TO MY MOTHER

  Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
   Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
   But all things else about her drawn
   From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
   A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
   To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

   Wordsworth.

   REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM
 
  I
  "WE ARE SEVEN"

    The old stage coach
        was rumbling
               along the dusty road
         that runs
               from Maplewood to Riverboro.

    The day
        was as warm as midsummer,
           though it
            was only the middle
                   of May,
         and Mr. Jeremiah Cobb
            was favoring the horses
             as much as possible,
           yet never
              losing sight of the fact
             that he carried the mail.

    The hills were many,
           and the reins lay loosely
               in his hands as
             he lolled back
                   in his seat and
                  extended one foot
                       and leg luxuriously
                     over the dashboard.

    His brimmed hat
           of worn felt
        was well
              pulled over his eyes,
           and he
            revolved a quid of tobacco
                   in his left cheek.

    There was one passenger
           in the coach,
          --a small dark-haired person
            in a glossy buff
                 calico dress.

    She was so slender
           and so stiffly starched
         that she slid
               from space
                  to space
                       on the leather cushions,
           though she braced herself
               against the middle seat
                   with her feet and
              extended her cotton-gloved hands
                   on each side,
         in order
              to maintain
                   some sort of balance.

    Whenever the wheels
        sank farther
               than usual into a rut,
           or jolted
              suddenly over a stone,
         she bounded involuntarily
               into the air,
           came down again,
         pushed back
               her funny little straw hat,
           and picked up or
              settled more firmly
                   a small pink sun shade,
         which seemed
              to be her chief responsibility,
           unless we
             except a bead purse,
         into which she looked
             whenever the condition
                   of the roads
                would permit,
           finding great apparent satisfaction in
             that its precious contents neither
                disappeared nor grew less.

    Mr. Cobb
         guessed nothing of these harassing
        details of travel,
           his business
            being to carry
                 people to their destinations,
         not,
           necessarily,
         to make them comfortable
               on the way.

    Indeed he
        had forgotten the very existence
               of this one
             unnoteworthy
                little passenger.

    When he
        was about
              to leave the post-office
                   in Maplewood
         that morning,
           a woman
            had alighted from a wagon,
         and coming up to him,
           inquired whether this
            were the Riverboro stage,
         and if
             he were Mr. Cobb. Being
                  answered in the affirmative,
           she nodded to a child
             who was eagerly
                  waiting for the answer,
         and who ran towards her
             as if
                 she feared
                      to be
                           a moment too late.

    The child
        might have been ten
              or eleven years old perhaps,
           but whatever the number
               of her summers,
         she had an air of
            being small for her age.

    Her mother
          helped her
               into the stage coach,
           deposited a bundle
               and a bouquet of lilacs
             beside her,
         superintended the
           "roping on"
            behind of
               an old hair trunk,
           and finally paid the fare,
         counting out the silver
               with great care.

    "I want you
        should take her
               to my sisters'
             in Riverboro," she said.

    "Do you
          know Mirandy and Jane Sawyer?

    They live
           in the brick house."

    Lord bless your soul,
           he knew
         'em as well
             as if he'd made 'em!

    "Well,
           she's going there,
         and they're expecting her.

    Will you
          keep an eye on her,
           please?

    If she
        can get out anywhere
              and get with folks,
           or get anybody in
              to keep her company,
         she'll do it.

    Good-by,
           Rebecca;
        try not
              to get into any mischief,
           and sit quiet,
         so you'll
              look neat an' nice
             when you get there.