Copyright, 1913, by Kate Douglas Wiggin ~ Pe ] D AMID 2), DN fl N\a30 ! ~~ I en ) = — = — La) RS 0 TY ree = i \\ f J) Author of “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm” PROLOGUE. Strength and interest of quiet lives in the New England of three-quarters ¢f a century ago provide the framework of “The Story of Waitstill Baxter.” That is the skeleton. The flesh and blood of human beings, living and loving and moving in a world of their own that is a miniature picture of the greater world out- side, are also there. The story is a cross section of life as seen and described by a woman who has been well called ‘America’s greatest living woman novelist.” Amid the hills of New England are many men and women like Waitstill and Patience Baxter and their father, Ivory Boynton | and his afflicted mother and Junny Cepkhas Cole, who woos | hopefully, but with small chance | the great saws buzzed, the smoke from tavern chimneys rose in the air, and the rattle and clatter of stagecoaches resounded along the road. Now children paddled with bare feet | in the river's sandy coves and shal- lows, and lovers sat on its alder shaded banks and exchanged their vows just where the shuffling bear was wont to come down and drink. The Saco could remember the “cold year,” when there was a black frost every month of the twelve, and, though almost all the corn along its shores shriveled on the stalk, there were two farms where the vapor from the river saved the crops, and all the seed for the next season came from the favored spot, to be known as “Egypt” from that day henceforward. Strange, complex things now began - to happen, and the river played its own | part in some of these, for there were | disastrous freshets, the sudden break- ing up of great jams of logs and the drowning of men who were engulfed n the dark whirlpool below the rapids. Caravans, with menageries of wild of success. They find their way ' peasts, crossed the bridge now every into books but seldom, for it! year. An infuriated elephant lifted the takes a master hand to describe ' side of the old Edgewood tavern barn, faithfully the doings of real people. And that is the reason why ‘‘The Story of Waitstill Baxter’ has won highest praise | from critics who know a good book when they see one. CHAPTER | The Sisters. AR, far up in the bosom of New Hampshire's granite hills the Saco has its birth. As the mountain rill gathers strength it takes Through Bartlett's vales its tuneful way, Or hides in Conway's fragrant brakes Retreating from the glare of day. Now it leaves the mountains and flows through “green Kryeburg's woods and farms.” In the course of its frequent turns and twists and bends it meets with many another stream and sends it, fuller and stronger, along its rejoicing way. When it has journeyed more than 100 miles and is nearing the ocean it greets the Great Ossipee river and accepts its crystal tribute. Then in its turn the Little Ossipee joins forces and the river, now a splendid stream, flows onward to Bonny Eagle, to Mod- eration and to Salmon falls, where it dashes over the dam like a young Niagara and hurtles in a foamy torrent through the ragged defile cut between lofty banks of solid rock. Widening out placidly for a moment’s rest in the sunny reaches near Pleas- ant point it gathers itself for a new plunge at Union falls, after which it speedily merges itself in the bay and is fresh water no more. At one of the falls on the Saco the two little hamlets of Edgewood and Riverboro nestle together at the bridge and make one village. The stream is a wonder of beauty just here, a mirror of placid loveliness above the dam, a tawny, roaring wonder at the fall and a mad, white flecked torrent as it dashes on its way to the ocean. The river has seen strange sights in its time, though the history of these two tiny villages is quite unknown to | the great world outside. They have been born, waxed strong and fallen almost to decay while Saco water has tumbled over the rocks and spent itself in its impetuous journey to the sea. | It remembers the yellow moccasined Sokokis as they issued from the Indian Cellar and carried their birchen canoes | along the wooded shore. It was in those years that the silver skinned sal- mon leaped in its crystal depths, the otter and the beaver crept with sleek wet skins upon its shore and the brown deer came down to quench his | thirst at its brink, while at twilight the stealthy forms of bear and panther and wolf were mirrored in its glassy surface. Time sped. Men chained the river's turbulent forces and ordered it to grind at the mill. Then houses and barns appeared along its banks. bridges were built, orchards planted. forests changed into farms, white painted meeting houses gleamed through the trees, and distant bells rang from their steeples on quiet Sun- day mornings. All at once myriads of great hewn logs vexed its downward course, slen- der logs linked together in long rafts and huge logs drifting down singly or In pairs. Men appeared, running hith- er and thither like ants and going through mysterious operations the rea- son for which the river could never guess. But the mill wheels turned, and the wild laughter of the roistering