The Big Wind

N a day when the spring, hardly awake, had yet a manner of smiling in her sleep, Calliope Marsh told me the story. We sat for a little, resting from a racing walk up the hillside where the squat brick Leading Church of Friendship Village overlooks the valley pastures and the town. Calliope, who is sixty and more, walks like a girl, and with our haste and the keen air her wrinkled cheeks were as rosy as youth.

"Don't seem like March was a real spring month up north here," she had said. "Seems like a extry month that sort o' whims along doin' as it pleases—sometimes buds an' sometime snow. But when it's snowin' an' a-blowin' the expression off our face it's still spring inside, kind o' hid, secret an' holy. That's the way with lots o' things, ain't it? That's the way," she added thoughtfully, "Abel feels about the Lord, I guess. Abel Halsey—you know him?"

I knew him well—Abel Halsey, that young itinerant preacher who had been ordained a minister of God but never installed pastor of any church. He was a devout man, but the love of far places was upon him, and he lived what Friendship called "a-gypsyin'" off in the hill, now to visit a sick man, now to preach in a country school-house, now to marry or to bury, or to help with the threshing. These lonely rides among the hills were the sole gratification of his Wanderlust—save, indeed, that when he could he would always watch a train come in or rush by, savoring the moment of some silent familiarity with distance. Perhaps, too, his little skill at the organ gave him, now and then, an hour resembling a journey.

"You wasn't here when the new church was built," said Calliope, looking up at the building lovingly. "That was the time I mean about Abel. You know before it was built we'd hed church in the hall over the Gekerjecks' drug-store; an' because it was his hall, Hiram Gekerjeck, he just about run the church—picked out the wall-paper, forbid 'em t' set the heft of an organ on the door, an' wouldn't leave his wife give the new hymnals without we'd hev a mortar an' pestle stamped on the covers. It was this last made Abel Halsey—him an' Timothy Toplady an' Eppleby Holcomb an' Postmaster Sykes, the three elders—set to to build a church. An' they done it, too. An' to them four I declare it seemed like the buildin' was a body waitin' for its soul to be born. From the minute the sod was scraped off they watched every stick that went into it. An' by November it was all done an' plastered an' waitin' its pews. It was a-'goin' to be dedicated with special doin's—music from the city an' strange ministers. An' I guess Abel an' the elders had tacked printed invites to half the barns in the county.

"I rec'lect it was o' Wednesday, the one next before the dedication, an' windy-cold an' wintry. I'd been havin' a walk that day, an' 'long about five o'clock, right about here where we are, I'd stood watchin' the sunset over the Pump pasture there till I was chilled through. The smoke was rollin' out the church chimney because they was dryin' the plaster, an' I run in there to get my hands warm an' see how the plaster was doin'. An' inside was the three elders, walkin' round, layin' a finger on a sash an' a post—the kind o' odd, knowledgeable way men has with new buildin's. The Ladies' Aid had got the floor broom-clean an' the lamp-chandelier filled an' ready; an' the foreign pipe-organ that the Proudfits'd sent from Europe was in an' in workin' order, little lookin'-glass over the keyboard an' all. It seemed real homelike, with the two big stoves a-goin', an' the door back of 'em piled up with chunks. Everything was all redded up, waitin' for the pews.

"Timothy Toplady was puttln' out his middle finger stiff here an' there on the plaster.

"'It's dry as a bone,' he says, 'but what I say is this: Le's leave a fire burn here all night to-night, so's to be sure.'

"I rec'lect Eppleby Holcomb looked up sort o' dreamy—Eppleby always goes round like he'd swallowed his last night's sleep.

"'The house o' God,' he says over. 'Ain't that curious? Nothin' about it to indicate it's the house o' God but the shape—no more'n if 'twas a place where the Holy Spirit never come near. An' yet right here in this place we'll mebbe feel the big wind an' speak with Pentecostal tongues.'

"'Seems like,' says Postmaster Sykes, thoughtful—don't you always think he acts like he was weighin' his remarks fer first-class postage?—'seems like we'd ought to hev a little meetin' o' thanks here o' Sat'day night—little informal praise-meetin' or somethin'.'

