Nancy and Flora were going through the garden, stepping between the
squash and tomato vines. Nancy's mother stood in the kitchen door
looking after them.
"Mind you don't hit your clothes on the tomatoes!" she called out.
"No, we won't," they answered back. After they had passed the last bean
pole they walked single file along the foot-path down the hill. The tall
timothy-grass rustled up almost to their waists. Flora went first, with
a light little tilt of her starched skirts. Nancy trudged briskly and
sturdily after. Nancy's old buff calico dress, which had been let down
for her every spring since she was seven years old, and marked its age,
like a tree, by rings of a brighter color where the old tucks had been,
did not look very well beside Flora's pretty new blue cambric. Neither
did Nancy's old Shaker bonnet show to advantage beside Flora's hat,
with its beautiful bows and streamers; but Nancy was not troubled about
that. She cared very little what she wore, so long as she went
somewhere. Flora always had nicer things, but she never minded. Flora
was her cousin; she had come to live with her when her mother died, ten
years before, and her father had considerable money. He lived in the
city.
The two girls were nearly the same age, but Nancy was much the larger;
she looked clumsy and overgrown following slender little Flora. It was
like a dandelion in the wake of a violet. After they had reached the
foot of the hill, they crossed some low meadow-land. It was quite wet,
little dark pools glimmered between the clumps of rank grasses. Some
fine pink orchid flowers were very thick, but they did not stop to pick
any. They were going to see the Indians. Their eyes were fixed upon some
white tents ahead. They had been there once before with Nancy's father,
but the same sensations of curiosity and exhilarating fear were upon
them now.
"Nancy," whispered Flora, fearfully.
"What say?"
"_Is_ that a--tomahawk in that tent door?"
"No; it's a hoe," returned Nancy, peering with anxious eyes.
Several Indian women and children were moving about; one Indian man was
scraping some birch bark at a tent door. They did not pay any attention
to the visitors.
Flora nudged Nancy. "Go along," said she.
"No, you," returned Nancy, pushing Flora.
"I don't dare to."
They stood hesitating. Finally Nancy gave her head a jerk. "I don't
care; I'm going, if you ain't," said she, and forward she went. Flora
followed.
The tents were arranged like houses on a street, with the open doors
fronting each other. In each tent was a counter loaded with baskets and
little birch-bark canoes, and an Indian woman sat behind it to sell
them.
The girls went from one tent to another and stared about them. Besides
the baskets and canoes, there were sea-gulls' wings and little fur
slippers and pouches. They saw everything. The Indian women offered to
sell, but they shook their heads shyly and soberly.
Finally they went into the tent where the Princess kept store. She was a
large stout woman and a real Indian Princess. Under the counter a little
Indian baby, fast asleep, was swinging in a tiny hammock. Nancy and
Flora nudged each other and eyed it with awe. But it was on the
Princess's counter that they saw _the_ sweet-grass basket. They both
looked at it, then at each other. It was made of sweet-grass, it was
oblong, and had a cover and long handles.
Finally Flora pointed one slim little finger at it. "How much does that
cost?" she asked the Princess.
"Fifty cent," replied the Princess.
Nancy had just eight cents at home. Flora had nothing at all. Her father
sent her money every month, and the last instalment was all spent.
Neither of them could buy the basket, and fifty cents sounded enormous,
but their faces were quite dignified and immovable. It might have been
the echo of their strange surroundings, but they acted as if they had
Indian blood themselves.
They turned about and went out of the tent; they crossed the old road
and climbed the stone-wall. Flora spoke as she picked her way across the
meadow. "Guess I'll buy that basket when my money comes next week," said
she.
Nancy said nothing; she looked gloomy. She stepped in an oozy place and
wet one foot, but she did not mind it. She thought of her eight cents,
and did an example in mental arithmetic. "Eight from fifty leaves
forty-two," she calculated. For the first time she was envious of
Flora. Everybody finds some object to grudge to another. Nancy had found
hers--the sweet-grass basket. If she had expressed her feelings, she
would have said, "Must she have all those pretty dresses and hats and
the sweet-grass basket, too?"
The girls went home silently; they were never great talkers. Flora sat
down in the sitting-room with her aunt; Nancy went up-stairs to the
chamber where she slept with Flora, and got her little purse out of the
corner of her bureau drawer. She counted the eight cents, and puzzled
over the problem how to increase it to fifty. She puzzled over it all
the rest of that day until she went to sleep at nine o'clock. The next
day was Sunday; she puzzled over it as she sat in the pew in church, but
she could not arrive at any solution.
However, the next morning she had an inspiration. Her mother sent her
over to Aunt Lucretia's on an errand. Flora was not allowed to go; it
was a very hot morning, and she was rather delicate. Nancy on her way to
Aunt Lucretia's thought of a way to swell eight cents to fifty. She
trudged down the sunny road in a cloud of dust, her face was scarlet
with the heat, but she ignored all little discomforts.
