BUSY DAYS
THE news of the operation spread quickly and with it spread the
interesting information that Mother Bab was keeping her sight as a
surprise for David. So it happened that no letters to him contained the
news, that even the town paper refrained from printing the item of heart
interest and David's surprise was unspoiled.
His letters to Mother Bab were long and interesting and always required
frequent re-reading for the mother.
"I wanted to read that letter awful bad," she confessed to Phoebe one
day, "but I didn't. I'm not taking any chances with my eyes. I'm too
glad to be able to see at all. The letter came this morning and Phares
read it for me, but I want to hear it again. Will you read it, Phoebe?
Did David write to you this week yet?"
"No." The girl felt the color surging to her cheeks. "He doesn't write
to me very often. He knows I read your letters."
"Ach, yes. I guess he's busy, too. It's a big change for him to be
learning to be a sailor when he always had his feet on dry land. But
read the letter; it's a nice big one."
Phoebe's clear laughter joined Mother Bab's at one paragraph: "Do you
remember the blue sailor suits you used to make for me when I was a tiny
chap? And once you made me a real tam and I was proud as a peacock in
it. Well, since I'm here and wearing a sailor suit I feel like a
masculine edition of Alice in Wonderland when she felt herself growing
bigger and bigger and I wonder sometimes if I'll shrink back again and
be just that little boy."
Another portion of the letter set Phoebe's voice trembling as she read,
"I must tell you again, mother, how thankful I am that you made it so
much easier for me to go than I dreamed it could be. You are so fine
about it. With a mother as plucky as you I can't very well be a
jelly-fish. It's great to have a mother one has to reach high to live up
to."
"Just like David," said Phoebe as she laid the letter aside. "Of course
I think war is dreadful, but the training is going to do wonders for
many of the men."
"Yes," said the white-capped woman. "Out of it some good will come.
Selfishness is going to be erased clean from the souls of many people by
the time war is over."
"But we must pay a big price for all we gain from it."
"Yes--I wonder--I guess Davie will be going over soon. He said, you
know, that if we don't hear from him for a while not to worry. I guess
that means he thinks he'll be going over."
When, at length, news came from the other side it was Phoebe who was the
bringer of the tidings.
"Oh, Mother Bab," she cried breathlessly one day in autumn as she ran
back from the gate after a visit from the postman, "it's a letter from
France!"
Phares Eby and his mother ran at the news and the four stood, an eager
group, as Phoebe opened the letter.
"Read it, Phoebe! He's over safely!" Mother Bab's voice was eager.
"I--I can't read it. I'm too excited. I can't get my breath. You read
it, Phares."
The preacher read in his slow, calm way.
"_Somewhere in France._
"DEAR MOTHER:
"You see by the heading I'm safe over here. I can't
tell you much about the trip--no use wearing out
the censor's pencils. The sea's wonderful, but I
like dry land better. I'm on dry land now, in a
quaint French village where the streets run up hill
and the people wear strange costumes. The women
wash their clothes by beating them on stones in the
brook--how would the Lancaster County women like
that?"
It was a long, chatty letter and it warmed the heart of the mother and
interested Phoebe and the others who heard it.
"He's a great David," the preacher said as he handed the letter to
Phoebe. "I suppose you'll have to read it over and over to Aunt
Barbara."
He looked at the girl as he spoke. Her high color and shining eyes spoke
eloquently of her interest in the letter. "Ah," he thought, "I believe
she still _likes Davie best_. I'm sure she does."
The preacher had been greatly changed by the events of the past year.
He would always be a bit too strict in his views of life, a bit narrow
in many things. Nevertheless, he was changed. He was less harsh in his
opinions of others since he had seen and heard how thousands who were
not of his religious faith had gone forth to lay down their lives that
the world might be made a decent place in which to live. He, Phares Eby,
preacher, had formerly denounced all that pertained to actors and the
theatre, yet tears had coursed down his cheeks as he had read the
account of a famous comedian who had given his only son for the cause of
freedom and who was going about in the camps and in the trenches
bringing cheer to the men. As the preacher read that he confessed to
himself that the comedian, familiar as he was with footlights, was doing
more good in the world than a dozen Phares Ebys. That one incident swept
away some of the prejudice of the preacher. He knew he could never
sanction the doings so many people indulge in but he felt at the same
time that those same pleasures need not have a damning influence upon
all people.
