THE APPLE WOMAN'S STORY
Jewel told her grandfather all about it that day while they were having
their late afternoon ride.
"And so the little girl got well," he commented.
"Yes, and could run and play and have the most _fun_!" returned Jewel
joyously.
"And aunt Hazel made it up with her nephew."
"Yes. Why don't people know that all they have to do is to put on more love
to one another? Just supposing, grandpa, that you hadn't loved me so much
when I first came."
"H'm. It _is_ fortunate that I was such an affectionate old fellow!"
"Mother says we all have to tend the flower and carry it to the King before
we're really happy. Do you know it made us both think of the same thing
when at last the man did it."
"What was that?"
"Our hymn:--
'My hope I cannot measure,
My path in life is free,
My Father has my treasure
And He will walk with me!'
Don't you begin to love mother very much, grandpa?"
"She is charming."
"Of course she isn't your real relation, the way I am."
"Oh, come now. She's my daughter."
Jewel smiled at him doubtfully. "But so is aunt Madge," she returned.
"Why, Jewel, I'm surprised that any one who looks so tall as you do in a
riding skirt shouldn't know more than that! Mrs. Harry Evringham is _your_
mother."
"I never thought of that," returned the child seriously. "Why, so she is."
"That brings her very close, very close, you see," said Mr. Evringham, and
his reasoning was clear as daylight to Jewel.
At dinner that evening she was still further reassured. The child did not
know that the maids in the house, having been scornfully informed by aunt
Madge of Mrs. Harry's business, were prepared to serve her grudgingly, and
regard her visit as being merely on sufferance despite Mrs. Forbes's more
optimistic view. But the spirit that looked out of Mrs. Evringham's dark
eyes and dwelt in the curves of her lips came and saw and conquered. Jewel
had won the hearts of the household, and already its unanimous voice, after
the glimpses it had had of her mother during two days, was that it was no
wonder.
Even the signs of labor that appeared in Julia's pricked fingers made the
serenity of her happy face more charming to her father-in-law. She had
Jewel's own directness and simplicity, her appreciation and enjoyment of
all beauty, the child's own atmosphere of unexacting love and gratitude.
Every half hour that Mr. Evringham spent with her lessened his regret at
having burned his bridges behind him.
"Now, you mustn't be lonely here, Julia," he said, that evening at dinner.
"I have come to be known as something of a hermit by choice; but while
Madge and Eloise lived with me, I fancy they had a good many callers, and
they went out, to the mild degree that society smiles upon in the case of a
recent widow and orphan. They were able to manage their own affairs; but
you are a stranger in a strange land. If you desire society, give me a hint
and I will get it for you."
"Oh, no, father!" replied Julia, smiling. "There is nothing I desire less."
"Mother'll get acquainted with the people at church," said Jewel, "and I
know she'll love Mr. and Mrs. Reeves. They're grandpa's friends, mother."
"Yes," remarked Mr. Evringham, busy with his dinner, "some of the best
people in Bel-Air have gone over to this very strange religion of yours,
Julia. I shan't be quite so conspicuous in harboring two followers of the
faith as I should have been a few years ago."
"No, it is becoming quite respectable," returned Julia, with twinkling
eyes.
"Three, grandpa, you have three here," put in Jewel. "You didn't count
Zeke."
Mrs. Evringham looked up kindly at Mrs. Forbes, who stood by, as usual, in
her neat gown and apron.
"Zeke is really in for it, eh, Mrs. Forbes?" Mr. Evringham asked the
question without glancing up.
"Yes, sir, and I have no objection. I'm too grateful for the changes for
the better in the boy. If Jewel had persuaded him to be a fire worshiper I
shouldn't have lifted my voice. I'd have said to myself, 'What's a little
more fire here, so long as there'll be so much less hereafter.'"
Mrs. Evringham laughed and the broker shook his head. "Mrs. Forbes, Mrs.
Forbes, I'm afraid your orthodoxy is getting rickety," he said.
"How about your own, father?" asked Julia.
"Oh, I'm a passenger. You see, I know that Jewel will ask at the heavenly
gate if I can come in, and if they refuse, they won't get her, either. That
makes me feel perfectly safe."
Jewel watched the speaker seriously. Mr. Evringham met her thoughtful eyes.
