Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“Of course it’s just the same THING; but a baby has got to be called babe or infant in a circular, the same as it is in poetry! Would you rather say infant?”

“No,” grumbled Emma Jane; “infant is worse even than babe. Rebecca, do you think we’d better do as the circular says, and let Elijah or Elisha try the soap before we begin selling?”

“I can’t imagine a babe doing a family wash with ANY soap,” answered Rebecca; “but it must be true or they would never dare to print it, so don’t let’s bother. Oh! won’t it be the greatest fun, Emma Jane? At some of the houses—where they can’t possibly know me—I shan’t be frightened, and I shall reel off the whole rigmarole, invalid, babe, and all. Perhaps I shall say even the last sentence, if I can remember it: `We sound every chord in the great mac-ro-cosm of satisfaction.”

This conversation took place on a Friday afternoon at Emma Jane’s house, where Rebecca, to her unbounded joy, was to stay over Sunday, her aunts having gone to Portland to the funeral of an old friend. Saturday being a holiday, they were going to have the old white horse, drive to North Riverboro three miles away, eat a twelve o’clock dinner with Emma Jane’s cousins, and be back at four o’clock punctually.

When the children asked Mrs. Perkins if they could call at just a few houses coming and going, and sell a little soap for the Simpsons, she at first replied decidedly in the negative. She was an indulgent parent, however, and really had little objection to Emma Jane amusing herself in this unusual way; it was only for Rebecca, as the niece of the difficult Miranda Sawyer, that she raised scruples; but when fully persuaded that the enterprise was a charitable one, she acquiesced.

The girls called at Mr. Watson’s store, and arranged for several large boxes of soap to be charged to Clara Belle Simpson’s account. These were lifted into the back of the wagon, and a happier couple never drove along the country road than Rebecca and her companion. It was a glorious Indian summer day, which suggested nothing of Thanksgiving, near at hand as it was. It was a rustly day, a scarlet and buff, yellow and carmine, bronze and crimson day. There were still many leaves on the oaks and maples, making a goodly show of red and brown and gold. The air was like sparkling cider, and every field had its heaps of yellow and russet good things to eat, all ready for the barns, the mills, and the markets. The horse forgot his twenty years, sniffed the sweet bright air, and trotted like a colt; Nokomis Mountain looked blue and clear in the distance; Rebecca stood in the wagon, and apostrophized the landscape with sudden joy of living:—

“Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast, World, you are beautifully drest!”

Dull Emma Jane had never seemed to Rebecca so near, so dear, so tried and true; and Rebecca, to Emma Jane’s faithful heart, had never been so brilliant, so bewildering, so fascinating, as in this visit together, with its intimacy, its freedom, and the added delights of an exciting business enterprise.

A gorgeous leaf blew into the wagon.

“Does color make you sort of dizzy?” asked Rebecca.

“No,” answered Emma Jane after a long pause; “no, it don’t; not a mite.”

“Perhaps dizzy isn’t just the right word, but it’s nearest. I’d like to eat color, and drink it, and sleep in it. If you could be a tree, which one would you choose?”

Emma Jane had enjoyed considerable experience of this kind, and Rebecca had succeeded in unstopping her ears, ungluing her eyes, and loosening her tongue, so that she could “play the game” after a fashion.

“I’d rather be an apple-tree in blossom,—that one that blooms pink, by our pig-pen.”

Rebecca laughed. There was always something unexpected in Emma Jane’s replies. “I’d choose to be that scarlet maple just on the edge of the pond there,”—and she pointed with the whip. “Then I could see so much more than your pink apple-tree by the pig-pen. I could look at all the rest of the woods, see my scarlet dress in my beautiful looking-glass, and watch all the yellow and brown trees growing upside down in the water. When I’m old enough to earn money, I’m going to have a dress like this leaf, all ruby color—thin, you know, with a sweeping train and ruffly, curly edges; then I think I’ll have a brown sash like the trunk of the tree, and where could I be green? Do they have green petticoats, I wonder? I’d like a green petticoat coming out now and then underneath to show what my leaves were like before I was a scarlet maple.”

“I think it would be awful homely,” said Emma Jane. “I’m going to have a white satin with a pink sash, pink stockings, bronze slippers, and a spangled fan.”

MR. ALADDIN

A single hour’s experience of the vicissitudes incident to a business career clouded the children’s spirits just the least bit. They did not accompany each other to the doors of their chosen victims, feeling sure that together they could not approach the subject seriously; but they parted at the gate of each house, the one holding the horse while the other took the soap samples and interviewed any one who seemed of a coming-on disposition. Emma Jane had disposed of three single cakes, Rebecca of three small boxes; for a difference in their ability to persuade the public was clearly defined at the start, though neither of them ascribed either success or defeat to anything but the imperious force of circumstances. Housewives looked at Emma Jane and desired no soap; listened to her description of its merits, and still desired none. Other stars in their courses governed Rebecca’s doings. The people whom she interviewed either remembered their present need of soap, or reminded themselves that they would need it in the future; the notable point in the case being that lucky Rebecca accomplished, with almost no effort, results that poor little Emma Jane failed to attain by hard and conscientious labor.

