 the sawmill, over the brook and up the hill. 
 
 "Keep straight ahead!" shouted the driver 
 over his shoulder as they reached the forks, 
 and Dangerfield Clay lifted his hat and went 
 creaking on. 
 
 "Doctor," said the deacon, "if I might be 
 so bold, where be you a-goin'?" 
 
 " 'Tisn't large business, I'll admit," said the 
 doctor, "and I shan't tell my wife, but — you 
 know that clump of cedars just across the road 
 from Melissa's. I'd like to hang around there 
 a bit and see what happens." 
 
 "Jest's you say," replied the deacon slowly, 
 but a springlike smile widened across the fur- 
 rows of his weatherbeaten face. 
 
 Meanwhile Dangerfield Clay, on the direct 
 road to fortune, threw the reins carelessly over 
 the dash-board, smoothed his fair hair, and 
 pulled one corner of a fine old handkerchief into 
 view from his vest pocket. He was at peace. 
 An enchanting vision blurred his brain ; a vision 
 of green fields and pleasant meadows, of run- 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD CLAY 155 
 
 ning brooks and bird songs, and a worthy, well- 
 dressed gentleman directing his hirelings. 
 
 "Buzzing about" — the deacon's words re- 
 curred to his mind. "Yes," he mused, "a 
 capable woman, of Solomon's sort; her price 
 is far above rubies; the heart of her husband 
 doth safely trust in her. And what would she 
 be like?" Dangerfield Clay was fond of musing. 
 Not like his southern Amelia, nor his western 
 Eliza. No, no ; she would be a resolute New 
 England gentlewoman, just withering a little 
 like an over-ripe peach, and with the same 
 delicious color. 
 
 The white horse was also in a reverie, walk- 
 ing in his sleep. Then he stopped, of his own 
 accord, for once this had been his home. To 
 Dangerfield Clay it seemed a good omen. 
 Still abroad in pleasant fields of fancy he dis- 
 mounted, with youth in all his muscles. With 
 cardcase and gloves in hand and pretty 
 speeches welling up in his throat, he knocked. 
 There was no response. Again he knocked and 
 listened. 
 
 Presently a wooden leg seemed to be ap- 
 proaching from a distance. Or was it a 
 crutch? The door clung at the top, then 
 
156 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 opened with a sudden burst, and a severe old 
 face like a tragic mask glared through green 
 glasses at Dangerfield Clay. His hat was in 
 his hand, and he stood courteously bent, pre- 
 senting his card. The figure before him, tall 
 and gaunt, wore the linsey-woolsey short gown 
 and petticoat of another generation, blue 
 woolen stockings, and brown carpet-slippers, 
 man's size. A false front of blue-black hair 
 under a rusty black cap made a wrinkled tri- 
 angle of the forehead, and came well down over 
 the ears. The thin lips drooped in a cruel 
 curve. The crutch under one arm seemed a 
 weapon as she shook it menacingly at the mild 
 intruder. 
 
 "Go away !" she cried, in a manlike voice, "I 
 don't want it!" 
 
 "But, Madam — " 
 
 "I tell you I won't have it ! Take it away ! 
 Lucindy !" 
 
 She raised her voice and rapped on the wall 
 with her crutch. As no one answered, she 
 turned and reopened the door through which 
 she had come. "Come here, Lucindy Dow," she 
 called. "I can't fool away my time with this 
 somebody-or-other. Don't leave him alone a 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGEIiriEI.D CLAY 157 
 
 minit. And don't let him in if you can help it. 
 He won't eat you — ^by his looks ! And call 
 Tige if you can't get rid of him. Go along now 
 and don't be a fool." 
 
 Miss Melissa disappeared, and a young 
 woman came timidly forward, dusting particles 
 of flour from her hands. She was noticeably in 
 her first youth; a tall, thin figure, in scanty 
 mourning, with the furtive look of an ill-used 
 creature. 
 
 "Will you walk in, sir?" she asked shyly, 
 conscious quite painfully of her floury apron 
 and a foolish wish to remove it. As Danger- 
 field Clay, hat in hand, stepped over the 
 threshold, back behind the clump of cedars the 
 deacon shook the reins and the doctor leaned 
 back in convulsive, silent laughter. 
 
 "Got in, as I'm a living soul," he gasped. 
 But the deacon only said, "What the posset !" 
 and it sounded like an oath. 
 
 When Lucinda Dow closed the door she had 
 no idea what to do next. She took the proifered 
 bit of pasteboard and looked blindly at it up- 
 side down. Then she led the way into the 
 darkened parlor, rolled up a green window 
 
1-58 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 shade which let in a bewildering light, and said 
 faintly, "Will you take a seat, sir?" 
 
 "After you. Madam," replied the unusual 
 guest, with a Roger de Coverley bow, holding 
 his hat, his gloves, and his cardcase with uncon- 
 cern. 
 
 The courtly speech, the gracious ease of 
 manner, struck the girl as something from a 
 far other planet in which she had no footing. 
 All day long she had been berated for slowness 
 at her tasks, and her very soul was tired — the 
 soul of a dependent, slaving for the bread that 
 was grudged her. If an elderly angel had sud- 
 denly alighted at her feet, folded his wings, 
 and said simply, "After you. Madam," in that 
 tone of voice, she would have stepped before 
 him joyfully, fearlessly, into any unknown 
 sphere. And if Dangerfield Clay had been the 
 angel he looked to her at that moment, he could 
 not have divined her inmost soul with keener 
 intelligence; and the chivalry of the Southern 
 gentleman was hot in his veins. 
 
 "Miss Lucinda," he began, and she thrilled 
 as she listened; "will you do me the honor for 
 a few brief moments to hear what I have to 
 say? You will perhaps in the kindness of 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD CLAY 159 
 
 your heart pardon the abruptness of a lonely — 
 I was about to say a God-forsaken man. Not 
 so, not so, dear lady, for I think — I trust — He 
 has answered my prayer. I have a simple 
 little home of my own, and I am all alone. My 
 hearthstone is desolate. I need a congenial 
 spirit — truly I do. Indeed, dear lady, I feel 
 that I should not say this so suddenly. You 
 are surprised. You are shocked. But, if I 
 may be permitted to say it, the moment my 
 eyes rested upon you I knew in my heart that 
 you, were my congenial spirit. I fear I dis- 
 tress you; — pardon me — " 
 
 , Lucinda feared she was losing her senses. 
 Always ordered about, deference and sweet 
 names alike unknown, her poor, sad heart that 
 had fluttered all day with weakness now beating 
 madly in her ears, she shook her head, speech- 
 less, while her frightened eyes turned toward 
 the door. 
 
 "You do not know me yet," Dangerfield Clay 
 continued in beguiling tones ; "but think it 
 over, make inquiries about me. I am known 
 in the town." 
 
 Lucinda was shaking with fear and joy; — 
 fear lest this should not be what it seemed, — 
 
160 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 joy that she was sought after all, like other 
 women. 
 
 "You are agitated," the gentle voice said. 
 Lucinda had dreamed of sounds akin to this in 
 realms of upper air after this weary toiling 
 world had ceased to be. 
 
 "Do not speak now," he added, rising and 
 lifting her shaking hand to his lips, while she 
 was stricken with fear lest it should be floury. 
 "Tomorrow, if you will allow me, I will bring 
 my credentials that you may know I am a 
 gentleman — a man of honor." 
 
 It was then that Lucinda found her voice, a 
 voice strange to herself. "I don't want those — 
 those — " she said. 
 
 As Dangerfield Clay parted with Lucinda at 
 the door he said casually, "I shall come to- 
 morrow in my chaise to take you to church 
 if you will allow me" ; and Lucinda replied 
 recklessly, "I guess I can get away." 
 
 "And if she tries to prevent?" he asked, 
 timidly, it must be confessed, for so brave a 
 spirit. 
 
 "It won't make a bit of difference," she said 
 proudly; and he recognized the congenial soul 
 he had so long despaired of finding. 
 
THE WOOING OF DANGERFIELD CLAY 161 
 
 "My horse and chaise, such as they are, will 
 be at your service by first bell-ringing," he said 
 gaily. 
 
 As the door closed, softlier than it need — 
 through deference to Miss Melissa — ^Lucinda 
 said to herself, "I would go in anything in the 
 world, anywhere in the world, with him !" 
 
 And Dangerfield Clay went to his lonely 
 home, exalted. The white horse that had 
 drooped so long at the hitching post caught 
 the spirit that thrilled along the reins, and 
 Eben Hull looked and wondered as they sped 
 past. 
 
 "Goin' like all possessed," he said; then 
 added thoughtfully, "I'd give the best supper I 
 ever hope to eat to 'a' been on the spot." 
 
 "Mean trick enough," said the doctor, draw- 
 ing figures with his hickory stick in the dust 
 before the door, "to send him off on a tomfool 
 chase, poor devil, with all his airs and graces. 
 I shan't get over being ashamed till — till — " 
 
 "Till the next time," supplemented Eben 
 
 Hull; "don't blame it on me. Doctor." 
 
 "I don't," said the doctor, humbly. 
 ******* 
 
 The Sabbath day dawned clear and bright. 
 
v 
 
 162 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 The birds were about their servile labor or vain 
 recreation forbidden to man. The church bell 
 pealed for the last time with a quavering echo 
 on the air, as deacon and doctor met by chance 
 at the church steps, and together turned at 
 the sound of wheels. A white horse was toiling 
 up the steep ascent to the church, followed by 
 a swaying buggy. 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 
 
 It was a poor little corner of a rocky New 
 England township, but not too poor nor too 
 rocky for humanity to live and die and be 
 buried in. 
 
 There was to be a funeral two miles away; 
 and on this bright August afternoon came 
 rumors of a great gathering of the clans. No 
 fiery Scottish cross could have borne tidings 
 faster than this somber bit of news was passed 
 on and on like a word of command from farm 
 to farm. 
 
 "Well, poor Aunt Almy's gone at last," said 
 my hostess, with a final turn of the wooden 
 button that shut her blue china treasures into 
 the small cupboard over the fireplace. "I 
 thought might be you'd enjoy going to the 
 funeral?" she added with interrogation in her 
 tone. 
 
 "But she was a stranger to me," I replied, 
 with inborn reluctance to thrusting myself 
 needlessly into scenes of grief. 
 
 " 'Twon't make one mite o' diff'rence," was 
 
164 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 the brisk reply. "Father, he's busy's ever was 
 with that rowen crop down to far meadow, 
 thinkin' it's likely to set in an' rain. But he 
 didn't take the colt, an' I can hitch up an' drive 
 just as good's men folks. He's dre'dful sorry 
 not to go. It's the first funeral he's missed 
 since I do' know when. I don't take much stock 
 in its rainin'. Moon ain't in the right quarter, 
 an' I observed the sun set clear last night. 
 
 "He remembers Almy from the time folks first 
 begun to call her 'old maid.' " 
 
 "Was she very old.?" I ventured, as some 
 sort of response was waited for. 
 
 "Well, yes ; she was — considerable. Seems 
 to me I'd say so, even for Stony Ridge, where 
 'tis said folks mostly dries up an' blows away. 
 Foolish sort o' say now, ain't it.f^ Yes, she was 
 considerable old — risin' of seventy. Well there ! 
 the' ain't but just one house left standin' where 
 the' use' to be four five long ago's I can recol- 
 lect. Some chimneys left, an' them beginnin' 
 to tottle ! Kind o' creepy I say when you think 
 back to how they was young once, an' built 
 accordin' to their notion; settled down an' 
 raised a family, an' all died off or married off 
 or moved away, till finally the old houses seemed 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAIi 165 
 
 to sort o' give out an' die oif, too, to keep 'em 
 comp'ny like. Don't it seem so? And all the 
 trouble they went through first to last ! Poor 
 crops mebbe, an' mor 'gages on the farm ; things 
 gettin' run down, babies havin' scarlet fever 
 an' whoopin' cough, every soul of 'em that was 
 born into this world; an' marryin' poor, likely, 
 some of 'em that lived to grow up. Now an' 
 then a drinkin' one, an' boys gettin' into all 
 sorts o' mischief, an' mebbe goin' out West to 
 start again." 
 
 "Perhaps it was the best thing they could 
 do," I suggested. 
 
 "Well, yes ; for some of 'em that wouldn't 
 ever amount to anything. Just as well to get 
 'em off where they wa'n't talked about so much. 
 Aunt Almy's father, now, he made a sight o' 
 talk hereabout. Name in everybody's mouth. 
 My boys didn't grow up," she added, with a 
 comfortable sigh. "His folks was weakly, an' 
 the boys seemed to take after them. I don't 
 see why. I was rugged, an' it wa'n't 'sins of 
 the fathers visited onto the children.' But I 
 must say I've been spared some things ; an' a 
 little row in the buryin' ground ain't the worst 
 that happens to folks." 
 
166 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 There was a brief pause which called for no 
 response. 
 
 "If you can't go, I'll step over an' ask Tilly 
 Chris; but, like as not, he's got his crop all in 
 by this time, an' then he's sure to go. He's 
 young an' spry, an' he'd hate to miss it." 
 
 "Who is Tilly Chris?" I asked, with an un- 
 easy consciousness of curiosity. 
 
 "Well, of course, you ain't expected to know 
 so soon, an' not residin' here, too. You see 
 there was two Tillys, first cousins named after 
 their grandmother; an' they married two twin 
 brothers, Christopher Pike an' Columbus Pike. 
 Not that I think much of such far-fetched 
 names myself, but it's none o' my concern one 
 way or another. So when the's a call to speak 
 of them, we say, 'Tilly Chris' an' 'Tilly Clum.' 
 Sounds queer, I presume, to strangers, but 
 we're all use' to it." 
 
 There was no question as to my desire to 
 attend the funeral — that was taken for granted. 
 But there might be some unknown disabilities 
 that did not stand in the way of the native, 
 trivial in their way, and of secondary impor- 
 tance, such as letter writing and the reading of 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAIi 167 
 
 books other than "Beckwith's Almanac," and 
 "Young's Night Thoughts." 
 
 "I can go if you wish me too," I said, with 
 selfish reluctance, thinking of the joy of a 
 country afternoon with an unopened box of 
 books that the stage had dropped at the door 
 just before dinner. 
 
 "Don't you wan^ to go?" my hostess asked 
 in cold surprise. There was an air of some- 
 thing lacking about me in her tone; as if 
 Nature, usually beneficent, had grudged me 
 some essential faculty; left out some legitimate 
 source of pleasure. 
 
 "I thought you'd be real pleased," she added, 
 dejectedly. "Why, I presume, we haven't 
 missed a funeral, him an' me, for upward of 
 thirty years. Wet or dry, hot or cold, freeze 
 or thaw, we was there — always to be depended 
 on. But I'm free to say I don't enjoy goin' 
 alone anywheres the way I used to. I was 
 spryer then, an' could get in an' out of any sort 
 of wagon. Yes, or cart, when I use' to go up 
 meadow hayin' time, foolish like, year we was 
 just married. Didn't like to have him out o' 
 sight. All is, colt's good to go, but he hates 
 to stan' still when you're gettin' in, so it's 
 
168 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 handy to have somebody along to hold the lines. 
 He'd ruther I would; tho it's seldom enough 
 I go to the store even without him. If I do, 
 they bring things out to me." 
 
 "Shall I go down to the meadow and tell 
 him.^" I asked, thinking it proper that some 
 ceremony should be observed on such an occa- 
 
 sion. 
 
 'Oh, my, no ! It's too hot ! When we start 
 I'll just set a broom alongside the door an' he'll 
 know." 
 
 What connection a broom had with funeral 
 rites I did not try to think out. There are 
 mysteries of this twentieth century as profound 
 as those that obtained in the young years of 
 Greece, though we build no visible temple for 
 them. 
 
 In due time the colt came to the door ; a 
 shaggy creature, of the color of a faded cow, 
 with lank mane and tail somewhat knotted with 
 burrs, a dropping head, hollow back, and sev- 
 eral worn places on his sides and hips, where 
 some misfit harness or much rubbing against 
 the stall had spoiled the growth of hair. 
 
 But, for all that, the colt had a wise eye that 
 took in the situation, and an alert instinct that 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 169 
 
 missed the curb. So as soon as his mistress had 
 dismounted, slowly, and quite bunchily like 
 Dickens's Peggotty, he swerved toward a great 
 clump of tiger lilies that adorned the front 
 yard, and snapped oif two tall stalks viciously. 
 
 "You won't do that again, I can tell you !" 
 cried his driver, as she pulled up the curb and 
 snapped it in place with a vigorous, freckled 
 hand, adding to me in a quiet aside: "If you'll 
 just stand by his head while I step in an' get 
 my hat, an' give him a han'ful of grass 'f he 
 gets jerky," and I pulled up the long blades 
 with fragrant heads of clover, and held them 
 so far from his nose, that the great feet coming 
 nearer and nearer and the loud breathing with 
 a wheeze in some deep chest region forced me 
 quite up on the top stone step. 
 
