The Little House

by Kate Douglas Wiggin

　　The autumn days flew past like shuttles in a loom. The riverreflected the yellow foliage of the white birch and the scarletof the maples. The wayside was bright with goldenrod, with thered tassels of the sumac, with the purple frost-flower andfeathery clematis.

　　If Rose was not as happy as Stephen, she was quietly content, andfelt that she had more to be grateful for than most girls, forStephen surprised her with first one evidence and then another ofthoughtful generosity. In his heart of hearts he felt that Rosewas not wholly his, that she reserved, withheld something; and itwas the subjugation of this rebellious province that he sought.He and Rose had agreed to wait a year for their marriage, inwhich time Rose's cousin would finish school and be ready to livewith the old people; meanwhile Stephen had learned that hismaiden aunt would be glad to come and keep house for Rufus. Thework at the River Farm was too hard for a girl, so he hadpersuaded himself of late, and the house was so far from thevillage that Rose was sure to be lonely. He owned a couple ofacres between his place and the Edgewood bridge, and here, oneafternoon only a month after their engagement, he took Rose tosee the foundations of a little house he was building for her.It was to be only a story-and-a-half cottage of six small rooms,the two upper chambers to be finished off later on. Stephen hadplaced it well back from the road, leaving space in front forwhat was to be a most wonderful arrangement of flower-beds, yetkeeping a strip at the back, on the river-brink, for a smallvegetable garden. There had been a house there years before--so many years that the blackened ruins were entirely overgrown;but a few elms and an old apple-orchard remained to shade the newdwelling and give welcome to the coming inmates.

　　Stephen had fifteen hundred dollars in bank, he could turn hishand to almost anything, and his love was so deep that Rose'splumb-line had never sounded bottom; accordingly he was able,with the help of two steady workers, to have the roof on beforethe first of November. The weather was clear and fine, and byThanksgiving clapboards, shingles, two coats of brown paint, andeven the blinds had all been added. This exhibition of recklessenergy on Stephen's part did not wholly commend itself to theneighborhood.

　　"Steve's too turrible spry," said Rose's grandfather; "he'll triphimself up some o' these times."

　　"You never will," remarked his better half, sagely.

　　"The resks in life come along fast enough, without runnin' tomeet 'em," continued the old man. "There's good dough in Rose,but it ain't more'n half riz. Let somebody come along an' dropin a little more yeast, or set the dish a little mite nearer thestove, an' you'll see what'll happen."

　　"Steve's kept house for himself some time, an' I guess he knowsmore about bread-makin' than you do."

　　"There don't nobody know more'n I do about nothin', when mypipe's drawin' real good an' nobody's thornin' me to go to work,"replied Mr. Wiley; "but nobody's willin' to take the advice of aman that's seen the world an' lived in large places, an' therisin' generation is in a turrible hurry. I don' know how 't is:young folks air allers settin' the clock forrard an' the old onesputtin' it back."

　　"Did you ketch anything for dinner when you was out thismornin'?" asked his wife. "No, I fished an' fished, till I wasabout ready to drop, an' I did git a few shiners, but land, theywa'n't as big as the worms I was ketchin' 'em with, so I pitched'em back in the water an' quit."

　　During the progress of these remarks Mr. Wiley opened the doorunder the sink, and from beneath a huge iron pot drew a roundtray loaded with a glass pitcher and half a dozen tumblers, whichhe placed carefully on the kitchen table.

　　"This is the last day's option I've got on this lemonade-set," hesaid, "an' if I'm goin'to Biddeford to-morrer I've got to make upmy mind here an' now."

　　With this observation he took off his shoes, climbed in hisstocking feet to the vantage ground of a kitchen chair, andlifted a stone china pitcher from a corner of the highestcupboard shelf where it had been hidden.

　　"This lemonade's gittin' kind o' dusty," he complained, "Ical'lated to hev a kind of a spree on it when I got throughchoosin' Rose's weddin' present, but I guess the pig'll hev tohelp me out."

　　The old man filled one of the glasses from the pitcher, pulled upthe kitchen shades to the top,put both hands in his pockets, andwalked solemnly round the table, gazing at his offering fromevery possible point of view.

　　There had been three lemonade sets in the window of a Biddefordcrockery store when Mr. Wiley chanced to pass by, and he hadbrought home the blue and green one on approval.

