OUT TO SEA
Captain Enos and the boys returned without having found any trace of the
missing cattle, and the villagers felt it to be a loss hardly to be borne
that three of their six cows should have disappeared. The men went about
their fishing even more soberly than before, and the women and children
mourned loudly.
Amanda Cary waited at the spring each day for Anne's appearance. Sometimes
the two little girls did not speak, and again Amanda would make some
effort to win Anne's notice.
"Your father is a soldier," she declared one morning, and when Anne nodded
smilingly, Amanda ventured a step nearer. "You may come up to my house and
see my white kittens if you want to," she said.
There could be no greater temptation to Anne than this. To have a kitten
of her own had been one of her dearest wishes, and to see and play with
two white kittens, even Amanda's kittens, was a joy not lightly to be
given up. But Anne shook her head, and Amanda, surprised and sulky, went
slowly back toward home.
The next morning, as Anne went toward the spring, she met Amanda coming up
the hill, carrying a white kitten in her arms.
"I was just going up to your house," said Amanda. "I was bringing up this
white kitten to give to you."
"Oh, Amanda!" exclaimed Anne, quite forgetting her old dislike of the
little girl, and reaching out eager hands for the kitten which Amanda gave
to her.
"My mother said that we could not afford to keep two kittens," Amanda
explained, "and I thought right off that I would give one to you."
"Thank you, Amanda," and then Anne's face grew sober, "but maybe my Aunt
Martha will not want me to keep it," she said.
"I guess she will," ventured Amanda. "I will go with you and find out, and
if she be not pleased I'll find some one to take it."
The two little girls trudged silently along over the sandy path. Anne
carried the kitten very carefully, and Amanda watched her companion
anxiously.
"If Mistress Stoddard says that you may keep the kitten may I stay and
play a little while?" she asked as they came near the Stoddard house.
"Yes," answered Anne, "you may stay anyway, and I will show you my
playhouse."
Amanda's thin freckled face brightened. "If she won't let you keep the
kitten you may come over to my house every day and play with mine," she
said; and almost hoped that Mistress Stoddard would not want the little
white cat, for Amanda was anxious for a playmate, and Anne was nearer her
age than any of the little girls of the settlement.
Mrs. Stoddard was nearly as much pleased with the kitten as Anne herself,
and Amanda was told that she was a good little girl, her past unkindness
was forgotten, and the two children, taking the kitten with them, went out
to the playhouse under the pines. Amanda was allowed to hold the wooden
doll, and they played very happily together until disturbed by a loud
noise near the shore, then they ran down the little slope to see what was
happening.
"It's Brownie!" exclaimed Anne.
"And our cow and the Starkweathers'," declared Amanda. "Where do you
suppose they found them?"
Jimmie Starkweather drove Brownie up to the little barn, and Mrs. Stoddard
came running out to welcome the wanderer.
"Where did they come from, Jimmie?" she questioned.
"A Truro man has just driven them over," explained Jimmie; "he found them
in his pasture, and thinks the Indians dared not kill them or drive them
further."
"It's good fortune to get them back," said Mrs. Stoddard. "Now you will
have milk for your white kitten, Anne. Since the English sailors rescued
you from the Indians, they've not been about so much."
The kitten was almost forgotten in petting and feeding Brownie, and Amanda
looked on wonderingly to see Anne bring in bunches of tender grass for the
little brown cow to eat.
"I cannot get near to our cow," she said; "she shakes her horns at me, and
sniffs, and I dare not feed her," but she resolved to herself that she
would try and make friends with the black and white animal of which she
had always been afraid.
"Come again, Amanda," said Anne, when Amanda said that she must go home,
and the little visitor started off happily toward home, resolving that she
would bring over her white kitten the very next day, and wondering if her
own father could not make her a doll such as Anne Nelson had.
"Thee must not forget thy knitting, Anne," cautioned Mrs. Stoddard, as
Anne came in from a visit to Brownie, holding the white kitten in her
arms; "'twill not be so many weeks now before the frost will be upon us,
and I must see to it that your uncle's stockings are ready, and that you
have mittens; so you must do your best to help on the stockings," and Mrs.
Stoddard handed the girl the big ball of scarlet yarn and the stocking
just begun on the shining steel needles.
"Remember, it is knit one and seam," she said. "You can sit in the open
doorway, child, and when you have knit round eight times we will call thy
stint finished for the morning. This afternoon we must go for cranberries.
We will be needing all we can gather before the frost comes."
Anne put the kitten down on the floor and took the stocking, eyeing the
scarlet yarn admiringly. She sat down in the open doorway and began her
stint, her mind filled with happy thoughts. To have Amanda speak well of
her dear father, to know that Brownie was safe in the barn, to possess a
white kitten of her own, and, above all, to be knitting herself a pair of
scarlet stockings made Anne feel that the world was a very kind and
friendly place. The white kitten looked at the moving ball of yarn
curiously, and now and then made little springs toward it, greatly to
Anne's amusement, but in a few moments she found that her progress was
slow, and the white kitten was sent off the broad step to play by itself
on the sandy path.
From time to time Mrs. Stoddard would come to look at Anne's knitting, and
to praise the smoothness of the work.
"Your uncle says you are to have stout leather shoes," she said. "Elder
Haven tells me that there will be six weeks' school this autumn and it be
good news."
"Shall I go to school, Aunt Martha?" questioned Anne, looking up from her
knitting.
Mrs. Stoddard nodded, smiling down at the eager little face. "Indeed you
will. 'twill be the best of changes for you. Like as not Elder Haven will
teach thee to write."
"I know my letters and can spell small words," said Anne.
