UNDER THE PERSIMMON TREE.
Saint Augustine cocked his pretty head on one side and looked
roguishly up into Jim Barlow's face.
"Be you goin' to stay to my house all your life? 'Cause if you be I
know somethin'."
"I hope you do. But, I say, let that celery alone. What's the fun of
pulling things up that way?"
"I was just helpin'. I helps Mamma, lots of times."
Saint Augustine was the second son of Lucetta Stillwell and certainly
misnamed. There was nothing saintly about him except his wonderful
blue eyes and his curly, golden hair. This, blowing in the wind,
formed a sort of halo about his head and emphasized the beauty of the
thin little face beneath.
Ten days had passed since Jim and his mates had come to Corny
Stillwell's cabin and Gerald still lay on his bed there. He was almost
well now, Dr. Jabb said, and to-morrow might try his strength in a
short walk about the yard. His illness had been a severe attack of
measles, which he had doubtless contracted before his leaving home,
and lest he should carry the contagion to the "Lilies," Jim hadn't
been near the house-boat all this time. He had been worried about the
children of his hosts but the mother had calmly assured him:
"They won't take it. They've had it. They've had everything they could
in the way of diseases, but they always get well. I suppose that's
because they are never pampered nor overfed."
"I should think they weren't!" Jim had burst out, impulsively,
remembering the extremely meagre diet upon which they subsisted. In
his heart he wished they might have the chance of "pampering" for a
time, till their gaunt little faces filled out and grew rosy. He had
thought he knew what poverty was but he hadn't, really; until he
became an inmate of this cabin in the fields. To him it seemed
pitiful, when at meal time the scant portions of food were distributed
among the little brood, to see the eagerness of their eyes and the
almost ravenous clutch of the little tin plates as they were given
out. Even yet he had never seen his hostess eat. That she did so was
of course a fact, else she would have died; but the more generous
portions of the meal-pudding which were placed before him made him
feel that he was, indeed, "taking bread from the children's mouths,"
and from the mother's, as well.
Dr. Jabb had gone to the Water Lily, now peacefully moored in "the
loveliest spot on the earth," as Farmer "Wicky" had described it, and
reported Gerald's condition. He had also added:
"He won't need much nourishment till his fever goes down; then, Madam,
if you can manage it you'd best send food across to the cabin for him.
Let a messenger carry it to the entrance of the field and leave it
there, where the lad, Jim, can get it. May not be need for such
extreme precaution; but 'an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of
cure.' Lucetta Stillwell is a noble woman, tied to a worthless husband
whom she adores. They must be terribly poor, though she's so proud
you'd never guess it from her manner. I gave it to Corny hot and
heavy, the other night, and at the time I felt every word I said. I
don't know. He's no more capable of doing a man's part in the world
than that young pickaninny yonder," pointing to Metty on the ground,
fascinated by the jabbering monkeys in their cage near-by.
The doctor had said this to Mrs. Calvert very soon after Gerald was
stricken, and had added a parting injunction:
"Don't over-feed the sick boy and don't begin too soon."
Then he had ridden away and promptly forgot all about the case. So
Mrs. Calvert delayed the shipment of food for several days, during
which Jim had ample time to grow mortally sick of hasty-pudding, on
his own account, and anxious on that of Lucetta. But gradually he had
won her to speak more freely of her affairs.
"Yes, I do considerable of the work myself. You see it doesn't come
natural to Corny dear. He's more a child than Saint Augustine, even,
in some things."
"Why, his brother said--Shucks!"
"What did his brother say, please?"
"Oh! nothin'. I didn't mean----"
Lucetta laughed in her gentle, patient way:
"Of course you didn't mean and you don't need. I know Wicky Stillwell
and his wife, Lizzie, from A to Izzard. Good people, the best in the
world and the smartest. But they can't see a fault in Corny--not that
I can either, understand! Only they don't see why it is our farm--it's
his, really--doesn't pay better. But we can't afford to hire and a
woman's not so strong as a man. Yet we're happy. Just as happy as the
days are long and we've never starved yet. It's my faith that there's
bread in the world enough for every mouth which needs it. God wouldn't
be a Father and not so order it. That's one compensation of this life
of mine, that you fancied might be lonely. I can't go to church, I'm
too far away, so I just pretend that all this--around me--is one
church and that He's in it all the time. I named each of the children
after some holy person and I hope each will grow like his namesake--in
time."
"Did you plant this celery?"
