Anna and Rebecca Weston, carrying a big basket between them, ran along the path that led from their home to the Machias River. It was a pleasant May morning in 1775, and the air was filled with the fragrance of the freshly cut pine logs that had been poled down the river in big rafts to be cut into planks and boards at the big sawmills. The river, unusually full with the spring rains, dashed against its banks as if inviting the little girls to play a game with it. Usually Anna and Rebecca were quite ready to linger at the small coves which crept in so near to the footpath, and sail boats made of pieces of birch-bark, with alder twigs for masts and broad oak leaves for sails. They named these boats Polly and Unity, after the two fine sloops which carried lumber from Machias to Boston and returned10 with cargoes of provisions for the little settlement.

But this morning the girls hurried along without a thought for such pleasant games. They were both anxious to get to the lumber yard as soon as possible, not only to fill their basket with chips, as their mother had bidden them, but to hear if there were not some news of the Polly, the return of which was anxiously awaited; for provisions were getting scarce in this remote village, and not until the Polly should come sailing into harbor could there be any sugar cakes, or even bread made of wheat flour.

As they hurried along they heard the cheerful whistle of Mr. Worden Foster, the blacksmith, who was just then taking a moment of well-earned leisure in the door of his shop, and stood looking out across the quiet waters of the river and harbor. As the girls came near he nodded pleasantly, but did not stop whistling. People in Machias declared that the blacksmith woke up in the morning whistling, and never stopped except to eat. And, indeed, his little daughter Luretta said that when her father wanted a second helping of anything at the table he would whistle and point toward it with his knife; so it11 might be said that Mr. Foster whistled even at his meals.

“There’s Father! There’s Father!” Anna called out as they passed a big pile of pine logs and came to where stacks of smooth boards just from the sawmill shut the river from sight.

“Well, Danna, do you and Rebby want your basket filled with golden oranges from sunny Italy and dates from Egypt? Or shall it be with Brazilian nuts and ripe pineapples from South America?”

“Oh, Father! Say some more!” exclaimed Anna, laughing with delight; for she never tired of hearing her father tell of the wonderful fruits of far-off lands that he had seen in his sailor days, before he came to live in the little settlement of Machias, in the Province of Maine, and manage the big sawmill.

“Father, tell us, is the Polly coming up the bay?” Rebecca asked eagerly. She had a particular reason for wanting the sloop to reach harbor as soon as possible, for her birthday was close at hand, and her father had told her that the Polly was bringing her a fine gift; but what it was Rebecca could not imagine. She had guessed everything from a gold ring to a prayer-book;12 but at every guess her father had only smilingly shook his head.

“No sign of the Polly yet, Rebby,” Mr. Weston replied.

Rebecca sighed as her father called her “Rebby,” and a little frown showed itself on her forehead. She was nearly fourteen, and she had decided that neither “Rebecca” nor “Rebby” were names that suited her. Her middle name was “Flora,” and only that morning Anna had promised not to call her by any other name save Flora in future.

Mr. Weston smiled down at Rebecca’s serious face.

“So ’tis not spices from far Arabia, or strings of pink coral, this morning,” he continued, taking the basket, “but pine chips. Well, come over here and we will soon fill the basket,” and he led the way to where two men were at work with sharp adzes smoothing down a big stick of timber.

In a few minutes the basket was filled, and the little girls were on their way home.

“Would it not be a fine thing, Rebby, if we could really fill our basket with pineapples and sweet-smelling spices?” said Anna, her brown13 eyes looking off into space, as if she fancied she could see the wonderful things of which her father spoke; “and do you not wish that we were both boys, and could go sailing off to see far lands?”

“Anna! Only this morning you promised to call me ‘Flora,’ and now it is ‘Rebby,’ ‘Rebby.’ And as for ‘far lands’—of course I don’t want to see them. Have you not heard Father say that there were no more beautiful places in all the world than the shores of this Province?” responded Rebecca reprovingly. She sometimes thought that it would have been far better if Anna had really been a boy instead of a girl; for the younger girl delighted to be called “Dan,” and had persuaded her mother to keep her brown curls cut short “like a boy’s”; beside this, Anna cared little for dolls, and was completely happy when her father would take her with him for a day’s deep-sea fishing, an excursion which Rebecca could never be persuaded to attempt. Anna was also often her father’s companion on long tramps in the woods, where he went to mark trees to be cut for timber. She wore moccasins on these trips, made by the friendly Indians who often visited the little settlement, and her mother had made her a short skirt of tanned deerskin,14 such as little Indian girls sometimes wear, and with her blue blouse of homespun flannel, and round cap with a partridge wing on one side, Anna looked like a real little daughter of the woods as she trotted sturdily along beside her tall father.