Aftermath , livre ebook

The Floating Press - Lane Allen James

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

46 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

The novel 1894 novel A Kentucky Cardinal was an immediate hit and helped to establish not only the literary reputation of its author, James Lane Allen, but also the "local color" movement in American literature, which sought to document and delve into the peculiarities and unique attributes of regional cultures. Aftermath is the sequel to A Kentucky Cardinal and picks up where the previous tale left off.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776530878
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

AFTERMATH
* * *
JAMES LANE ALLEN

*
Aftermath First published in 1899 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-087-8 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-088-5 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Endnotes
*
DEDICATION
This to her from one who in childhood used to stand at the windowsof her room and watch for the Cardinal among the snow-buried cedars.
Chapter I
*
I was happily at work this morning among my butterbeans—a vegetable ofsolid merit and of a far greater suitableness to my palate than suchbovine watery growths as the squash and the beet. Georgiana came toher garden window and stood watching me.
"You work those butterbeans as though you loved them ," she said,scornfully.
"I do love them. I love all vines."
"Are you cultivating them as vines or as vegetables?"
"It makes no difference to nature."
"Do you expect me to be a vine when we are married?"
"I hope you'll not turn out a mere vegetable. How should you like tobe my Virginia-creeper?"
"And what would you be?"
"Well, what would you like? A sort of honeysuckle frame?"
"Oh, anything! Only support me and give me plenty of room to bloom."
I do not always reply to Georgiana, though I always could if I chose.Whenever I remain silent about anything she changes the subject.
"Did you know that Sylvia once wrote a poem on a vegetable?"
"I did not."
"You don't speak as though you cared."
"You must know how deeply interested I am."
"Then why don't you ask to see the poem?"
"Was it on butterbeans?"
"The idea! Sylvia has better taste."
"I suppose I'd better look into this poem."
"You are not to laugh at it!"
"I shall weep."
"No; you are not to weep. Promise."
"What am I to promise?"
"That you will read it unmoved."
"I do promise—solemnly, cheerfully."
"Then come and get it."
I went over and stood under the window. Georgiana soon returned anddropped down to me a piece of writing-paper.
"Sylvia wrote it before she began to think about the boys."
"It must be a very early poem."
"It is; and this is the only copy; please don't lose it."
"Then I think you ought to take it back at once. Let me beg of you notto risk it—" But she was gone; and I turned to my arbor and sat downto read Sylvia's poem, which I found to be inscribed to "The Potato,"and to run as follows:
"What on this wide earth That is made or does by nature grow Is more homely yet more beautiful Than the useful Potato?
"What would this world full of people do, Rich and poor, high and low, Were it not for this little-thought-of But very necessary Potato?
"True, 'tis homely to look on, Nothing pretty even in its blow, But it will bear acquaintance, This useful Potato.
"For when it is cooked and opened It's so white and mellow, You forget it ever was homely, This useful Potato.
"On the whole it is a very plain plant, Makes no conspicuous show, But the internal appearance is lovely Of the unostentatious Potato.
"On the land or on the sea, Wherever we may go, We are always glad to welcome The sound Potato." [1]
In the afternoon I was cutting stakes at the wood-pile for mybutterbeans, and a bright idea struck me. During my engagement toGeorgiana I cannot always be darting in and out of Mrs. Cobb's frontdoor like a swallow through a barn. Neither can I talk freely toGeorgiana—with her up at the window and me down on the ground—when Iwish to breathe into her ear the things that I must utter or die.Besides, the sewing-girl whom Georgiana has engaged is nearly alwaysthere. So that as I was in the act of trimming a long slender stick,it occurred to me that I might make use of this to elevate any littlenotes that I might wish to write over the garden fence up toGeorgiana's window.
I was greatly taken with the thought, and, dropping my hand-axe,hurried into the house and wrote a note to her at once, which Ithereupon tied to the end of the pole by a short string. But as Istarted for the garden this arrangement looked too much like catchingGeorgiana with a bait. Therefore, happening to remember, I stopped atmy tool-house, where I keep a little of everything, and took from a pega fine old specimen of a goldfinch's nest. This I fastened to the endof the pole, and hiding my note in it, now felt better satisfied. Noone but Georgiana herself would ever be able to tell what it was that Imight wish to lift up to her at any time; and in case of its being nota note, but a plum—a berry—a peach—it would be as safe as it wasunseen. This old house of a pair of goldfinches would thus become thehome of our fledgling hopes: every day a new brood of vows would takeflight across its rim into our bosoms.
