New Chronicles of Rebecca

by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

  Third Chronicle. REBECCA'S THOUGHT BOOK

  I

  The "Sawyer girls'" barn still had its haymow in Rebecca's time,although the hay was a dozen years old or more, and, in the opinion ofthe occasional visiting horse, sadly juiceless and wanting in flavor.It still sheltered, too, old Deacon Israel Sawyer's carryall andmowing-machine, with his pung, his sleigh, and a dozen other survivalsof an earlier era, when the broad acres of the brick house went to makeone of the finest farms in Riverboro.

  There were no horses or cows in the stalls nowadays; no pig gruntingcomfortably of future spare ribs in the sty; no hens to peck the plantsin the cherished garden patch. The Sawyer girls were getting on inyears, and, mindful that care once killed a cat, they ordered theirlives with the view of escaping that particular doom, at least, andsucceeded fairly well until Rebecca's advent made existence a triflemore sensational.

  Once a month for years upon years, Miss Miranda and Miss Jane had puttowels over their heads and made a solemn visit to the barn, taking offthe enameled cloth coverings (occasionally called "emmanuel covers" inRiverboro), dusting the ancient implements, and sometimes sweepingthe heaviest of the cobwebs from the corners, or giving a brush to thefloor.

  Deacon Israel's tottering ladder still stood in its accustomed place,propped against the haymow, and the heavenly stairway leading to eternalglory scarcely looked fairer to Jacob of old than this to Rebecca. Bymeans of its dusty rounds she mounted, mounted, mounted far awayfrom time and care and maiden aunts, far away from childish tasksand childish troubles, to the barn chamber, a place so full of goldendreams, happy reveries, and vague longings, that, as her little brownhands clung to the sides of the ladder and her feet trod the roundscautiously in her ascent, her heart almost stopped beating in the sheerjoy of anticipation.

  Once having gained the heights, the next thing was to unlatch the heavydoors and give them a gentle swing outward. Then, oh, ever new Paradise!Then, oh, ever lovely green and growing world! For Rebecca had thatsomething in her soul that

  "Gives to seas and sunset skies The unspent beauty of surprise."

  At the top of Guide Board hill she could see Alice Robinson's barn withits shining weather vane, a huge burnished fish that swam with the windand foretold the day to all Riverboro. The meadow, with its sunnyslopes stretching up to the pine woods, was sometimes a flowing sheetof shimmering grass, sometimes--when daisies and buttercups wereblooming--a vision of white and gold. Sometimes the shorn stubble wouldbe dotted with "the happy hills of hay," and a little later the rockmaple on the edge of the pines would stand out like a golden ballagainst the green; its neighbor, the sugar maple, glowing beside it,brave in scarlet.

  It was on one of these autumn days with a wintry nip in the air thatAdam Ladd (Rebecca's favorite "Mr. Aladdin"), after searching for her infield and garden, suddenly noticed the open doors of the barn chamber,and called to her. At the sound of his vice she dropped her preciousdiary, and flew to the edge of the haymow. He never forgot the visionof the startled little poetess, book in one mittened hand, pencil inthe other, dark hair all ruffled, with the picturesque addition of anoccasional glade of straw, her cheeks crimson, her eyes shining.

  "A Sappho in mittens!" he cried laughingly, and at her eager questiontold her to look up the unknown lady in the school encyclopedia, whenshe was admitted to the Female Seminary at Wareham.

  Now, all being ready, Rebecca went to a corner of the haymow, andwithdrew a thick blank-book with mottled covers. Out of her ginghamapron pocket came a pencil, a bit of rubber, and some pieces of brownpaper; then she seated herself gravely on the floor, and drew aninverted soapbox nearer to her for a table.

  The book was reverently opened, and there was a serious reading of theextracts already carefully copied therein. Most of them were apparentlyto the writer's liking, for dimples of pleasure showed themselves nowand then, and smiles of obvious delight played about her face; butonce in a while there was a knitting of the brows and a sigh ofdiscouragement, showing that the artist in the child was not whollysatisfied.

  Then came the crucial moment when the budding author was supposedly tobe racked with the throes of composition; but seemingly there wereno throes. Other girls could wield the darning or crochet or knittingneedle, and send the tatting shuttle through loops of the finest cotton;hemstitch, oversew, braid hair in thirteen strands, but the pencil wasnever obedient in their fingers, and the pen and ink-pot were a horrorfrom early childhood to the end of time.

  Not so with Rebecca; her pencil moved as easily as her tongue, and nomore striking simile could possibly be used. Her handwriting was notSpencerian; she had neither time, nor patience, it is to be feared,for copybook methods, and her unformed characters were frequently thedespair of her teachers; but write she could, write she would, write shemust and did, in season and out; from the time she made pothooks at six,till now, writing was the easiest of all possible tasks; to be indulgedin as solace and balm when the terrors of examples in least commonmultiple threatened to dethrone the reason, or the rules of grammarloomed huge and unconquerable in the near horizon.

  As to spelling, it came to her in the main by free grace, and not bytraining, and though she slipped at times from the beaten path, herextraordinary ear and good visual memory kept her from many or flagrantmistakes. It was her intention, especially when saying her prayers atnight, to look up all doubtful words in her small dictionary, beforecopying her Thoughts into the sacred book for the inspirationof posterity; but when genius burned with a brilliant flame, andparticularly when she was in the barn and the dictionary in the house,impulse as usual carried the day.

  There sits Rebecca, then, in the open door of the Sawyers barnchamber--the sunset door. How many a time had her grandfather, the gooddeacon, sat just underneath in his tipped-back chair, when Mrs. Israel'stemper was uncertain, and the serenity of the barn was in comfortingcontrast to his own fireside!

