Felix, so far as my remembrance goes, never to success in the of Bitter Apples. He gave up trying after awhile; and he also gave up praying about it, saying in bitterness of spirit that there was no use in praying when other fellows prayed against you out of spite. He and Peter remained on bad terms for some time, however.
We were all of us too tired those nights to do any special praying. Sometimes I fear our "regular" prayers were over, or in anything but haste. October was a busy month on the hill farms. The apples had to be picked, and this work fell mainly to us children. We stayed home from school to do it. It was pleasant work and there was a great deal of fun in it; but it was hard, too, and our arms and backs ached roundly at night. In the mornings it was very ; in the afternoons tolerable; but in the evenings we lagged, and the laughter and of fresher hours were lacking.
Some of the apples had to be picked very carefully. But with others it did not matter; we boys would climb the trees and shake the apples down until the girls for mercy. The days were crisp and , with warm sunshine and a tang of frost in the air, with the woodsy odours of the grasses. The hens and turkeys prowled about, pecking at windfalls, and Pat made mad rushes at them amid the fallen leaves. The world beyond the was in a royal magnificence of colouring, under the vivid blue autumn sky. The big by the gate was a splendid golden , and the that were through the spruce waved blood-red banners over the sombre cone-bearers. The Story Girl generally had her head garlanded with their leaves. They became her vastly. Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have worn them. Those two girls were of a domestic type that ill with the wildfire in Nature's . But when the Story Girl wreathed her nut brown tresses with leaves it seemed, as Peter said, that they grew on her—as if the gold and flame of her spirit had broken out in a coronal, as much a part of her as the pale halo seems a part of the Madonna it encircles.
What tales she told us on those far-away autumn days, peopling the russet with folk of an elder world. Many a princess rode by us on her palfrey, many a swaggering it bravely in and adown Uncle Stephen's Walk, many a stately lady, silken clad, walked in that opulent orchard!
When we had filled our baskets they had to be carried to the granary , and the contents stored in or spread on the floor to further. We ate a good many, of course, feeling that the labourer was of his hire. The apples from our own birthday trees were stored in separate barrels with our names. We might dispose of them as we willed. Felicity sold hers to Uncle Alec's hired man—and was badly cheated to boot, for he levanted shortly afterwards, taking the apples with him, having paid her only half her rightful due. Felicity has not gotten over that to this day.
Cecily, dear heart, sent most of hers to the hospital in town, and no doubt gathered in therefrom of and satisfaction of soul, such as can never be purchased by any process of bargain and sale. The rest of us ate our apples, or carried them to school where we them for such treasures as our schoolmates and we .
There was a dusky, little, pear-shaped apple—from one of Uncle Stephen's trees—which was our favourite; and next to it a delicious, juicy yellow apple from Aunt Louisa's tree. We were also fond of the big sweet apples; we used to throw them up in the air and let them fall on the ground until they were and to the bursting point. Then we sucked on the juice; sweeter was it than the nectar drunk by blissful gods on the Thessalian hill.
Sometimes we worked until the cold yellow sunsets faded out over the darkening distances, and the hunter's moon looked down on us through the sparkling air. The of autumn above us. Peter and the Story Girl knew all about them, and imparted their knowledge to us generously. I recall Peter on the Pulpit Stone, one night ere moonrise, and pointing them out to us, occasionally having a difference of opinion with the Story Girl over the name of some particular star. Job's and the Northern Cross were to the west of us; south of us flamed Fomalhaut. The Great Square of Pegasus was over our heads. Cassiopeia sat enthroned in her beautiful chair in the north-east; and north of us the Dippers swung untiringly around the Pole Star. Cecily and Felix were the only ones who could distinguish the double star in the handle of the Big Dipper, and greatly did they plume themselves thereon. The Story Girl told us the myths and legends woven around these immemorial clusters, her very voice taking on a clear, remote, sound as she talked of them. When she ceased, we came back to earth, feeling as if we had been millions of miles away in the blue ether, and that all our old familiar surroundings were momentarily forgotten and strange.
That night when he out the stars to us from the Pulpit Stone was the last time for several weeks that Peter shared our and pastime. The next day he complained of headache and sore throat, and seemed to prefer lying on Aunt Olivia's kitchen sofa to doing any work. As it was not in Peter to be a he was left in peace, while we picked apples. Felix alone, must unjustly and spitefully, declared that Peter was simply shirking.
"He's just lazy, that's what's the matter with him," he said.
"Why don't you talk sense, if you must talk?" said Felicity. "There's no sense in calling Peter lazy. You might as well say I had black hair. Of course, Peter, being a Craig, has his faults, but he's a smart boy. His father was lazy but his mother hasn't a lazy bone in her body, and Peter takes after her."
"Uncle Roger says Peter's father wasn't exactly lazy," said the Story Girl. "The trouble was, there were so many other things he liked better than work."
"I wonder if he'll ever come back to his family," said Cecily. "Just think how dreadful it would be if OUR father had left us like that!"
"Our father is a King," said Felicity loftily, "and Peter's father was only a Craig. A member of our family COULDN'T behave like that."
"They say there must be a black sheep in every family," said the
Story Girl.............