A gentle pioneer

by Amy Ella Blanchard

Margret gave him a shy glance. She was a pretty little girl, now about thirteen years of age, a demure quiet body, but possessed of a steadiness and force that did not at first appear. No one could manage and entertain the children as Margret did. Carter coaxed her to come out and sit by him while Agnes went indoors, and when the latter came out she found the two on the best of terms. Carter was telling about the place across the river. “I’ll about live at your house,” he announced to Agnes. “I wish you’d hurry up and come.”

There seemed to be a great deal to be crowded into the next few weeks, for first Archie started for Canonsburg, and then came preparations for the removing. Many a trip did Carter and Agnes make with coops of chickens balanced on the little boat, or family stuffs of different kinds stowed away as best they could be, and then came the day when the last good-bys were said, and Polly running over with tears fell on their necks and mourned the departure.

“I’ll be sore weary for ye, Nancy,” she said; “ye’ve been like me ain sister, an’ we’ve been togither through thick an’ thin this manny’s the long day now, an’ I’ll no have a song on me lips for a dale o’ morrows. I beeta come over often, an’ no doubt I’ll be neglectin’ me work an’ me bairns, I’ll be sae sore for a sight o’ ye.”

“Dear Polly,” Agnes returned, the tears in her own eyes. “I’ll miss you, too, Polly, and I shall come over often. Ah, Polly, I’m no glad to be going. As the song says, ‘Manny a canty day we’ve had wi’ ane anither.’” The tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks, but Sandy and Jock and Jessie, and even Margret, were eager for the change, and were back and forth a dozen times before they crossed the river for good and all. Agnes was the last to leave. She lingered around as if she could not say farewell. The homely spot was crowded with associations, and not till now did she know how much she loved it.

But at last she gave Polly and the children a parting hug, and sprang into the boat which Sandy had brought over, having delivered his other passengers, and the last sight of Polly showed the good woman standing with her apron to her eyes.

It seemed quite palatial in their new home with its big rooms, now fresh and clean. Here and there could be seen from the house reaches of cleared land, and the forest seemed to recede to a great distance from the house, though a few tall trees were left for shade; but after the small cabin they had been living in, with its girdle of forest trees so near, this gave the impression of much more room both outside and in.

“Isn’t it big and fine?” said Jessie. “Oh, what a big fireplace, and real steps, not a ladder to go upstairs,” and eager feet were soon patting all over the house, Sandy and Jack meanwhile exploring the whole place,—the comfortable barn, the cow-shed now housing two new cows, the garden, the corn-field where pumpkins were yellowing, and the truck patch where a few potatoes and turnips awaited gathering. It is true that Humphrey had been careful to possess himself of all fruits of his labor that time would allow him to get together, and had destroyed some things which might have been of use, but his time was short, and there were still apples reddening in the sun and a haymow untouched.

Mrs. Kennedy stood at the door looking out. Her face was very sad. From this spot her father had gone forth to captivity and death; all this fair homestead had been his, and he had hoped to live here to a good old age. Agnes linked her arm within her mother’s. “How do you like it, mother dear? Is it not a pleasant spot? It is home for the rest of our lives.”

“For the rest of my life and for yours, too, perhaps. Does your father seem satisfied? I have not seen him for the past hour; I have been so busy setting things to rights.”

“He is with the boys and they are exploring every corner. Father understands that this is home; in some way he connected it with East Pennsborough and asks such funny questions: Who cut down the butternut tree by the spring? and what has become of old Whitey? He is a little bewildered yet, but he will be very content, I am sure.”