She
did--I am sorry to record it, but she did--Letty Bascombe
salted her pie-crust with a great, big tear. Not that she
had none of the other salt, nor that she intended to do
it, but, all of a sudden, a big tear, oh, as big as the
end of your thumb, if you are a little, little girl, ran
zigzag across her cheek down to her chin, and, before she
could wipe it off, a sudden, sharp sob took her unawares
and, plump, right into the pastry, went this big fat
tear. Of course, if you are even a little girl you must
know that it is as useless to hunt for tears in pie-crust
as it is to "hunt for a needle in a haystack.'' So
Letty did not even try to recover her lost property. But
it had one good effect, it made her laugh, and, between
you and me (I tell this to you as a secret), Letty, like
every other girl, little or big, chubby or thin, was much pleasanter
to look upon when she smiled than when she cried. But she
didn't smile for that. Oh, dear, no. She smiled because she
couldn't help it. She was a good-natured, sweet-tempered little
one, most times, and possessed of a very sunny disposition.
"Why did she salt her pie-crust with tears, then?"
I hear you ask. Ah, “Why?” And wait till I tell
you. The most curious part of it all was that it was a Thanksgiving
crust. There, now. The worst is out. A common, everyday,
week-a-day pie, or even a Sunday pie, would be bad enough,
but a Thanksgiving pie of all things. Why, everybody is
happy at Thanksgiving.
Well,
not quite everybody, it seems, because if that was so Letty
wouldn't be crying. Now let me tell you why poor Letty
Bascombe, with her sunny temper, cried on this day while
she was making pies. You see, she was only fifteen, and
when one is fifteen, and there is fun going on that one
can't be in, it is very trying, to say the least. Not that
tears help it the least in the world, no, indeed. In fact,
tears at such times always make matters worse. Well,
she was only fifteen, as I was saying, and, instead of going
with the family into town, she had to stay home and make pies.
Now
the family were no relation to her she was only Mrs. Mason's
“help.” Eighteen months ago Letty's mother (a widow)
had died. Her brother had gone away off to a large city,
and she had come to Mrs. Mason's to live. Mrs. Mason was
as kind she could be to her, but you know one must
feel "blue" at times when one has lost all but
one relative in the world, and that one is a dear brother
who is way, way off, even if one is surrounded by the kindest
friends.
So
now, tell me, don't you think Letty had something to shed
tears about?
“I
j-just c-can' t help it. I’m not one bit 'thankful'
this Thanksgiving, and I'm not going to pretend I am. So
there. And here I am making nasty pies, when everybody
else has gone to town having a good time. No, I'm not one
bit thankful, so there, and I feel as if turkey and cranberries and
pumpkin pie would choke me.”
But
after Letty "had her cry out" she felt better,
and in a little while her nimble fingers had finished her
work and she was ready for a little amusement. This amusement
she concluded to find by taking a little walk to the end
of the garden. The garden ended abruptly in a ravine, and
it was a source of unfailing delight to go down there and,
from a secure position, see the trains go thundering by.
In
fifteen minutes the train would be along and then she would
go back. Idly gazing down from her secure height, her eye
was suddenly caught by something creeping along the ground.
Letty's keen sight at once decided this to be a man--a man
with a log in his hand. This log he carefully adjusted
across the track.
“What
a very curious--” began Letty. But her exclamation
was cut short by the awful intuition that the man meant
to wreck the oncoming train.
All
thought of private sorrow fled in an instant. What could
she do? What must she do, for save the train she must,
of course. Who else was there to do it? And oh, such a
little time to do it in. To go around by the path would
take a half-hour. To climb down the side of the ravine
would be madness. Suddenly her mind was illuminated. Yes,
she could do that, and like the wind she was up at the
house and back again, only this time she steered for a
spot a hundred rods up, just the other side of the curve.
In
a trice she had whipped off her scarlet balmoral, the balmoral
she hated so, and had attached to it one end of the hundred feet
of rope she had brought from the house. Could she do it?
Could she crawl out on that branch there and hold that
danger signal down in front of the train? She shuddered and
covered her face with her hands. O, no, no, she never could
do it. Suppose she should fall off or the limb break.
But she wouldn't fall, she mustn’t fall. Hark! There is
the engine. If she is going to save the train there is
no time for further delay. With a prayer for guidance and
protection, slowly, oh so slowly, that it seemed hours
before she got there Letty crawled out to the branch and dangled below
her, across the track, her flag of danger. She could not see
what was going on, because she dared not look down.
