Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm | Page 7

going to the seminary at Wareham; mother says it ought to be the
making of me! I'm going to be a painter like Miss Ross when I get
through school. At any rate, that's what I think I'm going to be. Mother
thinks I'd better teach."

"Your farm ain't the old Hobbs place, is it?"
"No, it's just Randall's Farm. At least that's what mother calls it. I call it
Sunnybrook Farm."
"I guess it don't make no difference what you call it so long as you
know where it is," remarked Mr. Cobb sententiously.
Rebecca turned the full light of her eyes upon him reproachfully,
almost severely, as she answered:--
"Oh! don't say that, and be like all the rest! It does make a difference
what you call things. When I say Randall's Farm, do you see how it
looks?"
"No, I can't say I do," responded Mr. Cobb uneasily.
"Now when I say Sunnybrook Farm, what does it make you think of?"
Mr. Cobb felt like a fish removed from his native element and left
panting on the sand; there was no evading the awful responsibility of a
reply, for Rebecca's eyes were searchlights, that pierced the fiction of
his brain and perceived the bald spot on the back of his head.
"I s'pose there's a brook somewheres near it," he said timorously.
Rebecca looked disappointed but not quite dis- heartened. "That's
pretty good," she said encouragingly. "You're warm but not hot; there's
a brook, but not a common brook. It has young trees and baby bushes
on each side of it, and it's a shallow chattering little brook with a white
sandy bottom and lots of little shiny pebbles. Whenever there's a bit of
sunshine the brook catches it, and it's always full of sparkles the
livelong day. Don't your stomach feel hollow? Mine doest I was so
'fraid I'd miss the stage I couldn't eat any breakfast."
"You'd better have your lunch, then. I don't eat nothin' till I get to
Milltown; then I get a piece o' pie and cup o' coffee."
"I wish I could see Milltown. I suppose it's bigger and grander even
than Wareham; more like Paris? Miss Ross told me about Paris; she
bought my pink sunshade there and my bead purse. You see how it
opens with a snap? I've twenty cents in it, and it's got to last three
months, for stamps and paper and ink. Mother says aunt Mirandy won't
want to buy things like those when she's feeding and clothing me and
paying for my school books."
"Paris ain't no great," said Mr. Cobb disparagingly. "It's the dullest
place in the State o' Maine. I've druv there many a time."
Again Rebecca was obliged to reprove Mr. Cobb, tacitly and quietly,

but none the less surely, though the reproof was dealt with one glance,
quickly sent and as quickly withdrawn.
"Paris is the capital of France, and you have to go to it on a boat," she
said instructively. "It's in my geography, and it says: `The French are a
gay and polite people, fond of dancing and light wines.' I asked the
teacher what light wines were, and he thought it was something like
new cider, or maybe ginger pop. I can see Paris as plain as day by just
shutting my eyes. The beautiful ladies are always gayly dancing around
with pink sunshades and bead purses, and the grand gentlemen are
politely dancing and drinking ginger pop. But you can see Milltown
most every day with your eyes wide open," Rebecca said wistfully.
"Milltown ain't no great, neither," replied Mr. Cobb, with the air of
having visited all the cities of the earth and found them as naught.
"Now you watch me heave this newspaper right onto Mis' Brown's
doorstep."
Piff! and the packet landed exactly as it was intended, on the corn husk
mat in front of the screen door.
"Oh, how splendid that was!" cried Rebecca with enthusiasm. "Just like
the knife thrower Mark saw at the circus. I wish there was a long, long
row of houses each with a corn husk mat and a screen door in the
middle, and a newspaper to throw on every one!"
"I might fail on some of 'em, you know," said Mr. Cobb, beaming with
modest pride. "If your aunt Mirandy'll let you, I'll take you down to
Milltown some day this summer when the stage ain't full."
A thrill of delicious excitement ran through Rebecca's frame, from her
new shoes up, up to the leghorn cap and down the black braid. She
pressed Mr. Cobb's knee ardently and said in a voice choking with tears
of joy and astonishment, "Oh, it can't be true, it can't; to think I should
see Milltown. It's like having a