Painted Windows by Elia W Peattie

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Painted Windows

by Elia W. Peattie

September, 1998 [Etext #1875]

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This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE

PAINTED WINDOWS

BY

ELIA W. PEATTIE

Will you come with me into the chamber of memoryand lift your eyes to the painted windows where the figures

and scenes of childhood appear? Perhaps by looking withkindly eyes at those from out my past, long wished-forvisions of your own youth will appear to heal the woundsfrom which you suffer, and to quiet your stormy andrestless heart.

CONTENTS



I NIGHT

II SOLITUDE

III FRIENDSHIP

IV FAME

V REMORSE

VI TRAVEL

PAINTED WINDOWS

I

NIGHT

YOUNG people believe very littlethat they hear about the compen-sations of growing old, and of livingover again in memory the events of thepast. Yet there really are these com-pensations and pleasures, and althoughthey are not so vivid and breathless asthe pleasures of youth, they have some-thing delicate and fine about them thatmust be experienced to be appreciated.

Few of us would exchange our mem-

ories for those of others. They havebecome a part of our personality, andwe could not part with them withoutlosing something of ourselves. Neitherwould we part with our own particularchildhood, which, however difficult itmay have been at times, seems to eachof us more significant than the child-hood of any one else. I can run overin my mind certain incidents of mychildhood as if they were chapters in amuch-loved book, and when I am wake-ful at night, or bored by a long journey,

or waiting for some one in the railway-station, I take them out and go overthem again.

Nor is my book of memories withoutits illustrations. I can see little vil-lages, and a great city, and forests andplanted fields, and familiar faces; andall have this advantage: they are notfixed and without motion, like the pic-tures in the ordinary book. People



are walking up the streets of the vil-lage, the trees are tossing, the tallwheat and corn in the fields salute me.I can smell the odour of the gatheredhay, and the faces in my dream-booksmile at me.

Of all of these memories I like best

the one in the pine forest.

I was at that age when children thinkof their parents as being all-powerful.I could hardly have imagined any cir-cumstances, however adverse, that myfather could not have met with hisstrength and wisdom and skill. All chil-dren have such a period of hero-wor-ship, I suppose, when their fatherstands out from the rest of the worldas the best and most powerful manliving. So, feeling as I did, I was made

happier than I can say when my fatherdecided, because I was looking pale andhad a poor appetite, to take me out ofschool for a while, and carry me withhim on a driving trip. We lived inMichigan, where there were, in the daysof which I am writing, not many rail-roads; and when my father, who wasattorney for a number of wholesale mer-cantile firms in Detroit, used to goabout the country collecting money due,adjusting claims, and so on, he had nochoice but to drive.

And over what roads! Now it wasa strip of corduroy, now a piece of well-graded elevation with clay subsoil andgravel surface, now a neglected stretchfull of dangerous holes; and worst ofall, running through the great forests,long pieces of road from which thestumps had been only partly extracted,and where the sunlight barely pene-trated. Here the soaked earth becamelittle less than a quagmire.

But father was too well used to hardjourneys to fear them, and I felt that,in going with him, I was safe from allpossible harm. The journey had all theallurement of an adventure, for wewould not know from day to day wherewe should eat our meals or sleep atnight. So, to provide against trouble,we carried father's old red-and-blue-checked army blankets, a bag of feedfor Sheridan, the horse, plenty of bread,



bacon, jam, coffee and prepared cream;and we hung pails of pure water andbuttermilk from the rear of our buggy.

We had been out two weeks withoutfailing once to eat at a proper table orto sleep in a comfortable bed. Some-times we put up at the stark-looking ho-

tels that loomed, raw and uninviting,in the larger towns; sometimes we hadthe pleasure of being welcomed at alittle inn, where the host showed us apersonal hospitality; but oftener wewere forced to make ourselves "payingguests" at some house. We cared noth-ing whether we slept in the spare roomsof a fine frame "residence" or creptinto bed beneath the eaves of the atticin a log cabin. I had begun to feel thatour journey would be almost too tameand comfortable, when one night some-

thing really happened.

Father lost his bearings. He washoping to reach the town of Gratiot bynightfall, and he attempted to make ashort cut. To do this he turned intoa road that wound through a magnifi-cent forest, at first of oak and butter-nut, ironwood and beech, then ofdensely growing pines. When we en-tered the wood it was twilight, but nosooner were we well within the shadowof these sombre trees than we were

plunged in darkness, and within half anhour this darkness deepened, so thatwe could see nothing -- not even thehorse.

"The sun doesn't get in here theyear round," said father, trying hisbest to guide the horse through themire. So deep was the mud that itseemed as if it literally sucked at thelegs of the horse and the wheels of thebuggy, and I began to wonder if weshould really be swallowed, and to fear

that we had met with a difficulty thateven my father could not overcome. Ican hardly make plain what a tragicthought that was! The horse began togive out sighs and groans, and in theintervals of his struggles to get on, Icould feel him trembling. There wasa note of anxiety in father's voice ashe called out, with all the authority andcheer he could command, to poor Sheri-dan. The wind was rising, and the long



sobs of the pines made cold shivers runup my spine. My teeth chattered,partly from cold, but more from fright.

"What are we going to do?" I asked,my voice quivering with tears.

"Well, we aren't going to cry, what-

ever else we do!" answered father,rather sharply. He snatched thelighted lantern from its place on thedashboard and leaped out into the road.I could hear him floundering round inthat terrible mire and soothing thehorse. The next thing I realised wasthat the horse was unhitched, that fa-ther had -- for the first time during ourjourney -- laid the lash across Sheri-dan's back, and that, with a leap of in-dignation, the horse had reached thefirm ground of the roadside. Father

called out to him to stand still, and amoment later I found myself beingswung from the buggy into father'sarms. He staggered along, plungingand almost falling, and presently I, too,stood beneath the giant pines.

"One journey more," said father,"for our supper, and then we'll bivouacright here."

Now that I was away from the buggythat was so familiar to me, and that

seemed like a little movable piece ofhome, I felt, as I had not felt before,the vastness of the solitude. Above mein the rising wind tossed the tops of thesinging trees; about me stretched thesoft blackness; and beneath the dense,interlaced branches it was almost ascalm and still as in a room. I could seethat the clouds were breaking and thestars beginning to come out, and thatcomforted me a little.

Father was keeping up a stream of

cheerful talk.

"Now, sir," he was saying to Sheri-dan, "stand still while I get this har-ness off you. I'll tie you and blanketyou, and you can lie or stand as youplease. Here's your nose-bag, withsome good supper in it, and if you don'thave drink, it's not my fault. Anyway,it isn't so long since you got a good nipat the creek."



I was watching by the faint light ofthe lantern, and noticing how unnat-ural father and Sheridan looked. Theyseemed to be blocked out in a rude kindof way, like some wooden toys I had athome.

"Here we are," said father, "likeRobinson Crusoes. It was hard luckfor Robinson, not having his little girlalong. He'd have had her to pick upsticks and twigs to make a fire, and thatwould have been a great help to him."

Father began breaking fallenbranches over his knee, and I gropedround and filled my arms again andagain with little fagots. So after a fewminutes we had a fine fire crackling ina place where it could not catch the

branches of the trees. Father hadscraped the needles of the pines to-gether in such a way that a bare rim ofearth was left all around the fire, so thatit could not spread along the ground;and presently the coffee-pot was overthe fire and bacon was sizzling in thefrying-pan. The good, hearty odourscame out to mingle with the deliciousscent of the pines, and I, setting outour dishes, began to feel a happinessdifferent from anything I had everknown.

Pioneers and wanderers and soldiershave joys of their own -- joys of whichI had heard often enough, for there hadbeen more stories told than read in ourhouse. But now for the first time Iknew what my grandmother and myuncles had meant when they told meabout the way they had come into thewilderness, and about the great happi-ness and freedom of those first days. I,too, felt this freedom, and it seemed tome as if I never again wanted walls to

close in on me. All my fear was gone,and I felt wild and glad. I could notbelieve that I was only a little girl. Ifelt taller even than my father.

Father's mood was like mine in away. He had memories to add to hisemotion, but then, on the other hand,he lacked the sense of discovery I had,for he had known often such feelingsas were coming to me for the first time.



When he was a young man he had beena colporteur for the American Bible So-ciety among the Lake Superior Indians,and in that way had earned part of themoney for his course at the Universityof Michigan; afterward he had gonewith other gold-seekers to Pike's Peak,and had crossed the plains with oxen,

in the company of many other adven-turers; then, when President Lincolncalled for troops, he had returned toenlist with the Michigan men, and hadserved more than three years with Mc-Clellan and Grant.

So, naturally, there was nothing hedid not know about making himselfcomfortable in the open. He knew allthe sorrow and all the joy of the home-less man, and now, as he cooked, he be-gan to sing the old songs -- "Marching

Through Georgia," and "Bury Me Noton the Lone Prairie," and "In thePrison Cell I Sit." He had been in aSouthern prison after the Battle of theWilderness, and so he knew how to singthat song with particular feeling.

I had heard war stories all my life,though usually father told such tales ina half-joking way, as if to make light ofeverything he had gone through. Butnow, as we ate there under the tossingpines, and the wild chorus in the tree-

tops swelled like a rising sea, the spiritof the old days came over him. He wasa good "stump speaker," and he knewhow to make a story come to life, andnever did all his simple natural giftsshow themselves better than on thisnight, when he dwelt on his old cam-paigns.