Phoebe noted the change in him. She felt like a discoverer of hidden
treasure when she heard of the influence he was exerting in behalf of
the Red Cross and Liberty Loans. But she was finding hidden treasures in
many places those days. Strenuous, busy days they were but they held
many revelations of soul beauty.
Every link with Phoebe's former life in Philadelphia was broken save the
one binding her to Virginia. That friendship was too precious to be
shattered. The country girl had written a long letter to the city girl,
telling of the decision to give up the music lessons. "My dear, dear
friend," she wrote frankly, "you tried to keep me from being hurt, but I
wouldn't see. How I must have worried you and how foolish I was! I know
better now. I do not regret my winter in the city and I do appreciate
all you did for me, but I am happy to be back on the farm again. I'm
afraid I tried to be an American Beauty rose when I was meant to be just
some ordinary wild flower like the daisy or even the common yarrow. I
owe so much to you. We must always be friends."
One day in late summer Phoebe fairly radiated joy as she hurried up the
hill and ran down the road to the garden where Mother Bab was gathering
larkspur seeds.
"Oh, Mother Bab, I've such good news about Granny Hogendobler and Old
Aaron!"
"Come in, tell me!"
"I've been to town and stopped to see Granny. You know Old Aaron and
their boy Nason fell out years ago about something the boy said about
the flag and was too stubborn to take back."
"Yes, I know."
"It was foolishness on the part of the father, of course, for he should
have known boys say things they don't mean. Well, the two kept on acting
all these years like strangers. The old man grew bitter. Last year when
the boys went to Mexico he said that if he had a son instead of a
blockhead he'd be sending a boy to do his share down there. It almost
killed him to think of his boy sitting back while others went and
defended the flag. Well, Granny said yesterday she was in the yard and
she heard the gate click. She didn't pay any attention for she knew Old
Aaron was in the front yard under the arbor. But then she heard a cry
and ran to see, and there was Old Aaron with his arms around a big
fellow dressed in a soldier uniform, and when the man turned his head it
was Nason! Granny said it was the greatest day in their lives and paid
up for all the unhappy days when Old Aaron was cross and said mean
things about Nason. Nason had just a day to stay, but they made a day of
it. Granny said, 'I-to-goodness, but we had a time! Aaron wanted to kill
a chicken, for Nason likes chicken so much, but I knew that Aaron was so
excited he'd like as not only cripple the poor thing, so I said I'd kill
it while they talked. I made stuffing with onions in, like Nason likes,
and I had just baked a snitz pie and I tell you we had a good dinner.
But I bet them two didn't know what they ate, for they were all the time
talking about the war and bombs and Gettysburg and France till I didn't
know what they meant.'"
"My, I'm glad for Granny and Old Aaron," Mother Bab said.
"And what do you think!" Phoebe went on. "They are changing the name of
Prussian Street, and some are talking of changing the name of the town,
but I hope they won't do that."
"No, it would be strange to have to call it something else after all
these years."
"I think it's a grand joke," said Phoebe, "that this little town was
founded by a German and yet the town is strong American and doing its
best to down the Potsdam gang. The people of Lancaster County are loyal
to Old Glory and I'm glad I belong here."
She appreciated her goodly heritage, not with any Pharisaical exultation
but with honest gratitude.
"I have learned many things, Mother Bab, and this is one of the big
things I've learned lately: to be everlastingly thankful to Providence
for setting me down on a farm where I could spend a childhood filled
with communications with nature. I never before realized what blessings
I've had all the years of my life. Why, I've had chickens to play with
and feed, cows and wobbly calves to pet, birds to love and learn about,
clear streams to wade in and float daisies on, meadows to play in, hills
to run down while the dust went 'spif' under my bare feet. And I've had
flowers, thousands of wild flowers, to find and carry home or, if too
frail to bear carrying home, like the delicate spring beauty and the
bluet, just to look at and admire and turn again to look at as I went
out of the woods. My whole childhood has been a wonderful one but I was
too blind to see the wonder of it. I see now! But, Mother Bab, I don't
see, even yet, that I should wear plain clothes. I've been thinking
about it lately. I do believe, though, that the plain way is a good way.
Many people enjoy the simple service of the meeting-house more than they
would enjoy a more complex form of worship. I feel so restful and
peaceful when I'm in a meeting-house, so near to the real things, the
things that count."
Mother Bab answered only a mild "Yes," but her heart sang as she
thought, "I believe she'll be plain some day, she and David. Perhaps
they'll come together. But I'll not worry about them; I know their
hearts are right."