“Why, Mrs. Dobson, I can’t call you Grandma any more,” cried Kate
Hallock on the day Frank’s corn was harvested home.
“Why not, Kittie, my Clover?” replied the little woman (with a soft
tenderness in her heart that gave a winsome look to her face) as she
glanced upward, for Mrs. Dobson was busy at work moving old red and blue
chests and things to make room for the fine yellow ears on the floor of
a room where her father used to spread the corn to dry years and years
before.
“Why, because,” replied Kate, “you look too young and pretty,” she
added, “to be Grandma any longer.”
“Well, now, if I ever,” said Mrs. Dobson, but Kate was down the stairs
and away, watching for the first load to come. She had stayed in the
field until it was half loaded, and she was afraid to stay longer lest
it should get home before she could, and she did want so to tell all the
hens and Grandma that it was coming.
At last it drew near. Frank was seated on top, just where Kate had
thought she might take a ride; but her proposal to mount there had been
frowned down by Frank in the most approved manner of brothers to
sisters. Harry Cornwall was walking beside the sober old horse, who
without doubt kept up a wondering as to what barn his master owned down
that lane, since he had never drawn corn there before.
The next load of corn Kate did have the pleasure of taking a ride on,
for her father not only gave permission, but lifted her to a seat on a
board laid across it, and Kate enjoyed her bit of victory over Frank, to
her heart’s content.
After the harvest came many frosts, then dear, beautiful, Indian Summer,
which Kate said was just like a whole summerful of days, sweetened and
cooked hard, and then November skies and November leaden everywhere; the
first snow that didn’t amount to much—Thanksgiving that did, and then
winter.
Harry went to school, cut the fire wood, made the fire (Grandma Dobson
kept but one fire in her house, except on grand occasions), fed the
hens, drew water from the well, went for milk, and everything else that
was needed in the brown house in the Lane; and, on Sundays, now that
Mrs. Dobson had company, she did not so much mind the long walk to the
old First church, even if “the going” was icy and bad, for, as the dear
little woman quietly expressed the matter to herself in thought, she did
get so much comfort and nearness to something human, in having Harry in
the house.
One night, when the moonlight was shining very bright, and Harry thought
that he had been sleeping a long time, he awoke suddenly, and lay
wondering what he had waked up for, when he heard a sound just outside
his door. “It’s a mouse trying to get into the corn room,” he said; but
not feeling altogether satisfied, he got out of bed and carefully opened
his door just in time to see a shadow steal across the moonlight on the
floor.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
“O, ’tisn’t a thief; it’s only me,” said Mrs. Dobson.
“What is the matter?” questioned Harry.
“Nothing at all, Harry; only I didn’t feel like going to bed very early,
but now I’m going,” and he heard every step on the stairs, and also the
sound of the latch on the door as she went into her own room.
Now Mrs. Dobson would not have told Harry, “for anything,” what I tell
you. She had been reading over just three, old-time, yellow letters, and
reading them had made her feel so lonely that she had gone up to Harry’s
door to listen a moment to his deep breathing in his sleep, just to feel
_sure_ that she was not, as she had been for so many years, all alone in
the house.
Harry Cornwall had grown very dear to Mrs. Dobson before Christmas time;
and, if I must tell all the truth, the lad had grown “pretty dear” to a
number of people beside; Frank Hallock thought him “just the jolliest,
grandest, pokiest, saint-of-a-fellow,” he told Kate, one day in the week
before Christmas, when Frank slyly suspected that Kate was making
something for a present for himself, and tried to make her think that he
thought it was for Harry.
Christmas morning Mrs. Hallock sent to ask Mrs. Dobson if she could
spare Harry to her for an hour or two.
Mrs. Dobson could not help thinking that it was a little bit queer that
Harry should be sent for on that morning of all others, but she said
“Yes—most certainly—to be sure,” and off Harry went to drive with Frank
down to the huts on Peconick Point, with gifts of turkeys, sugar, and
tea, to persons living there.
He had been gone about half an hour when a queer looking wagon came
“wheeling” down the lane.
“Dear me! I wonder who is moving, this cold weather. Christmas day,
too,” sighed Mrs. Dobson, as she looked out and saw it going past. Josh
was enjoying his morning nap behind the stove, but a minute after up
went his long ears, and out came a bark so loud and quick and deep that
it made the little woman jump.