For the first time I was to look intothe heart of a kindly natured man,forced by terrible necessity to gothrough the dread experience of war.

I gained an idea of the unspeakablehomesickness of the man who leaveshis family to an unimagined fate, andsacrifices years in the service of hiscountry. I saw that the mere foregoingof roof and bed is an indescribable dis-tress; I learned something of what thepalpitant anxiety before a battle mustbe, and the quaking fear at the firstrattle of bullets, and the half-mad rushof determination with which men force



valour into their faltering hearts; Iwas made to know something of theblight of war -- the horror of the battle-field, the waste of bounty, the ruin ofhomes.

Then, rising above this, came storiesof devotion, of brotherhood, of service

on the long, desolate marches, of cour-age to the death of those who foughtfor a cause. I began to see whereinlay the highest joy of the soldier, andof how little account he held himself,if the principle for which he foughtcould be preserved. I heard for thefirst time the wonderful words of Lin-coln at Gettysburg, and learned to re-peat a part of them.

I was only eight, it is true, but emo-tion has no age, and I understood then

as well as I ever could, what heroismand devotion and self-forgetfulnessmean. I understood, too, the meaningof the words "our country," and myheart warmed to it, as in the older timesthe hearts of boys and girls warmedto the name of their king. The newknowledge was so beautiful that Ithought then, and I think now, thatnothing could have served as so fit anaccompaniment to it as the shouting ofthose pines. They sang like heroes,and in their swaying gave me fleeting

glimpses of the stars, unbelievablybrilliant in the dusky purple sky, andhalf-obscured now and then by driftingclouds.

By and by we lay down, not far apart,each rolled in an army blanket, frayedwith service. Our feet were to the fire-- for it was so that soldiers lay, my fa-ther said -- and our heads rested onmounds of pine-needles.

Sometimes in the night I felt my fa-

ther's hand resting lightly on my shoul-ders to see that I was covered, but inmy dreams he ceased to be my fatherand became my comrade, and I was adrummer boy, -- I had seen the play,"The Drummer Boy of the Rappahan-nock," -- marching forward, with setteeth, in the face of battle.

Whatever could redeem war andmake it glorious seemed to flood my



soul. All that was highest, all that wasnoble in that dreadful conflict came tome in my sleep -- to me, the child whohad been born when my father was at"the front." I had a strange baptismof the spirit. I discovered sorrow andcourage, singing trees and stars. I wasnever again to think that the fireside

and fireside thoughts made up the wholeof life.

My father lies with other soldiers bythe Pacific; the forest sings no more;the old army blankets have disap-peared; the memories of the terriblewar are fading, -- happily fading, -- butthey all live again, sometimes, in mymemory, and I am once more a child,with thoughts as proud and fierce andbeautiful as Valkyries.

II

SOLITUDE

AMONG the pictures that I seewhen I look back into the past, isthe one where I, a sullen, egotistic per-son nine years old, stood quite alone inthe world. To he sure, there were fa-ther and mother in the house, and therewere the other children, and not one

among them knew I was alone. Theworld certainly would not have re-garded me as friendless or orphaned.There was nothing in my mere appear-ance, as I started away to school in myclean ginghams, with my well-brushedhair, and embroidered school-bag, tolead any one to suppose that I was acastaway. Yet I was -- I had discoveredthis fact, hidden though it might befrom others.

I was no longer loved. Father and

mother loved the other children; but notme. I might come home at night, fairlybursting with important news aboutwhat had happened in class or amongmy friends, and try to relate my littlehistories. But did mother listen? Notat all. She would nod like a mandarinwhile I talked, or go on turning theleaves of her book, or writing her letter.What I said was of no importance toher.



Father was even less interested. Hefrankly told me to keep still, and wenton with the accounts in which he wasso absurdly interested, or examined"papers" -- stupid-looking things doneon legal cap, which he brought homewith him from the office. No one kissed

me when I started away in the morn-ing; no one kissed me when I came homeat night. I went to bed unkissed. Ifelt myself to be a lonely and misunder-stood child -- perhaps even an adoptedone.

Why, I knew a little girl who, whenshe went up to her room at night, foundthe bedclothes turned back, and theshade drawn, and a screen placed so asto keep off drafts. And her motherbrushed her hair twenty minutes by the

clock each night, to make it glossy; andthen she sat by her bed and sang softlytill the girl fell asleep.

I not only had to open my own bed,but the beds for the other children, andalthough I sometimes felt my mother'shand tucking in the bedclothes roundme, she never stooped and kissed me onthe brow and said, "Bless you, mychild." No one, in all my experience,had said, "Bless you, my child." Whenthe girl I have spoken of came into the

room, her mother reached out her armsand said, before everybody, "Herecomes my dear little girl." When Icame into a room, I was usually told todo something for somebody. It was"Please see if the fire needs morewood," or "Let the cat in, please," or"I'd like you to weed the pansy bed be-fore supper-time."

In these circumstances, life hardlyseemed worth living. I decided that Ihad made a mistake in choosing my

family. It did not appreciate me, andit failed to make my young life glad.I knew my young life ought to be glad.And it was not. It was drab, as drabas Toot's old rain-coat.

Toot was "our coloured boy." Thatis the way we described him. Fatherhad brought him home from the war,and had sent him to school, and thenapprenticed him to a miller. Toot did



"chores" for his board and clothes,but was soon to be his own man, and tobe paid money by the miller, and tomarry Tulula Darthula Jones, a nicecoloured girl who lived with the Cut-lers.

The time had been when Toot had

been my self-appointed slave. Almostmy first recollections were of his carry-ing me out to see the train pass, andsaying, "Toot, toot!" in imitation ofthe locomotive; so, although he hadrather a splendid name, I called him"Toot," and the whole town followedmy example. Yes, the time had beenwhen Toot saw me safe to school, andslipped little red apples into my pocket,and took me out while he milked thecow, and told me stories and sang meplantation songs. Now, when he passed,

he only nodded. When I spoke to himabout his not giving me any more ap-ples, he said:

"Ah reckon they're your pa's ap-ples, missy. Why, fo' goodness' sake,don' yo' he'p yo'se'f?"

But I did not want to help myself.I wanted to be helped -- not because Iwas lazy, but because I wanted to beadored. I was really a sort of fairyprincess, -- misplaced, of course, in a

stupid republic, -- and I wanted life con-ducted on a fairy-princess basis. It wasa game I wished to play, but it was oneI could not play alone, and not a soulcould I find who seemed inclined to playit with me.

Well, things went from bad to worse.I decided that if mother no longer lovedme, I would no longer tell her things.So I did not. I got a hundred in spell-ing for twelve days running, and didnot tell her! I broke Edna Grantham's

mother's water-pitcher, and kept thefact a secret. The secret was, indeed,as sharp-edged as the pieces of thebroken pitcher had been; I cried underthe bedclothes, thinking how sorry Mrs.Grantham had been, and that motherreally ought to know. Only what wasthe use? I no longer looked to her tohelp me out of my troubles.

I had no need now to have father and



mother tell me to hurry up and finishmy chatter, for I kept all that hap-pened to myself. I had a new "intimatefriend," and did not so much as men-tion her. I wrote a poem and showedit to my teacher, but not to my unin-terested parents. And when I climbedthe stairs at night to my room, I swelled

with loneliness and anguish and resent-ment, and the hot tears came to my eyesas I heard father and mother laughingand talking together and paying no at-tention to my misery. I could hearToot, who used to be making all sortsof little presents for me, whistling ashe brought in the wood and water, andthen "cleaned up" to go to see hisTulula, with never a thought of me.And I said to myself that the best thingI could do was to grow up and getaway from a place where I was no

longer wanted.

No one noticed my sufferings furtherthan sometimes to say impatiently,"What makes you act so strange,child?" And to that, of course, I an-swered nothing, for what I had to saywould not, I felt, be understood.

One morning in June I left home withmy resentment burning fiercely withinme. I had not cared for the things wehad for breakfast, for I was half-ill

with fretting and with the closeness ofthe day, but my lack of appetite hadbeen passed by with the remark thatany one was likely not to have an ap-petite on such a close day. But I wasso languid, and so averse to taking upthe usual round of things, that I beggedmother to let me stay at home. Sheshook her head decidedly.

"You've been out of school too manydays already this term," she said."Run along now, or you'll he late!"

"Please --" I began, for my headreally was whirling, although, quite asmuch, perhaps, from my perversity asfrom any other cause. Mother turnedon me one of her "lastword" glances.

"Go to school without another word,"she said, quietly.

I knew that quiet tone, and I went.



And now I was sure that all was overbetween my parents and myself. I be-gan to wonder if I need really wait tillI was grown up before leaving home.So miserably absorbed was I in think-ing of this, and in pitying myself witha consuming pity, that everything atschool seemed to pass like the shadow

of a dream. I blundered in whateverI tried to do, was sharply scolded fornot hearing the teacher until she hadspoken my name three times, and washolding on to myself desperately in myeffort to keep back a flood of tears,when I became aware that somethingwas happening.

There suddenly was a perfect silencein the room -- the sort of silence thatmakes the heart beat too fast. Themist swimming before me did not, I per-

ceived, come from my own eyes, butfrom the changing colour of the air, theusual transparency of which was beingtinged with yellow. The sultriness ofthe day was deepening, and seemed tocarry a threat with it.

