For the pump was a blue pump! A miracle had been wrought while she mused
in the grass and listened to Old '61. The little old brown pump had
blossomed out gayly, brilliantly.
"Why!" Then a subdued chuckle reached her from some nearby ambush out
beyond the fence. She put two and two together--the pump, the laugh, and
Jane Cotton's Sam. Six! Jane Cotton's Sam, while she was day-dreaming
and Marching through Georgia with Old '61, had painted the brown pump
blue! That was his business on Mrs. Camp's premises. Mrs Camp had
remembered--the dear, oh, the dear!--that she wanted a blue pump, and
had got the boy to come and make one. And now, down behind the fence
somewhere, the boy was laughing at her amazement. Well, let him
laugh--she laughed, too! Suddenly she began to clap her hands by way of
applause to her hidden audience.
The pump itself was distinctly a disappointment. In gay-hued pictures,
seen by childish eyes, blue pumps accord with green grass and trees--in
nature, seen by maturer eyes, there is something wrong with the colors.
They look out of place--either the green growing things or the gay blue
pump do not belong there. The girl's loyalty to little, kind Emmeline
Camp would not let her admit that it was the blue pump that didn't
"belong." She was glad--glad--that it was blue, for it stood for a
thoughtful kindness to her, and thoughtful kindnesses had been rare in
her self-dependent, hustling life.
"Hurrah for the blue pump!" she cried softly. She felt like going up to
it and hugging it, but fortunately she did not yield to the impulse.
The other girls arrived at dusk. T.O., her knee in a chair, had hitched
laboriously from little kitchen to little dining-room and got supper.
Spent and triumphant, she waited in the doorway. She could hear their
voices coming up the road--Billy's excited voice, Laura Ann's gay one,
Loraine's calm and sweet. She longed to run out to meet them. Next best,
she sent her own voice, in a clear, long call.
"That's T.O.! Girls, let's run!" she heard Billy say.
"Why doesn't _she_ run?" Laura Ann demanded severely. "That would
be perfectly appropriate under the circumstances."
"'Tis queer, isn't it, that she didn't come to meet us?" Loraine added.
In another moment they had reached Emmeline Camp's little green-painted
house and found the Talented One waiting impatiently at the gate. Things
explained themselves rapidly. Exclamations of pity crowded upon
exclamations of delight and welcome. Four happy young wage-earners sat
down to T.O.'s hardly-prepared little supper and four tongues were
loosed. Even Loraine did her part of the chattering.
"I feel so nice and _placid_ already!" enthused Billy.
"Oh, so do I!--so do I!" echoed Laura Ann. "It's such a comfort to get
one's chains off!--I felt mine slip off back there at that dear, funny
little station."
"Oh, was _that_ what I heard clanking?" offered quiet Loraine, and
was promptly cheered.
The meal was a merry one. And afterwards there was exploring to be done
about the little yard and orchard and up and down the road, in the dim,
sweet twilight, with the Talented One at the gate calling soft
directions.
"And I've got a blue pump for you," she laughed. "Just wait till
daylight! Don't anybody feel of it in the dark to see if it's blue,
because you'll find it's green! There's a story goes with the pump and
one with its mother--I mean with the boy-who-painted-its mother! Placid
Pond is full of stories."
"Nice, dozy, placid ones, I suppose," Laura Ann returned lightly. But
the Talented One shook her head.
"Wait till you hear them," she said gravely.
"Give us some of the titles to-night," coaxed Billy. They were all back
on the little doorsteps and the moon was rising, majestic and golden,
behind the trees.
"Well--" she considered thoughtfully, "there's 'The Story of Amelia',
and the story of 'The Boy Who Didn't Pass', and the one of 'Old '61'--",
"Oh, tell us--tell us!" Billy pleaded, and would not be refused. It was
never easy to refuse Billy. She had her way this time, and there in the
mellow night-light, with soft night-noises all about them, T.O. told her
stories. She had never told a story before in her life, and her voice at
first stumbled diffidently, but as she went on, a queer thing
happened--she did not seem to be telling it herself, but the little old
woman who loved Amelia seemed to be telling it! Then the Boy Who Didn't
Pass, then Old '61, in his tremulous, halting old voice.