"Yes. There was a man rode around, distributing government seeds, came
from some 'Farmer's Institute,' I reckon, and he gave them. Corny said
it was hardly worth while, celery's such a trouble; but I did it on
the sly. Corny loves celery, just loves it; when he's been lucky with
his gun and brings home some game. Then! Won't it be grand to have it
for a surprise? Makes me think, it ought to be hoed right now. I'll
fetch the hoe."
"You'll do nothin' of the sort while I'm loafin' around, idle. Gerry
doesn't need me only now and again and I'm pinin' for a job. You sit
an' rest, or teach the kids. Let me just work for my board. If you'll
tell me where the hoe is, please?"
When found Jim looked at it with dismay. The handle was fairly good
but the steel part was broken in half and practically worthless.
"Reckon Wesley, my eldest son, must have been using it. He's always
trying to 'make something.' I think he'll be a great inventor by and
by. But really, it doesn't seem hospitable--it _isn't_, to let you or
any other guest work. I can manage very well, very well, indeed. You
can sit and read. We have a Shakespeare--what the children haven't
destroyed--a Bible, and two volumes of Scott. We're real proud of our
library and I keep it in my wedding chest. I have to, the children are
so bright and inquiring."
"Too inquiring I think! 'Tain't healthy for 'em to be quite so smart!"
Jim laughed, shouldered his hoe, and marched away across the little
strip of grass between the house and garden--so-called. The ground for
this Lucetta's feeble hands had dug with a spade that matched in
condition the hoe Jim had found. Melon seeds had been sown there and
had duly sprouted. But the "inquiring" minds of the children had daily
pulled them up to see if there were any melons at the root. The
potatoes had received the same treatment, the corn ditto, and the
wonder was that even a few plants had survived their efforts to "make
'em grow faster."
Now here was Saint Augustine "helping" to transplant the celery which
had until now escaped culture at their hands.
Jim worked as he had never done even in all his active young life. His
heart ached with pity for the little woman who faced her hard life so
bravely and so happily, and he was revolving many plans to help her,
and to a greater extent than a few days of farm labor could do.
"'Cause I say, I know somethin'."
"Well, what is it, Sainty?"
"Ain't 'Sainty', but 'Au--gus--tine'. Say it nice, like Mamma does. She
cried last night."
"Never!"
"Yep, she did! She cried an' she talked to herself right outside the
winder where I sleep. She kep' callin' 'Corny! Corny! come home!' Just
that way she said it and he didn't answer a word. Corny's my papa,
don't you know? He goes off times and stays an' Wesley says my mamma
gets scared he will be killed with his gun. Say, I'm goin' to run away
and find him. I am so. Don't you tell. But I am. I'm goin' to find
that monkey cage and I'm going to travel all around the world and show
'em to folks for money. That's what my papa said, that morning when we
let 'em out and he went away. He said, my papa said: 'Suppose younkers
we start a circus of our own?' He said he'd always wanted to do it and
he knows the best things they is. He's terrible smart, my papa is. My
mamma says so, and she knows. My mamma and my papa know every single
thing there is. My papa he knows a place where a man that lived
hunderds and millions years ago dug a hole an' put something in it, I
reckon money; and my papa says if he'd a mind to he could go and dig
it right square up, out the ground, and buy my mamma a silk dress an'
me a little cart all red an'----"
"There, chatterbox! Get out the way! If you want to help, take that
little bucket to the spring and bring it full of water, to sprinkle
these plants."
"All right," cheerfully answered Saint Augustine, and ran swiftly
away.
Alas! he did not run swiftly back! Jim forgot all about him but toiled
faithfully on till little Saint Anne came out to call him to dinner.
She was his favorite of all the children, a tender-hearted little
maid with her mother's face and her mother's serene gentleness of
manner.
"Your dinner's ready, Mister Jim, and it's a mighty nice one, too. My
mamma said they was more that chicken than any sick boy could eat and
you was to have some. Wesley said couldn't we all have some but mamma
said no, 'twasn't ours. Chicken's nice, ain't it, with gravy?
Sometimes, don't you know? we have _'possum_, or _rabbit_, or
something _fine_. Sometimes, too, if papa's been to Uncle Wicky's he
fetches home a pie! Think o' that! Yes, sir, a _pie_! My Aunt Lizzie
makes 'em. Mamma never does. I guess--I guess, maybe, she thinks they
isn't healthy. Mamma's mighty partic'lar 't we shan't have 'rich
food;' that's what she calls Aunt Lizzie's pies, and maybe your
chicken, and the sick boy's cream. My mamma dassent let us use any
cream, ourselves. She has to keep it for papa's butter. _She_ don't
eat any butter. It doesn't agree with her stummy. I guess she thinks
it don't with mine. I never have any. The sick boy has all he wants,
don't he? But Daisy cow don't make such a terrible lot, Daisy don't.
