steadfastly refused to be installed a pastor of any church. He was a
devout man, but the love of far places was upon him, and he lived what
Friendship called "a-gypsyin'" off in the hills, now to visit a sick
man, now to preach in a country schoolhouse, now to marry, or bury, or
help with the threshing. These lonely rides among the hills and his
custom of watching a train come in or rush by out of the distance were
his ways of voyaging. Perhaps, too, his little skill at the organ gave
him, now and then, an hour resembling a journey. But in his first youth
he had meant to go away in earnest--far away, to the City or some other
city. Also, though Calliope did not speak of it again, and I think that
the others kept a loyal silence because of my strangerhood, I had known,
since the home coming of Delia More, that Abel Halsey had once had
another dream.
"You wasn't here when the new church was built," Calliope said, looking
up at the building proudly. "That was the time I mean about Abel. You
know, before it was built we'd hed church in the hall over the
Gekerjeck's drug store; an' because it was his hall, Hiram Gekerjeck, he
just about run the church,--picked out the wall paper, left the stair
door open Sundays so's he could get the church heat, till the whole
service smelt o' ether, an' finally hed church announcements printed as
a gift, _but_ with a line about a patent medicine o' his set fine along
at the bottom. He said that was no differ'nt than advertisin' the
printin'-offices that way, like they do. But it was that move made Abel
Halsey--him an' Timothy Toplady and Eppleby Holcomb an' Postmaster
Sykes, the three elders, set to to build a church. An' they done it too.
An' to them four I declare it seemed like the buildin' was a body
waitin' for its soul to be born. From the minute the sod was scraped off
they watched every stick that went into it. An' by November it was all
done an' plastered an' waitin' its pews--an' it was a-goin' to be
dedicated with special doin's--music from off, an' strange ministers,
an' Reverend Arthur Bliss from the City. I guess Abel an' the elders hed
tacked printed invites to half the barns in the county.
"I rec'lect it was o' Wednesday, the one next before the dedication, an'
windy-cold an' wintry. I'd been havin' a walk that day, an' 'long about
five o'clock, right about where we are, I'd stood watchin' the sunset
over the Pump pasture there, till I was chilled through. The smoke was
rollin' out o' the church chimney because they was dryin' the plaster,
an' I run in there to get my hands warm an' see how the plaster was
doin'. An' inside was the three elders, walkin' 'round, layin' a finger
on a sash or a post--the kind o' odd, knowledgeable way men has with new
buildin's. The Ladies' Aid had got the floor broom-clean, an' the
lamp-chandelier filled an' ready; an' the foreign pipe-organ that the
Proudfits had sent from Europe was in an' in workin' order, little
lookin'-glass over the keyboard an' all. It seemed rill home-like, with
the two big stoves a-goin', an' the floor back of 'em piled up with the
chunks Peleg Bemus had sawed for nothin'. Everything was all redded up,
waitin' for the pews.
"Timothy Toplady was puttin' out his middle finger stiff here an' there
on the plaster.
"'It's dry as a bone,' he says, 'but what I say is this, le's us leave a
fire burn here all night, so's to be sure. I'd hate like death to hev
the whole congregation catchin' cold an' takin' Hiram Gekerjeck's
medicine.'
"I rec'lect Eppleby Holcomb looked up sort o' dreamy--Eppleby always
goes round like he'd swallowed his last night's sleep.
"'The house o' God,' he says over; 'ain't that curious? Nothin' about it
to indicate it's the house o' God but the shape--no more'n's if 'twas a
buildin' where the Holy Spirit never come near. An' yet right here in
this place we'll mebbe feel the big wind an' speak with Pentecostal
tongues.'
"''T seems like,' says Postmaster Sykes, thoughtful, ''t seems like we'd
ought to hev a little meetin' o' thanks here o' Sat'day night--little
informal praise meetin' or somethin.'
"Timothy shakes his head decided.
"'Silas Sykes, what you talkin'?' he says. 'Why, the church ain't
dedicated yet. A house o' God,' s'e, 'can't be used for no purpose
whatsoever without it's been dedicated.'
