RoxvA Good flrtfel 
 
 V Qj <J

 
 P5 
 
 &551 
 Roxy s Good Angel 
 
 and 
 
 Other New England Tales 
 
 By 
 
 Eva Beede Odell 
 
 CONCORD, N. H. 
 
 THE RUMFORD PRINTING Co. 
 i 908
 
 Copyright, 1908 
 By EVA BEEDE ODELL
 
 TO 
 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 CAROLINE FRANCES BEEDE 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Roxy s Good Angel ..... 7 
 
 Silas Mason s Will ...... 29 
 
 Caught in a Cyclone . . . . -45 
 
 Their Other Mother 61 
 
 Nathan s Wife 81 
 
 Miss Harden s Christmas Party . . -103
 
 I. 
 
 ROXY S GOOD ANGEL. 
 
 If you ve got tew a spot where you c n leave 
 off, mebbe you d best come out an fry the nut 
 cakes fer me, a-standin over the hot fat fetches 
 out my umor so. The stuff that root an yarb 
 doctor fixed up fer me s a-helpin of me, but 
 he said I d hev ter be dretful keerful bout 
 gittin my blood het," said Mrs. Kent, as she 
 put her head into the "west room," where her 
 daughter, Roxana, was carefully placing the 
 braided mats on the cleanly swept rag carpet. 
 "That hooked-in rug s a beauty! I m glad you 
 put it before the table where t won t git trod 
 on much," continued Mrs. Kent, as she looked 
 admiringly at a rug upon which blossomed a 
 bouquet of flowers which it would have puzzled 
 a botanist to classify. "Did David notice your 
 new rug last Sunday night, Roxy ? 
 
 "Yes, he said t I beat natur on posies," was 
 the reply. 
 
 It was a balmy Saturday morning in the last 
 of May. The scent of the lilacs and the songs
 
 8 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 of the robins floated in through the open win 
 dows, the old maples in front of the house gently 
 waved their tender leaves over the low roof and 
 dandelions spangled with gold the new green 
 grass in the dooryard. 
 
 When I can read my title clear, 
 
 Roxy s sweet voice sang, as she briskly swept off 
 the door-rock, on either side of which the great 
 red peonies were in bloom; then she went in to 
 fry the doughnuts. 
 
 Guess I 11 bake a couple o dried apple pies, 
 you pa loves em so," remarked Mrs. Kent, as 
 she came out of the buttery with her palms 
 covered with great rings of dough, which she 
 dropped into the hot, sputtering fat and watched 
 them as they struggled to the surface. Soon s 
 you git through here, Roxy," she continued, 
 "hadn t you better break off some o the lay- 
 locks and pinies and make a bokay to set on the 
 mantel piece ? Them pine boughs doos look nice 
 in the fireplace. Then, bime-bye, you might run 
 down in the garden an see f there hain t some 
 rubub big enough t cut, so s t I c d stew a leetle 
 fer sass. Mis B ynton says she s dretful fond 
 on t, but they hain t got no pie-plant cause he 
 don t like it. I shouldn t a asked Mis B yn 
 ton over Saturday, when I had so much to do,
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 9 
 
 only the skulemarm goes home Friday nights, 
 an I wa n t under no obligations to ask her. 
 
 Roxana Kent was the only child of Seth and 
 Hannah Kent. Seth was born in this little red 
 house, and here he had always lived, on the 
 "Neck Road," as it was called, for that part of 
 the town stretched out into the great lake. Jon 
 athan Kent, the father of Seth, had built the 
 house, and, as Richard, the otner son, had gone 
 to seek his fortune in the West several years 
 ago, Seth had been the one to live at home and 
 take care of the old folks and at their death he 
 had inherited the homestead. 
 
 On the adjoining farm lived Stephen Allen, 
 who was the most forehanded of all the farmers 
 on the Neck Road. His house was painted 
 white, except the back side, which was a durable 
 red, as was the custom. He rode in a chaise, 
 and his wife had a haircloth sofa in the fore- 
 room and a black silk gown hanging in the spare 
 room clothes-press. 
 
 The Aliens had only one child living, but three 
 little white marble stones were noticeable among 
 the blue slate ones in the burying-ground near 
 the schoolhouse, and here in a row were the 
 three little Aliens, who had died of the scarlet 
 fever. 
 
 Mrs. Allen had great ambitions for her only
 
 10 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 son, David. He was sent out to the village to 
 the tuition school when he had "got beyend the 
 deestrict skule" on the Neck, but he came home 
 Friday nights to remain until Monday morning, 
 and always went over to spend his Sunday even 
 ings with Roxy. They had cared for each other 
 since they were children, David bringing big red 
 apples to school for Roxy to eat at recess, and 
 Roxy always sliding on David s sled. In sum 
 mer he took her in his boat to gather pond- 
 lilies and in winter they skated together. He 
 was always "her company" at the Fourth of 
 July picnics and at the husking-bees ; he saw her 
 home from singing-school and from prayer- 
 meeting, and he nearly died of jealousy the week 
 when her cousin Will was on from the West. 
 
 It was now more than three years that David 
 had been "payin attention" to Roxy, going to 
 "set up with her reg lar" every Sunday night. 
 Still, there seemed to be no prospect of a wed 
 ding in the neighborhood. David was now al 
 most twenty-three and Roxy a few months 
 younger. The old women said, "David s dret- 
 ful slow, jes like his uncle Reuben, fer he 
 courted Maria Jane Smith goin on ten year; 
 then she got tired o waitin an up an married 
 Lem Bartlett, an then Reuben he spunked up 
 an took Luke Foster s widder."
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 11 
 
 Meanwhile Roxy was making rugs and patch 
 work quilts, and getting her things ready. She 
 also braided hats, and with the money thus 
 earned bought clothes, besides laying away, care 
 fully tied up in a white cotton stocking, a sum 
 sufficient to purchase enough green silk for a 
 wadding gown. Still the time went on, and 
 David didn t say the word. 
 
 The skulemarm, a pretty little blonde from 
 the village, boarded at Caleb Boynton s and only 
 the night before last she had been invited to sup 
 per at the Aliens. Although she had gone home 
 alone, before dark (Roxy knew because her black 
 eyes had been watching from the bedroom win 
 dow), the Kents feared that Mrs. Allen was as 
 piring for a village girl for her son, so Mrs. 
 Kent had invited Mrs. Boynton over for the 
 purpose of finding out what she could about the 
 "skulemarm." 
 
 Mrs. Boynton appeared promptly at two 
 o clock, in a clean, starched gingham, knitting- 
 work in hand. She was f ootin down a pair o 
 stockin s fer Calup," she remarked. Mrs. Kent, 
 who had put on a new purple print, got out 
 her knitting, too, and tongues and needles flew 
 fast. Soon Roxy came in, radiant in a pink cal 
 ico and a white apron. She was knitting edg 
 ing. Mrs. Boynton admired the pattern and told
 
 12 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 her about some "hansum" lace that the 
 "skulemarm was a-knittin of, fer piller cases," 
 and went on to describe the log-cabin and the 
 Job s trouble quilts that she was a-piecin up, 
 adding, "Law sakes, she s up soon s light a- 
 workin on em ! 
 
 "What s she so driv fer? Goin ter git mar 
 ried?" asked Mrs. Kent. 
 
 "Yes, fore a great while, I guess, but she 
 told me in confidence, so don t say nothin bout 
 it. I wouldn t hev it come from me fer the 
 world, but she s a-keepin skule ter git money 
 ter buy her a silk gownd. She s a-goin ter hev 
 sky blue, an I tell her she ll look jest as pretty 
 as a pictur in it, she s so light-complected. The 
 feller she s a-goin to marry s a minister, so she 
 says she dunno s she ll ever git another silk 
 gownd. She met with him over t the cademy 
 t the Bridge, where she went ter git her ede- 
 cashun. He hain t got quite through his skulin 
 but they hain t a-goin ter wait. There, I prom 
 ised not ter tell, so don t you breathe a word 
 on t ter no livin soul." 
 
 Roxy and her mother willingly pledged them 
 selves to keep the secret, for a great burden had 
 been lifted from their hearts. Evidently "the 
 skulemarm w r asn t a-settin of her cap" for 
 David.
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 13 
 
 Mrs. Kent took out some of her warm brown 
 bread and beans for supper, leaving the rest 
 in the brick oven for the Sunday morning break 
 fast. "I do declare/ said Mrs. Boynton, pass 
 ing up her plate for more, I believe them beans 
 is the best I ever eat. I wish lie (meaning her 
 husband) had some. He told me to say to you 
 that he was much obleeged fer your invite to 
 supper, but he was so driv with his plantin that 
 he couldn t stop ter shift his clo es and come. 
 I b iled a big mess o dandelion greens fer dinner 
 so s ter hev some left over, so I guess he 11 make 
 out a supper, for he loves cold greens awful 
 well." 
 
 Mrs. Kent loaded Mrs. Boynton s plate with 
 the rhubarb sauce, remarking, "They say they 
 have sass dishes out ter the village. I s pose you 
 git all the styles from the skulemarm, don t ye ? " 
 
 "Anyhow," responded Mrs. Boynton, "I 
 don t believe there s anybody t the village can 
 hold a candle ter you on nut cakes. I must get 
 your resate." 
 
 Very soon after supper, Seth, who was a 
 quiet man and had taken but little part in the 
 conversation, picked up his milking pails and 
 started for the cow-yard, while Roxy cleared 
 the table and washed the dishes. The old clock 
 in the kitchen struck seven and Mrs. Boynton
 
 14 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 rolled up her knitting- work, remarking, I guess 
 I d best be goin long. Calup 11 be a-lookin 
 fer me." 
 
 "I ll go a piece with ye," said Mrs. Kent, 
 putting on her cape-bonnet. 
 
 They walked together to the turn of the road 
 and there they parted, Mrs. Boynton assuring 
 Mrs. Kent that "her vittles did taste so good," 
 and Mrs. Kent in response saying, "Now dew be 
 neighborly an run over often, fer ye hain t no 
 idee how much good yer visit s done me." 
 
 II. 
 
 The lilacs had faded and the great peonies 
 had shed their crimson petals. The yellow dan 
 delions had been transformed into balls of dainty 
 lacework that had dropped apart and in in 
 numerable fairy shafts had sped away on the 
 wings of the wind. The tender green of spring 
 had deepened into the thick shade of summer. 
 Haying-time had come, when the tall timothy, 
 the graceful red-top and the fragrant clover 
 were stowed away in the great barns. The crops 
 had ripened and been harvested all along the 
 Neck Road. The women-folks had strung all the 
 apples that were worth stringing, and those that
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 15 
 
 were good for nothing else had been made into 
 cider. 
 
 It was now December, the fall work was done 
 and the men-folks were "a-choppin " in the 
 woods, in order that they might build up the 
 family wood-pile, or draw "a few cords ter the 
 village, soon s it come good sleddin ." Mean 
 while the women were devoting all their spare 
 time to knitting "sale foot n s." 
 
 One mild day as the Boyntons were partaking 
 of a good old-fashioned "bile dinner," and Ca 
 leb was just helping himself to some more of 
 the cabbage, and the turnips, and the beets, re 
 marking, "I declar , Nancy, I ll bet there hain t 
 a woman on t the road t can come up ter you 
 fer b ilin garden sass, " Mrs. Boynton suddenly 
 changed the subject by asking, "Be you a-goin 
 ter be off ter th wood-lot all the arternune?" 
 Caleb nodding assent, she continued, Cause f 
 you be, I m a-goin over t the Kentses. I hain t 
 be n over there n a dog s age an I d oughter 
 go over n tell em bout the weddin . Pore 
 Roxy, I sh d think she d be clean discouraged, 
 an f David Allen s ever a-goin ter marry her, 
 why under the canopy don t he do it? I never 
 see nobody so slow bout their courtin in my 
 born days." 
 
 As soon as she got the dishes "done up," the
 
 16 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 stove "wiped down," and the kitchen "swept 
 out," Mrs. Boynton put on a green and black- 
 checked, home-made, woolen gown (she had spun 
 and woven it herself, and "kep it fer hansum" 
 six years but was now taking it for second- 
 best), a heavy red and green changeable shawl 
 and a big, brown silk, pumpkin hood. Then, 
 dropping her knitting-work into her capacious 
 pocket, she set out for the Kents . 
 
 It was not the custom for neighbors to knock 
 at each other s doors, so Mrs. Boynton walked 
 right into the kitchen, where sat Mrs. Kent and 
 Roxy. "Howd do? I m so snow-blind I can t 
 hardly tell which from t other," said she. "I m 
 wropped up s if I s goin ter ride ter th 
 Bridge." Then, rolling up her heavy mittens 
 and putting her socks behind the stove, while 
 Roxy hung up her shawl and hood and Mrs. Kent 
 brought forward a big rocking-chair, she took 
 out her work and settled herself. "What be 
 you a-drivin at now, knittin , I s pose, same s 
 I be?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Kent, "me an Roxy s 
 stented ourselves to git a derzern pair o foot n s 
 done g inst father goes out ter the village ag in, 
 but we re dretful glad you ve come over ter 
 set a spell. Comfortable weather fer the time 
 o year, hain t it?"
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 17 
 
 "Yes, but t was dretful teedyus last week. 
 I sh d a be n over sooner f it hadn t be n so 
 cold. I wanted to tell ye bout our goin out 
 ter the village to eat Thanksgivin dinner," said 
 Mrs. Boynton, as they all drew up around the 
 fire. 
 
 "For the land s sake, Mis B ynton, I didn t 
 know s none o your folks lived out ter the 
 village, nor his n nuther!" 
 
 "Wall, they don t," continued the speaker, 
 "but me and Calup had a invite out ter the 
 weddin ." 
 
 The weddin ! " exclaimed both listeners in a 
 breath. 
 
 "Yes," explained Mrs. Boynton. "Don t you 
 rec lect Almiry Folsom, she that boarded long 
 o me an kep our skule last summer?" 
 
 "Land, yes, father was a-tellin on t when 
 he come home from the store t other night. He 
 heerd she was married in the meetin -house on 
 Thanksgivin day. An you s there an see it 
 all. How you talk! Dew tell us all about it!" 
 eagerly exclaimed Mrs. Kent, while Roxy stopped 
 knitting to listen. 
 
 "Wall, in the fust place," began Mrs. Boyn 
 ton, "Almiry an her feller, they come in kind 
 o latish an set down nigh the door. I guess 
 folks had got wind on t round, what was a-goin 
 2
 
 18 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 on, leastways they suspicioned it, f er the meetin - 
 house was pretty well filled up. Elder Price, 
 he preached a powerful sermon, jest an hour 
 an twenty-five minutes long t was, f er Mr. Tay 
 lor told me he took out his time-piece an looked. 
 Like enough he was a leetle narvous an the time 
 seemed long. Then, when the elder had got 
 through, stid o pronouncin the bendiction s 
 usual, says he, The congregation s requested to 
 tarry a spell. Then he called fer Richard Tay 
 lor an Almiry Folsom to come forrard to the 
 altar, so they stood up there an was married 
 right in the meetin -house, afore the hull on us." 
 
 What was she married in ? " put in Roxy. 
 
 "Her blue silk gownd o course, an a blue 
 silk bunnit with a w r hite feather an white strings 
 an she wore white kid gloves. Dick, as she 
 calls him, he s considerable dark-complected, 
 but Almiry, you know, she s jest pink an white, 
 an everybody sed they was the prettiest couple 
 that they ever set eyes on." 
 
 "Then you s ter the dinner! Who else d 
 they have?" asked Mrs. Kent. 
 
 "Bein s there hain t none o his folks livin , 
 cept his Aunt Harriet, an she s a missionary off 
 in Chiny, the Folsomses thought they wouldn t 
 send down below fer none o their kin to come 
 up, but Almiry, she d set her heart on havin me
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 19 
 
 an Calup, so they jest asked us an the min 
 ister s folks. They fetched all three o the 
 young uns, o course, they hadn t nobody t 
 leave em with, an they acted like all possessed. 
 They say she hain t no kind of a housekeeper, 
 that she sets right down in the mornin a-writin 
 poetry fore ever she s combed her head, an 
 the young uns goes a-traipsin over her. She 
 writ a piece on The Bride an gin it to Almiry 
 to remember her by." 
 
