please give Jimmy-Boy his ten-o’clock bite while I hunt up Ken. I’m
afraid he’s worrying about the apples.” Carol was glad of anything that
would relieve her from the hateful dusting.
Catching her sunbonnet from its place by the door, Dixie went in search
of her brother who was her confidant and dearest friend. If he were
keeping something secret from her, it would be the first time. Then she
smiled as she thought, “Maybe even Ken needs to count his blessings.”
Singing to cheer herself, she went down the path that led to the old log
barn.
“K-e-n! K-e-n! Where are you, brother?” There was no response, and since
it would be impossible for the lad to be in the barn and not hear the
cheery voice that had called, Dixie’s anxiety increased. She entered the
wide, front door and glanced about. At first, coming as she did from the
dazzling sunshine the girl could not see the boy, who was seated in the
farthest, darkest corner. His hands were over his ears, and that was why
he had not heard her approach. Truly, he did look the very picture of
despair. Instantly Dixie knew that her surmise had been correct.
Something had gone wrong about the apples.
Hurrying to his side, she slipped an arm over his shoulder and laid her
cheek on his thick, red-brown hair. “Brother, dear,” she said, as she
sat beside him on the bench, “here’s Dixie, your partner. Please let me
carry my share of whatever it is.”
The boy reached out and grasped the hand of his sister and held it hard.
When he looked up, there were tears trickling down the freckled face
that was so like her own. “Did you go to town this morning, Ken?” was
the question she asked.
The boy nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I went before sun-up. I heard the
apple-buyer from Reno would be at the inn to-day, and I wanted to be on
hand early. I took along a basket of apples to show, and I thought they
were fine, b-but, Dixie, they w-weren’t fine at all. W-when I saw the
apples from the Valley Ranch, I knew ours were just a twisty little old
cull kind. Tom Piggins was there from the V.R., and he said our apples
are the sort they feed to their hogs. I didn’t stay to show them to the
buyer, I can tell you. I just lit out for home, b-but now there won’t be
any money for you to buy a new stove.”
“I don’t need a new stove,” Dixie said emphatically. “My goodness me,
come to think of it, I wouldn’t have a new stove for anything, now that
I’ve spent two hours and twenty-five minutes polishing the old one. It
looks so fine. I’m sure it will feel heaps more self-respecting, and I
shouldn’t wonder if it would bake better, too.” Then her eyes brightened
with the light of inspiration. “Ken Martin, we’ll give it a chance to
show what it can do right this very minute. You fetch in that basket of
apples you had for a sample, and I’ll make an apple pudding, the kind
you like so much, and we’ll celebrate.”
“Celebrate? For what?” Ken looked up curiously. Was there no end to the
cheerfulness of this sister of his?
Dixie was groping about in her mind for something over which they might
rejoice. “Oh, we’ll celebrate because we have a new teacher,” she
announced triumphantly, and the next thought made her clap her hands
joyfully. “Ken Martin, if it’s what you’d like to do, I wish you’d go
right over to the inn and invite Miss Bayley to lunch.”
Their beautiful mother had always called the noon meal lunch, although
Pine Tree Martin could never remember, and had always called it dinner.
Ken rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and looked up eagerly. “Then you
really aren’t so terribly disappointed about the apples?”
“Disappointed? Goodness, no! I’d feel sort of mean selling that old
stove of ours that’s been so faithful all these years just for
scrap-iron, and, what’s more, I feel sure all this is a blessing in
disguise.” Dixie had risen and was smiling down at her brother, who also
rose.
“Say, Dix,” he said, “you’re as good as a square meal when a fellow’s
hungry.” Then he laughingly added, “But, if not selling the apples is a
blessing, it sure certain is well disguised.”
“Most things are blessings soon or late,” Dixie said. “Now, Ken, you go
and tell Miss Bayley we’re sort of celebrating, and we’d feel greatly
honored if she would come.”
Then into the house Dixie bounced to share her joyous plan with Carol.
“Oh, how I do hope teacher will come,” that little maid said. “Then
we’ll be first to have her, and won’t I crow over that horrid Jessica
Archer though?”
“You’d ought not to feel that way about anybody, Carol, dear,” the older
girl admonished as she sat on the doorstep and began to pare apples. “If
folks are horrid-acting, they are to be pitied, because they can’t be
happy inside. Now, if you like, you may set the table with the best
cloth and china while I make the pudding and put some potatoes in to
bake.”
