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III. — THE AWAKENING INTEREST 

 Continued from page q8, March number 



Editors' Note: The author of these "confessions" is now well-known as an amateur gardener, and writes with suck genuine humor as proves the efficacy 

 of the "cure". Who she is we do not say al this time, but the future may reveal it.] 



Chapter VI 



THE little house sat sunning itself 

 on the warm, brown slope that 

 April morning. As warm, it was, 

 as the sudden February day that 

 first tempted out Uncle Hermann and set 

 him a-gardening. It was settled cosily into 

 the great shoulder of a hill, and at its back, 

 oaks and beeches showed high above the 

 low broad roof; for from the pines of the 

 hill a line of woodland reached down like 

 a protecting arm, sheltering the little house 

 from the rough Northeasters; and in this 

 embrace it seemed very safe and warm — 

 as content in the spring sunshine as a pussy- 

 cat on a hearth. I think it would have 

 purred if it could! 



It did not seem in the least lonely; the 

 great lilac bush at the corner had been the 

 best of company; there were two friendly 

 apple-trees that stood a little down the 

 slope and looked across the grassed over 

 road into its front windows. It was dif- 

 ferent with the great barns which stood to 

 the south and farther up the hill; they 

 looked gaunt and forsaken; but then, they 

 had neither lilac bush nor apple trees to 

 bear them company. 



Instead of being exhausted, I had felt 

 better as soon as we stepped out of the train 

 at the Enderby station. The air seemed 

 deliriously sweet and clean and fresh; as 

 sweet as a new- washed baby; it had been 

 rain-washed and sunned, the scent of the 

 fresh earth was in it, the pureness of the 

 snows — as different from the makeshift 

 stuff of the town as radiant sunlight differs 

 from badly watered gas. The city air had 

 simply sat heavily on top of my chest 

 instead of going inside it; this went into 

 every nook and cranny of one's lungs, 

 swept out all the horrid, dusty corners with 

 the thoroughness of a vacuum cleaner, and 

 much more inspiration. 



Slowly we drove along the muddy road, 

 the horses dropping cheerfully into a walk, 

 which seemed their preferred gait, whenever 

 Alonzo skirted a puddle. On one side 

 were the brown meadows, fringed with low 

 bushes where the river touched them, and 

 across the river the little town — just as 

 Clarky had said; on the other side of the 

 road after we left the river and began to 

 climb, the bank rose steeply, almost 

 precipitously. The trees that over-shad- 

 owed us grew high overhead; through 

 the light growth of saplings I could see 

 their strong roots gripping the rocks like 



giant tentacles. There were hundreds of 

 tiny streams trickling out of the dripping 

 hillside, they stole noiselessly in and out 

 among the roots, slipped over the huge 

 rocks washing their faces for them. I 

 could not see any flowers, but there were 

 green ferns, as vividly green as if it were 

 June, only they were pressed flat against 

 the dead brown leaves, as if their blanket 

 of snow had been drawn off so carefully they 

 hadn't even been wakened by its removal. 



It was a long, long, climb, then we turned 

 sharply into the merest lumber-track of a 

 road. Level it was, and through gaps in 

 the great pines we looked down on the 

 meadows which seemed very far below, and 

 saw the river winding among the blue hills. 

 Then up a twisting narrow road where 

 slender birches leaned and touched over- 

 head and feathery young hemlocks came so 

 close they almost brushed our muddy 

 wheels with their pretty greenery and the 

 hard green ferns asleep against the bank 

 were so close I could have touched them. 



At every " thank-you-ma'am" the horses 

 stopped to rest; the steady, rhythmic creak- 

 ing of the wagon ceased abruptly. Then, 

 the air was marvellously still; the clear 

 tap-tapping of a distant woodpecker only 

 made visible the silence. Once I heard a 

 quick rustle and a sudden whirr of wings. 



"A partridge," said Clarky. 



A coppery chipmunk flashed along a fal- 

 len tree beside us, but he made no sound. 

 Overhead, the topmost branches of one of 

 the trees showed a faint flush, as if Madame 

 Nature, her garment of snow removed, had 

 found herself in the "altogether" and was 

 blushing at her predicament. 



Suddenly the trees left us; we passed 

 through a break in the fence, gua'rded by 

 gre&t butternut trees, and entered. 



It was what Keats called a "wide quiet- 

 ness," these outspread acres over which the 

 little house presided. The land, sloping 

 softly to the south, closed in by the hill 

 and the woods and the far-off fringe of 

 dark trees seemed as detached, as cut off 

 from the rest of the world, as William 

 Morris's "Hollow Hill." It was not an 

 even slope, the strong, beautiful lines of 

 the rough hill above were repeated lower in 

 the scale — the brown acres lay in long 

 folds, like softly falling draperies. The rain 

 and the melting snows had bent the dead 

 grass and given it a direction, like brush- 

 strokes, so that one could see "the way the 

 hills were put in," as painters say. 



183 



Soon I stopped thinking of the lines of 

 the hill. I was looking at the little house 

 thinking we would never reach it — for I 

 was beginning to be dreadfully tired. The 

 distance that had looked so short, suddenly 

 had become interminable. 



"Well, Caroline," said a loud, cherry 

 voice, that, as we drove up to the door made 

 me start like an unexpected blasting ex- 

 plosion, "I was. afraid you wasn't coming! 

 Guess the nine-forty-five was late! Come 

 right in and set down ! 'Lonzo, you get out 

 an' hold Mollie so's she won't start — she 

 has a notion of goin' to the barn herself. 

 Quite a sick spell, you had, didn't you! 

 Now catch right holt o' me. You want 

 to set down on the doorstep? Well, all 

 right! Jes' Miss Clarke says. Glad to see 

 you again, Miss Clarke. An' you got her 

 up here all right? Such a nice day's you 

 had for comin' ! Wa'n't that splendid? " 



I sank down limply on the doorstep, 

 leaned against the post, looked vacantly up 

 past the billowing expanse of white apron to 

 a round rosy face lit with gold-rimmed spec- 

 tacles that were bent on me. But I was as 

 incapable of reply to the good Mrs. Tarbox's 

 talk as the rocks were of saying anything to 

 the streams that trickled over their faces. 



"I ain't seen you, Caroline," she con- 

 tinued, "sence you was a little girl. Must 

 be twenty or twenty-five years ago, but I'd 

 ha' known you anywhere. You look jes' 

 like Marcia Davenport, your mother's 

 sister that was — she went into a decline" 

 — she added in a whisper turning in 

 Clarky's direction and looking significantly 

 over her spectacles. 



"Want I should take the trunk in, Aunt 

 Cynthy?" spoke Alonzo, breaking in on 

 the discourse. "They's other things down 

 to the station. I got to make another trip." 



"Yes," Clarky answered him, speaking 

 quickly. "But I want you to help me a 

 moment first." 



Then she and Alonzo did something with 

 a cot and pillows. The next I knew I was 

 lying outstretched on something that was 

 blissfully comfortable, looking up into the 

 lilac bush and Clarky was tucking rugs 

 about my feet. 



"You'll rest better here," she said, and 

 left me. 



I don't remember anything more until 

 she touched me on the shoulder. 



"Eleven," she said. She had a cup of 

 steaming bouillon in her hand. 



