Polly of Pebbly Pit | Page 3

fourteen years had been spent in the mountains surrounding her ranch-
home, Pebbly Pit. The farm was oddly located in the crater of an
extinct volcano, known on the maps as "The Devil's Grave." Like many
other peaks scattered about in this region of Colorado, the volcanic
fires had been dead for centuries.
The outer rim of the crater formed a natural wall about the bowl, and
protected the rich and fertile soil of the farm from the desert winds that
covered other ranches with its fine alkali dust. The snows in winter,
lodging in the crevices of the cliffs, slowly melted during the progress
of summer, thus furnishing sufficient moisture for the vegetation
growing in the "bowl"; and this provided splendid pasturage for the
herds of cattle owned by the rancher.
When Sam Brewster staked his claim in this crater, his companions
jeered at the choice and called the place "Pebbly Pit." But the young
man had studied agriculture thoroughly and knew what he was doing;
then the test made by the government convinced him of this.
Besides, his Denver bride preferred the beauty of the spot to the more
sociable but draughty ranches in the valley of Bear Forks River; so they
settled in the crater, and named the farm Rainbow Cliffs, but the

original nick-name clung, and gradually the owners, from habit, also
came to call their place "Pebbly Pit."
In the mountains where the government gives a settler all the timber he
needs, transportation is so difficult and paid labor almost unknown, so
that the size and quality of a rancher's house and out-buildings
expresses his character. Sam Brewster's buildings and fences were as
solid and comfortable as any in the State. He and his wife (a refined
young woman) were ambitious and energetic, so it was not surprising
that they succeeded in life.
When John, the first-born, had completed his studies at High School in
Denver, he was sent to a well-known college in Chicago. And now that
Polly, seven years John's junior, had finished her grammar course at the
little Bear Forks log school-house, she, too, was determined to enter
High School at Denver.
Sam Brewster had stubbornly refused to consent to the plan, taking for
an excuse that no friends or relatives remained in Denver where Polly
might board, and commutation was out of the question. But he knew,
and so did his wife, that the truth of his refusal lay in the fact that he
could not bear to part with his youngest child--even though she visited
at home each week-end.
Mrs. Brewster sided with Polly's ambition, and planned to visit her old
home in Denver to see if she could find any friends who would prove to
be desirable for Polly to associate with. The matter stood thus this
lovely June day when the unexpected letter arrived.
The very unusual occurrence created enough interest for Polly to take
her mind from the burro, so she ran swiftly towards the house while
every possible correspondent she could think of passed through her
thoughts. But she was as much at sea as ever, when she danced up the
log steps leading directly to the kitchen.
"Maw, Maw! Where are you--is there really a letter?"
"Yes--from Denver! But how is Noddy?" replied Mrs. Brewster,

coming to the kitchen door, holding a square envelope in her hand.
"Dear little Noddy--she is all right now, Maw, but it looked mighty bad
a bit of time back. I just had to pray and pray with all my might,
Maw--you know how!" sighed Polly, taking the refined-looking letter
from her mother without seeing it.
"I never knew how I loved that dear little bundle of fuzz and flesh till I
thought she was dead! Oh, I am so glad she will live that I don't care if
I ever eat again or not!"
Still holding the precious letter, Polly turned back to look at the barn
where the object of her love was lapping up the gruel. Mrs. Brewster
smiled indulgently at her intense young daughter, then reminded her of
the unopened communication.
"Dear me! So much excitement in one day--I don't see how I can quiet
down again. But who do you suppose would write to _me_?" queried
Polly, holding the envelope at arm's length and studying the hand-
writing.
"I'm not clairvoyant, Polly, so suppose you open it and see for
yourself," laughed Mrs. Brewster.
"Well, I hate to spoil this nice stationery but--here it goes!" murmured
Polly, severing an end of the envelope as if she was the executioner of
an innocent victim.
"See who it's from, Polly, while I dish up your dinner. Of course you
don't care whether you ever eat again, but I would suggest that at least
you strive to ward off starvation,"