PINK CHIRK.
One lovely morning Hildegarde stood at the back door, feeding the fowls.
She wore her brown gingham frock with the yellow daisies on it, and the
daisy-wreathed hat, and in her hands she held a great yellow bowl full
of yellow corn. So bright a picture she made that Farmer Hartley,
driving the oxen afield, stopped for pure pleasure to look at her.
Around her the ducks and hens were fighting and squabbling, quacking,
clucking, and gobbling, and she flung the corn in golden showers on
their heads and backs, making them nearly frantic with greedy anxiety.
[Illustration: "SHE FLUNG THE CORN IN GOLDEN SHOWERS ON THEIR HEADS."]
"Wal, Huldy," said the farmer, leaning against Bright's massive side,
"you look pooty slick in that gown, I must say. I reckon thar ain't no
sech gown as _that_ on Fifth Avenoo, hey?"
"Indeed, I don't believe there is, Farmer Hartley," replied Hilda,
laughing merrily; "at least I never saw one like it. It _is_ pretty, I
think, and _so_ comfortable! And where are you going this morning with
the mammoths?"
"Down to the ten-acre lot," replied the farmer. "The men are makin' hay
thar to-day. Jump into the riggin' and come along," he added. "Ye kin
hev a little ride, an' see the hay-makin'. Pooty sight 'tis, to my
thinkin'."
"May I?" cried Hilda, eagerly. "I am sure these fowls have had enough.
Go away now, you greedy creatures! There, you shall have all there is!"
and she emptied the bowl over the astonished dignitaries of the
barn-yard, laid it down on the settle in the porch, and jumped gayly
into the "rigging," as the great hay-cart was called.
"Haw, Bright! hoish, Star!" said the farmer, touching one and then the
other of the great black oxen lightly with his goad. The huge beasts
swayed from side to side, and finally succeeded in getting themselves
and the cart in motion, while the farmer walked leisurely beside them,
tapping and poking them occasionally, and talking to them in that mystic
language which only oxen and their drivers understand. Down the sweet
country lane they went, with the willows hanging over them, and the
daisies and buttercups and meadow-sweet running riot all over the banks.
Hilda stood up in the cart and pulled off twigs from the willows as she
passed under them, and made garlands, which the farmer obediently put
over the oxen's necks. She hummed little snatches of song, and chatted
gayly with her kind old host; for the world was very fair, and her heart
was full of summer and sunshine.
"And have you always lived here, Farmer Hartley?" she asked. "All your
life, I mean?"
"No, not all my life," replied the farmer, "though pooty nigh it. I was
ten year old when my uncle died, and father left sea-farin', and kem
home to the farm to live. Before that we'd lived in different places,
movin' round, like. We was at sea a good deal, sailin' with father when
he went on pleasant voyages, to the West Indies, or sich. But sence then
I ain't ben away much. I don't seem to find no pleasanter place than the
old farm, somehow."
"I don't believe there _is_ any pleasanter place in the world!" said
Hilda, warmly. "I am sure I have never been so happy anywhere as I have
here."
Farmer Hartley looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Ye've changed yer
views some, Huldy, hain't ye, sence the fust day ye kem heer? I didn't
never think, then, as I'd be givin' you rides in the hay-riggin', sech a
fine young lady as you was."
Hilda gave him an imploring glance, while the blood mounted to her
temples. "Please, Farmer Hartley," she said in a low voice, "please try
to forget that first day. It isn't my views that have changed," she
added, "it is I myself. I don't--I really don't _think_ I am the same
girl who came here a month ago."
"No, my gal," said the farmer, heartily, "I don't think ye are." He
walked along in silence for a few minutes, and then said, "'Tis curus
how folks kin sometimes change 'emselves, one way or the other. 'Tain't
so with critturs; 't least so fur's I've obsarved. The way they're born,
that way they'll stay. Now look at them oxen! When they was young
steers, hardly more'n calves, I began to train them critturs. An' from
the very fust go-off they tuk their cue an' stuck to it. Star, thar,
would lay out, and shake his head, an' pull for all he was wuth, as if
there was nothin' in the world to do _but_ pull; and Bright, he'd wait
till Star was drawin' good an' solid, an' then he'd as much as say, 'Oh!
you kin pull all that, kin ye? Well, stick to it, my boy, an' I'll
manage to trifle along with the rest o' the load.' Wo-_hoish_, Star!
haw, Bright! git up, ye old humbug! You're six year old now, an' you
ain't changed a mite in four years, though I've drove you stiddy, and
tried to spare the other every time."
The green lane broke off suddenly, and such a blaze of sunlight flashed
upon them that Hilda involuntarily raised her hand to shield her eyes.
