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diff --git a/19989-8.txt b/19989-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f5be7a --- /dev/null +++ b/19989-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1309 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Story-Tell Lib, by Annie Trumbull Slosson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Story-Tell Lib + +Author: Annie Trumbull Slosson + +Release Date: December 1, 2006 [EBook #19989] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORY-TELL LIB *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +Story-Tell Lib + +----------------------------------------------------------------------- + +[Illustration] + +------------------------------------------------------------------------- + +Story-Tell Lib + +By +Annie Trumbull Slosson + +Author of "Fishin' Jimmy" + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS +NEW YORK . . . . . 1908 + +------------------------------------------------------------------------- + +_Copyright, 1900_ +BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS +_All rights reserved_ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------- + + CONTENTS + + PAGE + + I. STORY-TELL LIB 3 + II. THE SHET-UP POSY 13 + III. THE HORSE THAT B'LEEVED HE'D GET THERE 25 + IV. THE PLANT THAT LOST ITS BERRY 37 + V. THE STONY HEAD 47 + VI. DIFF'ENT KIND O' BUNDLES 57 + VII. THE BOY THAT WAS SCARET O' DYIN' 71 + +------------------------------------------------------------------------- + + + + +STORY-TELL LIB + +I + +Story-Tell Lib + + +That was what everybody in the little mountain village called her. Her +real name, as she often told me, ringing out each syllable proudly in +her shrill sweet voice, was Elizabeth Rowena Marietta York. A stately +name, indeed, for the little crippled, stunted, helpless creature, and I +myself could never think of her by any name but the one the village +people used, Story-tell Lib. I had heard of her for two or three summers +in my visits to Greenhills. The village folk had talked to me of the +little lame girl who told such pretty stories out of her own head, "kind +o' fables that learnt folks things, and helped 'em without bein' too +preachy." But I had no definite idea of what the child was till I saw +and heard her myself. She was about thirteen years of age, but very +small and fragile. She was lame, and could walk only with the aid of a +crutch. Indeed, she could but hobble painfully, a few steps at a time, +with that assistance. Her little white face was not an attractive one, +her features being sharp and pinched, and her eyes faded, dull, and +almost expressionless. Only the full, prominent, rounding brow spoke of +a mind out of the common. She was an orphan, and lived with her aunt, +Miss Jane York, in an old-fashioned farmhouse on the upper road. + +Miss Jane was a good woman. She kept the child neatly clothed and +comfortably fed, but I do not think she lavished many caresses or loving +words on little Lib, it was not her way, and the girl led a lonesome, +quiet, unchildlike life. Aunt Jane tried to teach her to read and write, +but, whether from the teacher's inability to impart knowledge, or from +some strange lack in the child's odd brain, Lib never learned the +lesson. She could not read a word, she did not even know her alphabet. I +cannot explain to myself or to you the one gift which gave her her +homely village name. She told stories. I listened to many of them, and I +took down from her lips several of these. They are, as you will see if +you read them, "kind o' fables," as the country folk said. They were all +simple little tales in the dialect of the hill country in which she +lived. But each held some lesson, suggested some truth, which, strangely +enough, the child herself did not seem to see; at least, she never +admitted that she saw or intended any hidden meaning. + +I often questioned her as to this after we became friends. After +listening to some tale in which I could discern just the lovely truth +which would best help some troubled soul in her audience, I have +questioned her as to its meaning. I can see now, in memory, the +short-sighted, expressionless eyes of faded blue which met mine as she +said, "Don't mean anything,--it don't. It's jest a story. Stories don't +have to mean things; they're stories, and I tells 'em." That was all she +would say, and the mystery remained. What did it mean? Whence came that +strange power of giving to the people who came to her something to help +and cheer, both help and cheer hidden in a simple little story? Was it, +as I like to think, God-given, a treasure sent from above? Or would you +rather think it an inheritance from some ancestor, a writer, a teller of +tales? Or perhaps you believe in the transmigration of souls, and think +that the spirit of some Ęsop of old, who spoke in parables, had entered +the frail crippled body of our little Lib, and spoke through her pinched +pale lips. I leave you your theories, I keep my own. + +But one thing which I find I have omitted thus far may seem to you to +throw a little light on this matter. It does not help me much. Lib was a +wonderful listener, as well as a narrator. Miss Jane sometimes took an +occasional boarder. Teachers, clergymen, learned professors, had from +time to time tarried under her roof. And while these talked to one +another, or to some visitor from neighboring hotels, little Lib would +sit motionless and silent by the hour. One would scarcely call it +listening; to listen seems too active a verb in this case. The girl's +face wore no eager look of interest, the faded, short-sighted eyes did +not light up with intelligence, nor the features quiver with varied +emotions. If she received ideas from what fell upon her ears, it must +have been by a sort of unconscious absorption. She took it in as the +earth does the rain or the flower the sunshine. And so it was with any +reading aloud from book or paper. She would sit, utterly quiet, while +the reader's voice went on, and nothing could draw her away till it was +ended. Question her later as to what was read or spoken of, and you +gained no satisfaction. If she had any idea of what she had heard, she +had not the power of putting it into words. "I like it. I like it lots," +she would say; that was all. + +Throughout the whole summer in which I knew the child, the summer which +came so quickly, so sadly, to an end, little Lib sat, on