章节正文
consciousness of the still greater mystery of life.
It was a sorrowful home-coming for Rebecca. The
death of Mira, the absence of John, who had been
her special comrade, the sadness of her mother, the
isolation of the little house, and the pinching
economies that went on within it, all conspired to
depress a child who was so sensitive to beauty and
harmony as Rebecca.
Hannah seemed to have grown into a woman
during Rebecca's absence. There had always been
a strange unchildlike air about Hannah, but in
certain ways she now appeared older than aunt Jane
--soberer, and more settled. She was pretty,
though in a colorless fashion; pretty and capable.
Rebecca walked through all the old playgrounds
and favorite haunts of her early childhood; all her
familiar, her secret places; some of them known to
John, some to herself alone. There was the spot
where the Indian pipes grew; the particular bit of
marshy ground where the fringed gentians used to
be largest and bluest; the rock maple where she
found the oriole's nest; the hedge where the field
mice lived; the moss-covered stump where the
white toadstools were wont to spring up as if by
magic; the hole at the root of the old pine where an
ancient and honorable toad made his home; these
were the landmarks of her childhood, and she looked
at them as across an immeasurable distance. The
dear little sunny brook, her chief companion after
John, was sorry company at this season. There
was no laughing water sparkling in the sunshine.
In summer the merry stream had danced over white
pebbles on its way to deep pools where it could be
still and think. Now, like Mira, it was cold and
quiet, wrapped in its shroud of snow; but Rebecca
knelt by the brink, and putting her ear to the glaze
of ice, fancied, where it used to be deepest, she could
hear a faint, tinkling sound. It was all right! Sunnybrook
would sing again in the spring; perhaps Mira
too would have her singing time somewhere--she
wondered where and how. In the course of these
lonely rambles she was ever thinking, thinking,
of one subject. Hannah had never had a chance;
never been freed from the daily care and work of
the farm. She, Rebecca, had enjoyed all the privileges
thus far. Life at the brick house had not been
by any means a path of roses, but there had been
comfort and the companionship of other children, as
well as chances for study and reading. Riverboro
had not been the world itself, but it had been a
glimpse of it through a tiny peephole that was
infinitely better than nothing. Rebecca shed more
than one quiet tear before she could trust herself to
offer up as a sacrifice that which she so much desired
for herself. Then one morning as her visit neared
its end she plunged into the subject boldly and
said, "Hannah, after this term I'm going to stay
at home and let you go away. Aunt Miranda has
always wanted you, and it's only fair you should
have your turn."
Hannah was darning stockings, and she threaded
her needle and snipped off the yarn before she
answered, "No, thank you, Becky. Mother couldn't
do without me, and I hate going to school. I can
read and write and cipher as well as anybody now,
and that's enough for me. I'd die rather than teach
school for a living. The winter'll go fast, for Will
Melville is going to lend me his mother's sewing
machine, and I'm going to make white petticoats
out of the piece of muslin aunt Jane sent, and have
'em just solid with tucks. Then there's going to
be a singing-school and a social circle in Temperance
after New Year's, and I shall have a real good
time now I'm grown up. I'm not one to be lonesome,
Becky," Hannah ended with a blush; "I love
this place."
Rebecca saw that she was speaking the truth, but
she did not understand the blush till a year or two
later.
XVIII
REBECCA REPRESENTS THE FAMILY
There was another milestone; it was more
than that, it was an "event;" an event
that made a deep impression in several
quarters and left a wake of smaller events in its
train. This was the coming to Riverboro of the
Reverend Amos Burch and wife, returned missionaries
from Syria.