The great meadow lay open before them, an undulating plain of gold. The
haycocks looked dull and gray-green upon it; but where the men were
tossing the hay with their long wooden rakes, it flashed pale-golden in
the sunlight, and filled the air with flying gleams. Also the air was
filled with the sweetness of the hay, and every breath was a delight.
Hilda stood speechless with pleasure, and the old farmer watched her
glowing face with kindly gratification.
"Pooty sightly, ain't it?" he said. And then, in a graver tone, and
removing his battered straw hat, "I don't never seem to see the glory
of the Lord no plainer than in a hay-field, a day like this. Yes, sir!
if a man can't be a Christian on a farm in summer, he can't be it
nowhere. Amen!" and Farmer Hartley put on his hat and proceeded
straightway to business. "Now, Huldy," he said, "here ye be! I'm goin'
to load up this riggin', an' ye kin stay round here a spell, if ye like,
an' run home _when_ ye like. Ye kin find the way, I reckon?"
"Oh, yes!" said Hilda; "yes, indeed! But I shall stay here for a while,
and watch you. And mayn't I toss the hay too a little?"
But her courage failed when she found that to do this she must mingle
with the crowd of strange haymakers; and besides, among them she saw the
clumsy form and shock head of Caliban, as she had secretly named the
clownish and surly nephew of her good host. This fellow was the one
bitter drop in Hilda's cup. Everything else she had learned to like, in
the month which had passed since she came to Hartley's Glen. The farmer
and his wife she loved as they deserved to be loved. The little
maidservant was her adoring slave, and secretly sewed her boot-buttons
on, and mended her stockings, as some small return for the lessons in
crochet and fancy knitting that she had received from the skilful white
fingers which were a perpetual marvel to her. But Simon Hartley remained
what she had at first thought him,--a sullen, boorish churl. He was a
malevolent churl too, Hildegarde thought; indeed she was sure of it. She
had several times seen his eyes fixed on his uncle with a look of
positive hatred; and though Farmer Hartley was persistently kind and
patient with him, trying often to draw him into conversation, and make
him join in the pleasant evening talks which they all enjoyed, his
efforts were unsuccessful. The fellow came in, gobbled his food, and
then went off, if his work was over, to hide himself in his own room.
Hilda was quite sure that Nurse Lucy liked this oaf no better than she
herself did, though the good woman never spoke impatiently or unkindly
to him,--and indeed it would be difficult for any one to like him, she
thought, except possibly his own mother.
Our Queen took presently her seat on a right royal throne of fragrant
hay, and gave herself up to the full delight of the summer morning, and
of the "Field of the Cloth of Gold," as she had instantly named the
shining yellow plain, which more prosaic souls knew as "the ten-acre
lot." The hay rustled pleasantly as she nestled down in it, and made a
little penthouse over her head, to keep off the keen, hot sun-arrows.
There was a great oak-tree too, which partly shaded this favored
haycock, and on one of its branches a squirrel came running out, and
then sat up and looked at Hildegarde with bright, inquisitive eyes. A
maiden, all brown and gold, on a golden haycock! What strange apparition
was this? Had she come for acorns? Did she know about the four young
ones in the snug little house in the hollow just above the first branch!
Perhaps--dreadful thought!--she had heard of the marvellous beauty of
the four young ones, and had come to steal them. "Chip!" whisk! and
Madam Squirrel was off up the branch like a streak of brown lightning,
with its tail up.
Hilda laughed at the squirrel's alarm, and then turned her attention to
a large green grasshopper who seemed to demand it. He had alighted on
her knee, and now proceeded to exhibit his different points before her
admiring gaze with singular gravity and deliberation. First he slowly
opened his wings, to show the delicate silvery gauze of the under-wings;
then as slowly closed them, demonstrating the perfect fit of his whole
wing-costume and the harmony of its colors. He next extended one leg,
calling her attention to its remarkable length and muscular
proportions. Then, lest she should think he had but one, he extended
the other; and then gave a vigorous hop with both of them, to show her
that he did not really need wings, but could get on perfectly well
without them. Finally he rubbed himself all over with his long antennæ,
and then, pointing them full at her, and gazing at her with calm and
dispassionate eyes, he said plainly enough: "And now, Monster, what have
_you_ to show _me_?"
Hildegarde was wondering how she could best dispel the scorn with which
this majestic insect evidently regarded her, when suddenly something new
appeared on her gown,--something black, many-legged, hairy, most
hideous; something which ran swiftly but stealthily, with a motion which
sent a thrill of horror through her veins. She started up with a little
shriek, shaking off the unlucky spider as if it had been the Black Death
in concrete. Then she looked round with flaming cheeks, to see if her
scream had been heard by the hay-makers. No, they were far away, and
too busy to take heed of her. But the charm was broken. Queen Hildegarde
had plenty of courage of a certain sort, but she could _not_ face a
spider. The golden throne had become a "siege perilous," and she
abdicated in favor of the grasshopper and his black and horrent visitor.
