THE SECOND CHANCE
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
_----Longfellow._
PEARL, having taken her resolve to leave school, did not repine, and
no one, not even her mother, knew how hard the struggle had been. It
all came out afterward that, John Watson, too, in his quiet way, had
been thinking of the advantages of farm life for his growing family.
So when Pearl proposed it he was ready to rise and second the motion.
Nearly all the land around Millford had been homesteaded, and was
being successfully farmed, but there was one quarter-section in the
crook of the Souris that had been abandoned. Bill Cavers had entered
it some years before, and paid his ten dollar entrance fee, built a
little house on it, and farmed it indifferently for two or three
years; but poor Bill had to let it go at last. The numerous black
whiskey bottles around his miserable buildings told the story. The
land was good--it was only four miles from Millford--it could be
re-entered on payment of ten dollars. John Watson went out to see the
farm and came back well satisfied, so they decided to move out on it
as soon as the snow was gone.
By selling the house and lot they had enough money to buy a team of
horses, a waggon, and some machinery. For seed grain and everything
else that was needed Pearl would take her money. Aunt Kate protested
loudly against having Pearlie's money taken, and said if it wasn't
that Bill's stone had come so high she'd spend her own rather than
have Pearlie's touched. But Pearl stoutly insisted that helping her
family in this way was just what she wanted to have done with her
money.
Pearl had not seen the farm until she drove out with her father on
the first load. "A movin' gen'rally looks sort of sad, doesn't it,
Pa?" she said, as she settled herself on the dismembered beds. "But
there's nothin' sad about this movin'. We're not goin' because we
can't pay the rent, and there's goin' to be a notice of it in the
paper, too."
"How do you know that, acushla?" her father asked her.
"I wrote it myself. I was afraid Mr. Evans might forget. He's all
cluttered up wid politics, so I wrote it myself, and pinned it on his
door."
"What did you say, Pearlie?"
"I wrote this: Mr. and Mrs. John Watson and their interesting family
are leaving our midst to live on a farm, hoping to better their
circumstances and give the boys a chance to grow up decent."
"Faith, that's puttin' it plain, Pearlie," her father laughed.
"You're gettin' to be real handy wid the pen."
"I have a far lovelier one than that done, Pa; but I couldn't bear to
have it published in a newspaper, for every pryin' eye to see. So I
wrote it out in purple ink, and will just keep it in me scrapbook."
"What was it, Pearlie?"
"I wouldn't say it for everybody, Pa, for they wouldn't understand;
but I know you will. This is what I wrote:
Farewell, sweet childhood's happy home,
For now we sadly haste away.
We'll leave your happy scene with tears--
We tried to leave you yesterday,
But fate denied, for Adam Watt
Had broke the axle of his dray.
Farewell, sweet childhood's happy home,
We're going out four weary mile,
We've gone to seek another home
And may not see you for a while.
But every inch of thee is dear,
And every stick in thy woodpile.
Each mark upon thy wall is linked
With deepest meaning and with love,
See where young Bugsey spilled the ink,
Caused by his youngest brother's shove.
See where wee Danny picked a hole--
He knew no better tho', I guess.
The patch that covers it from sight
Is made of Pearlie's winsey dress.
All through the dreary winter time
Thou sheltered us from cold so bleak
Thou sheltered us from wind and rain,
Save where thy kitchen roof did leak.
When strangers come to live in thee,
And fill thy halls with noise and shout,
Still think, dear house, of those who once
Did from thy gates go in and out."
"It's just grand," her father said admiringly, "and it's true, too. I
don't know where you get the things you think of."
The road lay along the bank of the Souris, which still ran high with
the spring floods. The spring came early in Manitoba that year, and
already the cattle were foraging through the pastures to be ready for
the first blade of grass that appeared. The April sun flooded the
bare landscape with its light and heat. From the farm-yards they
passed came the merry cackle of hens. Horses and colts galloped gaily
around the corrals, and the yellow meadow larks on the fence-posts
rang out their glad challenge. The poplar trees along the road were
blushing with the green of spring, and up from the river-flats,
gray-purple with scrub oak and willow, came the indescribably sweet
spring smell.
At the corner of Thomas Perkins's farm they turned straight north,
following the river.
