Azalea: The Story of a Little Girl in the Blue Ridge MountainsPeattie, Elia Wilkinson
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Azalea: The Story of a Little Girl in the Blue Ridge Mountains
Peattie, Elia Wilkinson
Blue Ridge Mountains -- Juvenile fiction; Girls -- Juvenile fiction; North Carolina -- Juvenile fiction
“I know I’m silly, pa, but I’m so happy! You can’t think how happy I am!
There now, don’t you try to tell me not to be too happy, because I’ve
simply got to be happy to-night. Now, I’ll be good and talk like a
sensible person all the rest of the ride. I want to tell you more about
Mr. Summers, and my cousin Barbara.”
“Your cousin Barbara?”
“Yes, Mrs. Summers, you know. She’s so little she seems almost like a
girl. And we made up our minds to be kin.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
“Yes. We’re going to write to each other just like we were cousins.
See?”
“Eh-huh.”
“I just love her!”
“There you go again.”
“Well, I can’t help it if I do. Tell me about Carin, pa.”
“I reckon she’ll be up to see you to-morrow to tell you everything
herself. She’s going into some kind of picture making, and her pa and ma
is simply rooting up the earth, doing things.” He told her about the
project for developing the mountain industries and the part they all were
to play in it.
“Something laid out for every last one of us, you see.”
“Except me, pa. Didn’t they make plans for me?”
“They didn’t mention any, but I suspicion that they’ve got more plans for
you than for anybody else. And that makes me feel kind o’ bothered, on
ma’s account. Now that you tell me about your being the granddaughter of
old Colonel Atherton, with a sort of right to live in the great
house—though it did pass out of the family years ago—I’m more bothered
than ever.”
Azalea laughed again.
“I don’t believe you’re bothered at all, pa,” she declared. “Why, here
we are, home! Why, we’re really home! Didn’t the time pass quickly?
Ma! Ma! Hullo, boys! Where’s ma?”
Mary McBirney folded the slight form of the girl in her arms.
“My prayers was answered,” she said simply. “Just bear witness,
children. They was all answered. It’s a lesson to us, ain’t it? If we
want anything of the Lord, just ask him, believing. Are you clean
starved out, pet? Come right along in and have supper. Pa, the boys
will put up the horses. You hike in the house and eat something decent.
I suppose you had some kind of stuff down at that there inn. My land,
it’s a wonder to me them folks can’t learn how to cook.”
She led the girl in and seated her before the table with its fine bread,
its glasses of foaming milk, its cottage cheese and honey. Then she
pushed her husband to his seat, and hung over him, then fluttered to
Azalea to hang over her like an anxious mother bird.
“Here’s a little hot ham to help quell your appetites. And here’s some
hominy cakes. My goodness, Azalea, do eat something. Pa, you just
ruined your appetite down there in that miserable eating place. Ain’t it
wonderful to have Zalie home again, pa? The ways of the Lord are past
our comprehending. You must tell me everything, Zalie—every last thing.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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