"But, Sam dear," said Mrs. Putnam, "have you ever thought how you shall get it made? Even if you get the skins, it will take a good deal of money to pay for lining and making and all."
Sam's face fell. "I never thought of that, mammy dear; but I am sure there'll be some way. You know what father's always saying—'God helps those that help themselves'; and I'll help myself as hard as I can, and you'll see if there doesn't come a way."
Mrs. Putnam stroked the curly head fondly; she would not say a word to disturb that honest, child-like faith. Perhaps it taught her a lesson, for she was naturally a doubting, grieving woman.
And, to be sure, the very next day the way Sam looked for was opened. A man drove over from Sabatis with an Irish girl who wanted the Doctor to pull a tooth out, for Dr. Pomeroy had gone to New York to see his dying father, and there was no one nearer than Dr. Putnam at the Ponds. But he had gone to the minister's to see a croupy child, so the girl sat down by the fire to wait. As she looked about, her eye fell on a long soft garland of the coral ground-pine which Sam had brought in the day before.
"Sure an' isn't that splindid!" she exclaimed.
"Did you never see any before?" asked Mrs. Putnam.
"'Deed an' I did. I seen it to Bostin—heaps av it; they brings it in from the counthry before Christmas-time, in big wreaths an' strings, an' sells it be the yarrd surely, twinty-five cints for a yarrd, an' it tied no bigger 'n me arrm, to hang up in churches an' houses. An' scarrce it is, too, for there's so many wants it."
A thought flashed across Mrs. Putnam's mind: it was the last day of October now; bitter as the cold was, there would probably be yet many thaws and days of sunshine before winter came, and the hills about them were fairly carpeted with these beautiful trailing evergreens. She gave her idea to Sam in a private interview, and he was greatly pleased with it; then they took Mary Ann into their counsels, and the matter worked so nicely among the three that by the time Sam had killed his first fox there were set away in the cellar two large rough board boxes filled with wreaths, crosses, and coiled lengths of garland beautifully tied by Mrs. Putnam, who had a natural taste for such things. Some were all of the soft coral pine, rich and velvety; some of the lighter ground-pine, darkened with clusters of the white-veined pipsissewa at even distances; and some wreaths were made of glittering kalmia leaves alone, others of all the sorts mixed together, while one or two crosses of tree-pine were set with snow-white bosses of the wild amaranth—"life-everlasting"—a store of which Mary Ann had picked when it first budded, intending to use it for home decorations. These boxes were sent by an obliging neighbor to the Sabatis station, and from there as freight to a cousin of Mrs. Putnam's mother, who kept a variety store in Boston, as specimens, the arrangement having been previously made with him that he should exhibit and dispose of these, and receive orders for others.
It was very lucky for Sam's projects that his father was a doctor, and absent from home three-quarters of the time.
Sam's first fox was a triumph; it repaid him well for a cold and anxious day's work; and as he helped Peter nail the handsome skin against the shed it seemed to him an easy task that lay before him, but he did not find it so. The evergreen business was far more successful: the beautiful and graceful decorations found a rapid market; orders flowed in; Mrs. Putnam and Mary Ann got up early and sat up late to fill them; Sam drew the boards from the saw-mill, sawed them into lengths himself, and nailed the slight boxes together; but this was all he could do on frosty days, though whenever it thawed he worked bravely at gathering the greens and plucking the kalmia boughs; but the foxes were his own peculiar work: he must divide the glory and the gift of the coat with mother and Mary Ann, but after all it was he who would shoot the foxes.