 Dear me suz ! exclaimed Mrs. Kent. Now 
 dew tell us what ye hed ter eat. 
 
 "Why, we hed chicken pie, an b iled onions, 
 an cranberry sass 
 
 In sass dishes ? interrupted Mrs. Kent. 
 
 Law, yes, was the answer, t was took out 
 in leetle glass dishes an sot round to each 
 plate. Then there was apple pie an punkin pie 
 an plum puddin ." 
 
 "Most proberble the Folsomses is middlin 
 well off," said Mrs. Kent. 
 
 "I don t cal late they be remarkerble fore 
 handed. He s a cooper by trade, but he s 
 hauled up with the rheumatiz a good deal, so, 
 says I ter Calup, says I, We hain t a-goin out 
 there empty-handed, so we put in ter the wagon 
 one o them great punkins o ourn, and a leetle 
 crock o my b iled cider apple-sass, an a couple
 
 20 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 string o sassages. Then I d knit Almiry a ban- 
 sum pair o white cotton stockin s, the front on 
 em was all in shells, an she was mazin tickled 
 with em. She said sh d never want ter wear 
 em out, but keep em t look on s long s she 
 lived." 
 
 There was a moment s lull in the conversa 
 tion, then Mrs. Boynton, changing the subject, 
 continued, S pose you know d t Elder Zebulon 
 Whittlesey, from over t other side o Long Pond, 
 was a-comin here ter hold pertractid meetin , 
 didn t ye?" 
 
 "No," was the reply, "we hadn t heerd on t. 
 When do they begin, an where s the elder a- 
 goin ter put up ? " 
 
 "They ll make it their headquarters over ter 
 Joel Weekses, the elder s fust wife was a cousin 
 o Mis Weekses, you rec lect. He s a-goin ter 
 fetch his fam ly, an I s pose folks 11 be ex 
 pected t invite em round ter spend the day. 
 Joel was over yisterday an he said the meetin s 
 would begin next Sunday night t early candle 
 light, an he wanted that we sh d git th word 
 round. Them that s heerd her says Mis Whit- 
 tlesy s dretful giftid an makes a butyful ex- 
 ertashun. There! the sun s a-goin down behind 
 Blueb ry Hill. I never did see how short the 
 days be. I must be goin long. Dew come over
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 21 
 
 now, won t ye, both on ye. Pears to me you re 
 lookin kind o peaked, hain t ye, Roxy?" 
 
 But Roxy blushingly denied the charge, as she 
 helped Mrs. Boynton on with her hood and shawl 
 and soon the good woman was trudging toward 
 home in the twilight, saying to herself that she 
 didn t know when she d enjoyed "an arter- 
 nune" so much as she had that one. 
 
 III. 
 
 The next Sunday night was clear and frosty ; 
 the stars twinkled in the steely blue sky, and the 
 snow sparkled in the moonbeams. People were 
 wending their way toward the little old meet 
 ing-house on the hilltop, stopping now and then 
 at the sound of bells, and stepping aside for the 
 high-backed sleighs to glide past. 
 
 David had called, as usual, for Roxy and to 
 gether they climbed the hill, but were obliged 
 to separate on reaching the meeting-house, Roxy 
 going in at the door on the right, as that was 
 the women s side, and David entering at the 
 men s door on the left. This unpretending 
 structure was unpainted outside and inside, the 
 benches had straight backs and hard, uncush- 
 ioned seats. At the farther end of the room was 
 the great desk, at the left of which was the
 
 22 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 amen corner, where Uncle Liphe Bennett always 
 sat, with his chin resting on his hands, which 
 were clasped over the top of his cane, inspiring 
 the preacher with his frequent responses. 
 
 The house was filled, even to the back seats by 
 the two great stoves, where the small boys were 
 accustomed to sit, and, during the sermons, 
 never less than an hour in length, exercise their 
 skill in wood-carving. 
 
 Presently Elder Zebulon Whittlesey, or Elder 
 Zeb, as he was familiarly called, entered, hastily 
 threw off his buffalo coat and took his place in 
 the desk, on either side of which sputtered a tall 
 candle in a brass candlestick. Other candles 
 were placed in the windows, their flickering light 
 shining on the small seven-by-nine panes and 
 casting weird shadows upon the congregation. 
 These candles were not honored with candle 
 sticks. After they were lighted they were held 
 with the flame downward until little pools of 
 melted tallow had formed on the window sills 
 and in these the candles stood. 
 
 The minister lined the hymn and the people 
 sung as he read, two lines at a time. 
 
 "Now in the heat of youthful blood, 
 Remember you Creator, God." 
 
 The sermon was on the terrors of the approach-
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 23 
 
 ing judgment day. "The time draweth nigh," 
 said the preacher. "When Gabriel sounds his 
 trumpet, what will you do, my friends ah ? If 
 you ve got any variences, now s the time to set 
 tle em ah. Brother Abner an Brother Noah, 
 be you a-goin to let a little strip o old swamp 
 land ah keep you out o the Kingdom of 
 Heaven ah?" 
 
 As he warmed up with his subject, he took 
 off his coat and finally his vest. He pounded the 
 big Bible until the old desk shook; then he 
 walked up and down the platform, wiping his 
 face with a big silk bandana. Aunt Hitty Green, 
 speaking of it afterwards, said, "He sweat like 
 a butcher," and Timothy Skinner, who was 
 "deef s an adder," and always sat in the 
 "amen corner" with his hand curved behind 
 his left ear, said, "Elder Zeb, he jes put in 
 the dead licks that night f ever a man did ! 
 
 The old meeting-house rang with the voice of 
 his warning; then it was so still that one could 
 have heard the dropping of a pin and the more 
 timid ones trembled, as if expecting to hear the 
 blast of doom rend the cold, clear sky. 
 
 The sermon was nearly two hours long, and 
 was followed by a prayer-meeting, when the in 
 vitation was given and many crowded forward 
 to the "mourner s bench," so it was about half
 
 24 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 past ten o clock when the people left the old 
 meeting-house. 
 
 David walked along silently by Roxy s side, 
 and, as his custom was, went in to "set a spell" 
 and eat some apples. He raked open the coals 
 in the fore-room fireplace and put on some wood, 
 while she went down cellar to fill the apple dish. 
 Then they sat down before the fire and talked 
 over the meeting. Roxy wondered if it were 
 really true that the world was coming to an end 
 very soon, but David w r as somewhat skeptical. 
 The Aliens were not perf essors, but the Kents 
 were of the "Millerite" faith and often spoke 
 of the last days and the end of the world, but 
 seemed in no haste for the coming of that event, 
 at least not until they had seen Roxy "mar 
 ried an settled down. 
 
 David had just put another stick on the and 
 irons and sat with the tongs in his hands punch 
 ing the fire. Close beside him was Roxy looking 
 earnestly into the glowing coals and thinking 
 what would become of all her beautiful quilts 
 and rugs if the world really should come to an 
 end, when suddenly through the midnight 
 sounded the shrill blast of a trumpet. "That 
 awful day has surely come" ran through Roxy s 
 head, as she put out her hands and fell almost 
 fainting with fright into David s arms. Again
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 25 
 
 and again the trumpet sounded, waking father 
 and mother Kent, and finally the whole neighbor 
 hood. At first the good people peeped timidly 
 from their windows, then cautiously stole out of 
 their houses to find the old world just as they 
 had left it when they went to the land of dreams, 
 except that there was a white-robed figure on the 
 top of the meeting-house hill blowing a trumpet. 
 
 At length some of the braver ones ventured to 
 approach the angel and found that it was Aunt 
 Ketury Follansbee. "Ketury was once the han- 
 sumest gal in the hull neighborhood," so the 
 older people said, "but she was dispinted an 
 had be n kind o daft ever sense." She had 
 been out to the meeting and had come home so 
 wrought up that she had conceived the idea of 
 impersonating the angel Gabriel and calling her 
 neighbors to render up their final accounts; so, 
 draping herself in a sheet and taking an old din 
 ner horn she had gone up to the meeting-house 
 to call together the living and the dead. 
 
 Ketury was considered harmless and as the 
 Follansbees were "middlin well to do," she had 
 two rooms where she kept house by herself in 
 the old home, while her sister, Charity, "who 
 had married with Timothy Skinner," lived in 
 the other part. After the meeting was out Char 
 ity had gone over to watch with Granny Per-
 
 26 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 kins, who had had a shock o numb palsy the 
 day before "an wa n t spected to live the night 
 out," and Timothy, being "deef s a post," had 
 not heard Ketury go out. When the poor, dazed 
 creature saw herself surrounded by the company 
 which she had called together, she realized that 
 she had made a mistake, and quietly submitted to 
 be led back home. 
 
 David and Roxy never remembered just how 
 it happened, but in that awful moment, when 
 they thought that time was no more, they real 
 ized how much they were to each other, and after 
 the terrible fright was over, and the cause was 
 found to be, not Gabriel s trumpet, but the old 
 Follansbee dinner horn, somehow David mus 
 tered up courage to ask Roxy to marry him. 
 
 The next day as mother and daughter dis 
 cussed the all-important topic, Mrs. Kent said 
 emphatically, "Now, Roxy, I sh d advise you t 
 strike whilst the iron s hot. Your clo es is plenty 
 good nough, an f I was in your place I 
 shouldn t never wait to git that ere green silk 
 gownd made up." And Roxy decided that it 
 was best not to wait. So on Thursday evening, 
 just as Elder Price was buttoning up his great 
 coat and preparing to go over to Deac n Bas- 
 com s to lead the prayer-meeting, he was star 
 tled by a loud and sudden rap on the knocker.
 
 Roxy s Good Angel. 2 ? 
 
 and going to the "fore-door" found there a 
 couple wishing to be married. Mrs. Price was 
 hastily called from the bedroom (where she was 
 singing little Tommy to sleep) into the study, 
 and there witnessed the ceremony that made 
 David Allen and Roxana Kent husband and 
 wife. 
 
 When the door had closed on the newly-mar 
 ried pair the elder dropped a crisp two-dollar 
 bill into his wife s lap, saying, "Now, Lucindy, 
 help me into my surtout as quick as ever you 
 can, for I m belated about the meeting. I came 
 within one of missing that job, didn t I?" 
 
 "Some good angel must have helped them 
 along," responded his wife, smoothing out the 
 new bank note. "They d had to gone over to 
 the Orthodox minister s. His meeting hain t 
 so early as ours, and I don t believe his wife 
 needs the money half as much as I do. Now I 
 can have my winter bonnet trimmed over. 
 
 Some of the sisters had said to each other, 
 confidentially, that "they was afraid that Mis 
 Price was a leetle grain too worldly for a -parson s 
 wife." And Lucinda Price, standing at the 
 looking-glass and pulling out her bonnet strings 
 often thought how becoming they were, but never 
 knew to whom she was indebted for her bright 
 ribbons.
 
 28 Roxy s Good Angel. 
 
 Roxy, however, recognized her good angel and 
 firmly believed that David would never have 
 come to the point of "speaking out" but for 
 Aunt Ketury s help, and she was duly grate 
 ful, so the poor soul always had in her a 
 kind and faithful friend. David often said that 
 he never could see what made Roxy set so much 
 by ole Ketury Follansbee, " and Mrs. Kent said, 
 "I never see the beat on t, she didn t afore she 
 was married." 
 
 But Roxy kept her own counsel.
 
 I. 
 
 SILAS MASON S WILL. 
 
 It was one of those rare days that come in the 
 last of September. There had been a few cool, 
 frosty nights, then this beautiful warm day, 
 when the golden haze hung over the landscape 
 and softened the sharp outlines of the mountains. 
 Not a cloud was mirrored upon the smooth, blue 
 bosom of the lake with its double border of bright 
 crimson, golden yellow and deep green, the hill 
 side and its reflection. Along the roadside blos 
 somed the late goldenrod and the purple asters. 
 The silky milkweed seeds floated lazily away 
 from the bursting pods, and the air was full of 
 the chirp of crickets and the fragrance of wild 
 grapes. 
 
 Hannah Wilson, going over to spend the af 
 ternoon with Mrs. Ruben Mason, noticed none 
 of the beauties of nature around her, and as she 
 walked along only thought, "It s gettin dret- 
 ful warm, an we d ought to hev some rain to 
 lay the dust." She was quite a corpulent wo 
 man and a little stiff, as she had been doing a 
 large washing that morning.
 
 30 Silas Mason s Will 
 
 After prayer-meeting the night before, this 
 visit had been planned. "If it s a fair day," 
 said Hannah, "Isaac s a-goin up to th Falls 
 with a load o boarders." 
 
 "And our men-folks is a-goin to be a-fencin 
 over to the Leavitt pastur ," said Mrs. Mason. 
 1 Now dew come airly ! And soon after one 
 o clock Hannah was on her way for an old-fash 
 ioned visit. She wore a clean starched calico 
 dress, a new checked gingham apron and a Sha 
 ker, and on her arm hung a small black shawl 
 with a bright border, " g inst it might come up 
 a little cool towards night. 
 
 Although the beauties of the landscape had 
 failed to awaken any emotion in Hannah Wil 
 son, nothing along the way escaped her notice. 
 "Mis Hanson had kivered up her daleyees so 
 s t the frost hadn t spilt em. Steve Baker s 
 gate was a-hangin on one hinge, prob ly Erne- 
 line an her beau were a-leanin on to it last 
 night. Nancy Sykes had got her curtains rolled 
 up in the fore-room, must be she d got comp ny. 
 Dave Henry Cook was a-settin in a rockin -cheer 
 out under that big maple o his n, readin , shif - 
 less critter. He d better be diggin his taters. 
 And was there ever such a dirty lookin young 
 un as Liddy Ann Johnsonses ! It was a burnin 
 shame the way that child was neglected !
 
 Silas Mason s Will. 31 
 
 Hannah s walk took her past "the yard," as 
 everybody in Lakeside called the burying- 
 ground, and what was her astonishment to see 
 some men at work setting up a handsome white 
 marble monument on Silas Mason s lot. 
 
 "Come right into the settin -room," said Mrs. 
 Mason, meeting her visitor at the side door. The 
 stately fore-door, with its side lights closely cur 
 tained with dotted muslin, was supposed to be 
 used for funerals only, as was also the musty 
 fore-room, which the sun and air seldom en 
 tered, except on the days of the semi-annual 
 house cleaning. The sitting-room was a large 
 corner room with three windows. The stove had 
 been moved out for the summer and the floor was 
 covered with a bright-colored rag carpet, which 
 was protected from wear by several braided mats. 
 
 "Let me take your bunnit an shawl, an 
 here s a palm-leaf fan. Now set right down in 
 that rockin -cheer, " said Mrs. Mason, indicating 
 a large rocker with a chintz covering. A smaller 
 rocker, six wooden chairs, painted dark, a table 
 with slim, twisted legs and covered with an oil 
 cloth on which birds of gay plumage were min 
 gled with flowers of bright hues, and a tall sec 
 retary, for Reuben "had a middlin good ede- 
 cashun, an had done town business," completed 
 the furniture.
 
 32 Silas Mason s Will. 
 
 "Them boarders 11 hev a good day to th 
 Falls. Spose they re a-goin up the mountain 
 to look off, hain t they ? asked Mrs. Mason. 
 
