Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm - Kate Douglas Wiggin (black male authors txt) 📗

for yourself. I feel fitted to cope with any child that ever was born int’ the world!”

“I know you do, Mirandy; but that don’t MAKE you so,” returned Jane with a smile.

The habit of speaking her mind freely was certainly growing on Jane to an altogether terrifying extent.

XII

“SEE THE PALE MARTYR”

It was about this time that Rebecca, who had been reading about the Spartan boy, conceived the idea of some mild form of self-punishment to be applied on occasions when she was fully convinced in her own mind that it would be salutary. The immediate cause of the decision was a somewhat sadder accident than was common, even in a career prolific in such things.

Clad in her best, Rebecca had gone to take tea with the Cobbs; but while crossing the bridge she was suddenly overcome by the beauty of the river and leaned over the newly painted rail to feast her eyes on the dashing torrent of the fall. Resting her elbows on the topmost board, and inclining her little figure forward in delicious ease, she stood there dreaming.

The river above the dam was a glassy lake with all the loveliness of blue heaven and green shore reflected in its surface; the fall was a swirling wonder of water, ever pouring itself over and over inexhaustibly in luminous golden gushes that lost themselves in snowy depths of foam. Sparkling in the sunshine, gleaming under the summer moon, cold and gray beneath a November sky, trickling over the dam in some burning July drought, swollen with turbulent power in some April freshet, how many young eyes gazed into the mystery and majesty of the falls along that river, and how many young hearts dreamed out their futures leaning over the bridge rail, seeing “the vision splendid” reflected there and often, too, watching it fade into “the light of common day.”

Rebecca never went across the bridge without bending over the rail to wonder and to ponder, and at this special moment she was putting the finishing touches on a poem.

Two maidens by a river strayed Down in the state of Maine. The one was called Rebecca, The other Emma Jane. “I would my life were like the stream,” Said her named Emma Jane, “So quiet and so very smooth, So free from every pain.”

“I’d rather be a little drop In the great rushing fall! I would not choose the glassy lake, ‘T would not suit me at all!” (It was the darker maiden spoke The words I just have stated, The maidens twain were simply friends And not at all related.)

But O! alas I we may not have The things we hope to gain; The quiet life may come to me, The rush to Emma Jane!

“I don’t like `the rush to Emma Jane,’ and I can’t think of anything else. Oh! what a smell of paint! Oh! it is ON me! Oh! it’s all over my best dress! Oh I what WILL aunt Miranda say!”

With tears of self-reproach streaming from her eyes, Rebecca flew up the hill, sure of sympathy, and hoping against hope for help of some sort.

Mrs. Cobb took in the situation at a glance, and professed herself able to remove almost any stain from almost any fabric; and in this she was corroborated by uncle Jerry, who vowed that mother could git anything out. Sometimes she took the cloth right along with the spot, but she had a sure hand, mother had!

The damaged garment was removed and partially immersed in turpentine, while Rebecca graced the festal board clad in a blue calico wrapper of Mrs. Cobb’s.

“Don’t let it take your appetite away,” crooned Mrs. Cobb. “I’ve got cream biscuit and honey for you. If the turpentine don’t work, I’ll try French chalk, magneshy, and warm suds. If they fail, father shall run over to Strout’s and borry some of the stuff Marthy got in Milltown to take the currant pie out of her weddin’ dress.”

“I ain’t got to understandin’ this paintin’ accident yet,” said uncle Jerry jocosely, as he handed Rebecca the honey. “Bein’ as how there’s `Fresh Paint’ signs hung all over the breedge, so ‘t a blind asylum couldn’t miss ‘em, I can’t hardly account for your gettin’ int’ the pesky stuff.”

“I didn’t notice the signs,” Rebecca said dolefully. “I suppose I was looking at the falls.”

“The falls has been there sence the beginnin’ o’ time, an’ I cal’late they’ll be there till the end on ‘t; so you needn’t ‘a’ been in sech a brash to git a sight of ‘em. Children comes turrible high, mother, but I s’pose we must have ‘em!” he said, winking at Mrs. Cobb.

When supper was cleared away Rebecca insisted on washing and wiping the dishes, while Mrs. Cobb worked on the dress with an energy that plainly showed the gravity of the task. Rebecca kept leaving her post at the sink to bend anxiously over the basin and watch her progress, while uncle Jerry offered advice from time to time.

“You must ‘a’ laid all over the breedge, deary,” said Mrs. Cobb; “for the paint ‘s not only on your elbows and yoke and waist, but it about covers your front breadth.”

As the garment began to look a little better Rebecca’s spirits took an upward turn, and at length she left it to dry in the fresh air, and went into the sitting-room.

“Have you a piece of paper, please?” asked Rebecca. “I’ll copy out the poetry I was making while I was lying in the paint.”

Mrs. Cobb sat by her mending basket, and uncle Jerry took down a gingham bag of strings and occupied himself in taking the snarls out of them,—a favorite evening amusement with him.

Rebecca soon had the lines copied in her round schoolgirl hand, making such improvements as occurred to her on sober second thought.

