"LITTLE PLUM PIES."
Ester was in the kitchen trimming off the puffy crusts of endless
pies--the old brown calico morning dress, the same huge bib apron
which had been through endless similar scrapes with her--every thing
about her looking exactly as it had three months ago, and yet so far
as Ester and her future--yes, and the future of every one about
her was concerned, things were very different. Perhaps Sadie had a
glimmering of some strange change as she eyed her sister curiously,
and took note that there was a different light in her eye, and a sort
of smoothness on the quiet face that she had never noticed before. In
fact, Sadie missed some wrinkles which she had supposed were part and
parcel of Ester's self.
"How I _did_ hate that part of it," she remarked, watching the fingers
that moved deftly around each completed sphere. "Mother said my edges
always looked as if a mouse had marched around them nibbling all the
way. My! how thoroughly I hate housekeeping. I pity the one who takes
me for better or worse--always provided there exists such a poor
victim on the face of the earth."
"I don't think you hate it half so much as you imagine," Ester
answered kindly. "Any way you did nicely. Mother says you were a great
comfort to her."
There was a sudden mist before Sadie's eyes.
"Did mother say that?" she queried. "The blessed woman, what a very
little it takes to make a comfort for her. Ester, I declare to you,
if ever angels get into kitchens and pantries, and the like, mother
is one of them. The way she bore with my endless blunderings was
perfectly angelic. I'm glad, though, that her day of martyrdom is
over, and mine, too, for that matter."
And Sadie, who had returned to the kingdom of spotless dresses and
snowy cuffs, and, above all, to the dear books and the academy, caught
at that moment the sound of the academy bell, and flitted away. Ester
filled the oven with pies, then went to the side doorway to get a
peep at the glowing world. It was the very perfection of a day--autumn
meant to die in wondrous beauty that year. Ester folded her bare arms
and gazed. She felt little thrills of a new kind of restlessness all
about her this morning. She wanted to do something grand, something
splendidly good. It was all very well to make good pies; she had done
that, given them the benefit of her highest skill in that line--now
they were being perfected in the oven, and she waited for something.
If ever a girl longed for an opportunity to show her colors, to honor
her leader, it was our Ester. Oh yes, she meant to do the duty that
lay next her, but she perfectly ached to have that next duty something
grand, something that would show all about her what a new life she had
taken on.
Dr. Van Anden was tramping about in his room, over the side piazza, a
very unusual proceeding with him at that hour of the day; his windows
were open, and he was singing, and the fresh lake wind brought tune
and words right down to Ester's ear:
"I would not have the restless will
That hurries to and fro,
Seeking for some great thing to do,
Or wondrous thing to know;
I would be guided as a child,
And led where'er I go.
"I ask thee for the daily strength,
To none that ask denied,
A mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping at thy side;
Content to fill a little space
If thou be glorified."
Of course Dr. Van Anden did not know that Ester Ried stood in the
doorway below, and was at that precise moment in need of just such
help as this; but then what mattered that, so long as the Master did?
Just then another sense belonging to Ester did its duty, and gave
notice that the pies in the oven were burning; and she ran to their
rescue, humming meantime:
"Content to fill a little space
If thou be glorified."
Eleven o'clock found her busily paring potatoes--hurrying a little,
for in spite of swift, busy fingers their work was getting a little
the best of Maggie and her, and one pair of very helpful hands was
missing.
Alfred and Julia appeared from somewhere in the outer regions, and
Ester was too busy to see that they both carried rather woe-begone
faces.
"Hasn't mother got back yet?" queried Alfred.
"Why, no," said Ester. "She will not be back until to-night--perhaps
not then. Didn't you know Mrs. Carleton was worse?"
Alfred kicked his heels against the kitchen door in a most
disconsolate manner.
"Somebody's always sick," he grumbled out at last. "A fellow might as
well not have a mother. I never saw the beat--nobody for miles around
here can have the toothache without borrowing mother. I'm just sick
and tired of it."
Ester had nearly laughed, but catching a glimpse of the forlorn face,
she thought better of it, and said:
"Something is awry now, I know. You never want mother in such a
hopeless way as that unless you're in trouble; so you see you are just
like the rest of them, every body wants mother when they are in any
difficulty."
"But she is my mother, and I have a right to her, and the rest of 'em
haven't."
"Well," said Ester, soothingly, "suppose I be mother this time. Tell
me what's the matter and I'll act as much like her as possible."
"_You_!" And thereupon Alfred gave a most uncomplimentary sniff.
"Queer work you'd make of it."
"Try me," was the good-natured reply.
"I ain't going to. I know well enough you'd say 'fiddlesticks' or
'nonsense,' or some such word, and finish up with 'Just get out of my
way.'"
Now, although Ester's cheeks were pretty red over this exact imitation
of her former ungracious self, she still answered briskly:
"Very well, suppose I should make such a very rude and unmotherlike
reply, fiddlesticks and nonsense would not shoot you, would they?"
At which sentence Alfred stopped kicking his heels against the door,
and laughed.
