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Authors: Jan Watson
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Boston. That’s a big city in Massachusetts.”
“That’s where they had the Tea Party.” Armina gave a sly grin. “Reckon it was sassafras?”
Lilly laughed again. This girl was smart—smart and funny. Sissy drooped against her arm. “She’s gone to sleep. Should I put her down?”
“The crib’s on the other side of the bed. With any luck Bubby will go down too; then I can get some work done.”
Lilly laid the little girl in the crib and covered her with a knit baby blanket. She checked Aunt Orie’s drain, then picked up her doctor’s kit.
“Are you comfortable with your aunt’s care?” she asked. “Do you have any questions?”
“No. I take good care of her.”
“Yes, you do,” Lilly said as she left. “You’ll let me know if you need anything . . .”
“I expect we’ll do fine. Always do,” Armina said.
Lilly paused at the bottom of the steps. “See you next Thursday.”
“Wednesday,” Armina said with a steely look. “Aunt Orie likes her doctoring done on Wednesday.”
Chapter 8
Careful to keep to the footpath, Lilly tramped down the mountain. Halfway home she stopped and took the canteen from her linen satchel; her mouth was dry as talcum powder.
“Bother,” she said, shaking the empty vessel. She’d neglected to refill it at the Eldridges’. Surely there was a spring nearby. She knew the animals and birds didn’t drink their fill at the sour water of Swampy. She hung the canteen around her neck by the strap of its canvas holder and looked around. It would be a nice break from the hustle of the day to spend a few minutes searching for cool, clear water.
Shortly after she stepped off the path, she entered an isolated cove lush with an unspoiled hardwood forest. She wandered farther in, noting oak, buckeye, walnut, sourwood, ash, and beech, as well as the expected underlying scrub cedar and stunted fir. The leafy tops of the soaring hardwoods intermeshed, enclosing her under a protective canopy. As if poured through a heavenly sieve, sprinkles of sunlight glittered through the shadows, pooling like melted butter on the forest floor and highlighting the tips of beech fern with gold.
In awe, she continued into the depths, arms outstretched, trailing her fingers over the sometimes-sleek, sometimes-rough bark of the trees. Tap. Tap. Tap. She heard the staccato drum of a woodpecker’s sharp beak probing a hollow limb for insects. She inhaled the ancient, undisturbed, verdant scent of the forest like a history lesson, imagining the passage of time trapped by rings inside the trunks of the trees. More than likely, on this very spot, an Indian scout had crept silently through the trees, his moccasin-covered feet leaving nary a trace. Perhaps the redskin had tracked the wily Daniel Boone or the elusive Simon Kenton; perhaps he had his eye on a sleek deer or a fatted buffalo and stopped where she now stood to insert an arrow into his bow.
Under her feet, a maidenhair fern tickled her ankles with long, drooping leaflets. She stooped to pick one. As a girl, she’d often gathered these fronds to make flowing green wigs for her dolls and once for her dog. Poor Steady had been so embarrassed.
She stopped to remove a worm that inched up her sleeve, measuring her for a new suit of clothes, and deposited him gently on a moss-covered rock. Many times she’d lined her dolls’ beds with just such velvety moss.
The hush of the forest was so deep that the bright notes of a wren amplified accordingly, and a cardinal’s song ricocheted joyously from branch to branch overhead. She strained to hear the slightest splash of water against rock—sure sign of a spring. It was there, she thought, somewhere on the other side of the massive tulip poplar barring her path. A tree fit to hide Goliath himself.
A tiny prickle of fear buzzed her consciousness like a bumblebee searching for a honeysuckle vine. She swallowed hard, disappointed that she had let an unpleasant sentiment enter this hallowed
“That’s where they had the Tea Party.” Armina gave a sly grin. “Reckon it was sassafras?”
Lilly laughed again. This girl was smart—smart and funny. Sissy drooped against her arm. “She’s gone to sleep. Should I put her down?”
“The crib’s on the other side of the bed. With any luck Bubby will go down too; then I can get some work done.”
Lilly laid the little girl in the crib and covered her with a knit baby blanket. She checked Aunt Orie’s drain, then picked up her doctor’s kit.
“Are you comfortable with your aunt’s care?” she asked. “Do you have any questions?”
“No. I take good care of her.”
“Yes, you do,” Lilly said as she left. “You’ll let me know if you need anything . . .”
“I expect we’ll do fine. Always do,” Armina said.
Lilly paused at the bottom of the steps. “See you next Thursday.”
“Wednesday,” Armina said with a steely look. “Aunt Orie likes her doctoring done on Wednesday.”
Chapter 8
Careful to keep to the footpath, Lilly tramped down the mountain. Halfway home she stopped and took the canteen from her linen satchel; her mouth was dry as talcum powder.
“Bother,” she said, shaking the empty vessel. She’d neglected to refill it at the Eldridges’. Surely there was a spring nearby. She knew the animals and birds didn’t drink their fill at the sour water of Swampy. She hung the canteen around her neck by the strap of its canvas holder and looked around. It would be a nice break from the hustle of the day to spend a few minutes searching for cool, clear water.
Shortly after she stepped off the path, she entered an isolated cove lush with an unspoiled hardwood forest. She wandered farther in, noting oak, buckeye, walnut, sourwood, ash, and beech, as well as the expected underlying scrub cedar and stunted fir. The leafy tops of the soaring hardwoods intermeshed, enclosing her under a protective canopy. As if poured through a heavenly sieve, sprinkles of sunlight glittered through the shadows, pooling like melted butter on the forest floor and highlighting the tips of beech fern with gold.
In awe, she continued into the depths, arms outstretched, trailing her fingers over the sometimes-sleek, sometimes-rough bark of the trees. Tap. Tap. Tap. She heard the staccato drum of a woodpecker’s sharp beak probing a hollow limb for insects. She inhaled the ancient, undisturbed, verdant scent of the forest like a history lesson, imagining the passage of time trapped by rings inside the trunks of the trees. More than likely, on this very spot, an Indian scout had crept silently through the trees, his moccasin-covered feet leaving nary a trace. Perhaps the redskin had tracked the wily Daniel Boone or the elusive Simon Kenton; perhaps he had his eye on a sleek deer or a fatted buffalo and stopped where she now stood to insert an arrow into his bow.
Under her feet, a maidenhair fern tickled her ankles with long, drooping leaflets. She stooped to pick one. As a girl, she’d often gathered these fronds to make flowing green wigs for her dolls and once for her dog. Poor Steady had been so embarrassed.
She stopped to remove a worm that inched up her sleeve, measuring her for a new suit of clothes, and deposited him gently on a moss-covered rock. Many times she’d lined her dolls’ beds with just such velvety moss.
The hush of the forest was so deep that the bright notes of a wren amplified accordingly, and a cardinal’s song ricocheted joyously from branch to branch overhead. She strained to hear the slightest splash of water against rock—sure sign of a spring. It was there, she thought, somewhere on the other side of the massive tulip poplar barring her path. A tree fit to hide Goliath himself.
A tiny prickle of fear buzzed her consciousness like a bumblebee searching for a honeysuckle vine. She swallowed hard, disappointed that she had let an unpleasant sentiment enter this hallowed
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