BY RETURN OF POST
LAUREL, APRIL THIRTIETH.
STELLA DARLING: If you only knew how we miss you here in Laurel! It seems
like years since you went away; can it be it’s only nine months? And you
don’t write half as often as you promised. I wonder what you are really
and truly up to!
“Have you picked out your allotment yet? Be sure and get a good one. Oh,
how I wish I were twenty-one this minute! Daddy perfectly understands
that the very day I come of age I shall start on the long journey to
Dakota, to join my dear friend Stella and stock that cattle ranch.
“Of course, you will want to hear all the news. Doris has been spending
two weeks in Boston with her uncle—the rich one. What do you think? she
went to the Symphony Orchestra twice, and to the opera once, and to
two—no, three dances! She has the loveliest braided suit in a perfectly
exquisite shade of blue; and a set of chinchilla furs for Christmas; and
two new party dresses and a pale-blue evening cape lined with salmon
that is simply a dream. I can’t tell you half. Doris is getting to be a
_regular society girl_; and that, you know, Jibby, I never wanted to be
and never will.
“Mother bought me a handsome suit, too—mine is the new copper shade—and
a stylish hat; and Daddy would have taken me to New York on his last
trip, but just then poor old Scotty had to break his leg, and of course I
wouldn’t stir for _worlds_.
“Oh, I must tell you all about it! Just fancy! Ethan Honey happened
to be in town over Easter, stopping with Uncle Si; and you know there
isn’t any vet in Laurel; and so, I just ’phoned him—I was almost crazy,
of course—and asked what _should_ I do! He was perfectly splendid; got
to the house in less than half an hour, and set the leg so that it’s
practically as good as new! Wasn’t it clever of the dear boy? They say
he’s thought everything of at the medical school, and bound to make a
name for himself, some day.
“Speaking of Uncle Si, he hasn’t been quite as well as usual this winter;
‘kinder off the hooks,’ as he says. Mother Brown is trying to persuade
him that he oughtn’t to live out there all alone any longer. Uncle Si
says ‘it’s all-fired lonesome since the gals stopped comin’’ and if you
‘had a hankerin’ after missionary work, he could ’a’ showed you where
you could put in your best licks, right here at hum.’ He means looking
after him, of course; did you ever hear of anything so selfish? But old
people are always selfish, I think.
“Grandma Brown says that a girl that’d disappint her own pa and hurt his
feelin’s for the sake of a outlandish hound dog hadn’t ought to have
a pa. You know she never liked me so very well, anyway. She’s always
telling Doris how much better you used to do things. Doris says, if she
didn’t love you dearly, she’d have been sick to death of hearing your
name, long before this.
“You asked me in two or three of your letters about Miss Sophia. I don’t
see why you care so much about Miss Sophia; _she_ never did anything for
_you_ if she could possibly help it. She never liked me, either; I went
to see her, entirely for your sake, dear, about a week ago. Seems to me
she’s getting kind of old and feeble; and one funny thing, she didn’t
scold a bit, not even when Scotty would squeeze past me and put his paw
right up on her black cashmere lap. I don’t see how he ever dared. She
asked me twice, when I heard from you last.
“Miss Morrison was in town the other day. She inquired after you the very
first thing, of course. Miss Morrison thinks it was very fine and noble
in you to go out to Cherry Creek.
“Why do you never say a word about the boys? Aren’t there any nice ones
at all? Of course, you know how it is here; they’re _all_ devoted to
Doris! The next thing we’ll hear will be that she’s _engaged_! Jibby,
darling, I’m just as sure as ever that I shall never, _never_ want to get
married. You _will_ wait for me, won’t you? Wait till I’m twenty-one, I
mean, and we can live together all the rest of our lives.
“Your own
“CYNTHIA.
“P. S. By the way, Ethan has grown ever so much handsomer since you saw
him last. He looks years older and—and—oh, you know what I mean!
“C. P.
“N. B. Jibby, the minute you get this letter I want you to sit right down
and tell me just what you are doing, and answer every single question, or
I’ll never forgive you.
“SIN.”
* * * * *
“CHERRY CREEK, MAY THE EIGHTH.
“MY DEAREST CYNTHIA: About half an hour ago, a girl you used to know was
looking out of the window of her little prairie home. Such a funny little
home, just one big room all shining yellow pine, with skins and rag rugs
on the bare pine floor, a closet curtained off with dark blue calico,
a black iron bed and a wash-stand and a trunk and some book-shelves
built out of packing-boxes. Oh, and a lot of Indian bead-work on the
walls, and a pine table covered with a Navaho blanket, and on it some
old school-books and papers and pens and ink; and right over it a class
picture in a frame—the class of 19—— at Laurel academy!
“The girl, as I said before, was looking out of the window; just watching
the green creep over the prairie like an emerald fire kindled by the sun,
and following the white road with her eyes as far as she could—the road
that leads to the agency and the railroad and civilization.
“While she looked, a black speck appeared away out on that road. The
speck grew bigger; soon it turned into a lumber wagon drawn by two
shaggy ponies and driven by a tall, dark man in the navy-blue uniform of
the Indian Police, with a shining shield on his breast that flashed in
the sun.
“In a few minutes she heard the rattle of wheels, and then the camp dogs
ran out to meet the good policeman with welcoming barks, and the girl
left her window and went to the door that opened on the green prairie.
For there are two doors in the yellow pine house; the other one leads
right into a log kitchen where a tin coffee pot stood on the stove and an
old woman squatted close by, tending a dear little baby, while the baby’s
mother, in a red dress made like a kimono, was piecing a calico quilt.