A knock on the door, and in came Hugo.
“Christmas!” he said.
“Wish you many merry Christmases,” said Mrs. Dobson, looking up in
surprise.
“In dem wagin out doors,” said Hugo. “Mad-am Hallock she be coming by
soon,” and without another word Hugo walked out again and presently
reappeared with the headboard of a bedstead in his arms. It was very
bright blue, and most charmingly designed and painted.
Grandma Dobson could only look on in silent wonder as he put it down and
walked off again to fetch another part.
By the time Mrs. Hallock came upon the scene, Hugo had transferred a
complete set of bedroom furniture to Mrs. Dobson’s kitchen—that is, all
but one piece.
While the amazed little woman stood looking at it and wondering in her
heart what it all could mean, with a bang and a thump on the back door,
appeared a rocking chair, and Kate Hallock’s blue eyes peeping through
the cane holes in the back of it.
Kate half stumbled into the room behind her burden, and before Mrs.
Dobson really had time to hurry forward and help, Kate had put the
pretty blue rocking chair right in the middle of the kitchen. The next
thing that she did was to walk up to Mrs. Dobson, seize her in her two
arms and push her right into the blue rocking chair, saying, “There! you
belong in that whenever you are tired, or are not tired either.”
“Kittie-my-Christmas Clover!” was all that Mrs. Dobson could say, and
then the foolish woman made a motion just as though she was going to
pick up the corner of her blue-checked apron (which just matched the
chair, Kate thought), but before she had time, Kate had been at her own
pocket and tossed a nice fine handkerchief into Mrs. Dobson’s lap, so
that her hand fell upon that when she was about to catch up the corner
of the apron.
“What next?” and Mrs. Dobson’s coming tears hastened into a little
laugh. “I’m afraid you’re going to spoil me,” she said.
“Why, Mrs. Dobson, you didn’t think, did you, that all these things,
this bedroom set, was for you?”
“Well, what could I think, I should like to know?”
“I’m so sorry, if you are sorry about it too,” said Kate. “But you see,
when mamma thought Harry was coming to live at our house, she fitted up
a room on purpose, and bought this furniture to put in it; but now, as
he is going to live here, and nobody ever uses that room, and he
wouldn’t take the corn, you know, and everybody says he is such a good
boy, why papa and mamma said he might have it, and so Frank and I give
it to him. Dear me, what a long talk that was!” and Kate dropped half
exhausted into one of the chairs.
“Why, I’m ever so much happier than I should be to have it all mine,”
said Mrs. Dobson, “and when I saw how pretty your room looked, it made
me sorry for Harry, for his chamber upstairs does look dreary
enough—only I try to keep it clean for him.”
Just then Mrs. Hallock arrived, with many apologies to Mrs. Dobson for
not sending her word before, and said she had come to help arrange the
room.
“But it is very cold up there,” said Mrs. Dobson.
“It’ll be such good fun to make a fire on the hearth,” said Kate, and
she did enjoy every bit of the labor of making that fire.
Hugo carried up the new furniture, and carried out the old. The bed did
look a little bit lost in its new frame, but Mrs. Hallock said that
could easily be made all right. They had worked very fast for fear that
Harry would get home before it was all done, and Kate was just spreading
two fresh, home-made towels on the new towel rack, when in came Frank
and Harry.
“Grandma!” said Harry, for she was downstairs, “I’m sure I saw smoke in
the front chimney as we came up the lane.”
“I shouldn’t wonder one mite—it’s Christmas, you know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, and let me build the fire before I went?”
Harry opened the door into one of the front rooms; there was no sign of
fire on the hearth. His room was just above it; he heard a mysterious
tread.
“Who is up in my room?” he cried, and rushed up, to witness the presence
of Mrs. Hallock, Kate, and the transformation.
“You can’t get rid of taking corn this time, when St. Nicholas sends it
to you!” cried Kate, positively trembling with excitement. She was
excited by giving, and also at the effect of her gift.
“Can’t I go, too?” asked Frank of Mrs. Dobson. “I had the hardest work
to keep him from thinking the house was on fire, and made believe I
didn’t see any smoke. My! how the folks did snivel down on the Point
when they saw the turkeys and things. I don’t see why women always will
cry and make such a fuss when they’re glad a bit. Did you say I might
go?”—edging toward the stairway.
