The Four Corners. Blanchard Amy Ella

call it 'Autumn Whispers,' and it will sound like the wind in the trees and the corn shocks. Then I will write another and that will be called 'Autumn Secrets.' It will be about golden sunshine and shining red leaves and little pools of water in the hollows that look as if a piece of blue sky had dropped in them. I wish I could write music that would be a picture and a poem, too; it would be nice to have them all together. Trouble, where did you come from? I know Phil is around somewhere," she exclaimed, suddenly, sitting up very straight. "I don't want him to find me here. He has called me 'Sharp Corner' once too often to-day."

      She jumped up and bending low, ran along the line of fence toward the hollow which intervened between this and the next rise of ground. Trouble stood still for a moment, uncertainly looking after her, then he trotted off in an opposite direction.

      Pursuing her way, Nan reached the small stream which ran through the hollow. Ferns and mosses were here in abundance. Here and there a cardinal flower flaunted its red banner. Low aground trailed the hedge bindweed, and in the field beyond a slim spire of goldenrod showed itself. This attracted Nan's notice. "I said it would be autumn soon," she said, "for there is the first goldenrod of the season. I must get that piece for Aunt Sarah, though if she has an idea of where it came from, she won't have it." She gave a hasty glance in the direction of the house beyond sheltering trees as she gained the other side of the brook to gather her ambitious spray of goldenrod, for that house set in the grove of oaks belonged to Grandmother Corner, whose grandchildren were strangers to her. The running brook was the barrier which they seldom crossed and, when they did, it was secretly. The big buff house was closed, the green shutters tightly fastened, the door boarded up and the gate locked, for its owner was abroad. With her daughter Helen, she had been in Europe ever since Nan could remember.

      Sometimes Nan would push her way through the hedge which surrounded the lawn, plunge through the long grass and stand staring up at the silent house where her father had been born. Certain accounts given by old Landy made her believe that it was of palatial magnificence and she longed to see its interior. Once when the care-taker had made one of his infrequent visits, one of the lower windows was opened, and Nan who had long watched and waited for such an opportunity, tiptoed up to peep in. At first she saw nothing but ghostly sheeted furniture and pictures shrouded in muslin cases, bare floors and uncurtained windows. She was about to creep away disappointed when she saw the man upon a ladder uncovering a picture. It was of a stately lady in a velvet gown, the slender fingers half hidden by costly lace, and Nan gazed with all her eyes at the haughty face. Was it her grandmother's portrait, she wondered. She watched till the man readjusted the covering and then she crept away dreaming of a day when she might see the original of the portrait and when she might be allowed to walk through those silent rooms again restored to their former splendor.

      On this afternoon, however, she did not go near the house, but followed the stream for a short distance, crossed back again and came around the other side of her own home garden where old Landy was at work, talking to himself as was his wont.

      "Reckon dese yer vines is done fo'. Clar 'em erway. No mo' beans on 'em. How co'n comin' on? Get a mess offen dis row by Sunday. Tomats plenty. Melons gittin' good an' ripe." He stooped down to tap a large melon with his bony knuckles. "She jest a bus'in' wid sweetness by 'nother week. Um, um, she fa'r make me dribble at de mouf to look at huh."

      "Who-o-o!" came a long-drawn owlish cry from behind him.

      "Who dat?" cried Landy, pulling himself erect from his contemplation of the melon. "Whicher one o' yuh chilluns is it? Hyar, yuh, Jack er Phil er whomsoever yuh is, git outen fum behin' dat co'n brake. I sees yuh."

      A suppressed giggle from Nan made known her whereabouts, and she arose up from behind the tall tasseled corn. "You didn't see me or you wouldn't have called me Phil or Jack, but you heard me, didn't you? Did you think I was a real sure enough owl, Unc' Landy?"

      "Humph! I knows ole hooty-owl better'n dat. I knows yuh is a huming varmint."

      "Oh, Unc' Landy! the idea of calling me a varmint. I am not one at all."

      "Den wha' fo' yuh grubbin' roun' in de gyardin' stuff lak ole mole?" he asked chuckling.

      "Same reason you do; to see how it is getting on. When will the watermelons be ready to eat? It seems to me they are very late this year."

