The Story of Waitstill Baxter. Wiggin Kate Douglas Smith

a blue knit hood framing her rosy face. Deborah, her beloved, her only doll, was tightly clasped in her arms, for Debby, like her parent, had few pleasures and must not be denied so great a one as this. Suddenly, one of the thoughtless young scamps in the group, wishing to create a new sensation and add to the general excitement, caught the doll from the child’s arms, and running forward with a loud war-whoop, flung it into the flames. Waitstill did not lose an instant. She gave a scream Of anguish, and without giving any warning of her intentions, probably without realizing them herself, she dashed through the little crowd into the bonfire and snatched her cherished offspring from the burning pile. The whole thing was over in the twinkling of an eye, for Uncle Bart was as quick as the child and dragged her out of the imminent danger with no worse harm done than a good scorching.

      He led the little creature up the hill to explain matters and protect her from a scolding. She still held the doll against her heaving breast, saying, between her sobs: “I couldn’t let my Debby burn up! I couldn’t, Uncle Bart; she’s got nobody but me! Is my dress scorched so much I can’t wear it? You’ll tell father how it was, Uncle Bart, won’t you?”

      Debby bore the marks of her adventure longer than her owner, for she had been longer in the fire, but, stained and defaced as she was, she was never replaced, and remained the only doll of Waitstill’s childhood. At this very moment she lay softly and safely in a bureau drawer ready to be lifted out, sometime, Waitstill fancied, and shown tenderly to Patty’s children. Of her own possible children she never thought. There was but one man in the world who could ever be the father of them and she was separated from him by every obstacle that could divide two human beings.

      SUMMER

      VIII. THE JOINER’S SHOP

      VILLAGE “Aunts” and “Uncles” were elected to that relationship by the common consent of the community; their fitness being established by great age, by decided individuality or eccentricity of character, by uncommon lovableness, or by the possession of an abundant wit and humor. There was no formality about the thing; certain women were always called “Aunt Sukie,” or “Aunt Hitty,” or what not, while certain men were distinguished as “Uncle Rish,” or “Uncle Pel,” without previous arrangement, or the consent of the high contracting parties.

      Such a couple were Cephas Cole’s father and mother, Aunt Abby and Uncle Bart. Bartholomew Cole’s trade was that of a joiner; as for Aunt Abby’s, it can only be said that she made all trades her own by sovereign right of investigation, and what she did not know about her neighbor’s occupations was unlikely to be discovered on this side of Jordan. One of the villagers declared that Aunt Abby and her neighbor, Mrs. Abel Day, had argued for an hour before they could make a bargain about the method of disseminating a certain important piece of news, theirs by exclusive right of discovery and prior possession. Mrs. Day offered to give Mrs. Cole the privilege of Saco Hill and Aunt Betty-Jack’s, she herself to take Guide-Board and Town-House Hills. Aunt Abby quickly proved the injustice of this decision, saying that there were twice as many families living in Mrs. Day’s chosen territory as there were in that allotted to her, so the river road to Milliken’s Mills was grudgingly awarded to Aunt Abby by way of compromise, and the ladies started on what was a tour of mercy in those days, the furnishing of a subject of discussion for long, quiet evenings.

      Uncle Bart’s joiner’s shop was at the foot of Guide-Board Hill on the Riverboro side of the bridge, and it was the pleasantest spot in the whole village. The shop itself had a cheery look, with its weather-stained shingles, its small square windows, and its hospitable door, half as big as the front side of the building. The step was an old millstone too worn for active service, and the piles of chips and shavings on each side of it had been there for so many years that sweet-williams, clove pinks, and purple phlox were growing in among them in the most irresponsible fashion; while a morning-glory vine had crept up and curled around a long-handled rake that had been standing against the front of the house since early spring. There was an air of cosy and amiable disorder about the place that would have invited friendly confabulation even had not Uncle Bart’s white head, honest, ruddy face, and smiling welcome coaxed you in before you were aware. A fine Nodhead apple tree shaded the side windows, and underneath it reposed all summer a bright blue sleigh, for Uncle Bart always described himself as being “plagued for shed room” and kept things as he liked at the shop, having a “p’ison neat” wife who did exactly the opposite at his house.