　　To the casual eye it would have appeared as quite uniquelyhideous until the red and yellow or the purple and orange oneshad been seen; after that, no human being could have made adecision, where each was so unparalleled in its ugliness, and OldKennebec's confusion of mind would have been perfectly understoodby the connoisseur.

　　"How do you like it with the lemonade in, mother?" he inquiredeagerly. "The thing that plagues me most is that the red an'yaller one I hed home last week lights up better'n this, an' Ibelieve I'll settle on that; for as I was thinkin' last night inbed, lemonade is mostly an evenin' drink an' Rose won't be usin'the set much by daylight. Root beer looks the han'somest in thispurple set, but Rose loves lemonade better'n beer, so I guessI'll pack up this one an' change it to-morrer. Mebbe when I getit out o' sight an' give the lemonade to the pig I'll be easierin my mind."

　　In the opinion of the community at large Stephen's forehandednessin the matter of preparations for his marriage was imprudence,and his desire for neatness and beauty flagrant extravagance.The house itself was a foolish idea, it was thought, but therewere extenuating circumstances, for the maiden aunt really neededa home, and Rufus was likely to marry before long and take hiswife to the River Farm. It was to be hoped in his case that hewould avoid the snares of beauty and choose a good stout girl whowould bring the dairy back to what it was in Mrs. Waterman'stime.

　　All winter long Stephen labored on the inside of the cottage,mostly by himself. He learned all trades in succession, Lovebeing his only master. He had many odd days to spare from hisfarm work, and if he had not found days he would have takennights. Scarcely a nail was driven without Rose's advice; andwhen the plastering was hard and dry, the wall-papers were theresult of weeks of consultation.

　　Among the quiet joys of life there is probably no other so deep,so sweet, so full of trembling hope and delight, as the buildingand making of a home,--a home where two lives are to be mergedin one and flow on together, a home full of mysterious anddelicious possibilities, hidden in a future which is alwaysrose-colored.

　　Rose's sweet little nature broadened under Stephen's influence;but she had her moments of discontent and unrest, always followedquickly by remorse.

　　At the Thanksgiving sociable some one had observed her turquoiseengagement ring,--some one who said that such a hand was worthyof a diamond, that turquoises were a pretty color, but that therewas only one stone for an engagement ring, and that was adiamond. At the Christmas dance the same some one had said herwaltzing would make her "all the rage" in Boston. She wonderedif it were true, and wondered whether, if she had not promised tomarry Stephen, some splendid being from a city would havedescended from his heights, bearing diamonds in his hand. Notthat she would have accepted them; she only wondered. Thesedisloyal thoughts came seldom, and she put them resolutely away,devoting herself with all the greater assiduity to her muslincurtains and ruffled pillow-shams. Stephen, too, had hismomentary pangs. There were times when he could calm his doubtsonly by working on the little house. The mere sight of thebeloved floors and walls and ceilings comforted his heart, andbrought him good cheer.

　　The winter was a cold one, so bitterly cold that even the rapidwater at the Gray Rock was a mass of curdled yellow ice,something that had only occurred once or twice before within thememory of the oldest inhabitant.

　　It was also a very gay season for Pleasant River and Edgewood.Never had there been so many card-parties, sleigh rides andtavern dances, and never such wonderful skating. The river wasone gleaming, glittering thoroughfare of ice from Milliken'sMills to the dam at the Edgewood bridge. At sundown bonfireswere built here and there on the mirror like surface, and all theyoung people from the neighboring villages gathered on the ice;while detachments of merry, rosycheeked boys and girls, those whopreferred coasting, met at the top of Brigadier Hill, from whichone could get a longer and more perilous slide than from anyother point in the township.

　　Claude Merrill, in his occasional visits from Boston, was verymuch in evidence at the Saturday evening ice parties. He was notan artist at the sport himself, but he was especially proficientin the art of strapping on a lady's skates, and mur'muring--ashe adjusted the last buckle,--"The prettiest foot and ankle onthe river!" It cannot be denied that this compliment gave secretpleasure to the fair village maidens who received it, but it wasa pleasure accompanied by electric shocks of excitement. Agirl's foot might perhaps be mentioned, if a fellow were daringenough, but the line was rigidly drawn at the ankle, which wasnot a part of the human frame ever alluded to in the politesociety of Edgewood at that time.

　　Rose, in her red linsey-woolsey dress and her squirrel furs andcap, was the life of every gathering, and when Stephen took herhand and they glided up stream, alone together in the crowd, heused to wish that they might skate on and on up the crystalice-path of the river, to the moon itself, whither it seemed tolead them.