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“THE children's been out in the woods after flowers,”
said Mrs. Barrington as she brought in an immense
bunch of July spoils; “and I put some of 'em together, if
you'd be pleased to accept of 'em.”

“O thank you!” I said—“they are beautiful! but you've
given us too many. I am very much obliged to you Mrs.
Barrington.”

“I'm sure you're entirely welcome,” she answered.

“But I'm afraid you have robbed the children.”

“O they've got oceans!”

“Why here are little green huckle-berries,” said Kate.

“Them's bear-berries,” said Mrs. Barrington. “The
children takes a notion to pick 'em because they hang so
curious-like onto the bush. I think a dreadful sight of them
when they're ripe.”

“They are very pretty indeed. What's this great white
cluster?”

“O Kate!” I said, “don't you know that?”

“It's only elder-blows Miss Kate. I thought they was
all gone by this time, but the children found 'em somewheres.
He says they're nothing but weeds, but I tell him
they're just as pretty as a flower.”

“And so sweet too! Where did they find these pretty
spikes of white buds?”

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“That grows down in the mash—beyond the pine wood.
Clethry, some folks calls it, and some calls it white bush;—
and some again calls it sweet pepper bush!—I don't
know no name for it myself. And that other white and
pink they call prince's pine—Ezra says it beats all how it
got in our woods. And this here is patridge-berry, and
that 'ere streaked leaf is rattlesnake leaf.”

“Why do they call it so?” said I.

“Well I don't know, Miss Grace—if it ain't because its
so checked and spotted, like a snake,—the flower's pretty,
too.”

“There are no snakes here?” said Mrs. Howard.

“None that have got pison into them. But where we
lived afore we come here, there was the dreadfullest passel
of 'em!—rattlesnakes—and pilots!—I hadn't no good of
my life for fear of the children. There was the most young
pilots killed just round the house! But I never see none
here—only a black snake,—and I threw a stone at it, but
it cried so that I had mercy onto it and let it go. I don't
know as I did right.”

“But they are harmless,” said Kate.

“They say they don't never bite no one,” said Mrs.
Barrington,—“but they'll take and chase a person sometimes.”

“Did you ever see a rattlesnake yourself?”

“Why my, yes! I recollect of one day—and it had been
raining, and had cleared off, and the sun was 'most down,—
and I heard a great noise amongst the chickens. And I
telled Mr. Barrington he'd better go look after 'em—for
he wasn't well that day, and staid home. So he said he
guessed it wa'n't nothing, howsever he ketched up a club
and went, and there sure enough was two of the little
chickens a lyin' dead and right next to 'em this great ugly
beast! and my husband he struck at it and killed it. I
don't doubt but it was six feet long—and it had ten rattles
to it. But there's a kind o' root—snake-root they call it,
that'll cure any sort o' bite,—it don't grow round here. I
guess I'm like the old woman Ezra tells about,” said Mrs.
Barrington breaking off with a laugh;—“she didn't know
when she got through and so she begun again. But you're

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as welcome as can be to the flowers, Miss Grace, and the
children kin fetch 'em every day.”

We arranged our flowers, the snake story giving fair
subject of debate the while, and then seated ourselves to
map out a parcel of lands in Wisconsin that were to delude
some unwary speculator; talking of matters and things
and enjoying the elder and partridge-berry fragrance which
filled the room; and after dinner we were still at our work
with pencil and brush, when we heard a step, and a portion
of the sun's rays on their way to us were suddenly cut off.
Our windows were as near the ground outside as they were
within; therefore when we looked up it was no cause of
surprise to see Mr. Ellis's elbows upon the window-sill
while his head was advanced some inches nearer.

“Well,” he said—“good afternoon. Not round the
world yet?”

“Not yet,” said Kate smiling.

“They say a woman can't have too much arithmetic,”
remarked Mr. Ellis,—“I don't know how it is as to geography,
but I suppose something depends upon the way
she studies it. Now if a friend of mine stood where I do, I
make no doubt he would tell me as he once did when I
asked him what he had seen at a certain place, `I have seen
a great many things I cannot help, Mr. Ellis.'”

“You might look in at almost any window and say that,”
said Kate laughing.