 "Land sakes! yes, an Isaac says they act like 
 crazy critters bout the scenery, an spect him to 
 tell em the name o ev ry hill and pond twixt 
 this lake and Mount Washington. Guess they 
 can t see fur today count o its bein so hazy. 
 D you ever hear what Cap n Jerry Whitcomb 
 told a passel o young hands that climbed up 
 Belknap last summer? They borrowed his glass 
 that he had when he follered the sea. So when 
 they fetched it back, they bragged that they d 
 seen the ocean. Sho! said Cap n Jerry, Last 
 time I clum up there, I see clean in ter Lon 
 don. And that reminds me of what John Hunt, 
 when he was pilot on the big steamboat, said. 
 The water was kind o low that year, an he was 
 a-tendin to his steerin pretty close an a fussy, 
 little, down-country woman kep a-pesterin on 
 him with questions. She wanted to know about 
 ev ry little island an rock in the lake, an John, 
 he got kind o tuckered out with her t last. Then 
 says she, Oh, Mr. Pilot, what is that cunning lit 
 tle island out there? One o the Bahamas, b 
 thunder ! says he, an she took the hint an shet 
 up. Well, folks will be folks. Them women 
 11 bout go in ter extersies today over the au-
 
 Silas Mason s Will 33 
 
 tumn leaves an want to stop an load up the 
 team with em, an the nigh horse won t stan 
 worth a cent. Fer my part t al ays seems dret- 
 ful sad to see the leaves a-turnin , they drops off 
 so quick. Looks to me like the hectic flush that s 
 the forerunner o death. My Mary Abby, you 
 know, brightened up in September, then she died 
 when the leaves fell. I nat rally looked over 
 into the yard as I come along, and what dew you 
 suppose I see?" 
 
 "I hain t no idee," was the response. 
 
 "Wall, some men was a-settin up a hansum 
 white marble moniment on Silas Masonses 
 lot." 
 
 "Land o liberty! Guess he s a-calc latin t 
 step out suddin , and a-gittin of his stun up," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Reuben Mason. "I al ays 
 thought t was dretful strange though, with as 
 much money s he s got, that he didn t go to 
 work and fix up his lot, like other folks. The 
 weeds has growed pretty rank on them graves, 
 pore Leviny s and little Ruth s." 
 
 "Let me see," said Hannah, picking up a 
 stitch in her knitting, "they ve be n dead goin 
 on twenty year, hain t they?" 
 
 Twenty-two year come next November, was 
 the answer, "for t was that fall arter my Silas 
 was born in May. 
 
 3
 
 34 Silas Mason s Will 
 
 "How d Silas git his money anyhow? He 
 hain t done nothin late years." 
 
 "Oh, he saved it and put it out t int rist. 
 Then, you know, t don t cost em nothin t 
 live, they never hev no comp ny. That eats up 
 all anybody c n earn. There was Uncle Tim 
 othy Jacupses folks, al ays had a house full, then 
 didn t hev nough to kerry em through. Ma- 
 haly s folks is all s pore s poverty, but I never 
 know d o her havin any on em a-hangin round 
 there, bein s she s jest the housekeeper, so I 
 s pose she don t feel free to ask em, if she has 
 worked there so long." 
 
 "You don t never go there, do ye? Mebbe 
 that s a sassy question for me to ask. 
 
 "No, he never forgive Reuben for marryin 
 me, cause he had a grudge agin father on ac 
 count o polerticks." 
 
 "Bein s he hain t got no fam ly, prob ly 
 your Silas 11 come in for a sheer o the prop ty, 
 bearin the same name so, though I ve heerd tell 
 that he was called arter his gran sir . You 
 ain t never knowed o no will, I s pose. 
 
 "No, nor we shouldn t, he s so close-mouthed. 
 Most likely he pays Matildy wages, but nobody 
 ever knowed o her layin up any money. She 
 has good clo es, though. There hain t a hand 
 somer Paisley shawl goes in t the meetin -house
 
 Silas Mason s Will. 35 
 
 than hern. Si," continued Mrs. Mason, "he 
 don t like farm work, and he s a-plannin , if he 
 ever does hev a legacy fall to him, to buy out a 
 store somewheres an go inter trade." 
 
 " Spose he s a-goin to marry the Ellswuth 
 girl, hain t he?" 
 
 "Wall, I guess it s onsartin . He don t want 
 to ask her to come here to live long o the old 
 folks, but f he could get him a store, he thinks 
 she d be dretful tickled to be a trader s wife." 
 
 There ! exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, as she fin 
 ished off the toe of the "foot n that she was 
 knitting, "I ve got my stent done, an I guess 
 I d best be a-startin , for Isaac 11 be gittin back 
 from the mount in, an he ll be s hungry as a 
 bear. What o clock is it ? " 
 
 "Only half arter four," said Mrs. Mason, af 
 ter consulting the tall clock in the kitchen, "an 
 you hain t a-goin one step till you ve had a dish 
 o tea long o me. The table s all sot, an I ve 
 cut one o my speckled cheeses, an the tea s on 
 a-drawin ." 
 
 So Mrs. Wilson cast on the stitches and set 
 the seams for the mate to the "foot n " she had 
 just finished. Then Mrs. Mason appeared in the 
 doorway again, saying, "Now lay down your 
 work an walk right out to supper." 
 
 The two good women sipped their fragrant
 
 36 Silas Mason s Will. 
 
 tea from the pretty pink cups, Mrs. Mason s 
 wedding present from an aunt that lived down 
 below. They spread the golden butter on the 
 soft "riz" bread, made from "hop emptin s/ 
 and ate it with damson preserve and sage cheese. 
 Each had a cup cake and a crisp seed cake, then 
 Mrs. Wilson "jes tasted" of the fruit cake and 
 both had a cup custard "to top off" with. 
 
 "Guess I ll walk out a piece with ye," re 
 marked Mrs. Mason as her guest arose to go. 
 So they walked along together as far as "the 
 yard," and seeing the Mason lot all fixed up, 
 and nobody around, Mrs. Mason said, "Let s 
 step in jest a minute an take a look on t." 
 
 A vision of the impatient Isaac came up before 
 Hannah Wilson, and she said, "I hadn t oughter 
 stop," but both women went in and, squaring 
 their spectacles across their noses, thoroughly ex 
 amined the new monument. SILAS MASON was 
 engraved in large letters on the front, with the 
 date of his birth, and the word "died," at which 
 Mrs. Mason exclaimed, "My stars!" and Han 
 nah, "Goodness gracious!" The latter contin 
 ued, "I guess he thinks he hain t long fer this 
 world; sence he had that bad spell down t the 
 meetin -house he s be n kind o runnin down. 
 Isaac see him t other day, an said his count - 
 nance didn t look well t all.
 
 Silas Mason s Will. 37 
 
 "I ll bate ye one thing," said Mrs. Mason, 
 Silas won t leave all his prop ty to f orrin mis 
 sions, same s Aunt Lois Stone did. D you 
 know t her niece, Eunice Vittum, that took keer 
 on her in her last sickness, had be n obleeged to 
 call on the townd ? 
 
 "How you talk! But there, I do declare, I 
 must hurry along or Isaac 11 git there fust, an 
 he 11 be all torn out if he can t git in. I hid 
 the key where I al ays do, but he 11 never think 
 to look." 
 
 And sure enough, when Hannah Wilson 
 reached home, there sat Isaac on a box in the 
 barn floor. "Here I ve be n settin an hour," 
 said he, but in reality it was not more than five 
 minutes. "Why could n t ye a left the key 
 somewheres so s t I could a found it? I 
 fumbled round everywhere." 
 
 "Here t is, right behind the door-rock, jest 
 where I ve put it this twenty year," the good 
 wife answered, but Isaac had to grumble a little, 
 for it was his nature. Soon, however, the hot 
 cream tartar biscuits and the warm stewed ap 
 ple sauce, for Hannah was as spry as a trap, 
 so the neighbors said, made him forget all petty 
 annoyances.
 
 38 Silas Mason s Will. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was a cold December day, the snow was 
 falling fast and blowing hither and thither as 
 it fell, so that it was collecting in uneven heaps, 
 piled up high in some places and leaving the 
 frozen ground quite bare in others. 
 
 " Tain t no use to hang out clo es long s it s 
 snowin like this," Hannah Wilson said to her 
 self, as she wiped her wet hands and arms on the 
 roller and looked out at the storm. "I ll jes 
 put em to soak." 
 
 At this moment Isaac hurried in, and, stamp 
 ing the snow from his boots, exclaimed, "Silas 
 Mason s dead!" 
 
 You don t say so ! When d he die ? 
 Twixt four and five this mornin ." 
 
 "How d ye hear?" 
 
 " Bijah Jones was a-tellin on t over t the 
 store. Land ! if I hain t come off thout yer salt 
 fish. I left it layin on the counter. I ll slip 
 right back." 
 
 "Hold on, there won t nobody kerry it off. 
 What else did Bijah say?" 
 
 "Wall, he said his woman was up fore light 
 this mornin so s to go to washin , an she was 
 jest a-startin of the fire under the arch, when 
 in run Matildy, all out o breath, and wanted
 
 Silas Mason s Will 39 
 
 that he sh d go after Doctor Hines, for she 
 b lieved Silas was a-dyin . So he jumped into 
 his clo es s quick s ever he could an run every 
 step o the way, an Loizy, she run right back 
 with Matildy. The doctor was to home an come 
 jest as fast s he c d git there, but he said t 
 wa n t no use, for Silas was struck with death, 
 an in about ten minutes he breathed his last. 
 They say Matildy s all broke up, she sot a store 
 by Silas." 
 
 "Folks uster think mebbe he d marry her 
 sometime," said Hannah, "an I guess she d 
 be n dretful glad to a had him, but I s pose 
 she gin it all up years ago. 
 
 Soon, through the blinding snow, came the 
 slow tolling of the meeting-house bell, and every 
 body stopped to count the strokes seventy-two 
 and nobody had thought that Silas Mason was 
 quite as old as that, and everybody wondered 
 where the property would go. 
 
 "He hain t no kin cept Reuben s folks," they 
 said, "an he never liked Reuben s wife. He op 
 posed the match from the fust on t. Most likely 
 he s willed everything to the boy, though he 
 never seemed to take to him much. 
 
 Just as soon as she could get away, Hannah 
 Wilson went over and offered her services in the 
 house of mourning. Matilda was so overcome
 
 40 Silas Mason s Will 
 
 that she was glad to give up the management, 
 so Hannah was installed as head cook, and spent 
 most of the next day in filling up the great 
 brick oven with beans and brown bread, mince, 
 apple and pumpkin pies. 
 
 The funeral was appointed at one o clock 
 Wednesday. Matildy said, "He hadn t no re 
 lations to be sent for, but I sent off a letter by 
 the stage to Union Village, Monday, to invite 
 Brother Ben s folks, then all the neighbors must 
 be asked, or somebody 11 feel slighted." 
 
 The Tuesday evening stage brought Brother 
 Ben and his wife and their five children, the old 
 est a girl of ten and the youngest, Baby Ben, 
 whose age was less than a year. 
 
 "Matildy Young d never dast to hev all o 
 them young uns there f Silas was alive," com 
 mented Mrs. Eeuben Mason. "Mercy sakes! 
 wouldnt he ve had a conniption fit?" 
 
 "Pore Matildy, she takes it dretful hard," 
 said Hannah "Wilson. "S pose you knowed t 
 she d borrowed Mis Sawyer s crape bunnit an 
 veil, didn t ye?" 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, "an I wa n t a-goin 
 to be outdid, so I jest sent Si over to Widder 
 Brown s and got her mournin ." 
 
 The question as to who should be the chief 
 mourner was warmly discussed. Reuben s wife
 
 Silas Mason s Will 41 
 
 said, "Of course his own brother ought to go 
 fust, an bein s I m his brother s wife, I d nat - 
 rally set alongside o my husband. To hev a 
 housekeeper come in afore his own kin, that d 
 be a great note." 
 
 But Matilda was persistent, and Squire Har 
 ris, who was authority on all matters in the vil 
 lage, said, I guess Matildy 11 miss him s much 
 s anybody, and feel as bad, too." 
 
 So it was arranged that Matilda and Si should 
 go first, then Keuben and his wife, followed by 
 Brother Ben and wife and the four older chil 
 dren, and then the neighbors should all fall into 
 line. 
 
 A funeral was an occasion not to be missed and 
 everybody wanted to go early to get a good seat 
 and see the mourners come in. The Orthodox 
 meeting-house, where the Masons had worshiped 
 for three generations, was crowded to its utmost 
 seating capacity, then chairs were brought in 
 from the houses nearby and placed along the 
 aisles and in all other available spaces. Elder 
 Hinkley, who had ministered to this people for 
 nearly thirty years, preached a thrilling ser 
 mon, fifty-five minutes long, on the uncertainty 
 of life, then wound up with a harrowing address 
 to the mourners, which was especially affecting, 
 when he spoke of the bereaved companion.
 
 42 Silas Mason s Will 
 
 Reuben s wife thought Elder Hinkley was a- 
 showin his age to make such a mistake as that, 
 but most folks supposed he did it to be flowery, 
 "bein s how companion sounded so much bet 
 ter n housekeeper." 
 
 After the preacher had finished, Squire Har 
 ris, who took charge, arose and said, "The con 
 gregation can now have an opportunity to view 
 the remains. You will please pass from the east 
 side of the house round to the west door." 
 
 So the people filed slowly past the coffin, some 
 of the oldest ones stopping to touch the corpse, 
 lest they might dream of it. And everybody 
 thought Silas looked very nat ral. 
 
 Returning from the grave, the mourners, the 
 minister s family and the near neighbors went 
 back to the house, where hot tea was given to 
 those who felt chilly, and soon they all sat down 
 at the long table that Hannah and her assistants 
 had laid with great care and looked upon with 
 honest pride. 
 
 After everyone had partaken of the feast, for 
 such it was, they all adjourned to the fore-room 
 to hear the will read. Squire Harris stood up, 
 cleared his throat and said, "This paper that I 
 hold in my hands is dated nineteen years ago the 
 twentieth of last April and has been in my pos 
 session ever since. I drew it up for our deceased
 
 Silas Mason s Will. 43 
 
 brother, and not a week before he passed from 
 hence, he assured me that it was his last will and 
 testament." Then he proceeded to read the 
 document. 
 
 There was one hundred dollars for Elder 
 Hinkley, which statement made that worthy 
 man s face beam with delight. "One hundred 
 dollars for Reuben Mason and one hundred dol 
 lars for Silas Mason, his son," continued the 
 squire, at which father and son looked very 
 glum, but what astonished the assembly most was 
 the next statement that the house, land and all 
 the interest money were willed and bequeathed 
 to the beloved wife, Matilda Young Mason. 
 
 "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Reuben 
 Mason, jumping up from her chair. 
 
 "Mercy sakes!" came from Hannah "Wilson, 
 while all eyes were turned toward Matilda, but 
 that little woman only hid her face in her hand 
 kerchief and wept. 
 
 Then the squire produced the marriage cer 
 tificate dated twenty years back, and told the 
 people that said couple had been united in wed 
 lock by Elder Hinkley, who had kept the secret 
 all these years. 
 
 "I ll bate t was that summer t yer wife s 
 mother died up in Varmont, an you an Mis 
 Hinkley was off up there an the meetin -house
 
 44 Silas Mason s Will. 
 
 was shet up for two weeks," said Mrs. Reuben 
 Mason. "And I rec lect at that time Silas an 
 Matildy went off one day with Squire Harrises 
 old white horse an chaise, and was gone three 
 days. Folks thought besure they was married, 
 but long s we didn t hear nothin more bout it, 
 we giv up that t wa n t so." The elder con 
 fessed that that was the time, but he never could 
 understand why Silas wasn t willing that the 
 marriage should be made public. 
 
 "Well, Silas always was an odd stick," said 
 Squire Harris, "and I presume he wanted to 
 surprise folks with his will. The money that 
 he s had out to interest foots up to ten thousand 
 dollars." 
 
 Amid the chorus of "I want to know," "Dew 
 tell," and "Who d a thought it?" the women 
 all went around and shook hands with and con 
 gratulated Mrs. Silas Mason, except Reuben s 
 wife, who started for home, telling Hannah Wil 
 son that she d never "darken them doors ag in," 
 and she never did. But there were always some 
 of "Brother Ben s children" in the home of 
 "Aunt Matildy."
 