The Aid Society had called its meeting for a
certain Wednesday in March of the year in which
Rebecca ended her Riverboro school days and
began her studies at Wareham. It was a raw,
blustering day, snow on the ground and a look in
the sky of more to follow. Both Miranda and Jane
had taken cold and decided that they could not
leave the house in such weather, and this deflection
from the path of duty worried Miranda, since she
was an officer of the society. After making the
breakfast table sufficientlyuncomfortable and wishing
plaintively that Jane wouldn't always insist on
being sick at the same time she was, she decided
that Rebecca must go to the meeting in their
stead. "You'll be better than nobody, Rebecca,"
she said flatteringly; "your aunt Jane shall write
an excuse from afternoon school for you; you can
wear your rubber boots and come home by the
way of the meetin' house. This Mr. Burch, if I
remember right, used to know your grandfather
Sawyer, and stayed here once when he was
candidatin'. He'll mebbe look for us there, and you
must just go and represent the family, an' give him
our respects. Be careful how you behave. Bow
your head in prayer; sing all the hymns, but not
too loud and bold; ask after Mis' Strout's boy;
tell everybody what awful colds we've got; if you
see a good chance, take your pocket handkerchief
and wipe the dust off the melodeon before the
meetin' begins, and get twenty-five cents out of the
sittin' room match-box in case there should be a
collection."
Rebecca willingly assented. Anything interested
her, even a village missionary meeting, and the idea
of representing the family was rather intoxicating.
The service was held in the Sunday-school room,
and although the Rev. Mr. Burch was on the platform
when Rebecca entered, there were only a
dozen persons present. Feeling a little shy and
considerably too young for this assemblage, Rebecca
sought the shelter of a friendly face, and seeing
Mrs. Robinson in one of the side seats near the
front, she walked up the aisle and sat beside her.
"Both my aunts had bad colds," she said softly,
"and sent me to represent the family."
"That's Mrs. Burch on the platform with her
husband," whispered Mrs. Robinson. "She's awful
tanned up, ain't she? If you're goin' to save souls
seems like you hev' to part with your complexion.
Eudoxy Morton ain't come yet; I hope to the land
she will, or Mis' Deacon Milliken'll pitch the tunes
where we can't reach 'em with a ladder; can't
you pitch, afore she gits her breath and clears her
throat?"
Mrs. Burch was a slim, frail little woman with
dark hair, a broad low forehead, and patient mouth.
She was dressed in a well-worn black silk, and
looked so tired that Rebecca's heart went out to
her.
"They're poor as Job's turkey," whispered Mrs.
Robinson; "but if you give 'em anything they'd
turn right round and give it to the heathen. His
congregation up to Parsonsfield clubbed together
and give him that gold watch he carries; I s'pose
he'd 'a' handed that over too, only heathens always
tell time by the sun 'n' don't need watches. Eudoxy
ain't comin'; now for massy's sake, Rebecca, do
git ahead of Mis' Deacon Milliken and pitch real
low."
The meeting began with prayer and then the
Rev. Mr. Burch announced, to the tune of Mendon:--
"Church of our God I arise and shine,
Bright with the beams of truth divine:
Then shall thy radiancestream afar,
Wide as the heathen nations are.
"Gentiles and kings thy light shall view,
And shall admire and love thee too;
They come, like clouds across the sky,
As doves that to their windows fly."
"Is there any one present who will assist us at
the instrument?" he asked unexpectedly.
Everybody looked at everybody else, and nobody
moved; then there came a voice out of a far corner
saying informally, "Rebecca, why don't you?" It
was Mrs. Cobb. Rebecca could have played Mendon
in the dark, so she went to the melodeon and
did so without any ado, no member of her family
being present to give her self-consciousness.
The talk that ensued was much the usual sort of
thing. Mr. Burch made impassioned appeals for the
spreading of the gospel, and added his entreaties
that all who were prevented from visiting in
person the peoples who sat in darkness should
contribute liberally to the support of others who could.
But he did more than this. He was a pleasant,
earnest speaker, and he interwove his discourse with
stories of life in a foreign land,--of the manners,
the customs, the speech, the point of view; even
giving glimpses of the daily round, the common
task, of his own household, the work of his
devoted helpmate and their little group of children,
all born under Syrian skies.
