  “Carolina Martin, you get up this instant. Do you hear me? I’ve called you sixteen times already, if ’tisn’t twenty, and this the morning the new teacher starts at the old log schoolhouse over at Woodford’s. You don’t want us all to be late, do you, and have her think we’re shiftless, like the poor white folks our mother used to tell about, in the mountains down in Tennessee. We, with the bluest blood in our veins that flows in the whole South! Carolina, are you up?” This conversation was carried on in a high-pitched voice by a thin, homely, freckled-faced little girl whose straight brick-red hair had not a wave in it, and whose long, skinny legs, showing beneath the gingham dress two years too short for her, made her appear as ungainly as a colt. There was no one else present in the big living-room of the log cabin, but the voice carried well, and was heard in the loft above, where, in a large four-posted bed, another small girl sleepily replied, “Oh, Dixie, I wish folks never did have to get up, nor go to school, nor—” The voice trailed off drowsily, and Carolina had just turned over for another little nap when she heard her sister climbing the ladder which led from the room below to the loft where the two girls slept. Instantly the culprit leaped to the floor. When the red head of Dixie appeared at the square opening of the trap-door, the small girl was making great haste to don her one piece of all-over underwear. She smiled her sweetest at her irate sister, whose wrath softened, for little Carolina was so like their beautiful mother. Even at eight years of age she had the languid manner of the South, and spoke with a musical drawl. But there was no envy in the heart of the older girl. She was passionately glad that one of them was so like that adored mother who had died soon after the birth of her youngest child, who now was four years old. The father, an honest, hardy Nevada mountaineer, had been killed in a raid two years later, and since then Dixie, aged twelve, had been little mother and home-maker for the other three children. Before Dixie could rebuke the younger sister, a door below opened and a baby voice called shrilly, “Oh, Dix, do come quick! Suthin’s a-runnin’ over on the stove.” “It’s the porridge.” The older girl sniffed the air, which conveyed to her the scent of something burning. Down the ladder she scrambled. “Well, lucky stars!” she exclaimed a moment later as she removed the kettle and gave the contents a vigorous stirring. “’Tisn’t stuck to the bottom, that’s one comfort.” Then, whirling about, she caught the little four-year-old boy in her arms as she exclaimed, “And so our Jimmikins is going to school to-day for the very first time.” The small head, covered with sunny curls, nodded, and his eyes twinkled as he proudly prattled: “I’ll stan’ up front and I’ll spell c-a-t, and ever’thin’, won’t I, Dixie?” “Of course you will, pet lamb, and maybe the teacher will ask you to recite, and won’t she be surprised to find that you know seven speaking pieces?” While Dixie talked she was dishing up the porridge. She glanced at the ladder and sighed. Would she have to climb it again? What could be keeping Carolina? But just then a foot appeared and slowly there descended the member of the family who was always late. She had been brushing her soft golden-brown curls in front of their one mirror. A pretty circling comb held them in place. Carol wore a faded gingham dress which was buttoned in the front, that she might fasten it herself. There was a discontented expression in her violet eyes. “I just hate this ol’ dress,” she began fretfully. “Jessica Archer doesn’t believe we have any blue blood at all, or we’d want to dress like the Southern ladies do in the pictures.” Dixie sighed, and the younger girl, who thought only of herself, continued, “If my beautiful mother had lived, she wouldn’t have let me wear shabby dresses that button down the front and make everybody laugh at me.” There was much truth in this. Their beautiful mother would have been quite willing to mortgage the ranch if only she and her children could be dressed in silk and furbelows. Before Dixie could reply, the cabin-door again opened, and in came a boy who was at least a head taller than Dixie. His frank, freckled face was smiling. He was carrying a pail. “Dix,” he said gleefully, “we’re going to have a real crop of apples this year. I’ve been down to the creek-bottom to see how the trees are doing. Maybe they’ll fetch in money enough so that you can buy that new stove you’ve been needing so long.” Carolina tossed her curly head as she thought, “Stove, indeed, when I need a new dress.” But she said nothing. The apples weren’t ripe yet, and she could bide her time. They were soon seated