 A Real New England Girl by Anna I. Parsons 1. The Shower 2. Oxford County 3. The Stranger and the Girl 4. The Youth and the Girl 5. Pansy and Richard Go Trading 6. The Marvelous Storyteller 7. The Dinner 8. The The Minister Comes for Tea 9. Pansy's Father 10. Pansy and Her Mother 11. Poland Springs 12. The Birthday Cake 13. Ned Patterson Comes for a Visit 14. The Blue Berrying Party 15. The Beginning of Wisdom 16. The Tempted and the Penitent 17. The Concert 18. Stanley's Ride 19. The Bench by the Wayside 20. The Banker and the Widow 21. The Bag of Nuts 22. How They Kept Thanksgiving at Little Farm 23. Hardly a Merry Christimas 24. A Call Down and a Caller 25. The Pride of Mrs. Bradford 26. A Happy New Year 27. Amusement and Winter Sport 28. Kim 29. Richard, the Lion Hearted 30. A Tour of the White Mountains 31. Talking Over the Trip with Henry Bright 32. Thoughts That Lie Too Deep for Words 33. Economics 34. His Toast 35. The Busy Haunts of Man 36. Christmas in New York 37. The Last Night of Their Visit 38. The Language Understood by All 39. Sugaring Off 40. Correspondence 41. Commencement 42. Conclusion Afterward     |
Amusement and Winter Sport "Half your meat and half your hay, Candlemas day." "Guess we'll pull through all right," said Mr. Alden, addressing his sister on February 2nd, the day on which all thrifty farmers take inventory of their supplies and adjust their output accordingly. "There's plenty of good hay and straw enough for bedding for the stock so long as they'll need it, and I calculate there's more meat than you will be able to use up between now and thawing time, so you can give the children all the mince pie they want, Ruth. The apples are sort of middling, but the Russets are getting in shape, and you can use some of them if the cooking apples give out. With a little boiled cider cooked with them, they ought to be eatable, though there's nothing like Greenings in my estimation for pies and sauce." At this time, the snow lay deep all about Little Farm, and every morning when Ruth, Pansy, and Richard left for school, they walked through a passageway of snow on a level with Pansy and Richard's heads to reach the school team, for the snow had a habit of drifting in front of the Bradford door, and after every storm, Richard had a long job shoveling out the walks to the highway and barn. It is a common and true saying in New England that. "As the days begin to lengthen, The cold begins to strengthen." Now at its climax, winter held sway more potent than summer with its torrid heat in the long July days. Mrs. Bradford seldom went anywhere except to church on Sunday, as it was too difficult getting about, and besides, caring for her household and looking after the wants of her children were of more importance to her than anything else, except the higher duty of honor and worship to the Creator. Occasionally some of her relatives would come for dinner, or one or two of the neighbors would drop in for the afternoon, but there were many days when her chief concern was, what would the children like best for supper? At five o'clock they came trooping in so cold and hungry and full of news, that dull-care vanished like mist in the joy of seeing them and ministering to their wants. On Candlemas day, Richard did not come with the others, and Mrs. Bradford anxiously inquired for him. "O Mother," said Pansy, "there's a big surprise for you. Stanley has sent you a box as large as a trunk. There wasn't room to bring it up in the school team, so Richard saw Henry Bright in the village, and asked him to drive up to the station for it, and they'll be here in just a few minutes. Whatever do you suppose is in the box?" "I'm sure I haven't any idea," said Mrs. Bradford. The box, on its arrival, was deposited in the kitchen, and as Mrs. Bradford insisted on having supper before it was opened, there was a long wait during which Pansy and Richard guessed it contained a great variety of things, including oranges, cooking utensils and a dish washing machine. When finally a beautiful mahogany victrola was unpacked and set in motion, there was truly joy unspeakable. One after another of its records were tried and found faultless. Never before had they heard such selections from the opera, and they knew not how to praise the music so unexpectedly reproduced for them. They knew it was different from local talent, knew it was wonderful in smoothness and harmony, and that it penetrated until they seemed to vibrate in unison with the grand storm of melody that filled the air. "It's just like Stanley to send it," they repeated again and again. Mrs. Bradford's mind went back to that Saturday afternoon in December when Stanley had denied himself the companionship of younger people to spend the time quietly with her, and she felt indeed he had tried to supply her with as near a cure for loneliness as mechanical contrivances can effect. When time became a bit heavy on her hands during those snow-bound days of February which followed, she set the victrola in action, and became so accustomed to its music that one night, to Pansy's amusement, she began humming an air from the opera while doing the dishes. Pansy had often been reproved for her outbursts of song, and could not refrain from asking roguishly, "Who's