"'So it can't--so it can't,' says the postmaster, apologetic, knowin' he
was in politics an' that the brethren was watchin' him, cat to mouse,
for slips.
"'I s'pose that's so,' says Eppleby, doubtful. But he's one o' them that
sort o' ducks under situations to see if they're alike on both sides,
an' if they ain't, he up an' questions 'em. Timothy, though, he was
differ'nt. Timothy was always goin' on about constituted authority, an'
to him the thing was the thing, even if it was another thing.
"'That's right,' he insists, his lips disappearin' with certainty. 'I
s'pose we hadn't reely ought even to come in here an' stan' 'round, like
we are.'
"He looks sidlin' over towards me, warmin' my hands rill secular by the
church stove. An' I felt like I'd been spoke up for when somebody says
from the door:--
"'You better just bar out the carpenters o' this world, friends, an'
done with it!'
"It was Abel Halsey, standin' in the entry, lookin' as handsome as the
law allows. An' I see he happened to be there because the Through was
about due,--that's the one that don't stop here,--an' you can always get
a good view of it from this slope. You know Abel never misses watchin' a
fast train go 'long, if he can help himself.
"'What's the i-dea?' Abel says. 'How can you pray at all in closets an'
places that ain't been dedicated? I shouldn't think they'd be holy
enough, 's'e.'
"'That,' says the postmaster, sure o' support, 'ain't the question.'
"'I thought it couldn't be,' says Abel, amiable. 'Well, what is the
question? Whether prayer is prayer, no matter where you're prayin'?'
"'Oh, no,' says Eppleby Holcomb, soothin', 'it ain't that.'
"'I thought it couldn't be that,' says Abel. 'Is it whether the Lord is
in dedicated spots an' nowheres else?'
"'Abel Halsey,' Timothy tarts up, 'you needn't to be sacrilegious.'
"'But,' says Abel, 'the question is, whether _you_'re sacrilegious to
deny a prayer-meetin' or any other good use to the church or to any
other place, dedicated or not. Well, Timothy, I think you are.'
"Timothy clears his throat an' dabs at the palm of his hand with his
other front finger. But before he could lay down eternal law, we sort o'
heard, almost before we knew we heard, folks hurryin' past out here on
the frozen ground. An' they was shoutin', like questions, an' a-shoutin'
further off. We looked out, an' I can remember how the whole slope up
from the village there was black with folks.
"We run outside, an' I know I kep' close by Abel Halsey. An' I got hold
o' what had happened when somebody yelled an answer to his askin'. You
probably heard all about that part. It was the day the Through Express
went off the track down there in the cut beyond the Pump pasture.
"We run with the rest of 'em, me keepin' close to Abel, I guess because
he's got a way with him that makes you think he'd know what to do no
matter what. But when he was two-thirds o' the way acrost the pasture,
he stops short an' grabs at my sleeve.
"'Look here,' he says, 'you can't go down there. You mustn't do it. We
donno what'll be. You stay here,' he says; 'you set there under the
cottonwood.'
"You kind o' _haf_ to mind Abel. It's sort o' grained in that man to hev
folks disciple after him. I made him promise he'd motion from the fence
if he see I could help any, an' then I se' down under that big tree down
there. I was tremblin' some, I know. It always seems like wrecks are
somethin' that happen in other states an' in the dark. But when one's on
ground that you know like a book an' was brought up on,--when it's in
the daylight, right by a pasture you've been acrost always an' where
you've walked the ties,--well, I s'pose it's the same feelin' as when a
man you know cuts up a state's prison caper; seem's like he _can't_ of,
because you knew him.
"Half the men o' Friendship run by me, seems though. The whole town'd
been rousted up while we was in the church talkin' heresy. An' up on the
high place on the road there I see Zittelhof's undertaking wagon, with
the sunset showin' on its nickel rails. But not a woman run past me.
Ain't it funny how it's men that go to danger of rail an' fire an'
water--but when it's nothin' but birth an' dyin' natural, then it's for
women to be there.