 "I thought likely !" my hostess exclaimed, as 
 she thrust a stick through the latch to let any 
 chance passerby know that she was not in and 
 set the kitchen broom against the door. "He 
 knows the minute you're afraid. Back there, 
 
 Ceph ! you old " and she laid a strong hand 
 
 on the bit. "Now then, if you'll take the lines, 
 so, an' hold 'em tight. Here, I guess I can 
 
170 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 manage it an' get in by myself. He knows 
 better'n to fool with me." 
 
 "What is his name.?" I asked, deferentially, 
 as we went out at the great gate which a pass- 
 ing boy was told to shut behind us. 
 
 "Why, we call him Ceph? 'Twas Parson 
 Tuller named him for father when we'd as many 
 as six, an' got all out o' names ourselves. The' 
 was Gray an' Prince an' Major an' General an' 
 Jube; an' we couldn't think of another proper 
 name to save us." 
 
 "Why not Tom or Dickr I asked, futilely. 
 
 "Why, you see some o' the folks we know had 
 them names, an' all is they might not like it. 
 So one day Parson Tuller was up in the horse 
 lot, an' father says, 'What's a good name for 
 a colt .?' He wa'n't a man to make words ; an' 
 the parson looked him in the eye — the colt's 
 eye I mean — an' he says as if he was thinkin' in 
 his mind to find somethin' suitable, Bucepholis ; 
 right out quick, like that. Some great name 
 or another I presume, an' we didn't like to seem 
 to slight it since he'd been so obligin' and took 
 the trouble to study it up. An' Ceph he is, to 
 this day; for the other was too long to speak 
 suddenly, an' that's the way he has to be spoke 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 171 
 
 to, as you can see. Sounds foolish to you, I'll 
 be bound, to call him the colt; but the others 
 was sold off when they was three or four years 
 old, an' he seemed kind o' young an' frisky to us 
 then. An' he does now, I'm free to say, long 
 side the old horse. Get up ! Now if that ain't 
 just like you, Ceph, stoppin' in the middle o' 
 the road, an' all them teams comin' up behind. 
 I declare, I'm mortified at you, Ceph!" 
 
 But the colt stood still, with an air of per- 
 fect unconcern, reaching out a hampered nose 
 toward the alder bushes that leaned near and 
 hindering the long procession of wagons coming 
 after us, till Tilly Chris and her husband drove 
 on ahead and offered to attach us to the rear 
 of their buggy. This neighborly kindness was 
 graciously accepted, and as the leading horse 
 set off at a good pace, Ceph decided that it was 
 the part of discretion to keep up. 
 
 It was humiliating to be towed to a funeral 
 in this fashion, as if horse and family needed 
 persuasion to do a good deed; so at the top of 
 the first long hill the colt's mistress begged to 
 have the rope loosed, adding that it would be 
 well not to get too far ahead, as she hated 
 dreadfully to be late at the funeral. 
 
172 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 It must be said for Bucephalus that he was 
 a horse of dignity and spirit ; for after his own 
 self-respecting fling — a silent protest perhaps 
 at being controlled by womenfolks — there was 
 no more occasion for the leading string. And 
 he kept up so well in the procession, with such 
 decided setting down of his feet, that not only 
 did we take the dust of all the teams ahead, but 
 passed it on as well to the long line coming after 
 us. No ordinary dust was this — just thickened 
 and glorified trails of light, sifting over us and 
 softening the landscape. 
 
 It was a wonderful road. No sooner did we 
 climb to the top of a stony hill with painful 
 effort and much lathering of the horses under 
 the harness, than we dropped as painfully 
 down, Ceph holding back faithfully, even cheer- 
 fully, with a sitting down effect in the steepest 
 places, but with no disposition to be childish. 
 The gravity of the occasion had reached his 
 brain at last, and his grateful mistress said 
 there'd be no more foolin' now that he under- 
 stood. 
 
 "And he can walk b'utiful to the grave," she 
 added. "You'll see how when they begin to 
 slow up. Why, when he was young — younger, 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 173 
 
 that is, we was on the way to Deacon Swift's 
 funeral, an' he wouldn't walk in line. My! 
 wa'n't I scared? An' mortified, too. First, 
 he'd pull out one side, then over to th' other; 
 an' when father jerked him in sharp, what did 
 he do but wheel round, an' go smack over the 
 stone wall! I can show you the very identical 
 spot. There; you see that big elder clump 
 ahead? 'Twas just th' other side of that; an' 
 the gap's in the wall yet where he fetched down 
 the top stones. 
 
 "But he was 'shamed enough, I can tell you, 
 when the whole procession went past, folks 
 afoot and all, an' he had to be took out o' the 
 buggy to get 'em both back into the road. 
 
 "Father give him a few lashes then an' there 
 to let him know who was master. He's a mild 
 man, an' didn't train him the way some would; 
 but Ceph knew just as well's you would that 
 he wa'n't to cut up any more didoes goin' to 
 funerals. And he never did. I don't count this 
 time, for you see he didn't rightly sense what 
 we was settin' oif for. 
 
 "Like as not he'd thought it over an' made 
 up his mind I wanted some thin' another from 
 the store; an' when we took the wrong road he 
 
174 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 suspicioned I didn't know what I was about, an' 
 so just stopped to let me straighten out things 
 in my own mind. Anybody can think better 
 keepin' still, you know. 
 
 "See how good he was when they took that 
 rope off! Oh, he won't disgrace himself that 
 way again ! He's thinkin' it all over, I know, 
 by the way that off ear lops. Father'd say he 
 was philosophizin'." 
 
 It was a beautiful country that we were 
 jogging and creaking along; poor enough for 
 meadow or planting, but lovely for situation. 
 From the tops of the hills, oaks and chestnuts 
 stood up against the white, summer clouds, and 
 bees and butterflies stopped at every thistle. 
 Prodigal nature loves to shower gifts on waste 
 and lovely lands in token of her tremendous 
 reserves. 
 
 In the lowlands the drought had not yet 
 yellowed the foliage, and the hedges were riot- 
 ously thick and green ; white and fragrant with 
 clethra, the sweet pepper bush of New England, 
 which the bees hung about with contented 
 blurring of the soft air ; and deep, yellow heads 
 of tansy, whose Greek name stands for im- 
 mortality, its strong tonic odor typical of the 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 175 
 
 bitter herbs of the Paschal season. Goldenrod 
 was in full bud, with here and there an early 
 blossom, and the intense purple of iron weed 
 reared its royal banner under the tall heads 
 and coarse leaves of Joe-Pye-weed, sown b}'^ the 
 artist hand of nature that brings into gracious 
 harmony her blues and pinks and purples of 
 all degrees. 
 
 "I declare, if there ain't pennyr'yal right in 
 the horses' tracks !" broke out the colt's driver, 
 suddenly. "Did you ever see such a smell! 
 B'utiful, ain't it.f^ I'll stop an' gether some 
 when we go home, if so be Ceph'U wait. I like 
 to keep it up garret long o' boneset an' 
 chamomile an' mint." 
 
 We had left the dusty thoroughfare and were 
 climbing up a narrow, green lane with over- 
 grown wheel ruts strewed with last year's 
 leaves, through which young oaks and chest- 
 nuts sent up shoots, and dark green pipsissewa 
 spread its exquisite growth. Above this soft 
 track birches whispered together, and pines 
 sifted the wind that passed through their tops, 
 and gave out the balmy odor that is like noth- 
 ing else in the tree kingdom. 
 
 We caught glimpses of sailing, white clouds 
 
176 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 through delicate twigs of alder and black 
 birch that leaned quite across the road and 
 brushed our faces when we failed to stoop in 
 time. 
 
 Presently we left even this shadow of a road, 
 and turned into a rough cart track between 
 great boulders, where some hidden spring 
 glistened in the long grass, and the cardinal 
 flower knee deep in the water tossed up its 
 splendor of color that makes even the wood lily 
 pale. 
 
 "I'd just love to get some of that !" cried 
 Ceph's mistress, with a strong, backward pull 
 on the reins. "And I would, too, if it wa'n't 
 for a funeral. You go on, Ceph." 
 
 "And why not for a funeral?" I asked, with 
 the simpleness of an alien. 
 
 "For a funeral!" 
 
 The rebuke in the tone was sufficient reply. 
 It might have been inferred from my lack of 
 enthusiasm at the start that I knew nothing of 
 these proprieties. 
 
 The cart path wound up and up by easy 
 stages, passing the kitchen door on its slow 
 way to an unused barn with sagging roof and 
 gaping sides. 
 
A NEW ENGIiAND FESTIVAIi 177 
 
 The stone step leading to the front door was 
 quite choked with grass and blackberry vines. 
 It must have been years since any one had driven 
 that way. So one by one the teams halted at 
 the kitchen porch, then passed on to the shady 
 side of the barn, where the horses were taken 
 out and tethered to the backs of the wagons, 
 whinneying softly to each other with reticent 
 comment on the quality of deep grass and clover 
 at their feet but out of reach. 
 
 It was a little, brown, shingled house of one 
 story, weatherbeaten to the universal tint of 
 rocks and stone walls and lichens. Nature 
 gathers such gently into her large embrace, and 
 lulls it to its final repose. But over its porch 
 ran the wild splendor of a trumpet creeper into 
 whose scarlet horns the humming birds thrust 
 themselves half out of sight with a purring 
 sound. It must have been the one strenuous 
 voice of animate nature here at other times. 
 
 There was no sign of dog or cat, nor of the 
 universal chicken that makes the abomination 
 of desolation on the hardened face of earth. 
 
 Two downcast neighbors from a mile or more 
 away came to the door, and one, the bolder of 
 them, asked us to come into the keepin' room 
 
178 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 and take chairs. They spoke in whispers as 
 if we stood before a shrine. 
 
 It was difficult to explain why. I preferred 
 the porch, and impossible for them to under- 
 stand why I should not care to see her that had 
 passed away. One capable woman detached 
 herself from a slowly formed group, and urged 
 the matter as we stood under the shade of the 
 trumpet vine. 
 
 "Nobody's made us acquainted," she began, 
 modestly, with native dignity and sweetness ; 
 "but I hope you'll excuse me for taking the 
 liberty. I presume you're a stranger here — 
 one of the ladies intimated as much; and, of 
 course, you didn't know Aunt Almy. 
 
 "But we've fixed her up b'utiful, and I'd take 
 it kindly if you'd step in and look at her. 
 She's laid out in her old, black alapaccy. 'Twas 
 all she had, tho I wish't had been silk. We've 
 sponged it off and pressed it, and my girls 
 made her a nice cap with white ribbons, and 
 she's got two of her own white lilies in her hand. 
 She looks b'utiful, if I do S3iy it, and I wish't 
 you'd step in." 
 
 So I went within by way of amends for my 
 tardy courtesy, and to praise the generous care 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 179 
 
 that had been so lovingly given by those in no 
 way akin. It was a sweet, strong face, with 
 thin, brown hair softly powdered with gray 
 under the lace cap, and a look of absolute peace 
 on the clear-cut features. 
 
 There were no mourners, for Aunt Almy was 
 alone in the world. And there was only a 
 deacon-service; for Parson TuUer had died 
 some months earlier, after more than a half 
 century of faithful ministering to his feeble 
 parish. But there were remarks from two 
 tremulous deacons, verv old men from whom the 
 joy of even middle life had departed, who made 
 much of the occasion, with mournful allusions 
 to the brevity of life, and the surety of a better 
 country that the best among us might hope to 
 attain. Then the audience that quite filled the 
 three small rooms lifted up quavering voices, 
 with here and there one fresh and young, and 
 sang, "Why Should We Mourn Departed 
 Friends," to the heart-rending tune of China^ 
 whose mournful cadences wailed through the 
 narrow rooms and passages, filling the house 
 quite full of melancholy. I thought of it shut 
 in like the odor of bitter herbs, with the youth 
 of Aunt Almy, and only going out of it when 
 
180 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 the framework went to ruin, and let in the sun, 
 and summer wind to sweeten and scatter it. 
 
 Four withered old men lifted the plain coffin 
 from the keeping room table and carried it 
 haltingly to the door, at which younger men 
 took their places. Then the long procession 
 followed across a meadow to the back of the 
 garden wall, where two dark, lichened head- 
 stones leaned away as if shrinking from the 
 newly opened grave. 
 
 The garden was a miracle of neatness ,and 
 bloom; for its owner and lover had died sud- 
 denly, and nothing had suffered from neglect. 
 
 A mulberry tree, in full fruit, hung over the 
 wall, and the robins were jubilantly returning 
 thanks among its branches. 
 
 Along the tidy walks crossing each other 
 at right angles blossomed late sweet peas 
 and nasturtiums, bordered by delicate sweet 
 alyssum, pink-edged poppies, mignonette, and 
 the dainty blue fairy flax. Jasmine past 
 blooming climbed and fell over the wall at the 
 garden's foot, making a background for flaming 
 hollyhocks, blue larkspur, tiger lilies and mari- 
 golds. 
 
 Scarlet poppies grew rank and high in full 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 181 
 
 view from the keeping room window, and the 
 lonely soul who watched their springing time 
 and summer must have loved them like sunny- 
 hearted friends. To the north, just where the 
 land fell off suddenly over masses of rock that 
 guarded a deep, stony pasture-valley, stood a 
 single, high boulder, split into two by a sturdy, 
 many-branched chestnut tree that leaned its 
 ripening burrs within easy reach. At its foot 
 blackberry vine and wild clematis wrestled 
 together in dense masses. Rude steps cut in 
 the lower half of the rock led to a broad plat- 
 form to which the tree lent a back. 
 
 "She use' to keep a red shawl folded there to 
 sit on," said the woman who had first invited 
 me in. "They say she was a master hand to 
 climb up there and read, all by herself, day in 
 and day out. 
 
 "My Tommy spoke with her there just a few 
 hours before she passed away. He was after 
 blackberries, and strayed off as boys will, and 
 she asked him to come and pick some." 
 
 "Did she have many books?" I asked, in the 
 pause that followed. 
 
 "Oh, a sight ! There was 'Paradise Lost' and 
 Pollock's 'Course of Time'; that's a b'utiful 
 
182 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 book; I presume you've heard of it? and Mar- 
 tin Tupper's 'Poetical Works,' and some 
 stories, and Walter Scott's books — quite a shelf 
 full; and — ," she hesitated and dropped her 
 voice — "some says she had a big book, coarse 
 print, named Dant's Hell, and that she was 
 fond of it. Livin' all stark alone she couldn't 
 help bein' a little queer I say, and there's them 
 that'll bear me out in it — meanin' no disrespect 
 to the dead. But over and above them all 'tis 
 said she set great store by William Shake- 
 speare's 'Poems.' She was a reader! They 
 say he wrote plays, too. The minister told me 
 once, himself, that he'd read one or two of 
 them, and there was good in them. 
 
 "But I do' know. We wasn't brought up 
 that way." 
 
 II 
 
 The neighbors who had cared for the last of 
 her family with generous giving of time and 
 service stayed behind to set the house in order 
 and lock the door. One by one the teams jolted 
 along the cart path, but with a jauntier air 
 than that of the early afternoon. It was the 
 welcome breathing spell after the repression 
 
A NEW ENGLAND EESTIVAIi 183 
 
 of the service, like the beginning of a new life — 
 like what we imagine of a resurrection when 
 shadows flee away. 
 
 Ceph was led out last, and as he stepped 
 slowly along, still in contemplative mood, with 
 no ambition to outstrip faster teams, I had 
 time to impress the whole beautiful, lonely land- 
 scape on my mind. 
 
 The reins lay loosely on the colt's back, and 
 he foraged from the roadside without rebuke. 
 "I've been thinkin' an' thinkin'," said his driver. 
 " 'Twas real sober, wa'n't it? Mebbe you'd 
 take int'rest in hearin' about her that's just 
 passed away." 
 
 Not only that, but I was filled with com- 
 punction at having been such an unwilling guest 
 on an occasion that these busy fellow beings 
 never omitted; and made what decent amends 
 were possible. 
 
 "She was a proper nice looking girl," the 
 narrator began ; "and pretty disposed. Not 
 that I knew her so very well, for it's lonesome 
 up here, an' she didn't go to meetin'. They say 
 she didn't go to school when she was a girl. 
 
 "Her ma had been a teacher, an' I expect 
 she learnt her. But before my day she use' to 
 
184 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 walk to meetin' time and again ; an' it come 
 about that my brother Cephas took to carryin' 
 her home. She wa'n't more than sixteen, I pre- 
 sume, and he was some older. 
 
 "I was a little girl, but I use' to hear the 
 folks speakin' about it. When he took her to 
 singin' school, ma said he was keepin' comp'ny 
 with her. And I s'pose he was. He wa'n't one 
 to make words about it. 
 
 "Well, the next spring, just about apple- 
 blow time, her aunt come down from Boston 
 for a spell an' wanted that Almy should go 
 home with her. 'Twas dre'dful hard for her 
 mother to let 'er go, but they made out 'twas 
 best for the girl, an' you know mothers don't 
 think about their own feelin's. You see her 
 father was a drinkin' man, an' 'twa'n't any too 
 pleasant there when he had his spells. 
 