"Timothy shakes his head decided.

"'Silas Sykes, what you talkin'?' he says. 'Why, the church ain't dedicated yet. A house o' God,' s'e, 'can't be used for no purpose whatsoever without it's been dedicated.'

"'So it can't, so it can't,' says the postmaster, apologetic, knowin' he was in politics an' that the brethern was watchin' him, cat to mouse, fer slips.

"'I s'pose that's so,' says Eppleby, doubtful. But he was one o' them that sort o' ducks under situations to see if they're alike on both sides, an' if they ain't, he up an' questions 'em. Timothy, though, he was differ'nt. Timothy was always goin' on about constituted authority, an' to him the thing was the thing, even if it was another thing.

"That's right,' he insists, his lips disappearin' with certainty. 'I s'pose we hadn't really ought even to come in here an' stan' round, like we are.'

"He looks sidlin' over toward me, warmin' my hands real secular by the church stove. An' I felt like I'd be'n spoke up for when somebody says from the door:

"You better jus' bar out the carpenters o' this world, brethern, an' done with it.'

"It was Abel Halsey, standin' in the entry, lookin' as handsome as the law allows. An' I see he happened to be there because the through express was about due, an' you can always get a good view of it from this slope here. You know how Abel never misses watchin' a fast train go 'long, if he can help himself.

"'What's the i-dea?' Abel says. 'How can you pray at all in closets an' places that ain't been dedicated? I shouldn't think they'd be holy enough,' s'e

"'That,' says the postmaster, sure o' support, 'ain't the question.'

"'I thought it couldn't be,' says Abel, amiable. 'Well, what is the question? Whether prayer is prayer, no matter where you're prayin'?'

"'Oh, no,' says Eppleby Holcomb, soothin'. 'It ain't that.'

"'I thought it couldn't be that,' says Abe1. 'Is it whether the Lord is in dedicated spots an' nowheres else?'

'"Abel Halsey,' Timothy tarts up, 'you needn't to be sacrilegious.'

"'But,' says Abel, 'the question is whether you 're sacrilegious to deny a prayer-meetin' or any other good use to the church or to any other place, dedicated or not. Well, Timothy, I think you are.'

"Timothy clears his throat an' dabs at the palm of his hand with his other front finger. But before he could lay down eternal law, we sort o' heard, almost before we knew we heard, folks hurryin' past out here on the frozen ground. An' they was shoutin', like questions, an' a-shoutin' further off. We looked out, an' I can remember how the whole slope up from the village there was black with folks.

"We run outside, an' I know I kep' close by Abel Halsey. An' I got hold o' what had happened when somebody yelled an answer to his askin'. You've probably heard all about that part. It was the day the through express went off the track down there in the cut beyond the Pump pasture.

"We run with the rest of 'em—me keepin' close to Abel, I guess because he's got a way with him that makes you think he'd know what to do, no matter what. But when he was two-thirds o' the way acrost the pasture he stops short an' grabs at my sleeve.

"'Look here,' he says, 'you can't go down there. You mustn't do it. We donno what'll be. You stay here,' he says; 'you set there under the Cottonwood.'

"You kind o' haj to mind Abel. It's sort o' grained in that man to hev folks disciple after him. I made him promise he'd motion from the fence if he see I could help any, an' then I se' down under that big tree' down there. I was tremblin' some, I know. It always seems like wrecks are somethin' that happen in other states an' in the dark. But when one's on ground you know like a book an' was brought up on—when it's in the daylight, right by a pasture you've been acrost always an' where you've walked the ties—well, I s'pose it's the same feelin' as when a man you know cuts up a state's-prison caper. Seem's like he can't of, because you knew him.

"Half the men o' Friendship run by me, seems though. The whole town'd been rousted up while we was in the church talkin' heresy, an' up on the high place in the road there I see Zittelhof's undertakin' wagon with the sunset showin' in its nickel rails. But not a woman run past me. Ain't it funny how it's the men that go to danger of rail an' fire an' water—but when it's nothin' but birth an' dyin' natural, then it's for women to be there?

