CASTING BREAD UPON THE WATERS By MILDRED NUTTER FROST AT HAYES came out of the post-office, climbed into the wagon, and clucked to the old mare, which presently jogged off at a comfortable amble, the wagon rattling cheerily behind. Every one in the village knew Nat Hayes' old gray mare and the peculiar rattle of his wagon; and what was more, they all liked Nat, and nodded a greeting or passed the time o' day as he went by. And then they would smile knowingly at each other-yes, Nat had got his letter all right, and they were mighty glad of it. So the two old cronies-the horse and the man-jogged along, and as the houses grew fewer, the man fell to dreaming-pleasant dreams they were that every now and then would wrinkle up his face so that the valleys around his mouth would all run up hill; and then he would chuckle and slap his knee. Fortunately the mare knew her way, knew just how far to turn out for the big rock at the entrance to the lane, and how to slow down when she went over the rickety bridge by the brook, and just how wide a curve she must make as she entered the barn. Then she stopped and waited, and when nothing happened, she turned her head around and whinnied. Nat looked up in surprise. "Jiminy, Susie, how'd you get here so quick? But, there, when I get to thinking about that leettle gal, well, well" and he climbed out and began hurrying through the chores. It didn't take him long; and presently his cheery "Halloa, Mother" sounded outside the kitchen door. Rebecca was there to greet him with an eager questioning light in her eyes. "It's all right, Mother, I've got the letter." The little square table was already spread, and the last rays of the sun were playing across the old blue china Mother's wedding set; and Mother was just pulling from the oven a pan of puffy, hot biscuits. Nat was especially fond of hot biscuits. "Mother, we'd better not read it till after supper, had we?" said Father, a wistful negative in his voice. "Oh, let's not wait. Let's read it now." That was the way they always did, but they always went through the little play first. It was Father's way, because he didn't like to ask Mother to keep the supper waiting for him. So Mother pulled her spectacles. down from the top of her head, fitted them on the top of her nose, patted her hair into its accustomed smoothness, and took the letter from Father. Her hands trembled just a little with eagerness, as she carefully clipped off a tiny sliver from one end of the envelope, only the teentiest bit for fear of cutting the letter. She read it out loud, holding it up by the window to catch the lingering light; and Father leaned over her shoulder, his faded eyes relighted and straining eagerly to follow Mother down the page. It was written coarse on purpose for the old eyes and the Mother's Occasionally spectacles. voice quavered, and Father passed the back of his hand over his eyes, as they read of some success of their little girl. "Of course she isn't really our little girl," Father would say in a half pleading, half deprecating voice, as if to exonerate himself from claiming what didn't belong to him. "Oh, well," Mother would answer, "it's just the same." And when they sat down to supper, 589 the biscuits tasted ever so much better, even if they weren't exactly hot. After supper Mother went into the "front room" and brought out a box; it was a chocolate peppermint box, Father had brought from the store. It had been a long time since they had looked at the pictures in the box, almost three weeks. Mother carefully turned the contents upside down so they could begin at the bottom, because that was where the baby pictures were. Each was done up carefully in white tissue paper to keep out the dust and light. The first was a little daguerreotype, taken soon after old Sal had come to live in the village, bringing her small charge, Isabel, a mere baby then, just beginning to walk; not a mere baby, after all, though, but a very remarkable one, every one thought, with the most wonderful big, brown eyes, so deep and dark and sparkling, that it seemed as if she must see more than other people. The next was when she was a little five-year-old, with sunny fly-a-way hair, mischievous eyes, and lips just quivering to laugh. "Jiminy, Mother, seems 's if I could hear her crowing because she'd beaten me in a game of 'Everlasting.' But land's sakes, she was allus up to her tricks. I'll never forget the way she fooled me one day when I was driving along home. I'd got along about half way up the long hill, when I heered at bird singing, and stopped the old nag to listen-for't was mighty sweet-and I peered in among the trees to see if I could see the purty creetur, when out jumped Isabel from behind a stone laughing fit to split. 'Oh, Uncle Nat, you thought it was a bird. I fooled you that time; and then she jumped into the back of the wagon and had me by the ears before I could say Jack Robinson. I pretended I knew who it was all the time and was just looking to see where she was hid. She caught the reins out of my hands and said, 'Now, Uncle Nat, you play you're my coachman. Fold your arms, sit up straight, look right ahead, and we'll make Aunt Rebecca think we've just arrived from Skinamadoo.' Gee whiz, I bet she's got royal blood in her, for she looked like a queen, and she just enjoyed the play as if it had been the real thing." There was a little kodak picture of Isabel rocking her doll to sleep, taken about the same time, which was Mother's especial pet. She was such a serious little mother, all love and tenderness. That was the way she looked when she smoothed Mother's hair back when her head ached. Then there was the picture when she graduated from the village school. They both loved this picture, the delicate, tremulous lips, they eyes half sparkling with the triumph of the moment, half dreamy with unknown expectations. There were many more, but all of Isabel, excepting one; that was Miss Whitney, Isabel's fairy godmother. Four years ago, it hardly seemed possible now, Miss Whitney had been visiting in the town, and had sung all summer in the little, old, white meet ing house, just to help them