Under the Lilacs (25 page)

“’Come soon,’ whispered Matty, and tried to smile bravely, as a stout settler’s girl should.

“Mr. Kilburn went away, and was taken prisoner in the fight, carried off, and for years no one knew whether he was alive or
dead. People missed Matty, but supposed she was with her father, and never expected to see her again. A great while afterward
the poor man came back, having escaped and made his way through the wilderness to his old home. His first question was for
Matty, but no one had seen her; and when he told them where he had left her, they shook their heads as if they thought he
was crazy. But they went to look, that he might be satisfied; and he was, for there they found some little bones, some faded
bits of cloth, and two rusty silver buckles marked with Matty’s name in what had once been her shoes. An Indian arrow lay
there, too, showing why she had never cried for help, but waited patiently so long for father to come and find her.”

If Miss Celia expected to see the last bit of hem done when her story ended, she was disappointed; for not a dozen stitches
had been taken. Betty was using her crash towel for a handkerchief, and Bab’s lay on the ground as she listened with snapping
eyes to the little tragedy.

“Is it true?” asked Betty, hoping to find relief in being told that it was not.

“Yes; I have seen the tree, and the mound where the fort was, and the rusty buckles in an old farmhouse where other Kilburns
live, near the spot where it all happened,” answered Miss Celia, looking out the picture of Victoria to console her auditors.

“We’ll play that in the old apple tree. Betty can scrooch down, and I’ll be the father, and put leaves on her, and then I’ll
be a great Injun and fire at her. I can make arrows, and it
will be fun, won’t it?” cried Bab, charmed with the new drama in which she could act the leading parts.

“No, it won’t! I don’t like to go in a cobwebby hole, and have you play kill me. I’ll make a nice fort of hay, and be all
safe, and you can put Dinah down there for Matty. I don’t love her anymore, now her last eye has tumbled out, and you may
shoot her just as much as you like.”

Before Bab could agree to this satisfactory arrangement, Thorny appeared, singing, as he aimed at a fat robin, whose red waistcoat
looked rather warm and winterish that August day —

“So he took up his bow,

And he feathered his arrow,

And said, ‘I will shoot

This little cock-sparrow.’”

“But he didn’t,” chirped the robin, flying away, with a contemptuous flirt of his rusty-black tail.

“That is exactly what you must promise
not
to do, boys. Fire away at your targets as much as you like, but do not harm any living creature,” said Miss Celia, as Ben
followed armed and equipped with her own long-unused accoutrements.

“Of course we won’t if you say so; but, with a little practice, I
could
bring down a bird as well as that fellow you read to me about with his woodpeckers and larks and herons,” answered Thorny,
who had much enjoyed the article, while his sister lamented over the destruction of the innocent birds.

“You’d do well to borrow the Squire’s old stuffed owl for a target; there would be some chance of your hitting him, he is
so big,” said his sister, who always made fun of the boy when he began to brag.

Thorny’s only reply was to send his arrow straight up so far out of sight that it was a long while coming down again to stick
quivering in the ground nearby, whence Sancho brought it in his mouth, evidently highly approving of a game in which he could
join.

“Not bad for a beginning. Now, Ben, fire away.”

But Ben’s experience with bows was small, and, in spite of his praiseworthy efforts to imitate his great exemplar, the arrow
only turned a feeble sort of somersault, and descended perilously near Bab’s uplifted nose.

“If you endanger other people’s life and liberty in your pursuit of happiness, I shall have to confiscate your arms, boys.
Take the orchard for your archery ground; that is safe, and we can see you as we sit here. I wish I had two hands, so that
I could paint you a fine, gay target”; and Miss Celia looked regretfully at the injured arm, which as yet was of little use.

“I wish you could shoot, too; you used to beat all the girls, and I was proud of you,” answered Thorny, with the air of a
fond elder brother; though, at the time he alluded to, he was about twelve, and hardly up to his sister’s shoulder.

“Thank you. I shall be happy to give my place to Bab and Betty if you will make them some bows and arrows; they could not
use those long ones.”

The young gentlemen did not take the hint as quickly as Miss Celia hoped they would; in fact, both looked rather blank at
the suggestion, as boys generally do when it is proposed that girls — especially small ones — shall join in any game they
are playing.

“P’r’aps it would be too much trouble,” began Betty, in her winning little voice.

“I can make my own,” declared Bab, with an independent toss of the head.

“Not a bit; I’ll make you the jolliest small bow that ever was, Betcinda,” Thorny hastened to say, softened by the appealing
glance of the little maid.

“You can use mine, Bab; you’ve got such a strong fist, I guess you could pull it,” added Ben, remembering that it would not
be amiss to have a comrade who shot worse than he did, for he felt very inferior to Thorny in many ways, and, being used to
praise, had missed it very much since he retired to private life.

“I will be umpire, and brighten up the silver arrow I sometimes pin my hair with, for a prize, unless we can find something
better,” proposed Miss Celia, glad to see that question settled, and every prospect of the new play being a pleasant amusement
for the hot weather.

It was astonishing how soon archery became the fashion in that town, for the boys discussed it enthusiastically all that evening,
formed the “William Tell Club” next day, with Bab and Betty as honorary members, and, before the week was out, nearly every
lad was seen, like young Norval, “With bended bow and quiver full of arrows,” shooting away, with a charming disregard of
the safety of their fellow-citizens. Banished by the authorities to secluded spots, the members of the club set up their targets
and practiced indefatigably, especially Ben, who soon discovered that his early gymnastics had given him a sinewy arm and
a true eye; and, taking Sanch into partnership as picker-up, he got more shots out of an hour than those who had to run to
and fro.