"When I'd got about ready to fly away, waitin' so, I see Abel at the fence. An' he didn't motion to me, but he swung over the top an' come acrost the stubble, an' I see he hed somethin' in his arms. I run to meet him an' he run too, crooked, his feet turnin' over with him some in the hard ground. The sky made his face sort o' bright; an' I see he'd got a child in his arms.

"He didn't give her to me. He stood her down side o' me—a little thing of five years old or six, with thick, straight hair an' big, scairt eyes.

"'Is she hurt, Abel?' I says.

"'No, she ain't hurt none,' he answers me. 'An' they's about seventeen more of 'em her age, an' they ain't hurt, either. Their car was standin' up on its legs all right. But the man they was with—he's stone dead. Hit on the head, somehow. An',' Abel says, 'I'm goin' to throw 'em all over the fence to you.'

"The little girl jus' kep' still. An' when we took her by each hand an' run toward the fence with her, her feet hardly touchin' the ground, she kep' up without a word, like all to once she'd found out this was a world where the upside down is consider'ble in use. An' I waited with her, over there this side the cot, hearin' 'em farther down rippin' off fence rails so's to let through what they hed to carry.

"Time after time Abel come scramblin' up the sand-bank, bringin' 'em two 't once—little girls they was, all about the age o' the first one, none of 'em with hats or cloaks on; an' I took 'em in my arms an' set 'em down, an' took 'em in my arms an' set 'em down, till I was fair movin' in a dream. They belonged, I see by their dress, to some kind o' home for the homeless, an' I judged the man was takin' 'em somewheres, him that Abel said'd been killed. Some'd reach out their arms to me over the fence—an' some was afraid an' hung back, but some'd just cling to me an' not want to be set down. I can remember them the best.

"Abel, when he come with the last ones, he off with his coat an' I with my ulster, an' as well as we could we wrapped four or five of 'em up—one that was sickly, an' one little delicate blonde, an' a little lame girl, an' the one—the others called her Mitsy—that'd come over the fence first. An' by then half of 'em was beginnin' to cry some. An' the wind was like so many knives.

"'Where shall we take 'em to, Abel,' I says, beside myself. "'Take 'em?' he says. 'Take 'em into the church! Quick as you can. This wind is like death. Stay with 'em till I come.'

"Somehow or other I got 'em acrost that pasture. When I look at the Pump pasture now, in spring like this, or later with vi'lets, or when a circus shows there, it don't seem to me it could 'a' been the same place. I kep' 'em together the best I could—some of 'em beggin' for 'Mr. Middie—Mr. Middie,' the man, I judged, that was dead. An' finally we got up here in the road, an' it was like the end o' pain to be able to fling open the church door an' marshal 'em through the entry into that great, big, warm room, with the two fires roarin'.

"I got 'em round the nearest stove an' rubbed their little hands an' tried not to scare 'em to death with wantin' to love 'em—an' all the while, bad as I felt for 'em, I was glad an' glad that it was me that could be there with 'em. They was twenty—when I come to count 'em so's to keep track—twenty little girl with short, thick straight hair or soft short curls, an' every one with something babylike left to 'em. An' when we set on the floor round the stove, the coals shone through the big open draft into their faces, an' they looked over their shoulders to the dark creepin' up the room, an' they come closer round me—an' the closest-up ones snuggled. o' course that was at first when they was some dazed. But as fast as their blue little hands was warm an' pink again, one or two of 'em begun to whimper, natural an' human, an' up with their arm to their face, an' then begun to cry right out, an' some more joined in, an' the rest pipes up askin' for 'Mr. Middie,' an' I thought, s'posin' they all cried, an' what if Abel Halsey stayed away hours! I donno. I done my best, too. Mebbe it's because I'm just' use' to children with my heart an' not with my ways. Anyhow, most of 'em was cryin' prime when Abel finally got there.

