So, on one bank of the river grew the brier rose, a fragile thing, swaying on a slender stalk and looking at its pretty reflection in the water; and on the other a sturdy pine tree, well rooted against wind and storm. And the sturdy pine yearned for the wild rose; and the rose, so far as it knew, yearned for nothing at all, certainly not for rugged pine trees standing tall and grim in rocky soil. If, in its present stage of development, it gravitated toward anything in particular, it would have been a well-dressed white birch growing on an irreproachable lawn.
And the river, now deep, now shallow, now smooth, now tumultuous, now sparkling in sunshine, now gloomy under clouds, rolled on to the engulfing sea. It could not stop to concern itself with the petty comedies and tragedies that were being enacted along its shores, else it would never have reached its destination. Only last night, under a full moon, there had been pairs of lovers leaning over the rails of all the bridges along its course; but that was a common sight, like that of the ardent couples sitting on its shady banks these summer days, looking only into each others eyes, but exclaiming about the beauty of the water. Lovers would come and go, sometimes reappearing with successive installments of loves in a way wholly mysterious to the river. Meantime it had its own work to do and must be about it, for the side jams were to be broken and the boom let out at the Edgewood bridge.
II. Old Kennebec
It was just seven oclock that same morning when Rose Wiley smoothed the last wrinkle from her dimity counterpane, picked up a shred of corn-husk from the spotless floor under the bed, slapped a mosquito on the window-sill, removed all signs of murder with a moist towel, and before running down to breakfast cast a frowning look at her pincushion. Almira, otherwise Mite, Shapley had been in her room the afternoon before and disturbed with her careless hand the pattern of Roses pins. They were kept religiously in the form of a Maltese cross; and if, while she was extricating one from her clothing, there had been an alarm of fire, Rose would have stuck the pin in its appointed place in the design, at the risk of losing her life.
Entering the kitchen with her light step, she brought the morning sunshine with her. The old people had already engaged in differences of opinion, but they commonly suspended open warfare in her presence. There were the usual last things to be done for breakfast, offices that belonged to her as her grandmothers assistant. She took yesterdays soda biscuits out of the steamer where they were warming and softening; brought an apple pie and a plate of seed cakes from the pantry; settled the coffee with a piece of dried fish skin and an egg shell; and transferred some fried potatoes from the spider to a covered dish.
Did you remember the meat, grandpa? Were all out, she said, as she began buttoning a stiff collar around his reluctant neck.
Remember? Land, yes! I wisht I ever could forgit anything! The butcher says hes bout tired o travelin over the country lookin for critters to kill, but if he finds anything hell be up along in the course of a week. He aint a real smart butcher, Cyse Higgins aint.Land, Rose, dont button that dickey clean through my epperdummis! I have to sport starched collars in this life on account o you and your granmother bein so chock full o style; but I hope to the Lord I shant have to wear em in another world!
You wont, his wife responded with the snap of a dish towel, or if you do, theyll wilt with the heat.
Rose smiled, but the soft hand with which she tied the neckcloth about the old mans withered neck pacified his spirit, and he smiled knowingly back at her as she took her seat at the breakfast table spread near the open kitchen door. She was a dazzling Rose, and, it is to be feared, a wasted one, for there was no one present to observe her clean pink calico and the still more subtle note struck in the green ribbon which was tied round her throat,the ribbon that formed a sort of calyx, out of which sprang the flower of her face, as fresh and radiant as if it had bloomed that morning.
Give me my coffee turrible quick, said Mr. Wiley; I must be down to the bridge fore they start dog-warpin the side jam.
I notice youre always due at the bridge on churnin days, remarked his spouse, testily.
T aint me as appints drivin dates at Edgewood, replied the old man. The boysll hev a turrible job this year. The logs air ricked up jest like Roses jack-straws; I never see em so turrible ricked up in all my experence; an Lije Dennett don know no more bout pickin a jam than Coopers cow. Turrible sot in his ways, too; cant take a mite of advice. I was tellin him how to go to work on that bung thats formed between the gret gray rock an the shore,the awfullest place to bung that there is between this an Biddeford,and says he: Look here, Ive ben boss on this river for twelve year, an Ill be doggoned if Im goin to be taught my business by any man! This aint no river, says I, as youd know, says I, if youd ever lived on the Kennebec. Pity you hed nt stayed on it, says he. I wish to the land I hed, says I. An then I come away, for my tongues so turrible spry an sarcustic that I knew if I stopped any longer I should stir up strife. Theres some folks thatll set on addled aigs year in an year out, as if there want good fresh ones bein laid every day; an Lije Dennetts one of em, when it comes to river-drivin.
Theres lots o folks as have made a good livin by mindin their own business, observed the still sententious Mrs. Wiley, as she speared a soda biscuit with her fork.
Mindin your own business is a turrible selfish trade, responded her husband loftily. If your neighbor is more ignorant than what you are,particlarly if hes as ignorant as Coopers cow,youd ought, as a Kennebec man an a Christian, to set him on the right track, though its always a turrible risky thing to do. Roses grandfather was called, by the irreverent younger generation, sometimes Turrible Wiley and sometimes Old Kennebec, because of the frequency with which these words appeared in his conversation. There were not wanting those of late who dubbed him Uncle Ananias, for reasons too obvious to mention. After a long, indolent, tolerably truthful, and useless life, he had, at seventy-five, lost sight of the dividing line between fact and fancy, and drew on his imagination to such an extent that he almost staggered himself when he began to indulge in reminiscence. He was a feature of the Edgewood drive, being always present during the five or six days that it was in progress, sometimes sitting on the river-bank, sometimes leaning over the bridge, sometimes reclining against the butt-end of a huge log, but always chewing tobacco and expectorating to incredible distances as he criticized and damned impartially all the expedients in use at the particular moment.
I want to stay down by the river this afternoon, said Rose. Ever so many of the girls will be there, and all my sewing is done up. If grandpa will leave the horse for me, Ill take the drivers lunch to them at noon, and bring the dishes back in time to wash them before supper.
I suppose you can go, if the rest do, said her grandmother, though its an awful lazy way of spendin an afternoon. When I was a girl there was no such dawdlin goin on, I can tell you. Nobody thought o lookin at the river in them days; there was nt time.