Chapter XVI. Up at Merry's

“Nowflyround,child,andgetyoursweepingdoneupsmartandearly.” “Yes,mother.” “Ishallwantyoutohelpmeaboutthebaking,byandby.” “Yes,mother.” “Roxyiscleaningthecellar-closets,soyou'llhavetogetthevegetablesreadyfordinner.Fatherwantsaboileddish,andIshallbesobusyIcan'tseetoit.” “Yes,mother.” Acheerfulvoicegavethethreeanswers,butitcostMerryanefforttokeepitso,forshehadcertainlittleplansofherownwhichmadetheworkbeforeherunusuallydistasteful.Saturdayalwayswasatryingday,for,thoughshelikedtoseeroomsinorder,shehatedtosweep,asnospeckescapedMrs.Grant'seye,andonlythegoodold-fashionedbroom,wieldedbyapairofstrongarms,wasallowed.Bakingwasanothertrial:shelovedgoodbreadanddelicatepastry,butdidnotenjoyburningherfaceoverahotstove,daubingherhandswithdough,orspendinghoursrollingoutcookiesfortheboyswhilea“boileddinner”washerespecialhorror,asitwasnotelegant,andthewashingofvegetableswasajobshealwaysshirkedwhenshecould. However,havingmadeuphermindtodoherworkwithoutcomplaint,sheranupstairstoputonherdust-cap,tryingtolookasifsweepingwasthejoyofherlife. “Itissuchalovelyday,Ididwanttorakemygarden,andhaveawalkwithMolly,andfinishmybooksoIcangetanother,”shesaidwithasigh,assheleanedoutoftheopenwindowforabreathoftheunusuallymildair. Downintheten-acrelottheboyswerecartingandspreadingloamoutinthebarnherfatherwasgettinghisplowsreadyoverthehillrosethesmokeofthedistantfactory,andtheriverthatturnedthewheelswasglidingthroughthemeadows,wheresoontheblackbirdswouldbesinging.OldBesspawedtheground,eagertobeoffthegrayhenswerescratchingbusilyallabouttheyardeventhegreenthingsinthegardenwerepushingthroughthebrownearth,softenedbyAprilrains,andtherewasashimmerofsunshineoverthewidelandscapethatmadeeveryfamiliarobjectbeautifulwithhintsofspring,andtheactivityitbrings. SomethingmadetheoldnurseryhymncomeintoMerry'shead,andhummingtoherself, “Inworksoflabororofskill Iwouldbebusytoo,” shetiedonhercap,shoulderedherbroom,andfelltoworksoenergeticallythatshesoonsweptherwaythroughthechambers,downthefrontstairstotheparlordoor,leavingfreshnessandorderbehindherasshewent. Shealwaysgroanedwhensheenteredthatapartment,andgotoutofitagainassoonaspossible,foritwas,likemostcountryparlors,aprimandchillyplace,withlittlebeautyandnocomfort.Blackhorse-hairfurniture,veryslipperyandhard,stoodagainstthewallthetablehaditsgiftbooks,albums,worstedmatanduglylampthemantel-pieceitschinavases,pinkshells,andclockthatneverwentthegaycarpetwaskeptdistressinglybrightbyclosedshutterssixdaysoutoftheseven,andageneralairofgo-to-meetingsolemnitypervadedtheroom.Merrylongedtomakeitprettyandpleasant,buthermotherwouldallowofnochangethere,sothegirlgaveupherdreamsofrugsandhangings,finepicturesandtastefulornaments,anddutifullyaired,dusted,andshutupthisawfulapartmentonceaweek,privatelyresolvingthat,ifsheeverhadaparlorofherown,itshouldnotbeasdismalasatomb. Thedining-roomwasaverydifferentplace,forhereMerryhadbeenallowedtodoassheliked,yetsogradualhadbeenthechange,thatshewouldhavefounditdifficulttotellhowitcameabout.Itseemedtobeginwiththeflowers,forherfatherkepthiswordaboutthe“posypots,”andgotenoughtomakequitealittleconservatoryinthebay-window,whichwassufficientlylargeforthreerowsallround,andhanging-basketsoverhead.Beingdiscouragedbyherfirstfailure,Merrygaveuptryingtohavethingsniceeverywhere,andcontentedherselfwithmakingthatonenooksoprettythattheboyscalledither“bower.”EvenbusyMrs.Grantownedthatplantswerenotsomessyassheexpected,andthefarmerwasnevertiredofwatching“littledaughter”asshesatatworkthere,withherlowchairandtablefullofbooks. Thelam