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'Copyright, !>y W. O. ChapnuUb)
E 11R little mother, as
I her husband called
H I her, sat in the porch
I where the vino
I leaves fluttered
—B down, while her lius
ban,! gathered the
_ygyg{j| % ! over-ripe grapes
rrom tlie t,vlliri -
She was old now,
but still fair with beauty of the j
spirit blossomed out on the pale face
whose smile wns sweet as ever. Her
husband, tall and thin and brown,
glanced ut her now and then as if he
still saw the loveliness she wore when
he brought her home, his wife. And
as she looked up at him he was still
the stalwart youth, the touch of whose
strong hand once made her heart beat
so madly. Their children were all
gone; some to the further life, some
returning for a holiday.
"To think," she said, "that the day
you fetched me here I could sit in the
door and see the river loopin' along
all blue an' silver, and the low hills
beyond, with their black pine woods
an' the sunshine falling through, and
all the wide ma'sh an' the haystacks,
an' the colors changin' on 'em. It
seemed to me—l do' no' what it
seemed to me! Oh, heaven can't be no
more beautiful than that was, lookin'
dov.n this side the knoll. There's a
big bunch 'most beyond your hand,
jes' drippin" 'ith juice—"
"And one day you cut down the
big elms at the back there —"
"Hated to. A tree alius seems to
me to have a life of its own, 'most
as much as a man has. I don't feel no
assurance I ain't settin' a sperrit free.
But there, who knows. Anyway it
cleared a sightly spot for you on
t'other side."
"I don't care. I wisht that, swamp
could be struck by lightnin' fust!"
"Lightnin' never struck a hull ten
acre lot at onst."
"It might set fire to it."
"An' burn up somebody's wood lot!
Why, Huldy, I'm "shamed on ye!" I
"You orter be, I'm 'shamed on my-!
self. But I feel jes' so. We ain't got j
many years to live, as you say; and j
I'd like to see that likeness of the |
promised land an' hev Laury see it. I j
do' no' as Asa'd care so much. Laury j
likes it open all about her. She'd stay j
hero more. She'd hev her colored '
chalks out in no time. Them paintin' (
people down in Peelde's pastur'd may j
be give her some hints. An' you
know the minister said Laury lied a
real gift for droriif. Hut there, she
won't be here tell Christmas time.
Sakes alive, father, what a Christmas
it'd be 'ith that swamp burned up—"
"Well, well, wife, as long as we've
got each other, an' the children, here
and in heaven, anil enough to keep the
wolf from the door —"
"I know. And I'm silly. An' the
dear Lord knows I ain't makin' no
fuss. I'm jes' sayin' what I'd like. I
•lid usetor love that, sight—an' the
Lord made it. My, I guess he loved
beautiful thin's, tew. I set by it. I'm
happy as thin's are; but I'd be happier
of that was throwed in."
"Like a clironio down to the store
w'< n you're tradin" your butter. Wal,
it's time I give Brindle her supper, an'
she give me mine. I hope the day'll
be long o' comin' w'en I can't milk my
cow an' take her sweet breath all
made o* clover blows. There —1 guess
the birds may have all I've left.
There's a bunch on top for luck. Yes,
there they be, comin* after it now.
You can't make Jell 'ith them grapes,
they're too ripe, little mother.
"They'll make sweetmeat, all right."
' An' the's nothin' nieer'n your grape
sweetmeat 'ith my meat. But, I,or
sakes. I guess you'd cook sawdust so't
would be tasty. I'm g'»d we've got
suthin' to cook with- not like them
city folks, dependln' on coal an' none
to depend on. That's a noble wood
pile we've got. There's nothin' like
belli' forehanded. Come, it's gittin
dampish, an' you'd better be thinkiii
o' your rheumatics. Kf they'd dr#en
that swamp you wouldn't be havin'
rheumatics. I lay most Of our ilia I
tn the dump* tliui rlucs f'uin there. |
I'd sell the place an* git away to- j
morn r i'l there was any one to J
buy."
