Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm Read online

  XI

  "THE STIRRING OF THE POWERS"

  Rebecca's visit to Milltown was all that her glowing fancy had paintedit, except that recent readings about Rome and Venice disposed her tobelieve that those cities might have an advantage over Milltown in thematter of mere pictorial beauty. So soon does the soul outgrow itsmansions that after once seeing Milltown her fancy ran out to thefuture sight of Portland; for that, having islands and a harbor and twopublic monuments, must be far more beautiful than Milltown, whichwould, she felt, take its proud place among the cities of the earth, byreason of its tremendous business activity rather than by anyirresistible appeal to the imagination.

  It would be impossible for two children to see more, do more, walkmore, talk more, eat more, or ask more questions than Rebecca and EmmaJane did on that eventful Wednesday.

  "She's the best company I ever see in all my life," said Mrs. Cobb toher husband that evening. "We ain't had a dull minute this day. She'swell-mannered, too; she didn't ask for anything, and was thankful forwhatever she got. Did you watch her face when we went into that tentwhere they was actin' out Uncle Tom's Cabin? And did you take notice ofthe way she told us about the book when we sat down to have our icecream? I tell you Harriet Beecher Stowe herself couldn't 'a' done itbetter justice."

  "I took it all in," responded Mr. Cobb, who was pleased that "mother"agreed with him about Rebecca. "I ain't sure but she's goin' to turnout somethin' remarkable,--a singer, or a writer, or a lady doctor likethat Miss Parks up to Cornish."

  "Lady doctors are always home'paths, ain't they?" asked Mrs. Cobb, who,it is needless to say, was distinctly of the old school in medicine.

  "Land, no, mother; there ain't no home'path 'bout Miss Parks--shedrives all over the country."

  "I can't see Rebecca as a lady doctor, somehow," mused Mrs. Cobb. "Hergift o' gab is what's goin' to be the makin' of her; mebbe she'lllecture, or recite pieces, like that Portland elocutionist that comeout here to the harvest supper."

  "I guess she'll be able to write down her own pieces," said Mr. Cobbconfidently; "she could make 'em up faster 'n she could read 'em out ofa book."

  "It's a pity she's so plain looking," remarked Mrs. Cobb, blowing outthe candle.

  "PLAIN LOOKING, mother?" exclaimed her husband in astonishment. "Lookat the eyes of her; look at the hair of her, an' the smile, an' thatthere dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, that's called the prettiest childon the river, an' see how Rebecca shines her ri' down out o' sight! Ihope Mirandy'll favor her comin' over to see us real often, for she'lllet off some of her steam here, an' the brick house'll be consid'ablesafer for everybody concerned. We've known what it was to hev children,even if 't was more 'n thirty years ago, an' we can make allowances."

  Notwithstanding the encomiums of Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, Rebecca made a poorhand at composition writing at this time. Miss Dearborn gave her everysort of subject that she had ever been given herself: Cloud Pictures;Abraham Lincoln; Nature; Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joy andDuty; Solitude; but with none of them did Rebecca seem to grapplesatisfactorily.

  "Write as you talk, Rebecca," insisted poor Miss Dearborn, who secretlyknew that she could never manage a good composition herself.

  "But gracious me, Miss Dearborn! I don't talk about nature and slavery.I can't write unless I have something to say, can I?"

  "That is what compositions are for," returned Miss Dearborn doubtfully;"to make you have things to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, youhaven't said anything very interesting, and you've made it too commonand every-day to sound well. There are too many 'yous' and 'yours' init; you ought to say 'one' now and then, to make it seem more like goodwriting. 'One opens a favorite book;' 'One's thoughts are a greatcomfort in solitude,' and so on."

  "I don't know any more about solitude this week than I did about joyand duty last week," grumbled Rebecca.

  "You tried to be funny about joy and duty," said Miss Dearbornreprovingly; "so of course you didn't succeed."

  "I didn't know you were going to make us read the things out loud,"said Rebecca with an embarrassed smile of recollection.

  "Joy and Duty" had been the inspiring subject given to the olderchildren for a theme to be written in five minutes.

  Rebecca had wrestled, struggled, perspired in vain. When her turn cameto read she was obliged to confess she had written nothing.

  "You have at least two lines, Rebecca," insisted the teacher, "for Isee them on your slate."

  "I'd rather not read them, please; they are not good," pleaded Rebecca.

  "Read what you have, good or bad, little or much; I am excusing nobody."

  Rebecca rose, overcome with secret laughter dread, and mortification;then in a low voice she read the couplet:--

  When Joy and Duty clash Let Duty go to smash.

  Dick Carter's head disappeared under the desk, while Living Perkinschoked with laughter.

  Miss Dearborn laughed too; she was little more than a girl, and thetraining of the young idea seldom appealed to the sense of humor.

  "You must stay after school and try again, Rebecca," she said, but shesaid it smilingly. "Your poetry hasn't a very nice idea in it for agood little girl who ought to love duty."

