CHAPTER NINE
THE “CHARITY BARREL”
It was noon of the day following the luncheon party, and as it was the one Sunday of the month on which the Reverend Jonathan Cressly held a religious meeting at Woodford’s Inn, the little Martins had been attending the Sunday school.
The text had been, “Little children, love ye one another,” but the kindly old man departed in his rather ancient buggy, drawn by a shambling old white horse, with a feeling that his talk had not been entirely successful, for he had heard one little girl, who was very much dressed up, making fun of the Martin girls because they wore dresses that buttoned down the front.
“Those Martin children are certainly a problem in the parish,” Mr. Cressly had told the Home Missionary Society in Genoa, and the women had collected clothing that they thought might fit, and had sent a brimming barrel over to the log cabin in Woodford’s Cañon. That was soon after the father died, but, to their unutterable amazement, the same driver had brought it back on his cart, saying that Miss Dixie Martin wished him to thank the ladies, as she knew they meant it kindly, and that although she and her sister and brothers weren’t needing charity, she was sure there were many families in the mountains that did—the Washoe Indians in the creek-bottom, if no one else.
“Whew-gee!” Lin Crandel, the expressman, had ejaculated. “That red-headed gal stood up like she was the president’s darter, she sure did, but it was the purty curly-headed one that spieled the most about how blue-blooded they were. Didn’t folks know as they were Haddington-Allens of Kentucky? Whew-gee! I kin tell you I felt like apologizin’ for offerin’ ’em that barrel.”
Of course, after that the ladies of the Home Missionary Society did turn their energies in other directions.
The four little Martins were at home again, and Dixie was setting out a cold dinner, for, true to the teaching of his orthodox mother, Pine Tree Martin had insisted upon one thing, which was that Sunday should be kept holy, and that no work that was not absolutely necessary should be done on that day. Since his wife had never worked very much on any day, this had been no hardship for her.
After the simple meal, Ken said that he was going to walk over to the Valley Ranch, and that they all might come along if they wished. Jimmy-Boy was delighted, for if there was one little pig in their home sty, there were a hundred at the Valley Ranch. Carol liked to go, for Susie Piggins, aged fifteen years, went to a boarding-school in Reno, but came home for the week-ends. Dixie usually enjoyed hearing Sue tell of her experiences, but to-day she said that if the others didn’t mind she would like to just stay at home and rest.
Ken’s understanding brown eyes gave one quick glance at his comrade-sister, and noting that she was pale and that she leaned back in the big grandfather’s chair as though she were unusually weary, he decided that it would be doing her a kindness to take the other two children away for the afternoon. Little did he dream that the paleness came from long hours awake in the night.
The three had been gone for some time when Dixie was awakened from a light slumber by some one calling: “Whoa, there! Here we are, Dobbin.”