It was about this time that Rebecca, who had beenreading about the Spartan boy, conceived theidea of some mild form of self-punishment tobe applied on occasions when she was fully convincedin her own mind that it would be salutary.
The immediate cause of the decision was a somewhatsadder accident than was common, even in acareer prolific in such things.
Clad in her best, Rebecca had gone to take teawith the Cobbs; but while crossing the bridge shewas suddenly overcome by the beauty of the riverand leaned over the newly painted rail to feast hereyes on the dashing torrent of the fall. Resting herelbows on the topmost board, and inclining her littlefigure forward in delicious ease, she stood theredreaming.
The river above the dam was a glassy lake withall the loveliness of blue heaven and green shorereflected in its surface; the fall was a swirling wonderof water, ever pouring itself over and over inexhaustiblyin luminous golden gushes that lost themselvesin snowy depths of foam. Sparkling in the sunshine,gleaming under the summer moon, cold and graybeneath a November sky, trickling over the damin some burning July drought, swollen with turbulentpower in some April freshet, how many youngeyes gazed into the mystery and majesty of thefalls along that river, and how many young heartsdreamed out their futures leaning over the bridgerail, seeing "the vision splendid" reflected there andoften, too, watching it fade into "the light ofcommon day."Rebecca never went across the bridge withoutbending over the rail to wonder and to ponder, andat this special moment she was putting the finishingtouches on a poem.
Two maidens by a river strayedDown in the state of Maine.
The one was called Rebecca,The other Emma Jane.
"I would my life were like the stream,"Said her named Emma Jane,"So quiet and so very smooth,So free from every pain.""I'd rather be a little dropIn the great rushing fall!
I would not choose the glassy lake,'T would not suit me at all!"(It was the darker maiden spokeThe words I just have stated,The maidens twain were simply friendsAnd not at all related.)But O! alas I we may not haveThe things we hope to gain;The quiet life may come to me,The rush to Emma Jane!
"I don't like `the rush to Emma Jane,' and Ican't think of anything else. Oh! what a smell ofpaint! Oh! it is ON me! Oh! it's all over my bestdress! Oh I what WILL aunt Miranda say!"With tears of self-reproach streaming from hereyes, Rebecca flew up the hill, sure of sympathy,and hoping against hope for help of some sort.
Mrs. Cobb took in the situation at a glance, andprofessed herself able to remove almost any stainfrom almost any fabric; and in this she wascorroborated by uncle Jerry, who vowed that mothercould git anything out. Sometimes she took thecloth right along with the spot, but she had a surehand, mother had!
The damaged garment was removed and partiallyimmersed in turpentine, while Rebecca graced thefestal board clad in a blue calico wrapper of Mrs.
Cobb's.
"Don't let it take your appetite away," croonedMrs. Cobb. "I've got cream biscuit and honey foryou. If the turpentine don't work, I'll try Frenchchalk, magneshy, and warm suds. If they fail, fathershall run over to Strout's and borry some of thestuff Marthy got in Milltown to take the currant pieout of her weddin' dress.""I ain't got to understandin' this paintin' accidentyet," said uncle Jerry jocosely, as he handedRebecca the honey. "Bein' as how there's `FreshPaint' signs hung all over the breedge, so 't a blindasylum couldn't miss 'em, I can't hardly accountfor your gettin' int' the pesky stuff.""I didn't notice the signs," Rebecca saiddolefully. "I suppose I was looking at the falls.""The falls has been there sence the beginnin'
o' time, an' I cal'late they'll be there till the endon 't; so you needn't 'a' been in sech a brash to gita sight of 'em. Children comes turrible high, mother,but I s'pose we must have 'em!" he said, winkingat Mrs. Cobb.
When supper was cleared away Rebecca insistedon washing and wiping the dishes, while Mrs. Cobbworked on the dress with an energy that plainlyshowed the gravity of the task. Rebecca kept leavingher post at the sink to bend anxiously overthe basin and watch her progress, while uncle Jerryoffered advice from time to time.
"You must 'a' laid all over the breedge, deary,"said Mrs. Cobb; "for the paint 's not only on yourelbows and yoke and waist, but it about coversyour front breadth."As the garment began to look a little betterRebecca's spirits took an upward turn, and at lengthshe left it to dry in the fresh air, and went into thesitting-room.
"Have you a piece of paper, please?" askedRebecca. "I'll copy out the poetry I was makingwhile I was lying in the paint."Mrs. Cobb sat by her mending basket, and uncleJerry took down a gingham bag of strings and occupiedhimself in taking the snarls out of them,--afavorite evening amusement with him.
Rebecca soon had the lines copied in her roundschoolgirl hand, making such improvements asoccurred to her on sober second thought.
THE TWO WISHESBYREBECCA RANDALLTwo maidens by a river strayed,'T was in the state of Maine.
Rebecca was the darker one,The fairer, Emma Jane.
The fairer maiden said, "I wouldMy life were as the stream;So peaceful, and so smooth and still,So pleasant and serene.""I'd rather be a little dropIn the great rushing fall;I'd never choose the quiet lake;'T would not please me at all."(It was the darker maiden spokeThe words we just have stated;The maidens twain were simply friends,Not sisters, or related.)But O! alas! we may not haveThe things we hope to gain.
The quiet life may come to me,The rush to Emma Jane!
She read it aloud, and the Cobbs thought it not onlysurpassingly beautiful, but a marvelous production"I guess if that writer that lived on CongressStreet in Portland could 'a' heard your poetry he'd'a' been astonished," said Mrs. Cobb. "If you askme, I say this piece is as good as that one o' his,`Tell me not in mournful numbers;' and consid'ableclearer.""I never could fairly make out what `mournfulnumbers' was," remarked Mr. Cobb critically.
"Then I guess you never studied fractions!"flashed Rebecca. "See here, uncle Jerry and auntSarah, would you write another verse, especially fora last one, as they usually do--one with `thoughts'
in it--to make a better ending?""If you can grind 'em out jest by turnin' thecrank, why I should say the more the merrier; butI don't hardly see how you could have a betterendin'," observed Mr. Cobb.
"It is horrid!" grumbled Rebecca. "I ought notto have put that `me' in. I'm writing the poetry.
Nobody ought to know it IS me standing by theriver; it ought to be `Rebecca,' or `the darkermaiden;' and `the rush to Emma Jane' is simplydreadful. Sometimes I think I never will try poetry,it's so hard to make it come right; and other timesit just says itself. I wonder if this would be better?
But O! alas! we may not gainThe good for which we prayThe quiet life may come to oneWho likes it rather gay,I don't know whether that is worse or not. Now fora new last verse!"In a few minutes the poetess looked up, flushedand triumphant. "It was as easy as nothing. Justhear!" And she read slowly, with her pretty,pathetic voice:--Then if our lot be bright or sad,Be full of smiles, or tears,The thought that God has planned it soShould help us bear the years.
Mr. and Mrs. Cobb exchanged dumb glances ofadmiration; indeed uncle Jerry was obliged to turnhis face to the window and wipe his eyes furtivelywith the string-bag.
"How in the world did you do it?" Mrs. Cobbexclaimed.
"Oh, it's easy," answered Rebecca; "the hymnsat meeting are all like that. You see there's aschool newspaper printed at Wareham Academyonce a month. Dick Carter says the editor is alwaysa boy, of co............