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Table of contents
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- A Writer's Mind: January
- Sizzling, Hot, Memorial Day Giveaway
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Oh, to think of it! Some day we will go there, you and I; sometime when you are quite, quite strong, you know. And we will see the Flume and the wonderful Notch.
You remember Hawthorne's story of the 'Ambitious Guest'? I think it is one of the most beautiful of all. Perhaps—who knows? Abernethy, who cared nothing whatever about mountains or carbuncles, whinnied, and gave a little impatient shake.
Here is our turn to the left; a pine-tree at the corner,—yes, this must be it! Good-by, mountains! Be sure to stay there till the next time we come. You said it was a translation from some modern Greek poet, didn't you? I found it in a book of Dr. Felton's at home. Is it true, I wonder? I never see those flying shadows without thinking of 'Charon sweeping over them. Hilda dear, stop a moment!
There is some yellow clover. Why, I had no idea it grew so far north as this! I don't see any. If you could bend your lofty gaze [] to the ditch by the roadside, you might possibly see it. This yellow is the hop-clover. Dear me! Is she yellow? She was an aunt of Mother's; and once she had [] the jaundice, and it seems to me she was always yellow after that. But that was not all, Hilda.
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There was an old handbook of botany among Father's books, and I used to read it a great deal, and puzzle over the long words. I always liked long words, even when I was a little wee girl. Well, one day I was reading, and Aunt Caroline happened to come in. She despised reading, and thought it was an utter waste of time, and that I ought to sew or knit all the time, since I could not help Mother with the housework. She was very practical herself, and a famous housekeeper. So she looked at me, and frowned, and said, 'Well, Pink, mooning away over a book as usual?
Useless rubbish! But I looked down at my old book, which was open at 'Trefolium: Clover. And I sat there and giggled, a great girl of thirteen, till I got perfectly hysterical. The more I laughed, the angrier she grew, of course; till at last she went out into the kitchen and slammed the door after her. But I heard her telling Mother that that gal of hers appeared to be losing such wits as she had,—not that 't was any great loss, as fur as she could see.
Wasn't that dreadful, Hildegarde?
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Of course I was wheeled over to her house the next day, and begged her pardon; but she was still withering [] and persistent, though she said, 'Very excusable! Did I ever tell you how I came near making poor Bubble deaf? That wasn't exactly naughty, because I didn't mean to do anything bad; but it was funny. I must have been about five years old, and I used to sit in a sort of little chair-cart that Father made for me. One day Mother was washing, and she set me down beside the baby's cradle that was Bubble, of course , and told me to watch him, and to call her if he cried.
A Writer's Mind: January
Well, for a while, Mother said, all was quiet. Then she heard Baby fret a little, and then came a queer sort of noise, she could not tell what, and after that [] quiet again. So she thought what a nice, helpful little girl I was getting to be; and when she came in she said, 'Well, Pinkie, you stopped the baby's fretting, didn't you? Here the road dipped down into a gully, and Dr. Abernethy had to pick his way carefully among loose stones.
Presently the stone-walls gave place to a most wonderful kind of fence,—a kind that even country-bred Rose had never seen before. When the great trees, the giants of the old forest, had been cut, and the ground cleared for farm-lands and pastures, their stumps had been pulled up by the roots; and these roots, vast, many-branched, twisted into every imaginable shape, were locked to [] gether, standing edgewise, and tossing their naked arms in every direction. What huge trees they must have been, to have such roots as these!
Isn't it strange to think of people not caring for trees, Hilda?
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I had never read a ballad, nor a 'Waverley,' nor the 'Newcomes,' nor any [] thing. Let's not talk about the dark ages. You love trees now, I'm sure. What was that line you told me the other day? And it isn't 'pine-tree,' after all. I looked, and found it was 'cedar. Holbrook, you remember,—Miss Matty's old lover,—quotes it, when they are taking tea with him.
Dear Miss Matty! Hildegarde checked Dr. Abernethy, who had been trotting along quite briskly, and they both looked curiously at the little house on their left, which certainly was "queer,"—a low, unpainted shanty, gray with age, the shingles rotting off, and moss growing in the chinks.
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The small panes of glass were crusted with dirt, and here and there one had been broken, and replaced with brown paper. The front yard was a tangle of ribbon-grass and clover; but a tuft of straggling flowers here and there showed that it had once had care and attention. There was no sign of life about the place. Do you know that I have never seen one in my life? I must positively take a peep at it, and see what it is [] like inside. At least? But, oh, me! What a place!
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I never, never dreamed of such a place. My dear, it is the Abode of Dirt. Squalid is no word for it; squalor is richness compared to this house.