The flag was to be raised on a Tuesday, and on the previous Sunday it
became known to the children that Clara Belle Simpson was coming back
from Acreville, coming to live with Mrs. Fogg and take care of the
baby, called by the neighborhood boys “the Fogg horn,” on account of his
excellent voice production.
Clara Belle was one of Miss Dearborn's original flock, and if she
were left wholly out of the festivities she would be the only girl of
suitable age to be thus slighted; it seemed clear to the juvenile mind,
therefore, that neither she nor her descendants would ever recover from
such a blow. But, under all the circumstances, would she be allowed to
join in the procession? Even Rebecca, the optimistic, feared not,
and the committee confirmed her fears by saying that Abner Simpson's
daughter certainly could not take any prominent part in the ceremony,
but they hoped that Mrs. Fogg would allow her to witness it.
When Abner Simpson, urged by the town authorities, took his wife and
seven children away from Riverboro to Acreville, just over the border in
the next county, Riverboro went to bed leaving its barn and shed doors
unfastened, and drew long breaths of gratitude to Providence.
Of most winning disposition and genial manners, Mr. Simpson had not
that instinctive comprehension of property rights which renders a man a
valuable citizen.
Squire Bean was his nearest neighbor, and he conceived the novel idea
of paying Simpson five dollars a year not to steal from him, a method
occasionally used in the Highlands in the early days.
The bargain was struck, and adhered to religiously for a twelve-month,
but on the second of January Mr. Simpson announced the verbal contract
as formally broken.
“I didn't know what I was doin' when I made it, Squire,” he urged.
“In the first place, it's a slur on my reputation and an injury to my
self-respect. Secondly, it's a nervous strain on me; and thirdly, five
dollars don't pay me!”
Squire Bean was so struck with the unique and convincing nature of
these arguments that he could scarcely restrain his admiration, and he
confessed to himself afterward, that unless Simpson's mental attitude
could be changed he was perhaps a fitter subject for medical science
than the state prison.
Abner was a most unusual thief, and conducted his operations with a tact
and neighborly consideration none too common in the profession. He would
never steal a man's scythe in haying-time, nor his fur lap-robe in the
coldest of the winter. The picking of a lock offered no attractions
to him; “he wa'n't no burglar,” he would have scornfully asserted. A
strange horse and wagon hitched by the roadside was the most flagrant
of his thefts; but it was the small things--the hatchet or axe on the
chopping-block, the tin pans sunning at the side door, a stray garment
bleaching on the grass, a hoe, rake, shovel, or a bag of early potatoes,
that tempted him most sorely; and these appealed to him not so much for
their intrinsic value as because they were so excellently adapted to
swapping. The swapping was really the enjoyable part of the procedure,
the theft was only a sad but necessary preliminary; for if Abner
himself had been a man of sufficient property to carry on his business
operations independently, it is doubtful if he would have helped himself
so freely to his neighbor's goods.
Riverboro regretted the loss of Mrs. Simpson, who was useful in
scrubbing, cleaning, and washing, and was thought to exercise some
influence over her predatory spouse. There was a story of their early
married life, when they had a farm; a story to the effect that Mrs.
Simpson always rode on every load of hay that her husband took to
Milltown, with the view of keeping him sober through the day. After he
turned out of the country road and approached the metropolis, it was
said that he used to bury the docile lady in the load. He would then
drive on to the scales, have the weight of the hay entered in the
buyer's book, take his horses to the stable for feed and water, and when
a favorable opportunity offered he would assist the hot and panting Mrs.
Simpson out of the side or back of the rack, and gallantly brush the
straw from her person. For this reason it was always asserted that Abner
Simpson sold his wife every time he went to Milltown, but the story was
never fully substantiated, and at all events it was the only suspected
blot on meek Mrs. Simpson's personal reputation.
As for the Simpson children, they were missed chiefly as familiar
figures by the roadside; but Rebecca honestly loved Clara Belle,
notwithstanding her Aunt Miranda's opposition to the intimacy. Rebecca's
“taste for low company” was a source of continual anxiety to her aunt.