"There's our farm, Pearlie," her father said.
What Pearl saw was one long field of old stubble, gray and faded, cut
out of the scrub, and at the end of the field, against a grove of
poplars, stood a little house, so sad, so battered, so broken, that
Pearl's stout heart almost sank. It was made of logs and plastered
with mud, and had settled down on one side, looking as ungainly and
tired as an old horse when he rests on one leg. There was a door in
the side next the road, with one window at each side of it--windows
with almost everything in them except glass.
Pearl jumped down from the waggon and ran around her new home trying
to find something good about it. When her father came in after tying
up his horses, he found her almost in tears.
"Pa," she said, "this is sadder than I ever thought it would be. I
wish it had been real dirty and shiftless; but look, Pa, they've
tried to keep it nice. See, it's been whitewashed, and there's a
place you can tell they've had a bit of oil-cloth behind the box the
wash basin sat on, to keep the spatters off the wall. And see here,
Pa," stooping to pick up a piece of cretonne from the rubbish on the
floor--"this has been a paper holder--there's beads sewed on it
around the flowers; and do you see yon little shelf? It's got tack
marks on it; she's had a white curtain on it, with knitted lace. I
know she has, and see, Pa"--looking behind the window casing--"yes,
sir, she's had curtains on here, too. There's the tack. She had them
tied back, too, and you can see where they've had pictures. I know
just what Mrs. Cavers is like--a poor, thin woman, with knots on her
knuckles. I could see her face in the house as we drove up to the
door, kind of crooked like the house, and gray and weather-beaten,
with teeth out. Houses always get to look like the people who live in
them. They've tried--at least she has, and she's failed. That's the
sad thing to me, Pa--she's tried. If people just set around and let
things go to smash and don't care, that's too bad but there's nothing
sad about it. But to try your livin' best and still have to go
under--that's awful!"
Pearl walked to the window and wiped the cobwebs from it.
"I know how she felt when she was standin' here watchin' fer Bill,
hopin' so hard that he's come home right this time, and bring the
list of things she asked him to bring with his wheat-ticket. I can
see she was that kind, always hopin'; if she wasn't that kind she
wouldn't ever have sewed the beads on. She'd stand here and watch for
Bill so full of hope and still so black afraid, and then it would
come on dark and she couldn't see anything but Perkins's light
winkin' through the trees, and then she'd lay out the supper, but not
eat a bite herself, but just wait, and wait, and wait. And then when
Bill did come she'd run out wid the lantern with her heart thumpin'
so, and her knees all weak and wobbly--and Bill, you know how he'd
be. Sandy Braden had got the wheat-ticket, and he hadn't paid a bill
or bro't a thing for the house, and so at last she saw she was beat
and done for; she saw that every hope she had had was a false one."
They were putting up the stove now, and when it was set in place
Pearl said: "Let's get a fire goin' now, quick, Pa--and that'll cheer
us up."
Her father went to the river and brought water, which they heated on
the stove, and then he scrubbed the floor while Pearl cleaned the
windows and put up the cheese-cloth curtains she had brought. She
went outside to see how the curtains looked, and came back well
pleased.
"Pa," she said, "I've got a name for it. We'll call it 'The Second
Chance.'"
"For why, Pearlie?" her father asked curiously. "Well, it just came
to me as I was lookin' round, what this farm has had to put up with
Bill Cavers. Here it is as good a farm as any around here, and it's
all run to weeds. I am sure this yard is knee-high with ragweed and
lamb's quarter in the summer, and the fields are all grown up with
mustard and wild-oats, and they're an abomination to any farm; and so
it has just sort, of give up and got discouraged, and now it lets in
any old weed that comes along, because it thinks it'll never be any
good. But here comes the Watsons, the whole bilin' of them, and I can
see over there, Pa"--taking him to the window--"the place the garden
will be, all nicely fenced to keep out the cattle; and over there,
under the trees, will be the chicken-house, with big white hens
swaggerin' in and out of it and down the ravine there will be the
pig-pasture, and forninst us will be acres and acres of wheat, and be
hind the bluff there will be the oat-field. I can see it, Pa."
"Faith, and yer a grand girl at seein' things," her father said, with
his slow smile, "and I just hope yer right."
