Afraid? they both echoed uncomprehendingly.
Lizy Ann and Mr. Perkins, perceiving that the fear of a dead presence had not entered the minds of Rebecca or Emma Jane, said nothing, but drove off together, counseling them not to stray far away from the cabin and promising to be back in an hour.
There was not a house within sight, either looking up or down the shady road, and the two girls stood hand in hand, watching the wagon out of sight; then they sat down quietly under a tree, feeling all at once a nameless depression hanging over their gay summer-morning spirits.
It was very still in the woods; just the chirp of a grasshopper now and then, or the note of a bird, or the click of a far-distant mowing machine.
Were WATCHING! whispered Emma Jane. They watched with Granpa Perkins, and there was a great funeral and two ministers. He left two thousand dollars in the bank and a store full of goods, and a paper thing you could cut tickets off of twice a year, and they were just like money.
They watched with my little sister Mira, too, said Rebecca. You remember when she died, and I went home to Sunnybrook Farm? It was winter time, but she was covered with evergreen and white pinks, and there was singing.
There wont be any funeral or ministers or singing here, will there? Isnt that awful?
I spose not; and oh, Emma Jane, no flowers either. We might get those for her if theres nobody else to do it.
Would you dare put them on to her? asked Emma Jane, in a hushed voice.
I dont know; I cant tell; it makes me shiver, but, of course, we COULD do it if we were the only friends she had. Lets look into the cabin first and be perfectly sure that there arent any. Are you afraid?
N-no; I guess not. I looked at Granpa Perkins, and he was just the same as ever.
At the door of the hut Emma Janes courage suddenly departed. She held back shuddering and refused either to enter or look in. Rebecca shuddered too, but kept on, drawn by an insatiable curiosity about life and death, an overmastering desire to know and feel and understand the mysteries of existence, a hunger for knowledge and experience at all hazards and at any cost.
Emma Jane hurried softly away from the felt terrors of the cabin, and after two or three minutes of utter silence Rebecca issued from the open door, her sensitive face pale and woe-begone, the ever-ready tears raining down her cheeks. She ran toward the edge of the wood, sinking down by Emma Janes side, and covering her eyes, sobbed with excitement:
Oh, Emma Jane, she hasnt got a flower, and shes so tired and sad-looking, as if shed been hurt and hurt and never had any good times, and theres a weeny, weeny baby side of her. Oh, I wish I hadnt gone in!
Emma Jane blenched for an instant. Mrs. Dennett never said THERE WAS TWO DEAD ONES! ISNT THAT DREADFUL? But, she continued, her practical common sense coming to the rescue, youve been in once and its all over; it wont be so bad when you take in the flowers because youll be used to it. The goldenrod hasnt begun to bud, so theres nothing to pick but daisies. Shall I make a long rope of them, as I did for the schoolroom?
Yes, said Rebecca, wiping her eyes and still sobbing. Yes, thats the prettiest, and if we put it all round her like a frame, the undertaker couldnt be so cruel as to throw it away, even if she is a pauper, because it will look so beautiful. From what the Sunday school lessons say, shes only asleep now, and when she wakes up shell be in heaven.
THERES ANOTHER PLACE, said Emma Jane, in an orthodox and sepulchral whisper, as she took her ever-present ball of crochet cotton from her pocket and began to twine the whiteweed blossoms into a rope.
Oh, well! Rebecca replied with the easy theology that belonged to her temperament. They simply couldnt send her DOWN THERE with that little weeny baby. Whod take care of it? You know page six of the catechism says the only companions of the wicked after death are their father the devil and all the other evil angels; it wouldnt be any place to bring up a baby.
Whenever and wherever she wakes up, I hope she wont know that the big baby is going to the poor farm. I wonder where he is?
Perhaps over to Mrs. Dennetts house. She didnt seem sorry a bit, did she?
No, but I suppose shes tired sitting up and nursing a stranger. Mother wasnt sorry when Granpa Perkins died; she couldnt be, for he was cross all the time and had to be fed like a child. Why ARE you crying again, Rebecca?
Oh, I dont know, I cant tell, Emma Jane! Only I dont want to die and have no funeral or singing and nobody sorry for me! I just couldnt bear it!
Neither could I, Emma Jane responded sympathetically; but praps if were real good and die young before we have to be fed, they will be sorry. I do wish you could write some poetry for her as you did for Alice Robinsons canary bird, only still better, of course, like that you read me out of your thought book.
I could, easy enough, exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by the idea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an emergency. Though I dont know but it would be kind of bold to do it. Im all puzzled about how people get to heaven after theyre buried. I cant understand it a bit; but if the poetry is on her, what if that should go, too? And how could I write anything good enough to be read out loud in heaven?
A little piece of paper couldnt get to heaven; it just couldnt, asserted Emma Jane decisively. It would be all blown to pieces and dried up. And nobody knows that the angels can read writing, anyway.
They must be as educated as we are, and more so, too, agreed Rebecca. They must be more than just dead people, or else why should they have wings? But Ill go off and write something while you finish the rope; its lucky you brought your crochet cotton and I my lead pencil.
In fifteen or twenty minutes she returned with some lines written on a scrap of brown wrapping paper. Standing soberly by Emma Jane, she said, preparing to read them aloud: Theyre not good; I was afraid your fatherd come back before I finished, and the first verse sounds exactly like the funeral hymns in the church book. I couldnt call her Sally Winslow; it didnt seem nice when I didnt know her and she is dead, so I thought if I said friend it would show she had somebody to be sorry.
This friend of ours has died and gone
From us to heaven to live.
If she has sinned against Thee, Lord,
We pray Thee, Lord, forgive.
Her husband runneth far away
And knoweth not shes dead.
Oh, bring him backere tis too late
To mourn beside her bed.
And if perchance it cant be so,
Be to the children kind;
The weeny one that goes with her,
The other left behind.
I think thats perfectly elegant! exclaimed Emma Jane, kissing Rebecca fervently. You are the smartest girl in the whole State of Maine, and it sounds like a ministers prayer. I wish we could save up and buy a printing machine. Then I could learn to print what you write and wed be partners like father and Bill Moses. Shall you sign it with your name like we do our school compositions?
No, said Rebecca soberly. I certainly shant sign it, not knowing where its going or wholl read it. I shall just hide it in the flowers, and whoever finds it will guess that there wasnt any minister or singing, or gravestone, or anything, so somebody just did the best they could.