Thorny easily recovered much of his former skill, but his strength had not fully returned, and he soon grew tired. Bab, on
the contrary, threw herself into the contest heart and soul, and tugged away at the new bow Miss Celia gave her, for Ben’s
was too heavy. No other girls were admitted,
so the outsiders got up a club of their own, and called it “The Victoria,” the name being suggested by the magazine article,
which went the rounds as a general guide and reference book. Bab and Betty belonged to this club also, and duly reported the
doings of the boys, with whom they had a right to shoot if they chose, but soon waived the right, plainly seeing that their
absence would be regarded in the light of a favor.

The archery fever raged as fiercely as the baseball epidemic had done before it, and not only did the magazine circulate freely,
but Miss Edgeworth’s story, which was eagerly read, and so much admired that the girls at once mounted green ribbons, and
the boys kept yards of whipcord in their pockets like the provident Benjamin of the tale.

Everyone enjoyed the new play very much, and something grew out of it which was a lasting pleasure to many, long after the
bows and arrows were forgotten. Seeing how glad the children were to get a new story, Miss Celia was moved to send a box of
books — old and new — to the town library, which was but scantily supplied, as country libraries are apt to be. This donation
produced a good effect; for other people hunted up all the volumes they could spare for the same purpose, and the dusty shelves
in the little room behind the post office filled up amazingly. Coming in vacation time they were hailed with delight, and
ancient books of travel, as well as modern tales, were feasted upon by happy young folks, with plenty of time to enjoy them
in peace.

The success of her first attempt at being a public benefactor pleased Miss Celia very much, and suggested other ways in which
she might serve the quiet town, where she
seemed to feel that work was waiting for her to do. She said little to anyone but the friend over the sea, yet various plans
were made then that blossomed beautifully by and by.

C
HAPTER
19

T
he first of September came all too soon, and school began. Among the boys and girls who went trooping up to the “East Corner
knowledge box,” as they called it, was our friend Ben, with a pile of neat books under his arm. He felt very strange, and
decidedly shy; but put on a bold face, and let nobody guess that, though nearly thirteen, he had never been to school before.
Miss Celia had told his story to Teacher, and she, being a kind little woman, with young brothers of her own, made things
as easy for him as she could. In reading and writing he did very well, and proudly took his place among lads of his own age;
but when it came to arithmetic and geography, he had to go down a long way, and begin almost at the beginning, in spite of
Thorny’s efforts to “tool him along fast.” It mortified him sadly, but there was no help for it; and in some of the classes
he had dear little Betty to condole with him when he failed, and smile contentedly when he got above her, as he soon began
to do — for she was not a quick child, and plodded through First Parts long after sister Bab was flourishing away among girls
much older than herself.

Fortunately, Ben was a short boy and a clever one, so he did not look out of place among the ten- and eleven-year-olders,
and fell upon his lessons with the same resolution with which he used to take a new leap, or practice patiently till he could
touch his heels with his head. That sort of exercise
had given him a strong, elastic little body; this kind was to train his mind, and make its faculties as useful, quick, and
sure, as the obedient muscles, nerves, and eye, which kept him safe where others would have broken their necks. He knew this,
and found much consolation in the fact that, though mental arithmetic was a hopeless task, he
could
turn a dozen somersaults, and come up as steady as a judge. When the boys laughed at him for saying that China was in Africa,
he routed them entirely by his superior knowledge of the animals belonging to that wild country; and when “First class in
reading” was called, he marched up with the proud consciousness that the shortest boy in it did better than tall Moses Towne
or fat Sam Kitteridge.

Teacher praised him all she honestly could, and corrected his many blunders so quietly that he soon ceased to be a deep, distressful
red during recitation, and tugged away so manfully that no one could help respecting him for his efforts, and trying to make
light of his failures. So the first hard week went by, and though the boy’s heart had sunk many a time at the prospect of
a protracted wrestle with his own ignorance, he made up his mind to win, and went at it again on the Monday with fresh zeal,
all the better and braver for a good, cheery talk with Miss Celia in the Sunday evening twilight.

He did not tell her one of his greatest trials, however, because he thought she could not help him there. Some of the children
rather looked down upon him, called him “tramp” and “beggar,” twitted him with having been a circus boy and lived in a tent
like a gypsy. They did not mean to be cruel, but did it for the sake of teasing, never stopping to think how much such sport
can make a fellow creature suffer. Being a plucky fellow, Ben pretended not to mind; but he did feel it keenly, because he
wanted to start afresh, and
be like other boys. He was not ashamed of the old life; but, finding those around him disapproved of it, he was glad to let
it be forgotten, even by himself; for his latest recollections were not happy ones, and present comforts made past hardships
seem harder than before.

He said nothing of this to Miss Celia; but she found it out, and liked him all the better for keeping some of his small worries
to himself. Bab and Betty came over on Monday afternoon full of indignation at some boyish insult Sam had put upon Ben; and,
finding them too full of it to enjoy the reading, Miss Celia asked what the matter was. Then both little girls burst out in
a rapid succession of broken exclamations, which did not give a very clear idea of the difficulty —

“Sam didn’t like it because Ben jumped farther than he did —”

“And he said Ben ought to be in the poorhouse.”

“And Ben said
he
ought to be in a pigpen.”

“So he had! — such a greedy thing, bringing lovely big apples, and not giving anyone a single bite!”

“Then he was mad, and we all laughed; and he said, ‘Want to fight?’”