"Oh, they'll want you, Jewel. Don't you be afraid."
"I'm not afraid. How could I be? But I was just wondering whether you
didn't know that you'll have to do your own work, grandpa."
He looked up quickly and met Julia's shining eyes.
"Dear me," he responded, with an uncomfortable laugh. "Don't I get out of
it?"
The next morning when Jewel had driven back from the station, and she and
her mother had studied the day's lesson, they returned to the ravine,
taking the Story Book with them.
Before settling themselves to read, they counted the new wild flowers that
had unfolded, and Jewel sprinkled them and the ferns, from the brook.
"Did you ever see anybody look so pretty as Anna Belle does, in that
necklace?" exclaimed Jewel, fondly regarding her child, enthroned against
the snowy trunk of a little birch-tree. "It isn't going to be your turn to
choose the story this morning, dearie. Here, I'll give you a daisy to play
with."
"Wait, Jewel, I think Anna Belle would rather see it growing until we go,
don't you?"
"Would you, dearie? Yes, she says she would; but when we go, we'll take
the sweet little thing and let it have the fun of seeing grandpa's house
and what we're all doing."
"It seems such a pity, to me, to pick them and let them wither," said Mrs.
Evringham.
"Why, I think they only seem to wither, mother," replied Jewel hopefully.
"A daisy is an idea of God, isn't it?"
"Yes, dear."
"When one seems to wither and go out of sight, we only have to look around
a little, and pretty soon we see the daisy idea again, standing just as
white and bright as ever, because God's flowers don't fade."
"That's so, Jewel," returned the mother quietly.
The child drew a long breath. "I've thought a lot about it, here in the
ravine. At first I thought perhaps picking a violet might be just as much
error as killing a bluebird; and then I remembered that we pick the flower
for love, and it doesn't hurt it nor its little ones; but nobody ever
killed a bird for love."
Mrs. Evringham nodded.
"Now it's my turn to choose," began Jewel, in a different tone, settling
herself near the seat her mother had taken.
Mrs. Evringham opened the book and again read over the titles of the
stories.
"Let's hear 'The Apple Woman's Story,'" said Jewel, when she paused.
Her mother looked up. "Do you remember good old Chloe, who used to come
every Saturday to scrub for me? Well, something she told me of an
experience she once had, when she was a little girl, put the idea of this
tale into my head; and I'll read you
THE APPLE WOMAN'S STORY
Franz and Emilie and Peter Wenzel were little German children, born in
America. Their father was a teacher, and his children were alone with him
except for the good old German woman, Anna, who was cook and nurse too in
the household. She tried to teach Franz and Emilie to be good children, and
took great care of Peter, the sturdy three-year-old boy, a fat, solemn
baby, whose hugs were the greatest comfort his father had in the world.
Franz and Emilie had learned German along with their English by hearing it
spoken in the house, and it was a convenience at times, for instance, when
they wished to say something before the colored apple woman which they did
not care to have her understand; but the apple woman did not think they
were polite when they used an unknown tongue before her.
"Go off fum here," she would say to them when they began to talk in German.
"None o' that lingo round my stand. Go off and learn manners." And when
Franz and Emilie found she was in earnest they would ask her to forgive
them in the politest English they were acquainted with; for they were very
much attached to the clean, kind apple woman, whose stand was near their
father's house. They admired her bright bandana headdress and thought her
the most interesting person in the world. As for the apple woman, she had
had so many unpleasant experiences with teasing children that she did not
take Franz and Emilie into her favor all at once, but for some time
accepted their pennies and gave them their apples when they came to buy,
watching them suspiciously with her sharp eyes to make sure that they were
not intending to play her any trick.
But even before they had become regular customers she decided under her
breath that they were "nice chillen;" and when she came to know them better
her kind heart overflowed to them.
One morning as they smiled and nodded to her on the way to school, she
called out and beckoned.
"Apples for the little baskets?"
"Not to-day," answered Emilie.
She beckoned to them again with determination, and the children approached.
"We forgot to brush our teeth last night," explained Franz, "so we haven't
any penny."
"I forgot it," said Emilie, "and Franz didn't remind me, so we neither of
us got it. That's the way Anna makes us remember."
