A Mountain Woman [54]
seeing them, imagined wealth of curious furniture; but the man who carted them told his wife, who told her friend, who told her friend, that every box to the last one was placed in the dry cemented cellar, and left there in the dark.
"An' a mighty ridic'lous expense a cellar like that is, t' put under a house of that char'cter," said the man to his wife -- who repeated it to her friend.
"But that ain't all," the carpenter's wife had said when she heard about it all, "Hank says there is one little room, not fit for buttery nor yet fur closit, with a window high up -- well, you ken see yourself -- an' a strong door. Jus' in passin' th' other day, when he was there, hangin' some shelves, he tried it, an' it was locked!"
"Well!" said the women who listened.
However, they were not unfriendly, these brisk gossips. Two of them, plucking up tardy courage, did call one afternoon. Their hostess was out among her bees, crooning to them, as it seemed, while they lighted all about her, lit on the flower in her dark hair, buzzed vivaciously about her snow-white linen gown, lighted on her long, dark hands. She came in brightly when she saw her guests, and placed chairs for them, courte- ously, steeped them a cup of pale and fra- grant tea, and served them with little cakes. Though her manner was so quiet and so kind, the women were shy before her. She, turning to one and then the other, asked questions in her quaint way.
"You have children, have you not?"
Both of them had.
"Ah," she cried, clasping those slender hands, "but you are very fortunate! Your little ones, -- what are their ages?"
They told her, she listening smilingly.
"And you nurse your little babes -- you nurse them at the breast?"
The modest women blushed. They were not used to speaking with such freedom. But they confessed they did, not liking arti- ficial means.
"No," said the lady, looking at them with a soft light in her eyes, "as you say, there is nothing like the good mother Nature. The little ones God sends should lie at the breast. 'Tis not the milk alone that they imbibe; it is the breath of life, -- it is the human magnetism, the power, -- how shall I say? Happy the mother who has a little babe to hold!"
They wanted to ask a question, but they dared not -- wanted to ask a hundred ques- tions. But back of the gentleness was a hauteur, and they were still.
"Tell me," she said, breaking her reverie, "of what your husbands do. Are they carpenters? Do they build houses for men, like the blessed Jesus? Or are they tillers of the soil? Do they bring fruits out of this bountiful valley?"
They answered, with a reservation of ap- proval. "The blessed Jesus!" It sounded like popery.
She had gone from these brief personal matters to other things.
"How very strong you people seem," she had remarked. "Both your men and your women are large and strong. You should be, being appointed to subdue a continent. Men think they choose their destinies, but indeed, good neighbors, I think not so. Men are driven by the winds of God's will. They are as much bidden to build up this valley, this storehouse for the nations, as coral insects are bidden to make the reefs with their own little bodies, dying as they build. Is it not so?"
"We are the creatures of God's will, I suppose," said one of her visitors, piously.
She had given them little confidences in return.
"I make my bread," she said, with child- ish pride, "pray see if you do not think it excellent!" And she cut a flaky loaf to dis- play its whiteness. One guest summoned the bravado to inquire, --
"Then you are not used to doing house- work?"
"I?" she said, with a slow smile, "I have never got used to anything, -- not even liv- ing." And so she baffled them all, yet won them.
The weeks went by. Elizabeth Astrado attended to her bees, milked her cow, fed her fowls, baked, washed, and cleaned, like the simple women about her, saving that as she did it a look of ineffable content lighted up her face, and she sang for happiness. Sometimes, amid the ballads that she hummed,
"An' a mighty ridic'lous expense a cellar like that is, t' put under a house of that char'cter," said the man to his wife -- who repeated it to her friend.
"But that ain't all," the carpenter's wife had said when she heard about it all, "Hank says there is one little room, not fit for buttery nor yet fur closit, with a window high up -- well, you ken see yourself -- an' a strong door. Jus' in passin' th' other day, when he was there, hangin' some shelves, he tried it, an' it was locked!"
"Well!" said the women who listened.
However, they were not unfriendly, these brisk gossips. Two of them, plucking up tardy courage, did call one afternoon. Their hostess was out among her bees, crooning to them, as it seemed, while they lighted all about her, lit on the flower in her dark hair, buzzed vivaciously about her snow-white linen gown, lighted on her long, dark hands. She came in brightly when she saw her guests, and placed chairs for them, courte- ously, steeped them a cup of pale and fra- grant tea, and served them with little cakes. Though her manner was so quiet and so kind, the women were shy before her. She, turning to one and then the other, asked questions in her quaint way.
"You have children, have you not?"
Both of them had.
"Ah," she cried, clasping those slender hands, "but you are very fortunate! Your little ones, -- what are their ages?"
They told her, she listening smilingly.
"And you nurse your little babes -- you nurse them at the breast?"
The modest women blushed. They were not used to speaking with such freedom. But they confessed they did, not liking arti- ficial means.
"No," said the lady, looking at them with a soft light in her eyes, "as you say, there is nothing like the good mother Nature. The little ones God sends should lie at the breast. 'Tis not the milk alone that they imbibe; it is the breath of life, -- it is the human magnetism, the power, -- how shall I say? Happy the mother who has a little babe to hold!"
They wanted to ask a question, but they dared not -- wanted to ask a hundred ques- tions. But back of the gentleness was a hauteur, and they were still.
"Tell me," she said, breaking her reverie, "of what your husbands do. Are they carpenters? Do they build houses for men, like the blessed Jesus? Or are they tillers of the soil? Do they bring fruits out of this bountiful valley?"
They answered, with a reservation of ap- proval. "The blessed Jesus!" It sounded like popery.
She had gone from these brief personal matters to other things.
"How very strong you people seem," she had remarked. "Both your men and your women are large and strong. You should be, being appointed to subdue a continent. Men think they choose their destinies, but indeed, good neighbors, I think not so. Men are driven by the winds of God's will. They are as much bidden to build up this valley, this storehouse for the nations, as coral insects are bidden to make the reefs with their own little bodies, dying as they build. Is it not so?"
"We are the creatures of God's will, I suppose," said one of her visitors, piously.
She had given them little confidences in return.
"I make my bread," she said, with child- ish pride, "pray see if you do not think it excellent!" And she cut a flaky loaf to dis- play its whiteness. One guest summoned the bravado to inquire, --
"Then you are not used to doing house- work?"
"I?" she said, with a slow smile, "I have never got used to anything, -- not even liv- ing." And so she baffled them all, yet won them.
The weeks went by. Elizabeth Astrado attended to her bees, milked her cow, fed her fowls, baked, washed, and cleaned, like the simple women about her, saving that as she did it a look of ineffable content lighted up her face, and she sang for happiness. Sometimes, amid the ballads that she hummed,