"When I'd got about ready to fly away, waitin' so, I see Abel at the
fence. An' he didn't motion to me, but he swung over the top an' come
acrost the stubble, an' I see he hed somethin' in his arms. I run to
meet him, an' he run too, crooked, his feet turnin' over with him some
in the hard ground. The sky made his face sort o' bright; an' I see he'd
got a child in his arms.
"He didn't give her to me. He stood her down side o' me--a little thing
of five years old, or six, with thick, straight hair an' big scairt
eyes.
"'Is she hurt, Abel?' I says.
"'No, she ain't hurt none,' he answers me, 'an' they's about seventeen
more of 'em, her age, an' they ain't hurt, either. Their coach was
standin' up on its legs all right. But the man they was with, he's stone
dead. Hit on the head, somehow. An',' Abel says, 'I'm goin' to throw 'em
all over the fence to you.'
"The little girl jus' kep' still. An' when we took her by each hand, an'
run back toward the fence with her, her feet hardly touchin' the ground,
she kep' up without a word, like all to once she'd found out this is a
world where the upside-down is consider'ble in use. An' I waited with
her, over there this side the cut, hearin' 'em farther down rippin' off
fence rails so's to let through what they hed to carry.
"Time after time Abel come scramblin' up the sand-bank, bringin' 'em two
't once--little girls they was, all about the age o' the first one, none
of 'em with hats or cloaks on; an' I took 'em in my arms an' set 'em
down, an' took 'em in my arms an' set 'em down, till I was fair movin'
in a dream. They belonged, I see by their dress, to some kind of a home
for the homeless, an' I judged the man was takin' 'em somewheres, him
that Abel said'd been killed. Some'd reach out their arms to me over the
fence--an' some was afraid an' hung back, but some'd just cling to me
an' not want to be set down. I can remember them the best.
"Abel, when he come with the last ones, he off with his coat like I with
my ulster, an' as well as we could we wrapped four or five of 'em
up--one that was sickly, an' one little delicate blonde, an' a little
lame girl, an' the one--the others called her Mitsy--that'd come over
the fence first. An' by then half of 'em was beginnin' to cry some. An'
the wind was like so many knives.
"'Where shall we take 'em to, Abel?' I says, beside myself.
"'Take 'em?' he says. 'Take 'em into the church! Quick as you can. This
wind is like death. Stay with 'em till I come.'
"Somehow or other I got 'em acrost that pasture. When I look at the Pump
pasture now, in afternoon like this, or in Spring with vi'lets, or when
a circus show's there, it don't seem to me it could 'a' been the same
place. I kep' 'em together the best I could--some of 'em beggin' for
'Mr. Middie--Mr. Middie,' the man, I judged, that was dead. An' finally
we got up here in the road, an' it was like the end o' pain to be able
to fling open the church door an' marshal 'em through the entry into
that great, big, warm room, with the two fires roarin'.
"I got 'em 'round the nearest stove an' rubbed their little hands an'
tried not to scare 'em to death with wantin' to love 'em; an' all the
while, bad as I felt for 'em, I was glad an' glad that it was me that
could be there with 'em. They was twenty,--when I come to count 'em so's
to keep track,--twenty little girls with short, thick hair, or soft,
short curls, an' every one with something baby-like left to 'em. An'
when we set on the floor round the stove, the coals shone through the
big open draft into their faces, an' they looked over their shoulders to
the dark creepin' up the room, an' they come closer 'round me--an' the
closest-up ones _snuggled_.
"Well, o' course that was at first, when they was some dazed. But as
fast as their blue little hands was warm an' pink again, one or two of
'em begun to whimper, natural an' human, an' up with their arm to their
face, an' then begun to cry right out, an' some more joined in, an' the
rest pipes up, askin' for Mr. Middie. An' I thought, 'Sp'osin' they
_all_ cried an' what if Abel Halsey stayed away hours.' I donno. I done
my best too. Mebbe it's because I'm use' to children with my heart an'
not with my ways. Anyhow, most of 'em was cryin' prime when Abel finally
got there.