bright, fair +days, in a low wooden chair under the maples in front of the farmhouse. +And it had grown to be the custom of her many friends, both young and +old, to gather there, and listen to her stories, if she had any to tell. +I often joined the group of listeners. On many, many days, as the season +advanced, Lib had no words for us. She had always been a fragile, puny +little creature, and this year she seemed to grow weaker, thinner, more +waxen white, each day. She had a wonderful voice, shrill, far-reaching, +but strangely sweet and clear, with a certain vibrating, reedy, +bird-like quality, which even yet thrills me as I recall it. + +I am going to tell you a few of the little stories, pictures, fables, +parables, allegories,--I scarcely know what to call them,--which I heard +Story-tell Lib relate. The words are her own, but I cannot give you the +sweet tones, the quaint manner, the weird, strange personality, of the +little narrator. Let me say here that often the little parables seemed +meant to cheer and lift up Lib's own trembling soul, shut up in the +frail, crippled body. Meant, I say; perhaps that is not the right word. +For did she mean anything by these tales, at least consciously? Be that +as it may, certain of these little stories seemed to touch her own case +strangely. + + + + +The Shet-up Posy + +II + + +The first story I ever heard the child tell was one of those which +seemed to hold comfort and cheer for herself or for humble little souls +like her. It was a story of the closed gentian, the title of which she +announced, as she always did, loudly, and with an amusing little air of +self-satisfaction. + + +The Shet-up Posy + +Once there was a posy. 'T wa'n't a common kind o' posy, that blows out +wide open, so's everybody can see its outsides and its insides too. +But 't was one of them posies like what grows down the road, back o' your +pa's sugar-house, Danny, and don't come till way towards fall. They're +sort o' blue, but real dark, and they look 's if they was buds 'stead +o' posies,--only buds opens out, and these doesn't They're all shet up +close and tight, and they never, never, never opens. Never mind how much +sun they get, never mind how much rain or how much drouth, whether it's +cold or hot, them posies stay shet up tight, kind o' buddy, and not +finished and humly. But if you pick 'em open, real careful, with a +pin,--I've done it,--you find they're dreadful pretty inside. + +You couldn't see a posy that was finished off better, soft and nice, +with pretty little stripes painted on 'em, and all the little things +like threads in the middle, sech as the open posies has, standing up, +with little knots on their tops, oh, so pretty,--you never did! Makes +you think real hard, that does; leastways, makes me. What's they that +way for? If they ain't never goin' to open out, what's the use o' havin' +the shet-up part so slicked up and nice, with nobody never seem' it? +Folks has different names for 'em, dumb foxgloves, blind genshuns, and +all that, but I allers call 'em the shet-up posies. + +Well, 't was one o' that kind o' posy I was goin' to tell you about. +'Twas one o' the shet-uppest and the buddiest of all on 'em, all +blacky-blue and straight up and down, and shet up fast and tight. +Nobody'd ever dream't was pretty inside. And the funniest thing, it +didn't know 'twas so itself! It thought 'twas a mistake somehow, thought +it had oughter been a posy, and was begun for one, but wa'n't finished, +and 'twas terr'ble unhappy. It knew there was pretty posies all 'round +there, goldenrod and purple daisies and all; and their inside was the +right side, and they was proud of it, and held it open, and showed the +pretty lining, all soft and nice with the little fuzzy yeller threads +standin' up, with little balls on their tip ends. And the shet-up posy +felt real bad; not mean and hateful and begrudgin', you know, and +wantin' to take away the nice part from the other posies, but sorry, and +kind o' 'shamed. + +"Oh, deary me!" she says,--I most forgot to say 'twas a girl +posy,--"deary me, what a humly, skimpy, awk'ard thing I be! I ain't +more 'n half made; there ain't no nice, pretty lining inside o' me, like +them other posies; and on'y my wrong side shows, and that's jest plain +and common. I can't chirk up folks like the goldenrod and daisies does. +Nobody won't want to pick me and carry me home. I ain't no good to +anybody, and I never shall be." + +So she kep' on, thinkin' these dreadful sorry thinkin's, and most +wishin' she'd never been made at all. You know 't wa'n't jest at fust +she felt this way. Fust she thought she was a bud, like lots o' buds all +'round her, and she lotted on openin' like they did. But when the days +kep' passin' by, and all the other buds opened out, and showed how +pretty they was, and she didn't open, why, then she got terr'ble +discouraged; and I don't wonder a mite. + +She'd see the dew a-layin' soft and cool on the other posies' faces, and +the sun a-shinin' warm on 'em as they held 'em up, and sometimes she'd +see a butterfly come down and light on 'em real soft, and kind o' put +his head down to 'em, 's if he was kissin' 'em, and she thought 'twould +be powerful nice to hold her face up to all them pleasant things. But +she couldn't. + +But one day, afore she'd got very old, 'fore she'd dried up or fell +off, or anything like that, she see somebody comin' along her way. 'Twas +a man, and he was lookin' at all the posies real hard and partic'lar, +but he wasn't pickin' any of 'em. Seems 's if he was lookin' for +somethin' diff'rent from what he see, and the poor little shet-up posy +begun to wonder what he was arter. Bimeby she braced up, and she asked +him about it in her shet-up, whisp'rin' voice. And says he, the man +says: "I'm a-pickin' posies. That's what I work at most o' the time. 