out. was in the Sunday school that she had discovered Isabel, her sweet, strong voice standing out from all the others. One day when Nat went into the store to buy a piece of "caliky" for Rebecca, he overheard Miss Whitney talking about Isabel. He hadn't any cotton to stuff into his ears, as he said; and so, while he was waiting, he just sat down by a tub of cheese and listened. And then he went home and had a long talk with Rebecca. "She said as how if she could take Isabel to Europe with her, and have her voice cultured or cultivated or she'd be a regular Pereppy of Jenny raked over or something of the sort, Wren. No, that wasn't it; what in time was it she said?" "Jenny Lind," suggested Rebecca. "Oh, yes, Jenny Lind. Well, o' course I butted in and asked how much it 'ud cost, and then I just took the trail for home a-chewing over the idea." Rebecca dropped her sewing, pushed her glasses up over her hair, and ejaculated: "Well, I declare, Nat Hayes, of all the things! I'd miss her dretful, but there, she's got her life to live, and I'm an old woman. I cal'late old Sal would be right glad to be well rid of her for a spell. I've heard her grumbling of late and saying as how it would be a burden to keep a growed girl that didn't do nothing to earn her living, and she hoped she'd either get married soon or go into the factory." "I want to know!" ejaculated Nat. "And do you know, what she'd said had set me to thinking that if old Sal didn't want Isabel, perhaps she'd let us adopt her, and then we'd have her all our own; but there, your plan would be a sight better for our little Isabel, and maybe we can have her when she comes home again." "Jest so, jest so, Rebecca. We'd miss her a heap, but she ought to have a chance, and we could spare some of that money Uncle 'Rasmus left us just as well as not." That practically settled it; and after much talking and planning and revising of plans, arrangements were finally made, and Isabel left for Europe. And now for the last four years the weekly letter had been the principal event in their daily lives. The village had been all stirred up over Isabel's departure, and there were not a few who were still skeptical. They liked Nat, and enjoyed seeing his pleasure in the letters, but they felt doubtful about the wisdom of such a course. Chief among them was Miss Remember Stevens. When she heard of Isabel's protestations of gratitude, she tossed her head in disgust. "Oh, well, it's all right for her to say that now, but you just wait, Nat Hayes, and see if you hain't made a fool o' yourself. As long as she wants your money, she'll be all honey, but when she's got her larning, she'll put on her furbelows and won't even know you. You just wait and see." Nat only smiled at such remarks. He felt sure he could trust his little girl, big girl, he said he would have to call her now; and her letters still rang true. Perhaps they did have more "larning" in them, but there was the same little girl down at the heart of them. All Isabel's letters were carefully tied up with one of her old pink hair ribbons they had found in the barn, and every month the money was sent to pay expenses. After all the pictures had been looked over, and been carefully rewrapped and once more arranged in their accustomed order, Mother put the box away, and then sat down beside Father for a last rehearsal of the letter before going to bed. Nat About the middle of the next week Nat had to make an extra trip to the village for some grain. He went into the postoffice as usual and was surprised to find an official-looking long envelope in his usually empty box. He opened and read the letter, then reread it, and read it again, and finally put it into his pocket, and went out and mechanically clambered into the wagon, too dazed even to cluck to the mare, which started off of her own accord. didn't seem to notice his friends who called out their accustomed greetings, and the men at the store looked at each other in inquiring perplexity. What could be the matter with the habitually lively Nat? At home Nat did up the chores as if in a dream, and then sat down on a milking stool and tried to collect his thoughts. He sat there a long time, till Rebecca, becoming troubled, came out to see what was the matter. The sight of Rebecca brought him to himself. "No, I ain't sick, but that there scalawag of a bank cashier has stolen our money and took to his heels. Jiminy, I'd just like to get my nippers on him. You bet he'd have to do some tall thinking about then." It was a dreadful blow to Rebecca, but she tried to be brave for Father's sake. "Well, there ain't no use trying to pick up spilt milk. We allus got along all right afore we had Uncle Rasmus' money, and we never used none o' that for ourselves, and have allus laid up some in the bank besides, so I guess we'll get along." But even although they might get along themselves, they feared they should not be able to get together sufficient ready money to send Isabel, and they could not bear the thought of disappointing her. This fear, however, they did not mention, not even to each other, but quietly went about their work as usual. Yes, quietly, that was the difference between the present and the past. Rebecca did not sing so much as had been her custom, and only when she saw Nat coming toward the house would she strike into one of the cheery old songs they both loved. Even then, do the best she could, the words would come slower and her voice grow more quavery. And as Nat went along the street, the neighbors, looking after him would say: "Well, well, Nat is beginning to grow old. Why, he used to be as lively as a cricket." way to raise money was on the farm. It hurt Father to do it. The farm had been in the family since the sixteen hundreds, and had never been mortgaged before. But this was only the beginning of trouble. The winter was long and unusually hard, and three cows, one after another, fell sick and had to be killed. Then Mother took a severe cold, and had a long, hard attack of pneumonia, so that they had to have a trained nurse and a specialist from the city. "Everything is greased for you when you begin to slip