  The open doors swinging out to the peaceful landscape, the solace of thepipe, not allowed in the "settin'-room"--how beautifully these simpleagents have ministered to the family peace in days agone! "If I hadn'thad my barn and my store BOTH, I couldn't never have lived in holymatrimony with Maryliza!" once said Mr. Watson feelingly.

  But the deacon, looking on his waving grass fields, his tasseling cornand his timber lands, bright and honest as were his eyes, never sawsuch visions as Rebecca. The child, transplanted from her home farm atSunnybrook, from the care of the overworked but easy-going mother, andthe companionship of the scantily fed, scantily clothed, happy-go-luckybrothers and sisters--she had indeed fallen on shady days in Riverboro.The blinds were closed in every room of the house but two, and the samemight have been said of Miss Miranda's mind and heart, though MissJane had a few windows opening to the sun, and Rebecca already had herunconscious hand on several others. Brickhouse rules were rigid and manyfor a little creature so full of life, but Rebecca's gay spirit couldnot be pinioned in a strait jacket for long at a time; it escapedsomehow and winged its merry way into the sunshine and free air; if shewere not allowed to sing in the orchard, like the wild bird she was, shecould still sing in the cage, like the canary.

  II

  If you had opened the carefully guarded volume with the mottled covers,you would first have seen a wonderful title page, constructed apparentlyon the same lines as an obituary, or the inscription on a tombstone,save for the quantity and variety of information contained in it. Muchof the matter would seem to the captious critic better adapted to thebody of the book than to the title page, but Rebecca was apparentlyanxious that the principal personages in her chronicle should be welldescribed at the outset.

  She seems to have had a conviction that heredity plays its part in theevolution of genius, and her belief that the world will be inspiredby the possession of her Thoughts is too artless to be offensive. Sheevidently has respect for rich material confided to her teacher, andone can imagine Miss Dearborn's woe had she been confronted by Rebecca'schosen literary executor and bidden to deliver certain "Valu
able Poetryand Thoughts," the property of posterity "unless carelessly destroyed."

  THOUGHT BOOK of Rebecca Rowena Randall Really of Sunnybrook Farm Buttemporily of The Brick House Riverboro. Own niece of Miss Miranda andJane Sawyer Second of seven children of her father, Mr. L. D. M. Randall(Now at rest in Temperance cemmetary and there will be a monument assoon as we pay off the mortgage on the farm) Also of her mother Mrs.Aurelia Randall

  In case of Death the best of these Thoughts May be printed in my Remerniscences For the Sunday School Library at Temperance, Maine Which needs more books fearfully And I hereby Will and Testament them to Mr. Adam Ladd Who bought 300 cakes of soap from me And thus secured a premium A Greatly Needed Banquet Lamp For my friends the Simpsons. He is the only one that incourages My writing Remerniscences and My teacher Miss Dearborn will Have much valuable Poetry and Thoughts To give him unless carelessly destroyed.

  The pictures are by the same hand that Wrote the Thoughts.

  IT IS NOT NOW DECIDED WHETHER REBECCA ROWENA RANDALL WILL BE A PAINTEROR AN AUTHOR, BUT AFTER HER DEATH IT WILL BE KNOWN WHICH SHE HAS BEEN,IF ANY.

  FINIS

  From the title page, with its wealth of detail, and its unnecessary andirrelevant information, the book ripples on like a brook, and to theweary reader of problem novels it may have something of the brook'srefreshing quality.

  OUR DIARIES May, 187--

  All the girls are keeping a diary because Miss Dearborn was very muchashamed when the school trustees told her that most of the girls' andall of the boys' compositions were disgraceful, and must be improvedupon next term. She asked the boys to write letters to her once a weekinstead of keeping a diary, which they thought was girlish like playingwith dolls. The boys thought it was dreadful to have to write lettersevery seven days, but she told them it was not half as bad for them asit was for her who had to read them.

  To make my diary a little different I am going to call it a THOUGHT Book(written just like that, with capitals). I have thoughts that I nevercan use unless I write them down, for Aunt Miranda always says, Keepyour thoughts to yourself. Aunt Jane lets me tell her some, but does notlike my queer ones and my true thoughts are mostly queer. Emma Jane doesnot mind hearing them now and then, and that is my only chance.

  If Miss Dearborn does not like the name Thought Book I will call itRemerniscences (written just like that with a capital R). Remerniscencesare things you remember about yourself and write down in case you shoulddie. Aunt Jane doesn't like to read any other kind of books but justlives of interesting dead people and she says that is what Longfellow(who was born in the state of Maine and we should be very proud of itand try to write like him) meant in his poem:

  "Lives of great men all remind us We should make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time."

  I know what this means because when Emma Jane and I went to the beachwith Uncle Jerry Cobb we ran along the wet sand and looked at the shapesour boots made, just as if they were stamped in wax. Emma Jane turns inher left foot (splayfoot the boys call it, which is not polite) and SethStrout had just patched one of my shoes and it all came out in the sandpictures. When I learned The Psalm of Life for Friday afternoon speakingI thought I shouldn't like to leave a patched footprint, nor have EmmaJane's look crooked on the sands of time, and right away I thought Oh!What a splendid thought for my Thought Book when Aunt Jane buys me afifteen-cent one over to Watson's store.