"Never you mind, honey, here's apples for love," replied the colored woman,
holding up two rosy beauties.
The children looked at one another and shook their heads.
"Thank you," said Emilie, "but we can't. Papa said the last time you gave
them to us that if we ate your apples without paying for them we mustn't
come to visit you any more."
"Now think o' that!" exclaimed the apple woman when the children had gone
on. She was much touched and pleased to know that Franz and Emilie would
rather come and sit and talk to her and listen to her stories than to eat
her apples.
She was right; they were nice children; but they had their naughty times,
and good old Anna was often greatly troubled by them. She felt her
responsibility of the whole family very deeply, and tried to talk no more
German. These children must grow up to be good Americans, and she must not
hold them back. It was very hard for the poor woman to remember always to
speak English, and funny broken English it was; so that little Peter,
hearing it all the time, had a baby talk of his own that was very comical
and different from other children. He talked about the "luckle horse" he
played with, and the "boomps" he got when he fell down, and he was very
brave and serious, as became a fat baby boy who had to take care of himself
a great deal.
Anna was so busy cooking and mending for a family of five she was very glad
of the hours when Mr. Wenzel worked at home at his desk and baby Peter
could stay in the same room with him and play with his toys.
Mr. Wenzel was a kind father and longed as far as possible to fill the
place of mother also to his children, who loved him dearly. To little Peter
he was all-powerful. A kiss from papa soothed the hardest "boomp" that his
many tumbles gave him; but even Peter realized that when papa was at his
desk he was very busy indeed, and though any of the children might sit in
the room with him, they must not speak unless it was absolutely necessary.
Emilie was now eight years old, and she might have helped her father and
Anna more than she did; but she never thought of this. She loved to read,
especially fairy stories, and she often curled up on the sofa in her
father's room and read while Peter either played about the room with his
toys, or went to papa's desk and stood with his round eyes fixed on Mr.
Wenzel's face until the busy man would look up from his papers and ask:
"What does my Peter want?"
Especially did Emilie fly to this refuge in papa's room after a quarrel
with Franz, and I'm sorry to say she had a great many. The apple woman
found out that the little brother and sister were not always amiable. Anna
had confided in her; and then one day the children approached her stand
contradicting each other, their voices growing louder and louder as they
came, until at last Franz made a face at Emilie, giving her a push, and
she, quick as a kitten, jumped forward and slapped him.
What Franz would have done after this I don't know, if the apple woman
hadn't said, "Chillen, chillen!" so loud that he stopped to look at her.
"Ah, listen at that fairy Slap-back a-laughin'!" cried the apple woman.
"The fairy Flapjack?" asked Franz, as he and his sister forgot their wrath
and ran toward the stand.
"_Flapjack!_" repeated the apple woman with scorn, as the children nestled
down, one each side of her. "Yo' nice chillen pertendin' not to know yo'
friends!"
"What friends? What?" asked Emilie eagerly.
"The fairy Slap-back. P'raps I didn't see her jest now, a-grinnin' over yo'
shoulder."
"Is she anybody to be afraid of?" asked Emilie, big-eyed.
"To be sho' she is if you-all go makin' friends with her," returned the
apple woman, with a knowing sidewise nod of her head. Then drawing back
from the children with an air of greatest surprise, "You two don't mean to
come here tellin' me you ain't never heerd o' the error-fairies?" she
asked.
"Never," they both replied together.
"Shoo!" exclaimed the apple woman. "If you ain't the poor igno'antest w'ite
chillen that ever lived. Why, if you ain't never heerd on 'em, yo're likely
to be snapped up by 'em any day in the week as you was jest now."
"Oh, tell us. Do tell us!" begged Franz and Emilie.
"Co'se I will, 'case 't ain't right for them mis'able creeturs to be
hangin' around you all, and you not up to their capers. Fust place they're
called the error-fairies 'case they're all servants to a creetur named
Error. She's a cheat and a humbug, allers pertendin' somethin' or other,
and she makes it her business to fight a great and good fairy named Love.
