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137 pages

English

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. FAR, far up, in the bosom of New Hampshire's granite hills, the Saco has its birth. As the mountain rill gathers strength it take

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819934141
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.

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THE STORY OF WAITSTILL BAXTER
By Kate Douglas Wiggin
SPRING
I. SACO WATER
FAR, far up, in the bosom of New Hampshire's granitehills, the Saco has its birth. As the mountain rill gathersstrength it takes
"Through Bartlett's vales its tuneful way,
Or hides in Conway's fragrant brakes,
Retreating from the glare of day. "
Now it leaves the mountains and flows through “greenFryeburg's woods and farms. ” In the course of its frequent turnsand twists and bends, it meets with many another stream, and sendsit, fuller and stronger, along its rejoicing way. When it hasjourneyed more than a hundred miles and is nearing the ocean, itgreets the Great Ossipee River and accepts its crystal tribute.Then, in its turn, the Little Ossipee joins forces, and the river,now a splendid stream, flows onward to Bonny Eagle, to Moderationand to Salmon Falls, where it dashes over the dam like a youngNiagara and hurtles, in a foamy torrent, through the ragged defilecut between lofty banks of solid rock.
Widening out placidly for a moment's rest in thesunny reaches near Pleasant Point, it gathers itself for a newplunge at Union Falls, after which it speedily merges itself in thebay and is fresh water no more.
At one of the falls on the Saco, the two littlehamlets of Edgewood and Riverboro nestle together at the bridge andmake one village. The stream is a wonder of beauty just here; amirror of placid loveliness above the dam, a tawny, roaring wonderat the fall, and a mad, white-flecked torrent as it dashes on itsway to the ocean.
The river has seen strange sights in its time,though the history of these two tiny villages is quite unknown tothe great world outside. They have been born, waxed strong, andfallen almost to decay while Saco Water has tumbled over the rocksand spent itself in its impetuous journey to the sea.
It remembers the yellow-moccasined Sokokis as theyissued from the Indian Cellar and carried their birchen canoesalong the wooded shore. It was in those years that thesilver-skinned salmon leaped in its crystal depths; the otter andthe beaver crept with sleek wet skins upon its shore; and the browndeer came down to quench his thirst at its brink while at twilightthe stealthy forms of bear and panther and wolf were mirrored inits glassy surface.
Time sped; men chained the river's turbulent forcesand ordered it to grind at the mill. Then houses and barns appearedalong its banks, bridges were built, orchards planted, forestschanged into farms, white-painted meetinghouses gleamed through thetrees and distant bells rang from their steeples on quiet Sundaymornings.
All at once myriads of great hewn logs vexed itsdownward course, slender logs linked together in long rafts, andhuge logs drifting down singly or in pairs. Men appeared, runninghither and thither like ants, and going through mysteriousoperations the reason for which the river could never guess: butthe mill-wheels turned, the great saws buzzed, the smoke fromtavern chimneys rose in the air, and the rattle and clatter ofstage-coaches resounded along the road.
Now children paddled with bare feet in the river'ssandy coves and shallows, and lovers sat on its alder-shaded banksand exchanged their vows just where the shuffling bear was wont tocome down and drink.
The Saco could remember the “cold year, ” when therewas a black frost every month of the twelve, and though almost allthe corn along its shores shrivelled on the stalk, there were twofarms where the vapor from the river saved the crops, and all theseed for the next season came from the favored spot, to be known as“Egypt” from that day henceforward.
Strange, complex things now began to happen, and theriver played its own part in some of these, for there weredisastrous freshets, the sudden breaking-up of great jams of logs,and the drowning of men who were engulfed in the dark whirlpoolbelow the rapids.
Caravans, with menageries of wild beasts, crossedthe bridge now every year. An infuriated elephant lifted the sideof the old Edgewood Tavern barn, and the wild laughter of theroistering rum-drinkers who were tantalizing the animals floateddown to the river's edge. The roar of a lion, tearing and chewingthe arm of one of the bystanders, and the cheers of the throng whena plucky captain of the local militia thrust a stake down thebeast's throat, — these sounds displaced the former war-whoop ofthe Indians and the ring of the axe in the virgin forests along theshores.
There were days, and moonlight nights, too, whenstrange sights and sounds of quite another nature could have beennoted by the river as it flowed under the bridge that united thetwo little villages.