  * * * * *

  REMERNISCENCES

  June, 187--

  I told Aunt Jane I was going to begin my Remerniscences, and she saysI am full young, but I reminded her that Candace Milliken's sister diedwhen she was ten, leaving no footprints whatever, and if I should diesuddenly who would write down my Remerniscences? Aunt Miranda says thesun and moon would rise and set just the same, and it was no matter ifthey didn't get written down, and to go up attic and find her piece-bag;but I said it would, as there was only one of everybody in the world,and nobody else could do their remerniscensing for them. If I should dietonight I know now who would describe me right. Miss Dearborn wouldsay one thing and brother John another. Emma Jane would try to do mejustice, but has no words; and I am glad Aunt Miranda never takes thepen in hand.

  My dictionary is so small it has not many genteel words in it, and Icannot find how to spell Remerniscences, but I remember from the coverof Aunt Jane's book that there was an "s" and a "c" close together inthe middle of it, which I thought foolish and not needful.

  All the girls like their dairies very much, but Minnie Smellie got AliceRobinson's where she had hid it under the school wood pile and readit all through. She said it was no worse than reading anybody'scomposition, but we told her it was just like peeking through a keyhole,or listening at a window, or opening a bureau drawer. She said shedidn't look at it that way, and I told her that unless her eyes gotunscealed she would never leave any kind of a sublime footprint onthe sands of time. I told her a diary was very sacred as you generallypoured your deepest feelings into it expecting nobody to look at it butyourself and your indulgent heavenly Father who seeeth all things.

  Of course it would not hurt Persis Watson to show her diary because shehas not a sacred plan and this is the way it goes, for she reads it outloud to us:

  "Arose at six this morning--(you always arise in a diary but you sayget up when you talk about it). Ate breakfast at half past six. Had sodabiscuits, coffee, fish hash and doughnuts. Wiped the dishes, fed thehens and made my bed before school. Had a good arithmetic lesson, butwent down two in spelling. At half past four played hide and coop in theSawyer pasture. Fed hens and went to bed at eight."

  She says she can't put in what doesn't happen, but as I don't think herdiary is interesting she will ask her mother to have meat hash insteadof fish, with pie when the doughnuts give out, and she will feed thehens before breakfast to make a change. We are all going now to try andmake something happen every single day so the diaries won't be so dulland the footprints so common.

  * * * * *

  AN UNCOMMON THOUGHT

  July 187--

  We dug up our rosecakes today, and that gave me a good Remerniscence.The way you make rose cakes is, you take the leaves of full blown rosesand mix them with a little cinnamon and as much brown sugar as theywill give you, which is never half enough except Persis Watson, whoseaffectionate parents let her go to the barrel in their store. Then youdo up little bits like sedlitz powders, first in soft paper and thenin brown, and bury them in the ground and let them stay as long as youpossibly can hold out; then dig them up and eat them. Emma Jane andI stick up little signs over the holes in the ground with the date weburied them and when they'll be done enough to dig up, but we can neverwait. When Aunt Jane saw us she said it was the first thing for childrento learn,--not to be impatient,--so when I went to the barn chamber Imade a poem.

  IMPATIENCE

  We dug our rose cakes up oh! all too soon. Twas in the orchard just atnoon. Twas in a bright July forenoon. Twas in the sunny afternoon. Twasunderneath the harvest moon.

  It was not that way at all; it was a foggy morning before school, and Ishould think poets could never possibly get to heaven, for it is so hardto stick to the truth when you are writing poetry. Emma Jane thinks itis nobody's business when we dug the rosecakes up. I like the line aboutthe harvest moon best, but it would give a wrong idea of our lives andcharacters to the people that read my Thoughts, for they would think wewere up late nights, so I have fixed it like this:

  IMPATIENCE

  We dug our rose cakes up oh! all too soon, We thought their sweetness would be such a boon. We ne'er suspicioned they would not be done After three days of autumn wind and sun. Why did we from the earth our treasures draw? Twas not for fear that rat or mole might naw, An aged aunt doth say impatience was the reason, She says that youth is ever out of season.

  That is just as Aunt Ja
ne said it, and it gave me the thought for thepoem which is rather uncommon.

  * * * * *

  A DREADFUL QUESTION

  September, 187--

  WHICH HAS BEEN THE MOST BENEFERCENT INFLUENCE ON CHARACTER--PUNISHMENTOR REWARD?

  This truly dreadful question was given us by Dr. Moses when he visitedschool today. He is a School Committee; not a whole one but I do notknow the singular number of him. He told us we could ask our familieswhat they thought, though he would rather we wouldn't, but we must writeour own words and he would hear them next week.

  After he went out and shut the door the scholars were all plunged ingloom and you could have heard a pin drop. Alice Robinson cried andborrowed my handkerchief, and the boys looked as if the schoolhouse hadbeen struck by lightning. The worst of all was poor Miss Dearborn, whowill lose her place if she does not make us better scholars soon, forDr. Moses has a daughter all ready to put right in to the school and shecan board at home and save all her wages. Libby Moses is her name.

  Miss Dearborn stared out the window, and her mouth and chin shook likeAlice Robinson's, for she knew, ah! all to well, what the coming weekwould bring forth.

  Then I raised my hand for permission to speak, and stood up and said:"Miss Dearborn, don't you mind! Just explain to us what benefercent'means and we'll write something real interesting; for all of us knowwhat punishment is, and have seen others get rewards, and it is not sobad a subject as some." And Dick Carter whispered, "GOOD ON YOUR HEAD,REBECCA!" which mean he was sorry for her too, and would try his best,but has no words.

  Then teacher smiled and said benefercent meant good or healthy foranybody, and would all rise who thought punishment made the bestscholars and men and women; and everybody sat stock still.