Now Love--oh, chillen, my pore tongue can't tell you of the beauty and
goodness o' the fairy Love! She's the messenger of a great King, and spends
her whole time a-blessin' folks. Her hair shines with the gold o' the sun;
her eyes send out soft beams; her gown is w'ite, and when she moves 'tis as
if forget-me-nots and violets was runnin' in little streams among its
folds. Ah, chillen," the apple woman shook her head, "she's the blessin' o'
the world. Her soft arms are stretched out to gather in and comfort every
sorrowin' heart.
"Well, 'case she was so lovely an' the great King trusted her, Error
thought she'd try her hand; but she hadn't any king, Error hadn't. There
wa'n't nobody to stand for her or to send her on errands. She was a
low-lifed, flabby creetur," the apple woman made a scornful grimace; "jest
a misty-moisty nobody; nothin' to her. Her gown was a cloud and she wa'n't
no more 'n a shadder, herself, until she could git somebody to listen to
her. When she did git somebody to listen to her, she'd begin to stiffen up
and git some backbone and git awful sassy; so she crep' around whisperin'
to folks that Love was no good, and 'lowin' that she--that mis'able
creetur--was the queen o' life.
"Some folks knowed better and told her so, right pine blank, an' then
straight off she'd feel herself changin' back into a shadder, an' sail away
as fast as she could to try it on somebody else. She was ugly to look at as
a bad dream, but yet there was lots o' folks would pay 'tention to her, and
after they'd listened once or twice, she kep' gittin' stronger and pearter,
an' as she got stronger, they got weaker, and every day it was harder fer
'em to drive her off, even after they'd got sick of her.
"Then, even if she didn't have a king, she had slaves; oh, dozens and
dozens of error-fairies, to do her will. Creepin' shadders they was, too,
till somebody listened to 'em and give 'em a backbone. There's--let me
see"--the apple woman looked off to jog her memory--"there's Laziness,
Selfishness, Backbitin', Cruelty--oh, I ain't got time to tell 'em all; an'
not one mite o' harm in one of 'em, only for some silly mortal that listens
and gives the creetur a backbone. They jest lop over an' melt away, the
whole batch of 'em, when Love comes near. She knows what no-account
humbugs they are, you see; and they jest lop over an' melt away whenever
even a little chile knows enough to say 'Go off fum here, an' quit
pesterin''!"
Franz and Emilie stared at the apple woman and listened hard. Their cheeks
matched the apples.
"What happened a minute ago to you-all? An error-creetur named Slap-back
whispered to you. 'Quarrel!' says she. What'd you do? Did you say 'Go off,
you triflin' vilyun'?
"Not a bit of it. You quarreled; an' Slap-back kep' gittin' bigger and
stronger and stiffer in the backbone while you was goin' it, an' at last up
comes this little hand of Emilie's. Whack! That was the time Slap-back
couldn't hold in, an' she jest laughed an' laughed over yo' shoulder. Ah,
the little red eyes she had, and the wiry hair! And that other one, the
fairy, Love, she was pickin' up her w'ite gown with both hands an' flyin'
off as if she had wings. Of course you didn't notice her. You was too taken
up with yo' friend."
"But Slap-back isn't our friend," declared Emilie earnestly.
The apple woman shook her head. "Bless yo' heart, honey, it's mean to deny
it now; but, disown her or not, she'll stick to you and pester you; and
you'll find it out if ever you try to drive her off. You'll have as hard a
time as little Dinah did."
"What happened to Dinah?" asked Franz, picking up the apple woman's clean
towel and beginning to polish apples.
"Drop that, now, chile! Yo' friend might cast her eye on it. I don't want
to sell pizened apples."
Franz, crestfallen, obeyed, and glanced at Emilie. They had never before
found their assistance refused, and they both looked very sober.
"Little Dinah was a chile lived 'way off down South 'mongst the cotton
fields; and that good fairy watched over Dinah,--Love, so sweet to look at
she'd make yo' heart sing.
"Dinah had a little brother, too, jest big enough to walk; an' a daddy that
worked from mornin' till night to git hoe-cake 'nuff fer 'em all; and his
ole mammy, she helped him, and made the fire, and swept the room, and dug
in the garden, and milked the cow. She was a good woman, that ole mammy,
an' 't was a great pity there wa'n't nobody to help 'er, an' she gittin'
older every day."
"Why, there was Dinah," suggested Emilie.