Aunt Lucretia lived in a nice square white house with a green
lattice-work porch over the front door. She was an elderly lady and
quite rich. She had a Brussels carpet in the parlor and kept a
servant-maid.
[Illustration: "SHE WAS A REAL INDIAN PRINCESS"]
Nancy went in the side door, and through the sitting-room into the front
entry. The parlor door stood open. Aunt Lucretia and her servant,
Henrietta, were in there. Nancy stood looking in.
"Aunt Lucretia," said she.
Aunt Lucretia came forward, with Henrietta following.
"Well, Nancy, what do you want?" said Aunt Lucretia. She was quite a
majestic old lady, very tall and large and short-waisted. She wore her
gray hair in two puffs each side of her face.
"Mother sent your Stanford paper back," replied Nancy.
"Well, you can lay it on the sitting-room table," said Aunt Lucretia.
"Is your mother well this morning?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Nancy laid the Stanford paper on the sitting-room table; then she
followed on into the kitchen after Aunt Lucretia and Henrietta.
"Is there anything else you want, Nancy?" asked Aunt Lucretia.
"I wanted to know if--I didn't know but--you'd like to have me pick
some blackberries for you, Aunt Lucretia."
"Blackberries?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Aunt Lucretia stared reflectively at Nancy. "Do you suppose your mother
would be willing? The sun's pretty hot."
"Yes, ma'am. I know she wouldn't care."
"Well, I do want two quarts of blackberries dreadfully, and there 'ain't
a boy been along. I'm going to have the minister and his wife to tea
to-night, and I want to have blackberry shortcake. Do you suppose you
could pick me two quarts before four o'clock this afternoon?"
"Yes, ma'am. I know where they're real thick."
"Well," said Aunt Lucretia, "you can go home and ask your mother, and if
she's willing, you can go and pick them. Mind you keep out of the sun
all you can. I'll give you seven cents a quart; that's a cent more than
the boys ask."
"Don't you want more'n two quarts, Aunt Lucretia?" asked Nancy, timidly.
"I guess two quarts will be about all you'll want to pick," returned
Aunt Lucretia, grimly.
"No, ma'am; it won't."
"Well, we'll see how you hold out. I want four quarts for jell the last
of the week; but you pick two quarts first, and see."
Nancy went home. She ran nearly all the way.
"You go right into the sitting-room, and sit down with the palm-leaf
fan, and cool off before you do anything else," said her mother, when
she proposed the plan; "you'll have a sun-stroke."
So Nancy had to sit in the dark, cool sitting-room and fan herself for
full twenty minutes before she was allowed to put on her old dress and
Shaker and start on her berrying excursion. Flora wanted to go, too, but
her aunt thought it was too hot; she was apt to have headaches. She sat
on the back door-step shelling pease when Nancy started.
Nancy, bustling off with her two-quart tin pail, glanced back at Flora's
little yellow shaven head bending patiently over the pan of pease in the
doorway. She felt guilty. Was she not going off with the secret
intention of earning money enough to buy that sweet-grass basket before
Flora could? Flora would not have her money until Saturday; this was
Monday. If she could only earn the forty-two cents in the mean time.
Nancy worked hard that week. Her hands and arms got scratched; she had
even a scratch across her nose. The blackberry vines seemed almost like
tangible foes; but she pushed and tussled with them until she had picked
the six quarts.
On Monday Aunt Lucretia had the minister and his wife to tea, and made
blackberry shortcake; on Friday she made blackberry jelly. All Nancy's
part of the contract was promptly fulfilled, but Aunt Lucretia's was
not. She had not a cent of change in her purse when Nancy brought in the
last instalment of berries.
"You'll have to wait two or three days until I can get this bill
changed," said she. "You've been real smart about picking 'em. You've
picked 'em clean, too. Here's a piece of sweet-cake for you."
Nancy went home in the hot sun. Her red, scratched face looked gloomy
and discouraged in the depths of the Shaker bonnet. She nibbled at the
sweet-cake as she went along, but she did not care for it. Here it was
Friday forenoon, and she had to wait two or three days for her forty-two
cents. Flora's money would come, and she would buy the sweet-grass
basket. Nancy felt quite desperate. That afternoon she teased her mother
to let her go over to Aunt Lucretia's again.
"No; you don't go a step," said her mother. "She's making jell', and
you've been over there once to-day. You can sit down with your
knitting-work this afternoon, and be contented."
Nancy sat down with her knitting-work, but she was not contented. It
seemed to her that she must have those forty-two cents. After tea she
begged again for permission to go to Aunt Lucretia's. "It's real nice
and cool out now, mother," she pleaded.
