NEIGHBORLINESS.
As Muriel neared the shanty on the sand dunes in which lived her dearly
beloved friend, Captain Barney, she was conscious of unusual noises
issuing therefrom. Surely there was some kind of a commotion going on
within the humble dwelling. Separating the sounds as she approached, she
recognized one as laughter (none but Linda Wixon laughed like that), then
there was the clumping of little Zoeth's crutches, and his shrill,
excited chatter. This was followed by a hammering and a chorus of
approving feminine voices.
Muriel hastened her steps. It was impossible to run in the soft sand.
"What can be goin' on in Uncle Barney's shack?" she wondered. "I reckon
he's givin' a party, though I cal'late that isn't likely, he bein' laid
up----" Her thoughts were interrupted by the genial Irishman himself, who
appeared around the corner of the shanty carrying an old rusty stovepipe
which he had replaced with a new one. Rilla noticed that he was stepping
as spryly as ever he had.
"Top o' the mornin' to you, mavourneen," he called. "It's great news I'm
after havin'. Me ol' mither as I've been hungerin' for a sight of these
tin year past is comin' at last to live here on the dunes, and the heart
o' me is singin' a melody like 'The harp that once through Tara's halls
the soul of music shed'; but 'twas Tommy Moore said it that way, not your
ol' Uncle Barney. That's what poets are for, I reckon, to be puttin' into
words for us the joy we can only be feelin'." Then, as they reached the
open front door of the shack, Captain Barney called: "Belay there, folks,
and be makin' yer best bows to our neighbor from across the water."
"Yo-o, Rilly! It's yo' that's come just in time to be tellin' what yo'
reckon's the best place to be hangin' the pictures." It was
fifteen-year-old Lindy Wixon who skipped forward and caught her friend by
the hand as she went on to explain: "I got 'em wi' soap wrappers. I went
all over Tunkett collectin'. Every-un was glad, an' more, to give 'em
when they heard as Cap'n Barney's ol' mither is comin' at last. We want
to purty up the shack so 'twill look homey an' smilin' a welcome to her
the minute she steps into the door."
"Oh-h, but they're handsome!" Muriel said, clasping her hands. Zoeth was
standing near looking eagerly up into the face of his beloved friend.
"Which of 'em do you reckon is purtiest?" he queried; then waited her
reply as though it were a matter of great importance.
Muriel gazed long at the three brightly colored prints which had been
hung on three sides of the room. "I dunno, honest," she said, "they're
all that beautiful, but I sort o' like the one wi' the lighthouse in it
best. The surf crashes over those rocks real natural, now don't it?"
Zoeth clapped his thin little hands. "That thar's the one I chose, too,
Rilly. I knew yo'd choose it."
Sam Peters, who had at one time been a ship carpenter, was busily
hammering at one side of the room where a long low window looked out
toward the sea. "That thar's a windy-seat my Sam is makin'," his wife
explained to Muriel. "They've one up to Judge Lander's where I go Mondays
to wash, and when I was tellin' Mis' Lander how we was plannin' to purty
up Cap'n Barney's shack, bein' as his ol' mither's comin', she said if we
had a couch or a windy-seat she'd be glad to donate some pillas as she
had in the attic, an' when she fetched 'em down, if thar wa'n't a
beautiful turkey-red couch cover amongst 'em."
The window-seat was fast nearing completion and so the group turned
admiring eyes from the pictures to the handiwork of Sam Peters.
"Make way, thar!" his wife was heard to exclaim a moment later from the
rear. Everyone turned to see that portly woman approaching, a somewhat
faded turkey-red lounge cover dragging one fringed corner, while four
pillows of as many different colors were in her arms.
Lindy and Muriel sprang forward to assist her, but Mrs. Sam would permit
them to do nothing but hold the pillows, while she herself placed them at
what she believed to be fashionable angles.
Then with arms akimbo, she stood back and admired the result.
She was sure that Mrs. Judge Lander herself could not have arranged the
pillows with more artistic effect. "We'd ought to _all_ of us fix our
cabins up that fine," she announced, "an' I'm a-goin' to."
"That red's powerful han'some," Mrs. Jubal Smalley remarked. "Thar'd
ought to be a plant settin' on the window sill, just atop o' it."
No one noticed when little Zoeth slipped away, but they all saw him
return triumphantly bearing his greatest treasure, a potted geranium
which had three scarlet blossoms. With cheeks burning and eyes glowing,
the little fellow placed it upon the window sill. "It's for yer mither to
keep," he said, looking up at the Irishman, who was deeply touched, for
well he knew how the little fellow had nursed the plant, which the year
before Lindy had rescued from a rubbish heap in the summer colony.
Out of his savings Captain Barney had purchased from Mrs. Sol a table and
four straight chairs.
When everything was shipshape and Sam Peters was packing away his tools,
Captain Barney spoke. "Neighbors," he began, "in the name of me ol'
mither I want to be thankin' yo'. It's a hard life she's been havin' in
the ol' country, what wi' raisin' tin of her own an' two that she tuk as
were left orphants. Says she, when no one else wanted 'em, 'I'll take
'em, the poor darlints. If thar's allays room for one more, the saints
helpin', we'll stretch that room so 'twill hold the two of 'em.' An' now
that the last of 'em is growd, it's aisy I want her to be takin' it. She
can be drawin' the rocker as yo' all gave me up to the open door an' she
kin jest be settin' an' rockin' an' restin' an' lookin' out at the sea.
'Twill be nigh like Heaven for me ol' mither, an' it's thankin' ye again
I am for all ye've been doin'."
Somebody tried to say something, but it ended in a sincere handshaking,
and many eyes were moist. Then Muriel and her dear friend were left
alone. With an arm about the girl he loved, the old man stood looking out
at sea.
"Rilly gal," he said at last, "how kind folks are in this world. It's a
pleasant place to be livin'."
Captain Barney did not realize that the fisher folk about him were but
returning a bit of the loving kindness which he had shown to them in
their many hours of need.
Glancing at the clock, he said briskly: "Nigh two, Rilly gal. Yer Uncle
Barney must be gettin' ready for the three-forty train up to Boston."
* * * * * * * *
That evening, when Muriel was telling her grandfather all that had
happened, she said: "Grand-dad, I dunno why 'tis, but I feel sorto' as
though things are comin' out different from the way Uncle Barney's
plannin'."
"I reckon that's along of the fact that he's had his heart sot so many
times on his old mither's cruisin' over the big pond, but suthin' allays
kept her anchored, seemed like, on 'tother side."
Then, as the old man rose, he looked out toward the darkening east.
"Storm's a-breedin' at last, Rilly gal. I swan I never knew an equinoxial
to hold off so long. I reckon 'twa'n't git here till 'round about
mornin'." Then he added: "I dunno why 'tis, Rilly gal, but I'm sort o'
dreadin' the big storm this year."
The girl shuddered. A cold night wind was rising. "Grand-dad," she
pleaded, "let's go in an' be readin' in the Good Book."
Every night since the one on which he had cast hate out of his heart the
old man had tried to read from the New Testament to Muriel, and though he
stumbled over many of the longer words, the girl caught the spirit of it
and retold it with her own interpretation.