DEEP CHANNEL


DEEP CHANNEL

BY
MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
BOSTON


COPYRIGHT 1923 BY MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


[3]

DEEP CHANNEL

I

Where shall we pick up the thread of JulieRose’s life? It runs, a hidden strand, back andback into the past, crossed and recrossed by thethreads of other lives,—all weaving a pattern ofhumanity on an unseen loom,—deflected sometimesby the pull of natures stronger than herown, widened here and narrowed there by circumstance,winding itself for the most part alongthe muddy streets of Hart’s Run, to the shops onerrands for her mother, to the schoolhouse, andon Sundays to the Methodist church; sometimes,more rarely, running out of the village by themain street, which so quickly turns itself into arutty highway, up the sides of the surroundingmountains on excursions for chestnuts in theautumn, or for bloodroot and anemone blossomsin the spring.

Following the thread, one may see Julie Roseas a little girl—such a meagre, anxious, and correct[4]little girl!—out on the streets in hood andlittle shawl in winter or in a checked wash-dressin summer, weaving her pattern of life throughthe village. An uncertain pattern, deflected as itis by the constant necessity for sudden crossingsof the street to avoid encounters which frightenher, yet at the same time to give the impressionthat she changed her course for other reasons.Here she crosses, one might suppose, to speak toold Mrs. Brewster; in reality it is to escape agroup of rough boys who would be sure to taunther, or even give her hair a jerk, did she dare topass them. There she recrosses, apparently topeep at a bed of zinnias but really to avoid a cow,which, blocking the sidewalk, might swoop itshorns at her were she to face it. Always there isthe fear and always the compulsion of concealment,for worse even than being afraid is to haveone’s fear uncovered by the laughter of people.But though a little nervous pulse flutters in herneck, and her eyes darken constantly with apprehension,yet her whole face can light up amazinglywhenever life is gracious to her: when someone gives her a red apple, for instance, or whenher teacher is kind.

[5]One sees her conscientiously hopping over themud puddles on the way to school to avoid soilingher shoes and stockings, because that wouldworry her mother; yet one may also see that apaper doll, whose pink cheeks and blue eyes fillher with a maternal delight, is snuggled underher shawl. Alas! at this point, following herthread of life, one sees very distinctly the look inher eyes the day that Edward Black snatchedthat paper doll away from her, and there beforethe whole school at playtime wrenched its headoff, and flung its decapitated body into a snow-bank.That was a gray winter day with dirtyyellowed snow upon the ground and fresh flakesdrifting down from a heavily

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