“Well, the policeman pulled up his rough little ponies right in front of
the door, threw down the lines and began handing out beef and flour and
other things, which the woman in the red kimono carried into the house.
Then, last of all, he put his hand in his breast pocket, took out two
letters and gave them to the girl. After that, he saluted and drove away
again.
“The girl sat down on the high door-sill and read her letters; one made
her laugh out loud, to the great surprise of a very small dog who had
curled up on a corner of her skirt. The letter was from her friend—her
dearest, far-away friend in the New England hills. And now she is going
to sit down at her table with the gay blanket cover, facing the class
picture, and write her answer.
“I hope this doesn’t sound homesick, Cynthia and Doris—for this letter is
to Doris, too—but you know how it is in the spring; how the people and
the things that are far away seem to pull at your heart. If I were back
there in Laurel, I should be dreaming of Dakota; and it _is_ wonderful
out here, girls! I wish you could see the great, furry anemones and the
colt’s-foot and verbenas and all the other purple and gold-colored things
that follow each other in a mad scamper over the wavy bluffs. And it
seems as if I had never drawn a real, deep breath anywhere but here. It’s
like the ocean wind without the salt in it.
“And I’m very fond of the people, though they _are_ provoking, sometimes.
They forget so—just like children. And Sir Walter mustn’t be jealous,
but you ought to know my Sheka—that means ‘Poor Little Thing.’ He never
leaves me if he can help it, and he’s just exactly like a real person.
“I don’t think I ever told you about the time we had getting our Chaskay
into school. All the children have to go now as soon as they are five,
and the mothers put off that fifth birthday just as long as they can;
but Chaskay was five last summer, and in the fall the policeman came
for him to go to the boarding school. Well, it was dreadful! Blue Earth
wailed, and Grandmother sang the old Indian songs and shook her fist in
the policeman’s face, and the poor little fellow was scared out of his
wits and screamed till I was frightened, myself.
“Then I had an idea, and I said ‘Why not take him every day to the day
school in Ring Thunder’s camp? He’s too little to leave his mother at
night; why, he can’t even dress himself yet.’
“So it was settled, and we two take turns carrying him on horseback,
five miles each way, morning and evening. Blue Earth rides her spotted
pony, ‘Baby,’ and I my iron-gray pacer, ‘Old Soup,’ the people call him,
because he goes from side to side, just like stirring something in a pot.
“It was glorious fun while the fine weather lasted. I don’t mind coyotes
a bit, and I got used to the rattlesnakes after a while, remembering
Ethan’s; but a five-mile ride in a Dakota blizzard isn’t any fun,
especially with a child on the saddle in front of you, and you with your
hands full to keep him from freezing. It’s better to just let the horse
take his own course, anyway, when you can’t see the road a bit.
“But the worst was this spring, when the ice broke up on the White river.
You see, the schoolhouse is on the other side of the river, and it was
easy fording it in the fall, when the water is low, and easier still
crossing on the ice; but one windy March day the ice broke up while we
were on the further side.
“Good ‘Old Soup!’ He just gathered up his four feet into a bunch and
jumped from cake to cake, floating and swirling around there in the black
water, and once or twice he missed his footing and went in deep enough
to wet my toes in the stirrups. I can tell you, girls, I was glad enough
when he scrambled out on the other side. And wasn’t the boy brave? He
never uttered a sound!
“There have been a great many sick people this spring—mostly with coughs
and consumption. I take them beef-tea and milk gruel and rice and things,
and it’s best to stay and see them eat it if you want to be sure.
Especially if they’re women; they would so much rather give it to the men.
“One morning I was wakened out of a sound sleep by a tap on the
window-pane. The sun was shining brightly, but I looked at my dear
little watch that always hangs at the head of my bed, and it was only
five o’clock. What do you suppose the woman said?—for it was a poor, old
woman. ‘My son is dying, and begs for some light biscuit right away!’
“So I got up and built the kitchen fire before even Grandmother was
stirring, and the poor sick man had his last wish, I guess, for he really
did die. He was a young man who had been away to school.
“There are several returned students here who are thankful to come and
look at my magazines and my photographs, and sing hymns, and get me to
explain things to them. If I knew a little more, I would try to have
an evening class. They always treat me with respect and call me ‘Older
Sister.’ Why, the other day one of them even asked my advice about
getting married! What do you say to that?
“There are two or three I don’t like at all—half-breeds and white men.
One is an ‘assistant farmer;’ they are the men who are supposed to teach
the Indians farming, but sometimes I think they don’t do much but run
errands for the agent. This one’s name is Jack Pepper, and he visits this
camp rather often. I don’t like his looks a bit, and I try to be out of
the way when he comes.
“I make a great many calls, for I find the women like to have me come,
and besides, it keeps them up to the mark in their housekeeping. Often
the first thing I see, long before I get to the house, is a cloud of dust
coming out of the front door. Then I know that some one has spied me
coming, and is putting the one room in company trim. By the time I get
there, it has not only been swept, but the beds neatly made, with fresh
white pillow-cases, the dishes washed, the cupboard put in order, and
perhaps, if I don’t hurry, the youngest child has its face scrubbed and
a clean dress slipped on over the old one.
“Give my love to all—especially darling Doris and all her family. I often
think of Grandma Brown. You’ll think it funny, I suppose, but Grandmother
here reminds me of her a good deal. Not her looks, of course, for she
isn’t neat and nice a bit; her fingers are like claws and her hair like
gray feathers, almost; but they both have a way of speaking right out and
saying things that bite.
“I shake hands with you in my heart, as our people say.
“STELLA.
“P. S. If you happen to see Doctor Ethan again, please give him my kind
regards.”