Watching my chance during the afternoon, when the sewing-girl was notthere, I rushed over and pushed the stick up to the window.
"Georgiana," I called out, "feel in the nest!"
She hurried to the window with her sewing in her arms. The nest swayedto and fro on a level with her nose.
"What is it?" she cried, drawing back with extreme distaste.
"You feel in it!" I repeated.
"I don't wish to feel in it," she said. "Take it away!"
"There's a young dove in it," I persisted—"a young cooer."
"I don't wish any young cooers," she said, with a grimace.
Seeing that she was not of my mind, I added, pleadingly; "It's a notefrom me, Georgiana! This is going to be our little privatepost-office!" Georgiana sank back into her chair. She reappeared withthe flush of apple-blossoms and her lashes wet with tears of laughter.But I do not think that she looked at me unkindly. "Our little privatepost-office," I persisted, confidingly.
"How many more little private things are we going to have?" sheinquired, plaintively.
"I can't wait here forever," I said. "This is growing weather; I mightsprout."
"A dry stick will not," said Georgiana, simply, and went back to hersewing.
I took the hint, and propped the pole against the house under thewindow. Later, when I took it down, my note was gone.
I have set the pole under Georgiana's window several times within thelast two or three days, It looks like a little dip-net, high and dry inthe air; but so far as I can see with my unaided eye, it has caughtnothing so large as a gnat. It has attracted no end of attention fromthe birds of the neighborhood, however, who never saw a goldfinch'snest swung to the end of a leafless pole and placed where it could beso exactly reached by the human hand. In particular it has fallenunder the notice of a pair of wrens, which are like women, in that theyusually have some secret business behind their curiosity. The businessin this case is the matter of their own nest, which they have locatedin a broken horse-collar in my saddle-house. At such seasons they arealert for appropriating building materials that may have been fetchedto hand by other birds; and they have already abstracted a piece ofcandle-wick from the bottom of my post-office.
Georgiana has been chilly towards me for two days, and I think is doingher best not to freeze up altogether. I have racked my brain to knowwhy; but I fear that my brain is not of the sort to discover what isthe matter with a woman when nothing really is the matter. Moreover,as I am now engaged to Georgiana, I have thought it better that sheshould begin to bring her explanations to me—the steady sun that willmelt all her uncertain icicles.
At last this morning she remarked, but very carelessly, "You didn'tanswer my note."
"What note, Georgiana?" I asked, thunderstruck.
She gave me such a look.
"Didn't you get the note I put into that—into that—" Her face grewpink with vexation and disgust.
"Did you put a note into the—into the—" I could not have spoken theword just then.
I retired to my arbor, where I sat for half an hour with my head in myhands. What could have become of Georgiana's note? A hand might havefilched it; unlikely. A gust of wind have whisked it out; impossible.I debated and rejected every hypothesis to the last one. Acting uponthis, I walked straight to the saddle-house, and in a dark cornerpeered at the nest of the wrens. A speck of white paper was visibleamong the sticks and shavings. I tore the nest out and shook it topieces. How those wrens did rage! The note was so torn and muddedthat I could not read it. But suppose a jay had carried it to the highcrotch of some locust! I ran joyfully back to the window.
"I've found it, Georgiana!" I called out.
She appeared, looking relieved, but not exactly forgiving.
"Where!"
My tongue froze to the roof of my mouth.
"Where did you find it?" she repeated, imperiously.
"What do you want to know for?" I said, savagely.
"Let me see it!" she demanded.
My clasp on it suddenly tightened.
"Let me see it!" she repeated, with genuine fire.
"What do you want to see it for?" I said.
She turned away.
"Here it is," I said, and held it up.
She looked at it a long time, and her brows arched.
"Did the pigs get it?"
"The wrens. It was merely a change of post-office."
"I'd as well write the next one to them," she said, "since they get theletters."
Georgiana was well aware that she slipped the note into the nest whenthey were looking and I was not; but women— all women—now and thenhold a man responsible for what they have done themselves. Sylvia, forinstance. She grew peevish with me the other day because my gardenfailed to furnish the particular flowers that would have assuaged herwhim. And yet for da