Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin

in part, and by degrees, and the constant fitting of herself to these new and difficult standards of conduct seemed to make her older than ever for her years.

      The child took her sewing and sat beside aunt Jane in the kitchen while aunt Miranda had the post of observation at the sitting-room window. Sometimes they would work on the side porch where the clematis and woodbine shaded them from the hot sun. To Rebecca the lengths of brown gingham were interminable. She made hard work of sewing, broke the thread, dropped her thimble into the syringa bushes, pricked her finger, wiped the perspiration from her forehead, could not match the checks, puckered the seams. She polished her needles to nothing, pushing them in and out of the emery strawberry, but they always squeaked. Still aunt Jane’s patience held good, and some small measure of skill was creeping into Rebecca’s fingers, fingers that held pencil, paint brush, and pen so cleverly and were so clumsy with the dainty little needle.

      When the first brown gingham frock was completed, the child seized what she thought an opportune moment and asked her aunt Miranda if she might have another color for the next one.

      “I bought a whole piece of the brown,” said Miranda laconically. “That’ll give you two more dresses, with plenty for new sleeves, and to patch and let down with, an’ be more economical.”

      “I know. But Mr. Watson says he’ll take back part of it, and let us have pink and blue for the same price.”

      “Did you ask him?”

      “Yes’m.”

      “It was none o’ your business.”

      “I was helping Emma Jane choose aprons, and didn’t think you’d mind which color I had. Pink keeps clean just as nice as brown, and Mr. Watson says it’ll boil without fading.”

      “Mr. Watson ‘s a splendid judge of washing, I guess. I don’t approve of children being rigged out in fancy colors, but I’ll see what your aunt Jane thinks.”

      “I think it would be all right to let Rebecca have one pink and one blue gingham,” said Jane. “A child gets tired of sewing on one color. It’s only natural she should long for a change; besides she’d look like a charity child always wearing the same brown with a white apron. And it’s dreadful unbecoming to her!”

      “‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ say I. Rebecca never’ll come to grief along of her beauty, that’s certain, and there’s no use in humoring her to think about her looks. I believe she’s vain as a peacock now, without anything to be vain of.”

      “She’s young and attracted to bright things—that’s all. I remember well enough how I felt at her age.”

      “You was considerable of a fool at her age, Jane.”

      “Yes, I was, thank the Lord! I only wish I’d known how to take a little of my foolishness along with me, as some folks do, to brighten my declining years.”

      There finally was a pink gingham, and when it was nicely finished, aunt Jane gave Rebecca a delightful surprise. She showed her how to make a pretty trimming of narrow white linen tape, by folding it in pointed shapes and sewing it down very flat with neat little stitches.

      “It’ll be good fancy work for you, Rebecca; for your aunt Miranda won’t like to see you always reading in the long winter evenings. Now if you think you can baste two rows of white tape round the bottom of your pink skirt and keep it straight by the checks, I’ll stitch them on for you and trim the waist and sleeves with pointed tape-trimming, so the dress’ll be real pretty for second best.”

      Rebecca’s joy knew no bounds. “I’ll baste like a house afire!” she exclaimed. “It’s a thousand yards round that skirt, as well I know, having hemmed it; but I could sew pretty trimming on if it was from here to Milltown. Oh! do you think aunt Mirandy’ll ever let me go to Milltown with Mr. Cobb? He’s asked me again, you know; but one Saturday I had to pick strawberries, and another it rained, and I don’t think she really approves of my going. It’s TWENTY-NINE minutes past four, aunt Jane, and Alice Robinson has been sitting under the currant bushes for a long time waiting for me. Can I go and play?”

      “Yes, you may go, and you’d better run as far as you can out behind the barn, so ‘t your noise won’t distract your aunt Mirandy. I see Susan Simpson and the twins and Emma Jane Perkins hiding behind the fence.”

      Rebecca leaped off the porch, snatched Alice Robinson from under the currant bushes, and, what was much more difficult, succeeded, by means of a complicated system of signals, in getting Emma Jane away from the Simpson party and giving them the slip altogether. They were much too small for certain pleasurable activities planned for that afternoon; but they were not to be despised, for they had the most fascinating dooryard in the village. In it, in bewildering confusion, were old sleighs, pungs, horse rakes, hogsheads, settees without backs, bed-steads without heads, in all stages of disability, and never the same on two consecutive days. Mrs. Simpson was seldom at home, and even when she was, had little concern as to what happened on the premises. A favorite diversion was to make the house into a fort, gallantly held by a handful of American soldiers against a besieging force of the British army. Great care was used in apportioning the parts, for there was no disposition to let anybody win but the Americans. Seesaw Simpson was usually made commander-in-chief of the British army, and a limp and uncertain one he was, capable, with his contradictory orders and his fondness for the extreme rear, of leading any regiment to an inglorious death. Sometimes the long-suffering house was a log hut, and the brave settlers defeated a band of hostile Indians, or occasionally were massacred by them; but in either case the Simpson house looked, to quote a Riverboro expression, “as if the devil had been having an auction in it.”

      Next to this uncommonly interesting playground, as a field of action, came, in the children’s opinion, the “secret spot.” There was a velvety stretch of ground in the Sawyer pasture which was full of fascinating hollows and hillocks, as well as verdant levels, on which to build houses. A group of trees concealed it somewhat from view and flung a grateful shade over the dwellings erected there. It had been hard though sweet labor to take armfuls of “stickins” and “cutrounds” from the mill to this secluded spot, and that it had been done mostly after supper in the dusk of the evenings gave it a still greater flavor. Here in soap boxes hidden among the trees were stored all their treasures: wee baskets and plates and cups made of burdock balls, bits of broken china for parties, dolls, soon to be outgrown, but serving well as characters in all sorts of romances enacted there,—deaths, funerals, weddings, christenings. A tall, square house of stickins was to be built round Rebecca this afternoon, and she was to be Charlotte Corday leaning against the bars of her prison.

      It was a wonderful experience standing inside the building with Emma Jane’s apron wound about her hair; wonderful to feel that when she leaned her head against the bars they seemed to turn to cold iron; that her eyes were no longer Rebecca Randall’s but mirrored something of Charlotte Corday’s hapless woe.

      “Ain’t it lovely?” sighed the humble twain, who had done most of the labor, but who generously admired the result.

      “I hate to have to take it down,” said Alice, “it’s been such a sight of work.”

      “If you think you could move up some stones and just take off the top rows, I could step out over,” suggested Charlotte Corday. “Then leave the stones, and you two can step down into the prison to-morrow and be the two little princes in the Tower, and I can murder you.”

      “What princes? What tower?” asked Alice and Emma Jane in one breath. “Tell us about them.”

      “Not now, it’s my supper time.” (Rebecca was a somewhat firm disciplinarian.)

      “It would be elergant being murdered by you,” said Emma Jane loyally, “though you are awful real when you murder; or we could have Elijah and Elisha for the princes.”

      “They’d yell when they was murdered,” objected Alice; “you know how silly they are at plays, all except Clara Belle. Besides if we once show them this secret place, they’ll play in it all the time, and perhaps