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Lyddy was sitting under her favorite pink apple…tree； a mass
of fragrant bloom； more beautiful than Aurora's morning gown。
She was sewing； lining with snowy lawn innumerable pockets in a
square basket that she held in her lap。 The pockets were small；
the needles were fine； the thread was a length of cobweb。
Everything about the basket was small except the hopes that she
was stitching into it； they were so great that her heart
could scarcely hold them。 Nature was stirring everywhere。
The seeds were springing in the warm earth。 The hens
were clucking to their downy chicks just out of the egg。
The birds were flying hither and thither in the apple boughs；
and there was one little home of straw so hung that Lyddy could
look into it and see the patient mother brooding her nestlings。
The sight of her bright eyes； alert for every sign of danger；
sent a rush of feeling through Lyddy's veins that made her long
to clasp the little feathered mother to her own breast。
A sweet gravity and consecration of thought possessed her；
and the pink blossoms falling into her basket were not more delicate
than the rose…colored dreams that flushed her soul。
Anthony put in the last wooden peg； and taking up his violin called；
〃Davy； lad； come out and tell me what this means！〃
Davy was used to this； from a wee boy he had been asked
to paint the changing landscape of each day； and to put into
words his uncle's music。
Lyddy dropped her needle； the birds stopped to listen；
and Anthony played。
〃It is this apple orchard in May time；〃 said Davy；
〃it is the song of the green things growing； isn't it？〃
〃What do you say； dear？〃 asked Anthony； turning to his wife。
Love and hope had made a poet of Lyddy。 〃I think Davy is right；〃
she said。 〃It is a dream of the future； the story of all new and
beautiful things growing out of the old。 It is full of the sweetness
of present joy； but there is promise and hope in it besides。
It is like the Spring sitting in the lap of Winter； and holding
a baby Summer in her bosom。〃
Davy did not quite understand this； though he thought it pretty；
but Lyddy's husband did； and when the boy went back to his books；
he took his wife in his arms and kissed her twice；once for herself；
and then once again。
…
THE EVENTFUL TRIP OF THE MIDNIGHT CRY。
In the little villages along the Saco River；
in the year 1850 or thereabouts； the arrival and departure
of the stage…coach was the one exciting incident of the day。
It did not run on schedule time in those days； but started
from Limington or Saco； as the case might be； at about or
somewhere near a certain hour； and arrived at the other end
of the route whenever it got there。 There were no trains to meet
（the railway popularly known as the 〃York and Yank'em〃 was not built
till 1862）； the roads were occasionally good and generally bad；
and thus it was often dusk； and sometimes late in the evening；
when the lumbering vehicle neared its final destination
and drew up to the little post…offices along the way。
However late it might be； the village postmaster had to be on hand
to receive and open the mailbags； after which he distributed
the newspapers and letters in a primitive set of pine
pigeon…holes on the wall； turned out the loafers； 〃banked up〃
the fire； and went home to bed。
〃Life〃 Lane was a jolly good fellow；just the man to sit on the box
seat and drive the three horses through ruts and 〃thank…you…ma'ams；〃
slush and mud and snow。 There was a perennial twinkle in his eye；
his ruddy cheeks were wrinkled with laughter； and he had a good story
forever on the tip of his tongue。 He stood six feet two in his stockings
（his mother used to say she had the longest Life of any woman in the
State o' Maine）； his shoulders were broad in proportion； and his lungs
just the sort to fill amply his noble chest。 Therefore； when he had
what was called in the vernacular 〃turrible bad goin'；〃 and when any other
stage…driver in York County would have shrunk into his muffler and snapped
and snarled on the slightest provocation； Life Lane opened his great
throat when he passed over the bridges at Moderation or Bonny Eagle；
and sent forth a golden； sonorous 〃Yo ho！ halloo！〃 into the still air。
The later it was and the stormier it was； the more vigor he put into
the note； and it was a drowsy postmaster indeed who did not start
from his bench by the fire at the sound of that ringing halloo。
