"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! 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 school-girl 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,