"And now they pay the shoemaker more than a 'fib' to put a few pegs in
the shoes and take the squeak out."
"Well, well, how things get different! But then I'm glad mine don't
make no noise if that's the way now."
Commencement day Millie could have held her own with any well-dressed
city woman. Her plain face was almost beautiful as she stood ready for
the great event of Amanda's life. At the last moment she thought of the
big bush of shrubs in the yard--"I must get me a shrub to smell in the
Commencement," she decided. So she gathered one of the queer-looking,
fragrant brown blossoms, tied it in the corner of her handkerchief and
bruised it gently so that the sweet perfume might be exuded. "Um-ah,"
she breathed in the odor, "now I'm ready for Millersville."
As she stood with Mrs. Reist and Philip on the front porch waiting for
Uncle Amos she said to Mrs. Reist, "Ain't Amanda fixed me up fine?
Abody'd hardly know me."
Mrs. Reist in her plain gray Mennonite dress and stiff black silk
bonnet was, as usual, an attractive figure. Philip, grown to the
dignity of long trousers, carried himself with all the poise of
seventeen. He was now a student in the Lancaster High School and had he
not learned to dress and act like city boys do! Uncle Amos, in his best
Sunday suit of gray, his Mennonite hat in his hand, ambled along last
as the little group went down the aisle of the Millersville chapel to
see Amanda's graduation.
As Amanda marched in, her red hair parted on the side and coiled into a
womanly coiffure, wearing a simple white organdie, she was just one of
the hundred graduates who marched into the chapel. But later, as she
stood alone on the platform and delivered her oration, "The Flowers of
the Garden Spot," she held the interested attention of all in that vast
audience. She knew her subject and succeeded in waking in the hearts of
her hearers a desire to go out in the green fields and quiet woods and
find the lovely habitants of the flower world.
After it was all over and she stood, shining-eyed and happy, among her
own people in the chapel, Martin Landis joined them. He, too, had left
childhood behind. The serious gravity of his new estate was deepened in
his face, but the same tenderness that had soothed the numerous Landis
babies also still dwelt there. One of the regrets of his heart was the
fact that nature had denied him great stature. He had always dreamed of
growing into a tall man, powerful in physique, like Lyman Mertzheimer.
But nature was obstinate and Martin Landis reached manhood, a strong,
sturdy being, but of medium height. His mother tried to assuage his
disappointment by asserting that even if his stature was not great as
he wished his heart was big enough to make up for it. He tried to live
up to her valuation of him, but it was scant comfort as he stood in the
presence of physically big men. Life had not dealt generously with him
as with Amanda in the matter of education. He wanted a chance to study
at some institution higher than the little school at Crow Hill but his
father needed him on the farm. The elder man was subject to attacks of
rheumatism and at such times the brunt of farm labor fell upon the
shoulders of Martin.