Cf)e #artiett Boctor 



II. — OFF TO THE COUNTRY HOME 

 Continued from page 13, February number 



Editors Note: The author of these "confessions" is now well-known as an amateur 



gardener, and writes with such genuine humor as proves the efficacy of the "cure". 



Who she is we do not say at this time, but the future may reveal it. 



Chapter IV 



THE next day Clarky came back. 

 I didn't see her until she came in- 

 to my room in her nurse's uni- 

 form, just as if nothing had hap- 

 pened — but she looked very cheerful. 



I hate that barrack-discipline that makes 

 a nurse stop and change her dress when 

 you are dying to find out something. 



"Tell me everything about it," I de- 

 manded. 



She laughed. "I'm not going to tell 

 you a thing — except this. It's possible." 



"Possible!" I exclaimed. "You mean 

 we can do it?" 



She nodded. 



"Good for you, Clarky! When? Next 

 week?" 



She laughed. "There's snow up there 

 yet. In four weeks, I should think — end 

 of April — perhaps." 



"Four weeks!" I exclaimed, "what a 

 horribly long time! Never mind. Tell 

 me all about everything!" 



"There's nothing to tell," she answered, 

 "You'll see it all." 



"But what did you do?" I persisted. 



"Well, I drove up to your little house 

 in a sleigh with a tall youth who had bad 

 teeth and whose name was Alonzo Kendall. 

 Your house is off the highway and not 

 easy to reach. The road hadn't been 

 traveled at all. It was what Alonzo called 

 'bad goin'.' The snow was hard on top 

 and thawed beneath. You don't know 

 whether the horse's foot is going to stay 

 on top or sink a foot or two. The horse 

 doesn't know either." 



"How disconcerting for him. What 

 else beside Alonzo and the 'bad goin'?'" 



"Mrs. Tarbox. We stopped at her 

 house for the keys. She lives at the foot 

 of your hill." 



"Who's she?" 



"Alonzo's aunt, round and cheerful and 

 talkative. She will clean the house, have 

 fires lighted and dinner for us when we 

 arrive. Alonzo will haul some wood and 

 have firewood cut in the woodshed. He 

 promised to clean the spring, too. I went 

 up the hill with him and looked at it — 

 waded through the snow — it's deep by 

 the spring, that's in a hollow under a big 

 maple up the hill. Mrs. Tarbox lent me 

 her rubber boots." 



"Oh, I remember!" I exclaimed "there's 

 a great stone over half of it, boards over 

 the rest, and you can peek through and 

 see the water." 



"That's it," said Clarky. 



"And apple trees? Are there apple 

 trees?" 



"Yes." 



"And a barn?" 



"Yes." 



"And a lilac bush?" 



"Yes, there's a lilac-bush." 



"And a good place for a garden?" 



"Plenty of places for a garden." 



I drew a breath of relief. 



"Now what's the house like?" 



"It's a little, old, story-and-a-half farm- 

 house, just like hundreds of others in New 

 Hampshire." 



"Pretty?" 



"It could be pretty. There is good 

 panelling in the living room. There are 

 fireplaces, but they've had them boarded 

 up. The paper is in tatters, and the wood- 

 work is painted pink." 



"Pink!" 



"Pink," repeated Clarky firmly — "a 

 depressing pink with drab panels. 



"The Mclntyres's farmer was the last 

 one who lived there. He must have liked 

 pink. It's in the kitchen, too. And the 

 kitchen walls are papered with a hideous 

 paper. There's a big fireplace, but it is 

 boarded up." 



"Upstairs?" 



"You open a door in the kitchen and the 

 stairs go up from there into an unfinished 

 attic, but in it are two rooms finished off." 



"Where am I to be?" 



"I think you'd best be downstairs, Miss 

 Caroline. There's a big room with a 

 fireplace across the hall from the living 

 room. It would be easy for you to get 

 outdoors and back again, and there's a 

 little room behind it that I could have." 



"But supplies, Clarky? What about 

 nanna or quail for our wilderness? or will 

 Alonzo act the Raven to our Elijah?" 



"I've ordered a telephone put in. The 

 grocer at Enderby Center will send out 

 twice a week. Mrs. Tarbox will cook for 

 us — perhaps. She said she'd 'see about 

 it.' I'll contrive that we don't starve. 

 Well, do you like it?" she asked, for I 

 was staring dumbly at her. 



"Like it!" I cried. "It's the most 

 exciting thing that's ever happened to me! 

 It's the first time I ever went away to do 

 exactly what I wanted. And such a joke 

 to do it when I'm limp! " 



Clarky sat down in the big chair, leaned 

 back, took off her eye-glasses and looked 

 out across the backyards, but she didn't 

 see them any more than I did. She was 



98 



looking across the Connecticut to Ver- 

 mont hills, I think, or her own ones up in 

 old Medfield. 



"Clarky, tell me" — then I stopped, 

 suddenly remembering that she must be 

 tired, so for ages — and exactly five min- 

 utes by the clock — I asked no questions. 

 I just laid there and thought about Alonzo 

 and the "bad goin" and the little house 

 up on the snow-covered hillside, with the 

 eaves dripping in the warm March noon. 



Then I began again — "Clarky, tell 

 me one more thing. What shall I see 

 from my window?" 



She thought a moment. 



"From your front windows," she said 

 slowly, "you look down a long slope, to the 

 break in the fence where the gate used to 

 be. On one side a wide stretch — mowing 

 land, I suppose it is — on the other the 

 edge of the woodland. Then you look 

 over the tops of pines and birches to the 

 hills beyond, and a mountain in the dis- 

 tance, blue, a gentian blue it is now. It's 

 a lovely outlook. From your side windows 

 you can look right into the woods; the 

 little house is almost at the edge of the 

 forest." 



"That's like the fairy-books," I said, 

 "the little cottages where nice things hap- 

 pen are always at the edge of the forest. 

 Snow-white and Rose-red lived there, I 

 believe. The dwarfs would be in the 

 woods. And no house within sight?" 



"None. There's a little red house at 

 the foot of your hill, but you can't see that." 



"The witch lives there, of course." 



"Mrs. Tarbox lives there," corrected 

 Clarky. 



"The pasture; did you see the pasture?" 



She shook her head. 



"Only the edge, when I climbed the 

 fence to look at the spring." 



"Are there bulbs and things to come up 

 in the garden-beds, like Uncle Hermann's?" 



"I can't tell. There was snow on the 

 ground. (I drove out in the sleigh, you 

 know), but the snow was melting in the 

 sunshine and the water dripping from the 

 roof — I saw one rose-bush near the house, 

 but it was a rather forlorn one." 



"What's the color of the house?" 



"White, it was once. It's gray now, 

 and the wood-shed's dropping off. 



"There's the biggest gray squirrel I 

 ever saw in my life in your woodshed." 



"And you don't know what's to come up 

 near the house?" I said disappointedly. 



"No, I don't, but even if there's nothing 

 near the house, there will be lovely things 

 in the woods." 



"Will there?" I said. "What things?" 



"Blood-root. Our hillsides were full 

 of that. It's the most exquisite white. 

 You find it under the trees showing above 

 the dead, brown leaves, it looks like snow 

 only so wonderfully alive. Then you'll 

 find the rue anemone and the wood ane- 

 mone, Dutchman's breeches — and that 

 fragile, lovely little star-flower — the woods 

 are full of that. We'll find them all in 

 your wood." 