 "The boys got away from home soon's they 
 could ; for they do say he was abusive at times, 
 an' you know boys won't stan' that if they've 
 got any spirit. They done well, too. I expect 
 'twas the Martin blood. That was on her side. 
 'Twas a high family; pretty spoken, pretty 
 behaved, an' always tryin' to have the children 
 be somebody. 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 185 
 
 "All is I don't see how Almj's mother ever 
 come to marry Tom Giles. He wanted her bad, 
 I s'pose, an' girls married before they come to 
 know their own minds, them days. He was 
 well enough when he was young, accordin' to 
 what I've heard tell, an' good lookin' as folks 
 goes ; but han'some is as han'some does, I hold. 
 And he never 'mounted to a row of pins. He'd 
 sooner sit 'round in the tavern an' tell stories 
 an' treat, way they use' to them days, than to 
 be farmin' of it. An' tho 'twa'n't much of a 
 farm to start with, he'd neighbors that made a 
 good livin', poor soil an' all. One of 'em left 
 some money in the bank, too. 'Twa'n't much — 
 a couple of hundred or so, but it helped start 
 the boys. Well, this Tom Giles, as I was say in', 
 tho he'd got a likely family, smart workers and 
 all, didn't try to bring 'em up. Just let 'em 
 come up. If the boys wanted to plant corn 
 two or three years a-goin' in the same place, 
 not knowin' any better, why he let 'em. An' he 
 used up his best land, an' let it go to pastur' 
 when he might 've had tol-rable crops just as 
 well as not. 
 
 "But he wouldn't turn his hand over. Smoke 
 a pipe an' drink — drink an' smoke a pipe ; 'twas 
 
186 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 all the business he ever calc'lated on. Mis' 
 Giles was a close-mouthed lady, an' nobody 
 ever heard a word from her, even when the boys 
 left an' the stock was sold off. She couldn't 
 go to meetin' after that, an' nobody went there 
 scarcely, 'twas so far away. An' besides, 
 nobody wanted to run acrost him. 
 
 "He had a raspy sort of tongue when he was 
 in liquor, an' that was the heft o' the time. 
 Seems like gossipin' about neighbors behind 
 their backs ; but 'twas town talk. Besides 
 they're all dead an' gone now, all but the boys 
 out West. What be I talkin' about! Why, 
 they was a sight older'n Almy, an' I presume 
 the' ain't one of 'em above ground now, as we 
 say. Where did I get to.^^ Oh, yes; Almy's 
 aunt that took her off to Boston, an' her poor 
 mother never so much as sayin' ay, yes or no. 
 
 "The aunt was a hard workin' woman an' 
 took boarders. An' Almy was to help, an' have 
 her board an' clothes. 
 
 "She was a proper pretty girl, I told you 
 before, an' held her head high, proud-like as all 
 her mother's folks was. And her aunt done 
 well by her. She had books to read, when the' 
 was any time, an' two pink calico dresses for 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 187 
 
 summer, besides a white muslin for meetin', an' 
 a good blue merino for winter. Tilly Chris told 
 me all about it. Her grandmother was neigh- 
 bor to them, an' she an' Almy was great friends. 
 
 "Well, the old folks lived on, kind o' hand 
 to mouth, poor's poverty all the time. An' Mis' 
 Giles she spun some for folks that got behind- 
 hand into their fall work, an' wove rag carpets. 
 No joke that, weavin' rag carpet. 
 
 "Ev'ry spring an' ev'ry fall Almy come home 
 for a visit, pretty as a posy, with a new, purple 
 calico mebbe, for her ma, an' what money her 
 aunt could spare, which wa'n't much, tho she 
 was open-handed. I use' to hear our folks tell 
 all about it. And she'd coax some o' the 
 neighbors to take them two to church, an' make 
 jell to pay for't. Almy wa'n't the sort to take 
 favors from anybody. She did make b'utiful 
 jell — pick the berries an' grapes herself, an' 
 they'd furnish sugar. 'Twas winter set in, in 
 earnest, when she had to go back. 
 
 "I presume Cephas would've done as much 
 for her as any of 'em, if she'd a-let him. But 
 the young folks was all crazy after her, boys 
 an' girls alike. Seemed as if they wore off the 
 grass round the front door short as if sheep'd 
 
188 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 nibbled it, with their teams drivin' up day an' 
 night. 
 
 "Don't look that way now, does it? But 
 that's the way it use' to be told. Tired o' my 
 long story? Well, I'm glad if you ain't. 
 Father says you can't stop me when I get 
 a-goin' more'n a windmill in a gale. I get so 
 intent on it, you see, I forget eA^erything. 
 
 "Ma use' to say Cephas took it hard her goin' 
 back. Not that he said so — he wa'n't like me; 
 but he kind o' peaked an' pined, an' didn't 
 relish his vittles. And ma was the best of cooks. 
 
 "Why, she believed he'd a-gone clear up to 
 Boston to see her if it took ev'ry cent he'd got, 
 he was that lonesome. 
 
 "But folks didn't jig about, them days, way 
 they does now. Just stuck to their bus'ness 
 steady, an' laid up a trifle year by year, an' 
 bymeby got to be forehanded. My father, he'd 
 laid up five hundred dollars in the bank before 
 he died. But Cephas wa'n't twenty-one then, 
 an' worked for his keep. When he was, he got 
 his freedom suit. Ma made it for him. But 
 the' wa'n't any money to go with it, except as 
 he done extry work an' was allowed some for 
 
A NEW ENGI.AND FESTIVAL 189 
 
 it — -a York shillin' a day, overtime, I guess 
 'twas. 
 
 "Bymeby he somehow got onto a big farm, 
 six or seven miles away, when John grew along 
 to take his place; an' we 'lowed he'd get Almy 
 after a spell." 
 
 "And didn't he.^^" I asked, with deep interest. 
 
 "I was goin' to tell you. When she come 
 home next time the' was a sight o' sickness, an' 
 she went 'round an' set up nights, an' was that 
 busy days she couldn't even go to meetin'. An' 
 Cephas he took it pretty hard. Not that he 
 said so, but it was his only chance, you know; 
 an' ma would have it he looked peakeder'n ever. 
 She took sick herself, to end up with, an' had 
 to stay a week over time. Tilly's grandmother 
 took her back, for she wa'n't fit to go alone. 
 She was a girl then, an' had been home visitin' 
 her own folks. But she went sooner'n she 
 would, on Almy's account. 'Twas a terrible 
 long stage ride. But now comes the worst of it. 
 When she come home next time, sort o' lively 
 seein' all her folks, she let out that one o' the 
 aunt's boarders was keepin' comp'ny with Almy. 
 
 "A spruce young fellow, she said he was, an' 
 likely into the bargain. He was part owner in 
 
190 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 a book store, with some money laid by, an' he 
 was farse to get married; but Almy wouldn't. 
 
 "Well, it went on and on ; an' it was a proper, 
 pretty match, her aunt said ; but Almy, she held 
 off. An' in some way they found out that he 
 wanted to go home with her an' talk it over 
 with her folks, an' she wouldn't let him. 
 
 "Her aunt would've told him fast enough 
 what the matter was, an' made no bones about 
 it ; but Almy as much as said she wasn't to. 
 You see I use' to hear all this from ma, over 
 an' over again. 
 
 "As I was tellin' you before, Almy was proud, 
 like all the Martins, an' I s'pose she didn't wan' 
 to take anybody she set store by to such a 
 tumble-down ramshackle sort of a place as her 
 house was then, with a poor sot for a father. 
 An' I don't know's I blame her. Her mother 
 was nice as could be ; but I tell you 'tis a terrible 
 thing for a girl to be ashamed of her own father. 
 
 "An' so it went on for a year or two, an' 
 Almy, bein' pretty close-mouthed, likely didn't 
 tell him the reason she wouldn't let 'im go home 
 with 'er, an' he got offish, man-fashion, because 
 he couldn't have his own way ; an' 'twa'n't long 
 till he up an' married a city lady. An' 'twas the 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 191 
 
 year after that Mis' Giles took sick, an' Almy 
 had to come home. He got worse an' worse, 
 kind o' drinkin' his brains soft; but he didn't 
 die. Such critters never does. An', after a 
 spell, she kind o' faded an' faded away, an' 
 you couldn't scercely tell when the breath re'lly 
 went out of her." 
 
 "Almy.f^" I asked, with a lapse of intellect. 
 
 "My, no ! her mother. Almy's only just gone 
 now. An' Tom Giles he held on, an' held on; 
 and ev'ry cent they could rake an' scrape went 
 for liquor. I'd a-throwed him onto the town ! 
 Why, Almy raised chickens, they said, an' 
 planted corn an' potaties, an' tended to 'em all 
 herself, or they'd starved. Not but that the 
 neighbors would've looked after her some, but 
 she was that proud, I presume, if they'd sent 
 in things she'd have hove 'em outdoors. Well, 
 here we be; and if I didn't forget that penny- 
 r'yal! Come right over it, an' didn't get a 
 sniff of it. An' a powerful pretty smell it has, 
 too." 
 
 Ill 
 
 It was the first part of the week following 
 the funeral. I had been for a tramp over the 
 
192 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 hills, and came home just before sunset with 
 an armful of boneset and mountain mint, the 
 best thing in the world for a cough, I was told, 
 and a necessity in every household. 
 
 These would give pleasure all through the 
 long, cold winter, I was sure, and make the very 
 rafters fragrant as they dried slowly under the 
 garret roof. 
 
 While I sat to rest a moment on a gray rock 
 under the shade of a clump of chestnuts, and 
 looked off toward the golden sea in which a 
 faint shallop of moon was floating, there was a 
 sudden flurry of bushes pushed aside, and my 
 hostess broke panting through. 
 
 "My, but I'm glad to find you so near !" she 
 sighed. "Such news ! And he's milkin' still, so 
 I'll just drop down here an' tell you. 
 
 "Tilly run over half an hour ago, all burstin' 
 with it ; an' I venture it's half over town by this 
 time. 
 
 "P'r'aps you didn't take notice; but Sarah 
 Winterses girls stayed to lock up the house that 
 day ; an' what do you think ! They said no 
 sooner was the teams out o' sight than a man 
 come walkin' up the hill other side. He'd left 
 a black man and a buggy down to the foot, for 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 193 
 
 they went up garret to see. He had a long 
 box, an' he was dressed up slick, like a city man, 
 an' he had a weed on his hat an' a cane in his 
 hand. An' first he laid down his cane an' pulled 
 off his hat an' set that down, an' he took some- 
 thing out o' the box — for they set up garret 
 an' watched 'im; an' he bent down his head 
 without any hat on, just like he was sayin' a 
 prayer. When he was gone they crep' down 
 stairs an' went over to see what 'twas ; an' there 
 was roses an' roses — pink ones — stems long's 
 your arm — ^laid all 'round the head o' the grave. 
 An' they said come to think it over they was 
 sure he knelt down there with his hat off; but 
 I don't believe it. He'd be too old, an' stiff 
 besides, likely. I s'pose he recollected the pink 
 dresses she use' to wear. Well there! I've no 
 call to say so. Such things do come into your 
 mind, tho, an' stick. And I say 'twas pretty 
 of him, whatever other folks thinks. And his 
 wife likely was passed away by that weed on his 
 hat, an' he'd had time to think back. Queer, 
 ain't it, how we will go back to things that's 
 past an' gone. 
 
 "An' the girls thought, an' I b'lieve it my- 
 self, that 'twas him — ^why, I hadn't told you 
 
194 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 that! an' he'd heard of it, some way, an' he'd 
 come all the way from Boston with a team, to 
 'tend the funeral. 
 
 "I reckon he was disappointed. But Tilly, 
 she thinks he'd rather wait till the folks was 
 gone, an' kind o' have it all to himself, an' no 
 remarks made. 
 
 "I wish't he could've seen her, she looked so 
 nice. 'Most pretty if she hadn't been so old. 
 But mebbe he'd rather think of her as she was. 
 
 "I've made up my mind, an' Tilly says she 
 has, too, that he's a widower. The weed looks 
 like it. And if his wife had been livin' it 
 might've pestered her to know how much he set 
 store by Almy after all these years. I don't 
 b'lieve he'd done it. 
 
 "But it'll all be found out in time. Even 
 Tilly Clum, who's the stay-at-home sort, says 
 she shan't rest till she knows for sure if he's the 
 same, an' what his name is, an' if his wife is 
 dead, an' what fam'ly she left. We'll know all 
 the' is to be known, pretty quick. 
 
 "The reason we was so slow gettin' at it 
 before now, you see the Winterses they live over 
 'cross Five Mile Brook, an' bring down their 
 butter an' fowls once a week for the stage man 
 
A NEW ENGLAND EESTIVAL 195 
 
 to take. An' they drove a good two mile out 
 o' the way to carry the news to Chris. Pike in 
 the up-meadow." 
 
 "Did I meet your brother at the funeral?" 
 I asked, with keen sympathy. "For I do not 
 remember your speaking of him, or introducing 
 him. There were so many there." 
 
 "Cephas? Why, bless your heart, he's been 
 in heaven these thirty years ! Went right from 
 the supper table, as you may say, 'twas that 
 sudden. 
 
 "Ma did hope he'd get reconciled an' take a 
 wife; an' she was free to urge him some, as he 
 was gettin' along, an' there'd be nobody to look 
 after him when she was gone. But he wa'n't 
 that sort. We ain't, not one of us. 
 
 "When our sort o' folks gets their mind set, 
 they're terrible hard to unset. Might as well 
 try to end over this rock. Well, it did seem 
 kind o' sober up there that day, didn't it? But 
 come to get home, what with the yellow clouds 
 all over, some purple 'round the edges, not quite 
 sundown you recollect — ^just the way it looks 
 tonight, so sweet an' homey like — 'twas diff' rent. 
 Seems as if you could look right through, only 
 the sun blinds you so. 
 
196 A GRAY DREAM 
 
 "I always think about Almy when it comes 
 this time o' day — kind o' as if she'd gone back 
 again an' was young. She did look real young, 
 now didn't she, for a person risin' of seventy? 
 
 "Some way as if all the years was droppin' 
 off, droppin' off gradual, soon as she got rid 
 of the body, an' kind of givin' her a new chance 
 to begin over again. 
 
 "Why, I expect she's just sittin' down with 
 her ma in the shade o' the glory now — not bein' 
 use' to it so soon — an' talkin' it all over. 
 Cephas, too, mebbe he'll put in a word. He^d 
 he there! 
 
 "Seems to me, when I stop an' think it over, 
 just like it use' to when I was young an' I'd 
 been off over night to our folkses. When I got 
 back the little fellows they'd come racin' out, 
 hoppin' up an' down, an' hangin' round an' 
 catchin' hold of me, shoutin' out: ^Mummy^s 
 got home! Mummy's got home! Mummy's got 
 home!' ; just plain cryin' for joy to see me. 
 
 "Seems to me 'twill be same way up there. 
 I wouldn't stand it other ways. I declare to it, 
 if I ain't cryin' myself for joy! An' there's 
 father with his two milk pails — I hear 'im lettin' 
 down the bars this minit, an' I ain't so much 
 
A NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL 197 
 
 as got the kettle on ! I couldn't blame 'im if he 
 spoke up ha'sh to me — workin' away in the hot 
 sun all day long, real tired, an' me off gaddin', 
 enjoyin' myself! But there, he never did in 
 all his life, however deservin' I might be. Come 
 in pretty quick, won't you? I'll have the table 
 set an' the tea a-drawin' in a jiffy. The's 
 quince preserves that he likes ; but if you want 
 sweet cream on your baked apples instead — an' 
 you seem to — the's a whole pitcherful sittin' on 
 the butt'ry shelf waitin'. It's been coolin' all 
 day in the well." 
 
 THE END 
 
THE HEART OF A CHH^D 
 
A GRAY DREAM 
 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 BY 
 LAURA WOLCOTT 
 
 VOLUME II 
 
 NEW HAVEN 
 
 YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 MDCCCCXVIII 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 JN OT everyone has been a child once, long ago, 
 and then again many years after. The little 
 stories of this volume were written by one whose 
 first days of childhood came, in New England, 
 in the period of 1830, and whose touch with 
 childhood went on in this world until 1916. 
 
 The first group of stories were made of the 
 vivid memories of those early days — "the days 
 of the Honored Elders," and of fervent Bible- 
 reading; the second group grew from constant 
 contact with children of our present times, 
 whose quality the future must name. Whether 
 the writer of these stories was feeling life, her- 
 self a little child, or the white-haired lover of 
 little children who came to her daily showing 
 their treasures, she bore always deep in her own 
 nature the heart of a child. 
 
 E. E. M. 
 
 "If the Child were to go back to the Garden 
 after fifty years, would it sit on the stone wall 
 and dip its feet in the water, pushing it down 
 
204 INTRODUCTION 
 
 until it pushed back, and looking out to Harbor 
 Woods for Xerxes and the Crusaders? WHiy 
 not? And if the big timber of the mighty -^am 
 has shrunken with the years like the miller, and 
 the breadth of the fall narrowed that a man 
 may leap across it; if the bottomless pits can 
 be sounded with a little longer stick; and the 
 path from the porch is only a sheep-walk up a 
 hand's breadth rise of rock and down again; 
 if the height from which the Almighty called to 
 Adam has a house on it, and the apple tree is 
 bowed and mossy with age ; if the Garden itself, 
 like the British Islands, is shrinking from the 
 sea ; what matters it, if only the years have left 
 the heart of the Child?" 
 