 I. 
 
 CAUGHT IN A CYCLONE. 
 
 "Id know, Luther, but you 11 have ter git ye 
 a wife. remarked Mrs. Sargent, sitting opposite 
 her son at the breakfast table one beautiful Sun 
 day morning in May. 
 
 "Why, ain t ye feelin s well s common, 
 mother?" asked the son, somewhat alarmed. 
 His mother had never liked to think of his 
 bringing home a wife, and if he ever mentioned 
 any of the girls some criticism was sure to fol 
 low. 
 
 "Wall," said she with a sigh, "you must re 
 member t I m gittin long in years, an you 
 can t hev me al ays. I sh ll be seventy-four 
 come the sixteenth day o next month, f I sh d 
 live." 
 
 "I don t see but your vittles is s good s 
 ever. These beans is sweetened jest right," said 
 he, filling his plate the second time, "an I de 
 clare if you hain t put plums into the brown 
 bread." 
 
 "Seems kind o stravigant, but I know d t
 
 46 Caught in a Cyclone. 
 
 you liked em. Hev a doughnut? Them s extry 
 good, if I do say it." 
 
 "Letty Fisher s a pretty girl," ventured 
 Luther, drinking his coffee. 
 
 "Mercy sakes!" said the mother, "I shouldn t 
 want ter git into that fam ly. Ole Gran sir 
 Fisher was tew lazy ter injoy good health, an 
 Tim s a chip o the ole block. None o Susan s 
 folks ever had any gumption, nuther. I know 
 em all, root an branch." 
 
 "Fanny Murray sings well," suggested 
 Luther. 
 
 "An that s all she does do," said Mrs. Sar 
 gent, "sing an play on the organ. They say her 
 mother don t put no work on her t all, but lets 
 her lay abed till nine o clock in the mornin , an 
 keeps her breakfast warm. She s a sp ilin the 
 gal. I sp ose it s cause she lost all the others." 
 
 "How do you like Ellen Lundy?" 
 
 "Good land! but Ellen s a smart gal, consid- 
 erin what she sprung from. Her mother, 
 though, was Lucy Jane Edwards, in the day of 
 her, an time was when she held her head s 
 high s anybody s. Everybody wondered t her 
 marryin Joe Lundy, but she got dis p inted, 
 pore soul. She set her life by John Newton, an 
 spected ter marry him, but he went off down be 
 low to work an fell in love with one of them air
 
 Caught in a Cyclone. 47 
 
 city gals with, a rich father. It broke Lucy 
 Jane all up. Folks said John wouldn t pros 
 per, an he didn t. His childern all died with 
 the dipthery. I heerd t other day t Alice Stu 
 art was a-comin up to her Aunt Malviny s 
 ag in this summer." 
 
 "Oh, Alice wouldn t look at me, she s too 
 high toned for country folks," said Luther. 
 
 "Wall, she hain t no call to put on airs. Her 
 father went inter trade down here t the Cor 
 ner an failed up, an yer pa lost fifty dollars 
 by him, clean cash. They say Sophy Goodwin s 
 a dretful capable gal," resumed Mrs. Sargent, 
 changing the subject. 
 
 "Yes," assented the son, "Sophy s a nice 
 girl, but she s so bashful I never could get much 
 acquainted with her. Mebbe she wouldn t want 
 such an old bachelor s I am." 
 
 "Sho! your pa was older n you be when he 
 got married, an Sophy s out of a good fam ly, " 
 continued the mother, no black sheep on neither 
 side. They say t the heft o the Morrill prop 
 erty s comin to them, an the Goodwins is con- 
 sid ble fore-handed now. Some folks thinks 
 Ezra s a leetle nigh, but anybody has ter be to 
 hev anything." 
 
 Now Luther had been thinking of Sophy the 
 day before, when he was washing the buggy and
 
 48 Caught in a Cyclone. 
 
 oiling the harness; then, besides, when he had 
 braided up Charlie s mane, he had whispered a 
 secret into one of his beautiful pointed ears. 
 
 "S pose you re goin to meetin today," he 
 remarked as he got up from the table. 
 
 "Yes," was the response. "Miss Greene s 
 trimmed me up a dretful tasty bunnit with a 
 laylock ribbon on it (I didn t want no ol wo 
 man s bunnit), an I told her t I sh d be out 
 today to christen it, if t was fair weather. 
 
 Elder Abbott lived at the Corner and preached 
 in the brick church there every other Sunday 
 morning, and at the old meeting-house at the 
 Falls, three miles away, on the alternate Sun 
 day afternoons. This was his day at the 
 Corner, and it being so pleasant the house was 
 well filled. Sophy was there, wearing one of 
 the triumphs of Miss Greene s skill, a sun? 
 burned leghorn of the year before, which had 
 been bleached and pressed, the blue ribbon 
 turned and an ornament added. "Nobody 11 
 mistrust t ain t a bran new hat," said the lit 
 tle milliner to the fair wearer, and the shape s 
 so becomin ." 
 
 From the kindly face of Elder Abbott, above 
 the high desk, the eyes of Luther Sargent wan 
 dered to the pretty face of Sophy Goodwin across 
 the aisle. She was listening devoutly to the ser-
 
 Caught in a Cyclone. 49 
 
 mon, which was on the observance of the Sab 
 bath, but he wasn t hearing a word of it. 
 
 The Goodwins lived in a neat white cottage a 
 little in from the road, about half way between 
 the Corner and the Falls. They usually at 
 tended the day-time services at both churches, 
 but seldom went out for the evening meetings. 
 
 In her pretty little room upstairs Sophy sat 
 by the open window reading her Sunday-school 
 book, while in the sitting-room below Mrs. Good 
 win sat in the great rocking chair, her spectacles 
 pushed back on the top of her head, and nodded 
 now and then at the Congregationalist, spread 
 out on her ample lap. "Father" was stretched 
 out on the lounge in the kitchen, and his breath 
 ing indicated that his nap was not likely to be 
 finished before milking time. The boys, Sam 
 and Dick, taking advantage of the situation, had 
 made an early start for the cows down in the 
 south pasture. This unusual promptness was 
 due to a suggestion from Sam that they take a 
 swim in the pond. 
 
 As Sophy read on, in the biography of the 
 good missionary, her eyes now and then wan 
 dered from the book around the neatly kept 
 room, from the yellow painted floor, almost cov 
 ered with braided mats, to the pink and white 
 bed quilt, and to the little pictures and keep-
 
 50 Caught in a Cyclone. 
 
 sakes here and there, then out through the white 
 dimity curtains into the world beyond. A beau 
 tiful world it was, in all the tints of spring. 
 The trees were just smoothing out their crum 
 pled leaves, and down in the wood lot the hob 
 ble-bushes gleamed like drifts of snow in the 
 shimmer of faintest pink and dazzling green. 
 Along the grassy bank of the brook, winding 
 through the opposite field, great bunches of 
 violets held up their purple-bonneted heads. 
 Through the apple orchard the pink buds were 
 bursting into white blossoms and by the roadside 
 patches of bluets looked like tiny sheets of snow, 
 defying the spring sunshine. The dooryard was 
 dotted with May-weed and flecked with dande 
 lion gold, while through the still air, now and 
 then, a sweet bird note sounded. 
 
 Just as the tall clock in the kitchen struck 
 five, Sophy saw Luther Sargent drive down the 
 hill and turn into the lane. She ran quickly 
 downstairs to her mother, saying, "What if he 
 asks me to go to ride with him?" 
 
 "Well, it s a pleasant day. Slip off that pink 
 calico, put on your new dress an best hat, an 
 go." 
 
 "What will father say to my going Sunday 
 night?" 
 
 "Oh, I ll make it all right with your father.
 
 Caught in a Cyclone. 51 
 
 You go to the door an show Luther into the 
 parlor. Roll up the green paper curtains first. 
 Mind you don t tear em," said Mrs. Goodwin, 
 as she dropped her gingham apron, disclosing a 
 white one underneath, a precaution which she 
 always took in case a neighbor might drop in. 
 
 In response to Sophy s "Walk in," Luther 
 said, "Guess I won t step inside, I ll stay by 
 Charlie. He don t like to stand very well. I 
 jest drove round to see if you wouldn t like to 
 go to ride, the weather s so fine." 
 
 Mrs. Goodwin came out, sat down on the door- 
 rock and inquired how Luther s mother was 
 this spring, if she had commenced to make 
 cheese yet, and how many acres of corn he was 
 "calc latin " to plant. 
 
 In a few minutes Sophy was ready. "It 
 seems to be cloudin up a little over there in 
 the west, but I s pose there hain t no need o 
 your takin an umbrell, " said Mrs. Goodwin as 
 the couple drove off. 
 
 Soon they were so busy talking of other things 
 that the weather was forgotten. Sophy loved 
 horses and Charlie turned back his pretty ears 
 to listen to her praises of his glossy coat and 
 beautiful wavy mane. 
 
 Suddenly Luther exclaimed, "It s sort o 
 breezin up!" and looking around, he saw a
 
 52 Caught in a Cyclone. 
 
 large black cloud, of a peculiar shape, rolling up 
 in the sky. "Shure s preachin , Sophy, there s 
 a shower a-comin . It s furder back to your 
 house than tis up to ourn. Guess you ll hev 
 to go home with me an wait till it s over." 
 
 Just then Charlie felt the whip on his back, 
 an unusual sensation, but apparently taking in 
 the situation, he started off for a race with 
 the storm. Soon the dust whirled in clouds, the 
 tender new leaves were flying through the air, 
 and the big drops began to fall. 
 
 " Tain t no use," said Luther, "we sh ll hev 
 to drive up here to the next house. You know 
 Leander Perry s folks, don t ye? An their 
 barn door s open." 
 
 Leander Perry had been "raised" in that 
 neighborhood, but when quite a young man had 
 gone West, where he had remained several years, 
 with varying fortunes. When asked why he 
 returned to his old home, he had said, "As soon 
 s I got a little ahead, long d come a cyclone 
 an sweep away everything, so I reckoned I d 
 come back to New England, where they didn t 
 hev sich things." 
 
 Leander came hurrying out to the barn to 
 greet his guests, saying, "Wall, f I was out 
 West I sh d say we was in fer a reg lar cy 
 clone."
 
 Caught in a Cyclone. 53 
 
 Luther jumped out, but Sophy, feeling some 
 what bashful, as she was not acquainted with 
 Mrs. Perry, said she would rather sit in the 
 buggy. So they fastened Charlie in the corner 
 of the barn next the shed. Soon, however, the 
 women-folks came out and prevailed upon Sophy 
 to go into the house with them. 
 
 No sooner were they all seated in the sitting- 
 room than the storm grew rapidly worse. The 
 rain swept in blinding sheets across the field, 
 and it grew so dark that they could barely see 
 the outlines of the swaying trees across the road. 
 The old house fairly rocked with each gust of 
 wind ; then came a sharp flash of light, followed 
 by a terrific crash that almost stunned them. 
 When they had recovered sufficiently to look 
 from the windows the clouds were lifting, and 
 the returning light revealed the dooryard lit 
 tered with bricks from the great chimney and 
 broken branches from the trees, while the barn 
 was lying in a heap, only a little corner next 
 the shed standing. 
 
 Charlie whinnied and stretched out his neck 
 as he heard his master s step approaching, but 
 his eyes protruded wildly and he was trembling 
 all over. Hemmed in by piles of rafters and 
 broken boards, they found him unharmed, how 
 ever, save for a few scratches. A big beam had
 
 54 Caught in a Cyclone. 
 
 fallen across the seat of the buggy, "Right where 
 you d a be n settin , Sophy," said Luther, and 
 they shuddered as they thought of the narrow 
 escape. 
 
 "Might s well hev staid out West as ter come 
 on here ter git rid o cyclones," remarked Mrs. 
 Perry. "I reckon we fetched em back with 
 us." 
 
 "Wall, I m mighty thankful we hadn t no 
 live stock in that barn," said her husband. 
 "Id know, though, but we ve lost old Ruth. I 
 found her w r ith a couple o kittens up on the hay 
 mow yisterday. I meant to a drownded em, 
 but it slipped my mind. What s that?" and ap 
 proaching the object in question, he found it to 
 be the remains of a very small gray kitten. 
 "We shall miss old Ruth, she was such a good 
 mouser," he added. Then his little daughter, 
 Susie, began softly calling. "Ruthie, Ruthie, 
 kitty, kitty, kitty!" while her gentle blue eyes 
 filled with tears. In a few minutes, however, 
 there came slowly creeping out from under the 
 woodshed an old three-colored cat, with a little 
 black kitten in her mouth. 
 
 Luther was obliged to borrow Mr. Perry s 
 wagon to take Sophy home, and on the way they 
 counted five great barns that lay like huge piles 
 of kindling wood by the roadside.
 
 Caught in a Cyclone. 55 
 
 "I ve be n all up in arms bout ye!" ex 
 claimed Mrs. Goodwin, as she came running out 
 at the sound of wheels, "but father said of 
 course you d drive in somewheres. 
 
 The Goodwin home, fortunately, was on the 
 outer edge of the storm, and so knew little of 
 its fury. 
 
 "I must hurry home and see f mother s all 
 right," said Luther, adding something in a low 
 voice to Sophy, at which she blushed and nod 
 ded. When he had driven away, she said, "I 
 guess I ve spoilt my hat, an I m fraid my 
 dress 11 cockle. Wha*t did father say ? I s pose 
 f I d been killed, he d thought t was a judg 
 ment for going Sunday night." 
 
 "Law, child! He never said a word. He al- 
 ays sot a sight by the Sargents. Never mind 
 yer hat, it s be n done over. Tain t s f t was 
 new. Now run right up stairs an take off them 
 damp clo es. I ve got a fire in the kitchen to 
 dry em by. The teakittle s a-b ilin an I m 
 goin to fix ye up some hot drink." 
 
 When Sophy came down, wearing her second 
 best dress, w y ith a bright new ribbon at her 
 throat, the boys were just coming in with their 
 pails of foaming milk. 
 
 "AA 7 hew, Soph!" exclaimed Sam, "what ye so 
 dressed up for, jest bed time?"
 
 56 Caught in a Cyclone. 
 
 "Bet her beau s comin back. Let s watch," 
 slyly whispered Dick, as Mrs. Goodwin looked 
 into the parlor to see if there was plenty of oil 
 in the big lamp. 
 
 Luther found that his house was not in the 
 path of the cyclone and, save for uneasiness on 
 his account, his mother had not been disturbed 
 by it. So, after giving Charlie his supper, and 
 hurriedly doing the chores, he hitched Fan into 
 the old wagon and drove back to finish out his 
 call on Sophy, as he told his mother. That good 
 woman said to herself, as she locked up and went 
 to bed, at early candle light, "I vum, f he hain t 
 started out n airnest ! 
 
 Sam and Dick slept in the open chamber in 
 the ell, and long after they were supposed to 
 be sound asleep, they crept noiselessly down the 
 back stairs, tip-toed across the kitchen and out 
 round the corner of the house, under the parlor 
 windows, but the green paper shades were down 
 tight, and reflected no shadows. Softly the 
 boys stole upstairs again and tumbled into bed. 
 
 "How sh d you like to be ridin out with yer 
 best gal an git ketched in a cyclone?" giggled 
 Sam. 
 
 "Guess we d got ketched in a cyclone f dad 
 d knowed t we d been in swimmin Sunday," 
 answered Dick.
 
 Caught in a Cyclone. 57 
 
 Our Soph s got a feller, s true s you live, 
 yawned Sam, and dropped off to sleep. 
 
 Sam was right in his surmises, for Luther con 
 tinued to spend his Sunday evenings with So- 
 
 One afternoon, when his mother and sister had 
 gone strawberrying, the mischievous Dick went 
 into the parlor and punched a hole in the paper 
 curtain, at the window next the orchard. The 
 next Sunday night the boys climbed out on the 
 roof of the shed, dropped down into the grass, 
 and crept along to the parlor window. For 
 about fifteen minutes they took turns peeping in 
 through the hole in the curtain, but the couple 
 inside were simply conversing in a very staid 
 and proper manner. 
 