"I'm sure of it," said Pearl, after a pause, "and that's why, we'll
call it 'The Second Chance,' for it's a nice kind name, and I like
the sound of it, anyway. I am thinkin', maybe that it is that way
with most of us, and we'll be glad, maybe, of a second chance. Now,
Pa, I don't mind tellin' ye that it was a sore touch for me to have
to leave school, and me doin' so well, but I am hopin' still that
some time, some place, perhaps, for me, too, like the farm, there may
be a second chance. Do you see what I mane, Pa?"
"I see it, acushla," said her father. "And I'm thinkin' maybe there's
one for me, too."
And all day long, as John Watson worked, there was a wish in his
honest heart, so earnest a wish that it formed a prayer, that he
might be able to give his children many of the things that had been
denied him; and it came to him, vaguely at first, but growing ever
clearer that in Pearlie, Teddy and the rest of them, and his desire
to do better for them, than he had done for himself, he was getting
his second chance.
The next day saw the whole family moved out and safely landed on the
farm. Mrs. Watson, Aunt Kate and Pearlie were soon busy putting up
beds and setting the house in order. Teddy, who was fifteen years
old, and a strong boy for his age, was set to plow at once on the
field in front of the house, for it was still early in April, and
there was time to get in some crop. John Watson, when he got his
family and household goods safely landed, went to work, assisted by
Billy and Jimmy, to prop up the old stables and make them habitable
for the two cows.
Mary was given the hardest task of all--to look after her four young
brothers--not to let them play in the mud, for obvious reasons; climb
trees, which is hard on the clothes; go in bare feet, which is not a
safe thing to do until after the 24th of May; or fall in the river,
which is a dangerous proceeding at any time. Mary was something of a
child-trainer, and knew what fascination the prohibited has for
people, and so marched her four young charges down to the river,
regaling them, as they went, with terrible stories of drowning and
shipwreck. They threw sticks in, pretending they were drowning
sailors, but that soon grew monotonous, for the sailors all made
their escape and went sailing serenely down the stream. The balm of
Gilead trees exuded their healing perfume on the cool breeze that
blew ceaselessly up the broad valley; a golden-brown chipmunk raced
up a tree and scolded at them from the topmost branches; overhead, in
the clear blue of the mid-heaven, a flock of wild geese, with
flashing white wings, honked away to the Brandon Hills, en route for
that northern lake that no man knows; while a flock of goldfinches,
like a shower of marigolds, settled on a clump of willows, singing
pauselessly.
"Let's catch them and sell them," said Tommy, who had the stubby
hands of a money-maker.
"What'll ye do with the money?" Patsey asked.
But before Tommy could decide between an automobile and an Irish
mail, the goldfinches had crossed the river and were fluttering over
the purple branches of the leafless saskatoon bushes, which bordered
the stream.
A jack-rabbit came gaily leaping down the road behind them, and at
sight of him the four boys set off in eager pursuit. Bugsey got right
in Tommy's way, which was a fortunate thing for the jack-rabbit,
because only for that Tommy would have had him he is pretty sure of
that.
After the rabbit had gone from sight and the baffled hunters returned
to where Mary sat, Bugsey came in for a good deal of abuse from the
other three. Then, to change the conversation, which was rather
painful, Bugsey suggested: "What do you bet that fellow hasn't got a
nest somewhere around here? Say we have a look for it."
A vigourous search began. Incidentally Tommy found a nest of mice,
and Patsey discovered a hawk's nest in a tree and was halfway up
before Mary saw him. She made him come straight down--climbing trees
was too hard on the clothes; but when she came back from looking up
Danny, who had dropped behind to look down a gopher's hole, she found
that Patsey had discovered a plan whereby he could climb up for the
lovely silver nest and not endanger the safety of his clothes,
either. He stood below the tree with the coveted nest in his arms,
covered with glory and scratches, but little else.
When the boys got home everybody had something to show but Danny.
Tommy had his mouse's nest; Patsey had the hawk's nest; Bugsey had a
fungus. Danny was the only empty-handed one, but Pearlie cheered
him up wonderfully by predicting that he would get the very first
wood-tick when the season opened.