STORIES OF 1838 
 
THE CHILD'S CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 X^ OR three nights before Christmas it snowed 
 and snowed and snowed, sifting down the great 
 stone chimney and making a soft, mysterious 
 hissing on the birch and apple tree logs blazing 
 below. And for three days the sky was like a 
 great gray umbrella let down for protection; 
 and everything seemed to hark for what was 
 coming next. 
 
 The Child listened to the pricking and sifting, 
 and long, slow drift of snow on the window 
 panes, and cuddled close under the trundle-bed 
 blankets like a very little bird under brooding 
 wings, oh, so safe and snug, with a great uni- 
 versal lullaby shutting it in to warmth and 
 safety. 
 
 On the third day the sun shone, and the 
 island where the Child lived — ^bound to the land 
 by two bridges — was one great white joy. 
 
 The path to the garden was not; nor the 
 stone wall that kept out the sea at its foot ; and 
 the place where in day dreams the Almighty 
 talked with Adam under the apple tree was a 
 gleaming hill, a very Mount of Vision. 
 
208 THE HEAET OF A CHILD 
 
 There was no dull, hindering school this day 
 before Christmas, so the Child, well wrapped 
 up, dragging a little deal sled, could run along 
 as fast as the paths were dug, in a foUow-my- 
 leader game; watching with a thrill the great 
 shovelfuls of glistening snow tossed up till they 
 made a wall impassable as the one of China 
 that the story books said was true. The Child 
 did not believe it. So many strange, untrue 
 things lived in its world, why should they not 
 in the lesser world of books ? 
 
 After the snow a gentle rain fell and turned 
 all the trees and bushes to silver and glass with 
 rubies and emeralds for blossoms when the sun 
 came out. The rapture of it was too great 
 to be held in behind the Child's eyes and so over- 
 ran them; and the cold added made prisms 
 through which the world was a celestial rain- 
 bow like that about the Great White Throne. 
 How good of Father to read that chapter this 
 very morning ! Did he do it on purpose, or did 
 it just happen! One never could know. 
 
 The Child had not suspected any such beau- 
 tiful thing between the covers of the Great 
 Brown Book, where near the middle common 
 names and ages were written with a pen and 
 
THE child's CHRISTMAS EVE 209 
 
 faded ink after all the wars were over and 
 David and Solomon were gathered to their 
 fathers, and where once, farther over toward 
 the end, it was said in printing that the pure 
 in heart shall see God. 
 
 What was the "pure in heart" ? And wouldn't 
 anything be terribly afraid to see God? With 
 Our Lord it would be different, for He had 
 been a little child and His pictures were beauti- 
 ful. And He loved little children even when He 
 was a man, and let them come to Him just as 
 if they were not a trouble. 
 
 The mill pond was one great sheet of ice 
 tucked under blankets and comforters of snow, 
 quite invisible, — just a part of the impossible 
 world that made no sound. The water had 
 struggled and ruffled over the dam, and frozen 
 into giants wringing and tussling together, and 
 the very river itself made no sound under its 
 piled-up cover. Icicles hung like great fringes 
 all along its banks, and other icicles reached up 
 from below to meet them, lovelier than anything 
 in Cinderella — the Child's one fairy book. 
 
 Then a black cloud like an evil spirit rose 
 high in the north and leaned over the garden. 
 The Child had never heard that 
 
210 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 The North wind is man's wind 
 Entangled with his fate, 
 
 nor jet that 
 
 The South wind is God's wind 
 And blows from Paradise. 
 
 It wondered at the quick command to drop 
 the sled and run to the porch, for the Thing 
 that bowed the trees and snapped their loaded 
 branches was an invisible Dread riding by that 
 nevertheless in some blind way spread ruin in 
 its track. 
 
 The Child shivered, but not from cold, and 
 its knees smote together. The Thing came 
 madly shrieking as it flew, and half stunned the 
 Child on the threshold. But the good door 
 shut it out — the door and mother, and there 
 was nothing more to fear. Not even dreams 
 could hurt where mother was. It was so dif- 
 ferent in the house. There was warmth, and a 
 blazing fire, and an apple roasting and sizzling 
 on the hearth; and to make up for all out of 
 doors the Child was told that when the real 
 dark came it would be Christmas Eve, and "if 
 it was good it might go to The Church — not its 
 own — and see the candles." How could one be 
 good, — good enough.'^ Just by sitting still in 
 
THE child's CHRISTMAS EVE 211 
 
 one place and speaking properly only when 
 spoken to — never forgetting "thank you" and 
 "please," never asking for more pudding at 
 table, never making crumbs nor eating too fast 
 nor dropping its spoon? Oh, it would be so 
 good ! What did "the candles" mean ? It was 
 not the day of perpetual questionings and de- 
 mands. It was the day of the Honored Elders, 
 quite lost out of the present century; and the 
 Child breathed softly and thought and thought. 
 Once in the dim past, at a grandmother's house 
 three hours to the north as the horse travels, it 
 remembered seeing a great kettle of hot fat 
 with strings laid across a rod between two 
 chairs, lifted at intervals, let down into the fat 
 and raised dripping, but always into the kettle. 
 At each dip the candles grew on the long row 
 of strings called wicks from a little film to the 
 round, white things that were in time large 
 enough to cool and lay away to adorn candle- 
 sticks later, and give what puny light they were 
 capable of to the house otherwise in darkness. 
 Did they make candles in The Church? Who 
 did? How strange! They did no such thing 
 in its church — but in the Bible ? — oh, yes ; per- 
 haps. Such queer things happened in the 
 
212 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 Bible and so interesting. There never seemed 
 to be any school in it. Moses set up the Taber- 
 nacle, whatever it might be: — the Child wished 
 it had listened harder when the chapter was 
 read instead of thinking of the garden: — and 
 "thou shalt bring the candlestick and light the 
 lamps thereof." The Child remembered that. 
 It knew what that meant. It sounded pleasant. 
 The "lamps thereof" must be the little oil lamps 
 with handles, that helped show the candlelight ; 
 for did it not say, "the lamps to be set in order" 
 just as they had to be every day at home, filled 
 and trimmed and set away on the mantel; and 
 "the oil for light".? That came in a can and was 
 kept in the closet. How funny to have it just 
 so in the Bible ! It was no longer a far-away, 
 forbidding Book very full of "thou shalt nots." 
 It talked about just home things and one 
 couldn't help listening then. Well — it would 
 see. Would the glory of the Lord fill the 
 Tabernacle; — and could it mean The Church.'* 
 Again the Child shivered; its lips trembled and 
 anyone looking on might have seen to read, 
 almost, by the shining of its eyes. 
 
 When the sun went down the wind ceased, 
 and after supper the fire was covered, the cur- 
 
THE child's CHRISTMAS EVE 213 
 
 tains were drawn, and the lamps turned low in 
 preparation for the momentous event. 
 
 Holding by each hand the hand of one of its 
 elders, the child stepped out into the unknown 
 night, — a night alarmingly greater and more 
 mysterious than one could know or even guess 
 from the shelter of the trundle-bed. The stars 
 were like precious stones dancing; yes, surely 
 dancing around a pale, horned moon too cold 
 to stir. A brown cloak wadded with wool, a 
 brown hood with high crown and edged with 
 swansdown, woolen stockings drawn carefully 
 over the shoes, knitted red mittens and a red 
 tippet — these were the Child's protection from 
 the cruel cold, together with an unaccustomed 
 veil that drew in and blurred with every breath, 
 then froze and dimmed the lovely world. But 
 one cannot have everything. 
 
 The three walked on in silence across the 
 river bridge. The snow creaked, and under its 
 burden the mill pond ice cracked with sudden 
 fierceness, the sound trailing itself off into 
 space. Branches of trees lay across the narrow 
 path and made the way difficult. Often the 
 Child had to be jumped over them by each arm ; 
 often it slipped despite the woolen stockings. 
 
214 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 and once fell flat and had too much snow under 
 the wrists of its mittens. But that was because 
 it was not looking to see the way it went. Was 
 that being not good? 
 
 The Church stood on a hill, difficult of ac- 
 cess, like most good things. "A City set upon 
 a hill," the Bible said. And "whither the tribes 
 go up." Always up, up. Why-f* Were they, 
 too, "tribes".'' No, that would be funny and 
 there was nothing funny in the Bible. Would 
 the Lord "bring the glory of the nations" to it 
 this night .^ 
 
 Did that mean the wise men and the shep- 
 herds.'' They died and went to Heaven long 
 ago. But oh, oh, what did it all mean? 
 Candles, — and in church! 
 
 The light blazed softly down, twinkling on a 
 great space of snow about The Church. The 
 Child looked up and saw a heavenly illumina- 
 tion, a candle at each window pane below the 
 steeple where the bell was pealing joyously. 
 
 Dim figures, black against the intense white- 
 ness, were climbing up and up. If only Abigail 
 were there to speak to, — to let out what was 
 too big for its sheath ! But Abigail's people did 
 not go to The Church. Theirs was a bare 
 
THE child's CHRISTMAS EVE 215 
 
 whitewashed House of God, with no folderol 
 tending alarmingly in the direction of Popery. 
 Long after, on a school day, Abigail said 
 virtuously she was glad she didn't go, though 
 her eyes belied the words spoken in anger over 
 some little difference of opinion. 
 
 The Child did not know that Abigail had 
 been asked; neither did Abigail. People who 
 were "broad" in countenancing certain things 
 should not be encouraged. 
 
 Tall green trees stood at the entrance, and a 
 flood of light poured out as the door opened 
 revealing wondrous lights within, a cross of 
 green above the altar, wreaths of green looped 
 along the gallery's edge, silvery stars and red 
 berries high and low. "The Lord shall come 
 suddenly to his Temple." The words came of 
 themselves from some unknown place and 
 floated helplessly in the Child's half-compre- 
 hension. Was this the reason why The Church 
 was decked for Our Lord's birthday in the hope 
 that He might indeed come suddenly and be 
 pleased, — ^be surprised, but certainly pleased 
 that some of the people had remembered it? 
 
 Was it — oh, could it be He Himself in white 
 robes, standing in the blaze of countless candles, 
 
216 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 holding up His hands to bless ? — Was the Child 
 one of "the pure in heart"? And had the prom- 
 ised blessing come right here and now? 
 
 Tears of rapture fell; a sob choked, then 
 another and another. To breathe was impos- 
 sible. They burst, as the Child feared they 
 must, in a subdued wail of uncontrollable 
 spasm and mortification. Then a grave voice 
 said, "Father, we ought not to have brought 
 this child." 
 
 The music rose and fell, angelic. The Child 
 had no word to say. Its day had not yet 
 dawned. What it felt can never be set down 
 in words. But as it was led carefully home by 
 one hand instead of two, the music pealing 
 after — "Glory to God in the highest" — shaking 
 the still air outside, the world was changed, the 
 little horned moon clouded, the snow dull white, 
 the icicles dim, pointed things, the trees un- 
 clothed spirits of a lost summer. Even the 
 talked-of stocking to be hung by the chimney 
 as a closing act of the eventful day meant 
 nothing real, only one of the homely joys of 
 a familiar home on earth to temper the un- 
 endurable Splendors of the imagined Next. 
 
THE CHILD'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 Long before daybreak the Child woke sud- 
 denly. There was nothing but weird silence in 
 the world until the tall clock in the hall whirred 
 and struck five slowly and grudgingly. 
 
 The Child slipped out of its little trundle- 
 bed and felt its way cautiously to the chimney. 
 In the fireplace between the tall andirons ashes 
 were heaped over last night's embers, and only 
 a flickering ghost of warmth separated it from 
 the chilly room. The Child groped for the 
 stocking, past the cold handles of shovel and 
 tongs, and with trembling hands and a sudden 
 stoppage of the heart that leaped again, took it 
 down from its nail and tucked it under the bed- 
 clothes to keep it warm and safe till morning. 
 But very gently, for it was an unearthly stock- 
 ing, big and bulging, and with something tied 
 on the outside. Oh, the exquisite mystery 
 hidden in that queer parcel! Sunshine, and 
 swallow flights, and moonlight weird and 
 ghostly; bobolinks in the meadow, whippoor- 
 wills on the fence rail, flowers and bees and 
 
218 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 butterflies, and the water lapping on the gar- 
 den wall — all the entrancing delights of life. 
 
 No more sleep forever, the Child thought. 
 Like Mrs. Browning's poet, its eyes 
 
 held too much light 
 Between its eyelids and the night. 
 
 But sleep that has its own unhindered way 
 came all too soon and lingered all too long in 
 the land of queer dreams quite until breakfast 
 time. 
 
 And so much to be done ! Company coming 
 to the three o'clock dinner, evergreen wreaths 
 to be made, the beautiful table to be set, and 
 the pleasant sound of bustle all through the 
 house; the bringing in of huge logs, the great 
 parlor fire to be laid, with pine cones for quick 
 kindling — cones which the Child with Abigail 
 had sought for and found and piled in baskets 
 all the week. 
 
 The mysterious stocking must wait for 
 breakfast which was not of the least conse- 
 quence nor honored in the observance; but law 
 was law, and hungry, or filled with food the 
 others knew not of, one must accept conven- 
 tions, and supply fuel to life's unconscious and 
 inconvenient furnace. 
 
THE child's CHRISTMAS 219 
 
 And it was Our Lord's Birthday, for which 
 no gift had been provided! Only once had 
 there been set before Him gold and frankin- 
 cense and myrrh. In the home were cinnamon 
 and cloves and spicy nutmegs, but these went 
 to the making of rare mince pies and were only 
 human things. 
 
 So with the stocking still waiting, the Child 
 thought and thought. For one should always 
 do things for others first ; certainly if it was for 
 Our Lord. Thinking hard it opened its own 
 little treasure box and took out its own little 
 red-covered Testament, and laid it carefully 
 away on the top shelf in the parlor — the choice 
 room. Then it found by searching a small bit 
 of holly with one berry, dropped from the table 
 adornments, and a gummy twig of pine, and 
 laid them carefully on its cover, to add to the 
 deep significance of The Day. He would 
 know ! But would He care for it when He must 
 know it all by heart.'' All about Himself, too? 
 The Child cared and it knew a good deal of it 
 also. And the things about us are always the 
 most interesting things there are. Besides it 
 seemed the only suitable thing in the world to 
 give. 
 
220 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 It made a warm glow at the Child's center 
 of life not fed by material fuel. Then — the 
 stocking which had lain carefully tucked up all 
 this time. The square outside package being 
 untied revealed Miss Martineau's enchanting 
 Norway and the Norwegians, or Feats on the 
 Fjord, for the joy of days to come. On the 
 very top of all the gifts a piece of charcoal 
 wrapped in cotton ! Then a mysterious thing 
 with fold after fold of blue paper and pink 
 paper and common brown paper, each tied 
 securely with blue and pink strings ; and in the 
 very middle a yellow gourd, with seeds inside 
 that rattled. Another package and out rolled 
 a red apple, polished like gold. Then a 
 mysterious box wrapped, and tied, and sealed 
 across the strings with red sealing wax beauti- 
 ful to behold. The Child shook it softly, and 
 held it up to one ear ; but it made no sign. A 
 thimble ! — a real, silver thimble ! and with 
 initials ! The long seam to sew on Saturdays 
 would be pure delight with this. 
 
 Another parcel held many sticks of winter- 
 green candy striped with red; and a large, 
 round pill box was just crowded with tiny 
 peppermints, red and white. In a long box 
 
THE child's CHRISTMAS 221 
 
 reaching quite to the stocking's heel was a clay 
 pipe for soap bubbles, with initials in ink along 
 its stem to make it personal; and away down 
 at the toe were seeds for next summer's gar- 
 den — real morning glories, and four o'clocks, 
 and ladies' slippers, and johnny-jump-ups, and 
 marigolds ; the air grew full of their individual 
 perfumes. 
 
 Soon came the long sleighride over the 
 creaking, squealing snow, with chiming bells, a 
 long string of them, after the minister and his 
 wife ; the Child tucked down quite out of sight ; 
 the odor of roast goose as the home Dutch door 
 opened to the welcome guests ; the unwinding of 
 wraps, the stamping oif of snow, the thawing 
 out before the fire ; the beauty and cheer of the 
 table, and the long, long, solemn blessing. 
 
 And after the dinner, stories ; real stories 
 of the good old days, and of bears and wolves, 
 too, to make one shiver contentedly before the 
 fire. 
 
 The minister's wife brought the Child a tiny, 
 jointed, wooden doll in a pink silk frock — a 
 doll that could not only bend its legs and arms 
 and sit up, but could kneel down as well — a 
 very proper doll considering. 
 
222 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 At last came the good-nights, the wishes for 
 many, many as Merry Christmases, and oh, 
 wonder ! a kind, priestly hand laid on the 
 Child's curly head with a special benediction all 
 its own to help it be good. Then the long ride 
 again — moonlight this time and solemnly 
 beautiful; a treat half disapproved by the 
 wisdom of the elders but allowed because it was 
 Christmas evening — the sound of bells chiming 
 far and farther away through dreams of sum- 
 mer time and all out-of-doors, — the awakening 
 in unsuspected night, the wide-eyed going to 
 bed because it was the custom, when nothing 
 seemed less desirable. And just as the snug 
 tucking in was finished, a gentle voice saying : 
 
 "I found your little red Testament, child, 
 away up on the top shelf in the parlor with a 
 gummy piece of pine that might make the cover 
 sticky. I don't know how it came there, but 
 I took it down and put it back again in your 
 little box." 
 
