THE WESTON TEN.
BY MARGARET S. LLOYD.
I. STILL POOL.

Weston, Massachusetts, is a beautiful little New England town, with the cheerful, home-like air that is almost always found in the villages of that State. It is situated in a pleasant, green valley, surrounded by hills, and one can see the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont from the main street of the village. The Connecticut River flows past the western part of the town and there are many pleasant walks in the neighborhood.

The children of Weston, and there are many children in this pretty village, love best to go down to the river, or else to take the long walk to Quan Glen.

After leaving the long main street of the village, with its rows of comfortable-looking big white houses, and double row of elm trees, a turn to the north brings one, after a half-hour’s walk, to Quan Glen. It is a lovely little place, always green even in the severe winter, for it is sheltered on either side by high banks of pine, birch, and other trees, that on the north side of the Glen lead away into deep woods. The bottom of the Glen is covered with a soft carpet of mosses and ferns, and through the middle runs a clear stream of water, which makes a pleasant murmur as it ripples and plashes over the white pebbles which compose its bed.

It was on a hot day in August when a party of children came through the woods and prepared to descend the high bank leading down to the Glen. Out of the hot sunshine and into the cool green of the shade trees made a delightful change after their long walk, and they pushed forward through the branches and tall grass and ferns. There were ten children, four boys and six girls. The eldest of the children was Phoebe Allen, a tall, slender girl of fourteen who seemed to be a sort of little queen among the others, as they were constantly appealing to her and running up to show some new flower or especially nice fern they had found. Tommy Jones was the youngest member of the party. He was seven years old and still wore the queer over-all blue checked apron which little boys and girls alike wore at this period, thirty years ago. The apron made a splendid play-dress and was really very comfortable, although our friend Tommy was a quaint-looking little figure as he trotted along, the ruffle of his apron forming a big collar around his neck, from which his head stood out like some new kind of a daisy—a daisy with bright yellow hair and dreamy grey eyes!

Tommy was jolly and full of fun and laughter, but he had his periods of being quiet and this afternoon was one of them. At such times his playmates had learned to leave him alone. For they knew it was just one of “Tommy’s silent times,” and that by and by he would be as merry as the others. He went along with the other children, holding Phoebe’s hand and keeping close to her until they reached the bottom of the glen. Then the others scattered, leaving him and Phoebe to walk on together. The other boys amused themselves by throwing pebbles in the brook and trying to find a minnow, while the little girls wandered about the glen in search of flowers.

Phoebe Allen walked slowly along with Tommy at her side, and after a few minutes she said: “I’m ever so glad we came to the glen to-day. It’s just lovely here isn’t it, little Tommy?”

“Yes, I guess ’tis.”

He continued, “Phoebe, don’t you like the summer time the best of all? The woods are so cool and green and there’s so many flowers.”

“Oh, yes, I do love it. But I think I like the spring time best because I think the little flowers, so pale and tender, are the very dearest of all. The summer flowers are so strong and bright. I love the little spring flowers the best, and best of all the big, beautiful purple violet.”

Tommy thought a while and then he said:

“I know. I guess you mean that we love the things that aren’t strong the best. It wouldn’t hurt a daisy or a big mullein or a clover blossom one bit if it was to rain hard. Would it? But the wee spring flowers couldn’t stand so much, could they?”

“Yes, that’s it. Then, you see, I always think all the flowers are real people, just as real as you and I are, only different, and of all the Flower People—I always call them the Flower People when I think of them—it seems to me that the spring Flower People are the loveliest. For they come to us almost before the winter’s gone and while it is still very cold and we haven’t any other flowers.”

“I think so too,” said Tommy. “You always ’splain to us children and tell us lots of nice things to think about, Phoebe. But I like it best of all when you ’splain things to just me, for then I can understand real easy.”

The children soon came to a big chestnut tree and Phoebe sat down under it to rest awhile. Tommy walked on. Phoebe looked around her. She could hear the children laughing and chattering up the glen. She watched Tommy. He walked along, stopping every now and then to watch a butterfly or to peer into the waters of the brook as it rippled along the side of his path.

Phoebe sat quiet for some time. The voices of the other children sounded farther away until they scarcely reached her. She saw Tommy’s little figure far down the glen, beside the Still Pool. “I wonder what he is looking at,” she thought, “he has been standing beside the pool such a long time.” She called, “Tommy, Tommy,” but he did not turn his head. She waited a moment and then started toward him. As she came near him she saw that he was gazing into the waters of Still Pool as though he saw something very wonderful in it.

Still Pool was a beautiful little well of water at the northern end of the glen. It was formed by water from the brook which had some time gone out of its course and left here this deep, clear pool, all surrounded by ferns and water cress. It was almost always so clear that you could look right down to the bottom of it and see the white pebbles there. The children had always called it the “Still” pool, because it seemed so very quiet in this part of the glen and the pool was the stillest of all.

