POLLY’S LETTER
When Father Manser returned from his trip to the post-office the next
evening he found the residents at Manser Farm, with the exception of
his melancholy spouse, gathered in the kitchen. Mrs. Manser had gone
to bed with a headache, but her absence failed to cast a gloom over
the company. It was the most cheerful evening that had been known
since Polly left them, for Uncle Blodgett had not only read the weekly
“Sentinel” in so clear a tone that even Grandma Manser, near whom he
sat, could hear, but he had, after urging, recited several poems.
“I admire to hear battle-pieces,” said Aunty Peebles, just as the door
swung open to admit Father Manser. “When you spoke that ‘Charge of the
Light Brigade’ it gave me chills all along my spine, and made me feel
as if I could step right forth to war.”
“I expect you wouldn’t be a very murderous character, though, come to
get you on the field of battle,” said Uncle Blodgett, good-naturedly.
“Now, there’s Mis’ Ramsdell, I reckon she’d make a good fighter if she
was put to it.”
“I come of war stock,” said Mrs. Ramsdell, her black eyes snapping, and
nostrils dilating as she acknowledged the compliment. “My father and
his three brothers were in the war of 1812, and back of that their
parents and uncles were in the thick of ’76, and led wherever they
were.”
“Ain’t you kind of reckless, speaking of ‘parents’ that way?” inquired
Uncle Blodgett. “Did your grandmarm conduct a regiment, or what was her
part in the proceedings?”
Mrs. Ramsdell directed a look of withering scorn at her old friend, but
her eye caught sight of a package in Father Manser’s hand and she was
suddenly alert.
“What you got there?” she demanded, and at once all the old heads
turned toward the new-comer.
Usually they took no special note of Father Manser’s return, as there
were scarcely ever any letters, and they well knew the paper must be
Mrs. Manser’s spoil for the evening.
“It’s a box,” said Father Manser, turning the package over and over in
his hand.
“We can all see that,” said Mrs. Ramsdell, sharply.
“And it seems to be directed to Miss Anne Peebles,” proceeded Father
Manser, taking no offence.
Aunty Peebles began to tremble with excitement as the box was handed
to her, and a flush rose in the other old faces as the group closed
in around the table, so that the lamp might shed its light on this
surprising package.
“If you could wait till I’ve taken the paper in to Mrs. Manser, I’ve
got a sharp knife that would cut those fastenings,” said Father Manser,
wistfully. “Her door’s closed, and I won’t be but a minute. I won’t
speak of the package, and I’ll mention that the fire needs more wood,
for I see it does.”
“I’ll wait,” said Aunty Peebles, and spurred by a “Hurry up, then, for
goodness’ sake!” from Mrs. Ramsdell, Father Manser sped off with the
paper.
“It’s Polly’s writing,” said Uncle Blodgett, after a long squint at
the address on the brown paper covering of the box. “I’ve got one of
her exercises that the teacher said she might keep--one of that last
batch, if I haven’t lost it.”
Uncle Blodgett drew from his coat pocket a long, flat wallet, and took
out of it a piece of paper carefully creased and bearing evidences of
frequent handling. He spread it out close to the box, so that all might
see.
“You mark that cross on the T,” he said, triumphantly. “She begins it
with a kind of a hook, different from most that you’d see. I--I noticed
it the day she made me a gift of the paper,” said Uncle Blodgett, as he
replaced his treasure in the wallet.
“The box is from Polly Prentiss,” cried Mrs. Ramsdell in Grandma
Manser’s ear. “I guess your daughter-in-law’s made a mistake about
her forgetting us, after all.” Then the old lady put her arm through
Grandma Manser’s and pressed her fiercely as if to make amends for this
reference to the doubting one. “’Taint as if she was your daughter,
dear heart,” she said, remorsefully.
When the string had at last given way--Father Manser had slashed it
recklessly in half a dozen places in his haste--and the box cover was
lifted, there lay the letter on which Polly had spent so much time and
thought, with seven chocolate drops on it. Aunty Peebles passed the box
around and each of the company took a piece of candy; even Bob Rust had
his portion, which he carried to his favorite seat near the door into
the shed, and handled as if it were something rare and wonderful, as,
indeed, it was to him.