Issuing from the door of the Riverboro Town House,and winding down the hill, through the long row of teams andcarriages that lined the roadside, came a procession of singing menand singing women. Convinced of sin, but entranced with promisedpardon; spiritually intoxicated by the glowing eloquence of thelatter-day prophet they were worshipping, the band of “Cochranites”marched down the dusty road and across the bridge, dancing,swaying, waving handkerchiefs, and shouting hosannas.
God watched, and listened, knowing that there wouldbe other prophets, true and false, in the days to come, and otherprocessions following them; and the river watched and listened too,as it hurried on towards the sea with its story of the present thatwas sometime to be the history of the past.
When Jacob Cochrane was leading his overwrought,ecstatic band across the river, Waitstill Baxter, then a child, waswatching the strange, noisy company from the window of a littlebrick dwelling on the top of the Town-House Hill.
Her stepmother stood beside her with a young baby inher arms, but when she saw what held the gaze of the child she drewher away, saying: “We mustn't look, Waitstill; your father don'tlike it! ”
“Who was the big man at the head, mother? ”
“His name is Jacob Cochrane, but you mustn't thinkor talk about him; he is very wicked. ”
“He doesn't look any wickeder than the others, ”said the child. “Who was the man that fell down in the road,mother, and the woman that knelt and prayed over him? Why did hefall, and why did she pray, mother? ”
“That was Master Aaron Boynton, the schoolmaster,and his wife. He only made believe to fall down, as the Cochranitesdo; the way they carry on is a disgrace to the village, and that'sthe reason your father won't let us look at them. ”
“I played with a nice boy over to Boynton's, ” musedthe child.
“That was Ivory, their only child. He is a goodlittle fellow, but his mother and father will spoil him with theircrazy ways. ”
“I hope nothing will happen to him, for I love him,” said the child gravely. “He showed me a humming-bird's nest, thefirst ever I saw, and the littlest! ”
“Don't talk about loving him, ” chided the woman.“If your father should hear you, he'd send you to bed without yourporridge. ”
“Father couldn't hear me, for I never speak whenhe's at home, ” said grave little Waitstill. “And I'm used to goingto bed without my porridge. ”
II. THE SISTERS
THE river was still running under the bridge, butthe current of time had swept Jacob Cochrane out of sight, thoughnot out of mind, for he had left here and there a disciple topreach his strange and uncertain doctrine. Waitstill, the child whonever spoke in her father's presence, was a young woman now, themistress of the house; the stepmother was dead, and the baby a girlof seventeen.
The brick cottage on the hilltop had grown only alittle shabbier. Deacon Foxwell Baxter still slammed its doorbehind him every morning at seven o'clock and, without any suchcheerful conventions as good-byes to his girls, walked down to thebridge to open his store.
The day, properly speaking, had opened whenWaitstill and Patience had left their beds at dawn, built the fire,fed the hens and turkeys, and prepared the breakfast, while theDeacon was graining the horse and milking the cows. Such minor“chores” as carrying water from the well, splitting kindling,chopping pine, or bringing wood into the kitchen, were left toWaitstill, who had a strong back, or, if she had not, had neverbeen unwise enough to mention the fact in her father's presence.The almanac day, however, which opened with sunrise, had nothing todo with the real human day, which always began when Mr. Baxterslammed the door behind him, and reached its high noon of delightwhen he disappeared from view.
“He's opening the store shutters! ” chanted Patiencefrom the heights of a kitchen chair by the window. “Now he's takenhis cane and beaten off the Boynton puppy that was sitting on thesteps as usual, — I don't mean Ivory's dog” (here the girl gave aquick glance at her sister), “but Rodman's little yellow cur.Rodman must have come down to the bridge on some errand for Ivory.Isn't it odd, when that dog has all the other store steps to situpon, he should choose father's, when every bone in his body musttell him how father hates him and the whole Boynton family. ”
“Father has no real cause that I ever heard of; butsome dogs never know when they've had enough beating, nor somepeople either. ” said Waitstill, speaking from the pantry.
“Don't be gloomy when it's my birthday, Sis! — Nowhe's opened the door and kicked the cat! All is ready for businessat the Baxter store. ”
“I wish you weren't quite so free with your tongue,Patty. ”
“Somebody must talk, ” retorted the girl, jumpingdown from the chair and shaking back her mop of red-gold curls.“I'll put this hateful, childish, round comb in and out just oncemore, then it will disappear forever. This very after-noon up goesmy hair! ”
“You know it will be of no use unless you braid itvery plainly and neatly. Father will take notice and make yousmooth it down. ”
“Father hasn't looked me square in the face foryears; besides, my hair won't braid, and nothing can make it quiteplain and neat, thank goodness! Let us be thankful for smallmercies, as Jed Morrill said