"I don't care how cool it is," said her mother, "you can't go. I don't
see what has got into you."
But the next morning Nancy was really sent over to Aunt Lucretia's on an
errand. She did the errand, then she stood waiting.
"Did your mother want anything else?" asked Aunt Lucretia.
"No, ma'am."
"Well, I guess you had better run home then. It's baking day, and maybe
you can help your mother some. You'd ought to help her all you can,
you're getting to be a big girl. I used to do a whole week's baking
before I was your age."
"Aunt Lucretia!"
"What say?"
"Have you--got that--bill--changed yet?"
"No, I haven't. You mustn't tease. I'm going down to the store in a day
or two, and then you can have it."
So Nancy went home again without her forty-two cents. She wept a little
on the way. Here it was Saturday, and Flora expecting her money on the
noon mail. But it did not come on the noon mail. It did not come until
six o'clock at night, and Flora did not think of buying the basket that
day.
After tea that night, about half-past seven o'clock, Nancy did something
that she had never done before in her life. She went over to her Aunt
Lucretia's without permission. Her mother had gone to one of the
neighbor's. Flora was in the sitting-room reading a story-book. Nancy
stole out of the front door, and hurried down the road.
"What are you over here again for, child?" Aunt Lucretia cried when she
went in.
Aunt Lucretia and Henrietta were in the kitchen, sticking papers over
the jelly tumblers.
Nancy hesitated, and blushed.
"What is it?" asked Aunt Lucretia.
"I--didn't know but--what--you might have got--that bill changed."
"Why, I never saw such an acting child! Can't you wait a minute?
Henrietta, have you got any change?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Henrietta. And she got her purse, and they counted
out forty-two cents. Twenty-two of them were in pennies.
"Now I hope you're satisfied," said Aunt Lucretia, sharply. "Did your
mother know you came over here?"
"No, ma'am."
"Well, you're a naughty girl. I'm surprised at you. I sha'n't want to
hire you to pick berries again if this is the way you do. Go right home,
and mind you tell your mother you've been here."
The forty-two cents, twenty-two of which were pennies, jingled and
weighed heavily in Nancy's pocket. She was not happy going home. She had
meditated going to the Indian encampment that night to buy the basket,
but it looked so dark over the fields that she was afraid to; so she
went straight home. Her mother had returned from the neighbor's; there
she stood in the front door, watching for her.
"Nancy Mann, I want to know where you've been," she cried out, as soon
as Nancy opened the gate.
"Over to--Aunt Lucretia's."
"You went over there, after all the times I told you not to?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What for?"
"I wanted my--forty-two cents."
"Forty-two cents! What do you suppose your Aunt Lucretia thinks of you,
dunning her up this way? Now you come in and light your candle, and go
straight up-stairs to bed."
It was only half-past eight o'clock. Nancy went to bed. Flora sat up and
read her story-book, and did not go up-stairs until after nine. Nancy
pretended to be asleep when she came in, but she was not. She did not go
to sleep for an hour after that. She lay there and cried softly, and
planned.
The next morning was very pleasant. It was Sunday, and all the family
went to church. After church, Nancy and Flora went to Sunday-school.
Sunday-school was out about one o'clock; then they walked homeward
together. Nancy lagged behind, and Flora kept waiting for her.
"Go along; do," said Nancy. "I want to pick these flowers."
Flora wondered innocently what Nancy wanted to pick so many flowers for.
The flowers were mostly yarrow and arnica blossoms, and Flora had always
regarded them as the very commonest kind of weeds.
They were quite near home, when Nancy climbed swiftly over the
stone-wall and lay down behind it. Flora went on without turning her
head. Nancy had spoken so shortly to her that her feelings were hurt.
When she went into the house her aunt asked where Nancy was.
"She's coming," said Flora. "She stopped to pick flowers."
But it was a half-hour before Nancy came. Running as fast as she could
over the meadows, it took some time to reach the Indian encampment and
return. When she finally approached the house, her mother stood in the
doorway, watching. She did not say a word until she came close to her.
"Where have you been?" she inquired.
Nancy hung her head, and was still. She kept one hand behind her.
"Answer me this minute."
"Down to--the Injuns."
"What for? What are you holding behind you?"
Nancy did not answer.
"Bring your hand round!" commanded her mother.
Nancy slowly swung around the hand holding the sweet-grass basket.
"Did you go down to the Injuns to-day, and spend that money you earned
for that basket?" asked her mother.
"Yes, ma'am."
Her mother looked at her. The tears were streaming over her hot cheeks
and her scratched nose; her best hat had slipped back, and the brim was
bent; there was a great green stain on the front of her best dress, and
a rent on the side.