  And then she asked all to stand who believed that rewards produced thefinest results, and there was a mighty sound like unto the rushing ofwaters, but really was our feet scraping the floor, and the scholarsstood up, and it looked like an army, though it was only nineteen,because of the strong belief that was in them. Then Miss Dearbornlaughed and said she was thankful for every whipping she had whenshe was a child, and Living Perkins said perhaps we hadn't got to thethankful age, or perhaps her father hadn't used a strap, and she saidoh! no, it was her mother with the open hand; and Dick Carter said hewouldn't call that punishment, and Sam Simpson said so too.

  I am going to write about the subject in my Thought Book first, and whenI make it into a composition, I can leave out anything about the familyor not genteel, as there is much to relate about punishment not pleasantor nice and hardly polite.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  PUNISHMENT

  Punishment is a very puzzly thing, but I believe in it when reallydeserved, only when I punish myself it does not always turn out well.When I leaned over the new bridge, and got my dress all paint, and AuntSarah Cobb couldn't get it out, I had to wear it spotted for sixmonths which hurt my pride, but was right. I stayed at home from AliceRobinson's birthday party for a punishment, and went to the circusnext day instead, but Alice's parties are very cold and stiff, as Mrs.Robinson makes the boys stand on newspapers if they come inside thedoor, and the blinds are always shut, and Mrs. Robinson tells me how badher liver complaint is this year. So I thought, to pay for the circusand a few other things, I ought to get more punishment, and I threw mypink parasol down the well, as the mothers in the missionary books throwtheir infants to the crocodiles in the Ganges river. But it got stuckin the chain that holds the bucket, and Aunt Miranda had to get AbijahFlagg to take out all the broken bits before we could ring up water.

  I punished myself this way because Aunt Miranda said that unless Iimproved I would be nothing but a Burden and a Blight.

  There was an old man used to go by our farm carrying a lot of brokenchairs to bottom, and mother used to say--"Poor man! His back is tooweak for such a burden!" and I used to take him out a doughnut, and thisis the part I want to go into the Remerniscences. Once I told him wewere sorry the chairs were so heavy, and he said THEY DIDN'T SEEM SOHEAVY WHEN HE HAD ET THE DOUGHNUT. This does not mean that the doughnutwas heavier than the chairs which is what brother John said, but it is abeautiful thought and shows how the human race should have sympathy, andhelp bear burdens.

  I know about a Blight, for there was a dreadful east wind over at ourfarm that destroyed all the little young crops just out of the ground,and the farmers called it the Blight. And I would rather be hail, sleet,frost, or snow than a Blight, which is mean and secret, and which is thereason I threw away the dearest thing on earth to me, the pink parasolthat Miss Ross brought me from Paris, France. I have also wrapped up mybead purse in three papers and put it away marked not to be opened tillafter my death unless needed for a party.

  I must not be Burden, I must not be Blight, The angels in heaven wouldweep at the sight.

  * * * * *

  REWARDS

  A good way to find out which has the most benefercent effect would be totry rewards on myself this next week and write my composition the verylast day, when I see how my character is. It is hard to find rewards foryourself, but perhaps Aunt Jane and some of the girls would each giveme one to help out. I could carry my bead purse to school every day,or wear my coral chain a little while before I go to sleep at night. Icould read Cora or the Sorrows of a Doctor's Wife a little oftener, butthat's all the rewards I can think of. I fear Aunt Miranda would saythey are wicked but oh! if they should turn out benefercent how glad andjoyful life would be to me! A sweet and beautiful character, belovedby my teacher and schoolmates, admired and petted by my aunts andneighbors, yet carrying my bead purse constantly, with perhaps my besthat on Wednesday afternoons, as well as Sundays!

  * * * * *

  A GREAT SHOCK

  The reason why Alice Robinson could not play was, she was being punishedfor breaking her mother's blue platter. Just before supper my storybeing finished I went up Guide Board hill to see how she was bearingup and she spoke to me from her window. She said she did not mind beingpunished because she hadn't been for a long time, and she hoped it wouldhelp her with her composition. She thought it would give her thoughts,and tomorrow's the last day for her to have any. This gave me a goodidea and I told her to call her father up and beg him to beat herviolently. It would hurt, I said, but perhaps none of the other girlswould have a punishment like that, and her composition would be alldifferent and splendid. I would borrow Aunt Miranda's witchhayzel andpour it on her wounds like the Samaritan in the Bible.

  I went up again after supper with Dick Carter to see how it turned out.Alice came to the window and Dick threw up a note tied to a stick. Ihad written: "DEMAND YOUR PUNISHMENT TO THE FULL. BE BRAVE LIKE DOLORES'MOTHER IN THE Martyrs of Spain."

  She threw down an answer, and it was: "YOU JUST BE LIKE DOLORES' MOTHERYOURSELF IF YOU'RE SO SMART!" Then she stamped away from the window andmy feelings were hurt, but Dick said perhaps she was hungry, and thatmade her cross. And as Dick and I turned to go out of the yard we lookedback and I saw something I can never forget. (The Great Shock) Mrs.Robinson was out behind the barn feeding the turkies. Mr. Robinsoncame softly out of the side door in the orchard and looking everywheresaround he stepped to the wire closet and took out a saucer of cold beanswith a pickled beet on top, and a big piece of blueberry pie. Then hecrept up the back stairs and we could see Alice open her door and takein the supper.

