Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin (fun books to read for adults TXT) đ
- Author: Kate Douglas Wiggin
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âTHE STIRRING OF THE POWERSâ
Rebeccaâs visit to Milltown was all that her glowing fancy had painted it, except that recent readings about Rome and Venice disposed her to believe that those cities might have an advantage over Milltown in the matter of mere pictorial beauty. So soon does the soul outgrow its mansions that after once seeing Milltown her fancy ran out to the future sight of Portland; for that, having islands and a harbor and two public monuments, must be far more beautiful than Milltown, which would, she felt, take its proud place among the cities of the earth, by reason of its tremendous business activity rather than by any irresistible appeal to the imagination.
It would be impossible for two children to see more, do more, walk more, talk more, eat more, or ask more questions than Rebecca and Emma Jane did on that eventful Wednesday.
âSheâs the best company I ever see in all my life,â said Mrs. Cobb to her husband that evening. âWe ainât had a dull minute this day. Sheâs well-mannered, too; she didnât ask for anything, and was thankful for whatever she got. Did you watch her face when we went into that tent where they was actinâ out Uncle Tomâs Cabin? And did you take notice of the way she told us about the book when we sat down to have our ice cream? I tell you Harriet Beecher Stowe herself couldnât âaâ done it better justice.â
âI took it all in,â responded Mr. Cobb, who was pleased that âmotherâ agreed with him about Rebecca. âI ainât sure but sheâs goinâ to turn out somethinâ remarkable,âa singer, or a writer, or a lady doctor like that Miss Parks up to Cornish.â
âLady doctors are always homeâpaths, ainât they?â asked Mrs. Cobb, who, it is needless to say, was distinctly of the old school in medicine.
âLand, no, mother; there ainât no homeâpath âbout Miss Parksâshe drives all over the country.â
âI canât see Rebecca as a lady doctor, somehow,â mused Mrs. Cobb. âHer gift oâ gab is whatâs goinâ to be the makinâ of her; mebbe sheâll lecture, or recite pieces, like that Portland elocutionist that come out here to the harvest supper.â
âI guess sheâll be able to write down her own pieces,â said Mr. Cobb confidently; âshe could make âem up faster ân she could read âem out of a book.â
âItâs a pity sheâs so plain looking,â remarked Mrs. Cobb, blowing out the candle.
âPLAIN LOOKING, mother?â exclaimed her husband in astonishment. âLook at the eyes of her; look at the hair of her, anâ the smile, anâ that there dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, thatâs called the prettiest child on the river, anâ see how Rebecca shines her riâ down out oâ sight! I hope Mirandyâll favor her cominâ over to see us real often, for sheâll let off some of her steam here, anâ the brick houseâll be considâable safer for everybody concerned. Weâve known what it was to hev children, even if ât was more ân thirty years ago, anâ we can make allowances.â
Notwithstanding the encomiums of Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, Rebecca made a poor hand at composition writing at this time. Miss Dearborn gave her every sort of subject that she had ever been given herself: Cloud Pictures; Abraham Lincoln; Nature; Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joy and Duty; Solitude; but with none of them did Rebecca seem to grapple satisfactorily.
âWrite as you talk, Rebecca,â insisted poor Miss Dearborn, who secretly knew that she could never manage a good composition herself.
âBut gracious me, Miss Dearborn! I donât talk about nature and slavery. I canât write unless I have something to say, can I?â
âThat is what compositions are for,â returned Miss Dearborn doubtfully; âto make you have things to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, you havenât said anything very interesting, and youâve made it too common and everyday to sound well. There are too many `yousâ and `yoursâ in it; you ought to say `oneâ now and then, to make it seem more like good writing. `One opens a favorite book;â `Oneâs thoughts are a great comfort in solitude,â and so on.â
âI donât know any more about solitude this week than I did about joy and duty last week,â grumbled Rebecca.
âYou tried to be funny about joy and duty,â said Miss Dearborn reprovingly; âso of course you didnât succeed.â
âI didnât know you were going to make us read the things out loud,â said Rebecca with an embarrassed smile of recollection.
âJoy and Dutyâ had been the inspiring subject given to the older children for a theme to be written in five minutes.
Rebecca had wrestled, struggled, perspired in vain. When her turn came to read she was obliged to confess she had written nothing.
âYou have at least two lines, Rebecca,â insisted the teacher, âfor I see them on your slate.â
âIâd rather not read them, please; they are not good,â pleaded Rebecca.
âRead what you have, good or bad, little or much; I am excusing nobody.â
Rebecca rose, overcome with secret laughter dread, and mortification; then in a low voice she read the couplet:â
When Joy and Duty clash Let Duty go to smash.
Dick Carterâs head disappeared under the desk, while Living Perkins choked with laughter.
Miss Dearborn laughed too; she was little more than a girl, and the training of the young idea seldom appealed to the sense of humor.