“It’s your turn, Rebecca, and I’m glad, too,” said Emma Jane, drawing up to a gateway and indicating a house that was set a considerable distance from the road. “I haven’t got over trembling from the last place yet.” (A lady had put her head out of an upstairs window and called, “Go away, little girl; whatever you have in your box we don’t want any.”) “I don’t know who lives here, and the blinds are all shut in front. If there’s nobody at home you mustn’t count it, but take the next house as yours.”

Rebecca walked up the lane and went to the side door. There was a porch there, and seated in a rocking-chair, husking corn, was a good-looking young man, or was he middle aged? Rebecca could not make up her mind. At all events he had an air of the city about him,—well-shaven face, well-trimmed mustache, well-fitting clothes. Rebecca was a trifle shy at this unexpected encounter, but there was nothing to be done but explain her presence, so she asked, “Is the lady of the house at home?”

“I am the lady of the house at present,” said the stranger, with a whimsical smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you ever heard of the—would you like, or I mean—do you need any soap?” queried Rebecca

“Do I look as if I did?” he responded unexpectedly.

Rebecca dimpled. “I didn’t mean THAT; I have some soap to sell; I mean I would like to introduce to you a very remarkable soap, the best now on the market. It is called the”—

“Oh! I must know that soap,” said the gentleman genially. “Made out of pure vegetable fats, isn’t it?”

“The very purest,” corroborated Rebecca.

“No acid in it?”

“Not a trace.”

“And yet a child could do the Monday washing with it and use no force.”

“A babe,” corrected Rebecca

“Oh! a babe, eh? That child grows younger every year, instead of older—wise child!”

This was great good fortune, to find a customer who knew all the virtues of the article in advance. Rebecca dimpled more and more, and at her new friend’s invitation sat down on a stool at his side near the edge of the porch. The beauties of the ornamental box which held the Rose-Red were disclosed, and the prices of both that and the Snow-White were unfolded. Presently she forgot all about her silent partner at the gate and was talking as if she had known this grand personage all her life.

“I’m keeping house to-day, but I don’t live here,” explained the delightful gentleman. “I’m just on a visit to my aunt, who has gone to Portland. I used to be here as a boy. and I am very fond of the spot.”

“I don’t think anything takes the place of the farm where one lived when one was a child,” observed Rebecca, nearly bursting with pride at having at last successfully used the indefinite pronoun in general conversation.

The man darted a look at her and put down his ear of corn. “So you consider your childhood a thing of the past, do you, young lady?”

“I can still remember it,” answered Rebecca gravely, “though it seems a long time ago.”

“I can remember mine well enough, and a particularly unpleasant one it was,” said the stranger.

“So was mine,” sighed Rebecca. “What was your worst trouble?”

“Lack of food and clothes principally.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Rebecca sympathetically,— “mine was no shoes and too many babies and not enough books. But you’re all right and happy now, aren’t you?” she asked doubtfully, for though he looked handsome, well-fed, and prosperous, any child could see that his eyes were tired and his mouth was sad when he was not speaking.

“I’m doing pretty well, thank you,” said the man, with a delightful smile. “Now tell me, how much soap ought I to buy to-day?”

“How much has your aunt on hand now?” suggested the very modest and inexperienced agent; “and how much would she need?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that; soap keeps, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not certain,” said Rebecca conscientiously, “but I’ll look in the circular—it’s sure to tell;” and she drew the document from her pocket.

“What are you going to do with the magnificent profits you get from this business?”

“We are not selling for our own benefit,” said Rebecca confidentially. “My friend who is holding the horse at the gate is the daughter of a very rich blacksmith, and doesn’t need any money. I am poor, but I live with my aunts in a brick house, and of course they wouldn’t like me to be a peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some friends of ours.”

Rebecca had never thought of alluding to the circumstances with her previous customers, but unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr. Simpson, Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty, their joyless life, and their abject need of a banquet lamp to brighten their existence.

“You needn’t argue that point,” laughed the man, as he stood up to get a glimpse of the “rich blacksmith’s daughter” at the gate. “I can see that they ought to have it if they want it, and especially if you want them to have it. I’ve known what it was myself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give me the circular, and let’s do some figuring. How much do the Simpsons lack at this moment?”

“If they sell two hundred more cakes this month and next, they can have the lamp by Christmas,” Rebecca answered, “and