Page:St. Nicholas - Volume 41, Part 1.djvu/440

coarse, hard seam to sew. Then she was sorry, and, next morning, in all Massachusetts no better, busier little maid might be found than the deacon’s daughter as she sat in the great room of Abbott's Tavern in Andover town, and none made neater, fairer stitches.

Suddenly, there was a great stir and a hurrying hither and yon, as several men on horseback drew up before the door. Deacon Abbott himself rushed to help the tall stranger on the gray horse to dismount, never so much as noticing Master Phillips, who was president of the Massachusetts Senate, and who rode with him. Mistress Abbott curtseyed in the doorway, and men and maids bobbed and bowed. Priscilla looked on in wonder until she caught the magic name, “General Washington.” This tall man, all dusty and travel-stained, with the tip of his finger showing through his torn riding-glove, was General Washington, her hero!

Her head drooped shyly over her sampler when he entered the room. Then a kind voice said to her, “Art the deacon’s little maid?”

She slipped from the great settle to greet him, and her sampler fell at his feet. There it lay, each letter clear and plain, each stitch straight and neat. General Washington himself quickly picked it up. How glad she was, then, that she had taken out that crooked t, and made another, quite perfect!

The great man smiled as he looked at it. “The little maid i1s indeed a fine needlewoman, Mistress Abbott. Many an older person might be proud of these stitches. My glove has ripped. child; will you mend it for me with such fair sewing while I breakfast?”

Her heart was so full of joy at the praise that she could not speak, but only nodded and took the glove. Stitches firm and even, the very best she had ever made, Priscilla set in the glove.

Just as the men came out to ride away again. the work was done. General Washington took the glove. “I thank thee, little maid,” he said. and he lifted her in his arms and kissed her.

Priscilla could dream of no greater honor. But suppose she had never learned to sew? She never saw him again, after he vanished around the turn of the road, but for a whole week she would not wash the cheek he had kissed, and to the end of her life she was proud to tell, again and again, the story of the day when General Washington kissed the deacon’s little maid.

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THE SEASONS’ CALENDAR

When I think of winter, ⁠I think of driving snows, Of whirling flakes, and dazzling drifts, ⁠And every wind that blows. I think of sparkling night-time ⁠With all the starry crew; I think of great Orion ⁠On the midnight blue. I think of chestnuts in the fire ⁠Bursting and telling fates, I think of sleigh-bells in the dark, ⁠Of sleds, and skees, and skates. When I think of springtime, ⁠I think of rushing rains, Of grass that springs to meet the sun ⁠In all the country lanes; Of venturous dandelions ⁠Glowing with friendly gold, Of willow-trees that on the wind ⁠Their yellow fringe unfold. I think of apple-blossoms— ⁠As if the world had wings!— And gardens that T mean to make ⁠In the time of pleasant things.

When I think of summer, ⁠Comes sweetness on the air, With roses, roses, roses, ⁠Blowing everywhere! I think of ringing scythes; of sails— ⁠The outbound fishing fleet; The rhythmic sound of distant oars ⁠That in the rowlocks beat: Of thrushes singing in the shade ⁠O’er swimming-pools, and all The strawberries in the mowing-field, ⁠The peaches on the wall. When I think of autumn, ⁠I think of scarlet heaps Of apples underneath the trees ⁠Where the gray squirrel leaps: Of towering woodsides’ crimson glow— ⁠Bare boughs against the sky In lacy lines: of wings that sweep ⁠Southward, with trumpet cry— The wild-geese clanging from the north: ⁠Of Indian summer days, And of the first fire on the hearth:— ⁠And warm me in its blaze.

Harriet Prescott Spofford.