It was late June, and Gilbert had returned from school, so the work of
making the Yellow House attractive and convenient was to move forward at
once. Up to now, the unpacking and distribution of the furniture, with
the daily housework and cooking, had been all that Mrs. Carey and the
girls could manage.
A village Jack-of-all-trades, Mr. Ossian Popham, generally and
familiarly called "Osh" Popham, had been called in to whitewash existing
closets and put hooks in them; also, with Bill Harmon's consent, to make
new ones here and there in handy corners. Dozens of shelves in odd
spaces helped much in the tidy stowing away of household articles,
bed-clothing, and stores. In the midst of this delightful and cheery
setting-to-rights a letter arrived from Cousin Ann. The family was all
sitting together in Mrs. Carey's room, the announced intention being to
hold an important meeting of the Ways and Means Committee, the Careys
being strong on ways and uniformly short on means.
The arrival of the letters by the hand of Bill Harmon's boy occurred
before the meeting was called to order.
"May I read Cousin Ann's aloud?" asked Nancy, who had her private
reasons for making the offer.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Carey unsuspectingly, as she took up the
inevitable stocking. "I almost wish you had all been storks instead of
chickens; then you would always have held up one foot, and perhaps that
stocking, at least, wouldn't have had holes in it!"
"Poor Muddy! I'm learning to darn," cried Kathleen, kissing her.
LONGHAMPTON, NEW JERSEY, _June 27th_.
MY DEAR MARGARET [so Nancy read],--The climate of this seaside
place suits me so badly that I have concluded to spend the rest
of the summer with you, lightening those household tasks which
will fall so heavily on your shoulders.
[Groans from the whole family greeted this opening passage, and Gilbert
cast himself, face down, on his mother's lounge.]
It is always foggy here when it does not rain, and the cooking
is very bad. The manager of the hotel is uncivil and the office
clerks very rude, so that Beulah, unfortunate place of residence
as I consider it, will be much preferable.
I hope you are getting on well with the work on the house,
although I regard your treating it as if it were your own, as
the height of extravagance. You will never get back a penny you
spend on it, and probably when you get it in good order Mr.
Hamilton will come back from Europe and live in it himself, or
take it away from you and sell it to some one else.
Gilbert will be home by now, but I should not allow him to touch
the woodwork, as he is too careless and unreliable.
["She'll never forget that the bed came down with her!" exclaimed
Gilbert, his voice muffled by the sofa cushions.]
Remember me to Julia. I hope she enjoys her food better than
when I was with you. Children must eat if they would grow.
[Mother Carey pricked up her ears at this point, and Gilbert raised
himself on one elbow, but Nancy went on gravely.]
Tell Kathleen to keep out of the sun, or wear a hat, as her
complexion is not at all what it used to be. Without color and
with freckles she will be an unusually plain child.
[Kathleen flushed angrily and laid down her work.]
Give my love to darling Nancy. What a treasure you have in your
eldest, Margaret! I hope you are properly grateful for her. Such
talent, such beauty, such grace, such discretion--
But here the family rose _en masse_ and descended on the reader of the
spurious letter just as she had turned the first page. In the amiable
scuffle that ensued, a blue slip fell from Cousin Ann's envelope and
Gilbert handed it to his mother with the letter.
Mrs. Carey, wiping the tears of merriment that came to her eyes in spite
of her, so exactly had Nancy caught Cousin Ann's epistolary style, read
the real communication, which ran as follows:--
DEAR MARGARET,--I have had you much in mind since I left you,
always with great anxiety lest your strength should fail under
the unexpected strain you put upon it. I had intended to give
each of you a check for thirty-five dollars at Christmas to
spend as you liked, but I must say I have not entire confidence
in your judgment. You will be likelier far to decorate the walls
of the house than to bring water into the kitchen sink. I
therefore enclose you three hundred dollars and beg that you
will have the well piped _at once_, and if there is any way to
carry the water to the bedroom floor, do it, and let me send the
extra amount involved. You will naturally have the well cleaned
out anyway, but I should prefer never to know what you found in
it. My only other large gift to you in the past was one of
ornaments, sent, you remember, at the time of your wedding!
["We remember!" groaned the children in chorus.]
I do not regret this, though my view of life, of its sorrows and
perplexities, has changed somewhat, and I am more practical than
I used to be. The general opinion is that in giving for a
present an object of permanent beauty, your friends think of you
whenever they look upon it.
["That's so!" remarked Gilbert to Nancy.]
This is true, no doubt, but there are other ways of making
yourself remembered, and I am willing that you should think
kindly of Cousin Ann whenever you use the new pump.
The second improvement I wish made with the money is the
instalment of a large furnace-like stove in the cellar, which
will send up a little heat, at least, into the hall and lower
rooms in winter. You will probably have to get the owner's
consent, and I should certainly ask for a five years' lease
before expending any considerable amount of money on the
premises.
If there is any money left, I should suggest new sills to the
back doors and those in the shed. I noticed that the present
ones are very rotten, and I dare say by this time you have
processions of red and black ants coming into your house. It
seemed to me that I never saw so much insect life as in Beulah.
Moths, caterpillars, brown-tails, slugs, spiders, June bugs,
horseflies, and mosquitoes were among the pests I specially
noted. The Mr. Popham who drove me to the station said that
snakes also abounded in the tall grass, but I should not lay any
stress on his remarks, as I never saw such manners in my life in
any Christian civilized community. He asked me my age, and when
I naturally made no reply, he inquired after a few minutes'
silence whether I was unmarried from choice or necessity. When I
refused to carry on any conversation with him he sang jovial
songs so audibly that persons going along the street smiled and
waved their hands to him. I tell you this because you appear to
have false ideas of the people in Beulah, most of whom seemed to
me either eccentric or absolutely insane.
Hoping that you can endure your life there when the water smells
better and you do not have to carry it from the well, I am
Yours affectionately,