The violet-blue eyes of the younger girl were shining. It was a great
treat to her to be allowed to open the big old-fashioned cupboard that
held the set of china that had been their mother’s. When Ophelia had
first come to the log cabin, there had been only the thickest and most
serviceable kind of ware, but when Pine Tree Martin found what a
hardship it was for his wife to use it, he had sent to Reno and had
ordered the choicest set they could procure. This was kept carefully
locked in the great old cupboard, and used only on rare occasions.
Jimmy-Boy had been placed in his crib, which was in the lean-to room,
where also was the big four-posted bed in which Ken slept. The two
little girls chatted happily as they prepared for the great event.
“What if teacher can’t come?” Carol paused every now and then to say,
and dozens of trips she took to the open door to look up the trail
toward the cañon road. At last she gave a triumphant squeal.
“Here comes Ken, and teacher is with him. Oh, goodie, goodie, good!”
Carol was pirouetting like a top. “Won’t I brag it over Jessica,
though!”
Then, as the two drew nearer, the small girl called excitedly, “Dixie
Martin, whatever is that thing that Ken’s carrying? It’s wriggling so he
can hardly hold it. Whatever can it be?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BLESSING UNDISGUISED
The two girls ran out to meet their most welcome guest, the new teacher.
Ken, who for the moment had stepped behind the massive trunk of one of
the great old pine trees to hide, then appeared, and Carol gave a shout
as she said: “Why, Ken Martin, if you haven’t got a little pig! Oh-o,
don’t let it get away. I’m terribly scared of pigs.”
No one, looking at the shining, freckled face of the boy, would have
dreamed that only an hour before that same face had been the picture of
misery.
“It’s that blessing in disguise, Dix,” Ken said, as he triumphantly held
up a rather skinny and very young member of the porcine family.
“Why, Kentucky Martin, wherever did you get that pig?” the older sister
inquired. “I didn’t know you had one penny left after you’d bought your
high-topped boots.”
“I didn’t buy him, Dix,” Ken declared. “I had him given to me.”
Here was indeed an astonishing statement, for pigs were valuable. This
one, though, was an unusually skinny-looking specimen. The boy,
believing that he had sufficiently aroused the curiosity of the girls,
went on to inform them:
“Well, as I was going up toward the inn I heard an awful squealing over
in Ira Jenkins’s pen, and I ran to see what was the matter. Seems that
their old sow had always disliked this little pig, and wouldn’t let it
nurse with the others, and so Mrs. Jenkins had been keeping it in the
house behind the stove; but the blacksmith tripped over it this morning,
and he said it would have to go back in the pen where it belonged, even
if the mother-sow ate it up, bones and all. Ira had just put it in the
pen when I came along, but the old sow had made for it and in another
moment the little pig would have been dead, certain-sure. Ira just
leaned over the fence doing nothing, and I said, ‘Aren’t you going to
save that little pig’s life?’ And he answered: ‘No. What’s the use? It
can’t live in our house, and it seems like it can’t live in its own, so
it might as well be dead.’ Then he grinned and said, like he thought I
wouldn’t dare, ‘If you can save that little pig, you can have it.’”
Dixie’s eyes were wide. “Ken Martin, I hope you didn’t get right into
that pen where an angry old sow was. Don’t you know they will turn on a
boy just as quick as anything?”
Ken nodded, and then looked down at his overalls that plainly showed
that he had not escaped without a muddying.
“Yes, I know,” he said, “but I took a chance, and I’m glad I did, for
now we own a pig. I’ve always wanted one, and, oh, Dix, I’m almost glad
we didn’t sell the apples.” Then, as he held the squealing little
creature up to be admired, the boy added, “I’ve named him already.”
Carol sniffed. “I shouldn’t think a pig would need a name,” she said.
Ken chuckled. “I’ve named him ‘Blessing,’ and now if you’ll excuse me,
Miss Bayley, I’ll go and build him a place to live. Carol, will you come
along and hold him while I’m putting up a fence for his pen?”
“Me, hold him? I should say not!” and the dainty little girl held back
her skirts as though the very thought of touching the creature was
contaminating.
“Maybe I can help,” Miss Bayley surprised them all by announcing. “I
never _did_ hold a pig,—we don’t have very many of them in New York,—but
there’s always a first time for everything.”
The boy’s eyes plainly showed his admiration, and down toward the barn
these two went, while the girls returned to the house to put the
finishing touches on the lunch. Half an hour later Carol called from the
door, and a returning shout from Ken carried the message, “Come on down,
first, and see the pen.”