“There are some things here I wouldn't help if I could.
Well—Don't you want to try a little measuring with a
two-foot rule? instead of that half-way thing of ivory?”

“Measuring what, Mr. Ellis?”

“The road from here to the top of Pillimaquady hill.”

“O—yes, we should like a walk very much. But what
is up there? I thought Pillimaquady had only engrossed
all the stones of the region?”

“Yes, it has a good many, but it's got a house on it too.”

“A house?” said Mrs. Howard.

“Why I suppose that little pile of logs is as much in the
genus house as its inhabitants are in the genus man.”

“Who can live up there, Mr. Ellis?”

“A family Miss Kate who know so much about hard
times, that many other people seem ignorant in

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comparison,—that's why I want you to see them. It's well to find
out that we don't know everything, and when I find myself
a little proud of my own acquaintance with trials, I go up
there.”

Kate smiled with a full understanding of his words, and
we were soon ready to set out.

“I'll try to bring your young ladies safe home ma'am,”
said Mr. Ellis, “but I won't promise when. Pillimaquady
is every inch a hill, and lets himself down for nobody.”

Not for us, certainly. The road which gradually ascending
led us through corn and hay fields to the foot of the
hill, there changed to a little thread of a path of most steep
and unequal grading. Cultivation had ventured no further;
and the wild plants and rough footing which had been banished
from so much of the neighbouring country, here kept
their stronghold. The trees grew in what fashion it liked
them best; and thick beds of wintergreen and mouse-ear
and squaw-vine luxuriated in their shade. Sweet-fern aromatized
the air with its pretty cut leaves, while the beautiful
laurels in their variety of growth and colour might have
appropriated Cowper's lines.

And the intermediate shades blended and contrasted with
these two extremes, in a way that as the French say, “left
nothing to desire.”

Stones grew more plenty and flowers more scarce as we
proceeded; and over rocks and moss-beds and little springy
places which even at that season kept their dampness, we
wandered and wound about, till we reached a sort of landing-place
some four-fifths of the way up. We saw no house
yet, but the path was more level, and the near cackling of
a hen spoke of settlers. Then appeared a clothes-line
stretched from tree to tree, and supporting a red flannel
shirt and two or three nondescript articles; then the aforesaid
hen and her companions; the pig-pen, and finally the
house. I put the pig-pen first, for that it was in order of
approach,—standing at the very path-edge, and rendering

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“the right of way” a matter for litigation. A pen it was
not, in strictness, unless when the pigs chose to lie behind
their logs and imagine themselves shut up,—generally they
preferred lying outside and looking in. A rail-fence in two
parts made an equally doubtful attempt at shutting off the
rough courtyard, which ran down to a wet, boggy bit of
ground, full of alders and other plants that will still be
paddling.

The house was but a regular arrangement of back-logs,
with two or three rickety board steps, and windows that
were as little thorough-going as the rest of the concern; the
steps were at present occupied by a marvellously clean and
nice-looking little cat whom the first glimpse of us banished
to unknown regions. The dark woods closed in behind the
house and skirted the far side of the courtyard; and from
the gable next us, a disjointed stove-pipe whose inclination
was to quit the concern, sent up a lazy indication of smoke,—
looking as much like that which comes from a chimney,
as a good open fireplace resembles its iron imitators.

In front of the rickety steps a little girl about ten years
old was jumping the rope: dressed as to substantials in a
stuff petticoat. For ornament she wore a string of beads,
and a muslin waist the skirt of which had once covered the
petticoat, but now hung in shortened and narrow fringestrips
over the dark stuff; while her stockings and pantaletters
were but of the same material as Prince Vortigern's
vest—unpainted. But if rags and mud claimed the whole
of the body, the face belonged to nothing but fun; and the
child and her fringed habiliments took flying leaps over the
rope, in a style that quite distanced the sports of Quilp's
boy.

A little cur of a dog started up to bark at us, but seeing
Mr. Ellis's stick he dropped ears and tail, and walked round
to greet Wolfgang and Dec.

We were endeavouring to pick our way over the stones
which clogged the fence-gap, when the house door opened,
and a woman who had seen the shady side of life as well
as of forty, came out. Her face was bandaged with a
handkerchief, and a muslin cap covered her head.

