Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin (fun books to read for adults TXT) đ
- Author: Kate Douglas Wiggin
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Rebecca herself had fashioned an elaborate tea-cosy with a letter âMâ in outline stitch, and a pretty frilled pincushion marked with a âJ,â for her two aunts, so that taken all together the day would have been an unequivocal success had nothing else happened; but something else did.
There was a knock at the door at breakfast time, and Rebecca, answering it, was asked by a boy if Miss Rebecca Randall lived there. On being told that she did, he handed her a parcel bearing her name, a parcel which she took like one in a dream and bore into the dining-room.
âItâs a present; it must be,â she said, looking at it in a dazed sort of way; âbut I canât think who it could be from.â
âA good way to find out would be to open it,â remarked Miss Miranda.
The parcel being untied proved to have two smaller packages within, and Rebecca opened with trembling fingers the one addressed to her. Anybodyâs fingers would have trembled. There was a case which, when the cover was lifted, disclosed a long chain of delicate pink coral beads,âa chain ending in a cross made of coral rosebuds. A card with âMerry Christmas from Mr. Aladdinâ lay under the cross.
âOf all things!â exclaimed the two old ladies, rising in their seats. âWho sent it?â
âMr. Ladd,â said Rebecca under her breath.
âAdam Ladd! Well I never! Donât you remember Ellen Burnham said he was going to send Rebecca a Christmas present? But I never supposed heâd think of it again,â said Jane. âWhatâs the other package?â
It proved to be a silver chain with a blue enamel locket on it, marked for Emma Jane. That added the last touchâto have him remember them both! There was a letter also, which ran:â
Dear Miss Rebecca Rowena,âMy idea of a Christmas present is something entirely unnecessary and useless. I have always noticed when I give this sort of thing that people love it, so I hope I have not chosen wrong for you and your friend. You must wear your chain this afternoon, please, and let me see it on your neck, for I am coming over in my new sleigh to take you both to drive. My aunt is delighted with the soap.
Sincerely your friend,
Adam Ladd.
âWell, well!â cried Miss Jane, âisnât that kind of him? Heâs very fond of children, Lyddy Burnham says. Now eat your breakfast, Rebecca, and after weâve done the dishes you can run over to Emmaâs and give her her chainâ Whatâs the matter, child?â
Rebeccaâs emotions seemed always to be stored, as it were, in adjoining compartments, and to be continually getting mixed. At this moment, though her joy was too deep for words, her bread and butter almost choked her, and at intervals a tear stole furtively down her cheek.
Mr. Ladd called as he promised, and made the acquaintance of the aunts, understanding them both in five minutes as well as if he had known them for years. On a footstool near the open fire sat Rebecca, silent and shy, so conscious of her fine apparel and the presence of aunt Miranda that she could not utter a word. It was one of her âbeauty days.â Happiness, excitement, the color of the green dress, and the touch of lovely pink in the coral necklace had transformed the little brown wren for the time into a bird of plumage, and Adam Ladd watched her with evident satisfaction. Then there was the sleigh ride, during which she found her tongue and chattered like any magpie, and so ended that glorious Christmas Day; and many and many a night thereafter did Rebecca go to sleep with the precious coral chain under her pillow, one hand always upon it to be certain that it was safe.
Another milestone was the departure of the Simpsons from Riverboro, bag and baggage, the banquet lamp being their most conspicuous possession. It was delightful to be rid of Seesawâs hateful presence; but otherwise the loss of several playmates at one fell swoop made rather a gap in Riverboroâs âyounger set,â and Rebecca was obliged to make friends with the Robinson baby, he being the only long-clothes child in the village that winter. The faithful Seesaw had called at the side door of the brick house on the evening before his departure, and when Rebecca answered his knock, stammered solemnly, âCan I k-keep compâny with you when you g-g-row up?â âCertainly NOT,â replied Rebecca, closing the door somewhat too speedily upon her precocious swain.
Mr. Simpson had come home in time to move his wife and children back to the town that had given them birth, a town by no means waiting with open arms to receive them. The Simpsonsâ moving was presided over by the village authorities and somewhat anxiously watched by the entire neighborhood, but in spite of all precautions a pulpit chair, several kerosene lamps, and a small stove disappeared from the church and were successfully swapped in the course of Mr. Simpsonâs driving tour from the old home to the new. It gave Rebecca and Emma Jane some hours of sorrow to learn that a certain village in the wake of Abner Simpsonâs line of progress had acquired, through the medium of an ambitious young minister, a magnificent lamp for its new church parlors. No money changed hands in the operation; for the minister succeeded in getting the lamp in return for an old bicycle. The only pleasant feature of the whole affair was that Mr. Simpson, wholly unable to console his offspring for the loss of the beloved object, mounted the bicycle and rode away on it, not to be seen or heard of again for many a long day.