Papa says she ought to have more eatings and 't our pasture's poor.
Mamma says Daisy's a real good cow. She don't really know what we
childern would do without her. Daisy gives us our dinners. Sometimes,
on Sundays, mamma gives us a little milk just fresh milked, before she
churns it into papa's butter. It's nicer 'an buttermilk, ain't it? And
I shall never forget what Sunday's like, with the sweet, doo-licious
milk, an' our other clo'es on. Each of us has other clo'es--think of
that! You have 'em, too, don't you? what your folks sent you from that
boat where you used to live."
"The boat where he used to live!" Little Saint Anne's words spoke the
thought of his own heart. The ten days since he had left it made the
Water Lily seem far back in his life and gave him a wild desire to run
off and find it again. Why should he, whom Gerald had openly despised,
be chained to that boy's bedside? Why should his own holiday be
spoiled for a stranger, an interloper? There had been times, many of
them, when he had almost hated Gerald, who was by no means a patient
invalid. But whenever this feeling arose Jim had but to look at
patient Lucetta and remember that, but for him, she would be alone in
her care for her sick guest.
Now he was growing homesick again for the sight of dear faces and the
pretty Water Lily, and to put that longing aside, he asked:
"Saint Anne, do you think you could carry a dish very carefully? If it
had chicken on it could you hold it right side up and not lose a
single bit? Because if you could, or can, I 'low the best thing you
could do would be to ask mamma to send that nice dinner out here. Then
we two would go down by the spring and sit under the persimmon tree
and eat it. Just you and I together. Think of that!"
Saint Anne's face lighted brilliantly, then instantly clouded. "None
the rest? Not Wesley, nor Saint Augustine, nor Dorcas, nor Sheba, nor
teeny-tiny David boy? Just me alone? I--I couldn't. Mamma says it's
mean to be stingy of our things, so when I have two 'simmonses I
always give one to who's nearest. Not to give chicken would be
meaner--'meaner 'n pussley'! I don't mind being hungry--not much I
don't mind it--but when any of us is selfish all papa has to do is say
'Pussley, pussley!' quick, just like that, an' we stop right away.
But--but I'll bring yours, if mamma'll let me, and I'll turn my face
right the other way while you eat it, so I shan't be tempted to 'covet
my neighbor's--anything that is his.' That's in my kittenchasm that we
childern say to mamma every Sunday, after we've had our milk. I'll run
right away now."
Quite sure that his request would be granted and hoping that the
surplus of Gerald's dinner would be plentiful, Jim went to the spring
and filled the rusty bucket always waiting there. Then he plucked six
big burdock leaves and arranged them on a boulder. The little maid of
the sweet, serious eyes had taught him a lesson in unselfishness; and
whether the portion coming to him were much or little, each child
should have its share.
Then he looked up and saw Saint Anne returning. Upon her outstretched
arms she balanced the pewter platter, and upon this was set--Oh!
glory! one whole, small chicken delicately roasted, as only Chloe
could have prepared it. A half dozen biscuits flanked it and a big
bunch of grapes. A tin cup fairly shone in its high state of polish,
but its brilliancy was nothing as compared with the shining face of
Saint Anne.
Behind her trailed four brothers and sisters, each stepping very
softly as if in awe of the unexpected feast before them. The fifth
child was missing, Saint Augustine, the mischief of the household, who
was oftener under foot than out of sight.
"Where's other brother, Saint Anne? Shall we wait for him? Did your
mother save any for herself? Did Gerald need me?"
It was a long string of questions to be answered and the little girl
counted them off upon her fingers.
"I don't know where Saint Augustine is. Likely he'll be 'round real
soon. I guess we won't wait--I mean the others needn't--they look so
watery around the mouth. No, mamma didn't save any. She said she
didn't care for it. Funny, wasn't that? As if anybody, even a grown-up
mamma, could help caring! And the Gerald boy was asleep. I most wish
he would be all the time, he--he speaks so sort of sharp like. Mamma
says that's cause he's gettin' well. Gettin'-well-folks are gen'ally
cross and it's a good sign. What you doing?"