“Anything that's human flesh is good enough for her!” Miranda groaned to
Jane. “She'll ride with the rag-sack-and-bottle peddler just as quick as
she would with the minister; she always sets beside the St. Vitus' dance
young one at Sabbath school; and she's forever riggin' and onriggin'
that dirty Simpson baby! She reminds me of a puppy that'll always go to
everybody that'll have him!”
It was thought very creditable to Mrs. Fogg that she sent for Clara
Belle to live with her and go to school part of the year.
“She'll be useful” said Mrs. Fogg, “and she'll be out of her father's
way, and so keep honest; though she's so awful hombly I've no fears for
her. A girl with her red hair, freckles, and cross-eyes can't fall into
no kind of sin, I don't believe.”
Mrs. Fogg requested that Clara Belle should be started on her journey
from Acreville by train and come the rest of the way by stage, and she
was disturbed to receive word on Sunday that Mr. Simpson had borrowed a
“good roader” from a new acquaintance, and would himself drive the girl
from Acreville to Riverboro, a distance of thirty-five miles. That he
would arrive in their vicinity on the very night before the flag-raising
was thought by Riverboro to be a public misfortune, and several
residents hastily determined to deny themselves a sight of the
festivities and remain watchfully on their own premises.
On Monday afternoon the children were rehearsing their songs at the
meeting-house. As Rebecca came out on the broad wooden steps she watched
Mrs. Peter Meserve's buggy out of sight, for in front, wrapped in a
cotton sheet, lay the previous flag. After a few chattering good-bys
and weather prophecies with the other girls, she started on her homeward
walk, dropping in at the parsonage to read her verses to the minister.
He welcomed her gladly as she removed her white cotton gloves (hastily
slipped on outside the door, for ceremony) and pushed back the funny hat
with the yellow and black porcupine quills--the hat with which she made
her first appearance in Riverboro society.
“You've heard the beginning, Mr. Baxter; now will you please tell me if
you like the last verse?” she asked, taking out her paper. “I've only
read it to Alice Robinson, and I think perhaps she can never be a poet,
though she's a splendid writer. Last year when she was twelve she wrote
a birthday poem to herself, and she made 'natal' rhyme with 'Milton,'
which, of course, it wouldn't. I remember every verse ended:
'This is my day so natal
And I will follow Milton.'
Another one of hers was written just because she couldn't help it, she
said. This was it:
'Let me to the hills away,
Give me pen and paper;
I'll write until the earth will sway
The story of my Maker.'”
The minister could scarcely refrain from smiling, but he controlled
himself that he might lose none of Rebecca's quaint observations.
When she was perfectly at ease, unwatched and uncriticised, she was a
marvelous companion.
“The name of the poem is going to be 'My Star,'” she continued, “and Mrs.
Baxter gave me all the ideas, but somehow there's a kind of magicness
when they get into poetry, don't you think so?” (Rebecca always talked
to grown people as if she were their age, or, a more subtle and truer
distinction, as if they were hers.)
“It has often been so remarked, in different words,” agreed the
minister.
“Mrs. Baxter said that each star was a state, and if each state did its
best we should have a splendid country. Then once she said that we ought
to be glad the war is over and the States are all at peace together; and
I thought Columbia must be glad, too, for Miss Dearborn says she's
the mother of all the States. So I'm going to have it end like this: I
didn't write it, I just sewed it while I was working on my star:
For it's your star, my star, all the stars together,
That make our country's flag so proud
To float in the bright fall weather.
Northern stars, Southern stars, stars of the East and West,
Side by side they lie at peace
On the dear flag's mother-breast.”
“'Oh! many are the poets that are sown by Nature,'” thought the
minister, quoting Wordsworth to himself. “And I wonder what becomes of
them! That's a pretty idea, little Rebecca, and I don't know whether
you or my wife ought to have the more praise. What made you think of the
stars lying on the flag's 'mother-breast'? Where did you get that word?”
“Why” (and the young poet looked rather puzzled), “that's the way it is;
the flag is the whole country--the mother--and the stars are the states.
The stars had to lie somewhere: '_lap_' nor '_arms_' wouldn't sound well
with 'West,' so, of course, I said '_breast_,'” Rebecca answered, with
some surprise at the question; and the minister put his hand under her
chin and kissed her softly on the forehead when he said good-by at the
door.