JEAN MOTHERS THE BROOD
Cousin Roxy came down the following day and blocked out her plan for a
celebration at the Town Hall on Lincoln’s Birthday. The girls had
pictured the Town Hall when they had first heard of it as a rather
imposing edifice, imposing at least, for Gilead. But it was really only
a long, old gray building, one story high, built like a Quaker meeting
house with two doors in front, carriage houses behind, and huge
century-old elms overshadowing the driveway leading up to it.
Two tall weather worn posts fronted the main road, whereon at intervals
were posted notices of town meetings, taxes, and all sorts of “goings on
and doings,” as Cousin Roxy said. An adventurous woodpecker had pecked
quite a good sized hole in the side of one post, and here a slip of
paper would often be tucked with an order to the fishman to call at some
out of the way farmhouse, or the tea and coffee man from way over near
East Pomfret.
Next to the Town Hall stood the Methodist Church with its little
rambling burial ground behind it, straying off down hill until it met a
fringe of junipers and a cranberry bog. There were not many new
tombstones, mostly old yellowed marble ones, somewhat one sided, with
now and then a faded flag stuck in an urn where a Civil War soldier lay
buried.
“Antietam took the flower of our youth,” Cousin Roxy would say, with old
tender memories softening the look in her gray eyes as she gazed out
over the old square plots. “The boys didn’t know what they were facing.
My mother was left a young widow then. Land alive, do you suppose
there’d ever be war if women went out to fight each other? I can’t
imagine any fun or excitement in shooting down my sisters, but men folks
are different. Give them a cause and they’ll leave plough, home, and
harrow for a good fight with one another. And when Decoration Day comes
around, I always want to hang my wreaths around the necks of the old
fellows who are still with us, Ezry, and Philly Weaver, and old Mr.
Peckham and the rest. And that reminds me,” here her eyes twinkled. The
girls always knew a story was coming when they looked that way, brimful
of mirth. “I just met Philly Weaver hobbling along the road after some
stray cows, ninety-two years young, and scolding like forty because, as
he said, ‘That boy, Ezry Hicks, who only carried a drum through the war,
has dared ask for an increase in pension.’ Ezry must be seventy-four if
he’s a day, but he’s still a giddy boy drummer to Philly.”
Jean helped plan out the programme. It seemed like old times back at the
Cove where the girls were always getting up some kind of entertainment
for the church or their own club. Billy Peckham, who was a big boy over
at Gayhead school this year, would deliver the Gettysburg speech, and
the Judge could be relied on to give a good one too. Then Jean hit on a
plan. Shad was lanky and tall, awkward and overgrown as ever Abe Lincoln
had been. Watching him out of the dining-room window as he split wood,
she exclaimed suddenly,
“Why couldn’t we have a series of tableaux on his early life, Cousin
Roxy. Just look out there at Shad. He’s the image of some of the early
pictures, and he never gets his hair cut before spring, he says, just
like the horses. Let’s try him.”
Once they had started, it seemed easy. The first scene could be the
cabin in the clearing. Jean would be Nancy Lincoln, the young mother,
seated by the fireplace, teaching her boy his letters from the book at
her knee.
“Dug Moffat will be right for that,” said Jean happily. “He’s about six.
Then we must show the boy Lincoln at school. Out in Illinois, that was,
wasn’t it, Cousin Roxy, where he borrowed some books from the teacher,
and the rain soaked the covers, so he split his first wood to earn
them.”
Cousin Roxy promised to hunt up all the necessary historical data in the
Judge’s library at home, and they went after it in earnest. Freddie
Herrick, the groceryman’s boy over at the Center, was chosen for Abe at
this stage, and Kit coaxed Mr. Ricketts, the mailcarrier, to be the
teacher.
“Go long now,” he exclaimed jocularly, when she first proposed it. “I
ain’t spoke a piece in public since I was knee high to a grasshopper. I
used to spout, ‘Woodman, spare that tree.’ Yep. Say it right off smart
as could be. Then they had me learn ‘Old Ironsides.’ Ever hear that one?
Begins like this.” He waved one arm oracularly in the air. “‘Aye, tear
her tattered ensign down, long has it waved on high.’ Once they got me
started, they couldn’t stop me. No, sirree. Went right ahead and learned
’em, one after the other. ‘At midnight in his guarded tent, the Turk lay
dreaming of the hour—’ That was a Jim dandy to roll out. And—and the
second chapter of Matthew, and Patrick Henry’s speech, and all sorts of
sech stuff, but I’d be shy as a rabbit if you put me up before everybody
now.”
Still, he finally consented, when Kit promised him his schoolmaster desk
could stand with its back half to the audience to spare him from
embarrassment.
“Oh, it’s coming on splendidly,” she cried to Cousin Roxy, once she was
sure of Mr. Ricketts. “We’ll have Shad for the young soldier in the
Black Hawk war, and three of the big boys for Indians. And then, let’s
see, the courting of Ann Rutledge. Let’s have Piney for Ann. She has
just that wide-eyed, old daguerreotype look. Give her a round white
turned down collar and a cameo breast-pin, and she’ll be ideal.”