"When he come in I see Abel's face was white an' dusty, an' he had his other coat off an' gone, too, an' his shirt sleeves was some tore. But he comes runnln' up to them cryin' children an' I wish't you could 'a' seen his smile—Abel's smile was always kind o' like his soul growin' out of his face, real thrifty.

"Why. you little kiddies!' s'e 'Cryin' when you're all nice an' warm! Le's see now,' he says, grave. 'Anybody here know how to play drop the handkerchief? If you do,' he tells 'em, 'stand up quick!' 

"They scrambled round like they was beetles an' you'd took up the stone. They was all up in a minute an' stopped cryin', too. With that he catches my handkerchief out of my hand an' flutters it over his head an' runs to the middle o' the room.

"'Come on!' he says. 'Hold o' hands—every one o' you hold o' hands. I'm goin' to drop the handkerchief an' you'd better hurry up.'

"That was talk they knew. They was after him in a secunt an' tears forgot—them poor little things, laughin' an' hold o' hands an' dancin' in a chain an' standin' in a ring. An' when he hed 'em like that, an' still, Abel begun runnin' round to drop the handkerchief; an' then he turns to me.

"'Only two killed, thank God,' he says as he run, 'the conductor an' M-i-d-d-l-e-t-o-n'—he spells it, an' motions to the children with the handkerchief so's I'd know who Middleton was. 'An' not a scrap o' paper on him,' he goes on, 'to tell what Home he brought the children from or where he's goin' with 'em. Their mileage was punched to the city—but we don't know where they belong there, an' the conductor bein' gone, too— The poor fellow that hed 'em in charge never knew what hurt him. Hit from overhead, he was, an' his skull crushed.'

"It was so dark in the church by then we could hardly see, but the children could keep track o' the white handkerchief. He let it fall behind the little girl he'd brought me first—Mitsy—an' she catches it up an' sort o' squeaks with the fun, an' runs after him. An' while he doubles, an' turns, 'They've telegraphed ahead,' he says, 'to two or three places In the city. But even if we hear right off we can't get 'em out o' Friendship to-night. They'll hev to stay here. The depot hotel's got all they can do for—five or six men an' a woman, hurt pretty bad. They couldn't take 'em in.…'

"Then he lets Mitsy catch him an' he ups with her on his shoulder an' runs with her on his back, his face lookin' out o' her blue-striped skirts.

"'We'll hev to house 'em right here in the church,' he says.

'"Here?' says I. 'Here in the church?'

"'You know Friendship,' he says, hoppin' along. 'Not half a dozen houses could take in more'n one extry, even if we hed the time to canvass. An' we ain't the time. They want their s-u-p-p-e-r right now,' he spelled it out, an' lit out nimble when Mitsy dropped the handkerchief back o' the little blonde girl. Then he let the little blonde girl catch them, and he took her on his shoulders, too, an' they was both shoutin' so he hed to make little circles out to get where I could hear him.

"'I've seen Zittelhof,' he told me. 'He was down there with his wagon. He'll bring up enough little canvas cots from the store. An' I thought mebbe you'd go down to the village an' pick up some stuff they'll need—bedding an' things. An' get the women here with some supper. Come on now,' he calls out to 'em, 'everybody in a procession an' sing!' 

"He led 'em off with

an' he sings back to me, for the secunt line:

"So I got into my coat, tryin' to think where I should go to be sure o' not wastin' time talkin'. Lots o' folks in this world is willin', but mighty few can be quick.

"I knew right off, though, where I'd find somebody to help. The Friendship Married Ladies' Cemetery Improvement Sodality was meetin' that afternoon with Mis' Timothy Toplady, an' I could cut acrost their pasture"—Calliope motioned where the little Toplady house and the big Toplady barn stood—"an' that's what I done. An' when I got near enough to the house to tell, I see by the light in the parlor that they was still there. An' I know when I got into the room, all full as I was o' news o' them little children an' the wreck an' the two killed an' the seven hurt—there was the sodality settlin' whether the lamb's wool comforter for their bazaar should be tied with pink for daintiness or brown for durability.

"{{'}Dainty!," says I, when I got my breath. 'They's sides to life makes me want to pinch that word right out o' the dictionary same as I would a bug,' I says.