 "There they set, straight s two sticks, a- 
 holdin on t the old photy graph album!" im 
 patiently exclaimed Sam. "This hain t no fun. 
 Come on! Let s go back to bed." 
 
 Luther had said to Sophy, "The hot weather 
 s a-takin holt o mother more n common this 
 year, but I guess she can git along whilst the 
 Fourth." And so the day was set. 
 
 Mrs. Abe Johnson, the nearest neighbor, as 
 soon as she heard the news, dropped in to talk it 
 over with Sophy s mother. " Pears to me 
 they ve made quick work on t, " said she.
 
 58 Caught in a Cyclone. 
 
 "Guess Luther s a-raakin up fer lost time. 
 S pose his mother needs help, long s they hev 
 work folks in hayin time. They say the ole 
 lady s a leetle diffikilt. but Sophy s so quiet 
 most proberble they ll git along middlin well, 
 an Luther has the name o bein a good per- 
 vider. You re pleased with it, hain t ye?" and 
 she drew a melancholy sigh. 
 
 I guess anybody d be proud to git into that 
 fam ly, " answered Mrs. Goodwin, with a toss of 
 her head. "One o Luther s great grandfathers 
 on his mother s side was governor o the state." 
 And poor little Mrs. Johnson sighed again, for 
 she had an only daughter, too, and hers hadn t 
 married well." 
 
 On the glorious Fourth of July. Sophy, in a 
 pretty white muslin dress and a white leghorn 
 hat with white ribbons and a long white feather, 
 came out to meet Luther, who had just driven 
 up with Charlie, whose proudly arched neck 
 wore the waviest of manes. The buggy had been 
 repaired by honest Zeke Felch, the wheelwright, 
 who had said, "I ll warrant it jest as good s 
 new. 
 
 As they drove along the beautiful river road 
 towards Elder Abbott s, they spoke of that Sun 
 day night when they were overtaken by the 
 storm.
 
 Caught in a Cyclone. 59 
 
 "I come pretty nigh a-losin ye, right in the 
 fust on t, didn t I ? " said Luther. 
 
 I guess we 11 never forget the cyclone, re 
 sponded Sophy. 
 
 That evening the good neighbors gathered at 
 the Sargent homestead to congratulate the 
 newly married couple, for there hadn t been a 
 wedding in the neighborhood "since they didn t 
 know when." The band boys came up from 
 the Corner and played a serenade, then all were 
 treated to lemonade and cake, each young girl 
 keeping a piece of the wedding cake to put un 
 der her pillow and dream on. 
 
 A few of the friends brought some modest 
 gifts to the bride, but little Susie Perry s pres 
 ent delighted her most of all. It was a small 
 black kitten, and his name was Cyclone.
 
 I. 
 
 THEIR OTHER MOTHER. 
 
 "School is dismissed!" said the master, and 
 the troop of boys and girls, dinner-pails in hand, 
 swarmed out of the old red school-house on Carr 
 Hill. 
 
 When the schoolmaster was left alone, he sat 
 down behind his desk, placed his elbows on the 
 top of it and dropped his face into his hands. 
 He had assumed this attitude so often that his 
 coat sleeves were almost worn through. He was 
 trying very hard to solve a difficult problem, 
 a question that had perplexed him for months. 
 He knew his Colburn s Mental Arithmetic from 
 cover to cover, but that knowledge did not help 
 him the least in this case. "Lucy or Ruth, 
 which shall it be?" That was the question. 
 
 It was one of those short days, early in Jan 
 uary, and there had been a heavy snow-storm the 
 night before. In the morning the men were on 
 hand with their ox-teams to break out the roads, 
 and the children had a ride to school on the 
 great sleds, but they were allowed to trudge
 
 62 Their Other Mother. 
 
 home by themselves at night, although the trav 
 eling was "pretty loose." 
 
 The boys had their long pants tied down tight 
 around their ankles with strong strings. They 
 wore warm spencers buttoned up to their chins, 
 bright-colored tippets wound around their necks 
 and home-made caps drawn over their ears. 
 Their woolen mittens were knit in various de 
 signs, some in tiny stripes of blue and white, 
 with tufted wrists, and others in the more in 
 tricate fox and geese pattern. The girls had 
 "old foot n s" drawn over their stout shoes. 
 They were clad in checked woolen dresses and 
 heavy shawls, which were mostly of the change 
 able red and green, or blue and yellow center 
 and striped border style, and had descended to 
 the wearer from some older member of the fam 
 ily. Their ears and necks were protected by 
 their large pumpkin hoods, and many of the 
 older ones wore white mittens knit of very fine 
 yarn, or in fancy stitches, and proudly displayed 
 as their own work. The smaller children had at 
 tached to the wrists of their mittens, which were 
 chiefly red or some combination of red and white, 
 striped or dotted, a long cord that went around 
 the neck. This was a safeguard against the dan 
 ger of separation, which constantly threatened 
 such little mates.
 
 Their Other Mother. 63 
 
 As the merry company went along, they shouted 
 and pelted each other s backs with snowballs, and 
 "made their images" in the soft snowbanks be 
 side the road, while some of the larger boys 
 caught the little girls and washed their faces in 
 the new snow until their cheeks glowed like roses. 
 When they reached a lane leading to a great two- 
 story, yellow house, the Abbott children, Benny 
 and Sarah, stopped and the others plodded on. 
 
 Lorenzo Abbott had the name of being the 
 thriftiest farmer in the neighborhood, and his 
 children were brought up to work. It was not 
 long before Benny had on his old jacket and 
 was filling the big wood-box, whistling as he 
 went back and forth from the kitchen to the 
 wood-shed. Sarah, meanwhile, had tied on a big 
 checked apron and was setting the table. First 
 she filled the apple-sauce bowl with frozen boiled 
 cider apple-sauce from the great firkin in the 
 buttery and set it on the back of the stove to 
 thaw. Then she brought out the cold baked 
 beans, for Uncle Ben liked them, and cut the 
 "riz" bread in thick slices, and the cheese 
 in little squares. She put a ball of butter in the 
 little blue butter-plate that was Grandmother 
 Turner s, and set the pumpkin pie in the stove 
 oven and the tea a-steepin , while her mother 
 was busy frying the pancakes.
 
 64 Their Other Mother. 
 
 It was dark when Uncle Ben got home from 
 school. They heard him stamping his feet in 
 the entry and brushing the snow from his boots 
 with the broom. 
 
 "Had to keep somebody after school, didn t 
 ye?" asked Mrs. Abbott, as the teacher entered. 
 
 "No," replied Ben, lighting a candle in one 
 of the brass candlesticks that stood on the high 
 mantel, "I was working on a sum." Then he 
 went "up chamber" to his room. In a few min 
 utes he came down, wearing a false white shirt 
 front, carefully fitted over his plaid flannel shirt, 
 a new paper collar, and a bright blue necktie. 
 He had on his best coat and over his arm hung 
 his schoolcoat, "Jane," said he to his sister, 
 "this coat seems to be giving out on the elbows. 
 I wonder if you can t darn it a little ? 
 
 "What, that hain t come to mendin soon s 
 this, I hope?" exclaimed Mrs. Abbott. 
 
 A pair of Sunday boots were quietly stood 
 behind the stove without disturbing the slumber 
 of the cat or the dog, and immediately little Ben 
 produced the pot of grease, for he always had the 
 job of greasing Uncle Ben s boots, and was duly 
 rewarded with a few coppers to put into his bank. 
 
 "Guess Ruth an Lucy s a-goin to have 
 comp ny ag in tonight," he slyly whispered to 
 Sarah, who answered by a suppressed giggle.
 
 Their Other Mother. 65 
 
 "S pose you re goin to be to home tonight, 
 hain t ye, Ben?" asked Mr. Abbott, giving his 
 wife a knowing look, as they all sat down to the 
 supper table. "Bill Sanborn s jest drove along 
 an threw out the mail. The New York Ledger 
 s come. Didn t know but you d read to us a 
 little. I sh d like to hear how that continood 
 story s a-comin out." 
 
 "Maybe Ben s more interested in his own 
 story just now," suggested Mrs. Abbott. 
 
 "Horace Colby s be n a-helpin me chop to 
 day, up in the Uncle Sol Wiggins woodlot, " 
 continued Mr. Abbott. "Poor Horace, I guess 
 he has a hard time on t. The place belongs to 
 his wife an her sister, Susan, you know. He 
 says all t he owns is the old white horse ; every 
 thing else is in their hands an him an Susan 
 don t hitch. Says he, If I s to live my life 
 over ag in, I sh d never marry two wimmen t 
 once, one t a time s a great plenty. Parse 
 along that apple sarse, Ben." 
 
 Ben Turner had lived in the other part of 
 the old house with his mother until she died at 
 an advanced age. Since the mother s death, he 
 had lived in his sister Jane s family, and, al 
 though they were all very fond of "Uncle Ben," 
 still he wanted a home of his own. 
 
 Down on the "South Road" lived Lucy Pierce
 
 66 Their Other Mother. 
 
 and Euth Fellows. Lucy owned the old Squire 
 Pierce place, one of the best farms in town, and 
 Ruth was a sort of adopted sister, who had lived 
 there ever since she was a little girl. Lucy s 
 father and mother had died a few years before 
 and quite recently the "Uncle Joseph," who 
 had always lived in the family, so now the two 
 girls were left alone. Lucy, whose health had 
 always been delicate, sang and played on the me- 
 lodeon, while the handsome, rosy-cheeked Ruth 
 did most of the work. 
 
 Ben Turner had been going there evening after 
 evening, trying to make up his mind. Could 
 Lucy keep house without Ruth? Would Ruth 
 leave Lucy? Perhaps so, but then there was 
 Lucy s money that would be very convenient, 
 and he did so love to hear her sing. Evidently, 
 if he wanted money, accomplishments and a good 
 housekeeper, he must take the two, but which 
 should be Mrs. Turner. Of course it must be 
 Lucy. He must ask her tonight, and he felt 
 reasonably sure of his answer. 
 
 It was apparent that the girls were expecting 
 company that evening, for a bright fire blazed in 
 the west room and before the fire sat Ruth with 
 her knitting, and Lucy holding Buff, the old yel 
 low cat. When Ben Turner entered they were 
 earnestly discussing a letter that Ruth had re-
 
 Their Other Mother. 67 
 
 ceived that afternoon. Her Uncle Jack, a sea 
 captain, who was supposed to have been lost 
 at sea, some twenty years ago, had returned to 
 his native land. His first thought was to look 
 up the little niece that went to live with 
 "Square Purse s folks." At a tavern, in a dis 
 tant seaport town he had had a "shock," so he 
 had dictated a letter to his niece, Ruth, asking 
 if she were living and free to do so, would she 
 come to care for her helpless old uncle. He 
 might need her for a short time only, or it 
 might be for a year or two. She should be 
 well paid for her services, and at the end the 
 property that was left should be hers. 
 
 What should she do? She did not want to 
 leave Lucy and her uncle was not able to come 
 there. Ben thought he saw a way out of the 
 difficulty, but waited for a favorable opportunity 
 to propose his plan. The evening was spent 
 much as usual, Ben popping corn and telling 
 stories, and Lucy singing his favorite songs. 
 Then Ruth went down cellar to get some apples. 
 She purposely used as much time as possible in 
 selecting the great golden pippins and the hand 
 some red Baldwins, and polished them until 
 they looked like an exhibit at a county fair. 
 When Ruth returned, as she suspected it might
 
 68 Their Other Mother. 
 
 be, it was all arranged for her to go to care for 
 Uncle Jack. 
 
 Soon after Ruth s departure Ben and Lucy 
 were quietly married and very cosily settled at 
 the old Pierce place. School had closed, and 
 Ben having settled the great question of his 
 life, or "figured out the answer to his sum," as 
 he told his sister, decided to give up teaching and 
 turn his attention wholly to farming. The schol 
 ars, however, remembered their teacher pleas 
 antly, and one moonlight night they came down 
 with fifes, drums, dinner horns and tin pans, and 
 gave him a rousing serenade. On being invited in, 
 one of the number presented a marvelous pho 
 tograph album holding four pictures on a page. 
 Then the merry crowd were treated to apples and 
 cider, and each had a slice of the big wedding 
 cake that Sister Jane had made for the bride. 
 
 For nearly two years Ben and Lucy Turner 
 lived very happily together. As Lucy was not 
 strong enough to do anything hard, her great 
 est trials were her experiences with various hired 
 girls, for she never found anyone who could do 
 the work as Euth had done it. Throughout the 
 neighborhood, however, she was esteemed for 
 her kindness of heart and for her good deeds, 
 particularly to the poor, the aged and the sick. 
 One chill December day, when she was return-
 
 Their Other Mother. 69 
 
 ing from a visit to an old bed-ridden woman, 
 she took a violent cold that ended in quick con 
 sumption. She had often said, jokingly, "If I 
 should die you must marry Ruth, unless some 
 one else gets her first." So, when it became 
 evident that she was really going away from 
 Ben, she asked him to promise her that he would 
 sometime, if it were possible, bring back Ruth 
 to take her place in the old home. 
 
 When it was all over, poor Ben was more 
 lonely, disconsolate and altogether wretched 
 than he had ever supposed it possible for a mor 
 tal to feel. "The Widder Hunt" kept house 
 for him a while, then her daughter, Belinda, 
 came down with the measles. "It beats all," 
 said Mrs. Hunt. "I never c d go anywheres 
 but suthin d al ays turn up with B lind . 
 There hain t be n no measles round here, but 
 I ll bate she ketched em o somebody t the 
 Bridge the day she went off up there to do her 
 tradin . Twill be jes two weeks come tomor- 
 rer. They s apt ter go hard with grown folks, 
 an she s so dark-complected I m afraid they 
 won t come out well. Time she s up an round 
 the childern 11 all be down flat." When Mrs. 
 Hunt left to care for her sick daughter, Aunt 
 Nabby Smith came to take her place. 
 
 Gals to do housework is dretful scurse. They
 
 70 Their Other Mother. 
 
 all wants to be a-goin off down below t work 
 in the factory," said she. Aunty Nabby was 
 nearly seventy-three. I m a-livin on borrered 
 time, I know, but I m a-goin to make the most 
 on t, " she told Ben, and as she was quite vig 
 orous, she did very well until one day she fell 
 down the back stairs and broke her arm, and 
 had to go back to her son s. The next house 
 keeper was pretty little Myra Newcomb. She 
 was only eighteen but smart as a trap. "Ben s 
 solemn s a graveyard all the time an I just 
 can t stand it any longer," was what she told 
 Tom Sanders, her lover, when she had been there 
 a few weeks, so the next time Tom called, Myra 
 rode away with him to the minister s, and Ben 
 was left alone again. Finally, Sister Jane pre 
 vailed upon him to sell off the stock, close up 
 the house and come back to them. Thus more 
 than a year and a half had passed away, and 
 folks wondered if Ben Turner would ever seem 
 like his old self again. 
 
 At the time of Lucy s death, Uncle Jack re 
 quired Ruth s constant attention, and a few 
 weeks later he died. Ben knew that Ruth lived 
 alone in the little cottage that her uncle had left 
 to her, and that she sometimes went out doing 
 plain sewing, for she was very skillful with her 
 needle, but Ben did not know that a nice bach-
 
 Their Other Mother. 71 
 
 elor neighbor occasionally called. Folks said 
 that he was rich, that he owned the Sea King 
 on which he sometimes made a voyage. He 
 would gladly have been more than friendly and 
 tried to interest Ruth in a trip around the world. 
 She, however, realized that she had always cared 
 for Ben Turner more than she was willing to 
 admit to herself even, so she patiently waited. 
 