Father Manser set his wife’s piece carefully aside. Nobody failed for a
moment to understand little Polly’s loving thought for them all. Below
the letter lay row after row of the chocolates, but they could wait.
“Now we’ve--ahem!--eaten part of the message,” said Uncle Blodgett,
gruffly, “suppose you read us the rest of it, Mis’ Peebles. Seems to be
some time since we’ve heard direct from the child.”
Aunty Peebles’s voice quavered many times during the reading, and there
was a frank use of handkerchiefs at some points, but the interest in
Polly’s letter never flagged.
“Dear folks at Manser Farm,” read Aunty Peebles, “this is a beautiful
place and every one is very kind to me. How do you all do, and is
Ebyneezer well and the other Animals? The minister came to dinner
Sunday, that was why I was so late and you had gone, but I heard the
Wagon up the hill. This is a beautiful place, with big trees, and in
the house there are books and books and Cabbynets with kurous Shells
and other things. And there is silver that shines, and my bed and
chairs are white with a pink Strype. Mrs. Manser, I am being careful
of my Close and I allways wear an apron. There are two little kittens
here. Their names are Snip and Snap.
“When folks have such a beautiful place I guess they do not care much
about going out-doors, but there is a Pyaza and I walk on that a great
deal, beside I have been to walk down the road most every day with
Miss Pomeroy and she is just as good to me! And once I have been in
the Woods with Miss Arctura, and she said ‘next time,’ so that means
we are going again. Mr. Hiram that is her brother can resite pieces
and he is teaching me On Linden when the Sun was Low, Uncle Blodgett
do you know that piece? He says he would give all his boot buttons
to hear you resite Mr. Shakespeer’s Works. I do not think I have
spelled that name right. Perhaps I can see you all before Christmas,
but perhaps I cannot, for I am going to be adopted. Do you miss me,
Grandma Manser and Mrs. Ramsdell? Do you miss me, Uncle Blodgett? and
Aunty Peebles do you miss me? This is a beautiful place, and I read
and sew and play with the kittens and Miss Pomeroy says I am a quiet
little girl, Mrs. Manser. Father Manser do you remember giving me
Pepermints? I hope you will all like this Candy. I have been to the
Village once with Miss Pomeroy, but I did not see any folks I knew.
“I hope Grandma Manser will have her ear Trumpet pretty soon. Aunty
Peebles I love that Cushion I look at it very many times, and Uncle
Blodgett Mr. Hiram will have that knife fixed for a Present he says.
Now I must say Goodbye with heaps and heaps of love. I put Aunty
Peebles’ name on this because she admires to get things through the
Post Office.
“Mary Prentiss.”
“Miss Pomeroy is not going to look at this. I am trying to be just
like Ellynor, but I expect I am not. Will you please call me Polly to
yourselves? Nobody here knows it ever was my name.”
The last few lines were evidently written in great haste. Polly had run
upstairs to add them when she found the letter would not be inspected.
There was a short silence when the last word had been read. Mrs.
Ramsdell fidgeted in her chair.
“She seems to be real contented and happy, don’t she?” said Father
Manser, looking from one to another for confirmation of his views. “I
guess they’re mighty kind to her.”
“Kind! who wouldn’t be kind to that darling little thing, I’d like to
know?” snapped Mrs. Ramsdell. “But she’s grieving for all the folks
she’s been used to, and trying not to let anybody know it. It isn’t
that we’re such remarkable folks, but it’s because she’s such a loving
little thing; that’s the reason of it.”
“What do they mean by keeping her housed up so?” demanded Uncle
Blodgett, sternly. “They’ll have her sick of a fever next thing we
know. Out-doors has been the breath of her living and her joy. I guess
what those folks need is somebody to make a few points clear to ’em.
What was this Eleanor the child talks of, that she should be set up for
a pattern? Wa’n’t she mortal like all the rest of us?”
“Mrs. Manser says Miss Pomeroy thought she was perfection,” ventured
Father Manser, as nobody else seemed prepared with an answer. “She used
to talk with Polly about her, every day before she went, advising her
what she’d better do--Mrs. Manser did.”