down hill," said Father, dropping heavily into a chair one day, and tossing Isabel's letter into Rebecca's lap. "I don't know where we're going to get any more money to send our girlie," he groaned. "Isaac Fairweather is threatening to foreclose if we don't pay up." But when they read the letter, they were very much surprised. They hadn't expected Isabel quite so soon, but there it was: "Well, Father, don't worry," said Rebecca. "We've done the best we could, and there ain't a man that could For a month or two the necessary have worked harder than you have, and money was forthcoming as usual, but we ought to be thankful we are alive." things went badly that spring. A heavy drought set in, threatening the small fruit crop. Day after day Father carried water way from the pump to the garden patch, until his poor old back refused, and he was laid up in the house almost a week with the "rheumatiks." And in the meantime the fruit dried on the stem without even filling out. But the drought kept right on. Great, heavy clouds would roll up and pass over. Standing in the old hill pasture, Nat could see it raining off in the distance, but it never came near his farm. The other crops were failing, one by one. One night Nat had a long talk with Rebecca. There was no use putting it off any longer-the facts must be faced. They would not have as much as five dollars to send Isabel next month; and, aside from Isabel, they needed money for themselves. The crops they usually exchanged for groceries had failed, and this year they would even have to buy some of the staples they usually raised. The only "Don't send me any more money, Uncle Nat. I'm coming home. I'm going to sing in Boston in Grand Opera in April. I want you both to be sure and come to hear me sing, for you said you would be the first to hear me when I returned. Now you must keep your promise-sure. Don't disappoint me. Then I'm going back to the farm with you. I cannot wait to see the place and your dear faces." There was much more to the letter, but Father broke in. "Jiminy, what are we going to do? We may be in the poor house then, and what'll she say? Lucky she don't want any more money. To-morrow was the day to have sent it, and I've been fretting about where I was to get it. She wants us to come to Boston to hear her sing. Oh, how I wish we could go, -but I'm afraid it would have to be on a shank's mare; camp out on the Common, and beg for our meals. Oh, Mother, Mother, we'll have to give it up." Letter after letter came from Isabel telling of her disappointment in not seeing them, and begging them to be sure and come right away. At last Isabel's companion, Miss Whitney, came. She heard the news when she arrived at the little Maine town, and was fully informed when she saw Uncle Nat. She begged of them to go with her to Boston the next day, saying that Isabel had looked forward during all her hard work to this event. It would not cost them anything. She had the tickets, and Isabel would look after them and come home with them, as this was the last performance in Boston. How could they refuse? At last Nat exclaimed: "Well, Mother, we might as well be killed for an old sheep as a lamb. Let's go. We will have one good time before we go to the poor house. Get our your wedding dress and my swallow-tail coat, and we'll go and hear our girlie sing." After he had once decided, he threw all care aside and was like a boy, in his eagerness. Mother was just as pleased, only she did not say so much. She was all in a flutter of excitement. She had never been to Boston. How all the town would talk! And what fun it would be to be able to tell the women at the sewing circle all about Boston and Grand Opera! She had just been aching to have something to equal Mrs. Totman's stories about her girl's doings at boarding school. She flew around, sweeping and dusting and putting things to rights, and when Miss Whitney protested that she would tire herself all out, she said: "Land sakes, Miss Whitney, I wouldn't leave this house, not in this shape. Mercy, supposin' we were killed in one of those dreadful accidents; I wouldn't have the neighbors see a speck o' dirt, not for worlds." The next morning Nat was up bright and early, calling: "Come, Mother, we mustn't miss the coach." They were both ready and dressed. an hour before time to start. He and mother had a lovely ride, until all of a sudden they came upon a wreck which delayed them a number of hours. Nat tried to advise and help. "Why couldn't you have had your weather eye out and prevent this accident? You might have postponed it till I got to Boston. If I hadn't these togs on, I could lift more than a dozen o' those critters; they act as if they were paid by the minute, and were trying to manufacture more than sixty to the hour." At last arrangements were made so they could proceed; and when they reached Boston, Miss Whitney said there would not be time to go to the hotel, but that they must go at once to the opera. "Is she going to sing in the town hall or the church?" inquired Rebecca. "It's in the theatre," said Miss Whitney. "Oh, Jiminy, you'll be turned out of church, when Parson Black hears you've been to the theatre." "But, land sakes, Father, we can't go home and not hear her sing, and if it don't hurt her, perhaps it won't hurt us, just for once. We'll keep thinking it's a church, and you know it says, ‘As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.'" They were soon being ushered into a box at the theatre, and Miss Whitney left them to go and tell Isabel they were there. "This doesn't look much like a church," church," said Nat, as he glanced around the house. "You'll have to do a heap o' thinking. Just look at that lamp; not much like our tallow dip; it's so dazzling. Take your bonnet off, Mother. All the other women are bare headed. We must watch and do as other people do, so girlie won't be ashamed of us. Just look at that wash tub trimmed with white feathers coming through that far door. A woman is under it. See! She's taking it off. My, she better get a nigger to help carry it." "If my hat isn't in style, my dress is. Look at that lady coming down. |
