  As Muriel neared the shanty on the sand dunes in which lived her dearly beloved friend, Captain Barney, she was conscious of unusual noises issuing therefrom. Surely there was some kind of a commotion going on within the humble dwelling. Separating the sounds as she approached, she recognized one as laughter (none but Linda Wixon laughed like that), then there was the clumping of little Zoeth’s crutches, and his shrill, excited chatter. This was followed by a hammering and a chorus of approving feminine voices. Muriel hastened her steps. It was impossible to run in the soft sand. “What can be goin’ on in Uncle Barney’s shack?” she wondered. “I reckon he’s givin’ a party, though I cal’late that isn’t likely, he bein’ laid up——” Her thoughts were interrupted by the genial Irishman himself, who appeared around the corner of the shanty carrying an old rusty stovepipe which he had replaced with a new one. Rilla noticed that he was stepping as spryly as ever he had. “Top o’ the mornin’ to you, mavourneen,” he called. “It’s great news I’m after havin’. Me ol’ mither as I’ve been hungerin’ for a sight of these tin year past is comin’ at last to live here on the dunes, and the heart o’ me is singin’ a melody like ‘The harp that once through Tara’s halls the soul of music shed’; but ’twas Tommy Moore said it that way, not your ol’ Uncle Barney. That’s what poets are for, I reckon, to be puttin’ into words for us the joy we can only be feelin’.” Then, as they reached the open front door of the shack, Captain Barney called: “Belay there, folks, and be makin’ yer best bows to our neighbor from across the water.” “Yo-o, Rilly! It’s yo’ that’s come just in time to be tellin’ what yo’ reckon’s the best place to be hangin’ the pictures.” It was fifteen-year-old Lindy Wixon who skipped forward and caught her friend by the hand as she went on to explain: “I got ’em wi’ soap wrappers. I went all over Tunkett collectin’. Every-un was glad, an’ more, to give ’em when they heard as Cap’n Barney’s ol’ mither is comin’ at last. We want to purty up the shack so ’twill look homey an’ smilin’ a welcome to her the minute she steps into the door.” “Oh-h, but they’re handsome!” Muriel said, clasping her hands. Zoeth was standing near looking eagerly up into the face of his beloved friend. “Which of ’em do you reckon is purtiest?” he queried; then waited her reply as though it were a matter of great importance. Muriel gazed long at the three brightly colored prints which had been hung on three sides of the room. “I dunno, honest,” she said, “they’re all that beautiful, but I sort o’ like the one wi’ the lighthouse in it best. The surf crashes over those rocks real natural, now don’t it?” Zoeth clapped his thin little hands. “That thar’s the one I chose, too, Rilly. I knew yo’d choose it.” Sam Peters, who had at one time been a ship carpenter, was busily hammering at one side of the room where a long low window looked out toward the sea. “That thar’s a windy-seat my Sam is makin’,” his wife explained to Muriel. “They’ve one up to Judge Lander’s where I go Mondays to wash, and when I was tellin’ Mis’ Lander how we was plannin’ to purty up Cap’n Barney’s shack, bein’ as his ol’ mither’s comin’, she said if we had a couch or a windy-seat she’d be glad to donate some pillas as she had in the attic, an’ when she fetched ’em down, if thar wa’n’t a beautiful turkey-red couch cover amongst ’em.” The window-seat was fast nearing completion and so the group turned admiring eyes from the pictures to the handiwork of Sam Peters. “Make way, thar!” his wife was heard to exclaim a moment later from the rear. Everyone turned to see that portly woman approaching, a somewhat faded turkey-red lounge cover dragging one fringed corner, while four pillows of as many different colors were in her arms. Lindy and Muriel sprang forward to assist her, but Mrs. Sam would permit them to do nothing but hold the pillows, while she herself placed them at what she believed to be fashionable angles. Then with arms akimbo, she stood back and admired the result. She was sure that Mrs. Judge Lander herself could not have arranged the pillows with more artistic effect. “We’d ought to all of us fix our cabins up that fine,” she announced, “an’ I’m a-goin’ to.” “That red’s powerful han’some,” Mrs. Jubal Smalley remarked. “Thar’d ought to be a plant settin’ on the window sill, just atop o’ it.” No one noticed when little Zoeth slipped away, but they all saw him return triumphantly bearing his greatest treasure, a potted geranium which had three scarlet blossoms. With cheeks burning and eyes glowing, the little fellow placed it upon the window sill. “It’s for yer mither to keep,” he said, looking up at the Irishman, who was deeply touched, for well he knew how the little fellow had nursed the plant, which the year before Lindy had rescued from a rubbish heap in the summer colony. Out of his savings Captain Barney had purchased from Mrs. Sol a table and four straight chairs. When everything was shipshape and Sam Peters was packing away his tools, Captain Barney spoke. “Neighbors,” he began, “in the name of me ol’ mither I want to be thankin’ yo’. It’s a hard life she’s been havin’ in the ol’ country, what wi’ raisin’ tin of her own an’ two that she tuk as were left orphants. Says she, when no one else wanted ’em, ‘I’ll take ’em, the poor darlints. If thar’s allays room for one more, the saints helpin’, we’ll stretch that room so ’twill hold the two of ’em.’ An’ now that the last of ’em is growd, it’s aisy I want her to be takin’ it. She can be drawin’ the rocker as yo’ all gave me up to the open door an’ she kin jest be settin’ an’ rockin’ an’ restin’ an’ lookin’ out at the sea. ’Twill be nigh like Heaven for me ol’ mither, an’ it’s thankin’ ye again I am for all ye’ve been doin’.” Somebody tried to say something, but it ended in a sincere handshaking, and many eyes were moist. Then Muriel and her dear friend were left alone. With an arm about the girl he loved, the old man stood looking out at sea. “Rilly gal,” he said at last, “how kind folks are in this world. It’s a pleasant place to be livin’.” Captain Barney did not realize that the fisher folk about him were but returning a bit of the loving kindness which he had shown to them in their many hours of need. Glancing at the clock, he said briskly: “Nigh two, Rilly gal. Yer Uncle Barney must be gettin’ ready for the three-forty train up to Boston.” * * * * * * * * That evening, when Muriel was telling her grandfather all that had happened, she said: “Grand-dad, I dunno why ’tis, but I feel sorto’ as though things are comin’ out different from the way Uncle Barney’s plannin’.” “I reckon that’s along of the fact that he’s had his heart sot so many times on his old mither’s cruisin’ over the big pond, but suthin’ allays kept her anchored, seemed like, on ’tother side.” Then, as the old man rose, he looked out toward the darkening east. “Storm’s a-breedin’ at last, Rilly gal. I swan I never knew an equinoxial to hold off so long. I reckon ’twa’n’t git here till ’round about mornin’.” Then he added: “I dunno why ’tis, Rilly gal, but I’m sort o’ dreadin’ the big storm this year.” The girl shuddered. A cold night wind was rising. “Grand-dad,” she pleaded, “let’s go in an’ be readin’ in the Good Book.” Every night since the one on which he had cast hate out of his heart the old man had tried to read from the New Testament to Muriel, and though he stumbled over many of the longer words, the girl caught the spirit of it and retold it with her own interpretation. |
|
