Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm

by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

  XII

  "SEE THE PALE MARTYR"

  It was about this time that Rebecca, who had been reading about theSpartan boy, conceived the idea of some mild form of self-punishment tobe applied on occasions when she was fully convinced in her own mindthat it would be salutary. The immediate cause of the decision was asomewhat sadder accident than was common, even in a career prolific insuch things.

  Clad in her best, Rebecca had gone to take tea with the Cobbs; butwhile crossing the bridge she was suddenly overcome by the beauty ofthe river and leaned over the newly painted rail to feast her eyes onthe dashing torrent of the fall. Resting her elbows on the topmostboard, and inclining her little figure forward in delicious ease, shestood there dreaming.

  The river above the dam was a glassy lake with all the loveliness ofblue heaven and green shore reflected in its surface; the fall was aswirling wonder of water, ever pouring itself over and overinexhaustibly in luminous golden gushes that lost themselves in snowydepths of foam. Sparkling in the sunshine, gleaming under the summermoon, cold and gray beneath a November sky, trickling over the dam insome burning July drought, swollen with turbulent power in some Aprilfreshet, how many young eyes gazed into the mystery and majesty of thefalls along that river, and how many young hearts dreamed out theirfutures leaning over the bridge rail, seeing "the vision splendid"reflected there and often, too, watching it fade into "the light ofcommon day."

  Rebecca never went across the bridge without bending over the rail towonder and to ponder, and at this special moment she was putting thefinishing touches on a poem.

  Two maidens by a river strayed Down in the state of Maine. The one was called Rebecca, The other Emma Jane. "I would my life were like the stream," Said her named Emma Jane, "So quiet and so very smooth, So free from every pain."

  "I'd rather be a little drop In the great rushing fall! I would not choose the glassy lake, 'T would not suit me at all!" (It was the darker maiden spoke The words I just have stated, The maidens twain were simply friends And not at all related.)

  But O! alas I we may not have The things we hope to gain; The quiet life may come to me, The rush to Emma Jane!

  "I don't like 'the rush to Emma Jane,' and I can't think of anythingelse. Oh! what a smell of paint! Oh! it is ON me! Oh! it's all over mybest dress! Oh I what WILL aunt Miranda say!"

  With tears of self-reproach streaming from her eyes, Rebecca flew upthe hill, sure of sympathy, and hoping against hope for help of somesort.

  Mrs. Cobb took in the situation at a glance, and professed herself ableto remove almost any stain from almost any fabric; and in this she wascorroborated by uncle Jerry, who vowed that mother could git anythingout. Sometimes she took the cloth right along with the spot, but shehad a sure hand, mother had!

  The damaged garment was removed and partially immersed in turpentine,while Rebecca graced the festal board clad in a blue calico wrapper ofMrs. Cobb's.

  "Don't let it take your appetite away," crooned Mrs. Cobb. "I've gotcream biscuit and honey for you. If the turpentine don't work, I'll tryFrench chalk, magneshy, and warm suds. If they fail, father shall runover to Strout's and borry some of the stuff Marthy got in Milltown totake the currant pie out of her weddin' dress."

  "I ain't got to understandin' this paintin' accident yet," said uncleJerry jocosely, as he handed Rebecca the honey. "Bein' as how there's'Fresh Paint' signs hung all over the breedge, so 't a blind asylumcouldn't miss 'em, I can't hardly account for your gettin' int' thepesky stuff."

  "I didn't notice the signs," Rebecca said dolefully. "I suppose I waslooking at the falls."

  "The falls has been there sence the beginnin' o' time, an' I cal'latethey'll be there till the end on 't; so you needn't 'a' been in sech abrash to git a sight of 'em. Children comes turrible high, mother, butI s'pose we must have 'em!" he said, winking at Mrs. Cobb.

  When supper was cleared away Rebecca insisted on washing and wiping thedishes, while Mrs. Cobb worked on the dress with an energy that plainlyshowed the gravity of the task. Rebecca kept leaving her post at thesink to bend anxiously over the basin and watch her progress, whileuncle Jerry offered advice from time to time.

  "You must 'a' laid all over the breedge, deary," said Mrs. Cobb; "forthe paint 's not only on your elbows and yoke and waist, but it aboutcovers your front breadth."

  As the garment began to look a little better Rebecca's spirits took anupward turn, and at length she left it to dry in the fresh air, andwent into the sitting-room.

  "Have you a piece of paper, please?" asked Rebecca. "I'll copy out thepoetry I was making while I was lying in the paint."

  Mrs. Cobb sat by her mending basket, and uncle Jerry took down agingham bag of strings and occupied himself in taking the snarls out ofthem,--a favorite evening amusement with him.

  Rebecca soon had the lines copied in her round school-girl hand, makingsuch improvements as occurred to her on sober second thought.

