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New Chronicles of Rebecca-Part21_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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up there that ain't hardly big enough to call green stuff, give



it a twist, and pull for all you're worth. Land! What a skinny

little pipe stem!"



The Little Prophet had stripped up his sleeve. It was a slender

thing, his arm; but he had driven the red cow all summer, borne



her tantrums, protected her from the consequences of her own

obstinacy, taking (as he thought) a future owner's pride in her



splendid flow of milk--grown fond of her, in a word, and now she

was choking to death. A skinny little pipe stem is capable of a



deal at such a time, and only a slender hand and arm could have

done the work.



Elisha trembled with nervousness, but he made a dexterous and

dashing entrance into the awful cavern of Buttercup's mouth;



descended upon the tiny clump of green spills or spikes, wound

his little fingers in among them as firmly as he could, and then



gave a long, steady, determined pull with all the strength in

this body. That was not so much in itself, to be sure, but he



borrowed a good deal more from some reserve quarter, the location

of which nobody knows anything about, but upon which everybody



draws in time of need.

Such a valiant pull you would never have expected of the Little



Prophet. Such a pull it was that, to his own utter amazement, he

suddenly found himself lying flat on his back on the barn floor



with a very slippery something in his hand, and a fair-sized but

rather dilapidated turnip at the end of it.



"That's the business!" cried Moses.

"I could 'a' done it as easy as nothin' if my arm had been a



leetle mite smaller," said Bill Peters.

"You're a trump, sonny!" exclaimed Uncle Cash, as he helped Moses



untie Buttercup's head and took the gag out.

"You're a trump, Lisha, and, by ginger, the cow's your'n; only



don't you let your blessed pa drink none of her cream!"

The welcome air rushed into Buttercup's lungs and cooled her



parched, torn throat. She was pretty nearly spent, poor thing,

and bent her head (rather gently for her) over the Little



Prophet's shoulder as he threw his arms joyfully about her neck,

and whispered, "You're my truly cow now, ain't you, Buttercup?"



"Mrs. Baxter, dear," said Rebecca, as they walked home to the

parsonage together under the young harvest moon; "there are all



sorts of cowards, aren't there, and don't you think Elisha is one

of the best kind."



"I don't quite know what to think about cowards, Rebecca Rowena,"

said the minister's wife hesitatingly. "The Little Prophet is the



third coward I have known in my short life who turned out to be a

hero when the real testing time came. Meanwhile the heroes



themselves--or the ones that were taken for heroes--were always

busy doing something, or being somewhere, else."



Eighth Chronicle

ABNER SIMPSON'S NEW LEAF



Rebecca had now cut the bonds that bound her to the Riverboro

district school, and had been for a week a full-fledged pupil at



the Wareham Seminary, towards which goal she had been speeding

ever since the memorable day when she rode into Riverboro on the



top of Uncle Jerry Cobb's stagecoach, and told him that education

was intended to be "the making of her."



She went to and fro, with Emma Jane and the other Riverboro boys

and girls, on the morning and evening trains that ran between the



academy town and Milliken's Mills.

The six days had passed like a dream!--a dream in which she sat



in corners with her eyes cast down; flushed whenever she was

addressed; stammered whenever she answered a question, and nearly



died of heart failure when subjected to an examination of any

sort. She delighted the committee when reading at sight from



"King Lear," but somewhat discouraged them when she could not

tell the capital of the United States. She admitted that her



former teacher, Miss Dearborn, might have mentioned it, but if so

she had not remembered it.



In these first weeks among strangers she passed for nothing but

an interesting-looking, timid, innocent, country child, never



revealing, even to the far-seeing Emily Maxwell, a hint of her

originality, facility, or power in any direction. Rebecca was



fourteen, but so slight, and under the paralyzing new conditions

so shy, that she would have been mistaken for twelve had it not






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