“Why laws a me!” she said. “You baint come all the
way up here agin Mr. Ellis? well that's wonderful clever

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o' you, for sartain. And these young ladies—pretty girls!
to come so far to see a body!”

“How are you to-day Mrs. Flinter?” replied our companion.

“I ain't just well,” she answered,—“I was wonderful bad
with the teethache night afore last, and my face are as big
as two, yet. Why ain't that Mr. Collingwood's dog?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Ellis.

“He ain't to the Lea is he sir?”

“No, but Wolfgang is spending the summer with Mrs.
Howard.”

“Why I want to know!” said Mrs. Flinter,—“poor
feller! poor feller! Come in sir, won't you—come in Miss
Howards. Well I'm wonderful glad to get a sight o' that
'ere dog!—poor feller! come right in, too—you sha'n't stay
out while this here house has got a roof onto it. Loisy, go
straight off and fetch him a bit o' bread.”

“I don't believe he's very hungry,” said Kate,—“he had
his dinner before we came away.”

“Do tell!” said Mrs. Flinter; “but may be he'll eat sun'thin.
Poor old feller! I wish it war plum cake!”

And Wolfgang took the dingy bread in his white teeth,
rather than to hurt her feelings by a refusal,—very much
as his master would have done in similar circumstances.

The indoor look of things was not out of keeping with
the exterior, though there was rather more arrangement
and neatness; but in justice to Mrs. Flinter it must be
allowed that extreme poverty and half a dozen children, do
not tend to the nice ordering of a log cabin. The room
into which we were ushered had a prevailing odour of
tobacco and cooking,—not the pleasant smell of good food
well cooked, but that sickly, unwholesome atmosphere
which marks deficiencies on both sides of the stew-pan.
There was no appearance of dinner however, but the stove,
which for want of a third leg rested on a pile of bricks,
still spoke of a recent fire.

A sort of bed in one corner held an oldish, infirm woman,
who was covered with a very gay specimen of patchwork:
a few wooden and splinter chairs stood about in the way, a
few children ditto; while over the table hung a little looking-glass,
and over that a bunch of fresh asparagus. The

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window by the bed was partially shielded by a white curtain,
but there seemed small need of it; for on the outside
a large hemlock shot up towards the blue sky, far beyond
the ridge-pole of the little cabin, and its lower branches
rubbed and scratched against every pane of glass within
their reach, forming a perfect barrier to eyes without or
within. Through one breach in the window a curious shoot
had even found its way into the room, and now hung forth
its feathery green foliage in singular contrast to everything
else there.

Mr. Ellis walked up to the sick woman, who seemed
overjoyed at the sight of Wolfgang, and Mrs. Flinter
busied herself in clearing away the children and picking
out the best chairs for us.

“What is your name?” said Kate to a little tow mop
in the corner, near which she had seated herself.

The child looked gloomily up, disclosing a dirty face
below the mop, but spoke not.

“Charley! where's your manners?” said his sister Loisy
in a sharp voice, and for the first time removing her eyes
from us. “Take your fingers out of your mouth and behave!
His name's Charley, Miss.”

“I h'aint got a thing to give you to eat!” said our hostess
in a disturbed tone—“Mary Jane! leave the lady's
dress be!—we don't never make much count o' cake up
here, nor pies nother.”

“O we don't want anything to eat,” said Kate,—“I
should like a glass of water if you please Mrs. Flinter.”

“I'm wonderfully on't for glasses too,” said Mrs. Flinter,—
“the children's for ever and the day after a breakin
'em! But there's water enough, if so be you wouldn't
mind drinkin' out o' the dipper.”

“A teacup would do perfectly,” said Kate; and out of
two most unmated specimens of crockery we at last satisfied
our thirst.

“What excellent water!” said I.

“It's good it is,” said Mrs. Flinter, “for there ain't
nothin' else to be had here for the asking.”

“Yes, you must have to bring things a great way; but
I suppose the other road is smoother.”

“There ain't but one road, and that's where you come

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up. He works to Wiamee and backs the weighty things
home o' nights, and the children just fetch the rest day-times.”