"No no, I wouldn't have you
You've got a silly old wife, moonlit'
over something she's lost sight of," .
and she went in with hint to put
on the teakettle. He carried the :
basket of grapes on one arm, hit' j
he put the ether arm about her to i
help her a little. "An' wen we say !
grace, Huldy, we'll thank the Lord
we even hed the picter, ami hev it ,
still to remember," he said.
In the doorway of the little red j
house on a lower terrace of the
knoll two other persons were talk- '
ing, as it chanced, upon the same I
theme. The curve of the hill hid ■
all but a gable of the little red j
house In Peeble's pasture from the
eyes of the old people above, and
the forest of the swamp hid from j
It, also, the view of plain and river
and hill that had so fed the poetry
in the soul of the little mother.
"Well," said Luzanne, looking |
over her husband's shoulder, before I
the closed easel and color box, "it's j
great, this coming into the country to j
paint and photograph winter scenes j
and finding yourself shut off from the !
most glorious landscape you can j
Imagine!"
"Shut off?" inquired her husband.
"Oh, you're content with tJie day of J
small things, Eugene! I was till I i
saw what lies on the other side of that
great, wet wood down there."
"What is it? Morning and Greek
temples? Sunshine and a rolling sea? j
The purple of the hills?"
"Titles for pictures? No; pictures t
themselves. Just the vale of Avoca, j
the vale of Cashmlre, the valley of |
Avilion, a fragment of Eden. Some
thing idyllic and perfect. 1 was on
the edge of the wood and got in—it
was so alluring—deeper and deeper,
till there I was scared to death of the
morass—"
"Poor child."
"Hut it. wasn't so wet, after all —it's
been so dry—though there were spots
just steaming where tlie sun broke
through. But I skirted them anil made
for the light, and the trees grew thin
ner, and suddenly I was at the end,
and there, below and beyond, lay the
very outskirts of Paradise. Yes, in
deed, a view that would make our
everlasting fortunes and give us sat
isfaction in our souls if we could put
even bits of it on canvas. Why, I
should feel I'd been chosen for sancti
fication if 1 were only allowed to do
it. You must come down with me and
see for yourself, Eugene. I never
shall be content togo on painting old
Purple behind us there, now I've seen
this. And fancy, if that swampy wood
were out of the way, we could sit
here all winter and sketch, and feel
an uplift in every brushful of paint,
and every one of the pictures would
be hung on the line next spring. Isn't
it hard to be shut out of Paradise by
a bit of woods? It's as bad as a
flamln? sword."
"I'm not shut out of Paradise," said
her husband, looking at her with the
i red on her cheeks, the spark in her
' eyes, her whole face fell of the spirit
' of life.
"Oh, I know, it's all delightful, our
j being together here by ourselves. It
! is Paradise, of course. But that view
! out there would justify it, and it's
! vexatious to have togo afield for what
| we might have from our own door.
' And it's too far, in the winter weather,
j every day. There's a long interval of
| champagne country from tender green
j to dark, with warm russets, and a
! blush of red sapphire, threaded with
; creeks that are neither Hue nor green,
! but the green of the grass and the
j blue of the sky and the gold of the
i sun; and in.the middle distance a
I river skims along, the blue stooping
! into it.and beyond are hills clothed
I with level layers of pine forest, and
j you look straight into their depths as
j if you penetrated mysteries, and over
! all is a bountiful, enormous sky, blue
as blue, and carrying here and there
| a mare's tail of a snowy cloud. And
: gulls—you ought to see the 10,000
j gulls swooping round the river! Oh,
It's no tisc staying here with that to
| tantalize us, the breadth, the large
ness, the freedom —and only old pur
i pie hills to console us. One picture
of old Purple and there's an end. But
this —why, you could paint all winter
and not exhaust it. Think of it, with
the blue shadows of the snow, with
sunsets like fires on a great hearth,
in a dark blue midnight, while the
stars shake in the wind! If we could
wake up some morning anil find it
gone!"
"The days of miracles are gone."
"Oh, my, it makes me cross!"