Jim had pulled another burdock leaf and spread a bit of sweet fern
upon it. He had an idea that Dorothy would have objected to the odor
of burdock as mingled with a dinner. Then he carefully sliced with his
pocket knife the daintiest portions of the little fowl and some of the
bread. He added the finest of the grapes and turning to Dorcas and
Sheba, said:
"Now, girlies, Saint Anne brought the dinner away out here, but it's
your job to take this much back to your mother. You are to tell her
that this is a picnic and nobody would enjoy it unless she picnics,
too. Will you tell her? Will you be real careful? If you will I
promise you we others won't eat a mouthful till you get back."
They consented, but not too eagerly. They loved mamma, course; but
they loved chicken, too. It required considerable faith on their part
to go way back to the cabin and leave their dinners behind them,
expecting to find them just as now.
However they started. Dorcas held the stem of the burdock leaf and
Sheba its tip. Being somewhat shorter than her sister, Sheba's end of
the burden slanted downwards. The grass was hummocky. Their steps did
not keep time very well. A fragment of Chloe's well-flavored
"stuffin'" slipped down upon Sheba's fat fingers and--right before she
knew it was in her mouth, yes, sir! Right before!
"Oh! Sheba! You'd oughtn't not to have did that!" reproved Dorcas,
severely. Then she stumbled over a brier. She had watched her sister
too closely to see where her own feet fell, and one little cluster of
grapes rolled to the ground.
"I guess that was 'cause I was lookin' for 'the mote in your eyes' 't
I got a 'beam' in mine so's I couldn't see right smart," observed this
Scripture-taught child, in keen self-reproach.
"Did you get a beam? I didn't. I can see real good. Say, Dorcas,
'twouldn't not do to give mamma grapes what have fell into dirty
grass, would it? Mamma hates dirt so much papa laughs hard about it.
And--and it isn't not nice to waste things. Mamma says 'waste not want
not.' I ain't wantin' them grapes but I can't waste 'em, either. Mamma
wouldn't like that. These ain't our kind of wild ones, we get in the
woods. These are real ones what grew on a vine."
They paused to regard the fallen fruit. How the sunlight tinted their
golden skins. They _must_ taste--Oh! how doo-licious they must taste!
As the elder, and therefore in authority, Dorcas stooped to lift the
amber fruit; and, losing hold of the burdock leaf sent the whole
dinner to the ground.
Then did consternation seize them. This was something dreadful. If
mamma hadn't been so terrible neat! If she'd only been willing to "eat
her peck of dirt," like papa said everybody had to do sometime, they
could pick it all up and squeeze it back, nice and tight on the big
green leaf, and hurry to her with it. But----
"Yes, sir! There is! A yellow wiggley kittenpillar just crawled out of
the way. S'posing he left one his hairs on that chicken? Just suppose?
Why, that might make mamma sick if she ate it! You wouldn't want to
make poor darling mamma sick, like the Geraldy boy, would you, Sheba
Stillwell? Would you?"
Poor little Sheba couldn't answer. She was in the throes of a great
temptation. She hadn't the strength of character of Saint Anne. She
didn't at all like that suggestion of a "kittenpillar's" hair and
yet--what was one hair to such a wicked waste as it would be if they
left all that fine food to spoil, or for the guinea-hen to gobble.
"The guinea-hen eats a lot. She eats kittenpillars right down whole;"
pensively observed Sheba, when she had reached this stage of thought.
"She shan't eat this, then!" declared Dorcas, promptly sitting down
and dividing with great care all this delectable treat.
"Why, little ones, what are you doing? Why aren't you back yonder with
the rest? I don't see Saint Augustine there, either. Do you know where
he is?"
As this simple question interrupted them the conscience-stricken
children began to cry. One glance into their mother's troubled face
had aroused all their love for her and a sense of their own
selfishness.
"Why, babies dear, what's the matter? Have you hurt yourselves?"
"Yes, mamma, we have. We've hurted the very insides of us, in the
place where mutton-taller can't reach an' you can't kiss it well
again. Your dinner was sent to you and--and--_we've et it up_!"
Dorcas delivered herself of this statement in a defiant attitude, her
arms folded behind her, but her little breast heaving. And she could
scarcely believe her own ears when the only reprimand she received
was:
"Say 'eaten,' darling, not 'et.' I do wonder where my boy is! In some
mischief, I fear, the precious little scamp!"
But she was still wondering when that day's sun went down.