"That was funny, too," Calliope added thoughtfully, "because I like that word, speakin' o' food an' ways to do things. But some folks get to livin' the word same's if it was the law.

"I guess they thought I was crazy," she went on, "but I wasn't long makin' 'em understand. An' I tell you, the way they took it made me love 'em all. If you want to love folks, just you get in some land o' respectable trouble in a little town here in the West—an' you'll see so much lovableness that the trouble'll kind o' spindle out an' leave nothin' but the love doin' business. My land, the sodality went at the situation head first, like it was somethin' to get acrost before dark. An' so it was.

"I remember Mis' Photographer Sturgis, 'There!' she says, 'most cryin', 'if ever I take only a pint o' milk I'm sure as sure to want more before the day's out. Where we goin' to get the milk,' she says, 'for them poor little things?'

"'Where?' says Mis' Timothy Toplady—you know how big an' comfortable an' settled she is—'Where? Well, you needn't to think o' where. I expect the Jersey won't be milked till I go out an' milk her,' she says, 'but she gives six quarts, nights, right along now, an' sometimes seven. Now about the bread.'

"Mis' Postmaster Sykes always sets sponge twice a week, an' she offered five loaves out o' her six baked that day. Mis' Holcomb-that-was-Mame Bliss hed three loaves o' brown bread, an' the other Mis' Holcomb—that's Mis' Eppleby—she hed a crock o' sour cream cookies. An' Libbie Liberty bursts out that they'd got up their courage an' killed an' boiled two o' their chickens the day before an' none o' the family'd be'n able to touch a mouthful, bein' they'd raised the hens from egg to axe. So Libbie said she'd bring the whole kettle along an' it could be het on the church stove an' made soup of. So it went on, an' in about four minutes everything was provided for, bedding an' all.

"Mis' Toplady had flew up-stairs, gettin' out bed-linen, an' she was comin' down the front stairs with her arms full o' sheets an' pillow-slips when through the front door walks Timothy Toplady, come in all excited an' lookin' every which way. Seems he'd barked his elbow in the rescue work an' laid off for liniment.

"'Oh, Timothy,' says his wife, 'them poor little children! We've been plannin' it all out.'

"'Who's goin' to take 'em in?' says Timothy, tryin' to roll up his coat sleeve for fear the Sodality'd be put to the blush if he got to his elbow any other way. "'They're all warm in the church,' Mis' Toplady says. 'We're goin' to leave 'em there. Zittelhof's goin' to take up canvas cots. We're gettin' the bedding together,' she told him.

"Timothy looked up, sort o' wild an' glazed.

"'Canvas cots,' s'e, 'in the house o' the Lord?'

"'Why, Timothy,' says his wife, helpless, 'it's all warm there, an' they're there now, an' we don't know what else. We thought we'd carry up their supper to 'em'

"'Supper,' says Timothy, 'in the house o' the Lord?'

"Then Mis' Toplady spunks up some.

"'Why, yes,' she says, 'I'm goin' to milk the Jersey an' take up the two pails.'

"Timothy waves his barked arm in the air.

"'Never!' s'e, 'never. We elders'll never consent to that, not in this world!'

"Well, at that we all stood around sort o' pinned to the air. This hadn't occurred to nobody. But his wife was back at him, real crispy.

"'Timothy Toplady,' s'she, 'they use churches for hospitals an' refuges,' she says.

"'They do,'says Timothy, solemn, 'they do, in necessity. An' war. An' siege. But here's the whole o' Friendship Village to take these children in, an' it's sacrilege to use the house o' God for any purpose whatever while waitin' its dedication. It's stealin',' he says, 'from the Lord Most High.'

"I never see anybody more het up. We all tried to tell him. Nobody in Friendship has a warm spare room in winter, without it's the Proudfits, an' they was in Europe an' their house locked. Mebbe ten of us, we counted up afterwards, could 'a' took in one child to 'a' slep' with some member o' the family. But, as Abel said, where was the time to canvass round? An' what would we do with the other ten? But Timothy wouldn't listen to nothin'.