'T +ain't for myself," he says, "but the one I work for. I'm on'y his help. +I run errands and do chores for him, and it's a partic'lar kind o' posy +he's sent me for to-day." "What for does he want 'em?" says the shet-up +posy. "Why, to set out in his gardin," the man says. "He's got the +beautif'lest gardin you never see, and I pick posies for 't." "Deary +me," thinks she to herself, "I jest wish he'd pick me. But I ain't the +kind, I know." And then she says, so soft he can't hardly hear her, +"What sort o' posies is it you're arter this time?" "Well," says the +man, "it's a dreadful sing'lar order I've got to-day. I got to find a +posy that's handsomer inside than 't is outside, one that folks ain't +took no notice of here, 'cause 'twas kind o' humly and queer to look at, +not knowin' that inside 'twas as handsome as any posy on the airth. Seen +any o' that kind?" says the man. + +Well, the shet-up posy was dreadful worked up. "Deary dear!" she says to +herself, "now if they'd on'y finished me off inside! I'm the right kind +outside, humly and queer enough, but there's nothin' worth lookin' at +inside,--I'm certin sure o' that." But she didn't say this nor anything +else out loud, and bimeby, when the man had waited, and didn't get any +answer, he begun to look at the shet-up posy more partic'lar, to see why +she was so mum. And all of a suddent he says, the man did, "Looks to +me's if you was somethin' that kind yourself, ain't ye?" "Oh, no, no, +no!" whispers the shet-up posy. "I wish I was, I wish I was. I'm all +right outside, humly and awk'ard, queer's I can be, but I ain't pretty +inside,--oh! I most know I ain't." "I ain't so sure o' that myself," +says the man, "but I can tell in a jiffy." "Will you have to pick me to +pieces?" says the shet-up posy. "No, ma'am," says the man; "I've got a +way o' tellin', the one I work for showed me." The shet-up posy never +knowed what he done to her. I don't know myself, but 'twas somethin' +soft and pleasant, that didn't hurt a mite, and then the man he says, +"Well, well, well!" That's all he said, but he took her up real gentle, +and begun to carry her away. "Where be ye takin' me?" says the shet-up +posy. "Where ye belong," says the man; "to the gardin o' the one I work +for," he says. "I didn't know I was nice enough inside," says the +shet-up posy, very soft and still. "They most gen'ally don't," says the +man. + + + + +The Horse that B'leeved he'd Get there + +III + + +Among those who sometimes came to listen to little Lib's allegories was +Mary Ann Sherman, a tall, dark, gloomy woman of whom I had heard much. +She was the daughter of old Deacon Sherman, a native of the village, who +had, some years before I came to Greenhills, died by his own hand, after +suffering many years from a sort of religious melancholia. Whether the +trouble was hereditary and his daughter was born with a tendency +inherited from her father, or whether she was influenced by what she +had heard of his life, and death, I do not know. But she was a dreary +creature with never a smile or a hopeful look upon her dark face. +Nothing to her was right or good; this world was a desert, her friends +had all left her, strangers looked coldly upon her. As for the future, +there was nothing to look forward to in this world or the next. As Dave +Moony, the village cynic, said, "Mary Ann wa'n't proud or set up about +nothin' but bein' the darter of a man that had c'mitted the onpar'nable +sin." Poor woman! her eyes were blinded to all the beauty and brightness +of this world, to the hope and love and joy of the next. What wonder +that one day, as she paused in passing the little group gathered around +Lib, and the child began the little story I give below, I thought it +well fitted to the gloomy woman's case! + + +The Horse that B'leeved he'd Get there + +You've seen them thrashin' machines they're usin' round here. The sort, +you know, where the horses keep steppin' up a board thing 's if they was +climbin' up-hill or goin' up a pair o' stairs, only they don't never get +along a mite; they keep right in the same place all the time, steppin' +and steppin', but never gittin' on. + +Well, I knew a horse once, that worked on one o' them things. His name +was Jack, and he was a nice horse. First time they put him on to thrash, +he didn't know what the machine was, and he walked along and up the +boards quick and lively, and he didn't see why he didn't get on faster. +There was a horse side of him named Billy, a kind o' frettin', cross +feller, and he see through it right off. + +"Don't you go along," he says to Jack; "'t ain't no use; you won't never +get on, they're foolin' us, and I won't give in to 'em." So Billy he +hung back and shook his head, and tried to get away, and to kick, and +the man whipped him, and hollered at him. But Jack, he went on quiet and +quick and pleasant, steppin' away, and he says softly to Billy, "Come +along," he says; "it's all right, we'll be there bimeby. Don't you see +how I'm gittin' on a'ready?" And that was the ways things went every +day. + +Jack never gin up; he climbed and climbed, and walked and walked, jest's +if he see the place he was goin' to, and 's if it got nearer and nearer. +And every night, when they took him off, he was as pleased with his +day's journey 's if he'd gone twenty mile. "I've done first-rate +to-day," he says to cross, kickin' Billy. "The roads was good, and I +never picked up a stone nor dropped a shoe, and I got on a long piece. +I'll be there pretty soon," says he. "Why," says Billy, "what a foolish +fellow you be! You've been in the same place all day, and ain't got on +one mite. What do you mean by _there_? Where is it you think you're +goin', anyway?" + +"Well, I don't 'zackly know," says Jack, "but I'm gittin' there real +spry. I 'most see it one time to-day." He didn't mind Billy's laughin' +at him, and tryin' to keep him from bein' sat'sfied. He jest went on +tryin' and tryin' to get there, and hopin' and believin' he would after +a spell. He was always peart and comfortable, took his work real easy, +relished his victuals and drink, and slept first rate nights. But Billy +he fretted and scolded and kicked and bit, and that made him hot and +tired, and got him whipped, and hollered at, and pulled, and yanked. You +see, he hadn't got anything in his mind to chirk him up, for he didn't +believe anything good was comin', as Jack did; he 'most knowed it +wasn't, but Jack 'most knowed it was. And Jack took notice of things +that Billy never see at all. He see the trees a-growin', and heered the +birds a-singin', and Injun Brook a-gugglin' along over the stones, and +he watched the butterflies a-flyin', and sometimes a big yeller 'n black +one would light right on his back. Jack took notice of 'em all, and he'd +say, "I'm gettin' along now, certin sure, for there's birds and posies +and flyin' things here I never see back along. I guess I'm most there." +"'There, there!'" Billy'd say. "Where is it, anyway? I ain't never seen +any o' them posies