Eyebright: A Story. Coolidge Susan
was all over woods and Indians, you know, and this lady went to the West to live with her husband. He was a pio-nary, – no, pioneer, – no, missionary, – that was what he was. Missionaries teach poor people and preach, and this one was awfully poor himself, for all the money he had was just a little bit which a church in the East gave him.
"Well, after they had lived at the West for a year, the missionary had to come back, because some of the people said he wasn't orthodox. I don't know what that means. I asked father once, and he said it meant so many things that he didn't think he could explain them all; but ma, she said, it means 'agreeing with the neighbors.' Anyhow, the missionary had to come back to tell the folks that he was orthodox, and his wife and children had to stay behind, in the woods, with wolves and bears and Indians close by.
"The very day after he started, his wife was sitting by the fire with her baby in her lap, when the door opened, and a great, enormous Indian walked in and straight up to her.
"I guess she was frightened; don't you?
"'He gone?' asked the Indian in broken English.
"'Yes,' she said.
"Then the Indian held out his hands and said, – 'Pappoose. Give.'"
"Oh, my!" cried Romaine. "I'd have screamed right out."
"Well, the lady didn't," continued Molly. "What was the use? There wasn't any one to scream to, you know. Beside, she thought perhaps the Indian was trying her to see if she trusted him. So she let him take the child, and he marched away with it, not saying another word.
"All that night, and all next day, she watched and waited, but he did not come back. She began to think all sorts of dreadful things, – that perhaps he had killed the child. But just at sunset he came with the baby in his arms, and the little fellow was dressed like a chief, in a suit of doe-skins which the squaws had made, with cunning little moccasins on his feet and a feather stuck in his hair. The Indian put him in his mother's lap, and said, —
"'Now red man know white squaw friend, for she not afraid give child.'
"And after that, all the time her husband was gone, the Indians brought venison and game, and were real kind to the lady. Wasn't it nice?"
The children drew long breaths of relief.
"I don't think I could have been so brave," declared Kitty.
"Now I'll tell you a story which I made up myself," said Romaine, who was of a sentimental turn. "It's called the Lady and the Barberry Bush.
"Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a lady who loved a barberry bush, because its berries were so pretty, and tasted so nice and sour. She used to water it, and come at evening to lay her snow-white hand upon its leaves."
"Didn't they prick?" inquired Molly, who was as practical as Romaine was sentimental.
"No, of course they didn't prick, because the barberry bush was enchanted, you know. Nobody else cared for barberry bushes except the lady. All the rest liked roses and honeysuckles best, and the poor barberry was very glad when it saw the lady coming. At last, one night, when she was watering it, it spoke, and it said, – 'The hour of deliverance has arrived. Lady, behold in me a Prince and your lover!' and it changed into a beautiful knight with barberries in his helmet, and knelt at her feet, and they were very happy for ever after."
"Oh, how short!" complained the rest. "Eyebright's was a great deal longer."
"Yes, but she read hers in a book, you know. I made mine up, all myself."
"I'll tell you a 'tory now," broke in little Rosy. "It's a nice 'tory, – a real nice one. Once there was a little girl, and she wanted some pie. She wanted some weal wich pie. And her mother whipped her because she wanted the weal wich pie. Then she kied. And her mother whipped her. Then she kied again. And her mother whipped her again. And the wich pie made her sick. And she died. She couldn't det well, 'cause the dottor he didn't come. He couldn't come. There wasn't any dottor. He was eated up by tigers. Isn't that a nice 'tory?"
The girls laughed so hard over Rosy's story that, much abashed, she hid her face in Kitty's lap, and wouldn't raise it for a long time. Eyebright tried to comfort her.
"It's a real nice story," she said. "The nicest of all. I'm so glad you came, Rosy, else you wouldn't have told it to us."
"Did you hear me tell how the dottor was eated up by tigers?" asked Rosy, peeping with one eye from out of the protection of Kitty's apron.
"Yes, indeed. That was splendid."
"I made that up!" said Rosy, triumphantly revealing her whole face, joyful again, and bright as a full moon.
"Who'll be next?" asked Eyebright.
"I will," said Laura. "Listen now, for it's going to be perfectly awful, I can tell you. It's about robbers."
As she spoke these words, Laura lowered her voice, into a sort of half-groan, half-whisper.
"There was once a girl who lived all alone by herself, with just one Newfoundland dog for company. He wasn't a big Newfoundland, – he was pretty small. One night, when it was all dark and she was just going to sleep, she heard a rustle underneath her bed."
The children had drawn closer together since Laura began, and at this point Romaine gave a loud shriek.
"What was that?" she asked.
All held their breaths. The loft was getting a little dusky now, and sure enough, an unmistakable rustle was heard among the hay in a distant corner!
"This loft would be a very bad place for a robber," said Eyebright, in a voice which trembled considerably, though she tried to keep it steady. "A robber wouldn't have much chance with all our men down below. James, you know, girls, and Samuel and John."
"Yes, – and Benjamin and Charles," chimed in the quick-witted Molly; "and your father, Eyebright, and Henry, – all down there in the barn."
While they recited this formidable list, the little geese were staring with wide-open, affrighted eyes into the corner where the rustle had been heard.
"And, – " continued Eyebright, her voice trembling more than ever, "they have all got pitchforks, you know, and guns, and – oh, mercy! what was that? The hay moved, girls, it did move, I saw it!"
All scrambled to their feet prepared to fly, but before any one could start, the hay in the corner parted, and, cackling and screaming, out flew Mrs. Top-knot, tired of her hidden nest, or of the story-telling, and resolved on escape. Eyebright ran after, and shoo-ed her downstairs. Then she came back laughing, and said, —
"How silly we were! Go on, Laura."
But the nerves of the party were too shaky still to enjoy robber-stories, and Eyebright, perceiving this, made a diversion.
"I know what we all want," she said; "some apples. Stay here all of you, and I'll run in and get them. I won't be but a minute."
"Mayn't I come too?" asked the inseparable Bessie.
"Yes, do, and you can help me carry 'em. Don't tell any stories while we're gone, girls. Come along, Bess."
Wealthy happened to be in the buttery, skimming cream, so no one spied them as they ran through the kitchen and down the cellar stairs. The cellar was a very large one. In fact, there were half a dozen cellars opening one into the other, like the rooms of a house. Wood and coal were kept in some of them, in others vegetables, and there was a swinging shelf where stood Wealthy's cold meat, and odds and ends of food. All the cellars were dark at this hour of the afternoon, very dark, and Bessie held Eyebright's hand tight, as, with the ease of one who knew the way perfectly, she sped toward the apple-room.
In the blackest corner of all, Eyebright paused, fumbled a little on an almost invisible shelf with a jar which had a lid and clattered, and then handed to her friend a dark something whose smell and taste showed it to be a pickled butternut.
"Wealthy keeps her pickles here," she said, "and she lets me take one now and then, because I helped to prick the butternuts when she made 'em. I got my fingers awfully stained too. It didn't come off for almost a month. Aren't they good?"
"Perfectly