"Something is going to happen,"thought I, and over the whole roomspread the same conviction. Electriccurrents seemed to snap from one con-sciousness to another. We dropped ourbooks, and turned our eyes toward the

western windows, to look upon achanged world. It was as if we peeredthrough yellow glass. In the sky soft-looking, tawny clouds came tumblingalong like playful cats -- or tigers. Amoment later we saw that they werenot playful, but angry; they stretchedout claws, and snarled as they did so.One claw reached the tall chimneys ofthe schoolhouse, another tapped at thecupola, one was thrust through the wallnear where I sat.

Then it grew black, and there was abellowing all about us, so that the com-mands of the teacher and the screamsof the children barely could be heard.I knew little or nothing. My shoulderwas stinging, something had hit me onthe side of the head, my eyes were fullof dust and mortar, and my feet werecarrying me with the others along thecorridor, down the two flights of widestairs. I do not think we pushed each



other or were reckless. My recollec-tion is only of many shadowy figuresflying on with sure feet out of the build-ing that seemed to be falling in upon us.

Presently we were out on the land-ing before the door, with one moreflight of steps before us, that reached

to the street. Something so strong thatit might not be denied gathered me upin invisible arms, whirled me roundonce or twice and dropped me, not un-gently, in the middle of the road. Andthen, as I struggled to my knees and,wiping the dust from my eyes, lookedup, I saw dozens of others being liftedin the same way, and blown off into theyard or the street. The larger oneswere trying to hold on to the smaller,and the teachers were endeavouring tokeep the children from going out of the

building, but their efforts were of noavail. The children came on, and wereblown about like leaves.

Then I saw what looked like a highyellow wall advancing upon me -- a roar-ing and fearsome mass of driven dust,sticks, debris. It came over me that myown home might be there, in strips andfragments, to beat me down and killme; and with the thought came a swiftlittle vision out of my geography of theArabs in a sand-storm on the desert. I

gathered up my fluttering dress skirt,held it tight about my head, and lay flatupon the ground.

It seemed as if a long time passed,a time in which I knew very little ex-cept that I was fighting for my breathas I never had fought for anything.There were more hurts and bruisesnow, but they did not matter. Just todraw my own breath in my own wayseemed to be the only thing in theworld that was of any account. And

then there was a shaft of flame, an ear-splitting roar, and the rain was uponus in sheets, in streams, in visible riv-ers.

I imagined that it would last a longtime, and wondered in a daze how Icould get home in a rain like that --for I should have to face it. I couldsee that in a few seconds the guttershad begun to race, the road where I



lay was a stream, and then -- then therain ceased. Never was anything soastonishing. The sky came out blue,tattered rags of cloud raced across it,and I had time to conclude that, whip-ped and almost breathless though Iwas, I was still alive.

And then I saw a curious sight. Downthe street in every direction came rush-ing hatless men and women. Here andthere a wild-eyed horse was beinglashed along. All the town was coming.They were in their work clothes, intheir slippers, in their wrappers -- theywere in anything and everything. Someof them sobbed as they ran, some calledaloud names that I knew. They werefathers and mothers looking for theirchildren.

And who was that -- that woman witha white face, with hair falling about hershoulders, where it had fallen as sheran -- that woman whose breath camebetween her teeth strangely and whocalled my name over and over, bleat-ingly, as a mother sheep calls its lamb?At first I did not recognise her, andthen, at last, I knew. And that creaturewith the rolling eyes and the curiousash-coloured face who, mumbling some-thing over and over in his throat, camefor me, and snatched me up and wiped

my face free of mud, and felt of mehere and there with trembling hands --who was he?

And breaking out of the crowd ofmen who had come running from thestreet of stores and offices, was an-other strange being, with a sort of bat-tle light in his eyes, who, seeing me,gathered me to him and bore me awaytoward home. Looking back, I couldsee the woman I knew following, lean-ing on the arm of the boy with the roll-

ing eyes, whose eyes had ceased to roll,and who was quite recognisable now asToot.

A happiness that was almost as ter-rible as sorrow welled up in my heart.I did not weep, or laugh, or talk. AllI had experienced had carried me be-yond mere excitement into exultation.I exulted in life, in love. My conceitand sulkiness died in that storm, as did



many another thing. I was alive. Iwas loved. I said it over and over tomyself silently, in "my heart's deepcore," while mother washed me withtrembling hands in my own dear room,bound up my hurts, braided my hair,and put me, in a fresh night-dress, intomy bed. I do not recall that we talked

to each other, but in every caress ofher hands as she worked I felt the un-spoken assurances of a love such as Ihad not dreamed of.

Father had gone running back to theschool to see if he could be of any as-sistance to his neighbours, and hadtaken Toot with him, but they wereback presently to say that beyond a fewsharp injuries and broken bones, noharm had been done to the children. Itwas considered miraculous that no one

had been killed or seriously injured,and I noticed that father's voice trem-bled as he told of it, and that mothercould not answer, and that Toot sobbedlike a big silly boy.

Then as we talked together, behold,a second storm was upon us -- a sharpblack blast of wind and rain, not ter-rifying, like the other, but with an"I've-come-to-spend-the-day" sort ofaspect.

But no one seemed to mind verymuch. I was carried down to the sit-ting-room. Toot busied himself com-ing and going on this errand and onthat, fastening the doors, closing thewindows, running out to see to the ani-mals, and coming back again. Fatherand mother set the table. They keptclose together; and now and then theylooked over at me, without saying any-thing, but with shining eyes.

The storm died down to a quiet rain.

From the roof of the porch the dropsfell in silver strings, like beads. Thenthe sun came out and turned them intoshining crystal. The birds began tosing again, and when we threw open thewindows delicious odours of fresh earthand flowering shrub greeted us. Motherbegan to sing as she worked. And Isank softly to sleep, thrilled with themarvels of the world -- not of the tem-pest, but of the peace.



When there occurred one of the rareburglaries in the village, when anythingwas missing from a clothes-line, or acalf or pig disappeared, it was gen-erally laid to the Madigans. Unac-counted-for fires were supposed to betheir doing; they were accorded respon-sibility for vicious practical jokes; and

it was generally felt that before wewere through with them they wouldcommit some blood-curdling crime.

When, as sometimes happened, I hadmet one of the Bad Madigans on theroad, or down on the village street, myheart had beaten as if I was face toface with a company of banditti; butI cannot say that this excitement wascaused by aversion alone. The truthwas, the Bad Madigans fascinated me.They stood out from all the others,

proudly and disdainfully like RobinHood and his band, and I could not getover the idea that they said: "Fetchme yonder bow!" to each other; or,"Go slaughter me a ten-tined buck!" Ifelt that they were fortunate in not be-ing held down to hours like the rest ofus. Out of bed at six-thirty, at tableby seven, tidying bedroom at seven-thirty, dusting sitting-room at eight, onway to school at eight-thirty, was notfor "the likes of them!" Only we,slaves of respectability and of an inor-

dinate appetite for order, suffered suchmonotony and drabness to rule. I knewthe Madigan boys could go fishingwhenever they pleased, that the Madi-gan girls picked the blackberries beforeany one else could get out to them, thatevery member of the family could packup and go picnicking for days at atime, and that any stray horse waslikely to be ridden bareback, within aninch of its life, by the younger mem-bers of the family.

Only once however, did I have achance to meet one of these modernVisigoths face to face, and the feelingsaroused by that incident remained thedarling secret of my youth. I dared tellno one, and I longed, yet feared, to havethe experience repeated. But it neverwas! It happened in this way:

On a certain Sunday afternoon inMay, my father and mother and I went



to Emmons' Woods. To reach Em-mons' Woods, you went out the backdoor, past the pump and the currantbushes, then down the path to thechicken-houses, and so on, by way ofthe woodpile, to the south gate. Afterthat, you went west toward the clovermeadows, past the house where the

Crazy Lady lived -- here, if you werealone, you ran -- and then, reaching theverge of the woods, you took yourchoice of climbing a seven-rail fence orof walking a quarter of a mile till youcame to the bars. The latter was muchbetter for the lace on a Sunday petti-coat.

Once in Emmons' Woods, there wasenchantment. An eagle might come --or a blue heron. There had been bearsin Emmons' Woods -- bears with roll-

ing eyes and red mouths from whichtheir tongues lolled. There was oneplace for pinky trillium, and anotherfor gentians; one for tawny adders'tongues, and another for yellow Dutch-man's breeches. In the sap-startingseason, the maples dripped their lus-cious sap into little wooden cups; later,partridges nested in the sun-burnedgrass. There was no lake or river, butthere was a pond, swarming with avivacious population, and on the hard-baked clay of the pond beach the green

beetles aired their splendid changeablesilks and sandpipers hopped ridicu-lously.

It was, curiously enough, easier torun than to walk in Emmons' Woods,and even more natural to dance than torun. One became acquainted withsquirrels, established intimacies withchipmunks, and was on some sort ofcivil relation with blackbirds. And,oh, the tossing green of the young wil-lows, where the lilac distance melted

into the pale blue of the sky! And, oh,the budding of the maples and the fring-ing of the oaks; and, oh, the blossom-ing of the tulip trees and the garner-ing of the chestnuts! And then, thewriggling things in the grass; the pro-cession of ants; the coquetries of therobins; and the Beyond, deepening,deepening into the forest where it wassafe only for the woodsmen to go.



