X. THE LAST APPLE.
“God loves not only a cheerful giver, but a cheerful
worker as well.”
—Fletcher Reade.
That afternoon as Nettie was slowly rousing herself from her afternoon nap in her chair, she heard a low, joyful exclamation under her windows.
“Oh, lovely. Mrs. Evans, it’s like—a poem.”
Then a light flashed over the pale face, and Nettie lifted herself forward to look, and to speak.
“O, Judith, I wanted you to see them. You do love pretty things so.”
Judith came through the shed, and up the narrow rag-carpeted stairs to the open door of Nettie’s chamber.
“I wish you would write a poem for me.”
Nettie Evans was Judith’s “public,” and a most enthusiastic one; the young author looked very grave one day when Nettie told her that she liked her poems better than the ones she read to her from the Longfellow book.
“I have brought a poem for you; no one has seen it yet; I’ve copied it to send to my Cousin Don; you know he’s in Switzerland, climbing mountains, and having splendid times. It happened one Thanksgiving—I was here in the country, you remember, with my mother. I saw one rosy apple left on the top of a tree, and I felt so sorry for it. One day I thought of it again, and I wrote this.”
Judith drew her chair close to Nettie’s and took the folded sheet of note paper from her pocket.
“Oh, I wish I could make poems and sew carpet rags,” moaned Nettie.
Judith dared not say she wished she might, she dared not pity her, or look at her; she unfolded her poem and began to read:—
THE LAST APPLE.
I am a rosy-cheeked apple,
Left all alone on the tree,
And in the cold wind I am sighing,
‘Oh, what will become of me.’
Nettie nodded approval, and the poet read modestly on:—
They’ve picked my sisters and cousins,
But I was too little to see;
Now, they will be eaten at Christmas,
But nothing will happen to me.
The beets are pulled, and the parsnips
Are cosily left in the ground—
When the farmer counts up his produce,
No record of me will be found.
I was as pretty a blossom
As ever gave sweets to a bee;
But ’mong the good things for winter,
No one will be thankful for me.
There’s place for radish and carrot,
Though common as common can be,
And I wonder, wonder, wonder,
Why I was left on the tree.
Oh, here comes poor little Sadie,
With her face all wet with tears;
A face so pale and hardened,
But not with the lapse of years.
Now, fly to my aid, dear cold wind,
And receive my last command,—
With a twist, and turn and flutter,
Just drop me into her hand.
In Nettie’s radiant face and tear-filled eyes Judith found the appreciation for which her soul thirsted.
“That’s lovely,” exclaimed Nettie, “may I keep it and learn it?”
“Of course you may. I’ll copy it for you.”
“And I’ll say it in the night if I cannot go to sleep. How much I’ve had in one day. The lilies and the red apple. Don’t you believe that if you can’t go out and get things they always come?”
“But part of the fun is going out to get them,” said Judith, and then, in quick penitence, “but it must be so lovely to have them come to you.”
“Agnes Trembly came yesterday to make me a new blue wrapper; I like to have her sew here with me. Her mother is blind and that is harder than my lot. Agnes said she wished she was a queen. But I never thought of that.”
“Now I’ll tell you a story. There is a little girl somewhere who is a queen, and sometimes she has to sit in state and receive people, and do other queenly things. One day when she was playing with her dolls, what do you think she said?”
“What?” asked Nettie, her face beaming.
“If you are naughty again, I will make you a queen.”
Nettie laughed to the story-teller’s content.
“Now, I’ll tell you a chicken story. This happened to me. Aunt Rody often lets me help her feed the chickens. We had a brood of little chickens, and all died but two of them; I don’t know why, I took good care of them. One morning I found the mother dead. And what do you think?—those two poor motherless little sisters cuddled under their dead mother’s wing. I would like to write a poem about that, only it breaks my heart, and I like to write about happy things. The next day one of them died, and the left one hadn’t any chicken companion. And then, what do you think? A hen mother who had only one chicken, deserted that and went to roost; and this one little black chicken tried to make friends with the sisterless little white chicken. It was too pretty to watch them. The one whose mother deserted went into her little coop and called and called to the other one; but the white chicken didn’t understand at first; when she did understand, the black chicken made it so plain, and she ran to the coop, and the little black chicken and the little white chicken cuddled together as loving and happy as could be.”
“You can put that into a poem,” suggested Nettie, her eyes alight with Judith’s presence and stories.
“Nettie,” said Judith, impulsively, “I love to have you to tell things to.”