 One evening Ben decided to write to Ruth and 
 tell her of Lucy s dying wish. He did not 
 want to post his letter in the village office lest 
 the postmaster might notice it and have his sus 
 picions aroused, but he excited great curiosity 
 in the Abbott family the next day by driving 
 off to a neighboring town. For the next three 
 weeks he watched anxiously for an answer and 
 he had about made up his mind to write again, 
 for he could not believe Ruth would treat the 
 matter so indifferently, if she had received his 
 letter. Meanwhile he was so absent-minded that 
 he was more of a puzzle to the Abbott children 
 than ever. 
 
 The postoffice was in the righthand corner as 
 one entered the village store. On the shelves 
 beyond stood rows of glass cans filled with red 
 and white striped sticks of candy, gum drops 
 and peppermints. Next came bars of various 
 kinds of soap and boxes of tobacco. In the la-
 
 72 Their Other Mother. 
 
 beled drawers beneath were tea, coffee and 
 spices, cream of tartar, saleratus and starch. 
 The scales stood on the counter near the center 
 and at the end was the cheese box, with the 
 cracker barrel, hospitably open, just underneath, 
 and in line were the sugar barrels, the white, 
 the brown and the maple with its tempting 
 lumps. On the side opposite the postoffice was 
 the long showcase containing neckties, gloves 
 and handkerchiefs of all grades, from the coarse 
 red cotton to the silk bandanna, also various 
 fancy articles. The shelves behind were filled 
 with boxes of paper collars and rows of calico 
 and delaine, cambric, silesia and factory cloth. 
 There were hats and caps, women s shoes and 
 men s long-legged boots, and in a corner there 
 were bundles of palmleaf and a pile of braided 
 hats. Folded up on a long table was an assort 
 ment of men s ready-made clothing, protected 
 from dust by a cambric cover. The shelves 
 nearby were loaded with crockery, and the space 
 beyond was divided into little compartments filled 
 with bolts, screws and hinges, door-latches and 
 cupboard catches, while in a row of open nail 
 kegs underneath could be seen the different sizes 
 of nails. A glimpse into the back store showed 
 other shelves, sagging with the weight of stone 
 jars, brown earthen milk pans, speckled pud-
 
 Their Other Mother. 73 
 
 ding dishes, yellow mixing bowls and blue-edged 
 pie plates, while hanging from the beams over 
 head were jugs and water pails. There were 
 barrels of flour and bushel baskets heaped with 
 bunches of dried apple, the shriveled quarters 
 dangling from the broken strings, and near the 
 scale, where folks liked to step on and get 
 weighed, was the pile of salt fish. It was the 
 habit of customers to help themselves to a bit 
 of fish, but it was not considered etiquette to 
 sample one that had not already been somewhat 
 stripped, as the notice tacked on the wall plainly 
 showed. This was a piece of white pasteboard 
 on which in large black letters one read the 
 statement, "It is mean to tear a whole fish." 
 Beyond was the large bin filled with coarse salt 
 and above it the pen where the paper rags were 
 kept, a partition separating the white from the 
 brown. 
 
 Around the great box stove near the center 
 of the store was the usual group of loafers. Be- 
 niah Dexter, an old man with long, white beard, 
 was telling stories of the times when he drove 
 the stage, whittling as he talked. Cy Slocum, a 
 stout, red-faced man, was listening. Cyrus was 
 a horse doctor by profession, but most of his 
 comfortable property had been acquired in trad 
 ing horses. Jerry Foss had just come in and
 
 74 Their Other Mother. 
 
 was perched on a high stool in front of the 
 stove with his damp feet on the hearth. Jerry s 
 wife kept boarders, and his part of the work 
 was to bring in the supplies, for which she paid 
 the bills. Uncle "Samwel" Hackett was tipped 
 back reading a paper. He was an elderly man, 
 "clever" but not very energetic. In some unac 
 countable way he had persuaded the village 
 dressmaker, Cynthy Thompson, who was some 
 twenty years his junior, to marry him and sup 
 port him. Cynthy, of course, heard all the town 
 gossip, and Uncle Samwel s chief occupation was 
 reporting it at the store. People kept coming 
 to the office, for this was paper day and every 
 body was eager to get the Democrat, in which 
 they found all the county news and many items 
 of interest from all over the state. Some 
 stopped to speak a few minutes with the group 
 by the stove. 
 
 Look a-here ! called out Uncle Samwel from 
 behind his paper, Ruth Fellers s married ! 
 
 "Ye don t say!" exclaimed Jerry Foss. 
 "Everybody had her picked out fer Ben 
 Turner." 
 
 "Lor , yes," said Uncle Samwel. "I s pected 
 twas all cut n dried n ready to light soon s 
 his year was up." 
 
 "Wall," continued Jerry, "mebbe she didn t
 
 Their Other Mother. 75 
 
 want to play no second fiddle." He had not 
 forgotten the Sunday night when Ruth refused 
 to let him see her home from prayer-meeting, 
 just after Ella May Parker had given him the 
 mitten. 
 
 "She always was consid ble of a high-step 
 per, remarked Cy Slocum, as he recalled a sim 
 ilar experience. 
 
 My cousin, Brasilia Veasey, t nussed her in 
 her last sicknes, told me t was Lucy s request, 
 put in Cap n Clark, who was standing behind 
 the stove funnel. 
 
 "Ben was all broke up over losin of her 
 an he don t begin t set up n take notice s 
 quick s some on em does," observed Beniah 
 Dexter. 
 
 Just then the door opened and in walked Ben 
 Turner himself. As he came along and set a 
 sugar bucket on the counter and an oil can on 
 the floor near by, said Uncle Samwel in a low 
 tone, "Speakin o angels, you re sure to hear 
 em a-flappin of their wings," then, in a louder 
 voice, "How d do 1 ? We was jest a-wond rin 
 you d heerd the news bout Ruth Fellers." 
 
 No, responded Ben, turning very white and 
 taking hold of the counter, as a reason for his 
 unanswered letter flashed through his mind. 
 
 "She hain t dead, only married," Uncle Sam
 
 76 Their Other Mother. 
 
 wel hastened to add. "It s in this ere paper 
 that was sent to my woman from a second cousin 
 o hern t lives down on the coast, she t was El- 
 viry Flanders an uster work up ter John Pet- 
 tingill s on Bean Hill. T last accounts she was 
 the Widder Small and was a-keepin house fer 
 a man named Isr el Ware. Seems she s a-roped 
 im in, fer here s their marriage, marked with 
 a blue lead pencil. This s her third ventur . 
 She s kind o subjic ter gettin married, same s 
 ol Orrin Peters said his fam ly was ter the 
 measles. Lookin long down the marriages, lo 
 an behold! there was Ruth Fellerses name. 
 She s married to Captain Augustus Robin 
 son, and they ve gone on a voyage to Spain, it 
 says. 
 
 Ben got his mail and started toward the door, 
 when Dick Wells, the clerk, shouted, "Hain t 
 you goin to take your sugar n carryseen?" 
 He stepped back for them, then quietly went 
 out. 
 
 "Turribly cut up, wa nt he?" remarked 
 Jerry. 
 
 "I sh d say he was," responded Cy. "He 
 didn t hardly know whether he was foot or horse 
 back." 
 
 As Ben drove slowly home, he said to himself, 
 "Married to a sea captain! Gone to the ends
 
 Their Other Mother. 77 
 
 of the earth ! And she didn t even send me her 
 wedding card. 
 
 The Abbotts grew still more concerned about 
 Uncle Ben, for he seemed gloomier than ever. 
 As he said nothing about what he had heard at 
 the store, they did not get the news until the 
 next Sunday, between meetings, when it was the 
 general topic of conversation. 
 
 That, said Jane to Lorenzo, as they walked 
 up the aisle together to take their places for the 
 afternoon service, "accounts for his bein so aw 
 ful down n the mouth for the last two three 
 days." 
 
 Just before Ruth Fellows that was stepped on 
 board the ship, a letter was handed her by a 
 friend, who had come to see her set sail. In the 
 confusion, however, the letter was laid down and 
 forgotten. For the first two weeks of the voy 
 age the captain s young wife was too seasick to 
 take much interest in her surroundings, but 
 when she was recovering, one day she came 
 across the letter directed, in an unfamiliar hand, 
 to Ruth Fellows. On reading it, she found that 
 it was not designed for herself at all, but was, 
 doubtless, of great importance to some other 
 Ruth Fellows. As soon as there was an op 
 portunity, the letter was sent back, but it was
 
 78 Their Other Mother. 
 
 many weeks before it found the lady for whom 
 it was intended. 
 
 Great was the surprise of Ben Turner when he 
 received the answer to his letter, written so long 
 ago. It seemed almost as if Lucy herself had 
 come back to him. The sea, at least, he said, 
 "if not the grave, has given up its dead." As 
 soon as he could get away, he started for the 
 seaport town, where he found Ruth awaiting his 
 coming and ready to return with him as the sec 
 ond Mrs. Turner, to live again at the Pierce 
 place. 
 
 Among the new things that found their way 
 into the old house with the return of Ruth was 
 a large crayon portrait that hung on the wall 
 in the west room. It was an enlarged copy of 
 an old daguerreotype of Lucy, whose memory in 
 that household was ever held sacred. 
 
 One of the first things that little Lucy Turner 
 could remember was being held up to that pic 
 ture and told that it was her father s other 
 wife, whose name she bore. Her father s other 
 wife, she supposed, must be her other mother. 
 That was the name she gave to the picture and 
 by that name it was always called. 
 
 "Uzzer muzzer" were the first words that 
 Baby Jack learned to lisp, and when company 
 came to the house the children were very proud
 
 Their Other Mother. 79 
 
 of showing the picture of their other mother. 
 Together they played for hours around her grave 
 in the old burying-yard near by, and through the 
 long summers, for many years, until they left 
 the old home for homes of their own, the chil- 
 ren of Ruth never failed to keep fresh flowers on 
 the grave of Lucy, their "other mother."
 
 NATHAN S WIFE. 
 
 "Seems to me your cold s worse, mother," 
 remarked Nathan Marston, as he passed his plate 
 for a second piece of pie. "This is a grand, 
 good apple pie," continued he, "but I m afraid 
 you ve ketched more cold standin in that chilly 
 pantry a-rollin out pie crust." 
 
 "I fetched the cake-board out on t the 
 kitchen table, but the flour did feel kind o cold 
 to my hands, replied Mrs. Marston. 
 
 "Well, you ll have to be awful careful," cau 
 tioned the son, "or you ll be down sick. There s 
 a lot of influenzy round. I see the doctor 
 drivin up by this forenoon, but he was goin so 
 fast I didn t have a chance to holler an ask who 
 was sick." 
 
 "I s pose t was the young man," said Mrs. 
 Marston. 
 
 "Yes, Doctor John," was the reply. "He 
 has the heft of the practice now. The old doc 
 tor don t visit patients much." 
 
 "John s got a dretful pretty sort of a little 
 woman for a wife. He met with her when he 
 was off a-takin of his medical lectur s, so his 
 
 6
 
 82 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 mother told me when I was talkin with her 
 down to Elder Batchelder s donation." 
 
 "Yes, the fellers hev all got married but 
 me, said Nathan soberly. 
 
 "Wall, ye don t need no wife s long s ye hev 
 me ter keep house fer ye," responded the old 
 lady. Then she quickly changed the subject, 
 for this was a sore topic, and one that she 
 avoided discussing. "Ye re a-goin ter haul 
 wood down t the village this arternune, hain t 
 ye? Cause f ye be I ve got some arrants ter 
 send by ye t the store." 
 
 "Yes," was the answer, "I promised Mr. 
 Bixby, the new tavern-keeper, that I d git him 
 down a cord this week, sure, an I thought I d 
 best go today whilst the sleddin s good, for fear 
 there might come a thaw an sp ile it." 
 
 "Here s the aigs," said Mrs. Marston, pro 
 ducing an old battered ten-quart pail. "I 
 packed em in bran an I guess they ll ride all 
 right f you re keerful. There s three derzern 
 an eight. Wonder what aigs is fetchin now! 
 They re ruther skurse this time o year an 
 prob ly Carter s payin a shillin t least. I m 
 bout out o tea, an ye may git me a quarter of 
 oolong an a quarter of souchong ; then I want a 
 couple yards o dark caliker fer an apern, small 
 figger an suthin t won t fade all out fust time
 
 Nathan s Wife. 83 
 
 it s washed. If there s any more a-comin to 
 me I ll take it up in a few cents wuth o pep - 
 mints an a leetle han ful o cloves." 
 
 As she wearily gathered up the dishes and 
 placed them in the dish-pan, from the window 
 in front of the sink, she saw Nathan start off 
 for the village with his load of wood. She heard 
 the crunching of the sled runners in the snow 
 and watched the oxen as they made the turn at 
 the gate and went slowly down the hill and out 
 of sight. It was a beautiful winter afternoon 
 and the white-crusted fields, with their criss 
 crossing of gray stone walls, glistened in the sun 
 shine. 
 
 Mrs. Marston got the dishes washed somehow, 
 then throwing a heavy shawl over her she laid 
 down on the kitchen lounge and Sir Thomas, the 
 old Maltese cat, with his white nose tucked under 
 a white paw, coiled himself at her feet. 
 
 Across the road, diagonally from the Mars- 
 tons , lived Simeon Downes. Simeon worked 
 out much of the time, and just now was haul 
 ing logs for the saw-mill. As he required an 
 early breakfast and carried his dinner, Mandy, 
 his wife, had a good long day, and occupied most 
 of her spare time in binding shoes. She was sit 
 ting by the window at work when Nathan went 
 past, and said to herself, "Now Mis Marstin s
 
 84 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 all alone, so I ll jes take my shoes an slip over 
 an set with her a spell. She can t git out much 
 an she does love ter hear what s goin on 
 round." Then Mandy put in a stick of wood 
 and shut up the stove, looked to see where the 
 cat was, and, throwing a shawl over her head, 
 went across to the Marston house, going around 
 to the back door and entering the kitchen, where, 
 much to her surprise, she found Mrs. Marston ly 
 ing down. 
 
 "For mercy s sake!" she exclaimed. "Be 
 you sick?" 
 
 "Only a leetle cold, so I thought I d jes camp 
 down here. Take the rockin -cheer. I m dret- 
 ful glad ye ve come in. I guess I ll git up." 
 
 "No, you stay right where you be. We can 
 talk jest s well. I s down t the Cotton girls 
 last night, an I ve got a lot o news to tell you." 
 
 The Cotton girls were two maiden sisters liv 
 ing in a one-story, unpainted house in the out 
 skirts of the village. Judith, the elder, was now 
 about eighty, and Polly three years younger. 
 Zepheniah Cotton had been a well-to-do cabinet 
 maker, who had left to his family the home place 
 and some interest money besides. The widow, a 
 frail little woman, who for years did not go be 
 yond her own dooryard, outlived her husband 
 some twenty years and died at the advanced age
 
 Nathan s Wife. 85 
 
 of ninety-six. Neither of the daughters had ever 
 been strong. Judith s particular affliction was 
 rheumatism in her knees, while Polly suffered 
 at times with asthma. Judith did fine needle 
 work, which for many years had taken the first 
 premium at the county cattle show. In the 
 more prosperous families, the infants, on state 
 occasions, were wrapped in soft blankets, in the 
 corners of which blossomed great roses, and be 
 low hung the long flannel petticoat bordered with 
 a marvelous vine where leaves alternated with 
 clusters of grapes, all in white silk embroidery, 
 the work of Judith Cotton. The fine stitching 
 on the pleated bosoms of the men s Sunday 
 shirts was done by her skillful fingers. She had 
 made the wrought collars that the women wore, 
 fastened with a great cameo pin, around the 
 large necks of their best gowns, and all gar 
 ments of importance in the community were sent 
 over for her to make the buttonholes. Polly did 
 the housework, occupying her spare time with 
 knitting and patchwork. She also made beau 
 tiful mats, which she braided very fine, shading 
 the colors. 
 