“Not up that little steep path?”

“There ain't no other,” repeated Mrs. Flinter. “Why
laws a me! Miss Howards, little 'Minadab, that ain't but
knee-high to a mouse, 'll fetch along sich a bag of meal!
you wouldn't believe!”

“He is older than this one?” I said, looking at the mop.

“Well yes—but Charley's wonderful strong too, when
he's a mindter.”

“And them's Squire Howard's datas,” said the sick
woman looking from Mr. Ellis to us. “Many's the time
I've heerd tell on 'em! There ain't much up here worth
comin' to see,” she continued with a smile as we moved
our chairs to the bed-foot,—“folks on the mounting lives
curous ways sometimes, Miss Howard.”

“It must be rather hard living up here indeed,” said
Kate's gentle voice, which had all the sweetness of sympathy;
“I wish we could do something to make it pleasanter.”

“That's just what you've done a'ready,” said the woman.
“Visiters is scuss in these days, and it's a pleasure to see
'em—when they're good ones. Sayin' nothin' o' you all,
that 'ere dog's better than a doctor.”

And she turned herself to look again at Wolfgang, who
sat gravely by her side as if he had been the very gentleman
referred to.

“Mother thinks a wonderful sight of him,” said Mrs.
Flinter, “'cos he used to come here with young Mr. Collingwood.”

The very name brought a flush of delight to the pale
cheeks of the sick woman.

“If ever a blessed angel come into a place like this!”
she said, clasping her hands energetically, “it was when he
did! O sir, we was poor indeed till he come to tell us
how `we might be made rich'!—And now,” she added, “I
don't want for anything!”

Nobody answered her—nobody could,—Kate's head had
sunk on her hands, and for a few moments we sat in absolute
silence. Then Mr. Ellis rose to go.

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“I never come up here,” he said, “without learning what
does me good. You see Miss Kate, there is `neither
Greek nor Jew, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free, but
Christ is all!'

`Life's poor distinctions vanish here'—

“`Even so'!” she answered looking brightly at him;
and then turning to us she said,

“It's a wonderful pleasure to see you—maybe you'd
come again?”

“We will certainly,” said Kate, “and bring Wolfgang.”
The wet eyelashes and trembling lips gave full security
for the promise.

Mrs. Barstow smiled thankfully, and squeezed our hands
with all the good will in the world; and then Mrs. Flinter
followed us to the door.

“How does the doctor say your mother is?” inquired
Mr. Ellis when we were out.

“He don't just say sir—she's pretty much of a muchness,—
she don't get no weller, and she don't get no
worser.”

“Mind you send to me if you want anything,” was his
parting salutation, and we walked away.

It seemed as if that road home led us through all the
shades of human life. Now, the way softened and smoothed—
here there was an extra flower, and there a finer tree,—
then came the farm lands in all the beauty of slant sunbeams
and fine crops, the work of hard labour; and then
the Lea grounds, where toil had been but was not now—
at least for the owner. We turned from them, and
mounted our own hill with surely not an ungrateful perception
of our own midway situation and prospects.

“Now Mr. Ellis,” said Kate, speaking for almost the
first time since we left Pillimaquady; “will you promise
to apply to us if we can do any good? our hands might
be useful, to say nothing of mamma's head.”

“Well I don't know,” said Mr. Ellis looking kindly at
her and then at me.—“People that have so much to do in

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Wisconsin can't have much time for the home department.
Have you had a pleasant walk?”

“Very!”—

“Then sleep sound to-night,—you look as if you
needed it.”

So wore on the summer. Two or three times Mr.
Howard came to spend a day with us, but travelling was
too expensive to be much indulged in,—we were obliged
to be content with the cheaper intercourse of pen and ink.
The first set of lectures had given place to a second, but
it was to end with August, my father wrote, and then we
hoped to be all together again. He had an offer too, or
hopes of it, of an agency in our neighbourhood that would
enable him to stay at home; and he was trying very hard
to dispose of as much of the Glen Luna lands as would
pay off our debts and rid us of all farms and farm cares.

For Mr. Howard had proved to his own satisfaction, that
his niche was not in the temple of Ceres.