Hand in hand Carol and Dixie darted down the path, and how they laughed
when they looked over into the very small yard that Ken had fenced off.
Too, there was a large box, open at one side, with fresh straw on the
bottom, that would make a fine bed.
The skinny little pig looked up, almost fearfully, at the four laughing
faces that were peering over the top rail at him. “After lunch let’s get
some apples and feed him,” Carol suggested.
Suddenly Dixie thought of something. “Why, Ken Martin, we can’t feed
your little pig apples yet; he’s still taking milk.”
“That’s so,” said the boy, snapping his fingers. Then he added: “I say,
Dix, couldn’t you find the bottle Jimmy-Boy used to have? I can feed him
with that, like as not.”
“I believe I know just where it is,” the little mother said, “but come
now or the apple pudding will be done too much.” And so, promising the
small pig that he would soon return, Ken leaped the fence and they all
went up to the cabin.
A merry lunch it was, and the apple pudding was done to a turn. Indeed,
never before had the old stove baked so well, and it seemed to shine
with pride. Miss Bayley declared, and she meant it, too, that she could
not remember when she had so enjoyed being guest at a luncheon party,
and when, at last, she announced that she must go, as there was a letter
to be written before the stage came, they all trooped with her to the
top of the cañon road.
When they were home again, Dixie declared: “There now, Ken, you said
this morning that you couldn’t think of anything to celebrate about, and
just see what a wonderful day we’ve had. It’s always that way, I do
believe. When a person feels gloomy, if he’d just up and prepare to
celebrate, even if there’s nothing to celebrate about, something will
turn up, certain-sure.”
“You’re right, Dix. You always are,” her brother declared warmly. “Two
things turned up, the pig and Miss Bayley.”
But a harder problem to solve than that of a poor apple-crop was just
ahead of brave little Dixie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A QUEER BANK
It did seem as though some little imp of mischief was trying to worry
poor Dixie Martin. She had been far more sorry about the failure of
their apple-crop than she had confessed, for, although the old stove
would do for another year or two, the little mother knew that Carol’s
best dress was actually shabby, and that night, after the small pig had
been fed with a bottle, to the great delight of Jimmy-Boy, and after he
and Ken were asleep in the lean-to, and Carol in the loft, Dixie sat up
in bed and listened, to be sure than no one was awake.
The light of the full moon streamed in at the small window of the loft,
and so she did not need to light the candle. Lifting the
corn-husk-filled mattress at one corner, she drew forth an old woolen
sock that had belonged to Pine Tree Martin. Nobody knew how the girl,
who had inherited so many of his courageous, optimistic qualities,
treasured that and every other little thing that had belonged to the man
whom she so loved. Indeed, as Carol’s admiration had been all for her
mother, very much of Dixie’s had been for her father, which was not
strange, for she had been old enough to see how selfish were the demands
of the rather weak, though truly beautiful, woman, and how constant were
the willing sacrifices of her father.
The money in the stocking was Dixie’s savings for the entire year, and
she knew, even before she emptied the few dimes and nickels out upon the
counterpane of her bed, that there was nowhere near enough to buy Carol
a store dress, and even if there might be enough for material, who was
there to make it? Kind old Grandmother Piggins on the Valley Ranch had
made them each a dress two years before, the ones that buttoned down the
front, but now she was dead, and there was no one to care for them.
Slowly Dixie counted. There was just two dollars and thirty cents, and
Jimmy-Boy ought to have a warm coat before winter, that is, if he were
to go to school. When he didn’t go, the other three children had to take
turns staying at home with him, and when one only went to school two
days out of every three, one couldn’t make as much headway as one
desired, that is, not if one were as ambitious as Dixie. With a sigh
that would have been perfectly audible had any one been awake to hear
it, the dimes and nickels were replaced, the sock again knotted, and
Dixie was about to put it under the mattress when she suddenly held it
close to her, and, looking up at the sky, she sobbed under her breath:
“Oh, Dad! Dad! You’d know just what I’d ought to do. How I wish you were
here to tell me!”
Just then Carol turned over, and, fearing that she might waken, Dixie
slipped the precious sock into its hiding-place and climbed back into
bed, but not to sleep, for her thoughts kept going over the problem
without finding a solution.