      "Dey is late. I say dey is, but nex' week, ef de Lord sees fittin', we bus' open dis one. She de fust to be pick. I layin' out to lif huh fum huh sandy baid nex' Tuesday."

      "And we'll have it for dinner. Oh, my! I wish it were ready now. Did they used to have a watermelon patch over at Grandmother Corner's? There isn't any now."

      "How yuh so wise?"

      "Oh, I've been all around the place. I know just where the garden used to be."

      "Yo' ma say yuh chilluns ain't to ha'nt de ole place."

      "I know and I don't haunt it; I just go there once in a while. I haven't been for a long, long time. I don't see, anyhow, why we can't go when it was father's home."

      "Yuh nuvver sees yo' ma er yo' auntie cross de brook."

      "No, but then – "

      "Den wha' fo' yuh do what dey don' do?"

      "I do lots of things which they don't do and they do lots of things I don't do; that's no reason. When do you reckon my Grandmother Corner will come back?"

      "Das mo'n any huming know, I tell yuh, honey. She done taken huh disagreeables an' huh hity-tyties long wid huh. Das all I kyar to know. She want de yarth an' all dat derein is, das what she want; mebbe she fin' it off yandah in dem quare countries, but she don't git back dem ha'sh words she speak to yo' pa on his las' day. Dey a-follerin' huh an' a gnawin' an' a clawin' at huh heart. She cyarnt git rid o' dem wha'soevah she go, though she try to flee fum 'em."

      The picture of her grandmother's fleeing from place to place pursued by bitter words in the form of skeleton-like creatures who gnashed their teeth and clawed with bony fingers took hold of Nan's imagination. Her mother never mentioned Grandmother Corner's name, and from old Landy Nan gleaned all that she knew of her. Heretofore, what had been told her did not cause her to give much love to this unknown grandmother, but now she began to feel rather sorry for her. "I wish you took care of the big house," she said, "for then you could let me go in there to see the pictures and beautiful things, and I could play on the piano."

      "Humph! I say let you in. Ef it depen' upon ole Landy yuh ain' nuvver go inside de do'. Nobody tell me go but onct. I ain't nuvver pass my foot ovah de do'-sill agin whilst I lives on dis yarth."

      While he talked Landy slashed away at the dead vines vindictively. As he clawed at them with his lean black fingers he made Nan think of the bitter words which pursued her grandmother. They must appear something like Landy, only more bony and wicked-looking. Nan laughed at the conceit.

      "'Tain't nothin' to larf at," grumbled Landy. "Dese yer fambly q'urrels is turrble things. Yo' pa know yo' gran'ma don't like be crossed 'bout de proputty, but he feel lak he bleedged to say what he think, an' she tu'n on him an' de las' word she uvver give mek him have de heart-ache. Yo' ma ain' fergit dat, an' das fo' why she don' lak you chilluns to go trespassin' on de ole place. Hit yo' gran'ma's an' she got full an' plenty whilst yo' pa what oughter had his share done got nothin' ter leave yuh-alls but dis little ole place. Das why I laks ter mek hit smile an' see de melons grow plum big an' de co'n-fiel' lookin' prosp'ous. Yo' gran'pa mean yo' pa to hev his shar' but de ole lady hol' on to uvvry thing whilst she 'bove groun'. Nemmin', yuh-alls has full an' plenty to eat. Ain' de tomats jest a-humpin' deyse'fs? Yo' ma has pickles an' cans o' 'em fo' de whole wintah, dey so many."

      "I like the little yellow ones best," remarked Nan, who was tired of the old man's long monologue. He was given to reciting these bits of family history to her though to no one outside the family itself would he have breathed a word. "I think these make the very nicest preserves," continued Nan, "and I like them raw, too. I always feel as if I were eating golden fairy fruit only they aren't sweet like I imagine fairy fruit would be." She stooped to gather a tiny red tomato from the vines at her feet. They used to call these love-apples, Aunt Sarah says, and they thought they were poisonous. "I am glad they found out it wasn't so," she said, popping the red morsel into her mouth. "What are you going to do now, Landy?"

      "Gwine