  THE TWO WISHES BY REBECCA RANDALL

  Two maidens by a river strayed, 'T was in the state of Maine. Rebecca was the darker one, The fairer, Emma Jane. The fairer maiden said, "I would My life were as the stream; So peaceful, and so smooth and still, So pleasant and serene."

  "I'd rather be a little drop In the great rushing fall; I'd never choose the quiet lake; 'T would not please me at all." (It was the darker maiden spoke The words we just have stated; The maidens twain were simply friends, Not sisters, or related.)

  But O! alas! we may not have The things we hope to gain. The quiet life may come to me, The rush to Emma Jane!

  She read it aloud, and the Cobbs thought it not only surpassinglybeautiful, but a marvelous production.

  "I guess if that writer that lived on Congress Street in Portland could'a' heard your poetry he'd 'a' been astonished," said Mrs. Cobb. "Ifyou ask me, I say this piece is as good as that one o' his, 'Tell menot in mournful numbers;' and consid'able clearer."

  "I never could fairly make out what 'mournful numbers' was," remarkedMr. Cobb critically.

  "Then I guess you never studied fractions!" flashed Rebecca. "See here,uncle Jerry and aunt Sarah, would you write another verse, especiallyfor a last one, as they usually do--one with 'thoughts' in it--to makea better ending?"

  "If you can grind 'em out jest by turnin' the crank, why I should saythe more the merrier; but I don't hardly see how you could have abetter endin'," observed Mr. Cobb.

  "It is horrid!" grumbled Rebecca. "I ought not to have put that 'me'in. I'm writing the poetry. Nobody ought to know it IS me standing bythe river; it ought to be 'Rebecca,' or 'the darker maiden;' and 'therush to Emma Jane' is simply dreadful. Sometimes I think I never willtry poetry, it's so hard to make it come right; and other times it justsays itself. I wonder if this would be better?

  But O! alas! we may not gain The good for which we pray The quiet life may come to one Who likes it rather gay,

  I don't know whether that is worse or not. Now for a new last verse!"

  In a few minutes the poetess looked up, flushed and triumphant. "It wasas easy as nothing. Just hear!" And she read slowly, with her pretty,pathetic voice:--

  Then if our lot be bright or sad, Be full of smiles, or tears, The thought that God has planned it so Should help us bear the years.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cobb exchanged dumb glances of admiration; indeed uncleJerry was obliged to turn his face to the window and wipe his eyesfurtively with the string-bag.

  "How in the world did you do it?" Mrs. Cobb exclaimed.

  "Oh, it's easy," answered Rebecca; "the hymns at meeting are all likethat. You see there's a school newspaper printed at Wareham Academyonce a month. Dick Carter says the editor is always a boy, of course;but he allows girls to try and write for it, and then chooses the best.Dick thinks I can be in it."

  "IN it!" exclaimed uncle Jerry. "I shouldn't be a bit surpr
ised if youhad to write the whole paper; an' as for any boy editor, you could lickhim writin', I bate ye, with one hand tied behind ye."

  "Can we have a copy of the poetry to keep in the family Bible?"inquired Mrs. Cobb respectfully.

  "Oh! would you like it?" asked Rebecca. "Yes indeed! I'll do a clean,nice one with violet ink and a fine pen. But I must go and look at mypoor dress."

  The old couple followed Rebecca into the kitchen. The frock was quitedry, and in truth it had been helped a little by aunt Sarah'sministrations; but the colors had run in the rubbing, the pattern wasblurred, and there were muddy streaks here and there. As a last resort,it was carefully smoothed with a warm iron, and Rebecca was urged toattire herself, that they might see if the spots showed as much when itwas on.

  They did, most uncompromisingly, and to the dullest eye. Rebecca gaveone searching look, and then said, as she took her hat from a nail inthe entry, "I think I'll be going. Good-night! If I've got to have ascolding, I want it quick, and get it over."

  "Poor little onlucky misfortunate thing!" sighed uncle Jerry, as hiseyes followed her down the hill. "I wish she could pay some attentionto the ground under her feet; but I vow, if she was ourn I'd let herslop paint all over the house before I could scold her. Here's herpoetry she's left behind. Read it out ag'in, mother. Land!" hecontinued, chuckling, as he lighted his cob pipe; "I can just see thelast flap o' that boy-editor's shirt tail as he legs it for the woods,while Rebecky settles down in his revolvin' cheer! I'm puzzled as towhat kind of a job editin' is, exactly; but she'll find out, Rebeckywill. An' she'll just edit for all she's worth!

  "'The thought that God has planned it so Should help us bear the years.'

  Land, mother! that takes right holt, kind o' like the gospel. How doyou suppose she thought that out?"

  "She couldn't have thought it out at her age," said Mrs. Cobb; "shemust have just guessed it was that way. We know some things withoutbein' told, Jeremiah."

