Who, seeing me sit here before our cottage fire this evening, clothed in the color of life and joy, with my happy and cheerful family close around, would ever believe me to be the same woman who arrived here something more than two months ago, with a heart even more dark and desolate than her garb of woe? Truly, the ways and goodness of God are past imagining.
Thursday Night.
That the fraternal affection of the little Salyers is sound at the core (much evidence to the contrary notwithstanding) was proved beyond doubt by an occurrence last night. Hen is by nature deliberate, and is especially so about washing his feet and getting undressed at night, not yet having become reconciled in his mind to either process. He always retires after Keats, and, now the nights are cooler, first tries to root Keats out of his warm place, and, failing in that, doubles up and plants his cold feet in the middle of Keats's back. The long-suffering Keats rebels, and then follow howls, yells and a pitched battle, with shrill cries for me from Geordie Yonts, the third boy in the bed. When I arrive, the covers are on the floor, and the brothers fighting all over their own bed, the other bed and boys, and the entire room, and calling down horrible imprecations upon each other. In vain I have forbidden the use of the shocking language,—neither threats nor punishments have prevailed. Last night, after a particularly bad time, I called them into my room, explained to them the full meaning of the words they were using, and asked if either could possibly hate his brother enough to wish to consign him to eternal torment. They made no answer, but went off looking thoughtful. To-night when shrieks and howls announced the usual battle, and I hurried to the scene, the Salyers were pounding each other as mercilessly as ever, but this time, to my unspeakable relief, they were calling out furiously, "God help you!" "God help you!",—a decided change for the better, and, I thought, a most timely petition!
In their sane moments now, they talk of nothing but Cousin Emmeline's funeral occasion and the visit home; and it is impossible for them to decide whom they most desire to see,—whether Nervesty, or Sammy, or Ponto, or the steers Buck and Brandy; while their longing extends also to the other children, and to Charlie the "flea-bit" nag, Ole Suke, the "pied" cow, Reddy the heifer, and the black sow, Julia.
Sunday Evening.
On our way to the "church-house" this morning, I noticed that Iry wore the long, ample homespun trousers in which he arrived. "Where are the Sunday breeches I gave you?" I inquired.
"There they air," he said, pointing to Geordie's fat legs, which seemed about to burst out of a pair of dark blue short trousers.
"Iry he just pestered me into trading with him," was Geordie's explanation, "he said he were bound to have that gold ring I got out of a prize box last week. Show it to her, Iry."
Iry put forth a small, dingy hand, adorned with a large, elaborate brass ring.
"But you can see that wasn't a fair trade," I said indignantly to Geordie.