What should she do now? The charm of the morning had made her idle and
drowsy, and she did not feel like going home to help Nurse Lucy in
making the butter, though she often did so with right good-will. She
looked dreamily around, her eyes wandering here and there over the great
meadow and the neat stone walls which bounded it. Presently she spied
the chimneys and part of the red roof of a little cottage which peeped
from a thick clump of trees just beyond the wall. Who lived in that
cottage, Hilda wondered. Why should she not go and see? She was very
thirsty, and there she might get a glass of water. Oh! perhaps it was
Bubble's cottage, where he and his mother and his sister Pink lived. Now
she thought of it, Bubble had told her that he lived "over beyont the
ten-acre lot;" of course this must be the place. Slowly she walked
across the meadow and climbed the wall, wondering a good deal about the
people whom she was going to see. She had often meant to ask Bubble more
about his sister with the queer name; but the lesson-hour was so short,
and there were always so many questions for Bubble to ask and for her to
answer besides the regular lesson, that she always forgot it till too
late. Pink Chirk! what could a girl be like with such a name as that?
Hilda fancied her a stout, buxom maiden, with very red cheeks and very
black eyes--yes, certainly, the eyes must be black! Her hair--well, one
could not be so sure about her hair; but there was no doubt about her
wearing a pink dress and a blue checked apron. And she must be smiling,
bustling, and energetic. Yes! Hilda had the picture of her complete in
her mind. She wondered that this active, stirring girl never came up to
the farm; but of course she must have a great deal of work to do at
home.
By this time Hildegarde had reached the cottage; and after a moment's
hesitation she knocked softly at the green-painted door. No one came to
open the door, but presently she heard a clear, pleasant voice from
within saying, "Open the door and come in, please!" Following this
injunction, she entered the cottage and found herself directly in the
sitting-room, and face to face with its occupant. This was a girl of her
own age, or perhaps a year older, who sat in a wheeled chair by the
window. She was very fair, with almost flaxen hair, and frank, pleasant
blue eyes. She was very pale, very thin; the hands that lay on her lap
were almost transparent; but--she wore a pink calico dress and a blue
checked apron. Who could this be? and whoever it was, why did she sit
still when a visitor and a stranger came in? The pale girl made no
attempt to rise, but she met Hilda's look of surprise and inquiry with a
smile which broke like sunshine over her face, making it for the moment
positively beautiful. "How do you do?" she said, holding out her thin
hand. "I am sure you must be Miss Hilda Graham, and I am Bubble's sister
Pink.
[Illustration: "THE PALE GIRL MADE NO ATTEMPT TO RISE."]
"Please sit down," she added. "I am so _very_ glad to see you. I have
wanted again and again to thank you for all your kindness to my Bubble,
but I didn't know when I should have a chance. Did Bubble show you the
way?"
Hildegarde was so astonished, so troubled, so dismayed that she hardly
knew what she was saying or doing. She took the slender fingers in her
own for an instant, and then sat down, saying hastily: "Oh, no! I--I
found my way alone. I was not sure of its being your cottage, though I
thought it must be from what Bubble told me." She paused; and then,
unable to keep back longer the words which sprang to her lips, she said:
"I fear you have been ill, you are so pale. I hope it has not been
serious. Bubble did not tell me--"
Pink Chirk looked up with her bright, sweet smile. "Oh, no! I have not
been ill," she said. "I am always like this. I cannot walk, you know,
but I am very well indeed."
"You cannot walk?" stammered Hilda.
The girl saw her look of horror, and a faint color stole into her wan
cheek. "Did not Bubble tell you?" she asked, gently; and then, as Hilda
shook her head, "It is such a matter of course to him," she said; "he
never thinks about it, I suppose, dear little fellow. I was run over
when I was three years old, and I have never been able to walk since."
Hildegarde could not speak. The thought of anything so dreadful, so
overwhelming as this, coming so suddenly, too, upon her, seemed to take
away her usually ready speech, and she was dumb, gazing at the cheerful
face before her with wide eyes of pity and wonderment. But Pink Chirk
did not like to be pitied, as a rule; and she almost laughed at her
visitor's horror-stricken face.
"You mustn't look so!" she cried. "It's very kind of you to be sorry,
but it isn't as if I were really _ill_, you know. I can _almost_ stand
on one foot,--that is, I can bear enough weight on it to get from my bed
to my chair without help. That is a _great_ thing! And then when I am
once in my chair, why I can go almost anywhere. Farmer Hartley gave me
this chair," she added, looking down at it, and patting the arm
tenderly, as if it were a living friend; "isn't it a beauty?"