  Rebecca took her scolding (which she richly deserved) like a soldier.There was considerable of it, and Miss Miranda remarked, among otherthings, that so absent-minded a child was sure to grow up into adriveling idiot. She was bidden to stay away from Alice Robinson'sbirthday party, and doomed to wear her dress, stained and streaked asit was, until it was worn out. Aunt Jane six months later mitigatedthis martyrdom by making her a ruffled dimity pinafore, artfully shapedto conceal all the spots. She was blessedly ready with these mediationsbetween the poor little sinner and the full consequences of her sin.

  When Rebecca had heard her sentence and gone to the north chamber shebegan to think. If there was anything she did not wish to grow into, itwas an idiot of any sort, particularly a driveling one; and sheresolved to punish herself every time she incurred what she consideredto be the righteous displeasure of her virtuous relative. She didn'tmind staying away from Alice Robinson's. She had told Emma Jane itwould be like a picnic in a graveyard, the Robinson house being as nearan approach to a tomb as a house can manage to be. Children werecommonly brought in at the back door, and requested to stand onnewspapers while making their call, so that Alice was begged by herfriends to "receive" in the shed or barn whenever possible. Mrs.Robinson was not only "turrible neat," but "turrible close," so thatthe refreshments were likely to be peppermint lozenges and glasses ofwell water.

  After considering the relative values, as penances, of a piece ofhaircloth worn next the skin, and a pebble in the shoe, she dismissedthem both. The haircloth could not be found, and the pebble wouldattract the notice of the Argus-eyed aunt, besides being a foolish barto the activity of a person who had to do housework and walk a mile anda half to school.

  Her first experimental attempt at martyrdom had not been adistinguished success. She had stayed at home from the Sunday-schoolconcert, a function of which, in ignorance of more alluring ones, shewas extremely fond. As a result of her desertion, two infants whorelied upon her to prompt them (she knew the verses of all the childrenbetter than they did themselves) broke down ignominiously. The class towhich she belonged had to read a difficult chapter of Scripture inrotation, and the various members spent an arduous Sabbath afternooncounting out verses according to their seats in the pew, and practicingthe ones that would inevitably fall to them. They were too ignorant torealize, when they were called upon, that Rebecca's absence would makeeverything come wrong, and the blow descended with crushing force whenthe Jebusites and Amorites, the Girgashites, Hivites, and Perizziteshad to be pronounced by the persons of all others least capable ofgrappling with them.

  Self-punishment, then, to be adequate and proper, must begin, likecharity, at home, and unlike charity should end there too. Rebeccalooked about the room vaguely as she sat by the window. She must giveup something, and truth to tell she possessed little to give, hardlyanything but--yes, that would do, the beloved pink parasol. She couldnot hide it in the attic, for in some moment of weakness she would besure to take it out again. She feared she had not the moral energy tobreak it into bits. Her eyes moved from the parasol to the apple-treesin the side yard, and then fell to the well curb. That would do; shewould fling her dearest possession into the depths of the water. Actionfollowed quickly upon decision, as usual. She slipped down in thedarkness, stole out the front door, approached the place of sacrifice,lifted the cover of the well, gave one unresigned shudder, and flungthe parasol downward with all her force. At the crucial instant ofrenunciation she was greatly helped by the reflection that she closelyresembled the heathen mothers who cast their babes to the crocodiles inthe Ganges.

  She slept well and arose refreshed, as a consecrated spirit alwaysshould and sometimes does. But there was great difficulty in drawingwater after breakfast. Rebecca, chastened and uplifted, had gone toschool. Abijah Flagg was summoned, lifted the well cover, explored,found the inciting cause of trouble, and with the help of Yankee witsucceeded in removing it. The fact was that the ivory hook of theparasol had caught in the chain gear, and when the first attempt atdrawing water was made, the little offering of a contrite heart wasjerked up, bent, its strong ribs jammed into the well side, andentangled with a twig root. It is needless to say that nosleight-of-hand performer, however expert, unless aided by the powersof darkness, could have accomplished this feat; but a luckless child inthe pursuit of virtue had done it with a turn of the wrist.

  We will draw a veil over the scene that occurred after Rebecca's returnfrom school. You who read may be well advanced in years, you may begifted in rhetoric, ingenious in argument; but even you might quail atthe thought of explaining the tortuous mental processes that led youinto throwing your beloved pink parasol into Miranda Sawyer's well.Perhaps you feel equal to discussing the efficacy of spiritualself-chastisement with a person who closes her lips into a thin lineand looks at you out of blank, uncomprehending eyes! Common sense,right, and logic were all arrayed on Miranda's side. When poor Rebecca,driven to the wall, had to avow the reasons lying behind the sacrificeof the sunshade, her aunt said, "Now see here, Rebecca, you're too bigto be whipped, and I shall never whip you; but when you think you ain'tpunished enough, just tell me, and I'll make out to invent a littlesomething more. I ain't so smart as some folks, but I can do that much;and whatever it is, it'll be something that won't punish the wholefamily, and make 'em drink ivory dust, wood chips, and pink silk ragswith their water."