and creaturs you talk about, and I'm right side of +you on these old boards the whole time." + +And all the children round there liked Jack. They'd watch the two horses +workin', and they see Billy all cross and skittish, holdin' back and +shakin' his head and tryin' to kick, never takin' no notice o' them nor +anything. And, again, they see Jack steppin' along peart and spry, +pleasant and willin', turnin' his head when they come up to him, and +lookin' friendly at 'em out of his kind brown eyes, and they'd say, the +boys and girls would, "Good Jack! nice old Jack!" and they'd pat him, +and give him an apple, or a carrot, or suthin' good. But they didn't +give Billy any. They didn't like his ways, and they was 'most afraid +he'd bite their fingers. And Jack would say, come evenin', "It's gittin' +nicer and nicer we get further on the road,--ain't it? Folks is +pleasanter speakin', and the victuals 'pears better flavored, and +things is comfortabler every way, seems 's if, and I jedge by that we're +'most there." But Billy'd say, a-grumblin' away, "It's worse'n +worse,--young ones a-botherin' my life out o' me, and the birds +a-jabberin' and the posies a-smellin' till my head aches. Oh, deary me! +I'm 'most dead." So 't went on and kep' on. Jack had every mite as hard +work as Billy, but he didn't mind it, he was so full o' what was comin' +and how good 't would be to get there. And 'cause he was pleasant and +willin' and worked so good, and 'cause he took notice o' all the nice +things round him, and see new ones every day, he was treated real kind, +and never got tired and used up and low in his mind like Billy. Even the +flies didn't pester him's they done Billy, for he on'y said, when he +felt 'em bitin' and crawlin', "Dog-days is come," says he, "for here's +the flies worse and worse. So the summer's most over, and I'll get there +in a jiffy now." + +"What am I stoppin' for," do you say, 'Miry? 'Cause that's all. You +needn't make sech a fuss, child'en. It's done, this story is, I tell ye. +Leastways I don't know any more on it. I told you all about them two +horses, and which had a good time and which didn't, and what 'twas made +the differ'nce 'twixt 'em. But you want to know whether Jack got there. +Well, I don't know no more 'n the horses did what _there_ was, but in my +own mind I b'leeve he got it. Mebbe 't was jest dyin' peaceful and quiet, +and restin' after all that steppin' and climbin'. He'd a-liked that, +partic'lar when he knowed the folks was sorry to have him go, and would +allus rec'lect him. Mebbe 't was jest livin' on and on, int'rested and +enjoyin', and liked by folks, and then bein' took away from the hard +work and put out to pastur' for the rest o' his days. Mebbe 'twas--Oh! I +d'know. Might 'a' been lots o' things, but I feel pretty certin sure he +got it, and he was glad he hadn't gi'n up b'leevin' 't would come. For +you 'member, all the time when Billy 'most knowed it wasn't, Jack 'most +knowed 'twas. + + + + +The Plant that Lost its Berry + +IV + + +It was a sad day in Greenhills when we knew that Susan Holcomb's little +Jerusha was dead. We all loved the child, and she was her mother's +dearest treasure. Susan was a widow, and this was her only child. A +pretty little creature she was, with yellow curls and dark-blue eyes, +rosy and plump and sturdy. But a sudden, sharp attack of croup seized +the child, and in a few hours she fell asleep. I need not tell you of +the mother's grief. She could not be comforted because her child was +not. One day a little neighbor, a boy with great faith--not wholly +misplaced--in the helpfulness of Story-tell Lib's little parables, +succeeded, with a child's art, in bringing the sad mother to the group +of listeners. And it was that day that Lib told this new story. + + +The Plant that Lost its Berry + +Once there was a plant, and it had jest one little berry. And the berry +was real pretty to look at. It was sort o' blue, with a kind o' whitey, +foggy look all over the blue, and it wa'n't round like huckleberries and +cramb'ries, but longish, and a little p'inted to each end. And the stem +it growed on, the little bit of a stem, you know, comin' out o' the +plant's big stem, like a little neck to the berry, was pinky and real +pretty. And this berry didn't have a lot o' teenty little seeds inside +on it, like most berries, but it jest had one pretty white stone in it, +with raised up streaks on it. + +The plant set everything by her little berry. She thought there never +was in all the airth sech a beautiful berry as hern,--so pretty shaped +and so whitey blue, with sech a soft skin and pinky neck, and more +partic'lar with that nice, white, striped stone inside of it. She held +it all day and all night tight and fast. When it rained real hard, and +the wind blowed, she kind o' stretched out some of her leaves, and +covered her little berry up, and she done the same when the sun was too +hot. And the berry growed and growed, and was so fat and smooth and +pretty! And the plant was jest wropped up in her little berry, lovin' it +terr'ble hard, and bein' dreadful proud on it, too. + +Well, one day, real suddent, when the plant wasn't thinkin' of any storm +comin', a little wind riz up. 'T wa'n't a gale, 't wa'n't half as hard a +blow as the berry'd seen lots o' times and never got hurt nor nothin'. +And the plant wa'n't lookin' out for any danger, when all of a suddent +there come a little bit of a snap, and the slimsy little pink stem +broke, and the little berry fell and rolled away, and, 'fore you could +say "Jack Robinson," 't was clean gone out o' sight. I can't begin to +tell ye how that plant took on. Seem 's if she'd die, or go ravin' +crazy. It's only folks that has lost jest what they set most by on airth +that can understand about it, I s'pose. She wouldn't b'leeve it fust +off; she 'most knowed she'd wake up and feel her little berry a-holdin' +close to her, hangin' on her, snugglin' up to her under the shady +leaves. The other plants 'round there tried to chirk her up and help +her. One on 'em told her how it had lost all its little berries itself, +a long spell back, and how it had some ways stood it and got over it. +"But they wa'n't like mine," thinks the poor plant. "There never, never +was no berry like mine, with its pretty figger, its pinky, slim little +neck, and its soft, smooth-feelin' skin." And another plant told her +mebbe her berry was saved from