The apple woman stared at her with both hands raised. "Dinah! Lawsy massy,
honey, the only thing that chile would do was look at pictur' books an'
play with the other chillen. She wouldn't even so much as pick up baby Mose
when he tumbled down an' barked his shin. Oh, but she was a triflin' lazy
little nigger as ever you see."
"And that's why the red-eyed fairy got hold of her," said Franz, who was
longing to hear something exciting.
"'Twas, partly," said the apple woman. "You see there's somethin' very
strange about them fairies, Love and the error-fairies. The error-fairies,
they run after the folks that love themselves, and Love can only come near
them that loves other people. Sounds queer, honey, but it's the truth; so,
when Dinah got to be a likely, big gal, and never thought whether the ole
mammy was gittin' tired out, or tried to amuse little Mose, or gave a
thought o' pity to her pore daddy who was alone in the world, the fairy
Love got to feelin' as bad as any fairy could.
"'Do, Dinah,'" she said, with her sweet mouth close to Dinah's ear, 'do
stop bein' so triflin', and stir yo'self to be some help in the house.'
"'No,' says Dinah, 'I like better to lay in the buttercups and look at
pictur's,' says she.
"'Then,' says Love, 'show Mose the pictur's, too, and make him happy.'
"'No,' says Dinah, 'he's too little, an' he bothers me an' tears my book.'
"'Then,' says Love, 'yo'd rather yo' tired daddy took care o' the chile
after his hard day's work.'
"'Now yo're talkin',' says Dinah. 'I shorely would. My daddy's strong.'
"The tears came into Love's eyes, she felt so down-hearted. 'Yo' daddy
needs comfort, Dinah,' she says, 'an' yo're big enough to give it to him,'
says she; 'an' look at the black smooches on my w'ite gown. They're all
because o' you, Dinah, that I've been friends with so faithful. I've got to
leave you now, far enough so's my gown'll come w'ite; but if you call me
I'll hear, honey, an' I'll come. Good-by,'
"'Good riddance!' says Dinah. 'I'm right down tired o' bein' lectured,'
says she. 'Now I can roll over in the buttercups an' sing, an' be happy an'
do jest as I please.'
"So Dinah threw herself down in the long grass and, bing! she fell right
atop of a wasp, and he was so scared at such capers he stung her in the
cheek. Whew! You could hear her 'way 'cross the cotton field!
"Her ole gran'mam comforted her, the good soul. 'Never you mind, honey,'
she says, 'I'll swaje it fer you.'
"But every day Dinah got mo' triflin'. She pintedly wouldn't wash the
dishes, nor mind little Mose; an' every time the hot fire o' temper ran
over her, she could hear a voice in her ear--'Give it to 'em good. That's
the way to do it, Dinah!' An' it kep' gittin' easier to be selfish an' to
let her temper run away, an' the cabin got to be a mighty pore place jest
on account o' Dinah, who'd ought to ha' been its sunshine.
"As for the fairy, Love, Dinah never heerd her voice, an' she never called
to her, though there was never a minute when she didn't hate the sound o'
that other voice that had come to be in her ears more 'n half the time.
"One mornin' everything went wrong with Dinah. Her gran'mam was plum
mis'able over her shif'less ways, an' she set her to sew a seam befo' she
could step outside the do'. The needle was dull, the thread fell in knots.
Dinah's brow was mo' knotted up than the thread. Her head felt hot.
"'Say you won't do it,' hissed the voice.
"'I'll git thrashed if I do. Gran'mam said so.'
"'What do you care!' hissed the voice; and jest as the fairy Slap-back was
talkin' like this, up comes little Mose to Dinah, an' laughs an' pulls her
work away.
"Then somethin' awful happened. Dinah couldn't 'a' done it two weeks back;
but it's the way with them that listens to that mis'able, low-lifed
Slap-back. Jest as quick as a wink, that big gal, goin' on nine, slapped
baby Mose. He was that took back for a minute that he didn't cry; but the
hateful voice laughed an' hissed an' laughed again.
"Good, Dinah, good! Now you'll ketch it!'
"Then over went little Mose's lip, an' he wailed out, an' Dinah clasped her
naughty hands an' saw a face close to her--a bad one, with red eyes
shinin'. She jumped away from it, for it made her cold to think she'd been
havin' sech a playfeller all along.