"Tell us all about it," continued Ester, following up her advantage.
"Nothing to tell, much, only all the folks are going a sail on the
lake this afternoon, and going to have a picnic in the grove, the very
last one before snow, and I meant to ask mother to let us go, only how
was I going to know that Mrs. Carleton would get sick and come away
down here after her before daylight; and I know she would have let
me go, too; and they're going to take things, a basketful each one of
'em--and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother
bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have
made me some, I know; she always does; but now she's gone, and it's
all up, and I shall have to stay at home like I always do, just for
sick folks. It's mean, any how."
Ester smothered a laugh over this curious jumble, and asked a humble
question:
"Is there really nothing that would do for your basket but little bits
of plum pies?"
"No," Alfred explained, earnestly. "Because, you see, they've got
plenty of cake and such stuff; the girls bring that, and they do like
my pies, awfully. I most always take 'em. Mr. Hammond likes them,
too; he's going along to take care of us, and I shouldn't like to go
without the little pies, because they depend upon them."
"Oh," said Ester, "girls go, too, do they?" And she looked for the
first time at the long, sad face of Julia in the corner.
"Yes, and Jule is in just as much trouble as I am, cause they are all
going to wear white dresses, and she's tore hers, and she says she
can't wear it till it's ironed, cause it looks like a rope, and Maggie
says she can't and won't iron it to-day, _so_; and mother was going
to mend it this very morning, and--. Oh, fudge! it's no use talking,
we've got to stay at home, Jule, so now." And the kicking heels
commenced again.
Ester pared her last potato with a half troubled, half amused face.
She was thoroughly tired of baking for that day, and felt like saying
fiddlesticks to the little plum pies; and that white dress was torn
cris-cross and every way, and ironing was always hateful; besides it
_did_ seem strange that when she wanted to do some great, nice thing,
so much plum pies and torn dresses should step right into her path.
Then unconsciously she repeated:
"Content to fill a _little_ space
If _Thou_ art glorified."
_Could_ He be glorified, though, by such very little things? Yet
hadn't she wanted to gain an influence over Alfred and Julia, and
wasn't this her first opportunity; besides there was that verse:
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do--." At that point her thoughts took
shape in words.
"Well, sir, we'll see whether mother is the only woman in this world
after all. You tramp down cellar and bring me up that stone jar on the
second shelf, and we'll have those pies in the oven in a twinkling;
and that little woman in the corner, with two tears rolling down her
cheeks, may bring her white dress and my work-box and thimble, and put
two irons on the stove, and my word for it you shall both be ready by
three o'clock, spry and span, pies and all."
By three o'clock on the afternoon in question Ester was thoroughly
tired, but little plum pies by the dozen were cuddling among snowy
napkins in the willow basket, and Alfred's face was radiant as he
expressed his satisfaction, after this fashion:
"You're just jolly, Ester! I didn't know you could be so good. Won't
the boys chuckle over these pies, though? Ester, there's just seven
more than mother ever made me."
"Very well," answered Ester, gayly; "then there will be just seven
more chuckles this time than usual."
Julia expressed her thoughts in a way more like her. She surveyed
her skillfully-mended and beautifully smooth white dress with smiling
eyes; and as Ester tied the blue sash in a dainty knot, and stepped
back to see that all was as it should be, she was suddenly confronted
with this question:
"Ester, what does make you so nice to-day; you didn't ever used to be
so?"
How the blood rushed into Ester's cheeks as she struggled with her
desire to either laugh or cry, she hardly knew which. These were very
little things which she had done, and it was shameful that, in all the
years of her elder sisterhood, she had never sacrificed even so little
of her own pleasure before; yet it was true, and it made her feel like
crying--and yet there was rather a ludicrous side to the question, to
think that all her beautiful plans for the day had culminated in plum
pies and ironing. She stooped and kissed Julia on the rosy cheek, and
answered gently, moved by some inward impulse:
"I am trying to do all my work for Jesus nowadays."
"You didn't mend my dress and iron it, and curl my hair, and fix my
sash, for him, did you?"
"Yes; every little thing."
"Why, I don't see how. I thought you did them for me."
"I did, Julia, to please you and make you happy; but Jesus says that
that is just the same as doing it for him."
Julia's next question was very searching:
"But, Ester, I thought you had been a member of the church a good
many years. Sadie said so. Didn't you ever try to do things for Jesus
before?"
A burning blush of genuine shame mantled Ester's face, but she
answered quickly:
"No; I don't think I ever really did."
Julia eyed her for a moment with a look of grave wonderment, then
suddenly stood on tiptoe to return the kiss, as she said:
"Well, I think it is nice, anyway. If Jesus likes to have you be so
kind and take so much trouble for me, why then he must love me, and I
mean to thank him this very night when I say my prayers."
And as Ester rested for a moment in the arm-chair on the piazza, and
watched her little brother and sister move briskly off, she hummed
again those two lines that had been making unconscious music in her
heart all day:
"Content to fill a _little_ space
If Thou be glorified."