The war gardeners went home at noon, but they came back late in the
afternoon. When they finished the tasks they had set themselves, Mrs.
Wilson suggested that they take eggs and radishes and lettuce, and meal
to make ash-cakes, and have a picnic supper at Happy Acres; they might
find some berries to add to the feast, and the boys were always hoping
to catch fish in Tinkling Water, though they seldom did.
The plan was welcomed with enthusiasm, and they had a merry time and
came home in the twilight. Anne, who was to spend the night at Broad
Acres, sat on the porch with Mrs. Wilson and Ruth, knitting and talking.
“Wasn’t it dear of our old soldiers,” said Ruth, “to g-g-give up going
to the Reunion, and have just the little service and parade here, and
give their money to the Red Cross, to help in the war?”
Anne laughed. “Oh, Ruthie! You said ‘the war’ about this war,” she said.
“Well, why not?” Having used the word inadvertently, Ruth now defended
it. “There never was such a big war in the world. And we are in it; it
is our war; some Village b-boys are there and others are going. It is
The War, isn’t it, mother?”
“Yes,” her mother answered slowly. “This is The War. The other--we’ve
been living in its shine and shadow all these years--it is history now;
a war. Why, our old soldiers put in acts what none of us before have
put in words--that this is The War, our war.”
Presently the girls yawned and their fingers went more and more slowly
with their knitting. Mrs. Wilson said an early bed hour would be the
fitting end to their strenuous day. So they went upstairs, and Ruth
escorted Anne to a spacious guest chamber.
“This is the room W-Washington stayed in,” said Ruth.
“I love it,” said Anne, looking around. “Oh! I love Broad Acres. Don’t
you?”
Ruth laughed. “Love it? Why, it’s a part of us. The
way-back-grandfather that c-c-came from England built it like his home
there, and all our people since have lived here. It’s home.” Her voice
lingered and thrilled on the word. Then she threw her arms around Anne
and kissed her.
Anne had left her own old home early in her orphaned childhood, and
now lived, as an adopted daughter, with friends in Washington. She was
happy there and dearly loved; but Ruth, with her intense devotion to
home and family, was always distressed when she remembered that Anne
“didn’t belong to her own folks.”
“I w-wish you lived with us,” she said, kissing Anne, again and again.
“Then I wouldn’t have the fun of coming to see you,” her cousin
reminded her, returning the caresses.
“Sweet William says having you all the time would be like having
Christmas all the year.”
Anne laughed.
“Anne darling,” said Ruth, “I was g-going to stay with you to-night,
but mother has a headache and may want a hot-water bottle or something.
You’ll not mind my staying with her? We’ll be across the hall, at the
other end.”
“Oh! I’m used to staying alone,” said Anne. “My room at home is across
the hall from Aunt Sarah’s.”
Ruth went out and Anne undressed and climbed into the great bed. She
lay there, looking out into the soft summer night, listening to a
mocking bird’s joyous melody. There was a magnolia tree in blossom near
the front window and the night breeze wafted in the delicious odor of
the blossoms. How beautiful and peaceful it all was! Could anything be
lovelier than those great white magnolia blossoms, shining like moons
in the dark foliage? Blossom-moons--fragrant white moons--moons---- The
moons came nearer and nearer. And as they drew nearer, they changed.
They were no longer white and fragrant. They were red and hot. Why,
they were bombs, bombs that Germans were throwing. They exploded with a
great noise and blinding flame and thick, pungent, choking smoke.
“Whizz-bangs, that’s what they are,” Anne thought, recalling something
she had read about bombs that exploded time and time again, like
Chinese firecrackers.
She wanted to get away from them, but she could not. She was in the
thick of the battle.
Suddenly she sat up in bed and opened her eyes. The room was filled
with smoke and there was a glare and a roar around her. Were the
Germans here, attacking The Village? Then her senses awoke. The sounds
that she heard were not the bursting of bombs, but fire crackling and
voices shouting.
She sprang up and ran to the door. Smoke poured in, and through it she
saw leaping flames, a great column of fire rising from the stairway
between her and her cousin’s room.
“Cousin Agnes! Cousin Agnes! Ruth! oh, Ruth!” she called at the top of
her voice.
There was no answer. There was only the horrible roar of the mounting
flames. She slammed the door to shut out the noise which was more
terrifying than the smoke and the flames. She ran to a front window.
The yard was full of people, her friends and cousins, who seemed very
far away and strange, with their excited, anxious faces lighted by the
red glare of the conflagration.
Some one saw her as soon as she opened the shutter and raised a shout
of relief. “There she is! There’s Anne!”
“Anne, Anne! Oh, Anne!”
There was an agonized screech from old Emma. The words were lost in the
roar of the fire or unheeded in the excitement; but Dick knew afterward
that he heard her yell, “That old devil! he’s burnin’ up little Miss
Anne!”