"I wouldn't be cross, sweet purvey
or of motifs. I'd come in and make
my husband a cup of tea, and then
dress for dinner in my gown with the
i sea gray chiffons and make believe
pearls, and I'd play I was a Venetian
| lady supping with old Tizian—"
"Nothing, if not modest. I believe
j you'd lie satisfied to paint old Purple
> forever!"
"Willi my wife looking over my
i shoulder; yes."
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, DECEMBER jo, igoß.
"BUT IT WASN'T SO WET AFTER ALL."
"For my part, I shan't be happy
again till I forget that scene, with
its blues and greens and vapors and
sunbeams. We can't get down there
to rfketch in the winter months."
"But we can find a great deal in old
Purple. Come; it's a damp breath
blows over from that swamp. A good
frost will make that right, however.
Come in and shut the door. I like to
feel the door shut you and me in from
the rest of the world."
If there is no such thing as telep
athy there certainly ought to be, in or
der to explain some things. It was in
this same half hour that the Champion
family down in the Port came in, one
by one, shivering and shrugging their
shoulders, and brightening at sight of
the big fire their mother had had laid
on the hearth of the library, its flames
making the whole room rosy.
"Nothing beats fire," said Rose
Champion, pulling off her gloves and
holding out her little hands, sparkling
with rings.
"Dante's conception of the deepest
hell as a big block of ice just suits
mine," said Katherine.
"One might as well starve as perish
with cold," said Rose.
"The English call perishing with
cold starving."
"I was thinking of the poop people
who can't get coal."
"I myself believe the world will
come to an end with cold," said So
phy, "and not with fire. The sun will
cool, and the earth will freeze. Minus
270."
"Well, that's a good way off, I hope,"
said their father, coming in. "Mighty
unseasonable weather," as they ran
1 and warmed him with their welcome.
"The first lire of autumn," he said,
rubbing his hands and taking posses
sion of his chair. "It always has a
promise of cheer. Where'd you get
this wood, my love? It snaps like
apple wood."
"It is; it's the old apple tree that
came ashore at the foot of the garden
in the freshet," said Mrs. Champion.
"Lucky flotsam. I wish there'd be
a freshet that would bring an old ap
ple tree to every family in town."
"I guess you'll be that frwshet, pa,"
said ♦Sophy.
"I'm sure I don't know what some
of them are going to do," said his
wife, pulling up her shawl in sympa
thy with her thoughts, "with no mon
ey to buy coal at present prices, and
110 coal to be bought at any price."
"Thank goodness, we filled our bins
l:i April. But it looks now as if we
would have togo shares with some
that didn't."
"Why, how can we? We'd freeze
ourselves."
"I don't know; but some way must
be provided. In this interior place
people would perish before we could
get the coal from abroad or from
Nova Scotia."
"I suppose they'll be glad even of
wood," said Mrs. Champion. "It's
dreadful for them —and Christmas
coming."
"Poor sort of Christmas for them."
"Dreadful," echoed Katherine.
"I wish there were something we
could do —"
"Do! To supply a whole township
with heat?"
"We might cut down the oaks on
the avenue."
"Those magnificent oaks! I guess
not!" said Rob, looking up from his
book. "Why, it would ruin the whole
place! Don't you let them, father!"
"I've no idea of it. Those oaks are
as old as oaks can be and live. They
are full of history. No, indeed."
"And you would rather people
should freeze!" cried Rose.
"Give them your rings to buy fuel.
Rose," said her father.
"My engagement ring! And the
ring was Donald's mother's—and she
dead!"
"I value these pines similarly. They
were my father's; and he is dead."
"What can we do, pa, dear?"
"I don't know, tfnless you take the
money you would have at Christmas
and do what you please with that.
Fifty dollars apiece is what you've
always had. And I'll double it. That's
the best I can do."
"Oh!" said Sophy, softly. "And there
are so many things 1 want to do with
mine."
"I, too," saiil Bob.
"Oh, I'd counted so much on that
fifty," said Rose.
"Well, you can take your choice,"
said their father. "I've taken mine.
I shall go without a new overcoat,
and your niother'U have to make her
old sealskin do."