"'Amanda,' s'e in a married voice, 'I forbid you to carry a drop o' Jersey milk or any other kind o' milk up to that church.'

"With that he was out the front door an' liniment forgot.

"Mis' Sykes spatted her hands.

"'He'll find Silas Sykes an' Eppleby,' she says to Mis' Eppleby Holcomh. 'Quick! Le's get our hands on my bread an' your cookies. Them poor little things—'way past their supper hour.'

"'An' none of 'em got mothers,' says Mis' Sturgis. 'Just left round with lockets on, I s'pose, an' wrecked an' hungry'

"'An' one 'em lame," Mis' Eppleby Holcomb says, down on her knees tryin' to sort out her overshoes. The Sodality never could tell its own overshoes.

"Well, they scattered so quick it made you think o' mulberry leaves, some years, in the first frost, an' I was left alone with Mis' Toplady.

"'Here,' she says to me then, all squintin' with firmness, 'you take along all the linen an' comfo'tables you can lug. Timothy didn't mention them. An' leave the rest to me.' 

"I turned that over in my mind while I stumbled along back to the church, loaded down. But I couldn't make much out of it. I knew Timothy Toplady, that he meant what he said, an' I knew he could run Silas Sykes—the postmaster's political strength, as I mentioned, makin' him kind o' wabbled in his own judgment o' other things. I didn't know how Eppleby'd be—it might turn out to be one o' the things he'd up an' question, civilized, but I wa'n't sure. Anyhow, the cream cookies wasn't so vital as them five loaves o' bread.

"When I got back to the church, here it was all lit up. Abel had lit the lamp chandelier on a secular scene. Bless 'em, it surely was as secular as it was sacred. Six or seven of the little things was buildin' a palace out o' the split wood, with the little lame girl for queen. The little blonde one an' the one that was delicate lookin' hed gone to sleep by the stove. Mitsy, she run from somewheres an' grabbed my hand. An' Abel had the rest over by the other stove tellin' 'em stories. Fairy stories. I heard him say 'dragon' an' 'blue velvet' an' 'golden hair,'

"I hadn't more'n got inside the door before Zittelhof's wagon come with the cot. An' Mis' Zittelhof was with him, her arms full o' bedclothes she'd gathered up around from folks, I never said a word to Abel about the trouble with Timothy. I donno if Abel really heard us come in, he was so excited about his dragon. An' Mis' Zittelhof an' I begun makin' up the cots. On the first one I laid the two babies that was asleep on the floor. They never woke up. Their little cheeks was warm an' pink, an' one of 'em hed some tears on it. When I see that, I clear forgot the church wasn't dedicated, an' I thanked God they was there, safe an' by a' good fire, with somebody tendin' to 'em.

"The bed-makin' an' the palace-buildin' an' the story tellin' went on, an' I kep' gettin' exciteder every minute. When the door opened I couldn't tell which was in my mouth, my heart or my tongue. Rut it was only Libbie Liberty with the big iron kettle o' chicken broth an' a basket o' cups an' spoons. She lifted the kettle up to the stove an' stirred up the fire under it, an' it was no time before the whole church begun to smell savory as a kitchen. An' then in walks Mis' Holcomb with her cream cookies, an' Mis' Holcomb-that-was-Mame Bliss with her brown bread an' more dishes. An' we fair jumped up an' down when Mis' Sykes come breathin' in the door with them five loaves o' wheat bread safe, an' butter to match.

"Still, we was without milk. There wasn't a sign o' Mis' Toplady. An' any minute Timothy might get there with Silas in tow. Mis' Sykes was nervous as a witch over it, an' it was her proposed we set the children up on the cots an' begin feedin' 'em right away. I run down the room to tell Abel, an' then I hed to tell him why we'd best hurry.

"Abel laughs a little when he heard about it.

"'Dear old Timothy,' he says, 'servin' his God accordin' to the dictates of his own notions. Wait a minute till I release the princess.'