 Would He care? 
 
THE CHILD'S TWO MYSTERIES 
 
 Jr IRST of all, the mystery of birth. Abigail 
 said with confidence that her brother told her 
 that the nurse who took care of her when she 
 was a wee, wee baby, found her under a currant 
 bush in the garden. 
 
 But why should the nurse be looking around 
 under the currant bushes in Abigail's garden? 
 Her house was far away, up the river. Abigail 
 didn't know, but thought they were always 
 looking for them. Perhaps because it was their 
 business to take care of them till the mother 
 learned how. 
 
 But why should people who had a home of 
 their own, and things to eat and to wear, go 
 around looking up babies for other mothers, 
 instead of keeping them for their own? Then 
 Abigail said they got money for it. But any- 
 body would rather have a baby than money. 
 The nurse just rolled her up in her apron, she 
 said, and ran with her quick into the house; 
 and her mother said first thing, "Why nurse ! — 
 have you brought me a baby? Well, if it's a 
 
224 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 little girl baby I'll try to take care of it, for 
 the boys are getting very big and we're all out 
 of babies." 
 
 The Child, on the other hand, thought babies 
 were found under rose bushes ; for far, far 
 away, and long, long ago, she had a dim 
 memory of being told so. And babies' cheeks 
 were so soft and pink, just like rose leaves, it 
 seemed much more true. The Child longed for 
 a baby, and it was years before it could pass 
 a rose bush, specially a thick one, without 
 searching — harking for a tiny cry. It would 
 roll the little Being up in its own warm apron, 
 just as Abigail's nurse had in hers, and run 
 home to Mother who would be sure to say, "We 
 will keep this baby!" — or wouldn't she? Then 
 what ? 
 
 Abigail said all babies were made of the dust 
 of the earth, just like Adam in the Bible, and 
 that was why they had to be washed and 
 washed and washed till they were pink as any- 
 thing. Water always made things soft, too, 
 and that was why they couldn't stand up or 
 sit up even till people stopped washing them; 
 just as a mud pie wouldn't hold together till 
 it had been made a long time and got dry. 
 
THE child's two MYSTERIES 225 
 
 But the Child couldn't accept everything 
 from Abigail. She often listened to the older 
 people reading aloud, when they thought she 
 was just playing with the dressed-up kitten, 
 and once she heard. 
 
 Trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 From Heaven which is our home. 
 
 There were many things in the Child's world 
 that science had not yet flattened out — made 
 common and profane. 
 
 One always heard of babies in the morning. 
 But it was not reasonable to believe that they 
 would come in the dark night, crying and afraid. 
 It was on those lovely morning clouds that they 
 would come trailing glory; oh, so early, when 
 the world was all still and the sun down below 
 the edge of it, and the clouds might just roll 
 down from Heaven and tip them off by a rose • 
 bush where the flowers were so sweet with all 
 the dew on them. 
 
 And did they have wings to help them down 
 softly.'' — wings that slipped off when no longer 
 needed.'' 
 
 There were some queer, black creatures in 
 the garden once, buzzing round and round and 
 
226 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 making a great tumult with their wings. And 
 these wings fell off after awhile and left just 
 plain ants running around on legs. Might 
 babies be made on something such a plan, but 
 oh, ever so much nicer .^ For God could do 
 everything — everything. 
 
 The Child never asked, but thought on and 
 on. And as with thinking the wings did not 
 seem reasonable they were dismissed. 
 
 The second mystery was death. An old, old 
 man had died, something like an hundred years 
 old; half at least, somebody had said. How 
 hard to live so long and have nothing to play 
 with ! And the next morning it was read in the 
 Bible that Elijah went up in a chariot of fire. 
 That was the way the clouds looked that night ; 
 huge horses prancing and a great golden some- 
 thing rolling up and up above the sun as it 
 went down; and all around a lovely, rosy light 
 like flames on the hearth when the fire was piled 
 high. It was glorious to go that way. To be 
 very old and very tired, and then to have a 
 beautiful angel carry one in his arms to such 
 a swift rolling thing, and go straight up 
 through the blue sky, above the sun to where 
 God sat watching over every one. 
 
THE child's two MYSTERIES 227 
 
 The two, Abigail and the Child, sat often in 
 the garden discussing these things, or dipping 
 their feet in the water over the stone wall that 
 hemmed them in, and watching the clouds and 
 the sunsets. 
 
 One thing was always a puzzle: Where did 
 the angels get their robes? Abigail's mother 
 knew a dressmaker who died. Those must be 
 the ones who make the angels' clothes. It 
 wouldn't be much trouble, she said; just two 
 long, straight seams that anybody could do; 
 no sleeves. Sometimes she wondered what shoe- 
 makers would do in heaven. Angels always flew 
 barefooted in the pictures. Probably their 
 feet didn't get cold in such a pleasant place, 
 nor dusty on clean, golden streets, and they 
 could tuck them up at night in their long robes. 
 But there were so many, many of them ! Where 
 could they ever get so much white cloth .f* Could 
 there be heavenly looms somewhere weaving, 
 weaving .f^ Perhaps it would be out of doors, 
 under pleasant trees with "all manner of 
 fruits." 
 
 ^ Suddenly Abigail had a thought that earthly 
 garments might be resurrected too, and be all 
 clean and white like resurrected bodies. But 
 
228 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 it was such a far-away thought. There was 
 another that was nearer. Why did little chil- 
 dren die, and mothers too.f^ For sometimes 
 mothers did die, even if children prayed and 
 cried as hard as they could. 
 
 Abigail said it was all for the best, and often 
 God gave them other mothers. But why, the 
 Child wondered, when the right one was there, 
 all grown, and knowing just how to make all 
 their clothes, and hear their prayers when they 
 went to bed, and make them mind. And it 
 seemed such a pity, too, when babies had just 
 come down from Heaven to take them back 
 again, just as if it had been a mistake. Abigail 
 said when she went up to Heaven she was going 
 to ask God first thing. She always was a brave 
 girl. But she didn't like to ask her mother. 
 
THE CHILD'S EDEN 
 
 1 HE Child was in its seventh year, and the 
 Garden, twelve times as old, was on the island. 
 The House also was on the same island, and 
 was the place where the Child ate and slept and 
 obeyed. But its life was in the Garden. 
 
 The House faced a pond, and two bridges 
 bound it and the Garden to the World. By 
 the lower bridge stood the old mill; and when 
 its gate was raised a flood of water boiled and 
 twisted down to a smooth gravel bed below, and 
 then floated quietly to the Garden's foot. Over 
 against the upper bridge a mighty dam held 
 the island from destruction. When the pond 
 back of it was full the water poured in a 
 smooth, green stream over it, and was dashed 
 into spray and foam and torn to shreds on the 
 jagged rocks below. 
 
 In summer time when there had been but 
 little rainfall the great timber of the dam was 
 bare, and the Child, when no one was looking, 
 could walk fearfully across, between the line of 
 water shelving to the right and the black mass 
 
230 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 of sheer rock at the left. Then it was that the 
 Child could climb over the low stone wall that 
 kept the Garden in, and go down among the 
 jewel-weed and stramonium and clawing black- 
 berry vines that took toll of gown and apron, 
 and explore the pools and bottomless pits in the 
 river bed. The water always stood in these, 
 dark and still, however severe the drought ; and 
 no stick ever sounded the depth of the largest 
 of them. 
 
 So it must have been bottomless, like some of 
 the fearful things one heard read on Sundays in 
 Scripture. And though the Child, with the hair 
 of its flesh standing up, dropped in stones, and 
 even reached down an arm's length, and brought 
 longer sticks, and tried them again and again, 
 the deep pool was a kind of sacred mystery for 
 ever. If the Child had not been alone, if it had 
 had a brother, one fascination of its seventh 
 year must have been lost. 
 
 There were holes without number in the bed 
 of this stream, and sharp-pointed rocks ; so that 
 when the pond above was full it was a grand 
 torrent that foamed roaring to the harbor, 
 where it found the quiet mill stream curling 
 round the Garden's foot. A steep bank at the 
 
THE child's EDEN 231 
 
 right shut the river from the world, and so made 
 it the Child's own for ever. 
 
 On the pond, made classic as Windermere by 
 song, geese floated double in the long summer 
 days, and lent enchantment, and birds nested 
 in the elms that dipped their branches in the 
 water, and bees hummed in the clover. Then 
 the expanse narrowed, and a simple river met 
 it, creeping along by the highway, floating 
 between two guardian churches with tall 
 steeples, under a long bridge, and so through 
 the town to the mill and dam. 
 
 The Child's thought went backward with it, 
 always starting at the foot of the Garden. The 
 stream bore an Indian name, and might have 
 had its source in the midst of campfires and 
 wigwams, and birch-bark canoes, and frightful 
 war-whoops and tomahawks, perhaps a mile, 
 possibly two miles away. Miles were vague 
 measures, like time. 
 
 There were two lesser things in the Child's 
 life; the Mill and the Dame School. The first 
 belonged to an old, old man, like those persons 
 who lived before the flood, whose hat and hair 
 and coat and eyebrows were always white ; yes, 
 and his boots, and whatever else he wore. 
 
232 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 There was a soft, rumbling kind of silence 
 always within the mill, where the hoppers made 
 little whirlpools of dusty grain, going down and 
 down and down ; and the Child leaned over with 
 a thrill tingling its whole body, and knew that 
 itself could be drawn down and down and down 
 into the wide, floury bags below, choked and 
 lost for ever. The soft dust filled the air and 
 softened the sunlight and whitened the cobwebs 
 among the rafters, and it was all something 
 apart from the World and the Garden. 
 
 The second thing was the Dame School, where 
 a very old lady, years older than the miller, 
 kept ten prisoners on an upper floor of her own 
 house, from nine till twelve, and from one till 
 four, every day but Saturday. The Child did 
 not then know that liberty was only sweet when 
 bought with a great price. 
 
 Every morning as the clock paused on the 
 stroke of nine, the Dame folded her hands and 
 prayed, sitting upright like Buddha, while her 
 Captives knelt, each in its place. At the right 
 hand of the Image stood the best girl of the 
 school, nine years old, perfect in word and deed 
 and called Monitor, who walked around on tip- 
 toe and rapped on the head with the ferrule any 
 
THE child's EDEN 233 
 
 culprit who peeped out. It was a diabolic plot, 
 not fully appreciated at the time by the pris- 
 oners ; for who could hear the stealthy approach 
 of Calamity and blindly wait, not knowing 
 which way to dodge? So heaven alone had the 
 benefit of the morning prayer. 
 
 All day long, winter and summer, summer 
 and winter, like Eternity, the Child thought, 
 little hands knitted and sewed, with book always 
 in lap. The daily "stent" was marked by the 
 Fate in cap and spectacles, sitting in a high 
 armchair, and no child left the room till its 
 task was perfectly finished. 
 
 The spelling-class of six stood with toes on a 
 crack of the wide floor board nearest the 
 teacher, where her long arm, like Justice's, 
 could reach any offender, and where nothing 
 could be hidden from her all-seeing eye. The 
 first Child in the row named "Baker" and 
 spelled it; the second named "Shady" and 
 spelled it; the third named "Lady" and spelled 
 it; the fourth named "Tidy" and spelled it. 
 But if Number Two, twisting nervous fingers in 
 her apron, named "Lady" instead of "Shady," 
 her fingers were rapped for moving, and she 
 was disgraced and sent to the foot. For order 
 
234 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 stood on a level with accuracy at this tribunal. 
 There was no Figure Five on a half-inch square 
 of paper for Number Two that day to hoard in 
 her pasteboard match-box ; no drink from the 
 tin dipper, however parched the little lips might 
 be. For these precious Figure Fives had to be 
 parted with, one for every drink of brackish 
 water that stood in a wooden pail in the entry. 
 Five Fives were exchangeable at long periods 
 for one Ten ; ten Tens for a two-inch Reward 
 of Merit. The Child alone was not dazzled at 
 sight of even the final Reward gained at such 
 loss and pain, but drank its fill daily and won- 
 dered at the others. Sometimes it wondered 
 also if the warm, tinny taste of the water drawn 
 from a well too near the sea had any connection 
 with the Reward. 
 
 The miller's daughter, Abigail, a thin, lint- 
 haired child, with pale blue eyes, knitted long 
 stockings for her tall brother, who was a man. 
 The Child thought of him as Saul, he stood so 
 much higher than his brethren. One day when 
 the long stocking had grown by painful half 
 inches nearly to the toe, the sharp eyes of Dame 
 Fate discovered a dropped stitch in the begin- 
 ning of the leg, and raveled it all out from 
 
THE child's EDEN 235 
 
 bottom to top. Tears for little Abigail, and no 
 Figure Five! 
 
 The heart of the Child was hot within its 
 bosom as it saw fall one after one the pink and 
 blue and yellow and red yarn-marks like mile- 
 stones all along the way — marks knitted in by 
 the teacher's bony fingers and tied in hard knots 
 on the wrong side; marks never to be removed 
 save by the mistress-hand when the task was 
 done. It seemed like a waste of life. But 
 Abigail took up her weary "bouts" again, with 
 the patience of despair. 
 
 Every other Saturday morning school kept, 
 that Satan might not have too much verge and 
 opportunity, and the Catechism was ground 
 into the tough fiber of memory in place of other 
 tasks. But the sewing and knitting kept on. 
 At one of these every-others, the Child looked 
 out between the two lengths of window-curtain, 
 and saw a shaggy dog bounding in and out of 
 the water, and laughed softly to itself. But 
 Dame Fate, whose eyes were everywhere be- 
 holding the evil, spied the crime, pinned the 
 curtains closer together, set two sharp thumbs 
 in the hollows of the small shoulders, shook the 
 Child dizzy, and turned its back to the school. 
 
236 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 where it learned, as an extra task, "The Lord 
 is my shepherd." It was the old-fashioned 
 way of teaching children to love the Bible. 
 
 The Catechism question for the day was, 
 "Wherein consists the sinfulness of that estate 
 whereinto man fell?" And the answer, "The-sin- 
 f ulness - of - that - estate- whereinto - man- fell-con- 
 sists - in- the- guilt- of -Adam's-fir st-sin-the-want- 
 of - original- righteousness - and- the - corruption - 
 o f-his-whole- nature -which -is -commonly- c alled- 
 original-sin-together-with-all-actual-transgres- 
 sions-which-proceed-from-it." 
 
 But the Child was far away. Even the 
 whimpering of the ABC babes under the fer- 
 rule for rustling about did not bring tears as 
 usual, for its eyes were set on green pastures 
 where little white lambs kicked up their free 
 heels, and mother-sheep took no notice, but 
 nibbled and ba-a-d all day long, as if there were 
 no harm in it. The leading-beside-still-waters 
 made quite another picture, but might it not 
 be done by some older, wiser playmate with a 
 string, to keep the Child safely on shore between 
 river and meeting mill stream, where chip- 
 vessels would float and dip and veer distract- 
 edly, go under, and rise again.? The paths of 
 
THE child's EDEN 237 
 
 righteousness took thought, but might they not 
 be those that led from porch to garden-gate, 
 where one never disobeyed, or ran outside of 
 bounds — never but once? 
 
 That was last year, when November winds 
 were bleak, and the Child, at Abigail's beckon- 
 ing across the mill-stream, strayed out and to 
 the lower bridge in a vagrant way, looking for 
 Something, neither child knew what. So they 
 stopped at the Gentle Lady's door and asked to 
 see the squirrels in the whirling cage that smelt 
 warm and foreigny, and fed them with hickory 
 nuts ; and Time went on. Then they took hold 
 of hands, and ran and ran and ran, swinging 
 down the hill, and the Child fell in the sand at 
 the bottom and knew it would never breathe 
 again. 
 
 Then they strolled across the way to the 
 Queer House with sanded floor, where the Child 
 slipped and fell, and the miller's daughter, who 
 had been there before, snatched up the unusual 
 guest, shook off the sand, and went on to the 
 dark, low room where the Queer Lady, like her 
 of Shallot, weaved all day long and cared for 
 nothing else. She wore a strange woolen 
 gown, coarse of texture — for the Child took a 
 
238 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 pinch of a stray fold — that left bare a bony 
 neck except for a snuffy kerchief twisted about 
 it. The Child saw a blue-check apron, too, and 
 great felt slippers on the treadle, and a few 
 gray hairs screwed into a tight little knot, 
 small as a filbert, beneath a black cap. 
 
 The two watched the shuttle and the web and 
 heard the clang of the loom as long as it was 
 new; and when they moved to go the weaver 
 opened her thin lips for the first time and said 
 they might pick up quinces in her garden, for 
 there was going to be a frost by night. So the 
 two Simple Ones picked up cold quinces till the 
 daylight was gone ; and there was no more Time 
 for them than if they had been Angels in the 
 Sun. But that night when the wind shrieked 
 and the Child lay with a swollen, throbbing 
 throat, never knowing before what Night was 
 like, all the sorrows of the transgressor piled 
 their weight on its hot head, and it cried out in 
 awe of the Unknown, like a certain pious little 
 Queen-to-be, "I will be good." 
 