So, looking constantly up (and, children, believe me, "looking
up" is one of the best things you can do when in danger
or trouble), and sending a silent wordless petition for
the safety of the train, Letty held her precarious post.
Hark, it is slowing up. Her balmoral has been seen and
the train is saved. The tension over, she cautiously turned
and crawled slowly back to land, and then dropped in a
dead faint. Recovering, however, she went slowly up to
the house, trembling and sick and shivering with the cold
from the loss of the warm skirt hanging on the clothes-line
down in the ravine.
Relaxed
and limp she sat down in the big rocker before the kitchen
stove, a confused mass of thoughts racing through her head. Dazed
and excited, she hardly knew how time was passing until
she heard the sound of wheels.
“O,
Letty, the funniest thing--” shouted Laura, bursting
into the kitchen.
“Wait,
let me tell,” interrupted Jamie.
“Why,
Letty, somebody's hung--"
“Somebody
hung,” exclaimed Letty, in horror.
“Why,
Laura Mason, how dare you say that was funny?”
“I
didn't--” began Laura, indignantly, but here Mrs.
Mason interfered with a “Sh-sh-sh, children, mercy, goodness,
you nearly drive me wild. Here, Laura, take mother's bonnet
and shawl upstairs.
“Here, Jamie, take my boots and bring me my slippers.
I'm that tired I don't know what to do with myself. Goodness, but
it feels good to get home. The strangest thing's happened, Letty.
The afternoon express was coming into town this afternoon,
and, when it was about two miles out, all of a sudden the
engineer saw a red flannel petticoat hanging right down
in the middle of the track, hanging by a clothesline,
mind you, from the limb of a tree. He thought at first
it was a joke, but changed his mind and thought he'd look further,
and would you believe it, he found a great, big log across
the track. If the train had come on that I guess there'd
been more grief than Thanksgiving in this neighborhood
tomorrow.
Mrs. Mason had said all this along in one steady strain,
while she was walking round the room putting away her parcels.
Getting no response, she turned to look at Letty for the
first time. “Why goodness! The girl has fainted. What
on earth do you suppose is the matter with her? Jamie,
come quick. Get me some water. There,” when the restorative
had, had the desired effect. “Why, what ailed you, Letty?
You weren't sick when I went away. Bless me! I hope you
ain't going to be sick, and such a surprise as we've got for
you, too, out in the barn. But there. If that isn't just
like me. I didn't mean to tell you yet.”
“Why,
mother, mother,” exclaimed Father Mason excitedly as he
rushed into the room. “Somebody's just come from the
village with this,” flourishing Letty's skirt wildly
around, “and they say the train was stopped right
back of our house.”
“For
the land's sake, Job! Well, if that ain't our Letty's red
balmoral. How did it--is that the--Letty, was it you” she
finished up rather disjointedly.
Letty
nodded, unable to speak just then.
“Well,
who'd ‘a’ thought it. So you saved the train!
Do tell us all about it”
“Mother,
don't you think we'd ,better wait a bit till she looks
a mite stronger,” suggested kindhearted Job Mason.
“Well,
I don't know but you're right, but I'm clean beat out.
Don't you think, Job, that we might bring Letty's surprise-- but
there's the surprise walking in from the barn of itself.
Tired of waiting, likely as not.”
“Yes,
Letty,” broke in Laurie. “Did you know your brother
had come home and that you saved his life this afternoon
with that old red skirt of yours?” So the mischief
was out at last, and though the excitement and everything nearly
killed Letty, it didn't quite, or I don't think I would
have undertaken to tell this story. I don't like sad
Thanksgiving stories. Not that there aren't any; I only
say I don't like them, that's all.
Well,
sitting in her brother's lap--(what, fifteen years old?)--yes,
sitting in her brother's lap, she had to tell over and over again
all she thought and felt that afternoon, and to hear over and
over again what a dreadful time they had keeping the secret from
her. How they were so afraid that she would find out that
they expected to meet her brother--how he had been so anxious
that she should not be told lest by some accident he shouldn't
arrive, and then she would be bitterly disappointed and
her Thanksgiving spoiled.
Accident!
Letty shuddered each time that they reached that part of
the story, for she thought how nearly the accident had
happened, and as she knelt to say her prayers that night
it was with a penitent heart that she remembered how she
had felt in the morning, and she had added fervently, “Dear
Lord, I thank Thee for this beautiful Thanksgiving.”