They listened in perfect silence, and even after the stories ended they
said nothing. Billy, quite unashamed, was crying over poor Old '61.
"You'd have thought, wouldn't you," T.O. murmured after a while, "that
places like this would be humdrum-y and commonplace? But I guess there
are 'stories' everywhere. I'm beginning to find out things, girls."
The next day began in earnest the long-yearned-for time of rest. It was
decided unanimously over the breakfast cups, to live and move, eat and
all but sleep, out of doors. To devote four separate and four combined
energies to having a good time. To abide by the rules and regulations
of the Wicked Compact--long live the Wicked Compact! Laura Ann made an
illuminated copy of it, framed it in a border of hurriedly-painted
forget-me-nots and hung it on the screen door, where they could not help
seeing it and "remembering their vows," Laura Ann said. It was a matter
of gay conjecture with them who would be the first to break the Compact.
"And be driven out of the B-Hive--not I!" Billy said decisively. "I
shan't have the least temptation to break it, anyway--I feel selfish all
over! You couldn't drive me to do a good deed with a--a pitchfork!"
"Me either--not even with a darning-needle!" laughed Laura Ann. "If
anybody asks me to lend her a pin, hear me say, 'Can't, my dear; it's
against the rules.' Needn't anybody worry about losing me out o' the
Hive!"
"Loraine will be the one--you see," T.O. said lazily. "And what I want
to know is, how are we going to live without Loraine? I vote we append a
by-law. By-law I.: 'Resolved, that we except Loraine--just Loraine.'"
"Second the motion," murmured Billy, on her back in the grass, nibbling
clover heads.
"No," Loraine said severely, "I refuse to be put into a by-law."
* * * * *
The summer days were long days--lazy, somnolent days. The four girls
spent them each in her own separate way. Sometimes the little colony met
only at mealtimes--with glowing reports of the mornings' or afternoons'
wanderings.
Billy, it was noticed, although like the rest she wandered abroad, made
no reports. Had she had a good time? Yes--yes, of course. Where had she
been all the morning or all the afternoon? Oh--oh, to places. Woods?
Yes--that is, almost woods. And more than that they failed to elicit.
Nearly every day she started away by herself, and after awhile they
noticed that she went in the same direction. She went briskly, alertly,
like one with a definite end in view. Now, where did Billy go? Their
vagrant curiosity was aroused, but not yet to the point of
investigation.
Old '61 knew. Every morning since that first morning he had strained his
dim old eyes to catch a glimpse of a little figure coming blithely up
the road. On that first morning it had stopped in front of his little
house and said pleasant things to him as he sat on the doorsteps. He
remembered all the things.
"Good-morning! It's a splendid day, isn't it?"
And: "What a perfectly lovely place you live in! With the woods so near
you can shake hands with them out of your windows!"
And: "Don't the birds wake you up mornings? I wonder what they sing
about up here." Then she had glanced at his ancient army coat and added
the Pleasantest Thing Of All: "I think they must sing Battle Hymns and
Red, White and Blue songs and 'Marching Through Georgia,' don't they?"
"Not the last one," he had answered sadly. "They never sing that. If
they did, I'd 'a' learnt it of 'em long ago."
"Do you like that one best--very best?" she had asked, and he liked to
remember how she had smiled. He had stood up then and thrown back his
old shoulders proudly.
"Why, you see, marm," he had said simply, "I _marched_ through
Georgy!"
The next morning, too, she had stopped and talked to him. But it was not
until the third time that he had ventured to ask her to whistle it. And
then--Old '61, now peering down the road for the blithe little figure,
thrilled again at the remembrance of what had happened. She had laughed
gently and said she did not know how to whistle, but if he would like
her to sing it--
There had been eight mornings all told, now, counting this morning,
which was sure to be. Yes, clear 'way down there somebody was comin'
swingin' along--somebody little an' happy an' spry. Old '61 began to
laugh softly. He could hardly wait for her to come and sit down on the
doorstep and sing it. Two or three times--she would sing it two or three
times.