 For had not the mother searched every nook 
 and corner in House and Garden, and sent the 
 miller's son to drag the pond, just as a shiver- 
 ing little figure in blue gingham came loitering 
 
THE CHIIiD's EDEN 239 
 
 in sight, with a burnt ginger-cookie in the 
 purple fist that did not grasp the sunbonnet, 
 and tight little heartstrings that conscience 
 was tugging at? But these last did not show. 
 
 The Dame School in summer time held one 
 only joy. It was the thought of hot July and 
 August days, when the clouds piled up like 
 woolly mountains, and lightnings streaked the 
 sky. Then the Fate of the armchair, impelled 
 by something mysterious and invisible, stopped 
 work, stepp'ed down, and gently shepherded her 
 willing flock to a room across the hallway with 
 one green-paper-darkened window and a high 
 feather bed. 
 
 Any child was allowed to share the Bed of 
 Safety with the Dame, whose dignity gave way 
 before the God of Thunder, but there was not 
 even a tradition that in the dark past ages any 
 child had so demeaned itself as to accept the 
 privilege. 
 
 The least ones played softly behind the one 
 high-backed chair, while the elders crawled 
 under the bed and whispered made-up stories, 
 and came out linty and feathery when the storm 
 was over, without a touch of the ferrule even 
 
240 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 from the Dame, who sat cowed in the middle of 
 the bed, a deposed and scepterless queen. 
 
 And so all her small flock reveled in storm 
 and thunder, and never knew what fear was, 
 except to despise its image when they saw it. 
 
 The days went on and on, but the foolishness 
 called school could not last for ever, and the 
 Garden, like a reliable friend, was always wait- 
 ing. It was the most wonderful Garden ! When 
 Scripture was read in the house on still Sabbath 
 mornings, it stood for that First Garden — then 
 and always afterwards, for fifty years and more. 
 
 The high wall to the right, across the river, 
 covered with tall grass and hardy shrubs and a 
 tree or two, was the place where the Almighty 
 stood and called to disobedient Adam. And the 
 Angel with the Flaming Sword had his own 
 place behind the greening apple tree that was 
 proxy to the Fall and that shaded the chicken 
 yard. 
 
 And when the Immortal Two went hand in 
 hand barefooted out of Eden, they paced slowly 
 past the rows of corn and potatoes and poles of 
 beans, to the stone wall. There fancy left them 
 to fade into thin air. The Beyond was hidden, 
 even to the Child. 
 
THE child's EDEN 241 
 
 Not that the Child observed the practical 
 Garden much, only that Adam and Eve must 
 pass in the direction of the Voice, and facts 
 were stubborn but possible things. This por- 
 tion of the Garden had no interest for the 
 Child, who simply knew that a man came at 
 times, and dug and planted and hoed, when his 
 presence was an intrusion. 
 
 It saw, dimly, green things sprouting, grow- 
 ing tall, climbing, blossoming, fading. Flowers, 
 too, had their place; great clumps of peonies, 
 hollyhocks loved of bumblebees, tall lilacs with 
 sweet clusters of purple and white, and grape- 
 vines with blossoms infinitely sweeter that could 
 not be picked — though they seemed to bear no 
 natural relation to the purple fruit that came in 
 the autumn. But law was law. 
 
 And there were beds of sweet alyssum and 
 mignonette and masses of pinks that burst their 
 bonds and fell over the border, a rain of sweet- 
 ness ; just old-fashioned pink pinks. 
 
 From the house porch with two windows and 
 a wide hall door looking out under heavy eye- 
 brows — two eyes and a long nose, the Child 
 thought — ran a little crooked path to the Gar- 
 den. It stopped at the well, then bent around 
 
242 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 over a great flat rock, up and up, then down 
 again, wavering through rough places, but 
 always keeping its end in view, the Garden gate. 
 
 One long summer's day, a Saturday, when 
 school did not keep, the Child, who was heartily 
 tired of shoes and stockings, begged to go bare- 
 footed to the Garden, and stoutly waived all 
 elderly objections. So a tardy consent was 
 gained, and the pink- and- white feet started 
 bravely from the shelter of the porch, hesitated 
 a fraction of a second by the well, and went 
 slowly on. Some one who always knew best 
 said the stones would hurt. They didn't — 
 much. That they would cut; perhaps make 
 the blood come. The Child screwed up its 
 mouth, held tight by its sunbonnet strings, and 
 walked on its heels and the outer edges of its 
 feet. Then it stood on one foot, and curled up 
 the other against the ankle of the standing one. 
 But what if some "force of nature" should be 
 looking from the porch window? 
 
 The tiny seed Deceit dropped into barren 
 ground. For just ahead bloomed a royal bunch 
 of catnip, a most luxuriant growth with the dew 
 of the morning scarcely off its gray velvet 
 leaves. The little feet were hot and sore, but 
 
THE child's EDEN 243 
 
 the pursed-up mouth was resolute as ever. 
 Once on the stone wall with a certainty of dip- 
 ping both feet, of splashing in the water on the 
 still side, of pressing it down and having it push 
 back again — ^what joy! One foot brushed the 
 tender tops of the catnip bunch, then both 
 settled firmly down. But in its treacherous 
 deeps a bumblebee was quietly breakfasting, and 
 his sudden resentment was cruel. If he could 
 have known ! But the Universe is arranged on 
 such an awkward plan. There was one sharp, 
 frightened-to-death scream, and the Child was 
 picked up with the bee still clinging to the toe. 
 It meant hours of pain, with a dizzy foot on a 
 cushion, and the sad lesson learned, like most, 
 alas ! with too great suffering, that elders 
 always know best. 
 
 So that day was lost. And everything in 
 nature went on just the same. 
 
 Church days came often, when the mornings 
 were so still and long, and "Pilgrim's Progress" 
 was often read aloud before the walk to the 
 House of God. The tabby cat purred softly 
 and stretched lazy claws on the grass at the 
 sunny side of the porch. The air vibrated 
 gently to the shock of falling water. Remote 
 
244 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 wheels, sounding near at hand, rolled leisurely 
 up the hill, and here and there large and small 
 figures by twos and threes followed the leadings 
 of the bells. There was no hop, skip, and jump 
 on the holy day. The Child was led softly by 
 the hand with a bonnet tied beneath its chin and 
 best shoes on its prim feet ; shoes that pinched 
 a little, for there was time to grow between the 
 Lord's Days. But this was never mentioned, as 
 they were pretty shoes, set apart and dedicated 
 to the occasion, belonging to the sacredness of 
 the day. And pain in some unknown way 
 belonged to good things. 
 
 The river all along the road ran softly as 
 that of the Prothalamion ; but the birds just 
 shouted and were not ashamed. All things 
 else held themselves in reverently. 
 
 The pews of the white church had high seats 
 and straight backs : the prayers and hymns 
 were long, and the preaching a sleepy mystery. 
 If the deacon's wife had not now and then passed 
 over the back of the pew a plump head of 
 spreading caraway or arrowy dill, if a real 
 church mouse had not peeped from under the 
 footstool and kept expectation on the stretch, 
 the hours must have been long indeed. Some- 
 
THE child's EDEN 245 
 
 times a joyful thunderstorm, bursting with old- 
 fashioned fury, broke up the services, and 
 people gathered in awe-struck knots to whisper 
 stories of lightning strokes not meant for little 
 ears but quite unheeded by Dame-scholars. 
 The dripping home in the rain was fun enough 
 for a week day. After the solemn dinner came 
 hymns and "Pilgrim's Progress," but neither 
 doll, story-book, nor Garden. The secular part 
 of the Catechism was slowly spelled out in the 
 long hours to the solemn ticking of a tall clock 
 in the corner. 
 
 "In Adam's Fall 
 
 We sinned all." 
 "Thy life to mend 
 
 This Book attend." 
 "The Cat doth play 
 
 And after slay." 
 "The Dog will bite 
 
 A thief at night." 
 "Job feels the Rod, 
 
 Yet blesses God." 
 "The idle fool 
 
 Is whipped at school." 
 
 — which was in some way connected with Job's 
 punishment in the Child's small mind. 
 
246 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 "The Eagle's flight 
 
 Is out of sight." 
 "As runs the Glass 
 
 Man's life doth pass." 
 "Zaccheus he 
 
 Did climb the tree 
 
 His Lord to see." 
 "Proud Korah's troop 
 
 Was swallowed up." 
 "Young Obadias, 
 
 David, Josias, 
 
 All were pious." 
 "Xerxes the Great did die. 
 
 And so must you and I" — 
 
 which singled Xerxes out from the great, vague 
 world full of alarming people, yet in some way 
 lowered him to the Child's comprehension, and 
 brought day-dreams of his glory. 
 
 If only the Garden days might have been half 
 so long! What journeys might the Child have 
 taken, sitting solitary on the stone wall above 
 the flat rock that sloped to the deep water, and 
 looking across to Harbor Woods. Many a time 
 had Xerxes rounded the Point this side the Gulf 
 with a fleet of glorified fishing smacks and 
 purple banners. Red-white-and-blue streamed 
 everywhere from the Conquering Ship, and a 
 Band in the bow played Xerxes's favorite tunes, 
 
THE child's EDEN 247 
 
 while the Commander waved his crown of gold 
 and jewels toward the shore, and his yellow hair 
 and velvet robes streamed in the wind. It was 
 at the high point where the Almighty spoke to 
 Adam in the Garden that the vessels always 
 anchored, and Xerxes proudly knelt and kissed 
 the wet sand, holding a gold cross as tall as 
 himself, which was very tall, and naming the 
 land. Well, perhaps it was not Xerxes ; the 
 thing only signified, and the vision and the glory 
 were the Child's. 
 
 And sometimes the Crusaders, young and old, 
 came singing across the Gulf like a heavenly 
 choir, and the Child waited with a beating heart 
 and moist eyes to see them round the Point, all 
 in white, with red crosses on their garments and 
 harps in their hands. Many a time it dashed 
 away the blinding tears lest they should come 
 suddenly and be dim in its sight. Abigail said 
 it was nothing but the men and boys digging 
 clams the other side of the rock. So the Child 
 did not tell Abigail what she heard any more. 
 
 One day when the Child sat on the low wall 
 built up of stones taken from the Garden, look- 
 ing across the mill-stream, it saw Abigail com- 
 ing with shoes and stockings gathered up in 
 
248 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 her apron, and knew that she dared come across. 
 What if the great gate should be lifted up, and 
 the flood come boiling down and sweep the bold 
 girl away to the harbor and on to the sea, roll- 
 ing and tossing like a dry leaf or a chip boat, 
 shoes and stockings and all? Who in all the 
 world could save her, and what would become 
 of her soul unless she was prepared to die? 
 
 But Abigail came softly across, for the ex- 
 pected does not happen ; and the water covered 
 her feet and crisped up around her ankles. But 
 it seemed really much deeper, because she held 
 her skirts so high and walked delicately, like 
 Agag before the Great King. That was because 
 of the stones that hurt her feet. Soon she 
 scrambled up beside the Child and dangled her 
 wet feet in the sun until such time as she could 
 put on her shoes and stockings and play house. 
 The Child never cared for a little square of 
 ground fenced in with small stones, nor for a 
 house built of corncobs, or of twigs and straws 
 like a bird's nest ; nor for bits of pink and blue 
 broken china carefully washed and stood on a 
 shingle shelf balanced on two stones. She did 
 not care for sand pies and mud gingerbread 
 baked in the sun, nor for dolls made of a stick 
 
THE CHII^d's EDEN 249 
 
 and a pocket handkerchief. But unlike many 
 wiser and older folk, she was willing to let 
 Abigail enjoy herself in her chosen way, if only 
 left free to think her own thoughts and choose 
 her own pleasures. 
 
 And once while Abigail puttered about her 
 house and scolded her children, shaking them 
 well, and whisked up the floor with a bunch of 
 limp grass, the Child, always looking for Some- 
 thing, saw the miller's other son coming to the 
 flat rock in his father's dory. And then the 
 children saw that he was stepping a mast into 
 the boat, made of a broken oar, and tying a bit 
 of red and white shawl to it for a sail. 
 
 "Where are you goin'.'^" asked Abigail. 
 
 "Oh, somewhere," the Boy said. "Get in, 
 both of you, and you'll know." 
 
 "Won't you tip us over?" asked the Child. 
 
 "No; not if you don't look," the Boy said 
 tentatively. "I want you girls to shut your 
 eyes tight, honor bright, and not open them till 
 I say 'Now !' " 
 
 "Is it most to Harbor Woods ?^^ asked Abigail 
 as the waves curled softly about the bow and 
 rippled away. 
 
 "Hush up !" said the Boy manfully. 
 
250 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 "But where are we?" the Child persisted; and 
 the Boy was silent, like his kind. 
 
 "Better not go out in the Gulf," said Abigail 
 again, for it was her own brother, accustomed 
 to feminine advice. 
 
 The Oracle rocked the boat gently, and the 
 passengers clutched the gunwale. 
 
 But the Child did not speak. Its eyes were 
 shining under their screwed-up lids, and its 
 breath came with thrills that tingled down to its 
 feet. 
 
 They must be at Harbor Woods now — around 
 the Point — out in the Gulf, that green place of 
 awful deeps. Oh, where were they going? The 
 strain was too great. But would he tip them 
 over if they looked? He had said, honor 
 bright, no, if they didn't look. The Child 
 could scarcely breathe now. She thought it 
 was like Death; that fearful thing that comes 
 and stops one's breath, and that even a mother 
 cannot forbid, nor shield one from. The Child 
 was too young to know that it was already in 
 Eternity, hemmed in by Time, and that the 
 Soul may go out softly in death as in dreams. 
 
 They were going through the great, green 
 Gulf of the Unknown Ocean. And with a sail ! 
 
THE child's EDEN 251 
 
 The Child knew it must cry out in time — very 
 soon — "Oh, mother, mother !" The first cry 
 and the last of helpless humanity launched on 
 Unknown tides. 
 
 "Now !" said the Boy. 
 
 The boat grated on the sand, the children 
 opened dazed eyes, and dimly saw — their own 
 flat rock, their own stone wall, The Garden. 
 
 If the Child were to go back to the Garden 
 after fifty years, would it sit on the stone wall 
 and dip its feet in the water, pushing it down 
 until it pushed back, and look out to Harbor 
 Woods for Xerxes and the Crusaders? Why 
 not? And if the big timber of the mighty dam 
 has shrunken with the years like the miller, and 
 the breadth of the fall narrowed that a man 
 may leap across it; if the bottomless pits can 
 be sounded with a little longer stick, and the 
 path from the porch is only a sheep-walk up a 
 hand's-breadth rise of rock and down again; if 
 the height from which the Almighty called to 
 Adam has a house on it, and the apple tree is 
 bowed and mossy with age ; if the Garden itself, 
 like the British Islands, is shrinking from the 
 sea ; what matters it, if only the years have left 
 the heart of the Child? 
 
TWENTIETH CENTURY STORIES j 
 
HOW DICKON CLIMBED WITH A 
 HOE 
 
 1 WO happy children, Dickon and Kathinka, 
 raced and shouted till they were quite worn 
 out. For this was their first day in the country 
 since last summer, and when dinner time came 
 they had only just begun to see the things they 
 loved. 
 
 Last year the gray squirrels ran along the 
 window ledges, and bowed with their little paws 
 clasped to their breasts, like courtly gentlemen 
 of long ago ; and gratefully ate the nuts tossed 
 to them, after tucking them away in their 
 cheeks till they could glide up to a dead limb 
 of the spruce tree that was in full sight from 
 the west window. 
 
 There was a small gable — the least little 
 gable — built out of the barn roof for the 
 squirrels' front door, just where the furry 
 creatures had gnawed a hole through the 
 shingles the year before. 
 
 Many a time the children had climbed to the 
 hayloft to hunt for the nests ; but on this day 
 
256 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 bright eyes glanced at them from a hollow 
 under a pile of old boards, and Dick saw the 
 tip of a bushy, gray tail. 
 
 Then wise little Kathinka said: "Let's climb 
 down, Dickon, for maybe they'll run clear away 
 when they see how big 3^ou are." 
 
 This was Dick's first-trousers summer, and 
 it pleased him to make squirrels afraid, and to 
 have Kathinka really believe that he could do 
 it. So they ran down to the lamb pen ; and 
 Dickon went down on his hands and knees in 
 the young grass and blue violets and gold 
 dandelions, and put his mouth right into the 
 spring that gurgled up at the root of the oak 
 tree, in the middle of the pen. 
 
 Kathinka was filling her apron with flowers, 
 in the neat little way she had, never jerking 
 them up, roots, dirt and all, when suddenly she 
 gave a quick sTi — sli, and Dickon looked up 
 with the water dripping from his chin all over 
 his clean blouse, to see a little gray bird flitting 
 away into the alders just outside. One little 
 quip of the wings and she was gone. Gone into 
 the swamp corner where a little trickle of shiny 
 brook ran away from the spring, and made the 
 redwings in the alders sing from morning till 
 
HOW DICKON CLIMBED WITH A HOE 257 
 
 night, in pure joy of living and drinking and 
 bathing close to their nests. 
 