The year was notable also as being the one in which Rebecca shot up like a young tree. She had seemingly never grown an inch since she was ten years old, but once started she attended to growing precisely as she did other things,âwith such energy, that Miss Jane did nothing for months but lengthen skirts, sleeves, and waists. In spite of all the arts known to a thrifty New England woman, the limit of letting down and piecing down was reached at last, and the dresses were sent to Sunnybrook Farm to be made over for Jenny.
There was another milestone, a sad one, marking a little grave under a willow tree at Sunnybrook Farm. Mira, the baby of the Randall family, died, and Rebecca went home for a fortnightâs visit. The sight of the small still shape that had been Mira, the baby who had been her special charge ever since her birth, woke into being a host of new thoughts and wonderments; for it is sometimes the mystery of death that brings one to a consciousness of the still greater mystery of life.
It was a sorrowful home-coming for Rebecca. The death of Mira, the absence of John, who had been her special comrade, the sadness of her mother, the isolation of the little house, and the pinching economies that went on within it, all conspired to depress a child who was so sensitive to beauty and harmony as Rebecca.
Hannah seemed to have grown into a woman during Rebeccaâs absence. There had always been a strange unchildlike air about Hannah, but in certain ways she now appeared older than aunt Jane âsoberer, and more settled. She was pretty, though in a colorless fashion; pretty and capable.
Rebecca walked through all the old playgrounds and favorite haunts of her early childhood; all her familiar, her secret places; some of them known to John, some to herself alone. There was the spot where the Indian pipes grew; the particular bit of marshy ground where the fringed gentians used to be largest and bluest; the rock maple where she found the orioleâs nest; the hedge where the field mice lived; the moss-covered stump where the white toadstools were wont to spring up as if by magic; the hole at the root of the old pine where an ancient and honorable toad made his home; these were the landmarks of her childhood, and she looked at them as across an immeasurable distance. The dear little sunny brook, her chief companion after John, was sorry company at this season. There was no laughing water sparkling in the sunshine. In summer the merry stream had danced over white pebbles on its way to deep pools where it could be still and think. Now, like Mira, it was cold and quiet, wrapped in its shroud of snow; but Rebecca knelt by the brink, and putting her ear to the glaze of ice, fancied, where it used to be deepest, she could hear a faint, tinkling sound. It was all right! Sunnybrook would sing again in the spring; perhaps Mira too would have her singing time somewhereâshe wondered where and how. In the course of these lonely rambles she was ever thinking, thinking, of one subject. Hannah had never had a chance; never been freed from the daily care and work of the farm. She, Rebecca, had enjoyed all the privileges thus far. Life at the brick house had not been by any means a path of roses, but there had been comfort and the companionship of other children, as well as chances for study and reading. Riverboro had not been the world itself, but it had been a glimpse of it through a tiny peephole that was infinitely better than nothing. Rebecca shed more than one quiet tear before she could trust herself to offer up as a sacrifice that which she so much desired for herself. Then one morning as her visit neared its end she plunged into the subject boldly and said, âHannah, after this term Iâm going to stay at home and let you go away. Aunt Miranda has always wanted you, and itâs only fair you should have your turn.â
Hannah was darning stockings, and she threaded her needle and snipped off the yarn before she answered, âNo, thank you, Becky. Mother couldnât do without me, and I hate going to school. I can read and write and cipher as well as anybody now, and thatâs enough for me. Iâd die rather than teach school for a living. The winterâll go fast, for Will Melville is going to lend me his motherâs sewing machine, and Iâm going to make white petticoats out of the piece of muslin aunt Jane sent, and have âem just solid with tucks. Then thereâs going to be a singing-school and a social circle in Temperance after New Yearâs, and I shall have a real good time now Iâm grown up. Iâm not one to be lonesome, Becky,â Hannah ended with a blush; âI love this place.â
Rebecca saw that she was speaking the truth, but she did not understand the blush till a year or two later.
XVIII REBECCA REPRESENTS THE FAMILYThere was another milestone; it was more than that, it was an âevent;â an event that
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