growin' up a trouble to her, gettin' bad +and hard, with mebbe a worm inside on it, to make her ashamed and sorry. +"Oh, no, no!" thinks the mother plant. "My berry'd never got bad and +hard, and I'd 'a' kep' any worm from touchin' its little white heart." +Not a single thing the plant-folks said to her done a mite o' good. +Their talk only worried her and pestered her, when she jest wanted to be +let alone, so's she could think about her little berry all to herself. + +Just where the berry used to hang, and where the little pinky stem broke +off, there was a sore place, a sort o' scar, that ached and smarted all +day and all night, and never, never healed up. And bimeby the poor plant +got all wore out with the achin' and the mournin' and the missin' and +she 'peared to feel her heart all a-dryin' up and stoppin', and her +leaves turned yeller and wrinkled, and--she was dead. She couldn't live +on, ye see, without her little berry. + +They called it bein' dead, folks did, and it looked like it, for there +she lay without a sign of life for a long, long, long spell. 'Twas for +days and weeks and months anyway. But it didn't seem so long to the +mother plant. She shet up her eyes, feelin' powerful tired and lonesome, +and the next thing she knowed she opened 'em again, and she was wide +awoke. She hardly knowed herself, though, she was so fresh and juicy and +'live, so kind o' young every way. Fust off she didn't think o' anything +but that, how good and well she felt, and how beautiful things was all +'round her. Then all of a suddent she rec'lected her little berry, and +she says to herself, "Oh, dear, dear me! If only my own little berry +was here to see me now, and know how I feel!" She thought she said it to +herself, but mebbe she talked out loud, for, jest as she said it, +somebody answered her. 'T was a Angel, and he says, "Why your little +berry does see you,--look there." And she looked, and she see he was +p'intin' to the beautif'lest little plant you never see,--straight and +nice, with little bits o' soft green leaves, with the sun a-shinin' +through 'em, and,--well, somehow, you never can get it through your head +how mothers take in things,--she knowed cert'in sure that was her little +berry. + +The Angel begun to speak. He was goin' to explain how, if she hadn't +never lost her berry, 'twouldn't never 'a' growed into this pretty +plant, but, he see, all of a suddent, that he needn't take the trouble. +She showed in her face she knowed all about it,--every blessed thing. I +tell ye, even angels ain't much use explainin' when there's mothers, and +it's got to do with their own child'en. Yes, the mother plant see it +all, without tellin'. She was jest a mite 'shamed but she was terr'ble +pleased. + + + + +The Stony Head + +V + + +When little Lib told the story I give below, Deacon Zenas Welcome was +one of the listeners. The deacon was a son of old Elder Welcome who had +been many years before the pastor of the little church in a neighboring +village. Elder Welcome was one of the old-fashioned sort not so common +in these days, a good man, but stern and somewhat harsh. He preached +only the terrors of the law, dwelt much upon the doctrines, the decrees, +election, predestination, and eternal punishment, and rarely lingered +over such themes as the fatherhood of God, his love to mankind, and his +wonderful gift to a lost world. The son followed in his father's +footsteps. He was a hard, austere, melancholy man, undemonstrative and +reticent, shutting out all brightness from his own life, and clouding +many an existence going on around him. I have always thought that his +unwonted presence among us that day had a purpose, and that he had come +to spy out some taint of heterodoxy in Lib's tales, to reprove and +condemn. He went away quietly, however, when the story was ended, and we +heard nothing of reproof or condemnation. + + +The Stony Head + +Once there was somethin' way up on the side of a mountain that looked +like a man's head. The rocks up there'd got fixed so's they jest made a +great big head and face, and everybody could see it as plain as could +be. Folks called it the Stony Head, and they come to see it from miles +away. There was a man lived round there jest where he could see the +head from his winder. He was a man that things had gone wrong with all +along; he'd had lots o' trouble, and he didn't take it very easy. He +fretted and complained, and blamed it on other folks, and more +partic'lar on--God. And one day--he'd jest come to live in them +parts--he looked out of his winder, and he see, standin' out plain ag'in +the sky, he see that Stony Head. It looked real ha'sh and hard and stony +and dark, and all of a suddent the man thought it was--God. + +"Yes," he says to hisself, "that's jest the way I 'most knowed he +looked, ha'sh and hard and stony and dark, and that's him." The man was +dreadful scaret of it, but some ways he couldn't stop lookin' at it. And +bimeby he shet hisself up there all alone, and spent his whole time jest +a-lookin' at that hard, stony face, and thinkin' who't was, and who'd +brought all his trouble on him. There was poor folks all 'round that +deestrict, but he never done nothin' to help 'em; let 'em be hungry or +thirsty or ailin', or shet up in jail, or anything, he never helped 'em +or done a thing for 'em, 'cause he was a-lookin' every single minute at +that head, and seein' how stony and hard it was, and bein' scaret of it +and the One he thought it looked like. + +Folks that was in trouble come along and knocked at his door, and he +never opened it a mite, even to see who was there. Sheep and lambs that +had got lost come a-strayin' into his yard, but he never took 'em in, +nor showed 'em the way home. He wa'n't no good to nobody, not even to +hisself, for he was terr'ble unhappy and scaret and angry. So 't went on, +oh! I d'know how long, years and years, I guess likely, and there the +man was shet up all alone, lookin' and lookin', and scaret at lookin' at +that ha'sh, hard, stony face and head. But one day, as he was settin' +there by the winder lookin', he heerd a little sound. I d'know what made +him hear it jest then. There'd been sech sounds as that time and time +ag'in, and he never took no notice. 'Twas like a child a-cryin', and +that's common enough. + +But this time it seemed diff'ent, and he couldn't help takin' notice. He +tried not to hear it, but he had to. 