Rebecca sat entranced, having been given the
key of another world. Riverboro had faded; the
Sunday-school room, with Mrs. Robinson's red plaid
shawl, and Deacon Milliken's wig, on crooked, the
bare benches and torn hymn-books, the hanging
texts and maps, were no longer visible, and she
saw blue skies and burning stars, white turbans
and gay colors; Mr. Burch had not said so, but
perhaps there were mosques and temples and minarets
and date-palms. What stories they must know,
those children born under Syrian skies! Then
It was a sorrowful home-coming for Rebecca. The
death of Mira, the absence of John, who had been
her special comrade, the sadness of her mother, the
isolation of the little house, and the pinching
economies that went on within it, all conspired to
depress a child who was so sensitive to beauty and
harmony as Rebecca.
Hannah seemed to have grown into a woman
during Rebecca's absence. There had always been
a strange unchildlike air about Hannah, but in
certain ways she now appeared older than aunt Jane
--soberer, and more settled. She was pretty,
though in a colorless fashion; pretty and capable.
Rebecca walked through all the old playgrounds
and favorite haunts of her early childhood; all her
familiar, her secret places; some of them known to
John, some to herself alone. There was the spot
where the Indian pipes grew; the particular bit of
marshy ground where the fringed gentians used to
be largest and bluest; the rock maple where she
found the oriole's nest; the hedge where the field
mice lived; the moss-covered stump where the
white toadstools were wont to spring up as if by
magic; the hole at the root of the old pine where an
ancient and honorable toad made his home; these
were the landmarks of her childhood, and she looked
at them as across an immeasurable distance. The
dear little sunny brook, her chief companion after
John, was sorry company at this season. There
was no laughing water sparkling in the sunshine.
In summer the merry stream had danced over white
pebbles on its way to deep pools where it could be
still and think. Now, like Mira, it was cold and
quiet, wrapped in its shroud of snow; but Rebecca
knelt by the brink, and putting her ear to the glaze
of ice, fancied, where it used to be deepest, she could
hear a faint, tinkling sound. It was all right! Sunnybrook
would sing again in the spring; perhaps Mira
too would have her singing time somewhere--she
wondered where and how. In the course of these
lonely rambles she was ever thinking, thinking,
of one subject. Hannah had never had a chance;
never been freed from the daily care and work of
the farm. She, Rebecca, had enjoyed all the privileges
thus far. Life at the brick house had not been
by any means a path of roses, but there had been
comfort and the companionship of other children, as
well as chances for study and reading. Riverboro
had not been the world itself, but it had been a
glimpse of it through a tiny peephole that was
infinitely better than nothing. Rebecca shed more
than one quiet tear before she could trust herself to
offer up as a sacrifice that which she so much desired
for herself. Then one morning as her visit neared
its end she plunged into the subject boldly and
said, "Hannah, after this term I'm going to stay
at home and let you go away. Aunt Miranda has
always wanted you, and it's only fair you should
have your turn."
Hannah was darning stockings, and she threaded
her needle and snipped off the yarn before she
answered, "No, thank you, Becky. Mother couldn't
do without me, and I hate going to school. I can
read and write and cipher as well as anybody now,
and that's enough for me. I'd die rather than teach
school for a living. The winter'll go fast, for Will
Melville is going to lend me his mother's sewing
machine, and I'm going to make white petticoats
out of the piece of muslin aunt Jane sent, and have
'em just solid with tucks. Then there's going to
be a singing-school and a social circle in Temperance
after New Year's, and I shall have a real good
time now I'm grown up. I'm not one to be lonesome,
Becky," Hannah ended with a blush; "I love
this place."
Rebecca saw that she was speaking the truth, but
she did not understand the blush till a year or two
later.
XVIII
REBECCA REPRESENTS THE FAMILY
There was another milestone; it was more
than that, it was an "event;" an event
that made a deep impression in several
quarters and left a wake of smaller events in its
train. This was the coming to Riverboro of the
Reverend Amos Burch and wife, returned missionaries
from Syria.