The preparations went on enthusiastically. Rehearsals were held partly
at Greenacres, partly over at the Judge’s, and always there were
refreshments afterwards. Mrs. Gorham and Jean prepared coffee and cocoa,
with cake, but Cousin Roxy would send Ben down cellar after apples and
nuts, with a heaping dish of hermits and doughnuts, and tall pitchers of
creamy milk.
Doris was very much excited over her part. She was to be the little
sister of the young soldier condemned to death for falling asleep on
sentinel duty. And she felt it all, too, just as if it was, as Shad
said, ‘for real.’ Shad was the President in this too, but disguised in a
long old-fashioned shawl of Cousin Roxy’s and the Judge’s tall hat, and
a short beard. He stood beside his desk, ready to leave, when Doris came
in and pleaded for the boy who was to be shot at dawn.
“I know I’m going to cry real tears,” said Doris tragically. “I can’t
help but feel it all right in here,” pressing her hand to her heart.
“Well, go ahead and cry for pity’s sake,” laughed Cousin Roxy. “All the
better, child.”
Kit had been chosen for a dialogue between the North and the South.
Helen, fair haired and winsome, made a charming Southland girl, very
haughty and indignant, and Kit was a tall, determined young Columbia,
making peace between her and the North, Sally Peckham.
It was Sally’s first appearance in public, and she was greatly perturbed
over it. Life down at the mill had run in monotonous channels. It was
curious to be suddenly taken from it into the limelight of publicity.
“All you have to do, Sally, is let down your glorious hair like
Rapunzel,” said Kit. “It’s way down below your waist, and crinkles too,
and it’s like burnished gold.”
“It’s just plain everyday red,” said Sally.
“No, it isn’t, and anyway, if you had read history, you’d know all of
the great and interesting women had red hair. Cleopatra and Queen
Elizabeth and Theodora and a lot more. You’re just right for the North
because you look sturdy and purposeful.”
“You know, Cousin Roxy, I think you ought to be in this too,” said Jean,
towards the last.
“I am,” responded Cousin Roxy, placidly. “I’m getting up the supper
afterwards. Out here you always have to give them a supper, or the men
folks don’t think they’re getting their money’s worth. Sometimes I have
an oyster supper and sometimes a bean supper, but this time it’s going
to be a chicken supper. And not all top crust, neither. Plenty of
chicken and gravy. We’ll charge fifty cents admission. I wish your
father were here. He’d enjoy it. Heard from them lately?”
Jean nodded, and reached for a letter out of her work-basket on the
table.
“Uncle Hal’s better, and Mother says—wait, here it is.” She read the
extract slowly.
“‘Next year Uncle Hal wants one of you girls to come out and visit the
ranch. I think Kit will enjoy it most.’”
“So she would,” agreed Cousin Roxy. “Don’t say when they expect to start
for home, does it? Or how your father is?”
“She only says she wishes she had us all out there until spring.”
“Don’t write her anything that’s doleful. Let her stay until she’s
rested and got enough of the sunshine and flowers. It will do her good.
We’ll let her stay until the first of March if she likes.” Here Cousin
Roxy put her arm around Jean’s slender waist and drew her nearer. “And
then I want you should go up to visit Beth for the spring. She’s
expecting you. You’ve looked after things real well, child.”
“Oh, but I haven’t,” Jean said quickly. “You don’t know how impatient I
get with the girls, especially Helen. It’s funny, Cousin Roxy, but Doris
and I always agree and pal together, even do Helen’s share of the work
for her, and I think that’s horrid. We’re all together, and Helen’s just
as capable of helping along as little Doris is.”
“Well, what ails her?” Cousin Roxy’s voice was good natured and
cheerful. “Found out how pretty she is?”
“She found that out long ago,” Jean answered. “She isn’t an ordinary
person. She’s the Princess Melisande one day, and Elaine the next. It
just seems as if she can’t get down to real earth, that’s all, Cousin
Roxy. She’s always got her nose in a book, and she won’t see things that
just have to be done. And Kit tells me I’m always finding fault, when I
know I’m right.”
“Well, well, remember one thing. ‘Speak the truth in love.’ Coax her out
of it instead of scolding. She’s only thirteen, you know, Jeanie, and
that’s a trying age. Let her dream awhile. It passes soon enough, this
‘standing with reluctant feet, where the brook and river meet.’ Remember
that? And it would be an awfully funny world if we were all cut out with
the same cookie dip.”
So Helen had a respite from admonishings, and Kit would eye her elder
sister suspiciously, noticing Jean’s sudden change of tactics. Two of
Helen’s daily duties were to feed the canary and water the plants in the
sunny bay window. But half the time it was Kit who did it at the last
minute before they hurried away to school. Then, too, Jean would notice
Kit surreptitiously attack Helen’s neglected pile of mending and wade
though it in her quick, easy-going way, while Helen sat reading by the
fire. But she said nothing, and Kit grew uneasy.