For a minute Anne stood dazed and motionless at the window. But now the
fire had eaten through the door; the air was stifling with lurid smoke;
the roaring, crackling flames came nearer. She was gasping, choking.
She climbed on the window sill.
“Don’t jump! don’t jump! We’ll get you in a minute!” called Dick.
She stood still. It was a fearful distance; she might break her arm,
leg, neck; but--she moved restlessly--anything would be better than
being caught by those awful flames.
“Wait, Anne, wait!” called Mrs. Osborne. “Wait! They are bringing a
ladder.”
A group of men came around the corner of the house, dragging a ladder.
They raised it, but in their haste it was pushed too far to one side
and caught on the window blind. Anne clutched at a swaying rung.
“Stop, Anne! Steady, old girl, steady!”
Dick pushed past Mr. Mallett, went like a cat up the ladder, steadied
the upper end of it against the window sill, while Anne climbed down.
Explanations came by degrees, piecemeal, in ejaculations. When Mrs.
Wilson and Ruth awakened, the flames had made a wall across the hall
which they could not cross. They called and called Anne, but she did
not answer.
“Oh! that’s what I heard in my sleep!” exclaimed Anne. “I thought you
were the Germans.”
At last they had to shut the door as a temporary barrier to the fire.
When it blazed, they climbed on a trellis below one of the windows.
There they clung till help came.
Miss Fanny Morrison, who lived in the cottage next door, had awakened
at last and she ran out, screaming and beating at doors, and aroused
The Village.
As soon as Mrs. Wilson and Ruth and Anne were rescued, people set to
work to save the contents of the house. But the upper floor was cut off
by the burning of the staircase, and the fire had now made such headway
that they succeeded in getting only a few articles from the lower
rooms. The rapidly advancing flames drove them back and they stood, in
helpless, sorrowful groups, like watchers at a deathbed.
“Oh, my home! my home!” sobbed poor Mrs. Wilson.
Mrs. Osborne threw her arms around her. “Thank God, you and Anne and
Ruth are safe.”
“Yes, yes! Thank God for that. But my home, my precious home!”
“Go with Miranda, Agnes; go to The Roost,” urged Red Mayo. “Don’t
distress yourself staying here. We will put your things in the
schoolhouse; that’s safe, I’m sure.”
But the poor lady stood and watched, with fascinated horror, the flames
racing through the house and thrusting fierce, demonlike tongues out of
the windows.
“Stand back! out of the way!” shouted Red Mayo and Will Blair. The roof
had caught; there was a great burst of flame, burning shingles soared
through the air. Fortunately, it was a windless night and the Village
houses were far apart, in lawns and groves.
After that great upflare, the fire subsided. When the east wall toppled
and crashed down, there was another fierce spurt of flame. Then the
fire died down. And at last they all went sadly home.
In the gray morning, an old, bent, black negro man crept out of a shed
on The Back Way and looked with a curious mixture of triumph and terror
at the smoldering ruin, the blackened walls with the windows like
ghastly loopholes. That was all that was left of Broad Acres, which had
been for over a hundred years a home and a landmark.
“Of course you’ll stay right here with us,” said Mrs. Red Mayo Osborne
to Mrs. Wilson, the next morning.
“Undoubtedly!” Mr. Osborne was surprised that his wife considered it
necessary to say so.
“You and Ruth.” “Of course you will.” “Oh, yes!” and “Sure!” exclaimed
Patsy, Sweet William, David, and Dick.
“Why, dears, you haven’t room for us,” said Mrs. Wilson.
“Certainly, there is plenty of room,” said Mrs. Osborne. “I have it
all planned. You and Ruth will stay in ‘the bedroom,’ Patsy will move
out of it, into the dressing room that Sweet William will give up. He
can sleep on a pallet in ‘the chamber’ or go into the ‘tumble-up room’
with Dick and David. Of course you will stay here.”
“What’s that you are saying?” asked Black Mayo, who came up the walk
just then. “‘Stay here?’ You aren’t hoping you can have Agnes and Ruth
with you?”
“Yes, indeed!” said Patsy. “Now, don’t you come and try to hog them
away. They are going to live with us.”
“Indeed they are not,” declared Black Mayo. “They’re going to Larkland.
Van is on the way with the wagon, Agnes, to carry your things. Of
course you are coming to us. Why, we really need you. Think of all
those big empty rooms. And you’ll be such company for Polly when I’m
away.”
While he was arguing the matter, the Miss Morrisons came up the walk,
followed by Mr. Tavis and Mr. Mallett.
Miss Elmira was an invalid, but she had hobbled across The Street with
Miss Fanny to invite Mrs. Wilson and Ruth to come to their cottage.
“It is so convenient, with just the grove between it and Broad--the
schoolhouse,” said Miss Fanny. “And it’s just right for two families;
there are two rooms on each side, with the hall between, like a street,
and we’ll be just as particular about crossing it, we assure you.”