The Aid Society had called its meeting for a
certain Wednesday in March of the year in which
Rebecca ended her Riverboro school days and
began her studies at Wareham. It was a raw,
blustering day, snow on the ground and a look in
the sky of more to follow. Both Miranda and Jane
had taken cold and decided that they could not
leave the house in such weather, and this deflection
from the path of duty worried Miranda, since she
was an officer of the society. After making the
breakfast table sufficientlyuncomfortable and wishing
plaintively that Jane wouldn't always insist on
being sick at the same time she was, she decided
that Rebecca must go to the meeting in their
stead. "You'll be better than nobody, Rebecca,"
she said flatteringly; "your aunt Jane shall write
an excuse from afternoon school for you; you can
wear your rubber boots and come home by the
way of the meetin' house. This Mr. Burch, if I
remember right, used to know your grandfather
Sawyer, and stayed here once when he was
candidatin'. He'll mebbe look for us there, and you
must just go and represent the family, an' give him
our respects. Be careful how you behave. Bow
your head in prayer; sing all the hymns, but not
too loud and bold; ask after Mis' Strout's boy;
tell everybody what awful colds we've got; if you
see a good chance, take your pocket handkerchief
and wipe the dust off the melodeon before the
meetin' begins, and get twenty-five cents out of the
sittin' room match-box in case there should be a
collection."
Rebecca willingly assented. Anything interested
her, even a village missionary meeting, and the idea
of representing the family was rather intoxicating.
The service was held in the Sunday-school room,
and although the Rev. Mr. Burch was on the platform
when Rebecca entered, there were only a
dozen persons present. Feeling a little shy and
considerably too young for this assemblage, Rebecca
sought the shelter of a friendly face, and seeing
Mrs. Robinson in one of the side seats near the
front, she walked up the aisle and sat beside her.
"Both my aunts had bad colds," she said softly,
"and sent me to represent the family."
"That's Mrs. Burch on the platform with her
husband," whispered Mrs. Robinson. "She's awful
tanned up, ain't she? If you're goin' to save souls
seems like you hev' to part with your complexion.
Eudoxy Morton ain't come yet; I hope to the land
she will, or Mis' Deacon Milliken'll pitch the tunes
where we can't reach 'em with a ladder; can't
you pitch, afore she gits her breath and clears her
throat?"
Mrs. Burch was a slim, frail little woman with
dark hair, a broad low forehead, and patient mouth.
She was dressed in a well-worn black silk, and
looked so tired that Rebecca's heart went out to
her.
"They're poor as Job's turkey," whispered Mrs.
Robinson; "but if you give 'em anything they'd
turn right round and give it to the heathen. His
congregation up to Parsonsfield clubbed together
and give him that gold watch he carries; I s'pose
he'd 'a' handed that over too, only heathens always
tell time by the sun 'n' don't need watches. Eudoxy
ain't comin'; now for massy's sake, Rebecca, do
git ahead of Mis' Deacon Milliken and pitch real
low."
The meeting began with prayer and then the
Rev. Mr. Burch announced, to the tune of Mendon:--
"Church of our God I arise and shine,
Bright with the beams of truth divine:
Then shall thy radiancestream afar,
Wide as the heathen nations are.
"Gentiles and kings thy light shall view,
And shall admire and love thee too;
They come, like clouds across the sky,
As doves that to their windows fly."
"Is there any one present who will assist us at
the instrument?" he asked unexpectedly.
Everybody looked at everybody else, and nobody
moved; then there came a voice out of a far corner
saying informally, "Rebecca, why don't you?" It
was Mrs. Cobb. Rebecca could have played Mendon
in the dark, so she went to the melodeon and
did so without any ado, no member of her family
being present to give her self-consciousness.
The talk that ensued was much the usual sort of
thing. Mr. Burch made impassioned appeals for the
spreading of the gospel, and added his entreaties
that all who were prevented from visiting in
person the peoples who sat in darkness should
contribute liberally to the support of others who could.
But he did more than this. He was a pleasant,
earnest speaker, and he interwove his discourse with
stories of life in a foreign land,--of the manners,
the customs, the speech, the point of view; even
giving glimpses of the daily round, the common
task, of his own household, the work of his
devoted helpmate and their little group of children,
all born under Syrian skies.
