Ella, a little schoolgirl of the sixties

by Eva March Tappan

Monday morning Boy Cousin, his father, and Ella were going part way up one of the mountains to visit a pasture. In the spring, as soon as the grass was green, it was the custom to drive cattle and young colts up to a mountain pasture, where they could feed till autumn. Every few weeks the owner paid a visit to the pasture to make sure that his “creatures” were safe and to give them salt.

They started when the mists were rolling away from the valleys, and the sun was just peering over Ossipee. It was a beautiful ride through the cool fresh woods, showing here and there a spray of scarlet leaves. Occasionally they had a glimpse of a rabbit or a woodchuck, and once a deer watched them for a moment, then bounded gracefully across the road and disappeared in the woods.

At the foot of the mountain the little company started up the narrow footpath, at first smooth, then stony, as they came to places where the rain had washed the soil. Most of the way was through the woods, but here and there were openings where they could get views of the mountains around them. From one of these openings they could see the old homestead half hidden by its great maples.

At last they came to a large pasture surrounded by woods. Boy Cousin’s father laid some salt on a big flat rock, and then called, “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!” For a minute all was still, then a crash of broken limbs was heard far off in the woods. Then two or three cattle plunged headlong out of the forest. Then came others, and then four little colts. They knew that the visit meant salt, and every one started for the flat rock. But every one stopped short, and stood as still as a statue and gazed at Ella. It was almost embarrassing, for when she walked to one side, they all walked after her and gazed more curiously than ever. They had seen men before, but how a little girl could come into their pasture, and what a little girl might be, was a wonder. The shy little colts were so devoured with curiosity that they stood still and stared when Ella ventured to slip up and pat their silky heads. Then they went to the salt; and after they had eaten what they wanted, they wandered back, one by one, into the forest, and Boy Cousin’s father and the children set out for home.

“Good-bye,” called Boy Cousin, as Ella climbed out over the high wheel. “We’ll go and see how our grafts are the first thing in the morning.”

But when Ella opened the door, there stood the mother before the trunk, folding up their clothes and laying them in. The mail had brought a letter that made it necessary for them to return to the city in the morning. There was no time to visit the tree; and this is why no one knows what happens when a raspberry twig is grafted into a sour apple tree on Sunday afternoon.

CHAPTER IX
BOOKS AND PLAY

The mother had agreed to take charge of a private school in the city for a year; and before many days had passed, Ella was setting out every morning at eight o’clock to practice an hour before school opened. It was a pleasant walk down the broad street. It had been a street of homes with flower gardens and trees and wide front steps, and porches that looked as if people liked to sit in them summer evenings and talk and have good times together. The gardens were full of old-fashioned flowers that bloomed as if they were having the best time of their lives. Between them and the sidewalk were fences so low and open that they invited passers-by to stop and see the roses, geraniums, hollyhocks, ladies’-delights, or none-so-pretties, sweet Mary, sweet William, and the rest of them.

The street was just beginning to think of becoming a business street, and here and there, wherever there chanced to be a spare nook or corner, there stood a tiny store which seemed to look up a little shyly to its more stately neighbors.

Two of these little stores were of special interest to Ella. One had a stock of roots and herbs, and among them were the cinnamon buds that she was still fond of. Her first spare penny went into the hands of a clerk in this store, a solemn-looking man with a pasty white face. Evidently he felt it his duty to give this reckless small child a lecture, for, still holding the penny in his hand, he told her how dangerous it was to eat spices.