The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1910-12-28
ELDER BLOOM,

(By Martha McCulloch-W illiams.)
You say elder bloom is sickish
sweet? ! love tit minds me so OF
things-things, maybe, had better
forget.
It's hard loving and losing just
through pure pride. If l had known
but at twenty you think everything
of your own way. John said l was
twenty only by the book-the big
Bible, where all our ages were set
down. He would have it, outside OF
that, l was just about seven. But he
thought l was old enough to marry
him.
Somebody else thought so, too-Al-
len Waite, the squires lame son
We had gone to school together, all
three-John had always helped Allen
on and off his pony and in class it
had often come my way to make
things a little easier for him. A good
lad he was, in spite Of being so sadly
spoiled.
1t hurt his people terrible to have
their only child cripple. He had
been born straight and lusty as any
body's child-it was a fever that gave
him the withered leg and twisted
foot. Except for them, he was fine
and we'll made, with face like a
picture. But, some way, when
looked at him, Johns face always
came betWeen-a good, ugly, honest
face, with the kindest brown eyes to
light it.
l loved John all the way up from
spelling bookshelf he never cared
for me, except as little lonesome
girl, until l was rising nineteen. All
at once it came to him that he could
not live without me. He told me so
right away-if joy ever killed l should
not be living now. But here came in
the foolishness-I tormented myself
wondering if he had not sensed how
i
of pity? So l hung back.
He was patient enough with me-
too patient for our good-until Allen
Waite began haunting me, and saying
everywhere l was the beauty of the
country.
1t was truth, though all along until
was full grown I'd been called
almost ugly, tearing tomboy, all
frowsy and freckled, who cared no
more for frocks than to have them
whole and clean, and had rather play
hop-scOtch and ride races bareback
on the colts than sit and sew patch
work, or make buildings or darn
stockings.
Aunt Jane had changed all that
she was my mothers sister, and let
me see she cared to have me look
the lady. My stepmother had not
cared-nobody had until Aunt Jane
came. She made me pretty dresses,
and brushed my hair till it was like
spun gold, and took off my freckles
with buttermilk and kept me in gloves
till my hands were baby soft. She
was to blame for the boys both loving
me. But they never held it against
her-and certainly / don't. It's right
down pitiful to think of a girl grow
ing up and never knowing what it is
to play the great game. Love is the
great game. l had my fill of it that
summer twenty years back.
In the early June the elders all
lowered, the richest, heaviest bloom
ever saw on them. And there were
such clumps of them all up and down
our lane, with wild roses in between
and wild buckWheat climbing and
tangling everywhere. | loved to walk
there, stopping whites to bury my face
in the elder bloom. | never liked to
pick the clusters-it seemed sort
of sacrilege. The moon fulled as they
were in prime and John walked with
me through it's shining. He lived a
little way off, and came almost every
night. The lane was our refuge.
Aunt Jane had gone away for a while
and my stepmother never opened the
best room for anybody short of the
minister.
She didn't mean to be unkind-it
was only that she loved to know and
hear all anybody said She could see
us walking the lane length in the
moonshine, else she would never have
let me go.
She was all for Allen, thinking so
much Of money as she did. He came
in the day time-evenings his father
wanted him to stay and talk over
cases with him.
Allen had read law, but never
meant to practice, being sensitive as
to showing himself. He had asked
me to marry him the week after John
proposed. Partly from vanity, partly
to make John prize me more, | let
him dangle on after me, telling him to