'T was a little child a-cryin' as +if it had lost its way and was scaret, and the man found he couldn't +stand it somehow. Mebbe the reason was he'd had a little boy of his own +once, and he lost him. Now I think on 't, that was one o' the things he +blamed on God, and thought about when he looked at the Stone Head. +Anyway, he couldn't stand this cryin' that time, and he started up, and, +fust thing he knowed, he'd opened the door and gone out. He hadn't been +out in the sunshine and the air for a long spell, and it made his head +swimmy at fust. But he heerd the little cryin' ag'in, and he run along +on to find the child. But he couldn't find it; every time he'd think he +was close to it, he'd hear the cryin' a little further off. And he'd go +on and on, a-stumblin' over stones and fallin' over logs and a-steppin' +into holes, but stickin' to it, and forgettin' everything only that +little cryin' voice ahead of him. Seems 's if he jest must find that +little lost boy or girl, 's if he'd be more 'n willin' to give up his own +poor lonesome old life to save that child. And, jest 's he come to +thinkin' that, he see somethin' ahead of him movin' and in a minute he +knowed he'd found the lost child. + +'Fore he thought what he was a-doin', he got down on his knees jest's he +used to do 'fore he got angry at God, and was goin' to thank him for +helpin' him to save that child. Then he rec'lected. It come back to him +who God was, and how he'd seed his head, with the ha'sh stony face up on +the mountain, and that made him look up to see it ag'in. + +And oh! what do you think he see? There was the same head up there,--he +couldn't make a mistake about that,--but the face, oh! the face was so +diff'ent. It wasn't ha'sh nor hard nor dark any more. There was such a +lovin', beautiful, kind sort o' look on it now. Some ways it made the +man think a mite of the way his father, that had died ever so long ago, +used to look at him when he was a boy, and had been bad, and then was +sorry and 'shamed. Oh, 't was the beautif'lest face you never see! "Oh! +what ever does it mean?" says the man out loud. "What's changed that +face so? Oh! what in the world's made it so diff'ent?" And jest that +minute a Angel come up close to him. 'T was a little young Angel, and I +guess mebbe 't was what he'd took for a lost child, and that he'd been +follerin' so fur. And the Angel says, "The face ain't changed a mite. +'Twas jest like that all the time, only you're lookin' at it from a +diff'ent p'int." And 'twas so, and he see it right off. He'd been +follerin' that cryin' so fur and so long that he'd got into a diff'ent +section o' country, and he'd got a diff'ent view, oh! a terr'ble +diff'ent view, and he never went back. + + + + +Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles + +VI + + +Everybody in Greenhills knew "Stoopin' Jacob," the little humpbacked boy +who lived at the north end of the village. From babyhood he had suffered +from a grievous deformity which rounded his little shoulders and bowed +the frail form. It was characteristic of the kindly folk of the +neighborhood, that, instead of calling the boy Hump-backed or +Crooked-backed Jacob, they gave him the name of Stoopin' Jacob, as if +the bowed and bent posture was voluntary, and not enforced. + +A lovely soul dwelt in that crooked, pain-racked body, and looked out +of the gentle brown eyes shining in the pale, thin little face. Every +one loved the boy, most of all the dogs, cats, horses, cows of the +little farms, the birds and animals of forest and brookside. He knew +them all, and they knew, loved, and trusted him. The tinier creatures, +such as butterflies, bees, ants, beetles, even caterpillars, downy or +smooth, were his friends, or seemed so. He knew them, watched them, +studied their habits, and was the little naturalist of Greenhills +village, consulted by all, even by older and wiser people. + +A close friendship existed between the boy and Story-tell Lib, and we +all understood the tale she told us one day when Stoopin' Jacob was one +of the listeners. + + +Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles + +Once there was a lot o' folks, and every single one on 'em had bundles +on their backs. But they was all diff'ent, oh! jest as diff'ent as--as +anything, the bundles was. And these folks all b'longed to one person, +that they called the Head Man. They was his folks, and nobody else's, +and he had the whole say, and could do anything he wanted to. But he was +real nice, and always done jest the best thing,--yes, sir, the bestest +thing, whatever folks might say against it. + +Well, I was tellin' ye about how these folks had diff'ent kind o' +bundles on their backs. 'Twas this way. One on 'em was a man that had a +real hefty bundle on his back, that he'd put on there hisself,--not all +to onct, but a mite to time, for years 'n' years. 'Twas a real cur'us +bundle, made up out o' little things in the road that'd got in his way, +or hurt him, or put him back. Some on 'em was jest little stones that +had hurt his feet, and some was little stingin' weeds that smarted him +as he went by 'em, and some was jest mites o' dirt somebody'd throwed at +him, not meanin' no great o' harm. He'd picked 'em all up, every bit o' +worryin', prickin', hurtin' little thing, and he'd piled 'em up on his +back till he had a big bundle that he allers carried about and never +forgot for a minute. + +He was f'rever lookin' out for sech troublin' things, too, and he'd see +'em way ahead on him in his road, and sometimes he'd think he see 'em +when there wa'n't any there't all. And, 'stead o' lettin' 'em lay where +they was, and goin' right ahead and forgettin' 'em, he'd pick every +single one on 'em up and pile 'em on that bundle, and carry 'em wherever +he went. + +And he was allers talkin' about 'em to folks, p'intin' out that little +stone that he'd stubbed his toe on, and this pesky weed that stung him, +and t'other little mite o' mud he'd conceited somebody'd throwed at him. +He fretted and scolded and complained 'bout 'em, and made out that +nobody never had so many tryin' things gettin' in his way as he had. He +never took into 'count, ye see, that he'd picked 'em up hisself and +piled 'em on his own back. If he'd jest let 'em lay, and gone along, +he'd 'a' forgot 'em all, I guess, after a spell. + +Then there was another man with a bundle, a cur'us one too, for 't was +all made out o' money, dreadful heavy and cold