"'Oh, Love, y' ain't done fergit me, is yer? Come back, Love, _Love_!' she
called; then she dropped on her knees side o' Mose an' called him her honey
an' her lamb, an' she cried with him, an' pulled him into her lap, an' when
the ole gran'mam come in from where she'd been feedin' the hens, they was
both asleep."
Franz took a long breath, for the way the apple woman told a story always
made him listen hard. "I guess that was the last of old Slap-back with
Dinah," he remarked.
The apple woman shook her head. "That's the worst of that fairy," she said.
"Love'll clar out when you tell 'er to, 'case she's quality, an' she's got
manners; but Slap-back ain't never had no raisin'. She hangs around, an'
hangs around, an' is allers puttin' in her say jest as she was a few
minutes ago with you and Emilie in the road there. There's nothin' in this
world tickles her like a chile actin' naughty, 'ceptin' it's two chillen
scrappin'. Now pore little Dinah found she had to have all her wits about
her to keep Love near, an' make that ornery Slap-back stay away. Love was
as willin', as willin' to stay as violets is to open in the springtime;
but when Dinah an' Slap-back was both agin her, what could she do? An'
Dinah, she'd got so used to Slap-back, an' that bodacious creetur had sech
a way o' gittin' around the chile, sometimes, 'fore Dinah knew it, she'd be
listenin' to 'er ag'in; but Dinah'd had one good scare an' she didn't mean
to give in. Jest now, too, her daddy fell sick. That good man, that lonely
man, he'd had a mighty hard time of it, an' no chile to care or love 'im."
"Wait," interrupted Emilie sternly. "If you are going to let Dinah's father
die, I'm going home."
The apple woman showed the whites of her eyes in the astonished stare she
gave her.
"Because"--Emilie swallowed and then finished suddenly--"because it
wouldn't be nice."
The apple woman looked straight out over her stand. "Well, he didn't, an'
Dinah made him mighty glad he got well, too; for she stopped buryin' her
head in pictur' books, an' she did errands for gran'mam without whinin',
an' she minded Mose so her daddy had mo' peace when he come home tuckered
out; an' when she'd got so she could smile at the boy in the next cabin,
'stead o' runnin' out her tongue at him, the fairy, Love, could stay by
without smoochin' her gown, an' Slap-back had to melt away an' sail off to
try her capers on some other chile."
"But you needn't pretend you saw her with us," said Franz uneasily.
The apple woman nodded her red bandana wisely. "Folks that lives outdoors
the way I do, honey, sees mo' than you-all," she answered.
Emilie ran home ahead of her brother, and softly entered her father's
room. He was at his desk, as was usual at this hour. His head leaned on his
hand, and he was so deep in his work that he did not notice her quiet
entrance. She curled up on the sofa in her usual attitude, but instead of
reading she watched little Peter on the floor building his block house. His
chubby hands worked carefully until the crooked house grew tall, then in
turning to find a last block he bumped his head on the corner of a chair.
Emilie watched him rub the hurt place in silence. Then he got up on his fat
legs and went to the desk, where he stood patiently, his round face very
red and solemn, while he waited to gain his father's attention.
At last the busy man became conscious of the child's presence, and,
turning, looked down into the serious eyes.
"I'm here wid a boomp," said Peter. Then after receiving the consolation of
a hug and kiss he returned contentedly to his block house.
Emilie saw her father look after the child with a smile sad and tender. Her
heart beat faster as she lay in her corner. Her father was lonely and hard
worked, with no one to take pity on him. A veil seemed to drop from her
eyes, even while they grew wet.
"I don't believe I'm too old to change, even if I am going on nine,"
thought Emilie. At that minute the block house fell in ruins, and Peter,
self-controlled though he was, looked toward the desk and began to whimper.
"Peter--Baby," cried Emilie softly, leaning forward and holding out the
picture of a horse in her book.
Her father had turned with an involuntary sigh, and seeing Peter trot
toward the sofa and Emilie receive him with open arms, went back to his
papers with a relief that his little daughter saw. Her breath came fast and
she hugged the baby. Something caught in her throat.
"Oh, papa, you don't know how many, _many_ times I'm going to do it," she
said in the silence of her own full heart.
And Emilie kept that unspoken promise.