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"Here's the deacon, ag'in!" cried the Widow White, as she bolted hurriedly into her friend's presence. "This makes the third time he has been at my house since yesterday morning. What can he mean?" "Oh! I dare say, Betsy, he means no more than to visit the sick, as he pretends is the reason of his many visits." "You forget it is Sabba' day!" added the Widow White, with emphasis.
Who'd shoot Gilbert Potter? Not Alf Barton, I'll be bound; he'd be afeard to shoot even Sandy Flash!" "It's Sandy Flash, he's there! Gilbert shot his hat off!" cried Jake. "The Lord have mercy!" And the next minute Miss Betsy found herself, she scarcely knew how, in the road.
"He can only tell us what already has happened." Again they were grave and thoughtful. But after a time Betsy said in a hesitating voice: "Hank is a great fighter; perhaps he could conquer the magician." The Mule turned his head to look reproachfully at his old friend, the young girl. "Who can fight against magic?" he asked. "The Cowardly Lion could," said Dorothy.
"Find the parson," said Mistress Polly judiciously, "and you will have found the best place in the field." "Oh, Mistress Polly, you are a minx," said that reverend gentleman. "How in the world could I make the youngsters come to church if they did not know I was a good judge of horseflesh as well as a minister?" "They are off," cried Mistress Betsy. The race had begun; but why describe the race?
And she was right. The venturesome man had, with his accustomed hardihood, attempted that day to scale the mountain side, and had fallen into a hole by the side of the track, from which he could by no means extricate himself, because of its being a tightish fit, his head being down and his legs were in the air. "Oh, Betsy, pull me out lass! I'm half-choked already," gasped the unfortunate man.
She has done more to deprave the ideas of our townspeople than one would believe, and they tell you with such pleasure that she used to work in New York, as if that settled the question. It is a comfort to see old Sally Turner and Miss Betsy Milman go by in their decent dark silk bonnets that good Susan Martin made for them.
"Dusty Moth is waiting for me at the fence-corner, near the orchard. And I want to give him a good look at Betsy Butterfly's picture before the moon gets too high, for he can't see well if there's too much light." Jimmy Rabbit drew the picture carefully from his pocket. And Freddie Firefly took it and slung it across his back. He fairly staggered under the weight.
"Tell me some one thing the mother used often to say when she was taking her fun off the pair of you," he said, and "Where is she buried?" was a suggestive question, with the happy tag, "Is there a tree hanging over the grave?" Thus assisted, he composed a letter that had a tear in every sentence. Betsy rubbed her eyes red over it, and not all its sentiments were allowed to die, for Mrs.
Ruggedo struck another match, while they all turned away. "No," announced the former King; "that didn't break the charm, either. It must be the kiss of a Fairy that is required or else my memory has failed me altogether." "Polly," said Betsy, pleadingly, "won't you try?" "Of course I will!" answered Polychrome, with a merry laugh.
The Harvester breakfasted, fed the stock, hitched Betsy to the spring wagon, and went into the dripping, steamy woods. If any one had asked him that morning concerning his idea of heaven, he would never have dreamed of describing gold-paved streets, crystal pillars, jewelled gates, and thrones of ivory. He would have told you that the woods on a damp sunny May morning was heaven.
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