THE TWO WISHES BY REBECCA RANDALL Two maidens by a river strayed, ‘T was in the state of Maine. Rebecca was the darker one, The fairer, Emma Jane. The fairer maiden said, “I would My life were as the stream; So peaceful, and so smooth and still, So pleasant and serene.”

“I’d rather be a little drop In the great rushing fall; I’d never choose the quiet lake; ‘T would not please me at all.” (It was the darker maiden spoke The words we just have stated; The maidens twain were simply friends, Not sisters, or related.)

But O! alas! we may not have The things we hope to gain. The quiet life may come to me, The rush to Emma Jane!

 

She read it aloud, and the Cobbs thought it not only surpassingly beautiful, but a marvelous production

“I guess if that writer that lived on Congress Street in Portland could ‘a’ heard your poetry he’d ‘a’ been astonished,” said Mrs. Cobb. “If you ask me, I say this piece is as good as that one o’ his, `Tell me not in mournful numbers;’ and consid’able clearer.”

“I never could fairly make out what `mournful numbers’ was,” remarked Mr. Cobb critically.

“Then I guess you never studied fractions!” flashed Rebecca. “See here, uncle Jerry and aunt Sarah, would you write another verse, especially for a last one, as they usually do—one with `thoughts’ in it—to make a better ending?”

“If you can grind ‘em out jest by turnin’ the crank, why I should say the more the merrier; but I don’t hardly see how you could have a better endin’,” observed Mr. Cobb.

“It is horrid!” grumbled Rebecca. “I ought not to have put that `me’ in. I’m writing the poetry. Nobody ought to know it IS me standing by the river; it ought to be `Rebecca,’ or `the darker maiden;’ and `the rush to Emma Jane’ is simply dreadful. Sometimes I think I never will try poetry, it’s so hard to make it come right; and other times it just says itself. I wonder if this would be better?

But O! alas! we may not gain The good for which we pray The quiet life may come to one Who likes it rather gay,

I don’t know whether that is worse or not. Now for a new last verse!”

In a few minutes the poetess looked up, flushed and triumphant. “It was as easy as nothing. Just hear!” And she read slowly, with her pretty, pathetic voice:—

Then if our lot be bright or sad, Be full of smiles, or tears, The thought that God has planned it so Should help us bear the years.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Cobb exchanged dumb glances of admiration; indeed uncle Jerry was obliged to turn his face to the window and wipe his eyes furtively with the string-bag.

“How in the world did you do it?” Mrs. Cobb exclaimed.

“Oh, it’s easy,” answered Rebecca; “the hymns at meeting are all like that. You see there’s a school newspaper printed at Wareham Academy once a month. Dick Carter says the editor is always a boy, of course; but he allows girls to try and write for it, and then chooses the best. Dick thinks I can be in it.”

“IN it!” exclaimed uncle Jerry. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you had to write the whole paper; an’ as for any boy editor, you could lick him writin’, I bate ye, with one hand tied behind ye.”

“Can we have a copy of the poetry to keep in the family Bible?” inquired Mrs. Cobb respectfully.

“Oh! would you like it?” asked Rebecca. “Yes indeed! I’ll do a clean, nice one with violet ink and a fine pen. But I must go and look at my poor dress.”

The old couple followed Rebecca into the kitchen. The frock was quite dry, and in truth it had been helped a little by aunt Sarah’s ministrations; but the colors had run in the rubbing, the pattern was blurred, and there were muddy streaks here and there. As a last resort, it was carefully smoothed with a warm iron, and Rebecca was urged to attire herself, that they might see if the spots showed as much when it was on.

They did, most uncompromisingly, and to the dullest eye. Rebecca gave one searching look, and then said, as she took her hat from a nail in the entry, “I think I’ll be going. Good-night! If I’ve got to have a scolding, I want it quick, and get it over.”

“Poor little onlucky misfortunate thing!” sighed uncle Jerry, as his eyes followed her down the hill. “I wish she could pay some attention to the ground under her feet; but I vow, if she was ourn I’d let her slop paint all over the house before I could scold her. Here’s her poetry she’s left behind. Read it out ag’in, mother. Land!” he continued, chuckling, as he lighted his cob pipe; “I can just see the last flap o’ that boy-editor’s shirt tail as he legs it for the woods, while Rebecky settles down in his revolvin’ cheer! I’m puzzled as to what kind of a job editin’ is, exactly; but she’ll find out, Rebecky will. An’ she’ll just edit for all she’s worth!

“`The thought that God has planned it so Should help us bear the years.’

Land, mother! that takes right holt, kind o’ like the gospel. How do you suppose she thought that out?”

“She couldn’t have thought it out at her age,” said Mrs. Cobb; “she must have just guessed it was that way. We know some things without bein’ told, Jeremiah.”

 

Rebecca took her scolding (which she richly deserved) like a soldier. There was considerable of it, and Miss Miranda remarked, among other things, that so absent-minded a child was sure to grow up into a driveling idiot. She was bidden to stay away from Alice Robinson’s birthday party, and doomed to wear her dress,