What Diantha Did | Page 8

fulfills her task, Or she-bear lean and brown; All
parent beasts see duty true, All parent beasts their duty do, We are the
only kind that asks For duty upside down.

The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning
slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak
pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled,
heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums.
Thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of
dusty eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual
shade to the house.
It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern
states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. For no other
reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be repeated
so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape. There was
an attempt at a "lawn," the pet ambition of the transplanted easterner;
and a further attempt at "flower-beds," which merely served as a sort of
springboard to their far-reaching products.
The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are;
minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little
bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living,
and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was clean,
clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and
unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to
a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily
rubbing.
There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere.
But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does a Dutch,
German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and
Duty--under restriction.
In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there
sewing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves.
The dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white
sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!--Ee-errr!--came the faint
whine of the windmill.
To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped
window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of

elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California--hot,
arid, tedious in endless sunlight--a place of exile.
To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her
knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of
pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words,
it was California--rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of
boundless vitality, promise, and power--home!
Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a
moment.
"Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about
these things."
"No--not particularly," her mother answered, "but there's plenty else to
do." And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the
"over and over seam" up the middle.
"What do you do it for anyway, Mother--I always hated this job--and
you don't seem to like it."
"They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets
worn and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it--" She
gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which
certainly did not indicate pleasure.
"What kind of work do you like best--really?" her daughter inquired
suddenly, after a silent moment or two.
"Why--I don't know," said her mother. "I never thought of it. I never
tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt Esther,
but she's still teaching."
"Didn't you like any of it?" pursued Diantha.
"I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to
school--used to stand highest in that."

"And what part of housework do you like best?" the girl persisted.
Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. "Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't
tell sometimes what part I like least!" she answered. Then with sudden
heat--"O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one
girl for you!"
Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in
her chair. "We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy," she said. "But,
Mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! I never saw
anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got
every bill since yon were married."
"Yes--I do love accounts," Mrs. Bell admitted. "And I can keep run of
things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me
run that end of his business."
Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways,
enjoyed him in some ways,