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

returned from the pasture to the twilight milking, Buttercup chewing her peaceful cud, her soft white bag of milk hanging full, her surprised eye rolling in its accustomed “fine frenzy.” The frenzied roll did not mean anything, they used to assure Elisha; but if it didn’t, it was an awful pity she had to do it, Rebecca thought; and Mrs. Baxter agreed. To have an expression of eye that meant murder, and yet to be a perfectly virtuous and well-meaning animal, this was a calamity indeed.

      Mrs. Baxter was looking at the sun one evening as it dropped like a ball of red fire into Wilkins’s woods, when the Little Prophet passed.

      “It’s the twenty-ninth night,” he called joyously.

      “I am so glad,” she answered, for she had often feared some accident might prevent his claiming the promised reward. “Then tomorrow Buttercup will be your own cow?”

      “I guess so. That’s what Mr. Came said. He’s off to Acreville now, but he’ll be home tonight, and father’s going to send my new hat by him. When Buttercup’s my own cow I wish I could change her name and call her Red Rover, but p’r’aps her mother wouldn’t like it. When she b’longs to me, mebbe I won’t be so fraid of gettin’ hooked and scrunched, because she’ll know she’s mine, and she’ll go better. I haven’t let her get snarled up in the rope one single time, and I don’t show I’m afraid, do I?”

      “I should never suspect it for an instant,” said Mrs. Baxter encouragingly. “I’ve often envied you your bold, brave look!”

      Elisha appeared distinctly pleased. “I haven’t cried, either, when she’s dragged me over the pasture bars and peeled my legs. Bill Petes’s little brother Charlie says he ain’t afraid of anything, not even bears. He says he would walk right up close and cuff em if they dared to yip; but I ain’t like that! He ain’t scared of elephants or tigers or lions either; he says they’re all the same as frogs or chickens to him!”

      Rebecca told her Aunt Miranda that evening that it was the Prophet’s twenty-ninth night, and that the big red cow was to be his on the morrow.

      “Well, I hope it’ll turn out that way,” she said. “But I ain’t a mite sure that Cassius Came will give up that cow when it comes to the point. It won’t be the first time he’s tried to crawl out of a bargain with folks a good deal bigger than Lisha, for he’s terrible close, Cassius is. To be sure he’s stiff in his joints and he’s glad enough to have a boy to take the cow to the pasture in summer time, but he always has hired help when it comes harvestin’. So Lisha’ll be no use from this on; and I dare say the cow is Abner Simpson’s anyway. If you want a walk tonight, I wish you’d go up there and ask Mis’ Came if she’ll lend me an’ your Aunt Jane half her yeast-cake. Tell her we’ll pay it back when we get ours a Saturday. Don’t you want to take Thirza Meserve with you? She’s alone as usual while Huldy’s entertainin’ beaux on the side porch. Don’t stay too long at the parsonage!”

III

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      Rebecca was used to this sort of errand, for the whole village of Riverboro would sometimes be rocked to the very centre of its being by simultaneous desire for a yeast-cake. As the nearest repository was a mile and a half distant, as the yeast-cake was valued at two cents and wouldn’t keep, as the demand was uncertain, being dependent entirely on a fluctuating desire for “riz bread,” the storekeeper refused to order more than three yeast-cakes a day at his own risk. Sometimes they remained on his hands a dead loss; sometimes eight or ten persons would “hitch up” and drive from distant farms for the coveted article, only to be met with the flat, “No, I’m all out o’ yeast-cake; Mis’ Simmons took the last; mebbe you can borry half o’ hern, she hain’t much of a bread-eater.”

      So Rebecca climbed the hills to Mrs. Came’s, knowing that her daily bread depended on the successful issue of the call.

      Thirza was barefooted, and tough as her little feet were, the long walk over the stubble fields tired her. When they came within sight of the Came barn, she coaxed Rebecca to take a short cut through the turnips growing in long, beautifully weeded rows.

      “You know Mr. Came is awfully cross, Thirza, and can’t bear anybody to tread on his crops or touch a tree or a bush that belongs to him. I’m kind of afraid, but come along and mind you step softly in between the rows and hold up your petticoat, so you can’t possibly touch the turnip plants. I’ll do the same. Skip along fast, because then we won’t leave any deep footprints.”

      The children passed safely and noiselessly along, their pleasure a trifle enhanced by the felt dangers of their progress. Rebecca knew that they were doing no harm, but that did not prevent her hoping to escape the gimlet eye of Mr. Came.

      As they neared the outer edge of the turnip patch they paused suddenly, petticoats in air.

      A great clump of elderberry bushes hid them from the barn, but from the other side of the clump came the sound of conversation: the timid voice of the Little Prophet and the gruff tones of Cassius Came.

      Rebecca was afraid to interrupt, and too honest to wish to overhear. She could only hope the man and the boy would pass on to the house as they talked, so she motioned to the paralyzed Thirza to take two more steps and stand with her behind the elderberry bushes. But no! In a moment they heard Mr. Came drag a stool over beside the grindstone as he said:

      “Well, now Elisha Jeremiah, we’ll talk about the red cow. You say you’ve drove her a month, do ye? And the trade between us was that if you could drive her a month, without her getting the rope over her foot and without bein’ afraid, you was to have her. That’s straight, ain’t it?”

      The Prophet’s face burned with excitement, his gingham shirt rose and fell as if he were breathing hard, but he only nodded assent and said nothing.

      “Now,” continued Mr. Came, “have you made out to keep the rope from under her feet?”

      “She ain’t got t-t-tangled up one s-single time,” said Elisha, stuttering in his excitement, but looking up with some courage from his bare toes, with which he was assiduously threading the grass.

      “So far, so good. Now bout bein’ afraid. As you seem so certain of gettin’ the cow, I suppose you hain’t been a speck scared, hev you? Honor bright, now!”

      “I—I—not but just a little mite. I”—

      “Hold up a minute. Of course you didn’t SAY you was afraid, and didn’t SHOW you was afraid, and nobody knew you WAS afraid, but that ain’t the way we fixed it up. You was to call the cow your’n if you could drive her to the pasture for a month without BEIN’ afraid. Own up square now, hev you be’n afraid?”

      A long pause, then a faint, “Yes.”

      “Where’s your manners?”

      “I mean yes, sir.”

      “How often? If it hain’t be’n too many times mebbe I’ll let ye off, though you’re a reg’lar girl-boy, and’ll be runnin’ away from the cat bimeby. Has it be’n—twice?”

      “Yes,” and the Little Prophet’s voice was very faint now, and had a decided tear in it.

      “Yes what?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Has it be’n four times?”

      “Y-es, sir.” More heaving of the gingham shirt.

      “Well, you AIR a thunderin’ coward! How many times? Speak up now.”

      More digging of the bare toes in the earth, and one premonitory tear drop stealing from under the downcast lids, then,—

      “A little, most every day, and you can keep the cow,” wailed the Prophet, as he turned abruptly and fled behind the shed, where he flung himself into the green depths of a tansy bed, and gave himself