 Some neighbor s boy always hoed their gar 
 den in the summer and shoveled their paths in 
 the winter, also did chores for them and errands 
 at the store. Although they did not go about
 
 86 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 themselves, many people had the habit of run 
 ning in there, and, as each one had something 
 to tell, they were always well posted in the cur 
 rent gossip, and, as Mandy Downes said, What 
 they didn t know wa n t wurth knowing," but 
 some folks called Mandy pretty newsy. 
 
 "How be the girls this winter?" asked Mrs. 
 Marston. 
 
 "Oh, jest the same as they al ays have be n 
 ever sence I c n remember, replied Mandy, who 
 was only fifty-five. "Judith was a-tellin me 
 bout Ase Hatches new wife. He fetched her 
 home last week. She belonged down in the lower 
 part o the state, an he come acrost her last 
 summer, when he was off down there a-vis tin 
 mongst his fust wife s relations. She s a con 
 nection o hern. Everybody thinks he s waited 
 a reasonable time, an that it s a very suitable 
 match. She s some younger n Ase, but she 
 hain t no spring chicken. It s better for the 
 childern than s if he d took up with some young 
 flirt, same s Oliver Blake did. I guess Irene d 
 a turned over n her grave f he had. D you 
 know t Oliver an his wife d parted? Yes, 
 he s posted her, an now she s tryin to git a 
 bill." 
 
 "What d ye s pose Rhody Fuller had ter 
 say bout Ase a-goin off ter git married?" in-
 
 Nathan s Wife. 87 
 
 quired Mrs. Marston. "She s be n boss an all 
 hands fer so long, it ll come kind o hard t 
 have ter take a back seat. They re a-calc latin 
 ter keep her, hain t they?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Good land! they couldn t spin a 
 thread thout Rhody, an she sets her life by the 
 boys, though they do pester her most to death, 
 an they re such normous eaters t she says she 
 sca ce has a chance to hang the cake-board up 
 over night. They say t she told Ase that she 
 sh d think there was old maids nough nigher 
 home thout his goin clean off down to Ippin 
 for one. I shouldn t be a bit s prised f she 
 thought she was goin to ketch him herself, but 
 he d be one t would look out an git in where 
 there was money, an it s reported this woman s 
 had quite a fortin fall to her. They peared out 
 last Sunday. You know I set in a wing pew, so 
 I see everybody that s there an all that s goin 
 on. I wouldn t swap our pew for airy one in 
 the meetin -house. I c n watch em up in the 
 singin -seats an see Josiah Winslow noddin 
 away with one arm on his old bass-viol, an Mis 
 Hawkins a-tryin to keep her face straight when 
 she looks over to them Kimball young uns in 
 the pew front o me. Of all the performances 
 that they go through, you never see the beat. 
 Their mother says she clruther wash than take
 
 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 em to meetin any day. Squire Eastman, when 
 he hain t a-playin the seraphine, has his eye on 
 that boy o hisn, t see t he hain t a-readin dime 
 novils. Calline Tasker sings the treble now 
 she s be n off an took lessons an they ve got 
 the schoolmaster up int the seats, too. He an 
 Calline looks t one another more n they doos 
 t the minister. Dan el Gilman s a-takin the 
 lead now an you d jest oughter see him bite his 
 tunin fork an beat the time. When the folks 
 stand up an turn round facin the singers, 
 then I have a chance to see all their new clo es. 
 Sim says I d oughter think o more serious things 
 on the Sabbath day, but I tell im I guess there s 
 some worldly talk out in the horse-sheds t noon 
 time." 
 
 "But, Mandy," interrupted Mrs. Marston, 
 "hain t yer goin ter tell me how the bride was 
 dressed ? 
 
 "My soul and body! I come nigh fergittin 
 that. Wall, she had on a blue an yeller change 
 able silk gown, made with a long p int in front 
 an hooked up in the back, an small flowin 
 sleeves with wrought under sleeves. She wore a 
 cashmere shawl with a white center, an a pale 
 yeller drawn-silk bunnet, with white face flowers 
 an white strings. Judith said her clo es come 
 from Boston. Her gloves were white kid an
 
 Nathan s Wife. 89 
 
 Ase, he had white gloves, too, an a brocaded 
 satin vest, brown with a blue sprig. You know 
 Irene never was much fer dress, but this woman 
 s smarted him -right up. He was introducin 
 of her to everybody, as proud s Lucifer, an 
 when I come down the aisle, says he, Make you 
 quainted with my wife, Mandy. She hain t 
 what you d call han some, she s ruther long 
 favored, but she s very pretty appeared an she 
 stood there as smilin s a basket o chips. 
 
 "Says I, You ve got here jest in time to help 
 us christen the new carpet. We d worked like 
 beavers to git it down fore they come. Rhody 
 was over an carpeted their pew with a piece t 
 was left of the fore-room carpet that Irene 
 braided hats an bought before she was married. 
 She d al ays kep that strip, put up with cam- 
 phire gum, in a bag that hung in the closet 
 under the stairs in the front entry, an there was 
 jest enough for the pew. We laid out to car 
 pet the aisles, all around the pulpit, an up in 
 the singin -seats, and what do you think! Dan el 
 Gilman paid for the whole on t up there, steps 
 an all, out o his own pocket, he s so tickled 
 cause they ve put him in chorister. He s made 
 for this world he c n run the singin . 
 
 "He s called terrible nippin ," put in Mrs. 
 Marston, "an he has the name of deac nin his
 
 90 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 apples. He uster go to our meet n , but there 
 was some trouble bout the singin an he went 
 off over to t other House." 
 
 "Most folks carpeted their pews with suthin 
 they had in the house, though some that c d 
 ford it bought the new, cause Huldy Bartlett, 
 she s the president of the Sewin Society now, 
 looked out a little large an there was consid - 
 ble of a piece left. It s red and green, with sort 
 of a di mon -shaped figger bout s big over s 
 yer hand. We had a strip of stair carpetin 
 left over when we carpeted our front stairs, so 
 I tacked that down in our pew. Aunt Priscilla 
 Fogg s got a han some piece of rag carpet on 
 hern. You know she weaves it for folks. An 
 nette Walker hooked in a piece for their pew. 
 She s a master hand for hooked-in rugs. Polly 
 Cotton made their carpet out o fine braids, 
 shaded like a rainbow. It s a beauty. An Ju 
 dith embroidered covers for the crickets. They 
 said they hadn t be n int the meetin -house 
 sence their mother was buried, nine year ago 
 last December, but they wanted their pew fixed 
 up. It s used to seat strangers in, an time of 
 funerals it s most gin ally needed for the mourn 
 ers. I hain t told ye bout the present we had 
 of a great sofy an two chairs for the pulpit," 
 said Mandy, stopping to thread her needle.
 
 Nathan s Wife. 91 
 
 Of all things ! Who n the world gin them ? 
 was the response. 
 
 "Can t you remember Angeline Page an her 
 mother, that uster live in the old Eph ram Jewitt 
 house? Angeline was a great scholar, an went 
 down in the state o Maine to keep school. She 
 married a widower down there by the name o 
 Stickney, an made out uncommon well, though 
 he was old nough to be her father an had the 
 lung diffikilty for a number o years. Mis Page 
 died there an was fetched up to this yard, 
 cordin to her request, an laid long side of her 
 husband. Now Mr. Stickney s be n taken away, 
 but he d made his will so t the heft o the 
 prop ty went to Angeline, an she s wealthy. 
 Huldy Bartlett heard bout it I tell you that 
 woman hain t left no stone unturned so she 
 writ down an told Angeline that the meetin - 
 hotise, where she uster go, was bein fixed up, an 
 asked her if she wouldn t like to help us out a 
 little, thinkin we d git a couple dollars, mebbe. 
 You c n imagine how struck up everybody was 
 when that han some pulpit set come, straight 
 from a down East furniture shop. Angeline 
 gin it in mem ry of her mother, the old lady 
 belonged most fifty-nine year. 
 
 I jes wisht you c d come up some Sunday an 
 see f you don t think our house looks complete,
 
 92 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 but t wouldn t never do for you to leave your 
 own meetin . T would be sure to make talk if 
 folks sh d see you runnin off up to the Ortho 
 dox. They d think you d taken a miff at suthin. 
 Let me see ! I declare ! if it ain t our turn to 
 have the meetin Fast day. Then 11 be your 
 chance." 
 
 "When be your folks calc latin ter have that 
 levee come off?" asked Mrs. Marston. 
 
 "Next Wednesday night. They ve got the 
 bills all out," replied Mandy, tying a knot and 
 waxing the thread to commence her last shoe. 
 "Huldy, she s worked early n late. It does 
 beat all what some folks 11 do f they c n be 
 cap n. Fer my part, I d ruther train as a privit. 
 They ve got a sight o pin-cushions, tidies an 
 lamp-mats for the fancy table. Then they re 
 goin ter have a grab-bag. Huldy s sot on havin 
 the album quilt sold by tickets, but the new min 
 ister don t jest approve. He says it s too much 
 like the ways o the world. Huldy s bound 
 to put it through, though, an I m fraid they ll 
 git all by the ears fore it s over. 
 
 "You like this new man an his fam ly mid- 
 dlin well, I s pose, " said Mrs. Marston. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply. "Them that s good 
 judges thinks he preaches excellent discourses, 
 but he hain t so greeable a way with him s
 
 Nathan s Wife. 93 
 
 some. Them that takes like hot cakes at fust, 
 though, hain t al ays the ones t wears best in 
 the long run. His wife s more of a sociable 
 turn, but she in joys dretful pore health. The 
 daughter s very complished. She makes hair 
 wreaths, wax work, worsted flowers and all sich. 
 Judith said she didn t know but you d think she 
 was smart nough for Nathan, if she was only a 
 Baptist." 
 
 "I guess he hain t sufferin fer no sich folde- 
 rols, an when I hain t able to take keer on him, 
 he s capable o doin his own s lectin ," quickly 
 retorted the irritated mother. 
 
 "Now reely, Mis Marstin, wouldn t you like 
 ter have Nathan git him a good wife ? persisted 
 Mandy. "Of course, there hain t nobody 
 round here, though, that you d want." 
 
 "Gals ain t good fer nothin now days. All 
 they wants is to dress up an gad. I wish to 
 goodness Nathan d come. Where d you s pose 
 he is? Here t is most dark." 
 
 "So t is an I must clip it home, for I ve got 
 to bile pertaters an fry meat for supper. Sim 
 works out n the wind so, it makes him awful 
 hearty. He will eat half a mince pie tonight, 
 then want a dish of apples fore bed time. It s 
 all of a glare of ice out here by your fore-door. 
 I guess it dreeps down where the snow melts off
 
 94 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 the roof. I come within one o goin my whole 
 length." 
 
 "Now don t stay away so long ag in," said 
 Mrs. Marston wearily as her visitor departed, 
 and soon she fell asleep. 
 
 A little later Nathan came in, and finding 
 his mother sleeping soundly did not disturb her, 
 but quietly replenished the fire and set the tea 
 kettle boiling, for his many years of experience 
 in helping about the house had made him as 
 handy as a girl. Then he drew off his boots to 
 warm his feet on the stove hearth, disclosing a 
 large hole in the toe of his left stocking. 
 
 Oh. dear, he thought, quickly drawing back 
 his burned foot, how I do need a wife ! I hate 
 to say anything to mother about it, though, it 
 always makes her feel so bad, and sometimes sets 
 her into the palpitation." 
 
 Then he called to mind the long talks they 
 had had on the subject, how every available girl 
 in that vicinity had been discussed, but the 
 mother had some serious objection to each one. 
 There was one girl, however, of whom Mrs. Mars- 
 ton had not heard. One evening, the winter be 
 fore, Nathan had covered himself with glory in 
 winning the debate at the lyceum. A new, yet 
 strangely familiar face in the audience had in 
 spired him to do his best. At the conclusion of
 
 Nathan s Wife. 95 
 
 the exercises, a nice-looking young lady stepped 
 out from a settee near the front, saying she 
 wished to congratulate him, and also to thank 
 him for his kindness to a forlorn little girl at a 
 Sunday-school picnic many years ago. He 
 looked at the wavy hair and into the blue eyes 
 and said, "It must have been little Cora Has 
 tings." Then they recalled the circumstances, 
 how Nathan had gone alone that day, and Mrs. 
 Sylvester Hastings, who was busy setting the 
 tables, had asked him to look after a little niece 
 of hers. Her brother, she said, had left the child 
 with her for a day or two while he attended to 
 some business in the next town, and that the 
 little girl had lost her mother only the week 
 before and was very lonely. Cora remembered 
 how Nathan had framed houses for her out of 
 slender twigs and swung her in the swing, and 
 told her that he was fourteen, just twice as old 
 as she ; then wisely explained that it would not 
 always be so, that the next year and all the years 
 after he would be only seven years older than 
 she. That good, kind boy Cora never forgot, 
 and Nathan had always cherished in memory the 
 little girl with the long yellow curls. Once he 
 had mustered up courage to ask Mrs. Hastings 
 what had become of her niece and had learned 
 that she had a step-mother, who didn t know how
 
 96 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 to get along with children very well, so she had 
 gone to live with her grandmother. After all 
 these years she was at her aunt s again for a 
 short visit. Nathan had called on her there, and 
 they had corresponded during the past year. 
 Now the grandmother, having recently died, the 
 aunt had invited her niece to come to her home 
 for a while, and it was in Aunt Mary Hastings 
 parlor with Cora that Nathan had spent the most 
 of his afternoon at the village. A glorious after 
 noon it had been, for Cora had promised some 
 time to be his wife. How to break the news to 
 his mother puzzled him sorely, but Cora had 
 said, It has all seemed so providential so far, we 
 will trust Providence for the future." 
 
 The Marston house, which was situated about 
 a mile and a half from the village, was a large, 
 old-fashioned, two-story farm house, painted red. 
 Mrs. Marston, a frail looking little woman, now 
 in her seventy-second year, had long been a 
 widow, living in the old home with her only 
 child, Nathan, now a bachelor of thirty-five, a lit 
 tle gray and somewhat bald. 
 
 The son felt that he must bring home a wife 
 soon, but how was he ever to reconcile his mother 
 to a change in the household. Cora was a Bap 
 tist and that would go a long way with her. In 
 the dim twilight he sat warming his feet and
 
 Nathan s Wife. 97 
 
 thinking the matter over until his mother awoke. 
 Then Nathan lit the lamp and displayed all 
 the little packages that he had brought from the 
 store, saying, "Here s your Watchman and Re 
 flector, too, that came today, but how hoarse 
 you are ! Has anybody been here 1 
 
 "Yes, Mandy Downcs run over, but I let her 
 do most o the talkin ." 
 
 "Well, you generally have to do that. When 
 she s wound up she ll go like an eight-day 
 clock," said Nathan. "She told you all the news, 
 I s pose." 
 
 "Lor , yes, she was chock full on t. Ye 
 might jes reach me the camphire bottle on the 
 top shelf of the cupboard there, f ye will. 
 
 And Nathan, as he complied with his mother s 
 request, said to himself, "There s one choice bit 
 of news that even Mandy hain t got hold of 
 yet," 
 
 Mrs. Marston complained of feeling chilly 
 and aching all over, so she said, "I guess I ll 
 take suthin hot an put a mustard plaster on 
 the back of my neck, then I ll go off ter bed. 
 I ll have some hot rocks ter my feet, an an 
 extry tuek on top o my coverlid so s ter sweat 
 me, an mebbe I c n sleep it off an feel middlin 
 smart in the mornin ." 
 
 So Nathan made hot ginger tea, spread the
 
 98 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 mustard paste and heated the soapstones, for he 
 was used to this program. Afterwards he got 
 his own supper, did the chores and read the 
 paper, then, as his mother seemed sleeping 
 quietly, he went to bed. 
 