“Yes, yes, Frank.” Mrs. Dobson was busy just then peeping into her oven.
She had had hard work to get her new chair covered up in time, so that
Harry should not see it as he entered the kitchen.
Frank tried to step softly, but his boots had been wet, and they creaked
so that it was of no use; so he gave it up, and walked into Harry’s
room.
“Halloa, old fellow! What’s happened here? Most got your wings on,
haven’t you? Real butterfly colors, too—blue and yellow! I declare you
look well in them,” throwing himself into one of the chairs that had
been placed invitingly before the fire.
As for poor Harry, he looked more sorry than glad; and the only words he
said, when he began to realize that the furniture was his own, were:
“I wish my mother could have had them—she did love pretty things so!”
“Didn’t she have them?” asked Kate impulsively. “I thought you said your
mother was a lady once?”
“Yes, she was,” said Harry; “but my father hadn’t money to buy her
pretty things with.”
“Too bad, wasn’t it, mamma? What would you do without pretty things?”
“I should love you, Kate.”
“But I’m pretty, _folks say_,” said Kate archly; and then Harry and
Frank couldn’t help laughing at Kate, and everybody felt better for that
little laugh. And the Hallocks hurried home; for the brothers and
sisters who were married, and had homes of their own, were come to spend
Christmas at the house on the Point, and there was to be a grand
Christmas dinner that day.
Mrs. Dobson and Harry sat down to eat their Christmas dinner; while Josh
looked on, quite certain that his own dinner would come soon after.
After Christmas the winter wore away very rapidly, and in April Harry
Cornwall began his life as a farmer. Mrs. Dobson owned about sixteen
acres of land, and with the aid of her trusty helper, Harry, she
resolved to till it once more, although all the old farmers shook their
heads disapprovingly, and said she had much better let it out “on
shares”; but Mrs. Dobson had found that her side of the “shares” was
always very small, and that the land was getting terribly run down, as
they grew smaller year by year.
Harry did not fancy the life of a farmer, but he loved Mrs. Dobson so
well that he was fully determined to do the best he could, for her sake;
and he helped with the plowing, and the planting he did with his own
hands, following with shrewdness, not the advice of the farmers, but
their own example in regard to the time of planting and the manner of
planting: for he noticed that, like other men, their professions and
their practice seldom agreed. And so, when, one night, his field for
planting corn was all in readiness for work on the morrow, and a
neighbor came, and leaning over the fence, said, “It isn’t time to put
in corn yet for a week or ten days, my boy,” “my boy” watched, and
seeing the next morning his adviser go down the lane with bags of
something very like corn in his cart, he came to the conclusion that he
was going to put in his seed that day, and planted his own.
Frank Hallock made many promises to help on this day or that, but
something was sure to happen, and so well-meaning but unstable Frank was
almost certain to be absent at the appointed time.
As for Kate, she took the liveliest interest in farming occupations both
at home and abroad, and just as certain as she saw anything coming up at
the Point, whether it was potatoes, beans, corn, or any other green
thing, she would within a day or two contrive a drive or a walk down
Pumpkin Delight Lane to the sea, to see if anything that looked like it
was coming out of the ground in Harry’s brown fields.
One day Frank got vexed because he could not have Neptune when he wanted
to drive on the beach, and somehow it would be impossible to tell just
how it did grow—but that little cloud of vexation, instead of clearing,
grew until Kate was thoroughly out of patience with Frank. He became
morose, and didn’t want to go to school.
“Frank don’t feel well,” Mrs. Hallock said to her husband on one of the
warmest days in June, “and I think we may as well let him leave school.”
“O, mamma!” said Kate, “Frank is so far behind now; I don’t see how he
can ever catch up in this world, if he leaves school. He will get behind
me in everything, and then when he goes again in the fall he won’t be in
my classes at all.”
“My head aches!” said Frank; “it aches the whole time,” and so Frank was
given leave to begin his summer vacation in June; but being out of
school did not help the matter one bit; it only grew worse, until Frank
became so thoroughly cross and fretful that nothing pleased him. His
clothes weren’t fit to wear. Other boys whose fathers weren’t one bit
richer than his, according to Frank’s version, had better suits than he
had, and it was mean, downright mean, to make him dress so shabby.
