The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1872-03-22
whitewhashed, and fragrant with great

4
| punches of roses.
Again | sat in the dining room, white
washed, low. ceilinged, with little win
dows set high up above cupboards in
| the wall, and Molly at the head of the
table in simple white gown, looking
! like the incarnation OF summer against
background Of roses, helping straw.
berries and cream.
o Molly, Molly how could find any
words? 1t was enough to SIT there and
know it all. Enough to see you after
ward in the bright, cheerful little par
Tor fitting about, threading your moth
er's needles, playing backgammon with
father until he fell asleep, talking with
your sister and brother, making beau
tiful picture wherever you stood or sat,
and just letting me look on, as you
knew liked best.
1t was enough to 90 TO sleep after
ward, and see it all over again in my
dreams; to waken at your tap on the
door, and hear your May-morning voice
bidding me get up to listen to your
retreating footsteps, while my heart
kept time to them.
l went downstairs, and found her
not in the parlor, not on the porch
where the birds were singing among
the honeysuckles, not on the garden.
path that led down to the front gate
with the peonies on either side and the
fir-trees at the end. In the garden
perhaps. | went through the side-gate,
the picket-gate, with most delightful
arrangement of grape-vines over it, to
the garden beyond, brilliant with roses,
and there was long, straight path
edged with box, and such foxgloves
and pansies, and all sorts of old-fash-
toned flowers. There | found Molly.
She picked a great red rose for me,
very full blown, and it fell to pieces in
my hand-a great handful of soft fresh
velvet-and then we ran into breakfast,
to fresh eggs and cream, and home.
made bread, and homemade butter,
and home grown strawberries and POI
tatoes. After breakfast we went out
into the garden again.
To stand at the end of a long walk
and see Molly picking roses, was a
pretty picture TO see. To hear her talk
about the flowers was picture and music
and poetry altogether.
She gave me some pansies, saying
that they were always like me to her.
wondered why, but didn't ask her.
| pointed to some white foxgloves
standing in the sun. Yes, they're al.
ways saying something to themselves.
| never know what they say she said,
bending down as if she would listen,
and springing up again like a young
sapling and pointing to the peonies,
said How they hang down, drunk
with sunshine and dew What unre-
served creatures they are So unlike
the pansies T. She laughed little slyly,
and turning up the wet face of great
peony, buried her own in it. Ny heart
iealt a jealous pang.
She couldn't bury her face in pansy,
it was not big enough. We went in
laden, Molly with roses, | with fox
gloves. Molly, who is never in hurry
(such a comfort to a nervous man,
Heaven bless her y leisurely arranged
her flowers in water, and I sat by
watching her, and looking at portfolio
of her outdoor sketches.
These ardous tasks accomplished, we
took our painting traps and set forth on
a walk over the fields of strawberries
and fields of grass, among fruit trees
and shade trees. Then we walked
over grazing meadows where the crea-
lures came at Molly's call, and had no
fear Of her), and into orchards, past
the fruit.nouse, where the fruit was
kept and packed for the market. Over
stone walls, from one orchard to
another, we went, Molly keeping some
times at my side, sometimes behind,
sometimes in front Of me, but always
warbling on with her sweet talk in her
wonderful voice, playing a soft accom-
paniment to the peaceful scene.
Here we'll stop" said Molly in
kind of accidental way she has, that is
quite fascinating.
We stopped, and Molly dropped on
the grass as if she meant to stay there
forever. Forever be it, l thought. Oh
her blessed, restful ways
We were in an orchard where the
sunlight sifted through the low branch
es on to the green, soft ground be-
meath. We were on the edge of a
natural terrace, where we looked
down on the top of another orchard.
"When the blossoms are out" said
Molly, " | sit here in a shower of petals
and look down on a great pink-and-
white bed, and over there the noun.
tains are very dark-see and CLEAN
of the river comes winding among the
trees
A bird hoped close TO us, and then
flew away to join his companions, who
were practicing their scales among the
apple.trees. Molly sketched the scene,
and how could sketch anything but
Molly, when Molly was there? Molly
with little pink handkerchief tied
around her lovely throat, and her sweet
face in shadow beneath her straw hat,
into which she had stuck some daisies
as we walked.
"a farmers daughter shouldn't like
white-wecd,n she mad said, "but | love
them, with their pure gold hearts and
their innocent, open faces"
So the happy morning sped away,
and on my canvas was a little daub of