  Oh! What will become of her composition, and how can she tell anythingof the benefercent effects of punishment, when she is locked up byone parent, and fed by the other? I have forgiven her for the way shesnapped me up for, of course, you couldn't beg your father to beat youwhen he was bringing you blueberry pie. Mrs. Robinson makes a kind thatleaks out a thick purple juice into the plate and needs a spoon andblacks your mouth, but is heavenly.

  * * * * *

  A DREAM

  The week is almost up and very soon Dr. Moses will drive up to theschool house like Elijah in the chariot and come in to hear us read.There is a good deal of sick
ness among us. Some of the boys are not ableto come to school just now, but hope to be about again by Monday, whenDr. Moses goes away to a convention. It is a very hard composition towrite, somehow. Last night I dreamed that the river was ink and I keptdipping into it and writing with a penstalk made of a young pine tree. Isliced great slabs of marble off the side of one of the White Mountains,the one you see when going to meeting, and wrote on those. Then I threwthem all into the falls, not being good enough for Dr. Moses.

  Dick Carter had a splendid boy to stay over Sunday. He makes the realnewspaper named The Pilot published by the boys at Wareham Academy. Hesays when he talks about himself in writing he calls himself "we," andit sounds much more like print, besides conscealing him more.

  Example: Our hair was measured this morning and has grown two inchessince last time.... We have a loose tooth that troubles us very much...Our inkspot that we made by negligence on our only white petticoat wehave been able to remove with lemon and milk. Some of our petticoat cameout with the spot.

  I shall try it in my composition sometime, for of course I shall writefor the Pilot when I go to Wareham Seminary. Uncle Jerry Cobb says thatI shall, and thinks that in four years I might rise to be editor if theyever have girls.

  I have never been more good than since I have been rewarding myselfsteady, even to asking Aunt Miranda kindly to offer me a company jellytart, not because I was hungry, but for an experement I was trying, andwould explain to her sometime.

  She said she never thought it was wise to experement with your stomach,and I said, with a queer thrilling look, it was not my stomach but mysoul, that was being tried. Then she gave me the tart and walked awayall puzzled and nervous.

  The new minister has asked me to come and see him any Saturday afternoonas he writes poetry himself, but I would rather not ask him about thiscomposition.

  Ministers never believe in rewards, and it is useless to hope that theywill. We had the wrath of God four times in sermons this last summer,but God cannot be angry all the time,--nobody could, especially insummer; Mr. Baxter is different and calls his wife dear which is lovelyand the first time I ever heard it in Riverboro. Mrs. Baxter is anotherkind of people too, from those that live in Temperance. I like towatch her in meeting and see her listen to her husband who is young andhandsome for a minister; it gives me very queer and uncommon feelings,when they look at each other, which they always do when not otherwiseengaged.

  She has different clothes from anybody else. Aunt Miranda says you mustthink only of two things: will your dress keep you warm and will it wearwell and there is nobody in the world to know how I love pink and redand how I hate drab and green and how I never wear my hat with theblack and yellow porkupine quills without wishing it would blow into theriver.

  Whene'er I take my walks abroad How many quills I see. But as they arenot porkupines They never come to me.

  COMPOSITION

  WHICH HAS THE MOST BENEFERCENT EFFECT ON THE CHARACTER, PUNISHMENT ORREWARD?

  By Rebecca Rowena Randall

  (This copy not corrected by Miss Dearborn yet.)

  We find ourselves very puzzled in approaching this truly great andnational question though we have tried very ernestly to understand it,so as to show how wisely and wonderfully our dear teacher guides theyouthful mind, it being her wish that our composition class shall longbe remembered in Riverboro Centre.

  We would say first of all that punishment seems more benefercentlyneeded by boys than girls. Boys' sins are very violent, like stealingfruit, profane language, playing truant, fighting, breaking windows, andkilling innocent little flies and bugs. If these were not taken out ofthem early in life it would be impossible for them to become like ourmartyred president, Abraham Lincoln.

  Although we have asked everybody on our street, they think boys' sinscan only be whipped out of them with a switch or strap, which makesus feel very sad, as boys when not sinning the dreadful sins mentionedabove seem just as good as girls, and never cry when switched, and sayit does not hurt much.

  We now approach girls, which we know better, being one. Girls seembetter than boys because their sins are not so noisy and showy. Theycan disobey their parents and aunts, whisper in silent hour, cheat inlessons, say angry things to their schoolmates, tell lies, be sulky andlazy, but all these can be conducted quite ladylike and genteel, andnobody wants to strap girls because their skins are tender and get blackand blue very easily.

  Punishments make one very unhappy and rewards very happy, and one wouldthink when one is happy one would behave the best. We were acquaintedwith a girl who gave herself rewards every day for a week, and it seemedto make her as lovely a character as one could wish; but perhaps if onewent on for years giving rewards to onesself one would become selfish.One cannot tell, one can only fear.

  If a dog kills a sheep we should whip him straight away, and on the veryspot where he can see the sheep, or he will not know what we mean, andmay forget and kill another. The same is true of the human race. We mustbe firm and patient in punishing, no matter how much we love the one whohas done wrong, and how hungry she is. It does no good to whip a personwith one hand and offer her a pickled beet with the other. This confusesher mind, and she may grow up not knowing right from wrong. (Thestriking example of the pickled beet was removed from the essay by therefined but ruthless Miss Dearborn, who strove patiently, but vainly, tokeep such vulgar images out of her pupils' literary efforts.)

  We now respectfully approach the Holy Bible and the people in the Biblewere punished the whole time, and that would seem to make it right.Everybody says Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth; but we think ourself,that the Lord is a better punisher than we are, and knows better how andwhen to do it having attended to it ever since the year B.C. whilethe human race could not know about it till 1492 A.D., which is whenColumbus discovered America.