On this particular Sunday one of uswas requested not to squeal and runabout, and to remember that we woreour best shoes and need not mess themunnecessarily. It was hard to be re-minded just when the dance was gettinginto my feet, but I tried to have Sun-day manners, and went along in the still

woods, wondering why the purple col-ours disappeared as we came on andwhat had been distance became near-ness. There was a beautiful, achingvagueness over everything, and it wasnot strange that father, who hadstretched himself on the moss, andmother, who was reading Godey's La-dies' Book, should presently both ofthem be nodding. So, that being a well-established fact -- I established it byhanging over them and staring at theireyelids -- it seemed a good time for me

to let the dance out of my toes. Stillcareful of my fresh linen frock, andremembering about the best shoes, Iwent on, demurely, down the green al-leys of the wood. Now I stepped onpatches of sunshine, now in pools ofshadow. I thought of how naughty Iwas to run away like this, and of whata mistake people made who said I wasa good, quiet, child. I knew that Ilooked sad and prim, but I really hatedmy sadness and primness and good-ness, and longed to let out all the in-

teresting, wild, naughty thoughts therewere in me. I wanted to act as if I werebewitched, and to tear up vines andwind them about me, to shriek to theechoes, and to scold back at the squir-rels. I wanted to take off my clothesand rush into the pond, and swim likea fish, or wriggle like a pollywog. Iwanted to climb trees and drop fromthem; and, most of all -- oh, with whatlonging -- did I wish to lift myself abovethe earth and fly into the bland blueair!

I came to a hollow where there wasa wonderful greenness over everything,and I said to myself that I would bebewitched at last. I would dance andwhirl and call till, perhaps, some kindof a creature as wild and wicked andwonderful as I, would come out of thewoods and join me. So I forgot aboutthe fresh linen frock, and wreathed my-self with wild grape-vine; I cared noth-



ing for my fresh braids and woundtrillium in my hair; and I ceased to re-member my new shoes, and whirledaround and around in the leafy mould,singing and shouting.

I grew madder and madder. I seemednot to be myself at all, but some sort

of a wood creature; and just when thetrees were looking larger than ever theydid before, and the sky higher up, agirl came running down from a sort ofembankment where a tornado had madea path for itself and had hurled somegreat chestnuts and oaks in a tumbledmass. The girl came leaping down thesteep sides of this place, her arms out-spread, her feet bare, her dress no morethan a rag the colour of the tree-trunks.She had on a torn green jacket, whichmade her seem more than ever like

some one who had just stepped out ofa hollow tree, and, to my unspeakablehappiness, she joined me in my dance.

I shall never forget how beautiful shewas, with her wild tangle of dark hair,and her deep blue eyes and ripe lips.Her cheeks were flaming red, and herlimbs strong and brown. She did notmerely shout and sing; she whistled,and made calls like the birds, and cawedlike a crow, and chittered like a squir-rel, and around and around the two of

us danced, crazy as dervishes with thebeauty of the spring and the joy of be-ing free.

By and by we were so tired we hadto stop, and then we sat down pantingand looked at each other. At that welaughed, long and foolishly, but, aftera time, it occurred to us that we hadmany questions to ask.

"How did you get here?" I asked thegirl.

"I was walking my lone," she said,speaking her words as if there was arich thick quality to them, "and Iheard you screeling."

"Won't you get lost, alone likethat?"

"I can't get lost, "she sighed. "I 'dlike to, but I can't."



"Where do you live?"

"Beyant the fair-grounds."

"You're not -- not Norah Madigan?"

She leaned back and clasped her

hands behind her head. Then shesmiled at me teasingly.

"I am that," she said, showing herperfect teeth.

I caught my breath with a sharpgasp. Ought I to turn back to my par-ents? Had I been so naughty that Ihad called the naughtiest girl in thewhole county out to me?

But I could not bring myself to leave

her. She was leaning forward andlooking at me now with mocking eyes.

"Are you afraid?" she demanded.

"Afraid of what?" I asked, knowingquite well what she meant.

"Of me?" she retorted.

At that second an agreeable truthovertook me. I leaned forward, too,and put my hand on hers.

"Why, I like you!" I cried. She be-gan laughing again, but this time therewas no mockery in it. She ran her fin-gers over the embroidery on my linenfrock, she examined the lace on my pet-ticoat, looked at the bows on my shoes,and played delicately with the locketdangling from the slender chain aroundmy neck.

"Do you know -- other girls?" she al-most whispered.

I nodded. "Lots and lots of 'em,"I said. "Don't you?"

She shook her head in wistful denial.

"Us Madigans," she said, "keeps toourselves." She said it so haughtilythat for a moment I was almost per-suaded into thinking that they livedtheir solitary lives from choice. But,



glancing up at her, I saw a blush thatcovered her face, and there were tearsin her eyes.

"Well, anyway," said I quickly, "weknow each other."

"Yes," she cried, "we do that!"

She got up, then, and ran to a greattree from which a stout grape-vine wasswinging, and pulling at it with herstrong arms, she soon had it made intoa practical swing.

"Come!" she called -- "come, let'sswing together!"

She helped me to balance myself onthe rope-like vine, and, placing her feetoutside of mine, showed me how to

"work up" till we were sweeping witha fine momentum through the air. Weshrieked with excitement, and urgedeach other on to more and more franticexertions. We were like two birds, butto birds flying is no novelty. With usit was, which made us happier thanbirds. But I, for my part, was no moredelighted with my swift flights throughthe air than I was with the shining eyesand flashing teeth of the girl oppositeme. I liked her strength, and the wayin which her body bent and swayed.

Once more, she seemed like a wood-child -- a wild, mad, gay creature fromthe tree. I felt as if I had drawn a play-mate from elf-land, and I liked her athousand times better than thoseproper little girls who came to see meof a Saturday afternoon.

Well, there we were, rocking andscreaming, and telling each other thatwe were hawks, and that we were fly-ing high over the world, when the anx-ious and austere voice of my mother

broke upon our ears. We tried to stop,but that was not such an easy matterto do, and as we twisted and writhed,to bring our grape-vine swing to astandstill, there was a slow rending andbreaking which struck terror to oursouls.

"Jump!" commanded Norah --"jump! the vine's breaking!" Weleaped at the same moment, she safely.



My foot caught in a stout tendril, andI fell headlong, scraping my foreheadon the ground and tearing a triangularrent in the pretty, new frock. Mothercame running forward, and the expres-sion on her face was far from beingthe one I liked to see.

"What have you been doing?" shedemanded. "I thought you were get-ting old enough and sensible enough totake care of yourself!"

I must have been a depressing sight,viewed with the eyes of a carefulmother. Blood and mould mingled onmy face, my dress needed a laundressas badly as a dress could, and my shoeswere scratched and muddy.

"And who is this girl?" asked

mother. I had become conscious thatNorah was at my feet, wiping off myshoes with her queer little brown frock.

"It's a new friend of mine," gaspedI, beginning to see that I must lose her,and hoping the lump in my throatwouldn't get any bigger than it was.

"What is her name?" asked mother.I had no time to answer. The girl didthat.

"I'm Norah Madigan," she said.Her tone was respectful, and, maybe,sad. At any rate, it had a curioussound.

"Norah Mad-i-gan?" asked motherdoubtfully, stringing out the word.

"Yessum," said a low voice. "Good-bye, mum."

"Oh, Norah!" cried I, a strange painstabbing my heart. "Come to see

me --"

But my mother's voice broke in, firmand kind.

"Good-bye, Norah," said she.

I saw Norah turn and run up amongthe trees, almost as swiftly and silentlyas a hare. Once, she turned to lookback. I was watching, and caught the



chance to wave my hand to her.

"Come!" commanded mother, andwe went back to where father was sit-ting.

"What do you think!" said mother."I found the child playing with one of

the Bad Madigans. Isn't she a sight!"

The lump in my throat swelled to aterrible size; something buzzed in myears, and I heard some one weeping.For a second or two I didn't realise thatit was myself.

"Well, never mind, dear," saidmother's voice soothingly. "The frockwill wash, and the tear will mend, andthe shoes will black. Yes, and thescratches will heal."

"It isn't that," I sobbed. "Oh, oh,it isn't that!"

"What is it, then, for goodnesssake?" asked mother.

But I would not tell. I could nottell. How could I say that the daughterof the Bad Madigans was the first realand satisfying playmate I had everhad?

IV

FAME

AS I remember the boys and girlswho grew up with me, I think ofthem as artists, or actors, or travellers,or rich merchants. Each of us, by thetime we were half through grammarschool, had selected a career. So faras I recollect, this career had very lit-

tle to do with our abilities. We merelychose something that suited us. Ourenergy and our vanity crystallised intoparticular shapes. There was a sort ofreligion abroad in the West at that timethat a person could do almost anythinghe set out to do. The older people, aswell as the children, had an idea thatthe world was theirs -- they all wereMonte Cristos in that respect.



As for me, I had decided to be anorator.

At the time of making this decision,I was nine years of age, decidedly thinand long drawn out, with two brownbraids down my back, and a terrificshyness which I occasionally overcame

with such a magnificent splurge thatthose who were not acquainted with mypeculiarities probably thought me ashamefully assertive child.

