 | CHAPTER XXIX.
LIFE AT OUTPOST. Outpost |  |
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
LIFE AT OUTPOST.
And now began for each member of the family at Outpost
a new and active life.
Kitty, who, young as she was, had already achieved reputation
as a notable housekeeper, found quite enough to attend
to in domestic matters, and, with Mehitable's help and counsel,
soon had all the interests and nearly all the comforts of
New-England farm-life established in her Western home.
Even the marigolds her mother had always raised as a
flavoring to broths; and the catnip, motherwort, peppermint,
and tansy, grown and dried as sovereign remedies in case
of illness; and the parsley, sage, and marjoram, to be used
in various branches of cookery, — flourished in their garden-bed
under Kitty's fostering care; while poor Silas Ross was
fairly worried, in spite of himself, into digging and roofing
an ice-cellar in the intervals of his more important duties.
“Now we'll see, another summer, if we can't have some
butter that's like butter, and not like soft-soap,” remarked
task complete.
“And now I hope I can sleep in my bed o' nights without
hearing `Ice-house, ice-house!' till I'm sick o' the sound
of ice,” muttered Silas, walking away.
It is not to be averred, however, that all this thrift was
established without much commotion or many stormy scenes;
and, not unfrequently, Mehitable Ross announced to her
husband that “she wouldn't stan' it nohow, to be nosed
round this way by a gal not so old as herself!” And Kitty
“declared to gracious” that she “never saw such a topping
piece as that Hitty Ross since she was born;” and, if “folks
undertook to work for other folks, they ought to be willing to
do the way they were told;” and she'd “rather do the whole
alone than keep round after that contrary creature, seeing
that she didn't get the upper-hands as soon as her back was
turned!”
But Dora, without appearing to listen or to look, heard all
and saw all. Dora, cheerful, energetic, and calm, knew how
to heal, without appearing to notice the wound; had a faculty,
all her own, of leading the mind, vexed with a thousand
trifles, to the contemplation of some aim so grand, some
thought so high, some love or beauty so serene, that it
to do or to endure with new courage.
“Somehow I felt ashamed of jawing so about that wash,
when Dora came in, and put her hands into the tub, and,
while she was rubbing away, began to tell what a crop of
corn we're going to have; and how the folks down South,
the freedmen and all, might have plenty to eat, if every one
did as well as we're doing,” said Mehitable to her husband.
“Yes,” replied Seth: “she stood by me there in the
sun as much as an hour, and told the cutest story you
ever heard about the Injins believing that corn is a live
creter, and appeared once, in the shape of a young man
named Odahmin, to one of the Injin chiefs called Hiawatha;
and they had a wrastle. Hiawatha beat, and killed the other
feller, and buried him up in the ground; but he hadn't
more'n got him under 'fore up he come agin, or ruther some
Injin-corn come up: but they called the green leaves his
clothes; and the tossel atop, his plume; and the sprouts
was his hands, each holding an ear of corn, that he give to
Hiawatha, just as a feller that's whipped gives another his
hat, you know.”
“Do the Injins believe all that now?” asked Mehitable
contemptuously.
“They do so. But, I tell you, I never knew how those
two rows got hoed while she was talking: they seemed to
slip right along somehow; and, after she was gone, the time
seemed dreadful short till sundown, I was thinking so busy
of what she said.
“Guess you'd been cross 'cause that cultivator didn't
come; hadn't you?” asked Mehitable slyly.
“Yes: I felt real mad all the morning about it, and was
pretty grumpy to Windsor; for I thought he might as well
have sent a week ago. But, by George! I'd like to see the
feller that 'ud be grumpy to her.”
“Well, Dora,” Kitty was saying at the same moment,
“I'm glad you've got home; for the first thing isn't ready
for supper, and I've just done ironing. That Hit went off
home an hour ago; said her head ached, and she'd got to get
the men's supper. I do declare, I'd like to shake that woman
till her teeth rattled; and I believe I'll do it some day!”
“How beautifully the clothes look, Kitty! I think they
bleach even whiter here than they used to in the old drying
yard. But I am sorry you ironed that white waist of mine:
I was going to do it myself. Now, Sunshine, come and
tell Aunt Kitty about the woodchuck and her baby that we
saw; and how we caught little chucky, as you called him;
and all the rest.”
“Dear me! I can't stop. Well, come and sit in my lap,
Dolly, and tell if you want to. Dora, do sit and rest a
minute: you look all tired out.”
“Oh, no! but Karl is, I am afraid. He walked away out
behind the wheat-lot this afternoon to see to setting some
traps for the poor little things that come to eat it. I never
saw such a boy when there is any thing to be done. He
goes right at it, no matter what lies between.”
“You're right there, Dora; and he always was so from
a child. Well, Dolly, what's the story?”
“Don't call me Dolly, please,” said the little girl coaxingly.
