A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite
101 Pages

A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's Life.


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The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's Life. by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's Life. Author: Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney Release Date: February 18, 2004 [EBook #11141] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SUMMER *** Produced by Janet Kegg and PG Distributed Proofreaders A SUMMER IN LESLIE GOLDTHWAITE'S LIFE By Mrs. A. D. T. WHITNEY 1866, 1894 TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND MARIA S. CUMMINS OF DAYS AMONG THE MOUNTAINS MADE BEAUTIFUL BY HER COMPANIONSHIP I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE STORY PREFACE TO REAL FOLKS SERIES. "Leslie Goldthwaite" was the first of a series of four, which grew from this beginning, and was written in 1866 and the years nearly following; the first two stories—this and "We Girls"—having been furnished, by request, for the magazine "Our Young Folks," published at that time with such success by Messrs. Fields, Osgood & Co., and edited by Mr. Howard M. Ticknor and Miss Lucy Larcom. The last two volumes—"Real Folks" and "The Other Girls"—were asked for to complete the set, and were not delayed by serial publication, but issued at once, in their order of completion, in book form. There is a sequence of purpose, character, and incident in the four stories, of which it is well to remind new readers, upon their reappearance in fresh editions. They all deal especially with girl-life and home-life; endeavoring, even in the narration of experiences outside the home and seeming to preclude its life, to keep for girlhood and womanhood the true motive and tendency, through whatever temporary interruption and necessity, of and toward the best spirit and shaping of womanly work and surrounding; making the home-life the ideal one, and home itself the centre and goal of effort and hope. The writing of "The Other Girls" was interrupted by the Great Fire of 1872, and the work upon the Women's Relief Committee, which brought close contact and personal knowledge to reinforce mere sympathy and theory,—and so, I hope, into this last of the series, a touch of something that may deepen the influence of them all to stronger help. I wish, without withdrawing or superseding the special dedication of "Leslie Goldthwaite" to the memory of the dear friend with whom the weeks were spent in which I gathered material for Leslie's "Summer," to remember, in this new presentation of the whole series, that other friend, with whom all the after work in it was associated and made the first links of a long regard and fellowship, now lifted up and reaching onward into the hopes and certainties of the "Land o' the Leal." I wish to join to my own name in this, the name of Lucy Larcom, which stands representative of most brave and earnest work, in most gentle, womanly living. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. Milton, 1893. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE GREEN OF THE LEAF CHAPTER II. WAYSIDE GLIMPSES CHAPTER III. EYESTONES CHAPTER IV. MARMADUKE WHARNE CHAPTER V. HUMMOCKS CHAPTER VI. DAKIE THAYNE CHAPTER VII. DOWN AT OUTLEDGE CHAPTER VIII. SIXTEEN AND SIXTY CHAPTER IX. "I DON'T SEE WHY" CHAPTER X. GEODES CHAPTER XI. IN THE PINES CHAPTER XII. CROWDED OUT CHAPTER XIII. A HOWL CHAPTER XIV. "FRIENDS OF MAMMON" CHAPTER XV. QUICKSILVER AND GOLD CHAPTER XVI. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US?" CHAPTER XVII. LEAF-GLORY A SUMMER IN LESLIE GOLDTHWAITE'S LIFE. CHAPTER I. THE GREEN OF THE LEAF. "Nothing but leaves—leaves—leaves! The green things don't know enough to do anything better!" Leslie Goldthwaite said this, standing in the bay-window among her plants, which had been green and flourishing, but persistently blossomless, all winter, and now the spring days were come. Cousin Delight looked up; and her white ruffling, that she was daintily hemstitching, fell to her lap, as she looked, still with a certain wide intentness in her eyes, upon the pleasant window, and the bright, fresh things it framed. Not the least bright and fresh among them was the human creature in her early girlhood, tender and pleasant in its beautiful leafage, but waiting, like any other young and growing life, to prove what sort of flower should come of it. "Now you've got one of your 'thoughts,' Cousin Delight! I see it 'biggening,' as Elspie says." Leslie turned round, with her little green watering-pot suspended in her hand, waiting for the thought. To have a thought, and to give it, were nearly simultaneous things with Cousin Delight; so true, so pure, so unselfish, so made to give,—like perfume or music, which cannot be, and be withheld,—were thoughts with her. I must say a word, before I go further, of Delight Goldthwaite. I think of her as of quite a young person; you, youthful readers, would doubtless have declared that she was old,—very old, at least for a young lady. She was twenty-eight, at this time of which I write; Leslie, her young cousin, was just "past the half, and catching up," as she said herself,—being fifteen. Leslie's mother called Miss Goldthwaite, playfully, "Ladies' Delight;" and, taking up the idea, half her women friends knew her by this significant and epigrammatic title. There was something doubly pertinent in it. She made you think at once of nothing so much as heart's-ease,—a garden heart'sease, that flower of many names; not of the frail, scentless, wild woodviolet,—she had been cultured to something larger. The violet nature was there, colored and shaped more richly, and gifted with rare fragrance—for those whose delicate sense could perceive it. The very face was a pansy face; with its deep, large, purple-blue eyes, and golden brows and lashes, the color of her hair,—pale gold, so pale that careless people who had perception only for such beauty as can flash upon you from a crowd, or across a drawing-room, said hastily that she had no brows or lashes, and that this spoiled her. She was not a beauty, therefore; nor was she, in any sort, a belle. She never drew around her the common attention that is paid eagerly to very pretty, outwardly bewitching girls; and she never seemed to care for this. At a party, she was as apt as not to sit in a corner; but the quiet people,—the mothers, looking on, or the girls, waiting for partners,—getting into that same corner also, found the best pleasure of their evening there. There was something about her dress, too, that women appreciated most fully;