“I’ll warrant she did,” said Uncle Blodgett, bitterly. “That’s the
whole root of the trouble. Now, you mark my words, all of you women
folks”--Uncle Blodgett evidently included poor Father Manser in his
summing up--“I’m going to have speech with that Pomeroy woman before
many more days have gone over my head, and I’m going to set a few
things straight. As for having that child carry the weight of this
whole establishment, leaks, ear-trumpets, shingles, and all on her
mind, and try to live up to nobody knows what--I won’t stand it!”
“What do you plan?” asked Mrs. Ramsdell, with unwonted respect.
“I shall fare down to the village with Father here,” said Uncle
Blodgett, indicating the object of his choice with a careless nod, “and
if she doesn’t happen to drive in that morning, I shall foot it to
Pomeroy Oaks. My legs are good for a little matter of three miles or
so.”
“It’s a good four miles, as I remember it,” muttered Mrs. Ramsdell.
“Well, call it four, then,” roared Uncle Blodgett in a sudden fury.
“Call it five or six or ten if you’ve a mind. My legs are good for it,
I tell ye. And if I have to foot it there,” he added, turning quickly
on poor Father Manser, “you may say to your wife I’ve gone a-visiting
an old friend for the afternoon. If Polly Prentiss ain’t an old friend,
I haven’t got one in this world.”
Uncle Blodgett sat heavily down in his chair, exhausted by his unwonted
outbreak, but Mrs. Ramsdell stepped over to him and held out her hand.
“If I was five years younger,” said the old lady, whose age nobody
knew, “I’d put on my bonnet and shawl and foot it with you!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
A Novel Weapon
In her interesting book, _A Woman Tenderfoot_, Mrs. Ernest
Thompson-Seton gives a stirring account of her fight with a
rattlesnake, in which she, the victor, was armed with a very novel
weapon--a frying-pan.
“The rattler stopped his pretty gliding motion away from me and seemed
in doubt. Then he began to take on a few quirks. ‘He is going to coil
and then to strike,’ said I, recalling a paragraph from my school
reader. It was an unhappy moment!
“I knew that tradition had fixed the proper weapons to be used against
rattlesnakes: a stone (more, if necessary), a stick (forked one
preferred), and, in rare cases, a revolver. I had no revolver. There
was not a stick in sight, and not a stone bigger than a hazelnut; but
there was the rattler. I cast another despairing glance around and saw,
almost at my feet and half hidden by sage brush, several inches of
rusty iron--blessed be the teamster who had thrown it there. I darted
towards it, and, despite tradition, turned on the rattler, armed with
the goodly remains of a--frying-pan.
“The horrid thing was ready for me with darting tongue and flattened
head--another instant it would have sprung. Smash! on its head went my
valiant frying-pan and struck a deadly blow, although the thing managed
to get from under it. I recaptured my weapon and again it descended
upon the reptile’s head, settling it this time.
“Feeling safe, I now took hold of the handle to finish it more quickly.
Oh! that tail--that awful, writhing, lashing tail. I can stand Indians,
bears, wolves, anything but that tail, and a rattler is all tail,
except its head. If that tail touches me I shall let go. It did touch
me. I did not let go. Pride held me there, for I heard the sound of
galloping hoofs. Whiskers’ empty saddle had alarmed the rest of the
party.
“My snake was dead now, so I put one foot on him to take his scalp--his
rattles, I mean--when horrid thrills coursed through me. The uncanny
thing began to wriggle and rattle with old-time vigor. But, fortified
by Nimrod’s assurance that it was ‘purely reflex neuro-ganglionic
movement,’ I hardened my heart and captured his ‘pod of dry peas.’”
HOW PLANTS LIVE
By Julia McNair Wright
In the hot August days, when the air scarcely stirs, the birds sit
silent in their coverts, the cattle stand under the thickest shade or
knee-deep in the ponds. Only the insects seem to rejoice in the burning
rays of the sun, and gayly hover around the splendid profusion of
flowers.
In this season we may make various studies in plant life. Seated upon
some shady veranda, we have the glory of the garden spread out before
us. Or we may be on some hill, tree-crowned, not far from the sea;
we find within hand reach golden-rod, asters, milfoil, blazing-star,
indigo. Looking down the gentle slope to the level land, we see
black-eyed Susan flaunting beside St. John’s wort and wild snap-dragon.
