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.
III
The tired mother with the weeny baby on her arm lay on a long carpenters bench, her earthly journey over, and when Rebecca stole in and placed the flowery garland all along the edge of the rude bier, death suddenly took on a more gracious and benign aspect. It was only a childs sympathy and intuition that softened the rigors of the sad moment, but poor, wild Sal Winslow, in her frame of daisies, looked as if she were missed a little by an unfriendly world; while the weeny baby, whose heart had fallen asleep almost as soon as it had learned to beat, the weeny baby, with Emma Janes nosegay of buttercups in its tiny wrinkled hand, smiled as if it might have been loved and longed for and mourned.
Weve done all we can now without a minister, whispered Rebecca. We could sing, God is ever good out of the Sunday school song book, but Im afraid somebody would hear us and think we were gay and happy. Whats that?
A strange sound broke the stillness; a gurgle, a yawn, a merry little call. The two girls ran in the direction from which it came, and there, on an old coat, in a clump of goldenrod bushes, lay a child just waking from a refreshing nap.
Its the other baby that Lizy Ann Dennett told about! cried Emma Jane.
Isnt he beautiful! exclaimed Rebecca. Come straight to me! and she stretched out her arms.
The child struggled to its feet, and tottered, wavering, toward the warm welcome of the voice and eyes. Rebecca was all mother, and her maternal instincts had been well developed in the large family in which she was next to the eldest. She had always confessed that there were perhaps a trifle too many babies at Sunnybrook Farm, but, nevertheless, had she ever heard it, she would have stood loyally by the Japanese proverb: Whether brought forth upon the mountain or in the field, it matters nothing; more than a treasure of one thousand ryo a baby precious is.
You darling thing! she crooned, as she caught and lifted the child. You look just like a Jack-o-lantern.
The boy was clad in a yellow cotton dress, very full and stiff. His hair was of such a bright gold, and so sleek and shiny, that he looked like a fair, smooth little pumpkin. He had wide blue eyes full of laughter, a neat little vertical nose, a neat little horizontal mouth with his few neat little teeth showing very plainly, and on the whole Rebeccas figure of speech was not so wide of the mark.
Oh, Emma Jane! Isnt he too lovely to go to the poor farm? If only we were married we could keep him and say nothing and nobody would know the difference! Now that the Simpsons have gone away there isnt a single baby in Riverboro, and only one in Edgewood. Its a perfect shame, but I cant do anything; you remember Aunt Miranda wouldnt let me have the Simpson baby when I wanted to borrow her just for one rainy Sunday.
My mother wont keep him, so its no use to ask her; she says most every day shes glad were grown up, and she thanks the Lord there wasnt but two of us.
And Mrs. Peter Meserve is too nervous, Rebecca went on, taking the village houses in turn; and Mrs. Robinson is too neat.
People dont seem to like any but their own babies, observed Emma Jane.
Well, I cant understand it, Rebecca answered. A babys a baby, I should think, whose ever it is! Miss Dearborn is coming back Monday; I wonder if shed like it? She has nothing to do out of school, and we could borrow it all the time!
I dont think it would seem very genteel for a young lady like Miss Dearborn, who boards round, to take a baby from place to place, objected Emma Jane.
Perhaps not, agreed Rebecca despondently, but I think if we havent got anyanyPRIVATE babies in Riverboro we ought to have one for the town, and all have a share in it. Weve got a town hall and a town lamp post and a town watering trough. Things are so uneven! One house like mine at Sunnybrook, brimful of children, and the very next one empty! The only way to fix them right would be to let all the babies that ever are belong to all the grown-up people that ever are,just divide them up, you know, if theyd go round. Oh, I have a thought! Dont you believe Aunt Sarah Cobb would keep him? She carries flowers to the graveyard every little while, and once she took me with her. Theres a marble cross, and it says: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SARAH ELLEN, BELOVED CHILD OF SARAH AND JEREMIAH COBB, AGED 17 MONTHS. Why, thats another reason; Mrs. Dennett says this one is seventeen months. Theres five of us left at the farm without me, but if we were only nearer to Riverboro, how quick mother would let in one more!
We might see what father thinks, and that would settle it, said Emma Jane. Father doesnt think very sudden, but he thinks awful strong. If we dont bother him, and find a place ourselves for the baby, perhaps hell be willing. Hes coming now; I hear the wheels.
Lizy Ann Dennett volunteered to stay and perform the last rites with the undertaker, and Jack-o-lantern, with his slender wardrobe tied in a bandanna handkerchief, was lifted into the wagon by the reluctant Mr. Perkins, and jubilantly held by Rebecca in her lap. Mr. Perkins drove off as speedily as possible, being heartily sick of the whole affair, and thinking wisely that the little girls had already seen and heard more than enough of the seamy side of life that morning.
Discussion concerning Jack-o-lanterns future was prudently deferred for a quarter of an hour, and then Mr. Perkins was mercilessly pelted with arguments against the choice of the poor farm as a place of residence for a baby.
His father is sure to come back some time, Mr. Perkins, urged Rebecca. He couldnt leave this beautiful thing forever; and if Emma Jane and I can persuade Mrs. Cobb to keep him a little while, would you care?
No; on reflection Mr. Perkins did not care. He merely wanted a quiet life and enough time left over from the public service to attend to his blacksmiths shop; so instead of going home over the same road by which they came he crossed the bridge into Edgewood and dropped the children at the long lane which led to the Cobb house.
Mrs. Cobb, Aunt Sarah to the whole village, sat by the window looking for Uncle Jerry, who would soon be seen driving the noon stage to the post office over the hill. She always had an eye out for Rebecca, too, for ever since the child had been a passenger on Mr. Cobbs stagecoach, making the eventful trip from her home farm to the brick house in Riverboro in his company, she had been a constant visitor and the joy of the quiet household. Emma Jane, too, was a well-known figure in the lane, but the strange baby was in the nature of a surprisea surprise somewhat modified by the fact that Rebecca was a dramatic personage and more liable to appear in conjunction with curious outriders, comrades, and retainers than the ordinary Riverboro child. She had run away from the too stern discipline of the brick house on one occasion, and had been persuaded to return by Uncle Jerry. She had escorted a wandering organ grinder to their door and begged a lodging for him on a rainy night; so on the whole there was nothing amazing about the coming procession.
The little party toiled up to the hospitable door, and Mrs. Cobb came out to meet them.
Rebecca was spokesman. Emma Janes talent did not lie in eloquent speech, but it would have been a valiant and a fluent child indeed who could have usurped Rebeccas privileges and tendencies in this direction, language being her native element, and words of assorted sizes springing spontaneously to her lips.