Phoebe came up to Tommy. He did not hear her; he was looking into the pool. So she came behind him very softly and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“What are you looking at, little Tommy?” she asked.

“I have called and called you, but you never turned your head. I don’t believe you even saw me as I came up here.”

Tommy turned around and looked at her. His big, dreamy eyes looked up into her soft brown ones. “Oh, Phoebe,” he said, “I suppose I must have been dreaming. I’m hardly awake yet. I saw something so wonderful in Still Pool.”

Phoebe looked at the child with deep interest. “You saw a beautiful Face there, didn’t you?”

Tommy looked at her with astonishment. “Why, how did you know? Then I must really, truly have seen the Face.”

Phoebe laid her cool hand on his hot forehead and brushed his hair back. Then she took his hand and said softly:

“Come to my chestnut tree before the other children come back and you can tell me all about it. Or, if you don’t feel like talking, we will just rest under the tree awhile, and when the others come we will all go home together.”

Tommy grasped Phoebe’s hand tightly and walked along. Neither said anything until they had sat under the tree for some time. Tommy’s eyes still wore their far-away look. He laid his head on Phoebe’s lap, and the young girl stroked his yellow hair and waited until he should be ready to talk.

At last the little boy sat up and said:

“I saw a very queer thing while I was at Still Pool. I was just looking into the water and thinking how white the pebbles were, when all at once I couldn’t see the pebbles any more. The water looked all gray, and then, while I was looking and wondering, I saw a beautiful, beautiful face! I really did, Phoebe, honest and true!”

Phoebe looked at the earnest little boy. She answered nothing, but her face was transformed as she listened to his story. Her beautiful brown eyes grew more gentle looking and her face seemed to have a light shining behind it.

“Honest, Phoebe, I did see a beautiful, lovely face. A real face.”

“I am sure you did, Tommy,” said Phoebe. She saw that the child was ready to cry at his fear that perhaps Phoebe did not understand him. “I know you saw the Face. I have seen such a beautiful Face more than once.”

Tommy drew a deep breath. “It was the loveliest face you could think about. It was just shiny, and it had deep, deep kind eyes, and it looked right up at me and smiled. Oh, I felt my heart grow big all at once, and I was just as still as could be for fear the beautiful thing would go away. But the first thing I knew you laid your hand on my shoulder and I sort of felt as if I was just waking up. But I know the face was real and true!”

“Of course it was, Tommy.”

“It makes a little boy feel very strange to have such things happen,” continued Tommy. “But it’s just like my very own thoughts. Sometimes I think and think and think until the air seems all shiny, and then I feel oh, so happy! So very, very happy! But I never can make it into words.”

“No, dearie, you can’t make it into words now, but you will be able to some day. Do you know what I think? I think that nature made you a Poet when you were born, and so, as you grow, the beautiful thoughts will grow and grow as you do, until some time, when you are a big man, you will be able to tell all that you have thought about, all the lovely dreams, if you call them dreams, that you ever have had, and all these lovely shining things will grow into beautiful words and be printed in books. Then they will be read by men and women and little boys and girls, too, and it will help them all to be good and more happy than they ever were before.”

Tommy gazed with loving, wondering eyes while Phoebe spoke. He felt as though he understood all she meant as he watched her face. For while she talked it absolutely shone and she looked as though she saw, far in the distance, little Tommy, grown to be a man and a wonderful poet.

After a while Tommy said, suddenly: “Oh, Phoebe, I know what the lovely face in the pool was!”

“What, dearie?”

“Don’t you remember the other day when all us children were in your house and you were telling us those nice stories? Don’t you remember how you told us there was a shining boy or girl in each one of us? I remember all you told us about it and you said it was the real, true self. Our own best self; our bestest goodie. I believe the face in the pool was my bestest goodie; it must have been!”

“Perhaps it was, Tommy. But why do you say ‘bestest goodie’?”

“'Cause ‘bestest’ is the very, very best, and ‘goodie’ is the very nicest, goodest thing. So ‘bestest goodie’ is the very loveliest thing of all!”

“Well, the Shining One is all that, dearie. You have found a very good name for it. Our Shining Self is our ‘Bestest Goodie.’”

Soon the other children came up to Phoebe and Tommy and the party started for home. All the boys and girls had bunches of ferns and flowers and the boys whistled as they walked. The little girls walked along more sedately, all of them clustering around Phoebe who laughed and chatted with them, as gay as the gayest. Tommy, too, was full of fun, as he hopped along, holding on to Phoebe’s hand. All the quiet, sober thought was put aside, and again they were just two happy children with the others.

As the party reached the main street of Weston once more, it was decided, before breaking up, that the ten children—the Weston Ten, as they call themselves—should meet in Phoebe’s house to spend the afternoon two days from that time.