"When he come in, I see Abel's face was white an' dusty, an' he had his
other coat off an' gone too, an' his shirt-sleeves was some tore. But he
comes runnin' up to them cryin' children an' I wish't you could 'a' seen
his smile--Abel's smile was always kind o' like his soul growin' out of
his face, rill thrifty.
"'Why, you little kiddies!' s'e, 'cryin' when you're all nice an' warm!
Le's see now,' he says grave. 'Anybody here know how to play
Drop-the-handkerchief? If you do,' he tells 'em, 'stand up _quick_!'
"They scrambled 'round like they was beetles an' you'd took up the
stone. They was all up in a minute, an' stopped cryin', too. With that
he catches my handkerchief out o' my hand an' flutters it over his head
an' runs to the middle o' the room.
"'Come on!' he says. 'Hold o' hands--every one o' you hold o' hands. I'm
goin' to drop the handkerchief, an' you'd better hurry up.'
"That was talk they knew. They was after him in a secunt an' tears
forgot,--them poor little things,--laughin' an' hold o' hands, an'
dancin' in a chain, an' standin' in a ring. An' when he hed 'em like
that, an' still, Abel begun runnin' 'round to drop the handkerchief; an'
then he turns to me.
"'Only two killed, thank God,' he says as he run; 'the conductor an'
M-i-d-d-l-e-t-o-n,' he spells it, an' motions to the children with the
handkerchief so's I'd know who Middleton was. 'An' not a scrap o' paper
on him,' he goes on, 'to tell what home he brought the children from or
where he's goin' with 'em. Their mileage was punched to the City--but we
don't know where they belong there, an' the conductor bein' gone too.
The poor fellow that had 'em in charge never knew what hurt him. Hit
from overhead, he was, an' his skull crushed....'
"It was so dark in the church by then we could hardly see, but the
children could keep track o' the white handkerchief. He let it fall
behind the little girl he'd brought me first,--Mitsy,--an' she catches
it up an' sort o' squeaks with the fun an' runs after him. An' while he
doubles an' turns,--
"'They've telegraphed ahead,' he says, 'to two or three places in the
City. But even if we hear right off, we can't get 'em out o' Friendship
to-night. They'll hev to stay here. The Commercial Travellers' Hotel an'
the Depot House has both got all they can do for--some of 'em hurt
pretty bad. They couldn't either hotel take 'em in....'
"Then he lets Mitsy catch him an' he ups with her on his shoulder an'
run with her on his back, his face lookin' out o' her blue, striped
skirts.
"'We'll hev to house 'em right here in the church,' he says.
"'Here?' says I; 'here in the church?'
"'You know Friendship,' he says, hoppin' along. 'Not half a dozen houses
could take in more'n two extry, even if we hed the time to canvass. An'
we _ain't_ the time. They want their s-u-p-p-e-r right now,' he spells
it out, an' lit out nimble when Mitsy dropped the handkerchief back o'
the little blond girl. Then he let the little blond girl catch them, and
he took her on his shoulders too, an' they was both shoutin' so 't he
hed to make little circles out to get where I could hear him.
"'I've seen Zittelhof,' he told me. 'He was down there with his wagon.
He'll bring up enough little canvas cots from the store. An' I thought
mebbe you'd go down to the village an' pick up some stuff they'll
need--bedding an' things. An' get the women here with some supper. Come
on now,' he calls out to 'em; 'everybody in a procession an' _sing_!'
"He led 'em off with
"'King William was King James's son,'
an' he sings back to me, for the secunt line,
"'Go _now_, go _quick_, I bet they're starved!'
"So I got into my coat, tryin' to think where I should go to be sure o'
not wastin' time talkin'. Lots o' folks in this world is willin', but
mighty few can be quick.
"I knew right off, though, where I'd find somebody to help. The
Friendship Married Ladies' Cemetery Improvement Sodality was meetin'
that afternoon with Mis' Toplady, an' I could cut acrost their
pasture--" Calliope nodded toward the little Toplady house and the big
Toplady barn--"an' that's what I done. An' when I got near enough to the
house to tell, I see by the light in the parlour that they was still
there. An' I know when I got into the room, full as I was o' news o'
them little children an' the wreck an' the two killed an' all them that
was hurt--there was the Sodality settlin' whether the lamb's wool
comforter for the bazaar should be tied with pink for daintiness or
brown for durability.