âYou must stay after school and try again, Rebecca,â she said, but she said it smilingly. âYour poetry hasnât a very nice idea in it for a good little girl who ought to love duty.â
âIt wasnât MY idea,â said Rebecca apologetically. âI had only made the first line when I saw you were going to ring the bell and say the time was up. I had `clashâ written, and I couldnât think of anything then but `hashâ or `rashâ or `smash.â Iâll change it to this:â
When Joy and Duty clash, âT is Joy must go to smash.â
âThat is better,â Miss Dearborn answered, âthough I cannot think `going to smashâ is a pretty expression for poetry.â
Having been instructed in the use of the indefinite pronoun âoneâ as giving a refined and elegant touch to literary efforts, Rebecca painstakingly rewrote her composition on solitude, giving it all the benefit of Miss Dearbornâs suggestion. It then appeared in the following form, which hardly satisfied either teacher or pupil:â
SOLITUDEIt would be false to say that one could ever be alone when one has oneâs lovely thoughts to comfort one. One sits by oneâs self, it is true, but one thinks; one opens oneâs favorite book and reads oneâs favorite story; one speaks to oneâs aunt or oneâs brother, fondles oneâs cat, or looks at oneâs photograph album. There is oneâs work also: what a joy it is to one, if one happens to like work. All oneâs little household tasks keep one from being lonely. Does one ever feel bereft when one picks up oneâs chips to light oneâs fire for oneâs evening meal? Or when one washes oneâs milk pail before milking oneâs cow? One would fancy not. R. R. R.
âIt is perfectly dreadful,â sighed Rebecca when she read it aloud after school. âPutting in `oneâ all the time doesnât make it sound any more like a book, and it looks silly besides.â
âYou say such queer things,â objected Miss Dearborn. âI donât see what makes you do it. Why did you put in anything so common as picking up chips?â
âBecause I was talking about `household tasksâ in the sentence before, and it IS one of my household tasks. Donât you think calling supper `oneâs evening mealâ is pretty? and isnât `bereftâ a nice word?â
âYes, that part of it does very well. It is the cat, the chips, and the milk pail that I donât like.â
âAll right!â sighed Rebecca. âOut they go; Does the cow go too?â
âYes, I donât like a cow in a composition,â said the difficult Miss Dearborn.
The Milltown trip had not been without its tragic consequences of a small sort; for the next week Minnie Smellieâs mother told Miranda Sawyer that sheâd better look after Rebecca, for she was given to âswearing and profane language;â that she had been heard saying something dreadful that very afternoon, saying it before Emma Jane and Living Perkins, who only laughed and got down on all fours and chased her.
Rebecca, on being confronted and charged with the crime, denied it indignantly, and aunt Jane believed her.
âSearch your memory, Rebecca, and try to think what Minnie overheard you say,â she pleaded. âDonât be ugly and obstinate, but think real hard. When did they chase you up the road, and what were you doing?â
A sudden light broke upon Rebeccaâs darkness.
âOh! I see it now,â she exclaimed. âIt had rained hard all the morning, you know, and the road was full of puddles. Emma Jane, Living, and I were walking along, and I was ahead. I saw the water streaming over the road towards the ditch, and it reminded me of Uncle Tomâs Cabin at Milltown, when Eliza took her baby and ran across the Mississippi on the ice blocks, pursued by the bloodhounds. We couldnât keep from laughing after we came out of the tent because they were acting on such a small platform that Eliza had to run round and round, and part of the time the one dog they had pursued her, and part of the time she had to pursue the dog. I knew Living would remember, too, so I took off my waterproof and wrapped it round my books for a baby; then I shouted, `MY GOD! THE RIVER!â just like thatâthe same as Eliza did in the play; then I leaped from puddle to puddle, and Living and Emma Jane pursued me like the bloodhounds. Itâs just like that stupid Minnie Smellie who doesnât know a game when she sees one. And Eliza wasnât swearing when she said `My God! the river!â It was more like praying.â
âWell, youâve got no call to be prayinâ, any more than swearinâ, in the middle of the road,â said Miranda; âbut Iâm thankful itâs no worse. Youâre born to trouble as the sparks fly upward, anâ Iâm afraid you allers will be till you learn to bridle your unruly tongue.â
âI wish sometimes that I could bridle Minnieâs,â murmured Rebecca, as she went to set the table for supper.
âI declare she IS the beatinâest child!â said Miranda, taking off her spectacles and laying down her mending. âYou donât think sheâs a leetle mite crazy, do you, Jane?â
âI donât think sheâs like the rest of us,â responded Jane thoughtfully and with some anxiety in her pleasant face; âbut whether itâs for the better or the worse I canât hardly tell till she grows up. Sheâs got the making of âmost anything in her, Rebecca has; but I feel sometimes as if we were not fitted to cope with her.â
âStuff anâ nonsense!â said Miranda âSpeak
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