      The seat of the sleigh was all white now with scattered fruit blossoms, and one of Waitstill’s earliest remembrances was of going downhill with Patty toddling at her side; of Uncle Bart’s lifting them into the sleigh and permitting them to sit there and eat the ripe red apples that had fallen from the tree. Uncle Bart’s son, Cephas (Patty’s secret adorer), was a painter by trade, and kept his pots and cans and brushes in a little outhouse at the back, while Uncle Bart himself stood every day behind his long joiner’s bench almost knee-deep in shavings. How the children loved to play with the white, satiny rings, making them into necklaces, hanging them to their ears and weaving them into wreaths.

      Wonderful houses could always be built in the corner of the shop, out of the little odds and ends and “nubbins” of white pine, and Uncle Bart was ever ready to cut or saw a special piece needed for some great purpose.

      The sound of the plane was sweet music in the old joiner’s ears. “I don’t hardly know how I’d a made out if I’d had to work in a mill,” he said confidentially to Cephas. “The noise of a saw goin’ all day, coupled with your mother’s tongue mornin’s an’ evenin’s, would ‘a’ been too much for my weak head. I’m a quiet man, Cephas, a man that needs a peaceful shop where he can get away from the comforts of home now and then, without shirkin’ his duty nor causin’ gossip. If you should ever marry, Cephas,—which don’t look to me likely without you pick out a dif’rent girl,—I ‘d advise you not to keep your stock o’ paints in the barn or the shed, for it’s altogether too handy to the house and the women-folks. Take my advice and have a place to yourself, even if it’s a small one. A shop or a barn has saved many a man’s life and reason Cephas, for it’s ag’in’ a woman’s nature to have you underfoot in the house without hectorin’ you. Choose a girl same’s you would a horse that you want to hitch up into a span; ‘t ain’t every two that’ll stan’ together without kickin’. When you get the right girl, keep out of her way consid’able an’ there’ll be less wear an’ tear.”

      It was June and the countryside was so beautiful it seemed as if no one could be unhappy, however great the cause. That was what Waitstill Baxter thought as she sat down on the millstone step for a word with the old joiner, her best and most understanding friend in all the village.

      “I’ve come to do my mending here with you,” she said brightly, as she took out her well-filled basket and threaded her needle. “Isn’t it a wonderful morning? Nobody could look the world in the face and do a wrong thing on such a day, could they, Uncle Bart?”

      The meadows were a waving mass of golden buttercups; the shallow water at the river’s edge just below the shop was blue with spikes of arrow-weed; a bunch of fragrant water-lilies, gathered from the mill-pond’s upper levels, lay beside Waitstill’s mending-basket, and every foot of roadside and field within sight was swaying with long-stemmed white and gold daisies. The June grass, the friendly, humble, companionable grass, that no one ever praises as they do the flowers, was a rich emerald green, a velvet carpet fit for the feet of the angels themselves. And the elms and maples! Was there ever such a year for richness of foliage? And the sky, was it ever so blue or so clear, so far away, or so completely like heaven, as you looked at its reflection in the glassy surface of the river?

      “Yes, it’s a pretty good day,” allowed Uncle Bart judicially as he took a squint at his T-square. “I don’ know’s I should want to start out an’ try to beat it! The Lord can make a good many kinds o’ weather in the course of a year, but when He puts his mind on to it, an’ kind o’ gives Himself a free hand, He can turn out a June morning that must make the Devil sick to his stomach with envy! All the same, Waity, my cow ain’t behavin’ herself any better’n usual. She’s been rampagin’ since sun-up. I’ve seen mother chasin’ her out o’ Mis’ Day’s garden-patch twice a’ready!—It seems real good an’ homey to see you settin’