"I can never get that green off your dress in the world," said her
mother. "You'll have to wear it so. Going down to the Injuns to buy
baskets on Sunday, in your best dress and hat! And you went so Flora
shouldn't get it. I can see right through you. Now, Nancy Mann, you just
march straight back with that basket. You ain't going to do any trading
on the Sabbath day while you belong to me."
"Oh, mother!" sobbed Nancy; but she had to go. Her forlorn little figure
disappeared lingeringly between the garden vines and bean poles.
"Hold your dress back," called her mother. "Don't you spoil it any more
than you've done already."
To Nancy, looking through a mist of tears, the green-clad bean poles
seemed dancing forward and the tomato vines creeping to meet her.
Crossing the meadow she wet her feet in her best shoes. But all this was
nothing. That stout Indian Princess displayed suddenly a sense of humor
and a witty shrewdness which seemed abnormal. Her stolid eyes twinkled
under their heavy brows when Nancy explained, tremblingly, how she had
brought the basket back; her mother would not let her buy it on Sunday.
"Me no buy basket Sunday," said the Princess, and she looked loftily
away from the sweet-grass basket shaking in Nancy's shaking hand. She
was not in the least moved by Nancy's horrified, distressed face.
Perhaps something of the ancient cruelty of her race possessed her;
perhaps it was only the contagion of Yankee shrewdness. Nancy dared not
go home with the basket; she went home without it or her fifty cents.
All that afternoon Nancy stayed up in her chamber and wept, while her
best dress was soaking to remove the green stain, if it was Sunday. She
felt as if her heart were broken. She had lost her self-respect, the
sweet-grass basket, and her fifty cents, besides getting a great green
stain on her best dress. Flora tried to comfort her.
"Don't cry," said she. "It's too bad! The Princess is real mean." And
then Nancy sobbed harder.
When her mother was getting supper, her father followed into the pantry.
"I declare I feel sorry for the child," said he. "She's worked real hard
to get that money, and she'ain't ever had so much as Flora. If it wasn't
Sunday I'd go down there this minute, and get back the money or the
basket from those Injuns."
"You'd look pretty going, and you a deacon of the church, after the way
the Princess put it," returned Nancy's mother. "I'm sorry enough for
Nancy, but she ought to have a little lesson. You can go over there
to-morrow morning and get the basket back."
There was a beautiful custard pudding for supper, but Nancy did not want
any.
"Sit up and eat your supper," said her mother. "Your father's going down
to the Injuns in the morning, and see what he can do about it."
However, Nancy still did not care for the custard pudding; everything
tasted of tears.
The next morning, before Nancy's father had a chance to go to the
Indians, the Princess herself came to the back door. Whether she came
from honesty or policy nobody could tell; but she came, and she brought
the sweet-grass basket. She rapped on the door, and Nancy opened it. The
Princess extended the basket without a word. Nancy wiped her hands,
which were damp from washing the breakfast dishes, on her apron, then
she took the basket. Then the Princess struck off across the garden.
Nancy carried the basket into the kitchen. She had a shamefaced and
resolute expression. Flora was in there, and her father and mother.
She went straight to Flora, and held out the basket. Flora drew back,
and looked at her.
"Take it," said Nancy. "It's for you."
Flora looked at her aunt.
"Take it, if she wants you to," said Mrs. Mann.
Flora took it. "Thank you," said she. She went soberly out of the room
with the basket. Nancy returned to her dish-washing at the sink, her
father stared out of the window, her mother came and shoved her aside,
and took the dish-cloth out of her hands.
"There, I'll wash this heavy spider," said she. "You can go and put on
your other dress. I want you to go down to the store for me, and I'm
going to let you buy a couple of yards of that pretty pink calico for a
new apron."
Nancy had admired that pink calico. As she went out of the kitchen her
father caught her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake; then he
patted her head.
"Don't run too fast, and get all tired out," said he.
Nancy put on her buff calico, and went to the store. It was an errand to
take about an hour. She had been gone about a half-hour when the Indian
Princess again came through the bean poles and tomato vines. This time
she was all strung about with baskets. She stood at the kitchen door,
and parleyed with Mrs. Mann and Flora. When she went away she had a
fifty-cent piece in one brown fist, and she was eating a molasses cooky.
Nancy came home with the pink calico, and half a pound of cream of
tartar; her mother and Flora were in the sitting-room, and they laughed
when she entered.
Nancy looked soberly at them. "Here's the calico, and the cream tartar,"
said she.
"See what Flora has got for you," said her mother.
Nancy stared around. There on the table stood two sweet-grass baskets
exactly alike.
"The Princess came again, and she had another basket. I got it for you,"
said Flora.
"Thank you," said Nancy, in a sober voice, but the dark depths of the
Shaker bonnet seemed fairly illumined with smiles.