"When he said that, I was afraid he must be tellin' a worldly story with royalty in. An' I begun to get troubled myself. But I heard him end it. 'So the princess found her kingdom because she'd learnt to love every living thing. She saved the lives of the hare, the dormouse, an' the goldfinch. An' don't you ever let anything living suffer for one minute an' mebbe you'll find out some o' the things the princess knew.' An', royalty or not, I felt all right about Abel's story-tellin' after that.

"Then we all brisked round an' begun settin' the children up on the cots—two or three to a cot with one of us to wait on 'em; an' both the little sleepy ones woke up, too. An' doin' right. You know your doubts come when we sliced an' spread the bread an' dished the hot chicken broth an' see how hungry they all seemed, I declare if one of us could feel wicked. The little things'd begun to talk some by then, an' they chatted soft an' looked up at us, an' that little Mitsy—she'd got so she'd kiss me every time I ask' her. An' I was perfectly shameless. I donno's the poor little thing got enough to eat. But sometimes when things go blue—I like to think about that. I guess we was all the same—our principal feelin' was how dear they was, an' to hurry up before Timothy Toplady got there, an' how we wish't we hed some milk.

"Then all of a sudden, while we was flyin' round, I happened to go past the front door, an' I heard a noise in the entry. I thought o' Timothy an' Silas, comin' with sheriffs an' firearms an' I didn't know what; an' I rec'lect I planned, wild an' contradictory, first about callin' an instantaneous congregational meetin' to decide what was right, an' then about telegraphin' to the city for constituted authority to do as we was doin', an' then about Abel fightin' Timothy an' Silas both, if it 'come reelly necessary.

"I got hold o' Mis' Sykes an' Mis' Eppleby Holcomb, an' told 'em quiet. 'Somethin's the matter outside there,' I says to 'em, kind o' warnin', 'an' I thought you two'd ought to know it.' An' we all three come round by the entry door, careless, an' listened. An' the noise kep' up out there, kind o' soft an' obstinate, an' we couldn't make it out.

"'We'd best go out there an' see,' says Mis' Sykes, low; 'the dear land knows what men will do.'

"so we watched our chance an' slipped out—an' I guess, for all our high ways, we was all three wonderin' inside was we reelly doin' right. You know doubts come thick when there's a noise in the entry. But Mis' Sykes acted as brave as two, an' it was her shut the door to behind us.

"An' there, right by the stone just outside the entry o' the church, set Mis' Timothy Toplady, milkin' her Jersey cow.

"We could just see her, dim, by the light o' the transom. She was on the secunt pail, an' that was two-thirds full. She hed her back toward us an' she didn't hear us. She set all wrapped up in a shawl, a basket o' cups 'side of her, an' the Jersey standin' there, quiet an' demure. An' beyond, in the cut an' movin' acrost the Pump pasture, it was thick with lanterns.

"But before we three'd hed time to burst out like we wanted to, we sort o' scrooched back again. Because on the other side o' the cow we heard Timothy Toplady's voice. He'd just got there, some breathless, an' with him, we see, was Eppleby.

"'Amanda,' says Timothy, 'what in the Dominion o' Canady air you doin'?'

"'I shouldn't think you would know,' says Mis' Toplady short. 'You don't do enough of it.'

"She hed him there. Timothy always will go down to the six-ten accommodation an' shirk the chores.

"'Amanda,' says Timothy, 'you've disobeyed me flat-footed.'

"'No such thing,' s'she, milkin' away like mad for fear he'd use force. 'I ain't carried a drop o' milk here. I've drove it,' she says.

"Timothy groaned.

"'Milkin' in the church,' he says.

"'No, sir,' says Amanda, 'I'm outside on the sod an' you know it.'

"An' then my hopes sort o' riz, because I thought I heard Eppleby Holcomb laugh soft—like he'd looked under the situation an' see it wasn't alike on both sides. An' 't the same time Mis' Toplady she changed her way, an', 'Timothy,' s'she, 'you hungry?'

"'I'm nlgh starved,'says Timothy. 'It must be eight o'clock,' s'e. 'But I ain't no heart to think o' that.'