I based my oratorical aspirationsupon my having taken the prize a num-ber of times in Sunday-school for learn-ing the most New Testament verses,and upon the fact that I always couldmake myself heard to the farthest cor-ner of the room. I also felt that I hada great message to deliver to the world

when I got around it, though in this, Iwas in no way different from severalof my friends. I had noticed a numberof things in the world that were notquite right, and which I thought neededattention, and I believed that if I werequite good and studied elocution, in alittle while I should be able to set mypart of the world right, and perhapseven extend my influence to adjoiningdistricts.

Meantime I practised terrible vocal

exercises, chiefly consisting of a rau-cous "caw" something like a crow'sfavourite remark, and advocated by myteacher in elocution for no reason thatI can now remember; and I stood be-fore the glass for hours at a time mak-ing grimaces so as to acquire the "ac-tor's face," till my frightened little sis-ters implored me to turn back into my-self again.

It was a great day for me when Iwas asked to participate in the Harvest

Home Festival at our church onThanksgiving Day. I looked upon it asthe beginning of my career, and boughtcrimping papers so that my hair couldbe properly fluted. Of course, I wanteda new dress for the occasion, and Ispent several days in planning the kindof a one I thought best suited to such amemorable event. I even picked out theparticular lace pattern I wanted for theruffles. This was before I submitted the



proposition to Mother, however. WhenI told her about it she said she couldsee no use in getting a new dress andgoing to all the trouble of making itwhen my white one with the greenharps was perfectly good.

This was such an unusual dress and

had gone through so many vicissitudes,that I really was devotedly attached toit. It had, in the beginning, belongedto my Aunt Bess, and in the days ofits first glory had been a sheer Irishlinen lawn, with tiny green harps on itat agreeable intervals. But in thecourse of time, it had to be sent to thewash-tub, and then, behold, all the lit-tle lovely harps followed the exampleof the harp that "once through Tara'shall the soul of music shed," and dis-appeared! Only vague, dirty, yellow

reminders of their beauty remained,not to decorate, but to disfigure thefine fabric.

Aunt Bess, naturally enough, felt ir-ritated, and she gave the goods tomother, saying that she might be ableto boil the yellow stains out of it andmake me a dress. I had gone aboutmany a time, like love amid the ruins,in the fragments of Aunt Bess's splen-dour, and I was not happy in thethought of dangling these dimmed re-

minders of Ireland's past around withme. But mother said she thought I'dhave a really truly white Sunday bestdress out of it by the time she wasthrough with it. So she prepared astrong solution of sodium and things,and boiled the breadths, and every littlegreen harp came dancing back as ifawaiting the hand of a new Dublin poet.The green of them was even morecharming than it had been at first, andI, as happy as if I had acquired thegolden harp for which I then vaguely

longed, went to Sunday-school all thatsummer in this miraculous dress ofnow-you-see-them-and-now-you-don't,and became so used to being asked if Iwere Irish that my heart exulted whenI found that I might -- fractionally --claim to be, and that one of the Fenianmartyrs had been an ancestor. For ayear, even, after that discovery of theFenian martyr, ancestors were a fa-vorite study of mine.



Well, though the dress became some-thing more than familiar to the eyesof my associates, I was so attached toit that I felt no objection to wearingit on the great occasion; and, that be-ing settled, all that remained was toselect the piece which was to reveal my

talents to a hitherto unappreciative --or, perhaps I should say, unsuspecting-- group of friends and relatives. Itseemed to me that I knew better thanmy teacher (who had agreed to selectthe pieces for her pupils) possiblycould what sort of a thing best repre-sented my talents, and so, after somethought, I selected "Antony and Cleo-patra," and as I lagged along the too-familiar road to school, avoiding thecompanionship of my acquaintances, Irepeated:

I am dying, Egypt, dying!Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,

And the dark Plutonian shadowsGather on the evening blast.

Sometimes I grew so impassioned, soheedless of all save my mimic sorrowand the swing of the purple lines, thatI could not bring myself to modify myvoice, and the passers-by heard my

shrill tones vibrating with:

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!Glorious sorceress of the Nile!

Light the path to Stygian horrorsWith the splendour of thy smile.

I wiped dishes to the rhythm of suchphrases as "scarred and veteran le-gions," and laced my shoes to the musicof "Though no glittering guards sur-

round me."

Confident that no one could fail tosee the beauty of these lines, or the pro-priety of the identification of myselfwith Antony, I called upon my Sunday-school teacher, Miss Goss, to report. Inever had thought of Miss Goss as ablithe spirit. She was associated in mymind with numerous solemn occasions,and I was surprised to find that on this



day she unexpectedly developed a traitof breaking into nervous laughter. Ihad got as far as "Should the base ple-beian rabble --" when Miss Goss brokedown in what I could not but regard asa fit of giggles, and I ceased abruptly.

She pulled herself together after a

moment or two, and said if I would fol-low her to the library she thought shecould find something -- here she hesi-tated, to conclude with, "more withinthe understanding of the other chil-dren." I saw that she thought my feel-ings were hurt, and as I passed a mir-ror I feared she had some reason tothink so. My face was uncommonlyflushed, and a look of indignation hadcrept, somehow, even into my braids,which, having been plaited too tightly,stuck out in crooks and kinks from the

side of my head. Incidentally, I washorrified to notice how thin I was --thin, even for a dying Antony -- and myfrock was so outgrown that it hardlycovered my knees. "Ridiculous!" Isaid under my breath, as I confrontedthis miserable figure -- so shamefully in-significant for the vicarious emotionswhich it had been housing. "Ridicu-lous!"

I hated Miss Goss, and must haveshown it in my stony stare, for she put

her arm around me and said it was apity I had been to all the trouble tolearn a poem which was -- well, a trifletoo -- too old -- but that she hoped to findsomething equally "pretty" for me tospeak. At the use of that adjective inconnection with William Lytle's lines, Iwrenched away from her grasp andstood in what I was pleased to think ahaughty calm, awaiting her directions.

She took from the shelves a little vol-ume of Whittier, bound in calf, hand-

ling it as tenderly as if it were a price-less possession. Some pressed violetsdropped out as she opened it, and shereplaced them with devotional fingers.After some time she decided upon alyric lament entitled "Eva." I wasasked to run over the verses, and foundthem remarkably easy to learn; fatallyimpossible to forget. I presently aroseand with an impish betrayal of the pov-erty of rhyme and the plethora of sen-



timent, repeated the thing relentlessly.

O for faith like thine, sweet Eva,

Lighting all the solemn reevah [river],

And the blessings of the poor,

Wafting to the heavenly shoor [shore].

"I do think," said Miss Goss gently,"that if you tried, my child, you mightmanage the rhymes just a little better."

"But if you're born in Michigan," Iprotested, "how can you possibly make'Eva' rhyme with 'never' and 'be-liever'?"

"Perhaps it is a little hard," MissGoss agreed, and still clinging to herWhittier, she exhumed "The Pump-kin," which she thought precisely fittedfor our Harvest Home festival. Thiswas quite another thing from "Eva,"and I saw that only hours of studywould fix it in my mind. I went to myhome, therefore, with "The Pumpkin"delicately transcribed in Miss Goss'srunning hand, and I tried to get somecomfort from the foreign allusions glit-

tering through Whittier's kindly verse.As the days went by I came to have acertain fondness for those homely lines:

O -- fruit loved of boyhood! -- the old days re-

calling,When wood grapes were purpling and brown

nuts were falling!When wild, ugly faces we carved in the skin,Glaring out through the dark with a candle

within!When we laughed round the corn-heap, with

hearts all in tune,Our chair a broad pumpkin -- our lantern the

moon,Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like

steamIn a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her



team!

On all sides this poem was consideredvery fitting, and I went to the festivalwith that comfortable feeling one haswhen one is moving with the majority

and is wearing one's best clothes.

I sat rigid with expectancy while myschoolmates spoke their "pieces" andsang their songs. With frozen facesthey faced each other in dialogues, losttheir quavering voices, and stumbleddown the stairs in their anguish ofspirit. I pitied them, and thought howlucky it was that my memory neverfailed me, and that my voice carried sowell that I could arouse even old ElderWaite from his slumbers.

Then my turn came. My crimpswere beautiful; the green harps dancedon my freshly-ironed frock, and I hadon my new chain and locket. I reliedupon a sort of mechanism in me to say:O greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run.

In this seemly manner Whittier's odeto the pumpkin began. I meant to goon to verses which I knew would de-light my audience -- to references to the

"crook-necks" ripening under the Sep-tember sun; and to Thanksgiving gath-erings at which all smiled at the reun-ion of friends and the bounty of the board.

What moistens the lip and brightens the eye!What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin pie!

I was sure these lines would meetwith approval, and having "come downto the popular taste," I was prepared

to do my best to please.

After a few seconds, when the goldenpumpkins that lined the stage hadceased to dance before my eyes, Ithought I ought to begin to "get holdof my audience." Of course, my mem-ory would be giving me the right words,and my facile tongue running along re-liably, but I wished to demonstrate that"ability" which was to bring me fa-



vour and fame. I listened to my ownwords and was shivered into silence. Iwas talking about "dark Plutonianshadows"; I was begging "Egypt" tolet her arms enfold me -- I was, indeed,in the very thick of the forbidden poem.I could hear my thin, aspiring voicereaching out over that paralysed audi-

ence with:

Though my scarred and veteran legionsBear their eagles high no more;

And my wrecked and scattered galleysStrew dark Actium's fatal shore.