 They were shouting oor-da-lee at the very 
 top of their voices now, and their red shoulders 
 made a pretty show against their black velvet 
 feathers as they played at hide-and-seek among 
 the trees. 
 
 Then the children crawled slowly about in 
 the grass, hunting for birds' nests. And soon, 
 under a little sprout of apple tree, with dried 
 grass pulled up around it, they came upon that 
 joy and wonder — a song-sparrow's nest, with 
 four speckly eggs. 
 
 Dickon put out a gentle finger — "just to 
 touch one, Kath"; but Little Sister said, "No; 
 the mother-bird might go away and leave the 
 eggs if people even looked too hard at them." 
 
 So the two cautiously drew the dry grass 
 well around the nest again, and tiptoed away, 
 and tied the gate, after they had latched it, 
 with a bit of dingy twine from Dick's pocket, 
 so that no one — no one — could get in to dis- 
 turb the precious eggs. 
 
 A hundred feet down the cliff behind the pen 
 and the alders. Long Island Sound lay asleep, 
 a glittering sea of glass, and on it one shining 
 
258 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 white sail stood still, with a shining white image 
 of itself reaching upside down into the water 
 below. 
 
 But the children had nothing to do with sails 
 this busy morning. For five minutes, or per- 
 haps six, they lay quite still under the great old 
 apple tree in the orchard, looking at a robin's 
 egg that Dickon had found in the grass. There 
 were two square holes in its sides, and no hope 
 of a baby robin. Kathinka knew well enough 
 that a wicked squirrel did it, though she hadn't 
 the heart to spoil Dickon's faith in the pretty 
 creatures ; and just then a beautiful gray fel- 
 low with a bushy tail raced along the stone 
 wall and made a great, curving leap into the 
 tree. 
 
 "There's a nest way up there; I can see it," 
 said Kathinka, with trouble in her voice. "And 
 oh, Dickon, he's going to eat the other eggs, 
 and oh, what shall we do.^"' 
 
 "Throw stones at him," said Dick, cheer- 
 fully. "I've got a lot in my pocket down under 
 the strings. Pretty ones, but I don't care." 
 
 "But you might hit the nest." 
 
 "I'll go up and push him off !" cried Dick, in 
 the manfulness of first trousers. 
 
HOW DICKON GLIMBED WITH A HOE 259 
 
 "You simply can't," wailed Kathinka. "You'd 
 fall and break — break everything!" 
 
 "Can't. Haven't got anything to break. 
 Give us a push, Kath," 
 
 Little Sister pushed till she was red in the 
 face, and Dick scrambled till his foot found a 
 knot-hole ; but even then the lowest branch was 
 far away, and there was nothing to get hold of. 
 
 "Oh, come down," said wise Little Sister, 
 "and we'll think about it." 
 
 The squirrel watched from above, whisking 
 his banner of a tail and scolding at his enemies 
 who were in such haste to save the eggs that 
 they couldn't think of a way. 
 
 "Run, Dickon," said Kathinka at last; "run 
 just as quick as ever you can go to the barn and 
 get the hoe. I'll watch." 
 
 "And hoe him down, Kath.? You can't." 
 
 "Oh, do hurry and I'll tell you. Run !" 
 
 So Dickon ran and brought the hoe; and 
 when his foot scraping along the bark found 
 the knot-hole, Kathinka held up the hoe until 
 he could sit on it, and pushed with all her 
 might. And Dickon reached and reached, and 
 caught a green twig that held; and Kathy 
 pushed and pushed, and stood on tiptoe with 
 
260 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 an ache in her back and two in her arms and 
 two in her legs ; and finally the great old limb 
 let itself be caught, and the small boy was 
 safely up. Carefully he reached to the next 
 branch, and scrambled up to the nest, and the 
 small sister below was very red in the face with 
 joy and pushing; longing to go herself, and 
 afraid for Dickon. 
 
 And then such a shout came from among the 
 apple blossoms, as if the green apples them- 
 selves were creeping out and crying for joy: 
 "Oh, Kath, get us a worm, — a worm quick! 
 Four baby robins, — mouths all ready for a 
 worm. Get four." 
 
 "I can't, oh, I can't, Dick. I simply can't 
 get it up to you, and there isn't one." 
 
 "Dig it with the hoe, Kath, and put them all 
 on it, same as you did me, and oh, do hurry 
 up!" 
 
 Kathinka was eager to help and to let Dick 
 have all the glory; but between her fears for 
 him and the bigness of the hoe, she made very 
 slow work. Then Dick called in alarm, "The 
 mother robin! oh, oh, where's the hoe for me?" 
 
 And down he came but not the wa}^ he went 
 up. For not only had the mother-bird shrieked 
 
HOW DICKON CLIMBED WITH A HOE 261 
 
 when she saw her nest in danger — "Robins 
 haven't a speck of sense," Kathinka said — ^but 
 other robins came from far and near all of a 
 sudden, till the air seemed thick with them, and 
 cried, and flew so fast before his eyes, and beat 
 him so with their wings that it was hard for 
 Dick to see between them where the hoe ought 
 to be. 
 
 Two children, very warm and red in the face, 
 lay down in the grass and watched for the 
 squirrel, when the birds hushed and those who 
 had come in as good neighbors had gone about 
 their own aifairs. Both had scratched hands, 
 and one had a bruised knee and torn first 
 trousers, and a big rag of stocking hanging 
 over one shoe. 
 
 But the squirrel had escaped on a friendly 
 limb and was far away, traveling along some 
 beautiful, airy pathway of his own, dropping 
 from branch to branch, or gliding like flicker- 
 ing light in and out of the dark leaves. 
 
 When the dinner horn sounded, two grimy, 
 tired little children went hand in hand, both 
 troubled in their minds — one about torn 
 trousers and stocking, but that wasn't Dick — 
 and two about the robin's nest; yet ready to 
 
262 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 spend the whole afternoon hunting for horse- 
 hairs, and sheep's wool that the good creatures 
 left sticking to the briers, and all the soft 
 things that were nice to line nests and save the 
 birds trouble in this busy, busy season. 
 
 Dinner was just begun, and the two roast 
 chickens looked small indeed — it was so very 
 long since breakfast — when Grandfather said: 
 "Children, have you seen that hoe anywhere 
 around? Jim has hunted and searched for it, 
 and I shall have to send him to town for an- 
 other if he doesn't find it soon." 
 
 Kathinka looked wildly at Dick, and two 
 great tears that she hadn't time to stop 
 dropped on her hands. 
 
 But Dickon said: "Ho, Kath! what you cry- 
 ing for.'' We climbed the tree with it, Gran'pa, 
 to catch the squirrel that went for the robins' 
 eggs, only they'd hatched out hungry." 
 
 "Climbed the tree with it.?" said Grandfather, 
 laying down his carving knife. "Climbed the 
 tree with a hoe? Where was the ladder? 
 There, there, little girl, don't cry about it. 
 You'd better laugh like the rest of us. Wh}'^, 
 Grandmother and I'll climb trees with a hoe if 
 you and Dick will show us how." 
 
HOW DICKON MADE A BIRD'S 
 NEST 
 
 One bright morning Kathinka had a head- 
 ache and Dickon was left to his own devices. 
 For a while he climbed about the veranda where 
 Little Sister sat in a chair much too wide for 
 her, with a blue sofa pillow for a headrest, 
 played horse with two strings tied to the rail- 
 ing, and pranced and reared and shied at a hen 
 lately escaped from its coop, as it ca-ca-ed past, 
 looking hopefully for a worm. 
 
 But there were large thoughts in the small 
 boy's heart, and this foolish sort of activity 
 left empty spaces in his brain. 
 
 The sun was creeping around to the south 
 veranda, and as Kathinka had had too much of 
 its heat the day before, she took her blue pillow 
 and went slowly out to the hammock under the 
 pear trees, and Dick felt free. Now was his 
 chance. Down in the orchard, out of sight of 
 Little Sister, he gathered five or six crooked 
 twigs, and pulled from his pocket an end of 
 rope, a handful of horsehairs, a ball of putty. 
 
264 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 a few gray-and-white feathers with one black 
 one, and a bit of wool. This last he had care- 
 fully clipped from the back of an unsuspecting 
 sheep with Kathy's scissors, and carried about 
 for days, intent on his secret purpose. 
 
 First he pushed the ends of the twigs into 
 the ground and wound them carefully with the 
 horsehairs and bits of string until they began 
 to show design. "Just as good as anybody's 
 nest," he whispered; but when he tried to lift 
 it to see if it would be safe for eggs, some twigs 
 stuck, and some let go too soon, and Dickon 
 had to begin all over again. 
 
 He was very warm, for he had chosen a sunny 
 spot on the birds' account, and little streams 
 of perspiration kept getting into his eyes, along 
 with the ends of his yellow curls. So, as the 
 brook was not far away, he left his work and 
 went down to cool his face and hands. He saw 
 at once that it was a happy thought, because 
 here a new idea struck him. Why not make 
 mud-mortar and plaster the 'nest.? Dickon 
 never wasted time on second thoughts, so with 
 both hands full of leaky material which would 
 keep dripping all the way on his clean blue 
 linen trousers, he toiled up the hill, slipping 
 
HOW DICKON MADE A BIRd's NEST 265 
 
 down a few times and losing his treasure, but 
 cheerfully gathering it up again with grass 
 and sticks added. When once his mind was set 
 on a thing, he was not the boy to be discour- 
 aged by trifles. 
 
 It was a wretched little nest to keep in shape. 
 How the birds ever contrived to do it without 
 hands was a hopeless mystery. Dickon won- 
 dered how the nests all seemed to come round, 
 and tried putting his fat fist inside, which 
 shaped this one somewhat. The brook-mud 
 held things together pretty well, for the sun 
 was baking it as fast as possible ; and when the 
 rope-end was frayed to a soft lining material, 
 and the gray-and-white feathers with the one 
 black one, and bits of wool were stuck in here 
 and there, Dickon stood off with his hands in 
 his pockets and viewed it with unspeakable 
 rapture. It was his first real creation. Some 
 old Bible verses came into his mind about the 
 world when it was made and how its Maker 
 called it good. He didn't wonder in the least. 
 
 Only one thing remained — the best kept till 
 the last. It was a snake skin that he drew up 
 from the very bottom of his pocket — a happy 
 find that he came across while looking for trout 
 
266 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 in the brook. It seemed as if the snake must 
 have known, and left it on the edge of the 
 water just for him. He remembered that some 
 birds put snake skins in their nests, and if some, 
 why not all.^ 
 
 Then he drew handfuls of long grass and 
 weeds around his hope of the future, laid a 
 stone on them to make sure that the wind did 
 not whisk them off, planted a few sprigs broken 
 from the bushes near by, to make believe that 
 small trees were growing to shelter his nest, and 
 started to find his bird. 
 
 "If I catch the right one," thought Dickon, 
 rubbing his hands dry on trousers that would 
 not keep clean, "he will lay his own eggs ; but 
 if I should get a father-bird — maybe he'd sing 
 and the other one would come to see who was 
 singing, and maybe — " 
 
 It was a hopeful idea and Dick had an elastic 
 spirit. 
 
 The wood-thrush was piping liher-tee, and 
 far off in the woods the oven-bird called 
 whicher-whicher-whicher as if he couldn't wait 
 for an answer, and a little song-sparrow tilted 
 on the very tiptop of an alder where it had to 
 flutter its wings, first one and then the other, 
 
HOW DICKON MADE A BIRd's NEST 267 
 
 to stay on long enough to finish saying, quis 
 quis ka dee, — lea daisee ha daisy. 
 
 Dickon heard and not heard, and fell down 
 several times in his hot haste to remember 
 where he dropped the butterfly net yesterday 
 and so be able to get it before the birds sus- 
 pected him. A flock of them hopped along the 
 cart path doing nothing in particular — just 
 waiting, Dick thought, as he dashed to the barn 
 for the net. It was not there. Neither was it 
 on the fence by the lamb pen — a long way to go 
 with the birds right there; nor in the kitchen, 
 nor under the well spout where he threw it 
 down to take a big drink from the dipper. Oh, 
 where was that mean net ! 
 
 Dickon hopped up and down in raging fear 
 lest the birds should be gone. "Not anywhere 
 in this mortal world !" he cried out in hot anger 
 at the unreasonableness of things, rubbing two 
 muddy fists in two damp eyes. 
 
 "I'll go ask Kath." 
 
 This was the last resort, but Little Sister 
 had such a headache that he still might get 
 everything arranged before she was able to 
 come out. Kathinka guessed it was in the bin 
 
268 THE HEART OF A CHILD ] 
 
 1 
 
 down cellar where they found the russet apples, | 
 and Dick forgot his indignation against it when | 
 he had once grasped its bamboo handle and ' 
 dashed out of hearing of Little Sister, who was ' 
 calling weakly, "Don't, Dick, till I come! j 
 Here's a lovely yellow butterfly." i 
 
 Oh, joy! The birds were still there. It 
 seemed as if they must have respected his work | 
 and waited to do their share. But no, this > 
 could not be, or else they mistook his intention, j 
 for at the first sweep of the net they frisked i 
 out of reach. Then Dickon used strategy, i 
 There were crumbs of ginger cookies and some 
 rather dry bits of angle worms in his other 
 pocket with the fishhooks, and after placing I 
 them skillfully, he had the exquisite joy of j 
 hearing a flutter of wings inside his net, at the j 
 fourth throw. "Poor birdie," he said coax- | 
 ingly, as he gathered up the folds about it, j 
 "poor birdie — I've got a good little, new little i 
 nest down here in the grass just made for you. i 
 I like it and you will too. Come on." ' 
 
 There was nothing else to do, so the bird ■ 
 came on, and Dickon laid the net carefully over I 
 the nest, securing it with stones on the outer 
 
HOW DICKON MADE A BIRd's NEST 269 
 
 edges where it touched the ground, and draw- 
 ing it down so that the bird must be very 
 stupid not to see at a glance what was expected 
 of it. Still it fluttered and did not take as 
 kindly to its home as it should. "Do sit down !" 
 said Dick decidedly. "Everybody has to get 
 used to a new house. You can because you 
 must. That's what Mamma always says. Why, 
 we little chicks have to get used to Gran'pa's 
 every year. You'll like it, same way we do." 
 
 Then, seeing that his bird was secure though 
 foolishly unreconciled to its pretty home, off he 
 raced for Kathinka and an umbrella to shield 
 her from the sun. 
 
 Little Sister, astonished but willing, and all 
 alert for a secret, held her head with both 
 hands and staggered along under Dick's shade, 
 which was irregular owing to his great heart- 
 beats. When at length he allowed her one peep 
 and told the whole charming epic in a breath, 
 Kathinka turned white. 
 
 "Why Dickonsie — poor little boy," she fal- 
 tered kindly; "it's a horrid old English spar- 
 row! Didn't you see his breastpin? I don't 
 believe he ever lays eggs — ^just fights." 
 
 And Dickon wept. 
 
270 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 Not coward tears such as come when a boy 
 is hurt, but drops from the deep well of our 
 common human nature, pressed upward only 
 when its choicest springs are choked. 
 
DICKON GOES A-FISHING 
 
 oAY, Kath," whispered Dick as he left the 
 breakfast table, "would you?" 
 
 "Would you what?" 
 
 "Tell Gra'mother we're going to have trouts 
 for supper." 
 
 "Oh, Dick," Little Sister whispered back, for 
 the others were scarcely out of hearing, "you 
 haven't got them yet, you know." 
 
 "But we're going to get them now, and if we 
 don't tell she'll go buy something." 
 
 "Well, you can tell her," said Kathinka, "if 
 you want to, but I should wait." 
 
 "Oh, goosie! Then she'll go and get some- 
 thing big, maybe, and you have to eat trouts 
 quick. That's what Rob and Teddy said, and 
 they know. You take your pail, and I'll get 
 mine if I can find it. But they're so little — say, 
 Kath, why can't we take the pear basket too?" 
 
 "I don't think we ought," Little Sister said, 
 considering the matter. "This isn't exactly our 
 home, you know — and they might want it, and 
 besides it would smell of the fishes." 
 
272 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 "They smell good!" said Dickon stoutly. 
 "And besides, I'm going to put grape leaves in 
 the bottom." 
 
 "I'm going to put some moss in my pail," 
 said kind Little Sister, "so it will be real soft 
 for them, and some water too, and they won't 
 know they're caught, maybe." 
 
 "I can't find my pail, Kath, so I'U just tell 
 Maggie I took the basket." 
 
 "Did you?" asked careful Little Sister, as 
 Dick ran on to overtake her two minutes later. 
 
 "Well, I didn't see her ; but I shouted it iyito 
 the kitchen door." 
 
 "Maybe she wasn't there." 
 
 "But she ought to be. I can't help where 
 she is, can I.?" 
 
 Kathinka was not quite clear in her own 
 mind. It seemed almost unfair to take the pear 
 basket without asking; but then. Grandfather 
 had driven away to town, and the men were 
 down in the meadow, too busy to be looking 
 after pears. It seemed to Little Sister that she 
 always had to be thinking about things. 
 