It was a pretty chair, made of cherry wood, with cushions of
gay-flowered chintz; and Hilda, finding her voice again, praised it
warmly. "This is its summer dress," said Pink, her eyes sparkling with
pleasure. "Underneath, the cushions are covered with soft crimson cloth,
oh, so pretty, and so warm-looking! I am always glad when it's time to
take the chintz covers off. And yet I am always glad to put them on
again," she added, "for the chintz is pretty too, I think: and besides,
I know then that summer is really come."
"You like summer best?" asked Hilda.
"Oh, yes!" she replied. "In winter, of course, I can't go out; and
sometimes it seems a little long, when Bubble is away all day,--not
very, you know, but just a little. But in summer, oh, then I am so
happy! I can go all round the place by myself, and sit out in the
garden, and feed the chickens, and take care of the flowers. And then on
Sunday Bubble always gives me a good ride along the road. My chair moves
very easily,--only see!" She gave a little push, and propelled herself
half way across the little room.
At this moment the inner door opened, and Mrs. Chirk appeared,--a
slender, anxious-looking woman, with hair prematurely gray. She greeted
Hilda with nervous cordiality, and thanked her earnestly for her
kindness to Zerubbabel. "He ain't the same boy, Miss Graham," she said,
"sence you begun givin' him lessons. He used to fret and worrit 'cause
there warn't no school, and he couldn't ha' gone to it if there was.
Pinkrosia learned him what she could; but we hain't many books, you see.
But now! why that boy comes into the house singin' and spoutin' poetry
at the top of his lungs,--jest as happy as a kitten with a spool. What
was that he was shoutin' this mornin', Pinkrosia, when he scairt the old
black hen nigh to death?"
"'Charge for the golden lilies! Upon them with the lance!'" murmured
Pink, with a smile.
"Yes, that was it!" said Mrs. Chirk. "He was lookin' out of the window
and pumpin' at the same time, an' spoutin' them verses too. And all of a
sudden he cries out, 'Ther's the brood of dark My Hen, scratchin' up the
sweet peas. Upon them with the lance!' And he lets go the pump-handle,
and it flies up and hits the shelf and knocks off two plates and a cup,
and Bubble, he's off with the mop-handle, chasin' the old black hen and
makin' believe run her through, till she e'enamost died of fright. Well,
there, it give me a turn; it reelly did!" She paused rather sadly,
seeing that her hearers were both overcome with laughter.
"I--I am very sorry, Mrs. Chirk, that the plates were broken," said
Hilda; "but it must have been extremely funny. Poor old hen! she must
have been frightened, certainly. Do you know," she added, "I think
Bubble is a _remarkably_ bright boy. I am very sure that he will make a
name for himself, if only he can have proper training."
"Presume likely!" said Mrs. Chirk, with melancholy satisfaction. "His
father was a _real_ smart man. There warn't no better hayin' hand in the
county than Loammi Chirk. And I'm in hopes Zerubbabel will do as well,
for he has a good friend in Farmer Hartley; no boy couldn't have a
better."
Eminence in the profession of "haying" was not precisely what Hilda had
meant; but she said nothing.
"And my poor girl here," Mrs. Chirk continued after a pause, "she sets
in her cheer hay-times and other times. You've heard of her misfortune,
Miss Graham?"
Pink interposed quickly with a little laugh, though her brows contracted
slightly, as if with pain. "Oh, yes, Mother dear!" she said; "Miss
Graham has heard all about me, and knows what a _very_ important person
I am. But where is the yarn that I was to wind for you? I thought you
wanted to begin weaving this afternoon."
"Oh!" exclaimed Hildegarde. "Never mind the yarn just now, Pink! I want
to give you a little ride before I go back to the farm. May she go, Mrs.
Chirk? It is such a beautiful day, I am sure the air will do her good.
Would you like it, Pink?"
Pink looked up with a flush of pleasure on her pale cheek. "Oh," she
said, "would I like it! But it's too much for you to do, Miss Graham."
"An' with that beautiful dress on too!" cried Mrs. Chirk. "You'd get it
dusty on the wheel, I'm afraid. I don't think--"
"Oh yes, you do!" cried Hilda, gayly, pushing the chair towards the
door. "Bring her hat, please, Mrs. Chirk. I always have my own way!" she
added, with a touch of the old imperiousness, "and I have quite set my
heart on this."
Mrs. Chirk meekly brought a straw sun-bonnet, and Hilda tied its strings
under Pink's chin, every fibre within her mutely protesting against its
extreme ugliness. "She shall not wear _that_ again," said she to
herself, "if I can help it." But the sweet pale face looked out so
joyously from the dingy yellow tunnel that the stern young autocrat
relented. "After all, what does it matter?" she thought. "She would
look like an angel, even with a real coal-scuttle on her head." And
then she laughed at the thought of a black japanned scuttle crowning
those fair locks; and Pink laughed because Hilda laughed; and so they
both went laughing out into the sunshine.