Making Over Martha 17

Making Over Martha 17

CHAPTER VIII*

 

 

"Say, mother," Francie called in through the kitchen screen-door, "Miss

Claire, she wants you to come on out. She says she wants to show you a

very ol’."

 

"A very ol’ _what_?" inquired Martha, turning from her stack of washed

breakfast dishes, to wipe her hands on the roller-towel.

 

"I d’know. Only it’s up a tree, an’ she wants to show you it."

 

Martha went out at once.

 

Mrs. Ronald was standing, not far away, gazing intently up into the

branches of a splendid spruce.

 

"Sh!" she cautioned, as Mrs. Slawson drew near.

 

"What is it?" asked Martha.

 

"Look!"

 

Martha’s eyes, taking the direction indicated by Miss Claire’s pointing

finger, saw nothing.

 

"Do you see?"

 

"No."

 

"Quick! Look! O—oh! There he goes! He’s flown away!"

 

"You mean that—bird?"

 

"Yes—a vireo."

 

Mrs. Slawson’s interest relaxed. "Oh," she said with obvious

disappointment.

 

"What did you think I wanted to show you? Didn’t Francie tell you ’twas

a vireo?"

 

"Certaintly she did. But she didn’t say ’twas a very ol’ _bird_.

Nacherly, I kinda pictured to myself somethin’ like Gran’pa Trenholm, or

ol’ lady Crewe a-sittin’ up there, needin’ immediate assistance. I

thought to myself, that I never have clumb a tree, but if the need was

great, there’s no knowin’ what I _could_ do."

 

Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Oh, Martha," she said, "I don’t believe you’ll

ever make an ornithologist."

 

"Without knowin’ what that may be," Mrs. Slawson returned affably, "I

don’t believe I ever will, though I’m ready to try."

 

"Yesterday, early, early, I got up, and went out, before any one else in

the house was awake. I went down to the ravine, and oh! I wish you

could have been there with me. It was so beautiful! It’s not quite so

early now, but, still, I think, maybe, we might hear the veery. Do you

want to come?"

 

"Certaintly," said Martha.

 

For a time they walked on in silence, through the fragrant freshness of

the new day. The full chorus of ecstatic bird voices had somewhat

diminished, but, even so, the air seemed set to music.

 

Mrs. Ronald gave a great sigh. "Oh, Martha, isn’t it lovely? When I

think what happiness life holds, and how beautiful the world is, I

wonder anybody can be discontented, or restless, or sorrowful."

 

Martha seemed to ponder it.

 

"Well, I guess a good deal depends on the body," she brought out at

length. "As I make it out, the world it goes a-grindin’ ’round steady

an’ sure, like a great, big coffee-grinder. We all got to feel the

twist, first or last, before we’re turned out fine enough to suit. Some

folks feels the twist more’n others. I suppose it’s nice to live easy,

but there’s this about not bein’ too soft: you ain’t likely to get hurt

so much. D’you remember, oncet or twice, when I wasn’t by, you tried to

pull up the dumb-waiter, down to a Hundred and Sixteenth Street? An’ the

coarse rope, it got splinters into your soft little hands. Now, mine’s

so hard I could pull till the cows come home, an’ nary a splinter. Yes,

it’s good not to be too sens’tive. If you are, you’re bound to get all

that’s comin’ to you, an’ then some."

 

"Do you know anybody in particular, who is feeling the _twist_

especially, just now?" asked Mrs. Ronald with interest.

 

Martha nodded. "I was thinkin’ of Miss Katherine," she replied. "She’s

right up here, in the middle of all this, same as you and yet—you’re

happy, an’ she ain’t."

 

"Could I help?"

 

"I don’t know _yet_. I’m keepin’ my eye out. If I find you can I’ll

let you know."

 

"Good!" Claire approved. She walked on a step, then suddenly stood at

attention. "Hark!" she whispered. "The veery! the Wilson thrush!"

 

Mrs. Slawson, halting too, strained her ear to listen. At first her

face expressed only the gentle interest of one willing to be pleased,

but presently her eyes became luminous, her great chest rose and fell to

deep, full breaths of keenest appreciation.

 

When the wonderful performance was at an end, and the veery had taken

wing, Claire turned to her silent, but questioning.

