It was not till next morning that Rebecca's heart really began its song
of thanksgiving. Her Aunt Miranda announced at breakfast, that as Mrs.
Perkins was going to Milliken's Mills, Rebecca might go too, and buy a
serviceable hat.
“You mustn't pay over two dollars and a half, and you mustn't get the
pink bird without Mrs. Perkins says, and the milliner says, that it
won't fade nor moult. Don't buy a light-colored felt because you'll get
sick of it in two or three years same as you did the brown one. I always
liked the shape of the brown one, and you'll never get another trimmin'
that'll wear like them quills.”
“I hope not!” thought Rebecca.
“If you had put your elastic under your chin, same as you used to, and
not worn it behind because you think it's more grown-up an' fash'onable,
the wind never'd 'a' took the hat off your head, and you wouldn't 'a'
lost it; but the mischief's done and you can go right over to Mis'
Perkins now, so you won't miss her nor keep her waitin'. The two dollars
and a half is in an envelope side o' the clock.”
Rebecca swallowed the last spoonful of picked-up codfish on her plate,
wiped her lips, and rose from her chair happier than the seraphs in
Paradise.
The porcupine quills had disappeared from her life, and without any
fault or violence on her part. She was wholly innocent and virtuous, but
nevertheless she was going to have a new hat with the solferino breast,
should the adored object prove, under rigorous examination, to be
practically indestructible.
“Whene'er I take my walks abroad,
How many hats I'll see;
But if they're trimmed with hedgehog quills
They'll not belong to me!”
So she improvised, secretly and ecstatically, as she went towards the
side entry.
“There's 'Bijah Flagg drivin' in,” said Miss Miranda, going to the
window. “Step out and see what he's got, Jane; some passel from the
Squire, I guess. It's a paper bag and it may be a punkin, though he
wouldn't wrop up a punkin, come to think of it! Shet the dinin' room
door, Jane; it's turrible drafty. Make haste, for the Squire's hoss
never stan's still a minute 'cept when he's goin'!”
Abijah Flagg alighted and approached the side door with a grin.
“Guess what I've got for ye, Rebecky?”
No throb of prophetic soul warned Rebecca of her approaching doom.
“Nodhead apples?” she sparkled, looking as bright and rosy and
satin-skinned as an apple herself.
“No; guess again.”
“A flowering geranium?”
“Guess again!”
“Nuts? Oh! I can't, Bijah; I'm just going to Milliken's Mills on an
errand, and I'm afraid of missing Mrs. Perkins. Show me quick! Is it
really for me, or for Aunt Miranda?”
“Reely for you, I guess!” and he opened the large brown paper bag and
drew from it the remains of a water-soaked hat!
They _were_ remains, but there was no doubt of their nature and substance.
They had clearly been a hat in the past, and one could even suppose
that, when resuscitated, they might again assume their original form in
some near and happy future.
Miss Miranda, full of curiosity, joined the group in the side entry at
this dramatic moment.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “Where, and how under the canopy, did
you ever?”
“I was working on the dam at Union Falls yesterday,” chuckled Abijah,
with a pleased glance at each of the trio in turn, “an' I seen this
little bunnit skippin' over the water jest as Becky does over the road.
It's shaped kind o' like a boat, an' gorry, ef it wa'nt sailin' jest
like a boat! 'Where hev I seen that kind of a bristlin' plume?' thinks
I.”
(“Where indeed!” thought Rebecca stormily.)
“Then it come to me that I'd drove that plume to school and drove it to
meetin' an' drove it to the Fair an' drove it most everywheres on Becky.
So I reached out a pole an' ketched it 'fore it got in amongst the logs
an' come to any damage, an' here it is! The hat's passed in its checks,
I guess; looks kind as if a wet elephant had stepped on it; but the
plume's 'bout's good as new! I reely fetched the hat beck for the sake
o' the plume.”
“It was real good of you, 'Bijah, an' we're all of us obliged to you,”
said Miranda, as she poised the hat on one hand and turned it slowly
with the other.
“Well, I do say,” she exclaimed, “and I guess I've said it before, that
of all the wearing' plumes that ever I see, that one's the wearin'est!
Seems though it just wouldn't give up. Look at the way it's held Mis'
Cobb's dye; it's about as brown's when it went int' the water.”
“Dyed, but not a mite dead,” grinned Abijah, who was somewhat celebrated
for his puns.
“And I declare,” Miranda continued, “when you think o' the fuss they
make about ostriches, killin' 'em off by hundreds for the sake o' their
feathers that'll string out and spoil in one hard rainstorm,--an' all
the time lettin' useful porcupines run round with their quills on, why
I can't hardly understand it, without milliners have found out jest
how good they do last, an' so they won't use 'em for trimmin'. 'Bijah's
right; the hat ain't no more use, Rebecca, but you can buy you another
this mornin'--any color or shape you fancy--an' have Miss Morton sew
these brown quills on to it with some kind of a buckle or a bow, jest
to hide the roots. Then you'll be fixed for another season, thanks to
'Bijah.”
Uncle Jerry and Aunt Sarah Cobb were made acquainted before very long
with the part that destiny, or Abijah Flagg, had played in Rebecca's
affairs, for, accompanied by the teacher, she walked to the old stage
driver's that same afternoon. Taking off her new hat with the venerable
trimming, she laid it somewhat ostentatiously upside down on the kitchen
table and left the room, dimpling a little more than usual.
Uncle Jerry rose from his seat, and, crossing the room, looked curiously
into the hat and found that a circular paper lining was neatly pinned
in the crown, and that it bore these lines, which were read aloud with
great effect by Miss Dearborn, and with her approval were copied in the
Thought Book for the benefit of posterity:
“It was the bristling porcupine,
As he stood on his native heath,
He said, 'I'll pluck me some immortelles
And make me up a wreath.
For tho' I may not live myself
To more than a hundred and ten,
My quills will last till crack of doom,
And maybe after then.
They can be colored blue or green
Or orange, brown, or red,
But often as they may be dyed
They never will be dead.'
And so the bristling porcupine
As he stood on his native heath,
Said, 'I think I'll pluck me some immortelles
And make me up a wreath.'