 The next morning, however, Mrs. Marston was 
 much worse. "Oh, dear me!" she moaned. "I 
 never see the beat on t, but seems s if I couldn t 
 lift my head from my piller, if t was ter save 
 me. I do know but I m in fer a run o lung 
 fever. I guess, Nathan, yer d best run right over 
 ter Downses fore Sim gits off ter the village, 
 an have him leave word fer the doctor ter come 
 up. I hate ter give up an have a doctor, seems 
 s if folks is sure ter be sick f they do, but 
 the old doctor al ays had the name o not goin 
 more n he was needed, even where the pay was 
 good." 
 
 When Doctor John came he pronounced Mrs. 
 Marston a very sick woman, and said that a good 
 nurse must be found for her immediately ; he 
 hardly knew where to look for one, they were 
 all so busy just now, but Nathan instantly 
 thought of Cora. 
 
 Mandy Downes had come over and would stay 
 until they could get some one, so leaving her to 
 sit by his mother, Nathan hurried away to the 
 village, and did not have much difficulty in per-
 
 Nathan s Wife. 99 
 
 suading Cora to return with him. Her grand 
 mother had been an invalid for several years, so 
 she had had some experience in sickness. As 
 they approached the old red house Cora re 
 marked, "Well, Providence has brought me to 
 your home sooner than we expected." 
 
 "I Ve got you a good nurse, mother," said 
 Nathan, as the two entered her room, and she 
 was too sick to ask any questions. 
 
 Such excellent care did Cora take of her pa 
 tient that she was carried safely through a se 
 vere illness, and her recovery, so Doctor John 
 told her, was due to good nursing. 
 
 One day, after Mrs. Marston was strong 
 enough to sit up for a half hour in her chintz 
 covered rocker, rolled up in a patchwork com 
 fortable, she said to Nathan, when the nurse had 
 left the room, "Now f ye c d git sich a gal s 
 Cora fer a wife I sh d be satisfied, but o course 
 ye hain t never tho t on t. I s pose she makes 
 good pay a-nussin , an like nough she don t 
 want ter git married, but most on em does, if 
 they gits a chance." 
 
 "You really think she d make a good wife, 
 an wish I d say something to her about it, 
 then?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the old lady, "or mebbe I c d 
 hint round an find out if she s got a feller. I
 
 100 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 hain t no match-maker, though, an never was, 
 fer I don t hold to it." 
 
 The next afternoon, when Mrs. Marston had 
 taken a good nap, and Cora had Nathan s stock 
 ings all neatly darned and was looking for some 
 thing else to do, Mrs. Marston said, Right there 
 in my under drawer ye 11 find a sheet that I 
 laid by ter turn that very week t I come down 
 sick. Ye may have that job f ye want it. It s 
 sort o pretty work though, when ye don t feel 
 hurried." Then to herself she added, as Cora 
 began the long over and over seam, "Now I 
 must try an see how the land lays." 
 
 An hour later, when Nathan came in to stay 
 while the nurse went out for a walk, he was told 
 the result of the investigation. "I as t her how 
 she d injoyed herself here, an f she did n t 
 kind o hate ter go off," began the mother, "an 
 I don t b lieve she s a-hankerin much fer ter 
 go home. I cal late there hain t no love lost 
 twixt she n her step-mother. Folks calls her 
 an awful pious, good woman, but Cory got sot 
 ag n her when she was a child, cause she cut 
 off her long curls that her own mother was so 
 proud on, for fear they was makin of her vain 
 an worldly-minded. Her pa thinks the sun 
 rises an sets in his wife, an that puts me in 
 mind o what Aunt Betsey Scruton uster say,
 
 Nathan s Wife. 101 
 
 A mother s a mother all the days of her life, 
 an a father s a father till he gits a second 
 wife. He hain t done for her none, late years, 
 an there wa n t no call t he should, fer the ole 
 lady was fore-handed, an now Cory gits it all. 
 She owned up that there was a feller t she 
 thought a sight on, but there was reasons why 
 they could n t git married jest yit. I should n t 
 want ter resk it ter have ye come in between em, 
 fer sich things ain t right, an ye would n t 
 never prosper." 
 
 "That won t be necessary, mother," calmly 
 remarked Nathan, "for I m the man she loves, 
 an she promised to be my wife two months 
 ago." 
 
 "Why, for pity s sake! What do ye mean? 
 An ye never told me on t ! " 
 
 "No, I was wonderin how I was ever goin 
 to break the news to you, when you were taken 
 sick, but I was sure you d like Cora if you only 
 knew her. 
 
 "Yes, she s all right, bless her heart! But I 
 dew declar I never was so taken a-back in all 
 my life." 
 
 When Mrs. Marston fully realized the fact 
 that Cora Hastings was to be the daughter con 
 cerning whom she had had so many years of 
 anxiety, she could hardly wait for the wedding
 
 102 Nathan s Wife. 
 
 day, so Elder Hunkins came over, and there was 
 a quiet wedding in the old lady s room, just as 
 soon as she was able to be dressed in her black 
 silk gown and best cap. The stuffed haircloth 
 rocking chair had been shoved in from the par 
 lor for the occasion, and in it she sat in state, 
 with a pillow behind her head. 
 
 Nathan and his wife, one afternoon, a few 
 weeks later, overheard their mother talking to 
 Mandy Downes, who was a little hard of hear 
 ing: "Yes," said Mrs. Marston, " t was well 
 wuth that hull fit o sickness, the doctor s bill 
 an all, ter have the pickin out o Nathan s 
 wife, an ter have one, that I couldn t a bet 
 tered if I d had her made ter order, step right 
 in, so s t I could git acquainted with her be 
 forehand.
 
 MISS HARDEN S CHRISTMAS PARTY. 
 
 "Wall, if it don t beat all!" muttered Rachel 
 Dudley, as she basted the turkey. "Me a-gittin 
 up a Christmas dinner fer newsboys, bootblacks 
 an sich to eat right here in our dinin -room! 
 I ve be n cook in this fam ly goin on twenty 
 year, an I never see the likes o this. I wonder 
 what Miss Janet s mother would say, if she was 
 alive. She was dretful tony, the ole lady was, 
 an so s Katherine, but land ! Miss Janet, she s 
 all Harden, no more like her mother than black 
 s like white. I s pose all this comes long o 
 her gittin so int restid in them mission folks." 
 
 For all her grumbling Rachel was devoted to 
 her mistress, and was determined that this 
 Christmas dinner should equal any that she had 
 prepared before. The dining-room was dec 
 orated with festoons of green and holly wreaths 
 hung in the windows. The table sparkled with 
 silver and cut-glass; a large hothouse bouquet 
 stood in the center and there were carnation 
 pinks at every plate. Rachel had just set on 
 the platter, containing the huge turkey, beauti 
 fully browned, when heavy footsteps sounded
 
 104 Miss Harden s Christmas Party. 
 
 on the stairs. The door was thrown open, and 
 the rich aroma of the turkey, mingled with the 
 scent of the celery and the flowers, greeted the 
 guests, who gazed at the table iu open-mouthed 
 wonder. 
 
 "Oh, posies!" whispered the little lame girl 
 to her grandmother. 
 
 Han k ch ef s t every place!" said tiny Tim 
 Tucker to Billy Sykes. 
 
 "Them s bibs, you greeny, I ve seed em a- 
 wearin em in t the big rest runts, " returned 
 Billy, who had been a newsboy for more than a 
 year, and knew the ways of the world. 
 
 Poor Jimmie Bird, the deaf and dumb boy, 
 so far forgot himself that he stood on his head 
 just for a minute, and was covered with confu 
 sion when Tom Mills, the bootblack, hastily re 
 versed him. 
 
 Then came the Dawson girls, stiff and awk 
 ward; their mother had kept their hair in curl 
 papers for two days, and had decked them out in 
 some bits of finery, treasured relics of her maid 
 enhood. As they sat down at the table Sarah, 
 the younger one, jarred her dish of cranberry 
 sauce so that a little of the juice spilled over on 
 the tablecloth. This frightened her so that she 
 began to cry, and appealed to her sister, saying, 
 "Lem me hev the han k ch ef now, Ellen; marm
 
 Miss Hardens Christmas Party. 105 
 
 said I sh d kerry it half the time, an you ve 
 had it ever sence we started." 
 
 The little lame girl sat on one side of Miss 
 Harden, and her grandmother on the other. 
 "Do you like turkey, Gracie?" asked Miss Har 
 den, as she generously helped the child. 
 
 "Never had none s I knows on," smilingly 
 answered Gracie, but Grandma Harris thought 
 of the days of the long ago, when she was the 
 hired girl in a large farm-house, where she had 
 often dressed the Thanksgiving turkey. 
 
 When the celery was passed "Tiny Tim" 
 stuck his piece in his button-hole with his pinks, 
 but felt he had done something wrong on ac 
 count of the peculiar grin on the face of Billy 
 Sykes, who slyly whispered, "They eats that 
 bokay, Tim!" 
 
 Grandma Harris was as pleased as a child 
 when in her own plate she saw the lucky bone, 
 and she told the children how they used to 
 wish over it and break it, when she lived at the 
 farm. 
 
 Turkey and vegetables, pudding and pies van 
 ished like dew before the sun. Never had the 
 little folks from the mission eaten such a dinner, 
 and then their plates were heaped with fruit. 
 
 All was still when something dropped with a 
 sharp sound, causing the children to giggle, for
 
 106 Miss Harden s Christmas Party. 
 
 they knew that Jimmie Bird had lost off a but 
 ton. 
 
 "Seems to me them grapes looks poorty 
 green," thought Grandma Harris; "they was 
 al ays sort o purple when they was fit to eat 
 out to the farm. But when once she had tasted 
 the delicious white grapes her fear that they 
 were not ripe quickly vanished. Just then Miss 
 Harden noticed Tim Tucker struggling with his 
 jacket pocket into which he was trying to 
 squeeze an orange which was much too large 
 for it. 
 
 "I hain t a-swiping nothin ," explained Tim, 
 "I jes thought I d kerry my orange home to 
 Aunt Clarry, cause her s awful good to me. 
 Her let me lay in Johnny s bed all day yister- 
 day, while her washed my clo es so s t I could 
 come to yer party. Johnny s Aunt Clarry s 
 little boy, on y he s dead. I guess t 11 go in 
 when it s squozed a little more," said he, ap 
 plying his lips to the orange again. 
 
 Miss Harden urged her guests to eat all they 
 could, and promised that each one should have 
 a box of goodies to take home, so Tim finished 
 his orange. Then they all went back to the par 
 lor and Miss Harden played on the piano, and 
 the children sang the songs they had learned at 
 the mission; after the singing they joined in a
 
 Miss Har den s Christmas Party. 107 
 
 peanut-hunt, and Gracie Harris found the most, 
 so she received the prize a pretty book of 
 Christmas stories. While they were gathered 
 around Gracie looking at the pictures, suddenly 
 the great folding-doors opened and revealed a 
 splendor that dazzled the eyes of all. 
 
 A jolly, fat old man, with a very red face and 
 a long white beard came forward, and Miss Har 
 den introduced him as her friend, Santa Glaus, 
 who had brought one of his Christmas trees, the 
 fruit of which always ripened on the twenty- 
 fifth of December. 
 
 The tree was bright with lighted tapers and 
 sparkling with tinsel. Among the branches 
 peeped out books and pictures, dolls, drums, tops 
 and jumping-jacks, while, dropped like wind 
 falls, on the chairs beneath were jackets and 
 caps, shoes and hoods. Besides candy, toys and 
 books, each one received just the things he or 
 she most needed. Grandma Harris had some 
 nice, warm flannels. She had patched her old 
 ones, she said, "till there wa n t much left ter 
 patch to. The Dawson girls, who had expected 
 to wear their old straw sailor hats all winter, 
 were made happy by the possession of jaunty 
 tarn o shanters, but what delighted them most 
 was a beautiful handkerchief apiece "A han - 
 k ch ef with an open-work border an scollups
 
 108 Miss Ear den s Christmas Party. 
 
 all round the aidge! Han somer n marm s ever 
 was!" exclaimed Ellen. 
 
 Jimmie Bird was presented with a new jacket, 
 which he sadly needed, for the one that he wore 
 was very old and had dropped its last button at 
 the dinner table. 
 
 A business outfit for Tom Mills, and may he 
 ever shine like the noonday sun," said Santa 
 Glaus, as he handed a big box to Tom, who im 
 mediately began to investigate the contents, try 
 ing the brushes and counting the boxes of black 
 ing. "It s jest a daisy of a kit!" said he. "My 
 old one was second-hand, anyhow, an it s bout 
 gone up, an I did n t know how I was ever 
 a-goin ter scare up another. 
 
 How Billy Sykes eyes shone when he was 
 given a pair of stout shoes! By dint of extra 
 hustling and crying his "Herald, Globe,, or Rec 
 ord!" until he was as hoarse as a frog, Billy had 
 managed to earn enough so that he felt justified 
 in squandering a few pennies on a cake of soap, 
 which he had promised that morning to "divvy" 
 with Tom Mills for a shine. Tom had accepted 
 the proposition, making "no extra charge," he 
 said, for blacking Billy s toes, so that they would 
 not show so plainly sticking up through the holes 
 in his old shoes. 
 
 "Tiny Tim," who had come with a little rag-
 
 Miss Harden s Christmas Party. 109 
 
 ged scarf tied over his head, was given a warm 
 cap and a pair of mittens. 
 
 Although Gracie and her grandmother had 
 had the honor of riding to the party in Miss 
 Harden s fine carriage, the little girl had been 
 obliged to make her appearance wrapped in an 
 old faded shawl, cherished in memory of her 
 dead mother. When Santa Glaus held out to 
 the child a little red cloak and hood she fairly 
 danced for joy, and clapped her hands until she 
 dropped one of her crutches, which was picked 
 up and presented in a most gallant manner by 
 Billy Sykes. 
 
 Then Santa Glaus, making a very low bow, 
 said, "I guess the fruit o this ere tree s all 
 picked an I must be a-hurryin along now, fer 
 I ve got a good many more calls ter make." 
 
 Soon Hiram, the coachman, appeared at the 
 door with the carriage, and Billy Sykes said to 
 himself, "Jimminy! if that feller s voice don t 
 sound xactly like the Santa Glaus man s!" 
 But none of the others not even Grandma Har 
 ris -suspected that dignified personage of hav 
 ing masqueraded as Santa Glaus. 
 
 It was decided to put the larger packages into 
 the carriage with the Harrises, and as the rest 
 started off with their arms full of presents, Billy 
 Sykes shouted, "Three cheers for Miss Har-
 
 110 Miss Harden s Christmas Party. 
 
 den!" and Tom Mills, the Dawson girls, and 
 "Tin}- Tim" joined him in a rousing response. 
 Then Jimmie Bird, seeing what the others were 
 doing, hastened to show his appreciation in the 
 best manner of which he was capable ; so, drop 
 ping his bundles, he turned three somersaults 
 and stood on his head. 
 
 "I never expected ter live ter see sich a day 
 as this!" said grandma, as she slowly got into 
 the carriage. 
 
 "And have you had a good time, too, Gra 
 de?" asked the hostess. 
 
 A sweet smile lighted the little pale face, 
 though tears were shining in the deep blue eyes. 
 "Oh, Miss Harden!" she said, "I did n t s pose 
 I c d ever go to heaven till after I d died first!" 
 
 When Janet Harden went to her room she 
 picked up and re-read her invitation to the grand 
 reception which her sister was holding in her 
 New York home that evening. " If I had gone, 
 mused the practical Miss Janet, "my dress 
 would have cost more than I have spent for all 
 those poor children, and I know I should n t 
 have enjoyed Katherine s reception half so much 
 as my own, and she smiled as she thought how 
 shocked her fashionable sister would have been 
 could she have looked in upon them that day. 
 
 Then, going to the pretty banner of Scripture
 
 Hiss Ear den s Christmas Party. HI 
 
 quotations and gems of poetry hanging on the 
 wall, she turned over the leaf which she had been 
 too busy to look at before. 
 
 "December twenty-fifth," she began, " Inas 
 much as ye have done it unto one of the least 
 of these/ why!" she exclaimed, "I had n t 
 thought of that!"
 
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