My tongue seemed frozen, or somekind of a ratchet at the base of it hadgot out of order. For a moment -- amoment can be the little sister of eter-

nity -- I could say nothing. Then Ifound myself in the clutches of the in-stinct for self-preservation. I felt it inme to stop the giggles of the girls onthe front seat; to take the patronisingsmiles out of the tolerant eyes of thegrown people. Maybe my voice lostsomething of its piping insistence andwas touched with genuine feeling; per-haps some faint, faint spark of the di-vine fire which I longed to fan into aflame did flicker in me for that one time.I had the indescribable happiness of

seeing the smiles die on the faces of myelders, and of hearing the giggles of myfriends cease.

I went to my seat amid what I waspleased to consider "thunders of ap-plause," and by way of acknowledg-ment, I spoke, with chastened propri-ety, Whittier's ode to the pumpkin.

I cannot remember whether or not Iwas scolded. I'm afraid, afterward,some people still laughed. As for me,

oddly enough, my oratorical aspira-tions died. I decided there were othercareers better fitted to one of myphysique. So I had to go to the troubleof finding another career; but just whatit was I have forgotten.

V



REMORSE

IT is extraordinary, when you cometo think of it, how very few days,out of all the thousands that havepassed, lift their heads from the greyplain of the forgotten -- like bowlders ina level stretch of country. It is not

alone the unimportant ones that are for-gotten; but, according to one's elders,many important ones have left no markin the memory. It seems to me, as Ithink it over, that it was the days thataffected the emotions that dwell withme, and I suppose all of us must be thesame in this respect.

Among those which I am never toforget is the day when Aunt Cordeliacame to visit us -- my mother's aunt,she was -- and when I discovered evil,

and tried to understand what the useof it was.

Great-aunt Cordelia was, as I oftenand often had been told, not only muchtravelled, rich and handsome, but goodalso. She was, indeed, an importantpersonage in her own city, and itseemed to be regarded as an evidenceof unusual family fealty that sheshould go about, now and then, brieflyvisiting all of her kinfolk to see howthey fared in the world. I ought to

have looked forward to meeting her, butthis, for some perverse reason, I didnot do. I wished I might run awayand hide somewhere till her visit wasover. It annoyed me to have to cleanup the play-room on her account, andto help polish the silver, and to combout the fringe of the tea napkins. Iliked to help in these tasks ordinarily,but to do it for the purpose of comingup to a visiting -- and probably, a con-descending -- goddess, somehow mademe cross.

Among other hardships, I had to takecare of my little sister Julie all day. Iloved Julie. She had soft golden-brown curls fuzzing around on herhead, and mischievous brown eyes --warm, extra-human eyes. There was aplace in the back of her neck, just belowthe point of her curls, which it was aprivilege to kiss; and though she couldnot yet talk, she had a throaty, beauti-



ful little exclamation, which cannot bespelled any more than a bird note, withwhich she greeted all the things sheliked -- a flower, or a toy, or mother.But loving Julie as she sat in mother'slap, and having to care for her all ofa shining Saturday, were two quite dif-ferent things. As the hours wore along

I became bored with looking at thegolden curls of my baby sister; I hadno inclination to kiss the "honey-spot"in the back of her neck; and when shefretted from heat and teething and myperfunctory care, I grew angry.

I knew mother was busy making cus-tards and cakes for Aunt Cordelia, andI longed to be in watching these pleas-ing operations. I thought -- but whatdoes it matter what I thought? I wasbad! I was so bad that I was glad I

was bad. Perhaps it was nerves. May-be I really had taken care of the babytoo long. But however that may be, forthe first time in my life I enjoyed theconsciousness of having a bad disposi-tion -- or perhaps I ought to say that Ifelt a fiendish satisfaction in the discov-ery that I had one.

Along in the middle of the afternoonthree of the girls in the neighbourhoodcame over to play. They had theirdolls, and they wanted to "keep house"

in the "new part" of our home. Wewere living in a roomy and comfortable"addition," which had, oddly enough,been built before the building to whichit was finally to serve as an annex. Thatis to say, it had been the addition be-fore there was anything to add it to.By this time, however, the new housewas getting a trifle old, as it waited forthe completion of its rather dispropor-tionate splendours; splendours whichrepresented the ambitions rather thanthe achievements of the family. It tow-

ered, large, square, imposing, with hintsof M. Mansard's grandiose architectu-ral ideas in its style, in the very centreof a village block of land. From thefirst, it exercised a sort of "I dreamt Idwelt in marble halls" effect upon me,and in a vague way, at the back of mymind, floated the idea that when wepassed from our modest home intothis commanding edifice, well-trainedservants mysteriously would appear,



beautiful gowns would be found await-ing my use in the closets, and fatherand mother would be able to take theirease, something after the fashion of the"landed gentry" of whom I had readin Scotch and English books. The ceil-ings of the new house were so high, thesweep of the stairs so dramatic, the size

of the drawing-rooms so copious, thatperhaps I hardly was to be blamed forexpecting a transformation scene.

But until this new life was realised,the clean, bare rooms made the best ofall possible play-rooms, and with thelight streaming in through the trees,and falling, delicately tinged withgreen, upon the new floors, and withthe scent of the new wood all about, itwas a place of indefinable enchantment.I was allowed to play there all I pleased

-- except when I had Julie. There wereunguarded windows and yawning stair-holes, and no steps as yet leading fromthe ground to the great opening wherethe carved front door was some timeto be. Instead, there were planks, in-clined at a steep angle, beneath whichlay the stones of which the foundationto the porch were to be made. Jaggedpieces of yet unhewn sandstone theywere, with cruel edges.

But to-day when the girls said, "Oh,

come!" my newly discovered badnessechoed their words. I wanted to gowith them. So I went.

Out of the corner of my eye I couldsee father in the distance, but Iwouldn't look at him for fear he wouldbe magnetised into turning my way.The girls had gone up, and I followed,with Julie in my arms. Did I hearfather call to me to stop? He alwayssaid I did, but I think he was mistaken.Perhaps I merely didn't wish to hear

him. Anyway, I went on, balancingmyself as best I could. The other girlshad reached the top, and turned to lookat us, and I knew they were afraid. Ithink they would have held out theirhands to help me, but I had both armsclasped about Julie. So I staggered on,got almost to the top, then seemed sub-merged beneath a wave of fears -- mineand those of the girls -- and fell! AsI went, I curled like a squirrel around



Julie, and when I struck, she was stillin my grasp and on top of me. But sherolled out of my relaxing clutch afterthat, and when father and mother camerunning, she was lying on the stones.They thought she had fallen that way,and as the breath had been fairlyknocked out of her little body, so that

she was not crying, they were morefrightened than ever, and ran with herto the house, wild with apprehension.

As for me, I got up somehow and fol-owed. I decided no bones were broken,but I was dizzy and faint, and achingfrom bruises. I saw my little friendsrunning down the plank and making offalong the poplar drive, white-faced andpanting. I knew they thought Juliewas dead and that I'd be hung. I hadthe same idea.

When we got to the sitting-room Ihad a strange feeling of never havingseen it before. The tall stove, thegreen and oak ingrain carpet, the greenrep chairs, the what-not with its shells,the steel engravings on the walls,seemed absolutely strange. I sat downand counted the diamond-shaped figureson the oilcloth in front of the stove;and after a long time I heard Julie cry,and mother say with immeasurable re-lief:

"Aside from a shaking up, I don'tbelieve she's a bit the worse."

Then some one brought me a cupfulof cold water and asked me if I washurt. I shook my head and would notspeak. I then heard, in simple and em-phatic Anglo-Saxon the opinions of myfather and mother about a girl whowould put her little sister's life in dan-ger, and would disobey her parents.And after that I was put in my moth-

er's bedroom to pass the rest of theday, and was told I needn't expect tocome to the table with the others.

I accepted my fate stoically, and be-ing permitted to carry my own chairinto the room, I put it by the westernwindow, which looked across two milesof meadows waving in buckwheat, inclover and grass, and sat there in a cu-rious torpor of spirit. I was glad to



be alone, for I had discovered a newidea -- the idea of sin. I wished to beleft to myself till I could think out whatit meant. I believed I could do that bynight, and, after I had got to the rootof the matter, I could cast the wholeugly thing out of my soul and be goodall the rest of my life.

There was a large upholstered chairstanding in front of me, and I put myhead down on the seat of that andthought and thought. My thoughtsreached so far that I grew frightened,and I was relieved when I felt the littlesoft grey veils drawing about me whichI knew meant sleep. It seemed to methat I really ought to weep -- that thecircumstances were such that I shouldweep. But sleep was sweeter thantears, and not only the pain in my mind

but the jar and bruise of my bodyseemed to demand that oblivion. So Igave way to the impulse, and the greyveils wrapped around and around meas a spider's web enwraps a fly. Andfor hours I knew nothing.

