Purple Springs | Page 9

P. Watson, Given away in good faith
April 1st, Wickedly killed to make a cap, April 15th, Avenged by
former owner, May 1st. T. Tucker. S. Tucker.
People all look at it when they come to the church, and I guess the
Tuckers feel pretty small. Pearl says if they are really sorry, it is all
right, and young Tom has not died in vain. Every cat has to die
sometime, and if he had softened the Tucker's hearts--it is all right.
Pearl said she wasn't real sure about them, and I guess if they kill
another cat, she'll kill them sure--she said that's the way to do with
people like them. Make them repentant--or dead!"
"God save us all," cried Mrs. Watson, in real distress, "whatever will
happen to her when she goes out into the world. That's awful talk for a
girl especially. Whatever will become of her when she leaves home.
She'll be in hot water all the time."
"No fear of Pearlie!" said her father proudly--as he opened the end door
of the stove and picked up a coal for his pipe, placing it without undue
haste in the bowl, and carefully pressing it down with his thumb.
Leaning back in the chintz-covered rocking chair, he spread his feet out
to the heat which came from the oven door, and repeated, "No fear of
Pearlie--there ain't a girl in the country better able to do for herself.
Faith--and she's no fool--and never was--I ain't worrying about Pearlie

wherever she goes--or whatever she meets--I ain't worrying."
"You don't worry about anything, John," said Mrs. Watson, in reproof,
as she covered the bread with many wrappings and fixed two chairs to
hold it behind the stove for the night; "you didn't even worry the night
the crop froze, sleepin' and snorin' the whole night through, with me up
every half hour watching the thermometer, and it slippin' lower and
lower, and the pan o' water on the woodpile gettin' its little slivers of
ice around the edge, and when the thermometer went to thirty, I knew it
was all up with the wheat, but do you think I could wake you--you
rolled over with a grunt, leavin' me alone to think of the two hundred
acres gone in the night, after all our hard work ... and then to have you
come down in the mornin', stretchin' and yawnin', after a good night's
sleep, and says you, as cheerful as could be, 'Cold mornin', Ma!'"
John Watson took his pipe from his mouth, and laughed quietly.
"And what was wrong with that, Ma--sure now it was cold--you said
yourself it was," he said gently.
The boys joined in the laugh, but Mrs. Watson repeated her point.
"Cold it was, sure enough, but think o' me up frettin' and fumin', and
you come down as cheerful as if starvation wasn't starin' us in the face."
"But we didn't starve, Ma," said Billy, coming to his father's defense,
"the crop was all right for feed, and we did well after all. You had all
your frettin' for nothing."
"It's that way mostly," said John Watson, "I never saw any good yet in
frettin'. Anyway, Ma does enough of it for all of us, so that lets me out.
There's the two kinds of Irish--them that don't fret over anything--and
them that frets over every thing--that's me and you, Ma--and it works
out fine--it runs about even. You've always been so sure that things
were goin' wrong, I've just had to be a little surer that they wern't. And
then of course I knew that night that you would watch the frost--if there
was any watchin' to it."

"John, it is well for you that you have some one to do your watchin',"
said Mrs. Watson. "You're an easy goin' man, John, but I'll say this for
you, that a better natured man never lived."
When all the family had gone to bed, and the last sound had died out in
the house, Pearl stood long at the window and looked out at the moonlit
valley. The warm day had melted the frost from the window, and when
she put out the lamp, the moonlight seemed almost as clear as day.
Silvery-mauve and blue it lay on the quiet, snowy fields, with a deeper
color on the trees, as if they had wound yards and yards of the gauzy
stuff around their bare shoulders, for the night was chilly. To Pearl it
was even more beautiful than the sunshine of the day, for in its silvery
stillness, she could think and dream without interruption.
The night was too beautiful to sleep, and the riot of joy in her heart
made her forget that anyone ever grew weary or tired. She was part of