He had a surprise for her this morning. With great pains he had dragged
his cabinet organ out onto the little porch. It was all open, ready.
He went a little way down the road in his eagerness to meet her.
"Good-morning!" Billy called brightly. "Am I late to-day?"
"Jest a little--jest a little," he quavered joyously, "but I'll forgive
ye! There's somethin' waitin' up there--I've got a surprise for ye!"
"Honest?" Billy stood still in the road, looking into the eager,
childish old face. "Oh, goody! I love surprises. Am I to guess it?"
"No, no, jest to come an' play on it!" he quavered. Then a cloud settled
over his face and dimmed the delight in it. "Mebbe you don't know how
to?" he added, a tremulous upward lift to his voice.
"How to 'play on' a surprise!" cried Billy. "Well, how am I to know
until I see it? I can play on 'most everything else!"
They had got to the little front gate--were going up the little
carefully-weeded path--were very close to it now. Billy sprang up the
steps.
"I can! I can!" she laughed. "Hear me!" Her fingers ran up and down the
keys, then settled into a soft, sweet little melody. Another and
another--
The old man on the lower step sat patiently listening and waiting. If
she did not play it soon, he should have to ask her to, but he would
rather have her play it without. Perhaps the next one--
The next one was beautiful, but not It--not _It_--not the Right
One.
"There!" finished Billy with a flourish. "You see, I _can_ play on
a surprise!" She stopped abruptly at sight of the disappointed old face
below her. For an instant she was bewildered, then a beautiful instinct
that had lain unused on some shelf of Billy's mind came to life and
whispered to her what the trouble was.
"Oh!" she cried softly, "Oh, I'm sorry I forgot!" She turned back to
the little organ and began to play again.
[Illustration: THE OLD MAN SAT LISTENING AND WAITING.]
Up went the sagging old head, up the sagging old shoulders! Old '61 was
back in "Georgy," marching through mud and pine-barrens, in cold and
hunger and weariness--with the boys, from Atlanta to the sea. Hurrah!
hurrah! the flag that made them free!
He was not old, not alone and forlorn and cumbering the earth. He was
young and straight and loyal, defying suffering and death, with glory
and fame, perhaps, on there ahead. His country needed him--he was
marching through Georgia for his country.
Billy played it over and over, untiring. A lump grew in her throat at
the sight of the old face down there on the lower step. For so much was
written on the old face!
Suddenly Old '61 got up and began to march, swinging his old legs out
splendidly. Down the walk, down the road, he went, as far as the music
went, then came marching splendidly back. Head up, shoulders squared,
the "boys" marching invisible beside him and before him and behind him,
he was no longer Old '61, but Young '61.
The next day Billy ate her breakfast quietly, helped clear away the
things, and went quietly away. She did not stop to read Laura Ann's
gay-painted "Compact" on the screen door. It might even have been
noticed, if anyone cared to notice, that she did not look at it, that
she hurried a little through the door, as if to avoid it.
Old '61 was waiting at the gate. She smiled at the eager invitation she
read in his face.
"No," she said, shaking her head for emphasis, "no, I'm not going to
play it this time. I'm going to teach you to play it! I shall be going
back to the city before long, and then what will you do when you want to
hear it? Perhaps you couldn't keep the tune in your head. I'm going to
show you an easy way to play it--just the air. I shall have to try it
myself first, of course. But I'm sure you can learn how, if you'll
practice faithfully." It was queer how her music-teacher tone crept back
into her voice. She laughed to herself to hear it. "Practice faithfully"
sounded so natural to say!
She sat down at the organ and experimented thoughtfully, trying to
reduce the old man's beloved tune to its very lowest terms. After quite
a long time she nodded and smiled.