Thus the old stage…coach； in Life Lane's time； was generally called 〃The
Midnight Cry；〃 and not such a bad name either； whether the term was derisively
applied because the stage was always late； or whether Life's 〃Yo ho！〃
had caught the popular fancy。
There was a pretty girl in Pleasant River （and； alas！ another in
Bonny Eagle） who went to bed every night with the chickens； but stayed awake
till she heard first the rumble of heavy wheels on a bridge； then a faint；
bell…like tone that might have come out of the mouth of a silver horn；
whereupon she blushed as if it were an offer of marriage； and turned
over and went to sleep。
If the stage arrived in good season； Life would have a few minutes
to sit on the loafers' beach beside the big open fire； and what a
feature he was； with his tales culled from all sorts of passengers；
who were never so fluent as when sitting beside him 〃up in front！〃
There was a tallow dip or two； and no other light save that of the fire。
Who that ever told a story could wish a more inspiring auditor than
Jacob Bean； a literal； honest old fellow who took the most
vital interest in every detail of the stories told； looking upon
their heroes and their villains as personal friends or foes。
He always sat in one corner of the fireplace； poker in hand；
and the crowd tacitly allowed him the role of Greek chorus。
Indeed； nobody could have told a story properly without Jake Bean's
parentheses and punctuation marks poked in at exciting junctures。
〃That 's so every time！〃 he would say； with a lunge at the forestick。
〃I'll bate he was glad then！〃 with another stick flung on in just
the right spot。 〃Golly！ but that served 'em right！〃 with a thrust
at the backlog。
The New England story seemed to flourish under these conditions：
a couple of good hard benches in a store or tavern； where you could
not only smoke and chew but could keep on your hat （there was not a man
in York County in those days who could say anything worth hearing
with his hat off）； the blazing logs to poke； and a cavernous fireplace
into which tobacco juice could be neatly and judiciously directed。
Those were good old times； and the stage…coach was a mighty thing
when school children were taught to take off their hats and make
a bow as the United States mail passed the old stage tavern。
Life Lane's coaching days were over long before this story begins；
but the Midnight Cry was still in pretty fair condition； and was driven
ostensibly by Jeremiah Todd； who lived on the 〃back…nippin'〃 road from
Bonny Eagle to Limington。
When I say ostensibly driven； I but follow the lead of
the villagers； who declared that； though Jerry held the reins；
Mrs。 Todd drove the stage； as she drove everything else。
As a proof of this lady's strong individuality； she was still
generally spoken of as 〃the Widder Bixby；〃 though she had been
six years wedded to Jeremiah Todd。 The Widder Bixby； then；
was strong； self…reliant； valiant； indomitable。 Jerry Todd was；
to use his wife's own characterization； so soft you could
stick a cat's tail into him without ruffling the fur。
He was always alluded to as 〃the Widder Bixby's husband；〃
but that was no new or special mortification； for he had been
known successively as Mrs。 Todd's youngest baby； the Widder
Todd's only son； Susan Todd's brother； and； when Susan Todd's
oldest boy fought at Chapultepec； William Peck's uncle。
The Widder Bixby's record was far different。
She was the mildest of the four Stover sisters of Scarboro；
and the quartette was supposed to have furnished more kinds
of temper than had ever before come from one household。
When Peace； the eldest； was mad； she frequently kicked the churn
out of the kitchen door； cream and all；and that lost
her a husband。
Love； the second； married； and according to local tradition once
kicked her husband all the way up Foolscap Hill with a dried cod…fish。
Charity； the third； married too； for the Stovers of Scarboro were
handsome girls； but she got a fit mate in her spouse。 She failed
to intimidate him； for he was a foeman worthy of her steel；
but she left his bed and board； and left in a manner that kept up
the credit of the Stover family of Scarboro。
They had had a stormy breakfast one morning before he started
to Portland with a load of hay。 〃Good…by；〃 she called；
as she stood in the door； 〃you've seen the last of me！〃
〃No such luck！〃 he said； and whipped up his horse。
Charity b