Ever since her father had died, Mr. Clayburn, the kindly banker over at
Genoa, had sent Dixie twelve dollars a month, which, he said, was
interest on money that her father had left there for his children. The
principal, he had assured Ken and Dixie, was invested in good securities
that would probably continue to provide for them the princely income of
twelve dollars a month.
During the summer it was not hard for Dixie to manage, for Ken raised
many things in his garden, but in winter, when there were warm clothes
to buy and no garden to help provide, the little mother found it very
hard to make ends meet, and now it was October and there was only two
dollars and thirty cents in the sock.
“Well,” she thought at last with a sigh, “Carol’s old dress will have to
do, and Jimmy’ll just have to stay at home from school when cold weather
comes.”
It was very late when Dixie Martin closed her eyes in restless slumber,
but even then the little imp of mischief was not satisfied, for, when
the girl’s gold-brown eyes opened wearily, it was on a day when a still
greater problem was to confront her.
CHAPTER NINE
THE “CHARITY BARREL”
It was noon of the day following the luncheon party, and as it was the
one Sunday of the month on which the Reverend Jonathan Cressly held a
religious meeting at Woodford’s Inn, the little Martins had been
attending the Sunday school.
The text had been, “Little children, love ye one another,” but the
kindly old man departed in his rather ancient buggy, drawn by a
shambling old white horse, with a feeling that his talk had not been
entirely successful, for he had heard one little girl, who was very much
dressed up, making fun of the Martin girls because they wore dresses
that buttoned down the front.
“Those Martin children are certainly a problem in the parish,” Mr.
Cressly had told the Home Missionary Society in Genoa, and the women had
collected clothing that they thought might fit, and had sent a brimming
barrel over to the log cabin in Woodford’s Cañon. That was soon after
the father died, but, to their unutterable amazement, the same driver
had brought it back on his cart, saying that Miss Dixie Martin wished
him to thank the ladies, as she knew they meant it kindly, and that
although she and her sister and brothers weren’t needing charity, she
was sure there were many families in the mountains that did—the Washoe
Indians in the creek-bottom, if no one else.
“Whew-gee!” Lin Crandel, the expressman, had ejaculated. “That
red-headed gal stood up like she was the president’s darter, she sure
did, but it was the purty curly-headed one that spieled the most about
how blue-blooded they were. Didn’t folks know as they were
Haddington-Allens of Kentucky? Whew-gee! I kin tell you I felt like
apologizin’ for offerin’ ’em that barrel.”
Of course, after that the ladies of the Home Missionary Society did turn
their energies in other directions.
The four little Martins were at home again, and Dixie was setting out a
cold dinner, for, true to the teaching of his orthodox mother, Pine Tree
Martin had insisted upon one thing, which was that Sunday should be kept
holy, and that no work that was not absolutely necessary should be done
on that day. Since his wife had never worked very much on any day, this
had been no hardship for her.
After the simple meal, Ken said that he was going to walk over to the
Valley Ranch, and that they all might come along if they wished.
Jimmy-Boy was delighted, for if there was one little pig in their home
sty, there were a hundred at the Valley Ranch. Carol liked to go, for
Susie Piggins, aged fifteen years, went to a boarding-school in Reno,
but came home for the week-ends. Dixie usually enjoyed hearing Sue tell
of her experiences, but to-day she said that if the others didn’t mind
she would like to just stay at home and rest.
Ken’s understanding brown eyes gave one quick glance at his
comrade-sister, and noting that she was pale and that she leaned back in
the big grandfather’s chair as though she were unusually weary, he
decided that it would be doing her a kindness to take the other two
children away for the afternoon. Little did he dream that the paleness
came from long hours awake in the night.
The three had been gone for some time when Dixie was awakened from a
light slumber by some one calling: “Whoa, there! Here we are, Dobbin.”
Leaping to her feet, though still feeling a little dazed from having so
suddenly awakened, Dixie opened the door, to see on the path the kindly
banker from Genoa. At once there was panic in the heart of the girl. Why
was he coming in the middle of the month, or indeed why was he coming at
all? For the past year he had sent the money the first of every month by
Ira Jenkins, who did his banking over at Genoa, and was glad, in his
gruff way, to do a good turn for his little neighbors, the Martins.
Samuel Clayburn climbed out of the buggy and smiled at the girl. She
invited him to enter the cabin with a dignified little manner that she
had inherited from Pine Tree Martin, who had stood as straight and erect
as one of the trees that he so admired.
