Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
Aladdin Rubs His Lamp
Your esteemed contribution entitled Wareham Wildflowers has been accepted for The
Pilot, Miss Perkins," said Rebecca, entering the room where Emma Jane was darning the
firm's stockings. "I stayed to tea with Miss Maxwell, but came home early to tell you."
"You are joking, Becky!" faltered Emma Jane, looking up from her work.
"Not a bit; the senior editor read it and thought it highly instructive; it appears in the next
"Not in the same number with your poem about the golden gates that close behind us
when we leave school?"--and Emma Jane held her breath as she awaited the reply.
"Even so, Miss Perkins."
"Rebecca," said Emma Jane, with the nearest approach to tragedy that her nature would
permit, "I don't know as I shall be able to bear it, and if anything happens to me, I ask you
solemnly to bury that number of The Pilot with me."
Rebecca did not seem to think this the expression of an exaggerated state of feeling,
inasmuch as she replied, "I know; that's just the way it seemed to me at first, and even
now, whenever I'm alone and take out the Pilot back numbers to read over my
contributions, I almost burst with pleasure; and it's not that they are good either, for they
look worse to me every time I read them."
"If you would only live with me in some little house when we get older," mused Emma
Jane, as with her darning needle poised in air she regarded the opposite wall dreamily, "I
would do the housework and cooking, and copy all your poems and stories, and take
them to the post-office, and you needn't do anything but write. It would be perfectly
"I'd like nothing better, if I hadn't promised to keep house for John," replied Rebecca.
"He won't have a house for a good many years, will he?"
"No," sighed Rebecca ruefully, flinging herself down by the table and resting her head on
her hand. "Not unless we can contrive to pay off that detestable mortgage. The day grows
farther off instead of nearer now that we haven't paid the interest this year."