When I awoke it was the close of day.Long tender shadows lay across thefields, the sky had that wonderful clear-ness and kindness which is like a hu-man eye, and the soft wind puffing inat the window was sweet with field

fragrance. A glass of milk and a platewith two slices of bread lay on the win-dow sill by me, as if some one hadplaced them there from the outside. Icould hear birds settling down for thenight, and cheeping drowsily to eachother. My cat came on the scene and,seeing me, looked at me with serious,expanding eyes, twitched her whiskerscynically, and passed on. Presently Iheard the voices of my family. Theywere re-entering the sitting-room. Sup-per was over -- supper, with its cold

meats and shining jellies, its "floatingisland" and its fig cake. I could heara voice that was new to me. It wasdeeper than my mother's, and its ac-cent was different. It was the sort ofa voice that made you feel that itsowner had talked with many differentkinds of people, and had contrived tohold her own with all of them. I knewit belonged to Aunt Cordelia. And nowthat I was not to see her, I felt my curi-



osity arising in me. I wanted to lookat her, and still more I wished to askher about goodness. She was rich andgood! Was one the result of the other?And which came first? I dimly per-ceived that if there had been moremoney in our house there would havebeen more help, and I would not have

been led into temptation -- baby wouldnot have been left too long upon myhands. However, after a few momentsof self-pity, I rejected this thought. Iknew I really was to blame, and it oc-curred to me that I would add to myfaults if I tried to put the blame on any-body else.

Now that the first shock was over andthat my sleep had refreshed me, I be-gan to see what terrible sorrow hadbeen mine if the fall had really injured

Julie; and a sudden thought shook me.She might, after all, have been hurt insome way that would show itself lateron. I yearned to look upon her, to seeif all her sweetness and softness was in-tact. It seemed to me that if I couldnot see her the rising grief in me wouldbreak, and I would sob aloud. I didn'twant to do that. I had no notion tocall any attention to myself whatever,but see the baby I must. So, softly,and like a thief, I opened the door com-municating with the little dressing-

room in which Julie's cradle stood. Thecurtain had been drawn and it was al-most dark, but I found my way toJulie's bassinet. I could not quite seeher, but the delicate odour of herbreath came up to me, and I found herlittle hand and slipped my finger in it.It was gripped in a baby pressure, andI stood there enraptured, feeling as ifa flower had caressed me. I wasthrilled through and through with hap-piness, and with love for this little crea-ture, whom my selfishness might have

destroyed. There was nothing in whathad happened during this moment ortwo when I stood by her side to assureme that all was well with her; but I didso believe, and I said over and over:"Thank you, God! Thank you, God!"

And now my tears began to flow.They came in a storm -- a storm I couldnot control, and I fled back to mother'sroom, and stood there before the west



window weeping as I never had weptbefore.

The quiet loveliness of the closingday had passed into the splendour ofthe afterglow. Mighty wings as ofbright angels, pink and shining white,reached up over the sky. The vault was

purple above me, and paled to lilac, thento green of unimaginable tenderness.Now I quenched my tears to look, andthen I wept again, weeping no more forsorrow and loneliness and shame thanfor gratitude and delight in beauty. Sofair a world! What had sin to do withit? I could not make it out.

The shining wings grew paler, faded,then darkened; the melancholy soundof cow-bells stole up from the common.The birds were still; a low wind rustled

the trees. I sat thinking my young"night thoughts" of how marvellous itwas for the sun to set, to rise, to keepits place in heaven -- of how wrappedabout with mysteries we were. Whatif the world should start to fallingthrough space? Where would it land?Was there even a bottom to the uni-verse? "World without end" mightmean that there was neither an end tospace nor yet to time. I shivered atthought of such vastness.

Suddenly light streamed about me,warm arms enfolded me.

"Mother!" I murmured, and slippedfrom the unknown to the dear familiar-ity of her shoulder.

It was, I soon perceived, a silk-cladshoulder. Mother had on her bestdress; nay, she wore her coral pin andear-rings. Her lace collar was scentedwith Jockey Club, and her neck, intowhich I was burrowing, had the inde-

scribable something that was not quiteodour, not all softness, but was com-pounded of these and meant mother.She said little to me as she drew meaway and bathed my face, brushed andplaited my hair, and put on my cleanfrock. But we felt happy together. Iknew she was as glad to forgive as Iwas to be forgiven.

In a little while she led me, blinking,



into the light. A tall stranger, a ladyin prune-coloured silk, sat in the high-backed chair.

"This is my eldest girl, Aunt Cor-delia," said my mother. I went for-ward timidly, wondering if I werereally going to be greeted by this per-

son who must have heard such terriblereports of me. I found myself caughtby the hands and drawn into the em-brace of this new, grand acquaintance.

"Well, I've been wanting to seeyou," said the rich, kind voice. "Theysay you look as I did at your age. Theysay you are like me!"

Like her -- who was good! But noone referred to this difference or saidanything about my sins. When we were

sorry, was evil, then, forgotten and sinforgiven? A weight as of iron droppedfrom my spirit. I sank with a sigh onthe hassock at my aunt's feet. I wasonce more a member of society.

VI

TRAVEL

IT was time to say good-bye.

I had been down to my littlebrother's grave and watered the sorrelthat grew on it -- I thought it was sor-row, and so tended it; and I had walkedaround the house and said good-bye toevery window, and to the robin's nest,and to my playhouse in the shed. Ihad put a clean ribbon on the cat's neck,and kissed my doll, and given presentsto my little sisters. Now, shivering be-neath my new grey jacket in the chillof the May morning air, I stood ready

to part with my mother. She was alittle flurried with having just ironedmy pinafores and collars, and with hav-ing put the last hook on my new Stuartplaid frock, and she looked me overwith rather an anxious eye. As for me,I thought my clothes charming, and Iloved the scarlet quill in my grey hat,and the set of my new shoes. I hoped,above all, that no one would notice thatI was trembling and lay it down to fear.



Of course, I had been away before.It was not the first time I had lefteverything to take care of itself. Butthis time I was going alone, and thatgave rather a different aspect to things.To go into the country for a few days,or even to Detroit, in the company of

a watchful parent, might be called a"visit"; but to go alone, partly bytrain and partly by stage, and to arriveby one's self, amounted to "travel." Ihad an aunt who had travelled, and Ifelt this morning that love of travelran in the family. Probably evenAunt Cordelia had been a trifle nervous,at first, when she started out for Ha-waii, say, or for Egypt.

Mother and I were both fearful thatthe driver of the station 'bus hadn't

really understood that he was to call.First she would ask father, and then Iwould ask him, if he was quite sure theman understood, and father said thatif the man could understand Englishat all -- and he supposed he could -- hehad understood that. Father was rightabout it, too, for just when we -- that is,mother and I -- were almost giving up,the 'bus horses swung in the big gateand came pounding up the drive be-tween the Lombardy poplars, whichwere out in their yellow-green spring

dress. They were a bay team with ayellow harness which clinked splendidlywith bone rings, and the 'bus was asyellow as a pumpkin, and shaped notunlike one, so that I gave it my instantapproval. It was precisely the sort ofvehicle in which I would have chosento go away. So absorbed was I in itthat, though I must have kissed mother,I have really no recollection of it; andit was only when we were swinging outof the gate, and I looked back and sawher standing in the door watching us,

that a terrible pang came over me, sothat for one crazy moment I thoughtI was going to jump out and run backto her.

But I held on to father's hand andturned my face away from home withall the courage I could summon, and wewent on through the town and outacross a lonely stretch of country to therailroad. For we were an obstinate lit-



tle town, and would not build up to therailroad because the railroad had re-fused to run up to us. It was a newstation with a fine echo in it, and theman who called out the trains had abeautiful voice for echoes. It was cre-ated to inspire them and to encouragethem, and I stood fascinated by the

thunderous noises he was making tillfather seized me by the hand and thrustme into the care of the train conductor.They said something to each other inthe sharp, explosive way men have, andthe conductor took me to a seat andtold me I was his girl for the time be-ing, and to stay right there till he camefor me at my station.

What amazed me was that the carshould be full of people. I could notimagine where they all could be going.

It was all very well for me, who be-longed to a family of travellers -- as wit-ness Aunt Cordelia -- to be going on ajourney, but for these others, thesemany, many others, to be wanderingaround, heaven knows where, struck meas being not right. It seemed to takesomewhat from the glory of my adven-ture.

However, I noticed that most of themlooked poor. Their clothes were oldand ugly; their faces not those of pleas-

ure-seekers. It was very difficult toimagine that they could afford a jour-ney, which was, as I believed, a greatluxury. At first, the people looked tobe all of a sort, but after a little I be-gan to see the differences, and to no-tice that this one looked happy, andthat one sad, and another as if he hadmuch to do and liked it, and severalothers as if they had very little ideawhere they were going or why.

But I liked better to look from the

windows and to see the world. Thehouses seemed quite familiar and as ifI had seen them often before. I hardlycould believe that I hadn't walked upthose paths, opened those doors andseated myself at the tables. I felt thatif I went in those houses I would knowwhere everything was -- just where thedishes were kept, and the Bible, and thejam. It struck me that houses werevery much alike in the world, and that



led to the thought that people, too, wereprobably alike. So I forgot what theconductor had said to me about keepingstill, and I crossed over the aisle andsat down beside a little girl who wasregrettably young, but who lookedpleasant. Her mother and grand-mother were sitting opposite, and they

smiled at me in a watery sort of wayas if they thought a smile was expectedof them. I meant to talk to the littlegirl, but I saw she was almost on theverge of tears, and it didn't take melong to discover what was the matter.Her little pink hat was held on by anelastic band, which, being put behindher ears and under her chin, was cut-ting her cruelly. I knew by experiencethat if the band were placed in front ofher ears the tension would be lessened;so, with the most benevolent intentions

in the world, I inserted my fingers be-tween the rubber and her chubbycheeks, drew it out with nervous butfriendly fingers, somehow let go of it,and snap across her two red cheeks andher pretty pug nose went the lacerat-ing elastic, leaving a welt behind it!