  We do not believe we can find out all about this truly great andnational subject till we get to heaven, where the human race, strappedand unstrapped, if any, can meet together and laying down their harpsdiscuss how they got there.

  And we would gently advise boys to be more quiet and genteel in conductand try rewards to see how they would work. Rewards are not all likethe little rosebud merit cards we receive on Fridays, and which boyssometimes tear up and fling scornfully to the breeze when they getoutside, but girls preserve carefully in an envelope.

  Some rewards are great and glorious, for boys can get to be governor orschool trustee or road commissioner or president, while girls can onlybe wife and mother. But all of us can have the ornament of a meek andlowly spirit, especially girls, who have more use for it than boys.

  R.R.R.

  * * * * *

  STORIES AND PEOPLE

  October, 187--

  There are people in books and people in Riverboro, and they are not thesame kind. They never talk of chargers and palfreys in the village, norsay How oft and Methinks, and if a Scotchman out of Rob Roy should cometo Riverboro and want to marry one of us girls we could not understandhim unless he made motions; though Huldah Meserve says if a nobleman ofhigh degree should ask her to be his,--one of vast estates with serfs athis bidding,--she would be able to guess his meaning in any language.

  Uncle Jerry Cobb thinks that Riverboro people would not make a story,but I know that some of them would.

  Jack-o'-lantern, though only a baby, was just like a real story ifanybody had written a piece about him: How his mother was dead and hisfather ran away and Emma Jane and I got Aunt Sarah Cobb to keep him soMr. Perkins wouldn't take him to the poor farm; and about our lovelytimes with him that summer, and our dreadful loss when his fatherremembered him in the fall and came to take him away; and how Aunt Sarahcarried the trundle bed up attic again and Emma Jane and I heard hercrying and stole away.

  Mrs. Peter Meserve says Grandpa Sawyer was a wonderful hand at storiesbefore his spirit was broken by grandmother. She says he was the lifeof the store and tavern when he was a young man, though generally sober,and she thinks I take after him, b
ecause I like compositions better thanall the other lessons; but mother says I take after father, who alwayscould say everything nicely whether he had anything to say or not; somethinks I should be grateful to both of them. They are what is calledancestors and much depends upon whether you have them or not. TheSimpsons have not any at all. Aunt Miranda says the reason everybodyis so prosperous around here is because their ancestors were all firstsettlers and raised on burnt ground. This should make us very proud.

  Methinks and methought are splendid words for compositions. MissDearborn likes them very much, but Alice and I never bring them in tosuit her. Methought means the same as I thought, but sounds better.Example: If you are telling a dream you had about your aged aunt:

  Methought I heard her say My child you have so useful been You need not sew today.

  This is a good example one way, but too unlikely, woe is me!

  This afternoon I was walking over to the store to buy molasses, and asI came off the bridge and turned up the hill, I saw lots and lots ofheelprints in the side of the road, heelprints with little spike holesin them.

  "Oh! The river drivers have come from up country," I thought, "andthey'll be breaking the jam at our falls tomorrow." I looked everywhereabout and not a man did I see, but still I knew I was not mistaken forthe heelprints could not lie. All the way over and back I thought aboutit, though unfortunately forgetting the molasses, and Alice Robinsonnot being able to come out, I took playtime to write a story. It isthe first grown-up one I ever did, and is intended to be like Cora theDoctor's Wife, not like a school composition. It is written for Mr. AdamLadd, and people like him who live in Boston, and is the printed kindyou get money for, to pay off a mortgage.

  * * * * *

  LANCELOT OR THE PARTED LOVERS

  A beautiful village maiden was betrothed to a stallwart river driver,but they had high and bitter words and parted, he to weep into thecrystal stream as he drove his logs, and she to sigh and moan as shewent about her round of household tasks.

  At eventide the maiden was wont to lean over the bridge and her tearsalso fell into the foaming stream; so, though the two unhappy lovers didnot know it, the river was their friend, the only one to whom they toldtheir secrets and wept into.

  The months crept on and it was the next July when the maiden was passingover the bridge and up the hill. Suddenly she spied footprints on thesands of time.

  "The river drivers have come again!" she cried, putting her hand toher side for she had a slight heart trouble like Cora and Mrs. PeterMeserve, that doesn't kill.

  "They HAVE come indeed; ESPECIALLY ONE YOU KNOW," said a voice, andout from the alder bushes sprung Lancelot Littlefield, for that was thelover's name and it was none other than he. His hair was curly and likeliving gold. His shirt, white of flannel, was new and dry, and of ahandsome color, and as the maiden looked at him she could think ofnought but a fairy prince.

  "Forgive," she mermered, stretching out her waisted hands.

  "Nay, sweet," he replied. "'Tis I should say that to you," and bendinggracefully on one knee he kissed the hem of her dress. It was a richpink gingham check, ellaborately ornamented with white tape trimming.

  Clasping each other to the heart like Cora and the Doctor, they stoodthere for a long while, till they heard the rumble of wheels on thebridge and knew they must disentangle.

  The wheels came nearer and verily! it was the maiden's father.

  "Can I wed with your fair daughter this very moon," asked Lancelot, whowill not be called his whole name again in this story.

  "You may," said the father, "for lo! she has been ready and waiting formany months." This he said not noting how he was shaming the maiden,whose name was Linda Rowenetta.

  Then and there the nuptial day was appointed and when it came, themarriage knot was tied upon the river bank where first they met; theriver bank where they had parted in anger, and where they had againscealeld their vows and clasped each other to the heart. And it was verylow water that summer, and the river always thought it was because notears dropped into it but so many smiles that like sunshine they driedit up.

