h

X. Lonesome--I

XI. Lonesome--II

XII. Of the Sky and Some Rosemary

XIII. Top Floor Back

XIV. An Epilogue

XV. The Tea Party

XVI. What is That in thine Hand?

XVII. Put on thy Beautiful Garments

XVIII. In the Wilderness a Cedar

XIX. Herself

XX. The Hidings of Power

Friendship Village

I

THE SIDE DOOR

It is as if Friendship Village were to say:--

"There is no help for it. A telephone line, antique oak chairs, kitchen
cabinets, a new doctor, and the like are upon us. But we shall be
mediaeval directly--we and our improvements. Really, we are so now, if
you know how to look."

And are we not so? We are one long street, rambling from sun to sun,
inheriting traits of the parent country roads which we unite. And we are
cross streets, members of the same family, properly imitative, proving
our ancestorship in a primeval genius for trees, or bursting out in
inexplicable weaknesses of Court-House, Engine-House, Town Hall, and
Telephone Office. Ultimately our stock dwindles out in a slaughter-yard
and a few detached houses of milkmen. The cemetery is delicately put
behind us, under a hill. There is nothing mediaeval in all this, one
would say. But then see how we wear our rue:--

When one of us telephones, she will scrupulously ask for the number, not
the name, for it says so at the top of every page. "Give me one-one,"
she will put it, with an impersonality as fine as if she were calling
for four figures. And Central will answer:--

"Well, I just saw Mis' Holcomb go 'crost the street. I'll call you, if
you want, when she comes back."

Or, "I don't think you better ring the Helmans' just now. They were
awake 'most all night with one o' Mis' Helman's attacks."

Or, "Doctor June's invited to Mis' Sykes's for tea. Shall I give him to
you there?"

The telephone is modern enough. But in our use of it is there not a
flavour as of an Elder Time, to be caught by Them of Many Years from
Now? And already we may catch this flavour, as our Britain
great-great-lady grandmothers, and more, may have been conscious of the
old fashion of sitting in bowers. If only they were conscious like that!
To be sure of it would be to touch their hands in the margins of the
ballad books.

Or we telephone to the Livery Barn and Boarding Stable for the little
blacks, celebrated for their self-control in encounters with the
Proudfits' motor-car.