Rebecca sat entranced, having been given the
key of another world. Riverboro had faded; the
Sunday-school room, with Mrs. Robinson's red plaid
shawl, and Deacon Milliken's wig, on crooked, the
bare benches and torn hymn-books, the hanging
texts and maps, were no longer visible, and she
saw blue skies and burning stars, white turbans
and gay colors; Mr. Burch had not said so, but
perhaps there were mosques and temples and minarets
and date-palms. What stories they must know,
those children born under Syrian skies! Then
- mystery [´mistəri]
n.神秘；秘密；故弄玄虚 (初中英语单词) - absence [´æbsəns] n.不在，缺席；缺乏 (初中英语单词)
- childhood [´tʃaildhud] n.幼年(时代)；早期 (初中英语单词)
- indian [´indiən] a.印度的 n.印度人 (初中英语单词)
- companion [kəm´pæniən] n.同伴；同事；伴侣 (初中英语单词)
- stream [stri:m] n.河 vi.流出；飘扬 (初中英语单词)
- reading [´ri:diŋ] n.(阅)读；朗读；读物 (初中英语单词)
- needle [´ni:dl] n.针；指针 v.用针缝 (初中英语单词)
- circle [´sə:kəl] n.圆圈 v.环绕；盘旋 (初中英语单词)
- impression [im´preʃən] n.印刷；印象；效果 (初中英语单词)
- wednesday [´wenzdi] n.星期三 (初中英语单词)
- sufficiently [sə´fiʃəntli] ad.充分地，足够地 (初中英语单词)
- rubber [´rʌbə] n.(摩)擦的人；橡皮 (初中英语单词)
- behave [bi´heiv] v.举止；表现；举止端正 (初中英语单词)
- platform [´plætfɔ:m] n.(平)台；讲台；站台 (初中英语单词)
- breath [breθ] n.呼吸；气息 (初中英语单词)
- forehead [´fɔrid] n.额，前部 (初中英语单词)
- assist [ə´sist] v.协助；援助；搀扶 (初中英语单词)
- speaker [´spi:kə] n.演讲人；代言人 (初中英语单词)
- visible [´vizəbəl] a.可见的；明显的 (初中英语单词)
- consciousness [´kɔnʃəsnis] n.意识；觉悟；知觉 (高中英语单词)
- sadness [´sædnis] n.悲哀；悲痛；凄惨 (高中英语单词)
- sensitive [´sensitiv] a.敏感的；感光的 (高中英语单词)
- companionship [kəm´pæniənʃip] n.伴侣关系；友谊 (高中英语单词)
- boldly [´bəuldli] ad.大胆地；醒目地 (高中英语单词)
- decided [di´saidid] a.明显的；决定的 (高中英语单词)
- uncomfortable [ʌn´kʌmftəbəl] a.不舒服的，不自在的 (高中英语单词)
- missionary [´miʃənəri] a.传教(士)的 n.传教士 (高中英语单词)
- ladder [´lædə] n.梯子；阶梯 (高中英语单词)
- heathen [´hi:ðən] n.异教徒 (高中英语单词)
- gospel [´gɔspəl] n.福音；信条；真理 (高中英语单词)
- discourse [´diskɔ:s] n.论文；演说；说教 (高中英语单词)
- crooked [´krukid] a.弯曲的；畸形的 (高中英语单词)
- sorrowful [´sɔrəuful] a.悲伤的，使人伤心的 (英语四级单词)
- shroud [ʃraud] n.尸衣；覆盖物；罩 (英语四级单词)
- muslin [´mʌzlin] n.平纹细布，薄纱织物 (英语四级单词)
- willingly [´wiliŋli] ad.情愿地，乐意地 (英语四级单词)
- radiance [´reidjəns] n.发光；光彩；辐射 (英语四级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- deacon [´di:kən] n.(教会的)执事 (英语六级单词)
- syrian [´siriən] a.&n.叙利亚人(的) (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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