“Well, Dolce, then,” said Kitty, smiling with renewed
good-nature. And while Sunshine, all unconsciously, completed
by her prattle the cure that Dora had begun, the
latter quietly and rapidly finished the preparations for tea.
As for Sunshine, never did a child so well deserve her
name. In the house or on the prairie, running with Argus,
walking demurely beside Karl, or riding behind Dora upon
the stout little pony reserved for the use of the young mistress
of the place, it was always as a gleam of veritable
sunshine that she came; and no heart so dark, or temper so
gloomy, as to resist her sweet influence. Constant exercise
and fresh air, proper food, and the rigid sanitary laws established
bloom than it had ever known before; while her blue eyes
seemed two sparkling fountains of joy, and a vivid life
danced and glittered even among her sunny curls. Lithe
and straight, and strong of limb too, grew our slender little
Cerito; and, although every motion was still one of grace, it
was now the assured grace of strength, instead of that of fragility.
She danced too, but it was with the west wind, who,
rough companion that he was, whirled her round and round
in his strong arms, or tossed her hair in a bright cloud across
her face; while he snatched her hat, and sent it spinning into
the prairie; or kissed the laugh from her lips, and carried it
away to the wild woods to mock at the singing-birds.
Argus too — what friends he and the child, who at first
had been afraid of him, became before the summer was
through! What talks they held! How merrily they
laughed together! and how serenely Argus listened while
Sunshine told him long histories of imaginary wanderings
among the clouds, in enchanted forests, or “away beyond
the blue up in the sky”! Confidences these; for, as the narrator
whispered, —
“Dora doesn't like dream-stories, and Kitty says, `Oh,
nonsense!' and Karlo laughs: so you mustn't tell a word, old
bright brown eyes, promised never to tell, and faithfully
kept the promise.
Perhaps it was a vague sense of loneliness in these fancies;
perhaps it was the lingering longing for something
she had lost even from her memory, and yet not wholly from
her heart, where, as we all know, linger loves for which we
no longer have a name or a thought; perhaps it was only
the dim reflex of that agony consuming her mother's heart,
and the earnestness with which it longed for her: but something
there was, that, at intervals, cast a sudden shadow over
Sunshine's heart; something that made her pale and still,
and deepened the dimples at the corners of her mouth, until
each might have held a tear. At these times, she would
always steal away by herself if possible; sometimes, and
especially if the stars were out, to sit with folded hands,
gazing at the sky; sometimes to lie upon her little bed, her
eyes fixed on vacancy, until the bright tears gathered, and
rolled slowly down her cheeks: but, oftenest of all, she
would call Argus, and, with one hand upon his glossy head,
wander away to the dim forest, and seated at the foot of
one of those patriarchal trees, the hound lying close beside
her, would talk to him as she never talked to human ears.
Once, Karl, returning from an expedition to a distant part
of the farm, saw her thus, and half in fun, half in curiosity,
crept up behind the great oak at whose foot she sat,
and listened.
“And up there in heaven, Argus,” she was saying, “it's all
so beautiful! and no one ever speaks loud or cross; and every
one has shining white clothes, and flowers on their heads;
and some one is there — I don't know — I guess it's an angel;
but she's got soft hands, and such pretty shiny hair, and
eyes all full of loving me. I dream about her sometimes;
but I don't know who she is: and you mustn't tell, Argus.
Sometimes I want to die, so as to go to heaven and look for
her. Argus, do you want to go to heaven?”
The brown eyes said that Argus wished whatever she did;
and Sunshine continued:—
“Well, some day we'll go. I don't know just how; I
don't believe we'd find the way if we went now: but some
day I shall know, and then I'll tell you. Sometimes I feel
so lonesome, Argus! oh, so dreadful homesick! but I don't
now. You're a real little comforter, Argus. That's what
Dora called me the other night when Kitty was cross: and
Dora cried a little when she came to bed, and didn't know I
was awake; and I kissed her just so, Argus, and so.”
In the game of romps and kisses that ensued, Karl stole
away, and, after repeating the child's prattle to Dora, said
thoughtfully, —
“There's something strange about her, Dora; something
different from any of us. She seems so finely and delicately
made, and as if one rude jar might destroy the whole tone
of her life. If ever a creature was formed of peculiar,
instead of common clay, it is Sunshine.”
“Yes, and she must be shielded accordingly,” said Dora.
But, as she walked on beside Karl, she vaguely wondered if
there were not natures as finely strung and as sensitive to
suffering as Sunshine's, but united with so reticent an exterior,
and such outward strength, as never to gain the sympathy or
appreciation so freely bestowed upon the exquisite child.
Such introspection, however, was no part of Dora's
healthy temperament; and the next moment she had
plunged into a talk upon farm-matters with her cousin, and
displayed such shrewdness and clear-sighted wisdom upon
the subject, that Capt. Karl laughingly exclaimed, as they
entered the house, —
“O general! why weren't you born a man?”
| CHAPTER XXIX.
LIFE AT OUTPOST. Outpost | |