A Woman Rice Planter

by Elizabeth W. Allston Pringle

I have a box tacked on the wall by my writing-table into which I drop all the notes received. I keep them, for they breathe such kindliness, and seem an echo of the past when people had time to think of others. By the end of the summer they would nearly fill a half bushel.

To-day I tried to conceal the fact of Chloe's absence. I was invited out to dinner, but I was so exhausted after the service that I was not equal to going. Though I had made every effort to get Chloe off before service, she was not ready when I left, so I told her to lock up the house and put the key under the pot of heliotrope on the shelf in the piazza, where I found it, and opening the door, which gave light enough for me to read by, I lay on the lounge in the dark, shut-up house till afternoon, when I felt sufficiently rested to get up and take my frugal, but delicious, repast of cold chicken, bread and butter and raw tomatoes. Thanks to one of my unknown, far-away friends, I can enjoy my glass of artesian water. He wrote from Saratoga, suggesting that I should fill a stone jug with the artesian water, attach a long rope, and sink it in the well. I have done this, and by this simple expedient I have delightful, pure drinking water at a temperature of 63 degrees, without having ice. When the mercury is soaring in the 90s 63 seems cold, and I do not ask for better. Except for keeping the milk and butter and having a treat of ice-cream occasionally I really do not miss ice, now that my little brown jug is swung in the well, and I am very grateful to my far-away friend.

At dark arrives Miss Penelope bearing a large tray, "Oh, my dear, I have just heard that Chloe and Dab were seen this morning driving out of the village and have never been seen to return! And to think of your being all alone here, and we not knowing! And we had such a delightful dinner! If only I had known! But I have brought you a bowl of cold okra soup and a little dish of ice-cream, for we had a celebration to-day, a birthday dinner."

As soon as I could I told her I had had a dinner fit for a king, and now this wonderful and delicious treat of ice-cream made it perfect.

I read S. D. Gordon's "Quiet Talks on Power" all day in the darkened room, and I feel as though I might develop into a dynamo of the first order.

Peaceville is one of the corners of the world where Sunday is carefully observed. No one thinks of reading a novel or even a magazine on the day of rest. The Spirit of Missions, the Churchman, the Diocese, and sermons are the only mental food digestible on that day. I often find myself reading "The Spectator" in the Outlook, but if a neighbor comes in I put it hastily out of sight.

I really do not miss ice, now that my little brown jug is swung in the well.

Last Sunday my dear Miss Penelope, whose whole life is a sermon of unselfish devotion and service, never resting, for on Sunday after her laborious six days in the "store"—which has done such wonderful things, supporting the family, educating all the younger members and finally paying off the mortgage on the plantation—she is our sole dependence as an organist and she never fails us. She understands the "instrument," as the organ is always called by Peacevillians.