Yonder, the little brooklet slips along without a ripple, cherishing on
its border loosestrife and jewel-weed. Out in the roadway, defiant of
the summer dust, almost in the wheel track, the mullein lifts its dry,
gray foliage and unfolds its tardy pairs of clear yellow bloom beside
that exquisite flower, the evening primrose, of which the harsh, dusty
stem and leaves are such rude contrast to the fragrant salvers of pale
gold--the blossom of one night.
We have ample opportunity in some or all of these to study the motion,
food, and some of the varied products of the plant world.
Motion? What motions have plants other than as the wind sways them?
True, there is an upward motion: they grow up inch after inch, foot
after foot, the law of growth overcoming the law of gravitation. The
sap rises in the vessels by root-pressure, by capillary attraction, by
the forming of a vacuum in the leaf-cells, by evaporation, and so the
climbing sap builds up the plant. This getting up in the world is not a
trifle in plant life any more than in human life.
Many a plant seems to have an extreme ambition to rise, and if its
stem proves too weak to support any decided advancement in growth, it
takes measures to secure aid. It twines, bodily, perhaps, around the
nearest support, as do the trumpet-creeper and honeysuckle; it modifies
leaves into tendrils, as does the sweet pea; it puts forth aerial roots
at its nodes, as does the ivy; it elongates a leaf stem to wrap around
and around some proffered stay, as does the clematis, or diverts a bud
for such purpose, as the grape-vine.
Other plants of lowlier mind creep along the ground. The prince’s pine
forms a strong, thick mat, cleaving to every root, twig, grass-stem, in
its way, striking rootlets here and there, until only a strong hand and
a firm wrench can drag it from the earth, its mother. Cinque-foil and
its cousin, strawberry, send out runners from all sides, which root and
shoot up new plants until the whole bed is a solidarity, and would so
remain did not the thankless plants keep all the food and moisture for
themselves, and deliver over the runners to death by starvation.
The walking fern has a most original way of getting over the ground. It
bends its slender frond and starts a root by extending the tip of the
mid-rib; so it sets up a new plant and is anchored fast on all sides
by its rooted frond tips, covering the ground with a rich carpet of
verdure. The variety of runners along the ground is as great as the
climber. All motion of the plant is a form of growth. The plant grows
by day and by night, but more by day, as light and heat are incentives
to growth.
Interesting as is the study of plant motion, let us forsake it and
consider for a little plant food. The plant receives food from earth,
water, and air. The earth gives the plant sulphur, iron, soda,
magnesia, phosphorus, and other mineral substances. These are all fed
to the plant in a solution of water.
From the rain the plant receives as food hydrogen and forms of ammonia.
From air the plants absorb carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, and ammonia; very
much of the first, little of the second, and very little of the others.
When plants grow out-of-doors, the winds, dews, and rains free the
leaves from accumulations of dust which obstruct the pores and hinder
the receiving of food. In very dry and dusty seasons we notice that the
plants become sickly from the stopping of the pores. Plants need clean
skins as human beings do.
House plants should be well washed all over now and then, to admit of
their getting their proper amount of food from the air.
[Illustration: INSECT EATERS]
Certain classes of plants use a portion of animal food. We are
accustomed to the idea of animals eating plants, but when we see the
tables turned, and the plants eating animals, that is queer, indeed!
The animal food of the “flesh-eating,” or carnivorous, plants is really
the juice sucked from the bodies of insects.
The sun dew, common in marshes, expands a little, sticky, pink-green
shirt-button of a leaf, on which are numerous stiff hairs. The clear
drops of gum attract insects to the leaf, and they are held by the feet
or wings. Their struggles cause the leaf to fold together, when the
hairs pierce the body of the insect and drink up the juices. When only
a dry husk remains the leaf opens and the wind shakes the shell away.
The pitcher-plant invites insects by a honey-like secretion. They fall
into the liquid stored in the pitcher and are thus drowned, because,
owing to numerous downward-pointing hairs in the throat of the pitcher,
they cannot climb back. Easy is the descent into evil! The acrid liquid
in the pitcher digests the bodies of the insects, turning them into
plant food. Flies, ants, gnats, little beetles, are often caught, but
bees very seldom. Bees have their own affairs to attend to, and cannot
go picnicing into pitcher-plants.
[Illustration]
A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST
By Evelyn Raymond