and hard to carry. Every +speck o' money he could scrape together he'd put in that bundle, till he +couldn't scursely heft it, 'twas that big and weighed so much. He had +plenty o' chances to make it lighter, for there was folks all along the +road that needed it bad,--little child'en that hadn't no clo'es nor no +victuals, and sick folks and old folks, every one on 'em needin' money +dreadful bad. But the man never gin 'em a mite. He kep' it all on his +back, a-hurtin' and weighin' him down. + +Then ag'in there was another man. He had a bundle that he didn't put on +his back hisself, nor the Head Man didn't nuther. Folks did it to him. +He hadn't done nothin' to deserve it, 't was jest put on him by other +people, and so 't was powerful hard to bear. But, ye see, the Head Man +had pervided partic'lar for them kind, and he'd said in public, so 't +everybody knowed about it, that he'd help folks like that,--said he'd +help 'em carry sech bundles hisself, or mebbe take 'em off, if it +'peared to be best. + +But this man disremembered that,--or, worse still, p'r'aps he didn't +'zackly believe it. So he went along all scrunched down with that hefty +bundle other folks had piled up on him, not scoldin' nor complainin' +nor gittin' mad about it, but jest thinkin' it had got to be, and nobody +could help him. But ye see it hadn't got to be, and somebody could 'a' +helped him. + +And then bimeby along come a man that had sech a hefty, hefty bundle! +'Twas right 'tween his shoulders, and it sort o' scrooched him down, and +it hurt him in his back and in his feelin's. The Head Man had put that +bundle on the man hisself when he was a little bit of a feller. He'd +made it out o' flesh and skin and things. It was jest ezackly like the +man's body, so 't when it ached he ached hisself. And he'd had to carry +that thing about all his born days. + +I don't know why the Head Man done it, I'm sure, but I know how good and +pleasant he was, and how he liked his folks and meant well to 'em, and +how he knowed jest what oughter be and what hadn't oughter be, so 't +stands to reason he'd done this thing a-purpose, and not careless like, +and he hadn't made no mistake. + +I've guessed a lot o' reasons why he done it. Mebbe he see the man +wouldn't 'a' done so well without the bundle,--might 'a' run off, 'way, +'way off from the Head Man and the work he had to do. Or, ag'in, p'r'aps +he wanted to make a 'zample of the man, and show folks how patient and +nice a body could be, even though he had a big, hefty bundle to carry +all his born days, one made out o' flesh and skin and things, and that +hurt dreadful. + +But my other guess is the one I b'leeve in most,--that the Head Man done +it to scrooch him down, so's he'd take notice o' little teenty things, +down below, that most folks never see, things that needed him to watch +'em, and do for 'em, and tell about 'em. That's my fav'rite guess. 'Tany +rate, the Head Man done right,--I'm cert'in sure o' that. + +And it _had_ made the man nicer, and pleasanter spoken, and kinder to +folks, and partic'lar to creaturs. It had made him sort o' bend down, +'twas so hefty, and so he'd got to takin' notice o' teenty little things +nobody else scursely'd see,--mites o' posies, and cunnin' little bugs, +and creepin', crawlin' things. He took a heap o' comfort in 'em. And he +told other folks 'bout them little things and their little ways, and +what they was made for, and things they could learn us; and 'twas real +int'restin', and done folks good too. + +And, deary me, he was that patient and good and uncomplainin', you never +see! No, I ain't a-cryin'. This was a stranger, this man, you know, and +I make a p'int o' never cryin' about strangers. + +There was a lot and a lot more kinds o' folks with bundles, but I'm only +goin' to tell ye about them four,--this time, any way. + +Well, come pay day, these folks all come up afore the Head Man to be +settled with. And fust he called up the man that had the bundle all made +out o' things that had pricked him, and tripped him up, and scratched +him, and put him back on the road. And then he had up the man with the +money weighin' him down,--the money he'd kep' away from poor folks and +piled up on his own back. And then come the feller that was carryin' the +heavy bundle folks had put on him when 't wa'n't no fault o' his'n, and +that he might 'a' got red of a long spell back, if he'd only rec'lected +what the Head Man had said 'bout sech cases, and how they could be +helped. + +I ain't a-goin' to tell ye what he said to them folks, 'cause 't ain't +my business, seems to me. Whether he punished either on 'em, or scolded +'em, or sent 'em off to try ag'in, or what all, never mind. Knowin' 's +much as I do about the ways o' that Head Man, I bet he made 'em feel +terrible ashamed, any way. + +But when he came to the man with the bundle made out o' flesh and skin +and things, he looks at him a minute, and then says he, the Head Man +does, "Why," he says, "that's my own work! I made that bundle, and I +fixed it on your back all myself. I hefted and I sized it, and I hefted +you and sized you. A mite of a young one you was then. I made it jest +hefty enough for you to carry, not a bit heftier, no more nor less. I +rec'lect it well," he says. "I ain't forgot it. I never forgot it one +minute sence I fitted in on, though mebbe you kind o' thought by spells +that I had. And now," he says--No, I can't tell ye what he says. It's a +secret, that is. But I don't mind lettin' ye know that the man was +sat'sfied, perfec'ly sat'sfied. A Angel told me he was, and went on to +say the man was dreadful pleased to find he'd been wearin' a bundle the +Head Man hisself had made and fixed on him, heftin' it and sizin' it, +and heftin' him and sizin' him too, so's 'twa'n't too much for him to +carry. But he ain't carryin' it no more. The Angel said so. + + + + +The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin' + +VII + + +I have told you that little Lib was a delicate child, and that she grew +more and more fragile and weak as the summer went on. In the hot, dry +days of August she drooped like a thirsty flower, and her strength +failed very fast. Her voice, though still sweet and clear, lost its +shrillness, and one had to draw very close to the little speaker that he +might not lose a word of the stories she told. Aunt Jane York often came +out to us now, anxious and fussy, talking fretfully of and