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

And joy; they heed not our expectancy; But round some corner in the streets of life They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”

      For many nights before the raising, when she went to her bed she said to herself, after she had finished her prayers: “It can’t be true that I’m chosen for the State of Maine! It just CAN’T be true! Nobody could be good ENOUGH, but oh, I’ll try to be as good as I can! To be going to Wareham Seminary next week and to be the State of Maine too! Oh! I must pray HARD to God to keep me meek and humble!”

III

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      The flag was to be raised on a Tuesday, and on the previous Sunday it became known to the children that Clara Belle Simpson was coming back from Acreville, coming to live with Mrs. Fogg and take care of the baby, called by the neighborhood boys “the Fogg horn,” on account of his excellent voice production.

      Clara Belle was one of Miss Dearborn’s original flock, and if she were left wholly out of the festivities she would be the only girl of suitable age to be thus slighted; it seemed clear to the juvenile mind, therefore, that neither she nor her descendants would ever recover from such a blow. But, under all the circumstances, would she be allowed to join in the procession? Even Rebecca, the optimistic, feared not, and the committee confirmed her fears by saying that Abner Simpson’s daughter certainly could not take any prominent part in the ceremony, but they hoped that Mrs. Fogg would allow her to witness it.

      When Abner Simpson, urged by the town authorities, took his wife and seven children away from Riverboro to Acreville, just over the border in the next county, Riverboro went to bed leaving its barn and shed doors unfastened, and drew long breaths of gratitude to Providence.

      Of most winning disposition and genial manners, Mr. Simpson had not that instinctive comprehension of property rights which renders a man a valuable citizen.

      Squire Bean was his nearest neighbor, and he conceived the novel idea of paying Simpson five dollars a year not to steal from him, a method occasionally used in the Highlands in the early days.

      The bargain was struck, and adhered to religiously for a twelve-month, but on the second of January Mr. Simpson announced the verbal contract as formally broken.

      “I didn’t know what I was doin’ when I made it, Squire,” he urged. “In the first place, it’s a slur on my reputation and an injury to my self-respect. Secondly, it’s a nervous strain on me; and thirdly, five dollars don’t pay me!”

      Squire Bean was so struck with the unique and convincing nature of these arguments that he could scarcely restrain his admiration, and he confessed to himself afterward, that unless Simpson’s mental attitude could be changed he was perhaps a fitter subject for medical science than the state prison.

      Abner was a most unusual thief, and conducted his operations with a tact and neighborly consideration none too common in the profession. He would never steal a man’s scythe in haying-time, nor his fur lap-robe in the coldest of the winter. The picking of a lock offered no attractions to him; “he wa’n’t no burglar,” he would have scornfully asserted. A strange horse and wagon hitched by the roadside was the most flagrant of his thefts; but it was the small things—the hatchet or axe on the chopping-block, the tin pans sunning at the side door, a stray garment bleaching on the grass, a hoe, rake, shovel, or a bag of early potatoes, that tempted him most sorely; and these appealed to him not so much for their intrinsic value as because they were so excellently adapted to swapping. The swapping was really the enjoyable part of the procedure, the theft was only a sad but necessary preliminary; for if Abner himself had been a man of sufficient property to carry on his business operations independently, it is doubtful if he would have helped himself so freely to his neighbor’s goods.

      Riverboro regretted the loss of Mrs. Simpson, who was useful in scrubbing, cleaning, and washing, and was thought to exercise some influence over her predatory spouse. There was a story of their early married life, when they had a farm; a story to the effect that Mrs. Simpson always rode on every load of hay that her husband took to Milltown, with the view of keeping him sober through the day. After he turned out of the country road and approached the metropolis, it was said that he used to bury the docile lady in the load. He would then drive on to the scales, have the weight of the hay entered in the buyer’s book, take his horses to the stable for feed and water, and when a favorable opportunity offered he would assist the hot and panting Mrs. Simpson out of the side or back of the rack, and gallantly brush the straw from her person. For this reason it was always asserted that Abner Simpson sold his wife every time he went to Milltown, but the story was never fully substantiated, and at all events it was the only suspected blot on meek Mrs. Simpson’s personal reputation.

      As for the Simpson children, they were missed chiefly as familiar figures by the roadside; but Rebecca honestly loved Clara Belle, notwithstanding her Aunt Miranda’s opposition to the intimacy. Rebecca’s “taste for low company” was a source of continual anxiety to her aunt.

      “Anything that’s human flesh is good enough for her!” Miranda groaned to Jane. “She’ll ride with the rag-sack-and-bottle peddler just as quick as she would with the minister; she always sets beside the St. Vitus’ dance young one at Sabbath school; and she’s forever riggin’ and onriggin’ that dirty Simpson baby! She reminds me of a puppy that’ll always go to everybody that’ll have him!”

      It was thought very creditable to Mrs. Fogg that she sent for Clara Belle to live with her and go to school part of the year.

      “She’ll be useful” said Mrs. Fogg, “and she’ll be out of her father’s way, and so keep honest; though she’s no awful hombly I’ve no fears for her. A girl with her red hair, freckles, and cross-eyes can’t fall into no kind of sin, I don’t believe.”

      Mrs. Fogg requested that Clara Belle should be started on her journey from Acreville by train and come the rest of the way by stage, and she was disturbed to receive word on Sunday that Mr. Simpson had borrowed a “good roader” from a new acquaintance, and would himself drive the girl from Acreville to Riverboro, a distance of thirty-five miles. That he would arrive in their vicinity on the very night before the flag-raising was thought by Riverboro to be a public misfortune, and several residents hastily determined to deny themselves a sight of the festivities and remain watchfully on their own premises.

      On Monday afternoon the children were rehearsing their songs at the meeting-house. As Rebecca came out on the broad wooden steps she watched Mrs. Peter Meserve’s buggy out of sight, for in front, wrapped in a cotton sheet, lay the previous flag. After a few chattering good-bys and weather prophecies with the other girls, she started on her homeward walk, dropping in at the parsonage to read her verses to the minister.

      He welcomed her gladly as she removed her white cotton gloves (hastily slipped on outside the door, for ceremony) and pushed back the funny hat with the yellow and black porcupine quills—the hat with which she made her first appearance in Riverboro society.

      “You’ve heard the beginning, Mr. Baxter; now will you please tell me if you like the last verse?” she asked, taking out her paper. “I’ve only read it to Alice Robinson, and I think perhaps she can never be a poet, though she’s a splendid writer. Last year when she was twelve she wrote a birthday poem to herself, and she made natal’ rhyme with Milton,.’ which, of course, it wouldn’t. I remember every verse ended:

      ‘This is my day so natal

       And I will follow Milton.’

      Another one of hers was written just because she couldn’t help it, she said. This was it:

      ‘Let me to the hills away,

       Give me pen and paper;

       I’ll write until the earth will sway

       The story of my Maker.’”

      The minister could scarcely refrain from smiling, but he controlled himself that he might lose none of Rebecca’s quaint observations. When she was