  R.R.R.

  Finis

  * * * * *

  CAREERS

  November, 187--

  Long ago when I used to watch Miss Ross painting the old mill atSunnybrook I thought I would be a painter, for Miss Ross went to ParisFrance where she bought my bead purse and pink parasol and I thoughtI would like to see a street with beautiful bright-colored thingssparkling and hanging in the store windows.

  Then when the missionaries from Syria came to stay at the brick houseMrs. Burch said that after I had experienced religion I must learn musicand train my voice and go out to heathen lands and save souls, so Ithought that would be my career. But we girls tried to have a branch andbe home missionaries and it did not work well. Emma Jane's father wouldnot let her have her birthday party when he found out what she had doneand Aunt Jane sent me up to Jake Moody's to tell him we did not meanto be rude when we asked him to go to meeting more often. He said allright, but just let him catch that little dough-faced Perkins young onein his yard once more and she'd have reason to remember the call, whichwas just as rude and impolite as our trying to lead him to a purer and abetter life.

  Then Uncle Jerry and Mr. Aladdin and Miss Dearborn liked mycompositions, and I thought I'd better be a writer, for I must besomething the minute I'm seventeen, or how shall we ever get themortgage off the farm? But even that hope is taken away from me now,for Uncle Jerry made fun of my story Lancelot Or The Parted Lovers and Ihave decided to be a teacher like Miss Dearborn.

  The pathetic announcement of a change in the career and life purposes ofRebecca was brought about by her reading the grown-up story to Mr. andMrs. Jeremiah Cobb after supper in the orchard. Uncle Jerry was theperson who had maintained all along that Riverboro people would not makea story; and Lancelot or The Parted Lovers was intended to refute thatassertion at once and forever; an assertion which Rebecca regarded(quite truly) as untenable, though why she certainly never could haveexplained. Unfortunately Lancelot was a poor missionary, quite unfittedfor the high achievements to which he was destined by the youthfulnovelist, and Uncle Jerry, though a stage-driver and no reading man, atonce perceived the flabbiness and transparency of the Parted Lovers themoment they were held up to his inspection.

  "You see Riverboro people WILL make a story!" asserted Rebeccatriumphantly as she finished her reading and folded the paper. "And itall came from my noticing the river drivers' tracks by the roadside, andwondering about them; and wondering always makes stories; the ministersays so."

  "Ye-es," allowed Uncle Jerry reflectively, tipping his chair backagainst the apple tree and forcing his slow mind to violent andinstantaneous action, for Rebecca was his pride and joy; a person, inhis opinion, of superhuman talent, one therefore to be "whittled intoshape" if occasion demanded.

  "It's a Riverboro story, sure enough, because you've got the riverand the bridge and the hill and the drivers all right there in it; butthere's something awful queer bout it; the folks don't act Riverboro,and don't talk Riverboro, cordin' to my notions. I call it a reg'larbook story."

  "But," objected Rebecca, "the people in Cinderella didn't act like us,and you thought that was a beautiful story when I told it to you."

  "I know," replied Uncle Jerry, gaining eloquence in the heat ofargument. "They didn't act like us, but 't any rate they acted like'emselves! Somehow they was all of a piece. Cinderella was a little toogood, mebbe, and the sisters was most too thunderin' bad to live on theface o' the earth, and that fayry old lady that kep' the punkin' coachup her sleeve--well, anyhow, you jest believe that punkin' coach, rats,mice, and all, when you're hearin' bout it, fore ever you stop to thinkit ain't so.

  "I don' know how tis, but the folks in that Cinderella story seem tomatch together somehow; they're all pow'ful onlikely--the prince fellerwith the glass slipper, and the hull bunch; but jest the same you kindo' gulp em all down in a lump. But land, Rebecky, nobody'
d swaller thatthere village maiden o' your'n, and as for what's-his-name Littlefield,that come out o' them bushes, such a feller never 'd a' be'n IN bushes!No, Rebecky, you're the smartest little critter there is in thistownship, and you beat your Uncle Jerry all holler when it comes tousin' a lead pencil, but I say that ain't no true Riverboro story! Lookat the way they talk! What was that' bout being BETROTHED'?"

  "Betrothed is a genteel word for engaged to be married," explained thecrushed and chastened author; and it was fortunate the doting old mandid not notice her eyes in the twilight, or he might have known thattears were not far away.

  "Well, that's all right, then; I'm as ignorant as Cooper's cow whenit comes to the dictionary. How about what's-his-name callin' the girl'Naysweet'?"

  "I thought myself that sounded foolish,:" confessed Rebecca; "but it'swhat the Doctor calls Cora when he tries to persuade her not to quarrelwith his mother who comes to live with them. I know they don't say it inRiverboro or Temperance, but I thought perhaps it was Boston talk."

  "Well, it ain't!" asserted Mr. Cobb decisively. "I've druv Boston menup in the stage from Milltown many's the time, and none of em eversaid Naysweet to me, nor nothin'like it. They talked like folks, everymother's son of em! If I'd a' had that what's-his-name on the harricanedeck' o' the stage and he tried any naysweetin' on me, I'd a' pitchedhim into the cornfield, side o' the road. I guess you ain't growed upenough for that kind of a story, Rebecky, for your poetry can't be beatin York County, that's sure, and your compositions are good enough toread out loud in town meetin' any day!"

