Part 13 (1/2)
”Happiness does not always mean having what we want; it is being contented with what we have,” that was another of Mrs. Morrow's interpretations of the Pioneer laws. ”Cheerful,” here Nathalie broke into a laugh, quite sure she was always cheerful when she had the things she wanted. ”There!” she cried aloud, ”I am not going to read any more of those laws, for if I am to-” she stooped, for the manual had fallen to the floor. As she picked it up she again encountered the words, ”I can.”
”I can!” she repeated once or twice mechanically. Then her face lighted, as if the meaning of the words had suddenly flashed themselves clear of the thoughts that had been revolving in her mind.
”But what can I do?” she continued doubtingly.
”You can wash the dishes for your mother in the morning so that she can read her morning paper,” some one seemed to whisper. She started. ”And you can get up and get breakfast the way Helen does when her mother is not feeling well,” this time the some one spoke very loudly.
”Oh, but I can't cook, n.o.body would eat my breakfast,” she thought, still holding back.
”But if you are a Pioneer you should learn to do these things.” She frowned as if to brush aside an unpleasant thought.
”Yes, I suppose I can do these things,” she reluctantly admitted after a moment's thought. ”O dear-I have been lamenting that I had no purpose in life, that I was just drifting. I cried the other day because Mother said my talents were gilt-edged. 'Yes, I Can,'” suddenly broke from her.
”I'm going to begin right now, too; I'll show Mother that I am not a gilt-edge drifter. I'll learn to cook-oh, I'll just make myself do those horrible, horrible things-I'll show you, Miss I Can, so there!” She hastily wiped away the tears that would come, and then, as was her wont after a mental conflict, she began to sing. A few moments later she was down in the kitchen hustling about, seeing what there was for dinner.
A steak, oh, yes, she knew how to broil that-and potatoes-oh, they were easy! The next minute she had seated herself before the kitchen table, and as she peeled the potatoes she sang with unwonted animation:
”We stick to work until it's done We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers.
We never from our duty run, We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers.
We learn to cook, to sew, to mend To sweep, to dust, to clean, to tend, And always willing hands to lend.”
As she paused to think how she could manage the next vegetable, Mrs.
Page entered, showing amazement as she saw what her daughter was doing, for full well she knew that Nathalie disliked anything in the way of housework.
”Why, Nathalie!” she exclaimed, ”you need not do that. I will get dinner; there is not so much to do, for Felia made some pies yesterday, and with a steak, thank goodness! there will not be much to cook.”
”Now, see here, Mumsie,” cried the new housewife, flouris.h.i.+ng her knife menacingly at her mother, ”I am chief of this ranch. You have lamented that I was just a gilt-edged doll, now I'm going to show you I'm not.
I'm a Pioneer, and I'm going to learn everything useful. Now be off!” As her mother protested there ensued a little wrestling-match in which the girl came off victor, and Mrs. Page, subdued into meekness, retired to the veranda, somewhat relieved to think she could rest awhile.
As Nathalie snuggled down to sleep that night-she was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open-she felt supremely happy, for she had cooked dinner all by herself. To be sure d.i.c.k had growled and claimed the steak was burnt, and Lucille had volunteered the information that Felia never mashed her potatoes that way, but it made no difference to the happy Blue Robin-as d.i.c.k had called her-for she was pleased to think that for once in her life she had helped. Of course, Mother had laughed at her blunders, but it was in the old happy way that she used to do when Papa had been with them.
Next morning Nathalie awoke with a start, she smiled drowsily at some pa.s.sing remembrance of the day before, and then turned over for a beauty nap. Suddenly she sat up with eyes keen and alert; if she was to be maid of all work that day she must get at her job. In fifteen minutes she was creeping stealthily down the kitchen stairs with her shoes in her hands, so as not to awaken her mother.
Oh! the fire was out; that was a difficulty she had not taken into calculation. For a moment she was tempted to crawl up those stairs and leave the fire to the next one who discovered it. Oh, but that would not do at all. She didn't know how to make a fire, but the words ”I can,”
made her close her mouth determinedly, and in a few moments clouds of rising smoke attested that she was learning. But alas, the smoke soon drifted into s.p.a.ce, and the blaze disappeared in a ma.s.s of black paper!
Nathalie's tears came at this; oh, why would not that wood catch fire?
Tried to the soul, she went to the window and gazed through a mist of tears at the dew sparkling on bush and gra.s.s. A low, sweet whistling caused her to look up to see Helen, as fresh as a new-blown rose, throwing open the shutters of her room.
Nathalie pursed up her lips and then broke into a ”Tru-al-lee!”
Helen glanced down quickly, her eyes lighted, and then came a quick Bob White call that sounded much like ”More wet! More wet!” In another instant she was down on the porch calling merrily to her friend, ”Oh, Nathalie, how are you this morning?”
Nathalie dimpled cheerily. ”Oh, fine!” making a dab at her eyes, ”but at my wits' end trying to make a fire. Will you tell me why it will insist upon going out? It is maddening! I have lighted it six times.”
”What, you making a fire?” said Helen, and then, ”Just wait a moment and I will come over and see what is wrong.”
Under Helen's nimble fingers the brown paper was taken out, the fire-pot filled with loosely wrapped newspaper, small sticks laid crisscross, a few larger ones on top, and then a match applied. Like magic the tiny blue flame sputtered, caught hold of an edge of paper, and then in a few moments a blazing fire was seething and swirling. Nathalie, in exuberant joy, seized her friend and the two girls waltzed merrily around the kitchen.
Of course Nathalie knew how to make toast, but when Helen showed her how to hold it over the coals until it was a golden-brown, b.u.t.ter it while hot, and then cut off the scraggly edges and a rim of crust, she realized that toast-making was indeed a domestic science. Scrambled eggs came next, simple, but deliciously done, as her friend showed her. Then came putting the coffee in the percolator with the water heated beneath by the tiny alcohol lamp, thus drawing from the beverage the most nutritious qualities, Helen declared, without injuring one's digestion.