 This time the two started for the trout pond 
 a long half-mile away. The sun was hot and 
 the grape leaves in the basket grew soft, which 
 
DICKON GOES A-FISHING 273 
 
 Dick said was a good thing, adding that he 
 would dip them in the water to make them stiff 
 again. 
 
 How pretty the shadows were on the pond, 
 and how cool it was under the trees after the 
 long, dusty walk! Kathinka had brought bits 
 of bread for her hook, and when they came to 
 the pond she chose a stone a little way off from 
 Dick's, because she couldn't bear to see him put 
 bait on the hook. 
 
 "I wish you'd take the bread too," said 
 Kathinka, "because then you could sit by me 
 and see every time I got a fish — and take it off 
 from the hook," she added softly. 
 
 "I will pretty soon," said Dickon, "for I 
 couldn't find but just two worms in the garden, 
 I was in such an awful hurry. Don't use up 
 all the bread." 
 
 "Oh, no !" said Kathinka, a little hurt, "you 
 know I wouldn't do such a mean thing." 
 
 "Well, you might forget," said Dick. "I'll 
 sit close up by you, and you look the other way 
 when the worm wriggles. I'll say now. Now!" 
 
 "Oh, Dick, seems as if I couldn't bear it," 
 cringed little Kathinka, with both hands over 
 her ears. 
 
274 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 "Oh, silly! they don't squeal," said Dick. 
 "Teddy says they just love it." 
 
 "That was in fun, because he knew it made 
 me feel bad. He meant they loved the worms, 
 but I wish they didn't. Sometimes I can't eat 
 my supper when I think about it." 
 
 "Well, you won't feel bad any more when 
 you see what I get. Hello, there! help, Kath; 
 help pull. I've got a bite as big as a whale !" 
 
 Both children tugged with might and main, 
 and Dick's joy was boundless. "Down with 
 the traitor," he shouted, "up with the — " but 
 just then his line gave way and Dick struck the 
 back of his head. It was on a bank of ferns 
 and moss, and didn't hurt, only he was a good 
 deal surprised until he got his bearings. 
 
 "Don't let go of him, Kath," he cried. "Hold 
 on and I'll wade in." 
 
 "I am holding on," said Little Sister, "be- 
 cause I can't let go. It isn't anything but a 
 rail, Dick, and we've pulled one end up out of 
 water." • 
 
 "Pshaw !" cried Dickon. "Any old rail ought 
 to know better than to put itself into a good 
 trout pond. And I haven't got any more 
 
DICKON GOES A-FISHING 275 
 
 hooks, 'cept just one bent one in my pocket. 
 Can't you jerk it out? — your one, I mean." 
 
 "No," said Kathinka, "I can't." 
 
 "See here," said Dick, after thinking care- 
 fully, "I'll put my old hook onto the other 
 string, and maybe I can hook out the other 
 hook with the bent hook, if the fishes haven't 
 got it. It had a good lot of bait on. I wish I 
 had some strings. Why, you can't get your 
 string, can you?" 
 
 "No," said Little Sister, thinking fast, "but 
 you've got shdist rings." 
 
 "Good for you!" shouted Dickon, whipping 
 them out of the eyelets in hot haste. "I'll take 
 one, and you just bend up a pin and put on the 
 other." 
 
 But it was of no use. The fish had other 
 business on hand, and made slow processions 
 past the two inviting hooks that dangled from 
 the bank in what was fast becoming a hopeless 
 way. 
 
 "If we were afraid of them I do believe they'd 
 climb up and bite us," said Kathinka. 
 
 "That's so," said Dickon heartily. "I'm 
 tired. Let's lie down and think. They'll come 
 fast enough when we don't want 'em. See the 
 
276 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 flock of sheep — the flock of sheep !" cried Dick, 
 rolling about on the bank and forgetting his 
 disappointment. "A whole big lamb field. 
 See !" 
 
 Far above in the exquisite blue of the heavens 
 white clouds moved slowly like sheep and 
 lambs, flock on flock, from the tops of the trees 
 to the very dome of the sky. 
 
 "And there's a searchlight — a great big 
 searchlight — see ; right on the bow of a big, 
 big ship. I guess they're looking for more 
 lambs up there, but they'll scare them off. 
 Look quick! all in among the little lambs — a 
 great long streak." 
 
 "What shall we do for supper .P" sighed 
 Kathinka. "Gra'mother will be so disap- 
 pointed." 
 
 "That's all right," said Dick contentedly; 
 "I didn't have time to tell her." 
 
 "But I did," said Kathinka, "when you went 
 to dig bait in the garden." 
 
 "All right," said Dickon, rolling over. "Try, 
 try again; that's what we'll do." 
 
 "But I can't see any fishes now, Dick. We've 
 scared them all away." 
 
 "That's so," said Dickon solemnly. "Mustn't 
 
DICKON GOES A-FISHING 277 
 
 talk when we go a-fishing. Rob and Teddy 
 said so." 
 
 "And we talked a lot. Oh, Dicky !" 
 
 "Maybe they're scared into the brook, and 
 we'll go catch them there. Let's take off our 
 shoes and stockings and crawl along 'side of 
 the road where they can't see us, and not say 
 a word, Kath." 
 
 "But we'll get all dusty, Dickon." 
 
 "Much Gra'mother'll care when she sees the 
 basket and the pail ! And I'll get a long stick 
 to string the rest on, long enough for both of 
 us to carry. You take one end and I the other. 
 And I'll take the basket because that's heavy, 
 and you take the pail. I guess we'll have to 
 kill the fishes, or the top ones'U flop out." 
 
 "I shan't," said Little Sister. "And I shan't 
 look if you do. Why, you've got your stock- 
 ings and shoes off. I guess I'll keep mine on, 
 Dicky." 
 
 "No fair. We've just got to go still. If 
 they see a teenty little shadow, or hear a little 
 creak, they'll hide. I know their tricks, but 
 they won't fool me any more." 
 
 Good Little Sister had a great many bits of 
 bread, and both children were glad to sit down 
 
278 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 after their dusty crawl and cool their feet in 
 the grass. Kathinka had stepped on a black- 
 berry vine with cruel prickers, but didn't men- 
 tion it ; and Dickon had torn his sleeve, which 
 seemed unworthy of mention. The brook went 
 gurgling over the stones, taking its own time; 
 and the little fishes nibbled at Dick's hook and 
 sniffed at Kathinka's bent pin, following the 
 splash of each with eagerness up stream and 
 down. 
 
 Now and then Dickon's line was carried along 
 for an inch or so, and two small hearts beat 
 with great thumps. Dickon signaled silently 
 for bread, more bread, which Kathinka gave 
 lavishly, and the little fish fairly swarmed about 
 the ends of the shoestrings. 
 
 "No foolish things here !" whispered Dickon, 
 whose talk had been long pent up. "Might just 
 as well talk out loud. They won't run for us, 
 whatever we do. They like us, I do believe. 
 Maybe they're lonesome." 
 
 And in truth they seemed attached to the 
 children, for wherever they threw their lines, 
 up stream or down, there went the happy, 
 wriggling swarm of fishes. Their tails pointed 
 out, and their heads turned to the center, so 
 
DICKON GOES A-FISHING 279 
 
 that they made pretty figures of themselves, 
 like stars or Catherine wheels. The brook was 
 quite alive with them, and still they kept coming 
 from far away. 
 
 "But they're so little," Little Sister com- 
 plained. "Not much bigger than a pin." 
 
 "They have to be little at first," argued 
 Dickon stoutly. "Like chickens and birds. 
 And some of mine are big as my jackknife. 
 See that fellow now!" 
 
 "Not so fat, though," insisted Kathinka. 
 
 "They'll get fatter all the time." 
 
 "But nobody could cook such little ones." 
 
 "Maggie could," said Dickon. "Don't you 
 remember that day when Gra'mother said she 
 fried the pan-fish all together so's they looked 
 like a big fish? And I had a whole lot of little 
 tails on my plate, and Gran'father laughed? 
 What's the matter doing these ones that way?" 
 
 "We'll have to get as much as a hundred," 
 said tired Little Sister. 
 
 "Course! Ten times a hundred," said 
 Dickon. "Basket full and pail full, and a big, 
 long stick full. I'll go get one now." 
 
 "Dicky, I do believe I hear the dinner horn !" 
 
 "Hurry up, you silly trouts !" cried Dickon, 
 
280 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 with a great splash of bread in the water. "You 
 know I can't go home till I hook you !" 
 
 "But we'll have to," said Little Sister, "or 
 dinner'll be all over, and Gra'mother'll be wor- 
 ried." 
 
 "Well," said Dickon resignedly, "I s'pose 
 we must, and I'm pretty hungry too ; but let's 
 leave all our things and come again right after 
 dinner." 
 
 Dickon's face was shining with happy hopes, 
 but Kathinka pulled on her stockings fast and 
 said : "I tell you, Dicky, if 'twasn't for you and 
 Gra'mother, I think I'd rather ride in the hay 
 cart this afternoon." 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S COSSET-LAMB 
 STORY 
 
 A CRUEL rain washed all the beauty out of 
 the apple blossoms, and kept the children and 
 most of the birds indoors. But the oriole and 
 wood-thrush sang bravely, for they loved the 
 wet weather, and knew that they had built 
 strong nests. So that when the wind came 
 roaring up from the Sound and whitecaps 
 danced on every wave, and all the little boats 
 scudded to shelter, the oriole's nest swung from 
 the elm tree, and his voice was strong and clear 
 as the wood-thrush's. 
 
 But Kathinka and Dickon were under as 
 snug shelter as the little birds hidden under the 
 leaves. All day they played in the great, old 
 garret, with its big beams and dusty little 
 windows ; hiding behind barrels and low chests, 
 whirling the big spinning wheel and the little 
 flax wheel, playing school with queer, broken- 
 backed chairs, and dancing hand in hand before 
 cracked mirrors. 
 
 But before tea time the wind whistled around 
 
282 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 the chimney with such a homesick sound that 
 Dickon said he didn't feel very well. 
 
 "I think Gra'mother wants to see us," said 
 Little Sister. "She'll be lonesome, too." 
 Kathinka started to say homesick, but the 
 other seemed the more comforting word. 
 
 There was a great fire on the sitting-room 
 hearth, and the room looked cosy enough. No 
 doubt Gra'mother did want to see the children, 
 for she put a mark in her book and laid it on 
 the table as soon as she heard them open the 
 door. Dickon sat down on the floor and looked 
 into the fire, while Kathinka hung about 
 Gra'mother's chair and asked if she couldn't 
 help. She could hold a skein of 3^arn to be 
 wound, or put sticks on the fire. But Dickon 
 threw himself on the rug and wanted a story, 
 to make him forget that his real home was so 
 many miles away, and that Rob and Teddy 
 could not come till school closed. He didn't 
 even say Father and Mother to himself, for 
 that might have started a tear or two, and a 
 boy in trousers is too big to cry. 
 
 "I wish I knew about the cosset-lamb again," 
 he said. 
 
 "Why, it's such an old story." 
 
grandmother's cosset-lamb story 283 
 
 "I don't care. I like old things," Dickon said. 
 "You're real old, Gra'mother." 
 
 "Yes," Gra'mother said, "and I'm glad you 
 like me." 
 
 "Oh, Dickon!" said polite Little Sister; but 
 Dickon was looking absently into the fire and 
 his thoughts were years away. He was trying 
 hard to think how queer Gra'mother must have 
 looked when she was little enough to play with 
 a cosset-lamb. 
 
 "But we love the story, don't we, Dick?" said 
 Kathinka. So Gra'mother began without any 
 urging. 
 
 "When I was a little girl — " "About as big 
 as me," Dickon put in, "only you had to have 
 dresses :" — "my father gave me a cosset-lamb." 
 
 "I wish I had a cosset-lamb," said Dickon. 
 "What is a cosset-lamb?" 
 
 "A lamb that hasn't any mother." 
 
 "Why hasn't it any mother?" 
 
 "Oh, Dickon, you know!" said Kathinka. 
 "I don't want to hear about it again, and 
 Gra'mother doesn't want to tell. It 'most 
 makes me cry." 
 
 "But I mean other cosset-lambs," said 
 Dickon. "They don't all get killed." 
 
284 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 "This one was very young," said Gra'mother, 
 "when its mother died. We had to feed the 
 little fellow with milk for a long time." 
 
 "And he wiggled his little tail," put in 
 Dickon. 
 
 "Yes, dear ; he wiggled his little tail when he 
 drank the warm milk. You remember the story 
 pretty well. As soon as he was strong on his 
 legs he would run after me like a little puppy." 
 
 "Puppies wiggle their tails," said Dickon. 
 "I wish I had a little puppy to wiggle his tail." 
 
 "Cossy had something even better than a 
 puppy to run after him. It was a little lone- 
 some chicken that wandered away from its home 
 and came to us." 
 
 "Where was its home, Gra'mother.''" 
 
 "We didn't know, or we could have sent it 
 back." 
 
 "And the chicken didn't know either .f'" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why didn't the chicken know.?" 
 
 "That I can't tell you, but it was very small, 
 and its mother never found it." 
 
 "Why was it better than a puppy.'"' 
 
 "One reason was, that it never barked and 
 frightened the little lamb as a puppy would." 
 
grandmother's cosset-lamb story 285 
 
 "And what was two reasons?" 
 
 "It stayed with Cossy, and was company for 
 him. And a puppy would have been running 
 off to play. When the lamb nibbled grass, his 
 chicken would keep close to him and pick up 
 worms and jump for flies that were disturbed 
 as they went along. But at night it got sleepy 
 first, and would go pe-up, pe-up, pe-up after 
 Cossy, who was wide awake and capering about, 
 till at last it was so tired trying to keep up that 
 it would fly up on his back and go to sleep with 
 its head tucked under its wing and its feet snug 
 and warm in Cossy's wool." 
 
 "Tell it again !" said Dickon. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Kathinka. "We know all 
 that; please go on, Gra'mother." 
 
 "Well, one day I took Cossy for a walk, to 
 see a little cousin about as old as I was, who 
 lived almost a mile away." 
 
 "Cossy's cousin?" asked Dickon. 
 
 "No, my own cousin. And Cossy was so 
 happy to be going with me that he capered — " 
 
 "And crowed," said Dickon. 
 
 " — And ran and jumped till I was afraid I 
 should lose him." 
 
286 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 "But you wouldn't lose him, Gra'mother ; it 
 would be him losing himself." 
 
 " — So I fastened his ribbon to my bonnet 
 string after I had tied it in a hard knot under 
 my chin. You see he had a blue ribbon around 
 his neck and my sunbonnet had gingham strings 
 that were very strong, so I thought he couldn't 
 get away. He was quite a big lamb then, and 
 I was a fat little girl. He pulled pretty hard, 
 but I kept my hand on his neck, for I had to 
 run to keep up with him, till we came to a steep 
 path over a sand bank hill. The road was a 
 long way below, and the path was almost on the 
 edge of the bank." 
 
 "What made you go up there, Gra'mother .f'" 
 
 "Partly because Cossy wanted to." 
 
 "And partly what else.'"' 
 
 "Because I was a silly little girl, and always 
 let Cossy have his own way." 
 
 "Silly little girl!" quoted Dickon. "Oh, 
 Kath !" 
 
 "But if I had been a little boy I think I 
 should have been just as silly." 
 
 "P'raps sillier," said Kathinka gently, hurt 
 a little at Dick's laugh. 
 
grandmother's cosset-l,amb story 287 
 
 — "And suddenly Cossy thought he would 
 caper off the bank without asking me." 
 
 "How could he ask you?" said Kathinka. 
 
 "He couldn't very well, but he might have 
 stopped if he had been polite, to see which way 
 I wanted to go." 
 
 "That's so," said Dickon. 
 
 — "My breath was nearly gone trying to 
 keep up, and as he plunged off the edge of the 
 bank, I rolled over and over, and my bonnet 
 string tore off, and away went Cos." 
 
 "Did he come back again, Gra'mother.?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. When he saw me lying on the 
 ground he trotted back and put his nose close 
 down to my face as if he felt sorry." 
 
 "I think he did," said Little Sister. "I 
 should." 
 
 "Where is Cossy now, Gra'mother.?"' 
 
 "He grew up to be a big sheep, and when his 
 horns came he liked to butt people." 
 
 "And then what?" 
 
 "He had to be killed; don't you remember?" 
 
 "Oh-h !" exclaimed Dickon, who knew the 
 story by heart. "I guess he was sorry enough 
 then that he was bad." 
 
288 THE HEART OF A CHILD 
 
 "He wasn't bad," said Kathinka, "because 
 that was the way he was made." 
 
 "But he ought to have tried not to butt," 
 said Dickon. "Boys can't do the way they 
 want to,^ — hardly ever," he added. "I wish I 
 had a cossy. I'd put him in the pen where the 
 bird's nest is, and not let him butt it ; and he 
 wouldn't be lonesome a bit." 
 
 "We'll ask Grandfather to save a little lamb 
 for you, if any of the mothers die," said 
 Gra'mother; "but you would have to feed it 
 very often at first, and never forget, and be 
 very kind to it." 
 
 "Dickon is always kind," said good Little 
 Sister. 
 
 THE END 
 
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