  "It wasn't MY idea," said Rebecca apologetically. "I had only made thefirst line when I saw you were going to ring the bell and say the timewas up. I had 'clash' written, and I couldn't think of anything thenbut 'hash' or 'rash' or 'smash.' I'll change it to this:--

  When Joy and Duty clash, 'T is Joy must go to smash."

  "That is better," Miss Dearborn answered, "though I cannot think 'goingto smash' is a pretty expression for poetry."

  Having been instructed in the use of the indefinite pronoun "one" asgiving a refined and elegant touch to literary efforts, Rebeccapainstakingly rewrote her composition on solitude, giving it all thebenefit of Miss Dearborn's suggestion. It then appeared in thefollowing form, which hardly satisfied either teacher or pupil:--

  SOLITUDE

  It would be false to say that one could ever be alone when one hasone's lovely thoughts to comfort one. One sits by one's self, it istrue, but one thinks; one opens one's favorite book and reads one'sfavorite story; one speaks to one's aunt or one's brother, fondlesone's cat, or looks at one's photograph album. There is one's workalso: what a joy it is to one, if one happens to like work. All one'slittle household tasks keep one from being lonely. Does one ever feelbereft when one picks up one's chips to light one's fire for one'sevening meal? Or when one washes one's milk pail before milking one'scow? One would fancy not.

  R. R. R.

  "It is perfectly dreadful," sighed Rebecca when she read it aloud afterschool. "Putting in 'one' all the time doesn't make it sound any morelike a book, and it looks silly besides."

  "You say such queer things," objected Miss Dearborn. "I don't see whatmakes you do it. Why did you put in anything so common as picking upchips?"

  "Because I was talking about 'household tasks' in the sentence before,and it IS one of my household tasks. Don't you think calling supper'one's evening meal' is pretty? and isn't 'bereft' a nice word?"

  "Yes, that part of it does very well. It is the cat, the chips, and themilk pail that I don't like."

  "All right!" sighed Rebecca. "Out they go; Does the cow go too?"

  "Yes, I don't like a cow in a composition," said the difficult MissDearborn.

  The Milltown trip had not been without its tragic consequences of asmall sort; for the next week Minnie Smellie's mother told MirandaSawyer that she'd better look after Rebecca, for she was given to"swearing and profane language;" that she had been heard sayingsomething dreadful that very afternoon, saying it before Emma Jane andLiving Perkins, who only laughed and got down on all fours and chasedher.

  Rebecca, on being confronted and charged with the crime, denied itindignantly, and aunt Jane believed her.

  "Search your memory, Rebecca, and try to think what Minnie overheardyou say," she pleaded. "Don't be ugly and obstinate, but think r
ealhard. When did they chase you up the road, and what were you doing?"

  A sudden light broke upon Rebecca's darkness.

  "Oh! I see it now," she exclaimed. "It had rained hard all the morning,you know, and the road was full of puddles. Emma Jane, Living, and Iwere walking along, and I was ahead. I saw the water streaming over theroad towards the ditch, and it reminded me of Uncle Tom's Cabin atMilltown, when Eliza took her baby and ran across the Mississippi onthe ice blocks, pursued by the bloodhounds. We couldn't keep fromlaughing after we came out of the tent because they were acting on sucha small platform that Eliza had to run round and round, and part of thetime the one dog they had pursued her, and part of the time she had topursue the dog. I knew Living would remember, too, so I took off mywaterproof and wrapped it round my books for a baby; then I shouted,'MY GOD! THE RIVER!' just like that--the same as Eliza did in the play;then I leaped from puddle to puddle, and Living and Emma Jane pursuedme like the bloodhounds. It's just like that stupid Minnie Smellie whodoesn't know a game when she sees one. And Eliza wasn't swearing whenshe said 'My God! the river!' It was more like praying."

  "Well, you've got no call to be prayin', any more than swearin', in themiddle of the road," said Miranda; "but I'm thankful it's no worse.You're born to trouble as the sparks fly upward, an' I'm afraid youallers will be till you learn to bridle your unruly tongue."

  "I wish sometimes that I could bridle Minnie's," murmured Rebecca, asshe went to set the table for supper.

  "I declare she IS the beatin'est child!" said Miranda, taking off herspectacles and laying down her mending. "You don't think she's a leetlemite crazy, do you, Jane?"

  "I don't think she's like the rest of us," responded Jane thoughtfullyand with some anxiety in her pleasant face; "but whether it's for thebetter or the worse I can't hardly tell till she grows up. She's gotthe making of 'most anything in her, Rebecca has; but I feel sometimesas if we were not fitted to cope with her."

  "Stuff an' nonsense!" said Miranda "Speak for yourself. I feel fittedto cope with any child that ever was born int' the world!"

  "I know you do, Mirandy; but that don't MAKE you so," returned Janewith a smile.

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