"I'll teach thee to read if time allows," answered Mrs. Stoddard. "Your
Uncle Enos has a fine book of large print; 'Pilgrim's Progress' it's
named, and 'Tis of interest. We will begin on it for a lesson."
That afternoon found Anne and Mrs. Stoddard busily picking cranberries on
the bog beyond the maple grove. Jimmie Starkweather and Amos Cary were
also picking there, and before the afternoon finished, Amanda appeared.
She came near Anne to pick and soon asked if Anne was to go to Elder
Haven's school.
"Yes, indeed," answered Anne, "and maybe I shall be taught writing, and
then I can send a letter, if chance offers, to my father."
"You are always talking and thinking about your father," responded Amanda;
"if he should want you to leave the Stoddards I suppose you would go in a
minute."
Anne's face grew thoughtful. Never had she been so happy and well cared
for as at the Stoddards'; to go to her father would perhaps mean that she
would go hungry and half-clad as in the old days, but she remembered her
father's loneliness, how he had always tried to do all that he could for
her, and she replied slowly, "I guess my father might need me more than
Aunt Martha and Uncle Enos. They have each other, and my father has only
me."
Amanda asked no more questions, but she kept very close to Anne and
watched her with a new interest.
"I wish I could read," she said, as, their baskets well filled, the two
girls walked toward home. "I don't even know my letters."
"I can teach you those," said Anne eagerly. "I can teach you just as my
dear father did me. We used to go out on the beach in front of our house
and he would mark out the letters in the sand and tell me their names, and
then I would mark them out. Sometimes we would make letters as long as I
am tall. Would you like me to teach you?"
"Yes, indeed. Let's go down to the shore now," urged Amanda.
"We'd best leave our berries safely at home," replied Anne, who did not
forget her adventure with the Indian squaws and was now very careful not
to go too far from the settlement, and so it was decided that they should
hurry home and leave their baskets and meet on the smooth sandy beach near
Anne's old home.
Anne was the first to reach the place. She brought with her two long
smooth sticks and had already traced out an enormous A when Amanda
appeared.
"This is 'A,'" she called out. "'A' is for Anne, and for Amanda."
"I know I can remember that," said Amanda, "and I can make it, too."
It was not long before a long row of huge letters were shaped along the
beach, and when Amos came down he looked at them wonderingly.
"Amos, can you spell my name?" asked his sister.
"Of course I can!" replied the boy scornfully. "I'll mark it out for you,"
and in a short time Amanda was repeating over and over again the letters
which formed her name.
After Amos had marked out his sister's name in the sand he started along
the shore to where a dory lay, just floating on the swell of the incoming
tide.
"Amos is going to fish for flounders," said Amanda; "he catches a fine
mess almost every afternoon for mother to cook for supper. He's a great
help."
"Want to fish?" called out Amos as the two little girls came near the boat
and watched him bait his hooks with clams which he had dug and brought
with him.
"Oh, yes," said Anne; "do you think I could catch enough for Uncle Enos's
supper?"
"Yes, if you'll hurry," answered the boy; "climb in over the bow."
The barefooted children splashed through the shallow curl of the waves on
the beach, and clambered over the high bow of the dory. Amos baited their
lines, and with a word of advice as to the best place to sit, he again
turned to his own fishing and soon pulled in a big, flopping, resisting
flounder.
"The tide isn't right," he declared after a few minutes when no bite came
to take the bait. "I'm going to cast off and pull a little way down shore
over the flats. They'll be sure to bite there. You girls sit still. You
can troll your lines if you want to. You may catch something."
So Anne and Amanda sat very still while Amos sprang ashore, untied the
rope from the stout post sunk in the beach, pushed the boat into deeper
water, and jumped in as it floated clear from the shore.
It was a big, clumsy boat, and the oars were heavy; but Amos was a stout
boy of twelve used to boats and he handled the oars very skilfully.
"The tide's just turning," he said; "'twill take us down shore without
much rowing."
"But 'twill be hard coming back," suggested Amanda.
"Pooh! Hard! I guess I could row through any water in this harbor,"
bragged Amos, bending to his oar so lustily that he broke one of the
wooden thole-pins, unshipped his oar, and went over backward into the
bottom of the boat, losing his hold on the oar as he fell. He scrambled
quickly back to his seat, and endeavored to swing the dory about with one
oar so that he could reach the one now floating rapidly away. But he could
not get within reach of it.
"You girls move forward," he commanded; "I'll have to scull," and moving
cautiously to the stern of the boat he put his remaining oar in the notch
cut for it and began to move it regularly back and forth.
"Are you going inshore, Amos?" questioned his sister.
"What for?" asked the boy. "I've got one good oar, haven't I? We can go
along first-rate."
"It's too bad to lose a good oar," said Amanda.
"Father won't care," said Amos reassuringly; "'twa'n't a good oar. The
blade was split; 'twas liable to harm somebody. He'll not worry at losing
it."
The dory went along very smoothly under Amos's sculling and with the aid
of the tide. Amanda and Anne, their lines trailing overboard, watched
eagerly for a bite, and before long Anne had pulled in a good-sized
plaice, much to Amos's satisfaction. He drew in his oar to help her take
out the hook, and had just completed this task when Amanda called out:
"Amos! Amos! the oar's slipping!"
The boy turned quickly and grabbed at the vanishing oar, but he was too
late--it had slid into the water. They were now some distance from shore
and the tide was setting strongly toward the mouth of the harbor. Amos
looked after the oar and both of the little girls looked at Amos.
"What are we going to do now?" asked Amanda. "We can't ever get back to
shore."