  Rebecca brightened up a little and bade the old couple her usualaffectionate good night, but she descended the hill in a saddened mood.When she reached the bridge the sun, a ball of red fire, was settingbehind Squire Bean's woods. As she looked, it shone full on the broad,still bosom of the river, and for one perfect instant the trees on theshores were reflected, all swimming in a sea of pink. Leaning over therail, she watched the light fade from crimson to carmine, from carmineto rose, from rose to amber, and from amber to gray. Then withdrawingLancelot or the Parted Lovers from her apron pocket, she tore the pagesinto bits and dropped them into the water below with a sigh.

  "Uncle Jerry never said a word about the ending!" she thought; "and thatwas so nice!"

  And she was right; but while Uncle Jerry was an illuminating critic whenit came to the actions and language of his Riverboro neighbors, he hadno power to direct the young mariner when she "followed the gleam," andused her imagination.

  OUR SECRET SOCIETY

  November, 187--

  Our Secret society has just had a splendid picnic in Candace Milliken'sbarn.

  Our name is the B.O.S.S., and not a single boy in the village has beenable to guess it. It means Braid Over Shoulder Society, and that is thesign. All the members wear one of their braids over the right shoulderin front; the president's tied with red ribbon (I am the president) andall the rest tied with blue.

  To attract the attention of another member when in company or at apublic place we take the braid between the thumb and little finger andstand carelessly on one leg. This is the Secret Signal and the passwordis Sobb (B.O.S.S. spelled backwards) which was my idea and is thoughtrather uncommon.

  One of the rules of the B.O.S.S. is that any member may be required totell her besetting sin at any meeting, if asked to do so by a majorityof the members.

  This was Candace Milliken's idea and much opposed by everybody, but whenit came to a vote so many of the girls were afraid of offending Candacethat they agreed because there was nobody else's father and motherwho would let us picnic in their barn and use their plow, harrow,grindstone, sleigh, carryall, pung, sled, and wheelbarrow, which we didand injured hardly anything.

  They asked me to tell my besetting sin at the very first meeting, and itnearly killed me to do it because it is such a common greedy one. It isthat I can't bear to call the other girls when I have found a thick spotwhen we are out berrying in the summer time.

  After I confessed, which made me dreadfully ashamed, every one of thegirls seemed surprised and said they had never noticed that one but hadeach thought of something very different that I would be sure to thinkwas my besetting sin. Then Emma Jane said that rather than tell hers shewould resign from the Society and miss the picnic. So it made somuch trouble that Candace gave up. We struck out the rule from theconstitution and I had told my sin for nothing.

  The reason we named ourselves the B.O.S.S. is that Minnie Smellie hashad her head shaved after scarlet fever and has no braid, so she can'tbe a member.

  I don't want her for a member but I can't be happy thinking she willfeel slighted, and it takes away half the pleasure of belonging to theSociety myself and being president.

  That, I think, is the principal trouble about doing mean and unkindthings; that you can't do wrong and feel right, or be bad and feel good.If you only could you could do anything that came into your mind yetalways be happy.

  Minnie Smellie spoils everything she comes into but I suppose weother girls must either have our hair shaved and call ourselves TheBaldheadians or let her be some kind of a special officer in theB.O.S.S.

  She might be the B.I.T.U.D. member (Braid in the Upper Drawer), forthere is where Mrs. Smellie keeps it now that it is cut off.

  WINTER THOUGHTS

  March, 187--

  It is not such a cold day for March and I am up in the barn chamber withmy coat and hood on and Aunt Jane's waterproof and my mittens.

  After I do three pages I am going to hide away this book in the haymowtill spring.

  Perhaps they get made into icicles on the way but I do not seem to haveany thoughts in the winter time. The barn chamber is full of thoughts inwarm weather. The sky gives them to me, and the trees and flowers, andthe birds, and the river; but now it is always gray and nipping, thebranches are bare and the river is frozen.

  It is too cold to write in my bedroom but while we still kept an openfire I had a few thoughts, but now there is an air-tight stove in thedining room where we sit, and we seem so close together, Aunt Miranda,Aunt Jane and I that I don't like to write in my book for fear they willask me to read out loud my secret thoughts.

  I have just read over the first part of my Thought Book and I haveoutgrown it all, just exactly as I have outgrown my last year's drabcashmere.

  It is very queer how anybody can change so fast in a few months, but Iremember that Emma Jane's cat had kittens the day my book was bought atWatson's store. Mrs. Perkins kept the prettiest white one, Abijah Flaggdrowning all the others.

  It seems strange to me that cats will go on having kittens when theyknow what becomes of them! We were very sad about it, but Mrs. Perkinssaid it was the way of the world and how things had to be.

  I cannot help being glad that they do not do the same with children, orJohn and Jenny Mira Mark and me would all have had stones tied to ournecks and been dropped into the deepest part of Sunny Brook, for Hannahand Fanny are the only truly handsome ones in the family.

  Mrs. Perkins says I dress up well, but never being dressed up it doesnot matter much. At least they didn't wait to dress up the kittens tosee how they would improve, before drowning them, but decided rightaway.

  Emma Jane's kitten that was born the same day this book was is now quitean old cat who knows the way of the world herself, and how things haveto be, for she has had one batch of kittens drowned already.

  So perhaps it is not strange that my Thought Book seems so babyish andfoolish to me when I think of all I have gone through and the millionsof things I have learned, and how much better I spell than I did tenmonths ago.

  My fingers are cold through the mittens, so good-bye dear Thought Book,friend of my childhood, now so far far behind me!

  I will hide you in the haymow where you'll be warm and cosy all the longwinter and where nobody can find you again in the summer time but youraffectionate author,

  Rebecca Rowena Randall.