“Won’t you be seated, Mr. Clayburn?” Dixie asked, wondering why her
knees were shaking so that she could hardly stand.
“I can’t stop but two jiffs, little girl, but I thought I’d rather tell
you myself than write; seemed like a more humane thing to do, as I am a
father myself.”
“Oh, Mr. Clayburn,” the child leaned forward eagerly. “Has something
happened to the money? Is it all gone?”
Dixie was sitting on the very edge of a straight-backed chair, and her
folded hands were tightly clenched. Mr. Clayburn was plainly at a loss
to know how to begin. He had not supposed it would be so hard to tell a
small girl that—
“Little Miss Dixie,” he suddenly exclaimed, after having tried in vain
to think of some way to lead gradually up to the matter of business upon
which he had come, “please don’t take what I am going to say too much to
heart.” Then his kind, florid face brightened as an inspiration came to
him. “I have a fine plan,” he assured her, “a very fine plan which will
make it all right in the end. I am sure of that.”
“In the end, Mr. Clayburn? The end of what?” Poor little Dixie
remembered, just then, that that was what had been said when Grandmother
Piggins was dying—“It’s near the end now.”
She gave a little dry sob, and the good man took out his big red
handkerchief and mopped his brow. Then, coughing to clear his throat, he
began on a new tack. “Dixie, my wife has taken a great liking to little
Carol. She saw her last month over at the county fair, and she said then
that she’d like to adopt her to grow up twins with our little Sylvia.
It’s bad for a child to be brought up alone, you know,—makes them
selfish,—and we’re afraid our little daughter is beginning to be
spoiled, and so we’ve had it in mind for some time to adopt another
little girl if we could find a real nice one who needed adopting.”
For a moment the listener sat as one dazed. She could hardly comprehend
what the kind man was saying, but, when he paused to mop his brow again,
Dixie exclaimed: “Oh, but Mr. Clayburn, I couldn’t give up my little
sister, Carol. She surely wouldn’t want to leave Ken and Jimmy-Boy and
me”; but even as she spoke, Dixie feared that she was wrong. Carol would
be eager to go, probably, and what right had Dixie to keep her pretty
younger sister in a log cabin when she might be living in that fine big
white-pillared house in Genoa that was surrounded with a wide lawn and
beautiful gardens?
Then it was that Dixie thought of something, and a little of her
father’s keenness appeared in the thin, freckled face as she said, “Mr.
Clayburn, you didn’t come all the way from Genoa on a Sunday just to say
that, did you?”
The banker confessed that that had not been his original purpose for
making the journey. “You are right, little Dixie,” he said; “I came to
tell you that there has been a depreciation; that is, the securities in
which your father’s small principal is invested, are not as valuable as
they were, and hereafter your monthly income will only be nine dollars
instead of twelve, but, don’t you see, dear child,” the kind man leaned
forward and took her hand, “if Carol comes to live with us, the nine
dollars will go even farther than the twelve did with four of you?”
Dixie nodded miserably. Each member of the little brood was infinitely
dear to her, and she was so proud of Carol, who looked just like their
beautiful mother.
Looking up with tear-brimmed eyes, she said tremulously, “I oughtn’t to
stand in her way if she wants to go, and more than likely she will. She
likes pretty dresses and things that I can’t get for her, ’specially
now, that there’ll only be nine dollars a month.”
The heart of Mr. Clayburn was deeply touched and he hastened to say,
“Little Miss Dixie, don’t you want me to write just once more to your
aunt down South?” He arose as he spoke.
There was a flash of pride in the eyes of the small girl. “No,” she
said. “Never again. We’re not going to push ourselves in where we’re not
wanted.”
“You’re right in one way, Dixie,” the banker agreed, “but it’s my
opinion that your aunt doesn’t know that you exist. She has never opened
even one of the letters. They have been returned just as they were
sent.”
“Then she won’t have the trouble of returning another.” The little girl
also had risen, and, as the banker started toward the door, she
impulsively held out her hand as she said, “Mr. Clayburn, thank you for
being so kind,—I mean about Carol,—and if she wants to go to you, shall
I send you word by Mr. Jenkins?”
“Yes, yes,” the portly gentleman said. Then, as he placed a fatherly
hand on the red-brown head of the girl, who somehow seemed smaller than
he had remembered her, he added cheerfully: “It isn’t as though you
won’t be able to see your little sister often. You and Ken and the baby
can come and have nice visits at our house, and Carol can come here.”