“We spoke for them first. Stay with us, Cousin Agnes, you and Ruth;
please do,” pleaded Sweet William.
“No; they want a home of their own,” said Mr. Mallett. “Miss Agnes, I
ain’t got a house to ask you to, not to call it a house; it’s just a
hole to put my gang of children in. I come to say we-all are going to
build you a house. We’ve been talking it over, Joe Spencer and Benny
Hight and a bunch of others; everybody wants to help. There’s the
sawmill in the Big Woods, and we’ll cut trees and haul lumber and----”
“Shucks!” said Mr. Tavis, in his high, wheezy voice. “Ain’t no sense
in building a house, when there’s one all ready for Miss Agnes and her
gal to live in. I built a big house with upstairs and all that, ’cause
I had the money and I wanted a place like you-alls. My old woman and me
are used to living in one or two rooms, and it comes awkward to have
so much house ’round us. We’re going to move in the little room next
to the kitchen, and, Miss Agnes, you’re to take the rest of the house;
you’re used to having room to spread yourself. We cert’n’ly will be
thankful to you.”
“Dear people! my people! my own family, all of you!” Mrs. Wilson said;
it was some minutes before she could speak between sobs. “I can’t tell
you--I never can say--how grateful I am--how I love you all, for--for
being so dear and good to me.”
“Dear Agnes!” Mrs. Osborne’s arms were around her.
Mr. Mallett cleared his throat loudly. “Good to you!” he said. “Ain’t
you taught my children and every Village child, never asking if you’d
get pay or not, and beating sense in them that ain’t got no sense,
and----”
“Ain’t I seen you grow up from a baby, age of my girl that’s dead?”
said Mr. Tavis, blowing his nose like a trumpet.
Sweet William wailed aloud.
“Sh, sh, son!” His mother soothed him. “Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know,” sobbed Sweet William. “I--I just got to cry.”
“I didn’t know I could love you all better than I did!” exclaimed Mrs.
Wilson. “Oh, you are so good, so dear! But we’ve made up our minds,
Ruth and I, what we are going to do. We are going to live in the
schoolhouse.”
“But, Agnes----” began Red Mayo.
“But, Mayo!” she said. “It was the Broad Acres ‘office,’ just as The
Roost here where you live was the ‘office’ of Osborne’s Rest, and it’s
almost as large. There are two big rooms and a little one. Oh! there is
room and room enough for Ruth and me.”
“But, Miss Agnes----”
“Oh! Cousin Agnes----”
“Agnes dear----”
“But me no more buts,” she said, laughing through her tears. “It is
best; I know it is best for us to make our home there. There’ll not be
room for the Red Cross work----”
“We’ll take that,” said Miss Fanny, hastily.
“You wont! I will,” asserted Mr. Tavis.
It was at last decided that the Red Cross workers were to occupy the
Miss Morrisons’ spare rooms, and Mr. Tavis was comforted with the
promise of furnishing a schoolroom in the autumn.
Mrs. Wilson had her way about living in the cottage in Broad Acres
yard, but The Village had its way about furnishing the rooms. At
first people came pell-mell, haphazard, with their best and filled
the cottage to overflowing. Then Polly Osborne, who was the soul of
order and common sense, took charge of things. She made a list of
house furnishings that had been saved and of those that were needed,
and accepted and rejected offerings accordingly. She sent back several
center tables and big clocks and three or four dozen parlor chairs, and
asked for kitchen utensils and bed linen.
By nightfall, the little home-to-be contained the choicest offerings
of The Village. In the bedroom were the Blairs’ best mahogany wardrobe
and bureau, and the Black Mayo Osbornes’ four-poster bedstead arrayed
with the Red Mayo Osbornes’ lavendered linen sheets. The kitchen stove
had been saved and a procession of housewives had piled up utensils and
pantry supplies. In the living room Mr. Tavis’s red plush rocking-chair
reposed on the Miss Morrisons’ best rag rug.
Beside the window was a bookcase full of books, clothbound and
sheepskin old volumes that had been read and loved, and that had old
names in them, like Mrs. Wilson’s own dear lost volumes which had
belonged to the forefathers of The Village. There was a note from Black
Mayo, saying of course it did not make any real difference whose house
the books were in, because they belonged to any one who wished to read
them, but he’d rather they’d be in her home so his wife would not have
them to dust.
Mrs. Wilson laughed and cried as she read the note.
A procession of people came in with food that broke all conservation
rules--beaten biscuits, batter-yeast bread, fried chicken, baked ham,
and countless varieties of jams and jellies and pickles and preserves.
It was bedtime when at last Mrs. Wilson and Ruth were left alone. They
undressed and hand in hand, they knelt at their bedside, and then they
lay down to rest in the new home, shadowed by the ruins that had been
home the night before.
Who would have thought it possible for so sad a day to be so happy?