“And I wish I hadn’t been in such a hurry
deciding I’d be a Presbyterian,” said
Peter.
“Well, it’s not too late for that,”
said Dan. “You can change your mind now.”
“No, sir,” said Peter with a flash of
spirit, “I ain’t one of the kind that
says they’ll be something just because they’re
scared, and when the scare is over go back on it.
I said I’d be Presbyterian and I mean to stick
to it.”
“You said you knew a story that had something
to do with Presbyterians,” I said to the Story
Girl. “Tell us it now.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t the right kind of story
to tell on Sunday,” she replied. “But
I’ll tell it to-morrow morning.”
Accordingly, we heard it the next morning in the orchard.
“Long ago, when Judy Pineau was young,”
said the Story Girl, “she was hired with Mrs.
Elder Frewen—the first Mrs. Elder Frewen.
Mrs. Frewen had been a school-teacher, and she was
very particular as to how people talked, and the grammar
they used. And she didn’t like anything
but refined words. One very hot day she heard
Judy Pineau say she was ‘all in a sweat.’
Mrs. Frewen was greatly shocked, and said, ’Judy,
you shouldn’t say that. It’s horses
that sweat. You should say you are in a perspiration.’
Well, Judy promised she’d remember, because she
liked Mrs. Frewen and was anxious to please her.
Not long afterwards Judy was scrubbing the kitchen
floor one morning, and when Mrs. Frewen came in Judy
looked up and said, quite proud over using the right
word, ’Oh, Mees Frewen, ain’t it awful
hot? I declare I’m all in a Presbyterian.’”
August went out and September came in. Harvest
was ended; and though summer was not yet gone, her
face was turned westering. The asters lettered
her retreating footsteps in a purple script, and over
the hills and valleys hung a faint blue smoke, as if
Nature were worshipping at her woodland altar.
The apples began to burn red on the bending boughs;
crickets sang day and night; squirrels chattered secrets
of Polichinelle in the spruces; the sunshine was as
thick and yellow as molten gold; school opened, and
we small denizens of the hill farms lived happy days
of harmless work and necessary play, closing in nights
of peaceful, undisturbed slumber under a roof watched
over by autumnal stars.
At least, our slumbers were peaceful and undisturbed
until our orgy of dreaming began.
“I would really like to know what especial kind
of deviltry you young fry are up to this time,”
said Uncle Roger one evening, as he passed through
the orchard with his gun on his shoulder, bound for
the swamp.
We were sitting in a circle before the Pulpit Stone,
each writing diligently in an exercise book, and eating
the Rev. Mr. Scott’s plums, which always reached
their prime of juicy, golden-green flesh and bloomy
blue skin in September. The Rev. Mr. Scott was
dead and gone, but those plums certainly kept his memory
green, as his forgotten sermons could never have done.