Neptune was a slow-go kind of a horse; getting old, too, and had an ugly
way of stopping, just like a doctor’s horse, at every door-yard gate.
Father was mean; mother didn’t love him half as much as she did Kate;
and, as for Kate, _he_ was nowhere since that Dobson boy, Harry
Cornwall, had come; Kate was growing homely, too, getting freckled, and
was getting as—well—anyhow she acted just like a boy, and boy-girls were
his abomination.
When Kate heard him give utterance to the turn of his grievances, and he
came to the final one, she retorted.
“Poor, little girl-boy!”
Frank struck her on the cheek so sharply that when Kate appeared at the
tea table her finger-marked cheek caused her father to ask what it
meant.
“O, not much,” said Kate, with a glance at Frank as much as to ask,
“What _shall_ I say?”
“Tell me what made the mark on your cheek,” said Mr. Hallock with such
sternness that Kate felt the words jerked out of her, as she said,
“Frank’s fingers, papa.”
“Frank’s fingers, indeed,” ejaculated Mr. Hallock. “Tell me, sir, what
you meant by striking your sister?”
“She called me a girl-boy,” said Frank.
“He called me a boy-girl first, papa, and I didn’t strike him for
it,”—Kate could not resist saying so much in her own favor.
Frank was dismissed from the table and sent to his own room, there to
stay and live upon bread and water until he could beg Kate’s pardon.
“I don’t want him to beg my pardon,” said Kate, “and I don’t want him
shut up, either,” and Kate was following her poor, persecuted brother
out of the room to share his isolated condition, when she was sternly
bidden to return “and not go near Frank again to-day.”
“It is very queer that I can never punish Frank without you taking it
into your head to be punished, too,” said Mr. Hallock.
“Well, papa, I can’t help it. I love him so much, and I’m so sorry for
him.”
“You ought to love him well enough to wish to have him reform,” said her
father; and then the tea went on just as though Frank had not been
dismissed in disgrace—only it did not.
After tea, as Kate could not go near Frank, she went around into Pumpkin
Delight Lane and told Grandma Dobson all about it, and the dear little
woman sympathized with her exceedingly.
The next morning Frank was not at breakfast. Mrs. Hallock went with her
husband on an early train to New York, and Kate found that Frank was
locked into his room for all day.
“Anyhow,” she said, “I’m not forbidden to speak to him to-day,” so she
went up to his door and said,
“Good morning, Frank.”
No answer.
“Good morning, Frank.”
“You didn’t care to say good night,” said Frank in a very gruff voice
mingled with a good deal of rattling at the lock of the door from the
inside.
“O, Frank, you know I couldn’t. Papa told me not to speak to you last
night; but Grandma Dobson is real sorry for you. She gave me some seed
cakes. Want one?”
“No! not for breakfast. I say, what did you have downstairs?”
“I haven’t been to breakfast yet, but I know there is griddle cakes. I
smell them.”
“Fetch me some.”
“Wish I could.”
“Do it then.”
“The door is locked. Can’t put them through the keyhole.”
“The window isn’t locked. Toss them up. I’ll catch, first-rate.”
“Somebody’ll tell.”
“Who cares after I’ve eaten ’em?”
“I’ll try,” and Kate ran down to eat her own breakfast. It was lonely at
the table. The cakes choked her. She couldn’t eat. She buttered and
sugared a plateful for Frank, tossed up one or two, but the window was
too high, and the cakes fell on the ground.
“I know a way,” she shouted, and presently Kate appeared on the
staircase with the plate of cakes in one hand and a broom in the other.
A few minutes later Frank heard a voice that seemed to come out of the
sky; at any rate it came in at his window, saying,
“Here, Frank, here’s your cakes,” and Kate reached out from the window
next to Frank’s the handle of the broom, around which she had tied the
cakes.
Frank took in the broom, saying,
“Jolly for you! Is this all you can get?”
“I guess there’s more. I’ll see,” and away went Kate to the kitchen.
“Laws me!” said the cook, “who wants cakes?”
“O, Frank and I want some more,” said Kate.
“Your mother gave me orders, Miss Kate, and I’m not to give Master Frank
anything.”
“Very well; give me some, then.”
Kate carried the cakes to the table, prepared them for eating, and then
conveyed them on the broom handle to Frank, who received them gladly,
not knowing that Kate had made one more little sacrifice—and more than a
sacrifice—for his sake.