"'_Dainty!_' says I, when I got my breath. 'They's sides to life makes
me want to pinch that word right out o' the dictionary same as I would a
bug,' I says.
"That was funny, too,"--Calliope added thoughtfully, "because I like
that word, speakin' o' food an' ways to do things. But some folks get to
livin' the word same's if it was the law.
"I guess they thought I was crazy," she went on, "but I wasn't long
makin' 'em understand. An' I tell you, the way they took it made me love
'em all. If you want to love folks, just you get in some kind o'
respectable trouble in Friendship, an' you'll see so much lovableness
that the trouble'll kind o' spindle out an' leave nothin' but the love
doin' business. My land, the Sodality went at the situation head first,
like it was somethin' to get acrost before dark. An' so it was.
"I remember Mis' Photographer Sturgis: 'There!' she says, 'most cryin'.
'If ever I take only a pint o' milk, I'm sure as sure to want more
before the day's out. None of us is on good terms with each other's
milkman. _Where_ we goin' to get the milk,' she says, 'for them poor
little things?'
"'Where?' says Mis' Toplady--you know how big an' comfortable an'
settled she is--'_Where?_ Well, you needn't to think o' where. I expect
the Jersey won't be milked till I go an' milk her,' she says, 'but she
gives six quarts, nights, right along now, an' sometimes seven. Now
about the bread.'
"Mis' Postmaster Sykes use' to set sponge twice a week, an' she offered
five loaves out o' her six baked that day. Mis' Holcomb had two loaves
o' brown bread an' a crock o' sour cream cookies. An' Libbie Liberty
bursts out that they'd got up their courage an' killed an' boiled two o'
their chickens the day before an' none o' the girls'd been able to touch
a mouthful, bein' they'd raised the hens from egg to axe. Libbie said
she'd bring the whole kettle along, an' it could be het on the church
stove an' made soup of. So it went on, down to even Liddy Ember, that
was my partner an' silly poor, an' in about four minutes everything was
provided for, beddin' an' all.
"Mis' Toplady had flew upstairs, gettin' out the linen, an' she was
comin' down the front stairs with her arms full o' sheets an' pillow
slips when through the front door walks Timothy Toplady, come in all
excited an' lookin' every which way. Seems he'd barked his elbow in the
rescue work an' laid off for liniment.
"'Oh, Timothy,' says his wife, 'them poor little children. We've been
plannin' it all out.'
"'Who's goin' to take 'em in?' says Timothy, tryin' to roll up his
overcoat sleeve for fear the Sodality'd be put to the blush if he got to
his elbow any other way.
"'They're all warm in the church,' Mis' Toplady says; 'we're goin' to
leave 'em there. Zittelhof's goin' to take up canvas cots. We're gettin'
the bedding together,' she told him.
"Timothy looked up, sort o' wild an' glazed.
"'Canvas cots,' s'e, 'in the house o' the Lord?'
"'Why, Timothy,' says his wife, helpless, 'it's all warm there now, an'
we don't know what else. We thought we'd carry up their supper to 'em--'
"'Supper,' says Timothy, 'in the house o' the Lord?'
"Then Mis' Toplady spunks up some.
"'Why, yes,' she says; 'I'm goin' to milk the Jersey an' take up the two
pails.'
"Timothy waves his barked arm in the air.
"'Never!' s'e. 'Never. We elders'll never consent to that, not in this
world!'
"At that we all stood around sort o' pinned to the air. This hadn't
occurred to nobody. But his wife was back at him, rill crispy.
"'Timothy Toplady,' s'she, 'they use churches for horspitals an'
refuges,' she says.
"'They do,' says Timothy, solemn, 'they do, in necessity, an' war, an'
siege. But here's the whole o' Friendship Village to take these children
in, an' it's sacrilege to use the house o' God for any purpose whatever
while it's waitin' its dedication. It's stealin', he says, 'from the
Lord Most High.'