Then began Old '61s music lessons. It was terrible work, like earning a
living with the sweat of the brow. But the two of them--the young woman
and the old man--bent to it heroically. For an hour, that first time,
the cramped old fingers felt their way over the keyboard; for an hour
Billy bent over them, patiently pointing the way. She had forgotten that
she was not to think of piano-notes now--that she had signed the Wicked
Compact. She had forgotten everything but her determination to teach Old
'61 to play "Marching through Georgia." And Old '61 had, in his turn,
forgotten things--that he was old, alone, a cumberer, everything but his
determination to learn It.
It was not a scientific lesson. It did not begin with first principles
and creep slowly upward; it began in the middle, in a splendid,
haphazard, ambitious way. The stiff old hands were gently placed in
position for the first notes of the tune, the stiff old fingers were
pressed gently down, one at a time. Over and over and over the process
was repeated. It was learning by sheer brute patience and love.
"That's all for the first lesson," Billy announced at the end of the
hour. "You've got those first notes well enough to practice them.
To-morrow we'll go a little bit farther." But she did not know the long,
patient hours between now and then that the old man would "practice,"
crooked painfully over the keys. She did not reckon on the miracle that
might be wrought out of intense desire.
The next morning Old '61 at the gate proclaimed proudly:
"I've got it! I've got it! I can play an' sing fur as we've b'en!
It's ringin' in my head all the time."
"Did the birds wake you up singing it?" Billy asked, smilingly. She,
herself, was all eagerness to learn of her pupil's progress. The lesson
began at once. Already, she found, the miracle had begun to work. The
old man sat down to the organ with a flourish that, if it had not been
full of pathos, would have been a little comedy act. After a brief
preliminary search the old fingers found their place and pounded out
triumphantly the few notes they had been taught.
"Good! good!" applauded the teacher heartily. "Why, you do it
splendidly! Now we'll go on a little farther--this finger on this note,
this one here, your thumb _here_." She stationed them carefully and
the second lesson began. It was nearer two hours than one when it ended.
* * * * *
"Where have _you_ been, Billy?" Loraine asked at lunch. They had
all been describing their individual pursuits and experiences of the
morning.
"Oh, to a place," answered Billy lightly.
"What place?" Loraine persisted curiously.
"Well," laughed Billy, "if you must know, I've been marching
through--oh, a _place_!" she concluded hastily, repenting herself.
"It was a pretty hard place, and I'm hungry as a bear. Wish somebody'd
say, 'Won't you have another piece of pie?'"
"Won't you have another piece of pie?" laughed Loraine, and nothing
further was said of an embarrassing nature.
The summer days grew into summer weeks. Patiently and joyously Old '61
plodded his way to the sea. He practiced nearly all his waking hours,
and when he was not at the little organ, practicing, he went about
humming the beloved words. Pride and love, rather than any melody of his
cracked old voice, made a tune of them.
His progress astonished his teacher. Her praise was impetuous enough for
further and greater exertions. One day Billy said the next time should
be an exhibition, when he should play it all--from "Atlanta to the
sea"--with her as audience, not helping, but sitting in a chair
listening.
She came to the Exhibition in a white dress, with sweet-peas at her
waist. Her smiles at the foot of the steps changed to something like a
sob when she discovered that Old '61 had been decorating the organ and
the little porch. He, himself, was brushed and radiant, his old face the
face of a little child.
"The audience will sit on the steps," Billy said, a little tremulously.
"Right here. Make believe I'm rows and rows of people! Now will you
please favor us by 'Marching through Georgia'?".
He went at once to the little gayly-bedecked instrument and began to
play. The dignity and pride of the shabby old figure redeemed its
shabbiness--the fervor of the pounded notes redeemed the tune. The
audience--in "rows and rows,"--listened gravely, and at the end burst
into genuine applause. The sound swelled and multiplied oddly, and then
they saw the three figures at the gate who had listened, too. Billy was
discovered!