rum drinkers who were tantalizing the animals floated down to the rivers edge. The roar of a lion, tearing and chewing the arm of one of the by- standers, and the cheers of the throng when a plucky captain of the local | militia thrust a stake down the beast’s throat—these sounds displaced the for- | mer warwhoop of the Indians and the ring of the ax in the virgin forests along the shores. There were days and moonlight nights, too, when strange sights and sounds of quite another nature could have been noted by the river as it flowed under the bridge that united the two little villages. Issuing from the door of the River- boro townhouse and winding down the hill through the long row of teams and carriages that lined the roadside, came a procession of singing men and sing- ing women. Convinced of sin, but en- tranced with promised pardon, spirjtu- ' ally intoxicated by the glowing elo- quence of the latter day prophet they . were worshiping, the band of *Coch- : ranites” marched down the dusty road and across the bridge, dancing, sway- | ing, waving handkerchiefs and shout- ing hosannas. Go watched and listened, knowing that there would be other prophets, true and false, in the days to come, and other processions following them. And the river watched and listened, too. as it hurried on toward the sea with its story of the present that was some time to be the history of the past. When Jacob Cochrane was leading his overwrought, ecstatic band across the river. Waitstill Baxter, then a child was watching the strange, noisy company from the window of a little brick dwelling on the top of the Town House hill. Her stepmother stood beside her with a young baby in her arms, but when she saw what held the gaze of the child she drew her away, saying. “We mustn’t look, Waitstill; your fa- ther don’t like it!” “Who was the big man at the head, mother?” “His name is Jacob Cochrane, but you mustn’t think or talk about him. . He is very wicked.” “He doesn’t look any wickeder than the others,” said the child. “Who was ‘ the man that fell down in the road, mother, and the woman that knelt and prayed over him? Why did he fall, and why did she pray. mother?’ “That was Master Aaron Boynton, the schoolmaster, and his wife. He only made believe to fall down, as the Cochranites do; the way they carry on is a disgrace to the village, and that’s the reason your father won't let us look at them.” “] played with a nice boy over to Boynton’s,” mused the child. “That was Ivory, their only child. He is a good little fellow, but his mother and father will spoil him with their crazy ways.” . “I hope nothing will happen to him, for 1 love him.” said the child gravely. “He showed me a humming bird’s nest. the first 1 ever saw, and the littlest!” “Don’t talk about loving him,” chid- ed the woman. “If your father should hear you he'd send you to bed without your porridge.” “Father conldn't hear me, for I never speak when he’s at home.” said grave little Waitstill. “And I’m used to going to bed without my porridge.” * * ® * * * * The river was still running under the bridge, but the current of time had swept Jacob Cochrane out of sight. though not out of mind, for he had left here and tire a disciple to preach his strange and uncertain doctrine. Wait- still, the child who never spoke in her father’s presence, was a young woman , Dow, the mistress of the house; the ' stepmother was dead and the baby a . girl of seventeen. | The brick cottage on the hilltop had | growr. only a little shabbier. Deacon Foxwell Baxter still slammed its door behind him every morning at 7 o'clock and, without any such cheerful conven- tions as goodbys to his gziris. walked i [Continued on page 7, Col. 1] . Medical Discovery is a food medicine. It The growing child has to be doubly : nourished—once for the ordinary needs: of the body and once for growth. Al great many times there is not enough | nourishing food taken to provide for the | needs of growth; the body is poor, the! blood thin, and every condition is suita- ble for the lodgment of disease in the enfeebled system. Dr. Pierce’s Golden furnishes the body through the blood with all the elements needed to make sound flesh and sturdy muscle. 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Summer Clearance Sale Owing to the continued cold weather we be- gin our Summer Clearance Sale now. The hot weather stuffs must be sold in the next six weeks. We are cutting prices in every department. Coat Suits. 25 Coat Suits, all this Spring styles, in the new blues, tan, navy and black, at quick sell- ing prices. We never carry any stock over in this department. Children’s Coats. 19 Children’s Coats from 6 to 14 years, all season’s styles. Fancy checks, green, red and pretty plaids at Brices to clean up the stock. Muslin Underwear. Night Gowns, Corset Covers, Combination Corset Covers and Drawers, Corset Covers and Petticoats trimmed in lace and embroid- ery, at clearance sale prices. Rummage Table. Shirt Waist and Dress Patterns on this table at less than actual cost, also a line of Muslin Underwear. Everything on this table must go regardless of cost Lyon & Co. ... Bellefonte
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