Friendship Village Part 9

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 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' _haf_ 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 that 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' Friends.h.i.+p 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 on the road there I see Zittelhof's undertaking wagon, with the sunset showin' on its nickel rails. But not a woman run past me.

Ain't it funny how it's 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 coach 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 back 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 is a world where the upside-down is consider'ble in use. An' I waited with her, over there this side the cut, 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 of a 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 like 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 afternoon like this, or in Spring with vi'lets, or when a circus show's 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 girls with short, thick hair, or soft, short curls, an' every one with something baby-like 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_.

"Well, 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, 'Sp'osin' they _all_ cried an' what if Abel Halsey stayed away hours.' I donno. I done my best too. Mebbe it's because I'm 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 s.h.i.+rt-sleeves was some tore. But he comes runnin' 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, rill 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 o' 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 sec.u.n.t 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 G.o.d,' 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 sc.r.a.p 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 had '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' Friends.h.i.+p to-night. They'll hev to stay here. The Commercial Travellers' Hotel an'

the Depot House has both got all they can do for--some of 'em hurt pretty bad. They couldn't either hotel take 'em in....'

"Then he lets Mitsy catch him an' he ups with her on his shoulder an'

run 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 Friends.h.i.+p,' he says, hoppin' along. 'Not half a dozen houses could take in more'n two extry, even if we hed the time to canva.s.s. An'

we _ain't_ the time. They want their s-u-p-p-e-r right now,' he spells it out, an' lit out nimble when Mitsy dropped the handkerchief back o'

the little blond girl. Then he let the little blond girl catch them, and he took her on his shoulders too, an' they was both shoutin' so 't 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

"'King William was King James's son,'

an' he sings back to me, for the sec.u.n.t line,

"'Go _now_, go _quick_, I bet they're starved!'

"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 Friends.h.i.+p Married Ladies' Cemetery Improvement Sodality was meetin'

that afternoon with Mis' Toplady, an' I could cut acrost their pasture--" Calliope nodded toward the little Toplady house and the big Toplady barn--"an' that's what I done. An' when I got near enough to the house to tell, I see by the light in the parlour that they was still there. An' I know when I got into the room, full as I was o' news o'

them little children an' the wreck an' the two killed an' all them that was hurt--there was the Sodality settlin' whether the lamb's wool comforter for the 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 kind o'