The record-union., 1893-09-16
UNDER THE PINES.

Mary Fenton was turning over the
leaves of the latest summer novel In a
listless fashion, as she sat on 1.-THE Tav-
ern" porch. The glory of an early June
day was about her. Cedar, sugar-pine
and dog-wood cleaned fresh in their diff
ferent shades of green from the shower
of the day before. Shasta lilies, wild
roses, yellow violets, and myriads OF
other flowers, clustering in close brother
hood with the timothy grass in the
meadow beyond, filed the clear air with
penetrating fragrance. The meadow
lark trilled in the tall pines, and small
young grouse in the cornfield. The trout
were beginning to jump in the Sacra-
mento, and the early anglers were gath
cred in small groups little distance
from her, discussing with deep intent
ness the respective merits of brown
hackle versus royal coachman.
Mary Fenton loathed the tone of the
place. 1t reeked OF fish; fish that had
been caught or hooked, and fish to be
landed. The atmosphere was monoto-
nously tishy. 1t generally is on the Sac
ramento, where the trout are wary and
men are loyal to flies.
ostensible cause of Miss Fenton's re-
moval to the bracing mountain air; if the
family Galen had but known it, she was
more truly suffering from severe attack
of indeclsion of mind. Richard Drake
was the subject of this wavering, whereby
her cheeks were paled and her nights
made sleepless.
The hum of the refrain, "When I was
on the McCloud in ,76,n 'tDolly Warden
1o ) aA har
ear like gibberiSh as she laid her book
down in her lap and fell to thinking and
arguing with herself, the same old story.
Mary F'enton had not been of the toilers
of this life, nor did she aspire to that
honor. She had been bred in a selfish
sort of way, with deepest regard for the
great ego. Happiness meant to her
smooth sailing; ripple on the stream,
unpleasantness; and unpleasantness-
disaster.
In her trim tailor-made gown she
formed a natty picture, as she rocked to
and fro in a low chair, under the shadow
OF the hop vines that clambered up the
pillars of the piazza. Even the fisher
men gave her little of their admiration,
together with the speckled beauties-and
the fishermen were not young. The
pucker of thought on her brow was
rather becoming. In her unconscious
nineteenth-century cultivation.
The world was very serene to her when
Richard Drake dritted into her life. She
liked him. He was well introduced, be-
longed to the brakes of Boston, was
handsome, trit1e unconventional
which she rather censured, and lastly,
was bank clerk with no fortune and
cared little for amassing one, lack oil
ambition that she could not quite COM
prehend.
At first he startled her in her quiet,
interested, and finally was the cause OF
the nervous prostration and mountain
trip out of the season.
The Fentons had only fair supply OF
this worlds goods. Young sisters were
growing up, and with marriage Mary
knew that she had her own way to make.
Richard Drake grew more fascinating,
but she could not yet decide whether life
was worth living with poverty constantly
in the foreground; whether things she
priced dearest could be given up for one
mans sake. This was the problem that
troubled her as she sat in deep reflection,
until she heard some one address her
timidly:
"Would you like some flowers, ma ann"
Startled, she looked up and saw young
girl, with hands extended full of the
wonderful pitcher plant that grows in
abundance up the slope of Castle Crags.
"Where did you get them ?"
'Bout five miles from here"
"Did you go yourselfT
Miss Fenton looked curiously at the
young girl, who flushed slightly as she
replied:
"Course. thought maybe you ladies
at the hotel might like to buy some, as
the walks too rough for you"
Il will take them," she said.
The girl was picturesque figure, tall
and slender, with crop OF short reddish
curls clustering around her head and
struggling over the brim' of an old ci-
garette hat, which was faded into dull
blush gray, and set we'll back on her
head, leaving the sun good chance to
tinge her face with the rich brown color
of health.
She wore an old navy-blue blouse with
collar turned low at the throat, showing a
superb curve. Her short calico skirt was
drenched from scrambling through un-
derbrush, and clung close to her figure.
Her old canvas shoes were trifie large
for her, and seemed relics together with
the hat.
Mary Fenton's face lighted up with
new interest as she looked at the 1.-THE,
well-poised young figure.
why, you've been ten miles this
morning, and it is so wet. and they say
there are rattlesnakes on Castle Crags."
The girl laughed. "Rattlesnakes % she
exclaimed scornfully. Her large gray
eyes looked at the speaker in indignant
protest "You don't suppose Pm such a
baby to be skeered of rattler. Pve
killed many of 'em round our cabin door
in Oregon. Pve got twelve rattleS and a
button down at the camp I'll fetch up to
show you, If you like, some day."
The fresh voice and honest soul looking
out from her great earnest eyes fascinated
Mary Fenton, as she drew out her purse
to pay for the orchids, and she tried to
keep her for awhile. Enthusiasm was
not good form in Miss Fenton's world,
but 1t might be permitted to another
class, and the mountains, rivers and fish
ermen were so full of ennui to her lust
then.
"What is your manner" she asked.
"Kit-Kit JONES'" she replied, moving
away.
"Do you live in the camp across the
road with the campers who came last
week." Miss Fenton asked with interest.
"Yes," she answered in lower tone of
voice. There's only me, mother, and
Bill. l must go now. Pm the head of
the shebang. Bill is sick" ashade passed
over her merry, childish face.
MAY l come over and see the rattles
some day, and will you bring me some
Shasta lilies ?''
''The white kind that smells?" Kit
questioned. "Bill likes them best. Yes,
l know the best place for them, up the
ridge"
She started away on quick little run,
then looked back, shouting: 'You
might come this evening; maybe COM
pany will do him good"
She was as graceful as young deer as
IL 4 n 4
into clump of pines, from the midst of
which assembled blue curl of smoke.
The day wore on and Miss Fenton had
not written the letter that she had almost
decided was to send Richard Drake to his
fate. The long afternoon was coming to