"What do you mean, you bad girl?"cried the mother, taking me by theshoulders with a sort of grip I hadnever felt before. "I never saw such achild -- never!"

An old woman with a face like a henleaned over the back of the seat.

"What's she done? What's shedone?" she demanded. The mothertold her, as the grandmother comfortedthe hurt baby.

"Go back to your seat and staythere!" commanded the mother. "Seeyou don't come near here again!"

My lips trembled with the anguish Icould hardly restrain. Never had anoble soul been more misunderstood.Stupid beings! How dare they! Yet,not to be liked by them -- not to be un-derstood! That was unendurable.Would they listen to the gentle wordthat turneth away wrath? I was in-clined to think not. I was fairly pant-ing under my load of dismay and de-spondency, when a large man with an



extraordinarily clean appearance satdown opposite me. He was a study ingrey -- grey suit, tie, socks, gloves, hat,top-coat -- yes, and eyes! He leanedforward ingratiatingly.

"What do you think Aunt Ellen sentme last week?" he inquired.

We seemed to be old acquaintances,and in my second of perplexity I de-cided that it was mere forgetfulnessthat made me unable to recall justwhom he was talking about. So I onlysaid politely: "I don't know, I'm sure,sir."

"Why, yes, you do!" he laughed."Couldn't you guess? What shouldAunt Ellen send but some of that whitemaple sugar of hers; better than ever,

too. I've a pound of it along with me,and I'd be glad to pry off a few piecesif you'd like to eat it. You alwayswere so fond of Aunt Ellen's maplesugar, you know."

The tone carried conviction. Ofcourse I must have been fond of it;indeed, upon reflection, I felt that I hadbeen. By the time the man was backwith a parallelogram of the maplesugar in his hand, I was convinced thathe had spoken the truth.

"Aunt Ellen certainly is a dear," hewent on. "I run down to see her everytime I get a chance. Same old rain-barrel! Same old beehives! Same oldwell-sweep! Wouldn't trade them forany others in the world. I like every-thing about the place -- like the 'OldMan' that grows by the gate; and thetomato trellis -- nobody else treats to-matoes like flowers; and the herb gar-den, and the cupboard with the littlewood-carvings in it that Uncle Ben

made. You remember Uncle Ben?Been a sailor -- broke both legs -- had'em cut off -- and sat around and carvedwhile Aunt Ellen taught school. Happythey were -- no one happier. Broughtme up, you know. Didn't have a fatheror mother -- just gathered me in. Goodsort, those. Uncle Ben's gone, butAunt Ellen's a mother to me yet.Thinks of me, travelling, travelling,never putting my head down in the same



bed two nights running; and here andthere and everywhere she overtakes mewith little scraps out of home. That'sAunt Ellen for you!"

As the delicious sugar melted on mytongue, the sorrows melted in my soul,and I was just about to make some in-

quiries about Aunt Ellen, whose per-sonal qualities seemed to be growingclearer and clearer in my mind, whenmy conductor came striding down theaisle.

"Where's my little girl?" he de-manded heartily. "Ah, there she is,just where I left her, in good companyand eating maple sugar, as I live."

"Well, she hain't bin there all thetime now, I ken tell ye that!" cried the

old woman with a face like a hen.

"Indeed, she ain't!" the otherwomen joined in. "She's a mischief-makin' child, that's what she is!" saidthe mother. The little girl was look-ing over her grandmother's shoulder,and she ran out a very red, serpent-like tongue at me.

"She's a good girl, and almost asfond of Aunt Ellen as I am," said thelarge man, finding my pocket, and put-

ting a huge piece of maple sugar in it.

The conductor, meantime, was gath-ering my things, and with a "Comealong, now! This is where youchange," he led me from the car. Iglanced back once, and the hen-facedwoman shook her withered brown fistat me, and the large man waved andsmiled. The conductor and I ran ashard as we could, he carrying my lightluggage, to a stage that seemed to bewaiting for us. He shouted some di-

rections to the driver, deposited mewithin, and ran back to his train. AndI, alone again, looked about me.

We were in the heart of a little town,and a number of men were standingaround while the horses took their fillat the watering-trough. This accom-plished, the driver checked up thehorses, mounted to his high seat, wasjoined by a heavy young man; two gen-



tlemen entered the inside of the coach,and we were off.

One of these gentlemen was very old.His silver hair hung on his shoulders;he had a beautiful flowing heard whichgleamed in the light, the kindest offaces, lit with laughing blue eyes, and

he leaned forward on his heavy stickand seemed to mind the plunging ofour vehicle. The other man was mid-dle-aged, dark, silent-looking, and, Idecided, rather like a king. We allrode in silence for a while, but by andby the old man said kindly:

"Where are you going, my child?"

I told him.

"And whose daughter are you?" he

inquired. I told him that with pride."I know people all through the state,"he said, "but I don't seem to rememberthat name."

"Don't you remember my father,sir?" I cried, anxiously, edging upcloser to him. "Not that great andgood man! Why, Abraham Lincolnand my father are the greatest menthat ever lived!"

His head nodded strangely, as he

lifted it and looked at me with hislaughing eye.

"It's a pity I don't know him, thatbeing the case," he said gently. "But,anyway, you're a lucky little girl."

"Yes," I sighed, "I am, indeed."

But my attention was taken by ourapproach to what I recognised as an"estate." A great gate with highposts, flat on top, met my gaze, and

through this gateway I could see a driveand many beautiful trees. A little boywas sitting on top of one of the posts,watching us, and I thought I never hadseen a place better adapted to viewingthe passing procession. I longed to beon the other gatepost, exchanging confi-dences across the harmless gulf withthis nice-looking boy, when, most unex-pectedly, the horses began to plunge.The next second the air was filled with



buzzing black objects.

"Bees!" said the king. It was thefirst word he had spoken, and a trueword it was. Swarming bees had set-tled in the road, and we had driven un-aware into the midst of them. Thehorses were distracted, and made blind-

ly for the gate, though they seemedmuch more likely to run into the poststhan to get through the gate, I thought.The boy seemed to think this, too, forhe shot backward, turned a somersaultin. the air, and disappeared from view.

"God bless me!" said the king.

The heavy young man on the frontseat jumped from his place and beganbeating away the bees and holding thehorses by the bridles, and in a few min-

utes we were on our way. The horseshad been badly stung, and the heavyyoung man looked rather bumpy. Asfor us, the king had shut the stage doorat the first approach of trouble, andwe were unharmed.

After this, we all felt quite well ac-quainted, and the old gentleman told mesome wonderful stories about goingabout among the Indians and about themen in the lumber camps and the set-tlers on the lake islands. Afterward I

learned that he was a bishop, and abrave and holy man whom it was agreat honour to meet, but, at the time,I only thought of how kind he was topare apples for me and to tell me tales.The king seldom spoke more than oneword at a time, but he was kind, too, inhis way. Once he said, "Sleepy?" tome. And, again, "Hungry?" Hedidn't look out at the landscape at all,and neither did the bishop. But I ranfrom one side to the other, and the lastof the journey I was taken up between

the driver and the heavy man on thehigh seat.

Presently we were in a little townwith cottages almost hidden among thetrees. A blue stream ran throughgreen fields, and the water dashed overa dam. I could hear the song of themill and the ripping of the boards.

"We're here!" said the driver.



The heavy man lifted me down, andmy young uncle came running out withhis arms open to receive me. "What atraveller!" he said, kissing me.

"It's been a tremendously long andinteresting journey," I said.

"Yes," he answered. "Ten milesby rail and ten by stage. I supposeyou've had a great many adventures!"

"Oh, yes!" I cried, and ached to tellthem, but feared this was not the place.I saw my uncle respectfully helping thebishop to alight, and heard him inquir-ing for his health, and the bishop an-swering in his kind, deep voice, andsaying I was indeed a good travellerand saw all there was to see -- and a lit-

tle more. The king shook hands withme, and this time said two words:"Good luck." Uncle had no idea whohe was -- no one had seen him before.Uncle didn't quite like his looks. ButI did. He was uncommon; he was dif-ferent. I thought of all those people inthe train who had been so alike. Andthen I remembered what unexpecteddifferences they had shown, and turnedto smile at my uncle.

"I should say I have had adven-

tures!" I cried.

"We'll get home to your aunt," hesaid, "and then we'll hear all aboutthem."

We crossed a bridge above the roar-ing mill-race, went up a lane, and en-tered Arcadia. That was the way itseemed to me. It was really a cottageabove a stream, where youth and lovedwelt, and honour and hospitality, andthe little house was to be exchanged for

a greater one where -- though youth de-parted -- love and honour and hospital-ity were still to dwell.

"Travel's a great thing," said myuncle, as he helped me off with myjacket.

"Yes," I answered, solemnly, "it isa great privilege to see the world."



I still am of that opinion. I haveseen some odd bits of it, and I cannotunderstand why it is that other jour-neys have not quite come up to thatfirst one, when I heard of Aunt Ellen,and saw the boy turn the surprisedsomersault, and was welcomed by twolovers in a little Arcadia.

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Painted Windows by Elia W Peattie

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