"THE STIRRING OF THE POWERS"
Rebecca's visit to Milltown was all that her glowing fancy had painted
it, except that recent readings about Rome and Venice disposed her to
believe that those cities might have an advantage over Milltown in the
matter of mere pictorial beauty. So soon does the soul outgrow its
mansions that after once seeing Milltown her fancy ran out to the
future sight of Portland; for that, having islands and a harbor and two
public monuments, must be far more beautiful than Milltown, which
would, she felt, take its proud place among the cities of the earth, by
reason of its tremendous business activity rather than by any
irresistible appeal to the imagination.
It would be impossible for two children to see more, do more, walk
more, talk more, eat more, or ask more questions than Rebecca and Emma
Jane did on that eventful Wednesday.
"She's the best company I ever see in all my life," said Mrs. Cobb to
her husband that evening. "We ain't had a dull minute this day. She's
well-mannered, too; she didn't ask for anything, and was thankful for
whatever she got. Did you watch her face when we went into that tent
where they was actin' out Uncle Tom's Cabin? And did you take notice of
the way she told us about the book when we sat down to have our ice
cream? I tell you Harriet Beecher Stowe herself couldn't 'a' done it
better 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 turn
out somethin' remarkable,--a singer, or a writer, or a lady doctor like
that 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--she
drives all over the country."
"I can't see Rebecca as a lady doctor, somehow," mused Mrs. Cobb. "Her
gift o' gab is what's goin' to be the makin' of her; mebbe she'll
lecture, or recite pieces, like that Portland elocutionist that come
out here to the harvest supper."
"I guess she'll be able to write down her own pieces," said Mr. Cobb
confidently; "she could make 'em up faster 'n she could read 'em out of
a book."
"It's a pity she's so plain looking," remarked Mrs. Cobb, blowing out
the candle.
"PLAIN LOOKING, mother?" exclaimed her husband in astonishment. "Look
at the eyes of her; look at the hair of her, an' the smile, an' that
there dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, that's called the prettiest child
on the river, an' see how Rebecca shines her ri' down out o' sight! I
hope Mirandy'll favor her comin' over to see us real often, for she'll
let off some of her steam here, an' the brick house'll be consid'able
safer 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 poor
hand at composition writing at this time. Miss Dearborn gave her every
sort of subject that she had ever been given herself: Cloud Pictures;
Abraham Lincoln; Nature; Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joy and
Duty; Solitude; but with none of them did Rebecca seem to grapple
satisfactorily.
"Write as you talk, Rebecca," insisted poor Miss Dearborn, who secretly
knew 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, you
haven't said anything very interesting, and you've made it too common
and every-day to sound well. There are too many 'yous' and 'yours' in
it; you ought to say 'one' now and then, to make it seem more like good
writing. 'One opens a favorite book;' 'One's thoughts are a great
comfort in solitude,' and so on."
"I don't know any more about solitude this week than I did about joy
and duty last week," grumbled Rebecca.
"You tried to be funny about joy and duty," said Miss Dearborn
reprovingly; "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 older
children for a theme to be written in five minutes.
Rebecca had wrestled, struggled, perspired in vain. When her turn came
to read she was obliged to confess she had written nothing.
"You have at least two lines, Rebecca," insisted the teacher, "for I
see 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 Perkins
choked with laughter.
Miss Dearborn laughed too; she was little more than a girl, and the
training of the young idea seldom appealed to the sense of humor.
"You must stay after school and try again, Rebecca," she said, but she
said it smilingly. "Your poetry hasn't a very nice idea in it for a
good little girl who ought to love duty."
"It wasn't MY idea," said Rebecca apologetically. "I had only made the
first line when I saw you were going to ring the bell and say the time
was up. I had 'clash' written, and I couldn't think of anything then
but '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 'going
to smash' is a pretty expression for poetry."
Having been instructed in the use of the indefinite pronoun "one" as
giving a refined and elegant touch to literary efforts, Rebecca
painstakingly rewrote her composition on solitude, giving it all the
benefit of Miss Dearborn's suggestion. It then appeared in the
following form, which hardly satisfied either teacher or pupil:--