"'No,' s'she, 'so you ain't. Not with them poor babies in there hungrier'n you be an' nowheres to go.'

"'With that she got done milkin' an' stood up an' picked up her two pails.

"'Timothy,' s'she, 'the worst sacrilege that's done in this world is when folks turns their backs on any little bit of a chance that the Lord gives 'em to do good in, like He told 'em. Who was it, I'd like to know, said 'Suffer little children'? Who was it said 'Feed my lambs'? No 'When' or 'Where' about that. Just 'Do it.' An' no occasion to hem an' haw about it, either. The least you can do for your share in this, as I see it, is to keep your silence an' drive the cow back home. The oven's full o' bake' sweet potatoes, an' they must be nearin' done.'

"I see Timothy start to wave his arms, an' I donno what he would 'a' said if it hadn't been settled for him. For then, like it was right out o' the sky, the church organ begun to play soft. For a minute we all looked up, like the shepherds must of when the voices of the night told 'em the Spirit o' God was in the world, born in a little child. It was Abel—I knew right away it was Abel—an' he was just gentlin' round soft on the keys, kind o' like he was askin' a blessin' an' rockin' a cradle an' doin' all the little things music can. An' with that Mis' Sykes, she throws open the church door.

"I'll never forget how it looked inside—all warm an' lamplit, an' them little things bein' fed an' chatterin' soft. An' up in the loft set Abel, playin' away on the foreign organ before it'd been dedicated. An' then he begun singin' low—an' there's somethin' about Abel 't you just haj to listen, whatever he says or does. Even Timothy hed to listen. An' Abel sung:

'An' at the first line, before we'd reelly sensed what it was he said, every one o' them little children in the midst o' their supper slips off the edge o' the cots an' kneeled down there on the bare floor—just like as if they'd been told to. Oh, wasn't it wonderful—wonderful! An' yet it wasn't. We found out, when folks come for 'em the next mornin', it was the children's prayer that they sung every day o' their lives at their Good Shepherd's Orphans' Home—soft an' out o' tune an' with all their little hearts, just as they sung it with Abel clear to the end, I guess they didn't know ever'body don't kneel down all over the world when they hear the Twenty-third Psalm.

"Abel seen 'em in the little lookin'-glass over the keyboard. An' when he'd got done he set there perfectly still with his head down. An' Mis' Sykes an' Mis' Holcomb an' Eppleby an' I bowed our heads, too, out there in the entry. An' so, after a minute, did Timothy. I couldn't help peekin' to see.

"An' then when the children was all a'rustlin' up, Mis' Toplady, she jus' hands her two milk pails over to Timothy.

"'You take 'em in,' she says to him, her eyes swimmin'. 'I've come off without my handkerchief,'

"Timothy looks round him kind o' helpless, but Eppleby stood there an' pats him on the arm.

"'Go in—go in, brother,' Eppleby says, gentle. 'I guess the church's been dedicated. I feel like we'd heard the big wind—an' I guess mebbe the Pentecostal tongues.'

"An' Timothy—he's an awful tender-hearted man in spite o' bein' so notional—Timothy just went on in with the milk without sayin' nothin'. An' Eppleby 'side of him. An' we 'most shut the door on Silas Sykes, comin' tearin' up on account o' Timothy's leavin' him a urgent word to come, without explainin' why. An' when Silas see the inside o' the church, all lit up, an' chicken supper for the children, an' the other two elders there with the milk, he just rubs his hands an' beams like he see his secunt term, I donno's it'd ever enter Silas Sykes's head 't there was anything wrong with anything, providin' somebody wasn't snappin' him up for it. I guess it's like that in politics.

"We took the milk around an', bake' sweet potatoes forgot, Timothy stood up by the stove, between Eppleby an' Silas, an' watched us—an' the Jersey must 'a' picked her way home alone. An' Abel, he just set there to the organ, gentlin' round soft on the keys so it made me think o' God movin' on the face o' the waters. An' movin' on the face o' everything else, too, an' of every place, dedicated or not. It was like we'd felt the big wind, same's Eppleby said. An' somethin' in it kind o' hid, secret an' holy."