around the table, chattering eagerly about the new teacher who had arrived at Woodford’s the day before, but whom, as yet, they had not seen. “What you ’spose she’ll be like?” Ken asked as he helped himself to the rich creamy goat’s milk, and then turned to pour more of it into the big bowl for his little brother, who had been hungrily clamoring for porridge. Carol sniffed. “I don’t like new teachers,” she informed them in a manner much older than her years. “They’re always startin’ somethin’ different.” “You mean that new teachers don’t like you,” Ken put in with brotherly frankness. “They would, though, if you’d ever study, which I reckon you never will.” “You’d ought to learn all you can, Caroly. We all ought to,” the little mother modified, “’cause as soon as we’re old enough, we’ll want to be earning our own living so we won’t always be poor and scrimping like we are now.” Carolina tossed her curls. “’Twon’t be needful for me to earn my livin’,” she said proudly. “Mrs. Piggins says I’m the kind that always marries young, and I’m goin’ to marry rich, too.” Ken exploded with amused laughter. “Hear the baby prattle!” he teased. “You’d better be thinkin’ about your dolls, seems like to me.” The all-too-easily-aroused temper of the younger girl flared. “Ken Martin, you know I haven’t played with dolls, not since I was seven years old, and now I’m eight.” The violet eyes flashed and the pretty lips quivered. The heart of Ken always melted when he saw tears. “Oh, I say, Caroly,” he begged. “Don’t get a mad on. Honest Injun, cross my heart, I won’t tease you any more——er——that is, not again this morning, anyhow,” he added, wishing to be truthful. Then, knowing from past experience that the best way to dry up tears was to interest the doleful one in something different, he exclaimed as though he had suddenly thought of it: “Girls, what’ll we give as a present for new teacher? The fellows were all sayin’ yesterday what they’re goin’ to give.” The ruse worked like a charm. Carol looked across the table at her brother with eager interest. “That horrid Jessica Archer says there’s nobody in the school as is going to give new teacher as handsome a present as she is. Her mother took her over to Reno to pick it out. Jessica says as all the other pupils will give country presents, but hers’ll be city.” “Huh!” grunted the older brother. “What’s that little minx goin’ to give teacher that’s so fine? That’s what I’d like to know.” The curls were shaken as the owner of them replied: “She won’t tell. It’s a secret, but she’s boastin’ as it cost more’n all the other presents put together’ll cost.” “Well, dearie, like as not she’s right,” the older girl said soothingly. “Jessica Archer’s father’s the richest man anywhere in these mountains. You know how folks call him a sheep-king.” Then, as Dixie was always trying to have her charges see things in the right way, she continued: “Anyhow, it isn’t the money a present costs that counts. It’s the love that goes with it.” Selfish Carol was not convinced. “I’d rather have a blue silk dress without love than I would another ol’ gingham like this one with—” She was interrupted by Ken, who burst in with: “Oh, I say, Dix, I’ve just thought of the peachiest present. You know that little black-and-white kid that came a while ago.” The girls had stopped eating, and were listening with eyes as well as ears. “Yeah, I know, b-but what of it?” Dixie inquired. The boy’s words fairly tumbled out in his excitement. “I bet teacher’d like him for a present. I bet she would. Like as not, comin’ from New York City the way she does, she’s never had a goat for a pet, and this one’s awful pretty, with that white star on his black forehead.” Dixie looked uncertain. “It would be different, but—” she started to protest, when noting her brother’s crestfallen expression, she hastened to add, “Come to think of it, now, a little goat might be lots of company for new teacher, she being so strange and all. “You go get the goat, Ken, and saddle Pegasus while I tidy up the kitchen and dress Jimmikins. Then we’ll all be ready to start for school.” “I’ve got an ol’ red ribbon that’ll look handsome on that little goat’s neck,” Carol told them. “That’ll make it look more presentish, seems like.” “Of course it will, dear. Go get it and give it to Ken, though I guess maybe you’d better tie the bow. You’ve got a real knack at making them pretty.” The little mother always tried to show appreciation of any talent that might appear, however faintly, in one of her precious brood. A moment later all was hurry and scurry in the homey kitchen of that old log house, for this was a red-letter morning in the lives of the four little Martins. |
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