"I never see anybody more het up. We all tried to tell him. Nobody in
Friendship has a warm spare room in winter, without it's the Proudfits,
an' they was in Europe an' their house locked. Mebbe six of us, we
counted up afterwards, could 'a' took in two children to sleep in a cold
room, or one child to sleep with some one o' the family. But as Abel
said, where was the time to canvass round? An' what could we do with the
other little things? But Timothy wouldn't listen to nothin'.
"'Amanda,' s'e in a married voice, 'what I say is this, I forbid you to
carry a drop o' Jersey milk or any other kind o' milk up to that
church.'
"With that he was out the front door an' liniment forgot.
"Mis' Sykes spatted her hands.
"'He'll find Silas Sykes an' Eppleby,' she says to Mis' Holcomb. 'Quick.
Le's us get our hands on my bread an' your cookies. Them poor little
things--'way past their supper hour.'
"'An' none of 'em got mothers,' says Mis' Sturgis, 'just left 'round
with lockets on, I sp'ose, an' wrecked an' hungry....'
"'An' one o' 'em lame,' Mame Holcomb puts in, down on her knees tryin'
to sort out her overshoes. The Sodality never could tell its own
overshoes.
"Well, they scattered so quick it made you think o' mulberry leaves,
some years, in the first frost--an' I was left alone with Mis' Toplady.
"'Here,' she says to me then, all squintin' with firmness, 'you take
along all the linen an' comfortables you can lug. Timothy didn't mention
them. An' _leave the rest to me_.'
"I went over that in my mind while I stumbled along back to the church,
loaded down. But I couldn't make much out of it. I knew Timothy Toplady:
that he was meek till he turned an' then it was look out. An' I knew,
too, that Timothy could run Silas Sykes, the postmaster's political
strength, like you've noticed, makin' him kind o' wobbled in his own
judgment of other things. I didn't know how Eppleby Holcomb'd be--it
might turn out to be one o' the things he'd up an' question, civilized,
but I wa'n't sure. Anyhow, the cream cookies an' the two loaves wasn't
so vital as them five loaves o' bread.
"When I got back to the church, here it was all lit up. Abel had lit the
chandelier on a secular scene! Bless 'em, it surely was secular, though,
accordin' to my lights, it was some sacred too. Six or seven of the
little things was buildin' a palace out o' the split wood, with the
little lame girl for queen. The little blonde an' the one that was rill
delicate lookin' had gone to sleep by the stove on Abel's overcoat.
Mitsy, she run from somewheres an' grabbed my hand. An' Abel had the
rest over by the other stove tellin' 'em stories. I heard him say
dragon, an' blue velvet, an' golden hair.
"I hadn't more'n got inside the door before Zittelhof's wagon come with
the cots. An' Mis' Zittelhof was with him, her arms full o' bedclothes
she'd gathered up around from folks. I never said a word to Abel about
the trouble with Timothy. I donno if Abel rilly heard us come in, he was
so excited about his dragon. An' Mis' Zittelhof an' I began makin' up
the cots. On the first one I laid the two babies that was asleep on the
floor. They never woke up. Their little cheeks was warm an' pink, an'
one of 'em had some tears on it. When I see that, I clear forgot the
church wasn't dedicated, an' I thanked God they was there, safe an' by a
good fire, with somebody 'tendin' to 'em.
"The bed-makin' an' the story-tellin' an' the palace-buildin' went on,
an' I kep' gettin' exciteder every minute. When the door opened, I
couldn't tell which was in my mouth, my heart or my tongue. But it was
only Libbie Liberty with the big iron kettle o' chicken broth an' a
basket o' cups an' spoons. She se' down the kettle on the stove an'
stirred up the fire under it, an' it was no time before the whole church
begun to smell savoury as a kitchen. An' then in walks Mis' Holcomb with
her brown bread an' cream cookies. An' we fair jumped up an' down when
Mis' Sykes come breathin' in the door with them five loaves o' wheat
bread safe, an' butter to match.