“I’d much rather you’d splutter and say something, Jean,” she said one
day. “But you know Helen helps me in her way. I can’t bear to dust and
she does all of my share on Saturday. She opened up that box of books
for Father from Mr. Everden, and put them all away in his bookcase in
just the right order, and she’s been helping me with my French like
sixty. You know back at the Cove she just simply ate up French from
Mother’s maid, Bettine, when she was so little she could hardly speak
English. So it’s give and take with us, and if I’m satisfied, I don’t
think you ought to mind.”
“I don’t, not any more,” Jean replied, bending over a neglected box of
oil pastels happily. “You do just as you want to, and I’m awfully sorry
I was catty about it. I guess the weather up here’s got on my nerves,
although Cousin Roxy and Jean Robbins have cooked up something between
them, and that’s why she looks so serene and calm.” She paused in the
lower hall and looked out of the little top glass in the door. Around
the bend of the road came Mr. Ricketts’ little white mail cart and old
white horse with all its daily promise of letters and papers. Kit was
out of the house, bareheaded, in a minute, running to meet him.
“Got quite a lot this time,” he called to her hopefully. “I couldn’t
make out all of them, but there’s one right from Californy and I guess
that’s what you’re looking for.”
Kit laughed and took back the precious load. Magazines from Mrs. Crane,
and newspapers from the West. Post-cards for Lincoln’s birthday from
girl friends at the Cove, and one from Piper with a picture of a
disconsolate Boston bull dog saying, “Nobody loves me.”
Jean opened the California letter first, with the others hanging over
the back of her chair. It was not long, but Kit led in the cheer of
thanksgiving over its message.
“We expect to leave here about the 18th, and should be in Gilead a week
later.”
Doris climbed up on a chair to the calendar next the lamp shelf, and
counted off the days, drawing a big circle around the day appointed. But
when they had called up Cousin Roxy and told her, she squelched their
hopes in the most matter-of-fact way possible.
“All nonsense they coming back here just at the winter break-up. I’ll
write and tell them to make it the first of March, and even then it’s
risky, coming right out of a warm climate. I guess you girls can stand
it another week or two.”
“Well,” said Kit heroically, “what can’t be cured must be endured. Rub
off that circle around the 18th, Doris, and make it the first of March.
What’s that about the Ides of March? Wasn’t some old fellow afraid of
them?”
“Julius Cæsar,” answered Jean.
“No such a thing,” said Kit stoutly. “It was Brutus or else Cassius.
When they were having their little set-to in the tent. We had it at
school last week. Girls, let’s immediately cast from us the cares of
this mortal coil, and make fudge.”
Jean started for the pantry after butter and sugar, but in the
passageway was a little window looking out at the back of the driveway,
and she stopped short. Dodging out of sight behind a pile of wood that
was waiting to be split, was a familiar figure. Without waiting to call
the girls, she slipped quietly around the house and there, sure enough,
backed up against the woodshed, his nose fairly blue from the cold, was
Joe.
“Don’t—don’t let Shad know I’m here,” he said anxiously. “He’ll lick me
fearfully if he catches me.”
“Oh, Joe,” Jean exclaimed happily. “Come here this minute. Nobody’s
going to touch you, don’t you know that? Aren’t you hungry?”
Joe nodded mutely. He didn’t look one bit ashamed; just eager and glad
to be back home. Jean put her arm around him, patting him as her mother
would have done, and leading him to the kitchen. And down in the barn
doorway stood Shad, open mouthed and staring.
“Well, I’ll be honswoggled if that little creetur ain’t come back home
to roost,” he said to himself. In the kitchen Joe was getting thawed out
and welcomed home. And finally the truth came out.
“I went hunting my dad down around Norwich,” he confessed.
“Did you find him?” cried Doris.
Joe nodded happily.
“Braced him up too. He says he won’t drink any more ‘cause it’ll
disgrace me. He’s gone to work up there in the lockshop steady. He
wanted me to stay with him, but as soon as I got him braced up, I came
back here. You didn’t get my letter, did you? I left it stuck in the
clock.”
Stuck in the clock? Jean looked up at the old eight-day Seth Thomas on
the kitchen mantel that they had bought from old Mr. Weaver. It was made
of black walnut, with green vines painted on it and morning glories
rambling in wreaths around its borders. She opened the little glass door
and felt inside. Sure enough, tucked far back, there was Joe’s farewell
letter, put carefully where nobody would ever think of finding it.
Written laboriously in pencil it was, and Jean read it aloud.
“Dere folks.
I hered from a pedlar my dad is sick up in norwich. goodby and
thanks i am coming back sum day.
yurs with luv.
Joe.”
Joe looked around at them with his old confident smile.
“See?” he said. “I told you I was coming back.”
“And you’re going to stay too,” replied Jean, thankfully. “I’m so glad
you’re not under the snow, Joe. You’d better run down and get in that
kindling for Shad.”
This took real pluck, but Joe rose bravely, and went out, and Shad’s
heart must have thawed a little too, for he came in later whistling and
said the little skeezicks was doing well.
Jean laughed and sank back in the big red rocker with happy weariness.
“And Bab said this country was monotonous,” she exclaimed. “If anything
else happens for a day or so, I’m going to find a woodchuck hole and
crawl into it to rest up.”