"I'm sure I shall be glad," said the
mother.
"But you can't get coal. And it
would buy eo little wood, after all."
"Because you can't stop some of the
suffering in the world is 110 reason
you shouldn't stop any," said Kather
ine. "I don't care! It's wicked to be
having Christmas presents and all
that when people art' dying of cold.
And it would keep four or five fain
llli'H warm all winter."
"Four or five?" said lier father.
"With economy, half again as
many."
"Don'', then!" exclaimed Katli
erln<*. "And I see the gold chain
and baroque pearl 1 wa» to have go
ing up In smoke,"
"And my si-t of Pater," ruefully.
"And my amethyst heart."
"A real holocaust," said their fa
ther.
"Father," said nob, "I've an Idea
worth two of that. You knrtw that
piece of swamp land of yours up
country, on the old Peebles farm?
There's enough wood in that for 50
families—black birch, gray birch,
yellow birch, brown ash—l don't
know what—and —all—"
"But, Hob, that's a -splendid
piece cf forest. 1 should hate to cut
it down."
"Even to keep 50 families, or
maybe 100, from distress? The
girls' money will pay for cutting
and hauling and kilndrying and dis
tributing, anil it can all be done
before Christmas —and there you
arc!"
"Bob," said Mr. Champion, "you're
:i cuius! There we are!"
"There we are!" said the girls in
one brave breath. "It will be a good
Christmas present for them, won't it,
pa ?"
"It makes me all of a glow now to
think of it!" said Rose. "I wonder
what Donald will say. Fifty or 100
families made comfortable by going
without some trinkets —though I did
want that English edition of 'Pater.'
Why, we don't know 100 poor fami
lies."
"The General Charitable does. When
shall we begin, father? I'll oversee
it for you," said Rob.
"To-morrow morning, early," said
his father. "There won't be an hour
to spare if you want that wood de
livered by or before Christmas. I'll
have drains putin as we go along
and get a good piece of grass land out
of it. Well, I shall sleep better to
night."
If the people on the knoll had lis
tened that next day and many a day
thereafter, they might have heard, or
thought they heard, a sound of chop
ping in the swamp woods, faint, far
off, muffled in the rustling of falling
leaves and the crashing of branches.
But the painting people were busy
with Old Purple at the back of the lit
tle red house, and little mother was
getling her mince meat ready for
Christmas, and what with stoning
raisins and slicing citron and sifting
spices and boiling down cider, she was
too much occupied to think of any
thing but her work and of Asa's and
Laury's home-coming.
"It seems to me the woodpeckers
are dretful busy down in the swamp,"
she said once.
"Prob'ly the trees hev borers," said
her husband.
"Why, that's too bad," she said with
! her quick habit of kindliness, and
went on about her work.
She had just put her mince meat in
to its stone crock to mellow, when a
sudden access of her rheumatism sent
her to bed with jugs of hot water at
her feet and opodeldoc flannels all
over her, ami copious draughts of com
position powder, her eyes following
her husband through the open door
in fright and dismay at his attempts
to do her work, till the painting lady,
as they called her, happened up the
hill, and, stranger though she was, her
self took hold and put things into
shape and cooked enough to last till
Laury should come, having written to
Laury to make haste. "I wouldn't
send for her," she said, "but we have
togo and arrange our exhibition, and
i - ;I1 uui things. But I sha'n't go till
Laury conies. We're coming back to
have our first Christmas together here
but we must, go as soon as we can."
"You're real good," sighed the little
woman. "I'm more obleeged to you'n
I can say. I hate to see him stewing
about like a kitchen-colonel. But, oh,
I did want to be around when Laury
come. I be a little better." She took
the painting lady's hand and raised it
to her lips. "Oh, you mustn't!" the
lady cried; and she bent down and
kissed the withered cheek.
"The Lord'll reward you for the
good you've done, an' the cheer you've
give," said the little mother. "Ef ho
don't in no other way, he's done a
mighty lot for you in makin' you jes'
you."
