By Elia Wilkinson Peattie
Elia Wilkinson Peattie was once a prolific fiction author who targeted her reviews as a girl within the West in dozens of essays, brief tales, and novels. In "A Mountain Woman," Peattie provides us the exciting story of a cosmopolitan big apple urban architect who marries a country yet eminently functional girl from the mountains of Colorado and brings her again to the East to mingle with excessive society. [C:\Users\Microsoft\Documents\Calibre Library]
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It's nicer to be out at night," he said to Catherine. "Then you don't keep look- ing off at things; you can look inside;" and he struck his breast with his splay hand. Cattle are timorous under the stars. The vastness of the plains, the sweep of the wind under the unbroken arch, frighten them; they are made for the close comforts of the barn-yard; and the apprehension is con- tagious, as every ranchman knows. Waite realized the need of becoming good friends with his animals. Night after night, riding up and down in the twilight of the stars, or dozing, rolled in his blanket, in the shelter of a knoll, he would hear a low roar; it was the cry of the alarmist.
The bowed man in the car-seat remem- bered with a flush of reminiscent misery how the lad turned suddenly in his walk and entered the door of a drinking-room that stood open. It was very comfortable within. The screens kept out the chill of the autumn night, the sawdust-sprinkled floor was clean, the tables placed near together, the bar glittering, the attendants white-aproned and brisk. David liked the place, and he liked better still the laughter that came from a room within. It had a note in it a little different from anything he had ever heard before in his life, and one that echoed his mood.
I am sure I have imagined every- thing just as it was. I begged papa to help you, but he was very angry. You see, papa was so peculiar. He thought more of the appearances of things, perhaps, than of facts. It infuriated him to think of me as being concerned about you or with you. I did not know he could be so angry, and his anger did not die, but for days it cast such a shadow over me that I used to wish I was dead. Only I would not disobey him, and now I am glad of that. We were in France three months, and then, coming home, papa died.
A Mountain Woman by Elia Wilkinson Peattie
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