 

Martha considered a moment. "When a cow lifts up his head, an’ gets

ready to bella, what with its size an’ stren’th, you’re prepared for the

worst, an’—you get it. But when a tiny little fella, as

innercent-lookin’ as that very bird you say is the Wilson’s thrush, when

_he_ sits up an’ lets a flute-sola out of’m, as elegant as the man in

the band, down to the movies, well, it certaintly _is_ surprisin’. It

somehow hits you right in the pit of the stummick. My! but I bet the

Wilsons is sorry he flew away on’m."

 

Mrs. Ronald turned quickly to examine a bit of lichen, decorating a

tree-trunk near at hand. When she faced Martha again, her cheeks were

quite crimson.

 

"Say, you hadn’t ought to bend down like that a hot day like this,"

cautioned Mrs. Slawson. "You got a rush o’ brains to the head, I should

say blood. You want to go easy such hot wather. I guess the walkin’

took it out o’ you."

 

"Oh, no," Claire assured her heartily. "I’m not a bit tired. And I

tell you what I want to do some day soon. I want to go across the lake

to the South cove. They say there’s a blue heron there. I’m crazy to

see him."

 

Martha nodded. "Well, if Lord Ronald is willin’——"

 

"He says he’ll take me over in the launch, and you can go too, and the

children. We’ll have a beautiful picnic some day very soon, and, if you

thought she would go, we might ask Miss Crewe, and——"

 

"She couldn’t leave her gran’ma for so long. P’raps if you’d put it off

till the fall——"

 

Miss Claire shook her head. "No, I’m going now," she said determinedly.

 

"Well, I’ll go any day you say, then—so Lord Ronald’s willin’. I can

help’m with the la’nch. I know all about _The Moth’s_ machinery, if I

don’t about the cow’s. An’ when it comes to that, I could milk all

right, all right, if I only knew what to turn on to make the milk come.

It’s on account o’ the cow’s not havin’ her gear arranged so’s a body

can push a button, or pull a crank like a Christian, I have so much

differculty. You can take it from me, autos an’ la’nchs is simple by

comparising. But what’s really on my mind to say is, any mornin’ you

wish to see your red herrin’, just say the word, an’ I’ll take you,

though I tell you frank an’ honest, if I was you, beggin’ your pardon

for the liberty, I’d stay on dry land myself, these days, an’ not be

botherin’ my head over delicatessens, which you can get’m sent up,

canned, by Park an’ Tilford any day, with your next order."

 

"Mother! Mother!"

 

Francie’s shrill, childish voice announced her but a second before she

herself appeared around the tangle of bushes hedging the mouth of the

ravine.

 

"Mother, mother!" she repeated, even after she saw the familiar form she

sought.

 

"Well?"

 

Martha spoke calmly, undisturbed either by the child’s heated face or

manner.

 

"Mother—say—Mr. Ronald, he was over to our house, huntin’ for Miss

Claire. I guess he’s fearful worried."

 

"Did he say he was worried?"

 

"No, he didn’t, but he ast if I seen her, an’ he said it was past

breakfast-time."

 

"Now, what do you think o’ that!" exclaimed Martha. "Francie’s a little

woman, ain’t you, Francie? She knows, when a gen’lman thinks it’s past

meal time, it’s up to ladies to get a move on."

 

Claire laughed. "I’ll go at once," she returned obediently.

 

As Martha and Francie made their slow way back to the Lodge, Francie

caught hold of her mother’s hand in a sudden access of childish

affection.

 

"Say, mother, I’m glad I’m your little girl, instead of anybody else’s,"

she brought out impulsively.

 

"’Thank you, thank you, sir, she sayed. Your kindness I never shall

forget!’ I return the compliment," Martha announced with much manner.

 

"Mother, why does God want His name to be Hallow?"

 

"I didn’t know He did."

 

"Yes, He does. At the beginning of the Lord’s prayer, it says, ’Hallow

would be thy name.’ Don’t you remember?"

 

"Certaintly I do, now you mention it. But if you ask me why, Robin, I

got to give in, I can’t tell you."

 

"I thought mothers knew everything," Francie said pensively. Martha’s

response was prompt.

 

"Well, be this an’ be that, they do. Takin’ mothers all together, they

certaintly do. But, each one has her own speciality, _an’_ if you ask

_me_ questions about God, I tell you, truly, I ain’t got the answer,

like I would have if I’d been to college, an’ belonged to the lemon-eye,

same’s Miss Claire. On the other hand, _I_ may know things _she_ don’t,

about other matters nearer home. You never can tell."