to little +Lib, feeling the small hands and feet to see if they were cold, and +drawing the shawl closer around the wasted form. I know she loved the +little girl, and perhaps she wished now that she had shown that love +more tenderly. She talked freely, in the very presence of the child, of +her rapid decline and the probability that she would not "last long." +Lib said nothing concerning her own condition, and showed no sign of +having heard her aunt's comments. But one day, when Miss York, after +speaking very freely and plainly of the child's approaching end, had +gone indoors, Lib announced, in a low, sweet voice, a new story. + + +The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin' + +Once there was a boy that was dreadful scaret o' dyin'. Some folks is +that way, you know; they ain't never done it to know how it feels, and +they're scaret. And this boy was that way. He wa'n't very rugged, his +health was sort o' slim, and mebbe that made him think about sech things +more. 'Tany rate, he was terr'ble scaret o' dyin'. 'Twas a long time +ago this was,--the times when posies and creaturs could talk so's folks +could know what they was sayin'. + +And one day, as this boy, his name was Reuben,--I forget his other +name,--as Reuben was settin' under a tree, an ellum tree, cryin', he +heerd a little, little bit of a voice,--not squeaky, you know, but small +and thin and soft like,--and he see 'twas a posy talkin'. 'Twas one o' +them posies they call Benjamins, with three-cornered whitey blowths with +a mite o' pink on 'em, and it talked in a kind o' pinky-white voice, and +it says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And he says, "'Cause I'm scaret +o' dyin'," says he; "I'm dreadful scaret o' dyin'." Well, what do you +think? That posy jest laughed,--the most cur'us little pinky-white laugh +'t was,--and it says, the Benjamin says: "Dyin'! Scaret o' dyin'? Why, I +die myself every single year o' my life." "Die yourself!" says Reuben. +"You 're foolin'; you're alive this minute." "'Course I be," says the +Benjamin; "but that's neither here nor there,--I've died every year +sence I can remember." "Don't it hurt?" says the boy. "No, it don't," +says the posy; "it's real nice. You see, you get kind o' tired a-holdin' +up your head straight and lookin' peart and wide awake, and tired o' the +sun shinin' so hot, and the winds blowin' you to pieces, and the bees +a-takin' your honey. So it's nice to feel sleepy and kind o' hang your +head down, and get sleepier and sleepier, and then find you're droppin' +off. Then you wake up jest 't the nicest time o' year, and come up and +look 'round, and--why, I like to die, I do." But someways that didn't +help Reuben much as you'd think. "I ain't a posy," he think to himself, +"and mebbe I wouldn't come up." + +Well, another time he was settin' on a stone in the lower pastur', +cryin' again, and he heerd another cur'us little voice. 'T wa'n't like +the posy's voice, but 'twas a little, wooly, soft, fuzzy voice, and he +see 't was a caterpillar a-talkin' to him. And the caterpillar says, in +his fuzzy little voice, he says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And the +boy, he says, "I'm powerful scaret o' dyin', that's why," he says. And +that fuzzy caterpillar he laughed. "Dyin'!" he says. "I'm lottin' on +dyin' myself. All my fam'ly," he says, "die every once in a while, and +when they wake up they're jest splendid,--got wings, and fly about, and +live on honey and things. Why, I wouldn't miss it for anything!" he +says. "I'm lottin' on it." But somehow that didn't chirk up Reuben much. +"I ain't a caterpillar," he says, "and mebbe I wouldn't wake up at +all." + +Well, there was lots o' other things talked to that boy, and tried to +help him,--trees and posies and grass and crawlin' things, that was +allers a-dyin' and livin', and livin' and dyin'. Reuben thought it +didn't help him any, but I guess it did a little mite, for he couldn't +help thinkin' o' what they every one on 'em said. But he was scaret all +the same. + +And one summer he begun to fail up faster and faster, and he got so +tired he couldn't hardly hold his head up, but he was scaret all the +same. And one day he was layin' on the bed, and lookin' out o' the east +winder, and the sun kep' a-shinin' in his eyes till he shet 'em up, and +he fell asleep. He had a real good nap, and when he woke up he went out +to take a walk. + +And he begun to think o' what the posies and trees and creaturs had said +about dyin', and how they laughed at his bein' scaret at it, and he says +to himself, "Why, someways I don't feel so scaret to-day, but I s'pose I +be." And jest then what do you think he done? Why, he met a Angel. He'd +never seed one afore, but he knowed it right off. And the Angel says, +"Ain't you happy, little boy?" And Reuben says, "Well, I would be, only +I'm so dreadful scaret o' dyin'. It must be terr'ble cur'us," he says, +"to be dead." And the Angel says, "Why, you be dead." And he was. + + * * * * * + +The story of the boy that was scaret o' dyin' was the last story that +little Lib ever told us. We saw her sometimes after that, but she was +not strong enough to talk much. She sat no longer now in the low chair +under the maples, but lay on a chintz-covered couch in the sitting-room, +by the west windows. The once shrilly-sweet voice with its clear bird +tones was but a whisper now, as she told us over and again, while she +lay there, that she would tell us a new story "to-morrow." It was always +"to-morrow" till the end came. And the story was to be, so the whisper +went on, "the beautif'lest story,--oh, you never did!" And its name was +to be,--what a faint and feeble reproduction of the old triumphant +announcement of a new title!--"The Posy Gardin' that the King Kep'." + +She never told us that story. Before the autumn leaves had fallen, while +the maples in front of the farmhouse were still red and glorious in +their dying beauty, we laid our little friend to rest. Perhaps she will +tell us the tale some day. I am sure there will be "a Angel" in +it,--sure, too, that the story will have a new and tender meaning if we +hear it there, that story of the King and of the posy gardin' he kep'. + +----------------------------------------------------------------------- + +Transcriber's Notes + +1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. +2. 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