singing now?" When the weather became slightly warmer in March and then suddenly turned cold again, the snow became so encrusted as to support even a heavy horse and sleigh in an open field. Toboggans and sleds were all brought out, and old and young and anybody who had a drop of sporting blood left in him, took a turn at coasting over the broad course made possible by the unusual conditions of the weather. The stone walls were too deeply buried in snow to form a barrier between fields. In this great age of invention, flying machines and automobiles have acquired a terrific speed, but gravity still shows no abatement of force when you let loose a good coaster at the top of a hill. With the small particles of snow thrown upward clouding the air, a man positively cannot keep his eyes open at greatest momentum, but can only hold to the rigging, and hold to his breath, and trust luck to reach the level safely. On Saturday afternoon, Pansy and Richard had their try at the popular sport. As Richard has given a minute description of their experience in a letter which he wrote to Stanley Winthrop the following Monday night, we will quote this letter in toto. Little Farm, Paris, Maine March 3rd, 191- Dear Stanley: - Pansy is lying on the sofa and is feeling fairly comfortable, but she won't be able to use her arm for a few days. Trifles has called off the boycott and she's happier than a bullfrog going courting. It happened in this way: there was such a good crust on Saturday, that Uncle Will said I could have the afternoon off to go sliding, if I got the stove wood that was ready all tiered up first. My friend Phil Morris came and helped me, and when we had finished that job, I rigged up the big red handsled with a lever on either side with which to steer it, and Phil and Pansy and I went up the hill in Mr. Parish's field and tried it and it worked all right. Then we went back and got mother and Ruth and gave them a nice slide where the hill isn't very steep. After that Pansy and I sat on either side of the sled and steered, and Phil sat on behind and started her off, and we were having a pretty nice afternoon when who should come along but the minister and Professor Thayer. They had walked up from the village on the crust, and of course, they both wanted to do some coasting with us. To give them a long slide, I thought it would be a good plan to start in the field near the half-way tree, and go down past your house to the low lands where Jerry pastured the Ayrshires last summer. So we all went over to the clover piece, and first the minister got on and stretched his long legs across one side of the sled, and then Professor got on and stretched his long legs across the other side of the sled. Pansy wouldn't steer, so I told Phil to take her lever and Pansy could sit on behind. Well, we got started off and went kind of slowly until we reached the hill beyond your house, and then that old handsled took on a gait that greased lightning couldn't equal. She fairly jumped through the air at the rate of five miles a minute, and you couldn't see daylight from trying to stick on and keep your breath. I hadn't been down that way all winter, and didn't know there was an open place in the swamp until we had slowed down some and were almost into it with the sled. I yelled to Phil to apply his lever so as to steer round it, but he got so excited, he couldn't work it, and in another minute we'd all been in that muck hole, but for Pansy. She threw herself off and grabbed the hindmost slat, and it acted just like a rudder. We swung round and missed the swamp by a hair's breadth. One of my boots got splashed with water. I never had such a narrow escape from a ducking before. The minister and professor were both white in the face when they got off that sled, and when they found it was Pansy that had saved them from an icy plunge, Professor walked over to Pansy and said, "Shake hands." I thought Pansy was never going to do it, and when Professor got hold of her hand, I thought he was never going to let go. Pansy was awful quiet, and didn't even talk to the minister going up to the house. They both stayed for supper. We had hogshead cheese and the minister backed up three times and ate seven biscuits and maybe more. I lost count because Pansy didn't eat hardly anything, and we all thought it was because Professor was there. She never told us until after they had gone that her shoulder was hurt. I said, "Pansy, whey didn't you let them get a ducking, you don't like Professor much anyway," and she said mother would have been so humiliated she would rather have broken her arm than to have anything like that happen. We all took turns putting hot cloths on Pansy's shoulder Saturday night and Sunday. Today she went to school, but she can't use her arm any to write. Professor Thayer called on her to recite in class for the first time in about ten months, and tonight she's way up in G. Her arm don't pain her any now, only it's tender. Ruth's helping her get her Latin lesson, Uncle Will's reading the 'Lewiston Journal,' and mother's knitting. The Victrola is well (I mean well used) and we are going to hear Caruso sing 'Celeste Aida' as soon as I get this letter finished. Your friend, Richard. Click Here for Chapter 28 |