And so it came to pass that two
or three weeks later the stage set
down the painting people one night
at a point on the highway a few rods
from the little red house in Peeble's
pasture, ami they picked their way
along through the dark in some con
cern over a bright light shining from
the windows. "I sensed you'd be com-
In' about this time," said Laury, open
ing the door. "And I t'ought 'twould
be kinder lonesomelike for you in the
dark an' cold, and I come down an'
lighted the fires an' got you some
supper, an' some of mother's mince
pies. And I've had a rc*il good time
lookin' al the thin s you've .hung up.
They've learned me lots. Mother's a
sight 'hotter. She's been settin' up
wrapt in a comforter by the kitchen
stove. I ain't let her goto the winder
yet; it's so draughty. An' then I'm
keepin' the winder for Christmus. I'm
goin' to push her chair over there to
morrow inornin', Christmus mornin',
you know. The Lord's got a surprise
for her there. He's got suthin' for
her she's longed for ever since Bates
was hung—the grandest Christmus
present ever you see. 1 hope the sun'U
be out. It's ben rainin' stiddy the
whole endurin' week. January thaw's
lost count an' come ahead o' time, I
guess; an' there ain't a speck o' snow
in the valley. I wouldn't wonder but
you'll find your share in mother's
Christmus, tew."
"What in the world are you talking:
about?" asked the painting lady.
"Come up an' tell her if you do,"
said Laury, and snatched up her shawl
and ran away laughing.
The sun was streaming into the
room before the painting people, tired
with their journey and their work,
awoke. It was at the same moment
that every team to be had down at the
Port was delivering great loads or
wood at 50 gates, with the best Christ
mas wishes of the Champion family.
It was only partially dry, to be sure,
but there was enough pine-tree kin
dling to insure a royal blaze and every
burning armful would dry another
armful.
"Luzanne!" cried her husband, rub
bing his sleepy eyes; "what in the
name of mercy are you doing?" For
she was kneeling at the window with
both hands clasped, her hair falling
about her, her face shining with ecs
tasy.
"Come and see!" she cried. "Oh.
Eugene, the miracle has happened!
Oh, can't you buy the place? Come,
come and see! The swamp is gone,
all gone! What am I doing? I am
looking into heaven!"
For there, all the soft rusts and
russets veiled and glowing under a
translucence of violet vapors smitten
with the sun, lay the long intervale,
the river sparkling through it curve
after curve alive with light; beyond
it the pine-clad hills, their black-green
depths casting purple gleams across
them, and a great pale heaven, still
with a flush of rosy sunrise in it,
soaring overhead.
It was at the same instant that
I.aury, having helped her mother,
rolled in blankets, into her chair, had,
with Asa's and her father's help,
pushed it to the window and pulled
up the white shade. The little mother
looked out bewildered. "No snow?"
she sai'l. Then she looked back at
her husband, at the others, and looked
out again. "Have I died?" she whis
pered, hoarsely.
"Oh, mother, mother, don't you see
what's happened?" cried I.aury. "Fa
ther's kep' it for a surprise. It's the
dear Lord's Christmas gift to you!"
"Oh!" she said, clasping her little
thin hands. "It gives me youth again.
It's what 1 had, so long ago, with
health and stren'th an' love. Oh, fa
ther dear, I think heaven'll look Jes"
so! You don't suppose it's a dream, a
vision—that it won't last?"
"Last?" saiil her husband. "They've
dreened the swamp and are goin' to
lay it down to grass. An' there'll bo
no more damps rising to make rheu
matics. An* you'll see it every day of
your life as long as we live, little
mother."
"It's too good, it's too good," she
said. "I must be goin' to die. I've
heern tell o' folks dreaming dreams
an' seein' visions w'en they was goin'
to die. Well, well, I don't deserve it,
but what a Christmas mornin". You
and the two children here an' the
delectable country there. Oh, lt'a
beautiful! It makes the world seem
a fit place for Christ to have been
born in. I hope the Lord knows how
thankful I be." And all day long
they heard her singing softly to her
self part of an old communion an
them, "Oh, taste and s»« that tliv
Lord Is good."
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