By Elia Wilkinson Peattie
Elia Wilkinson Peattie used to be a prolific fiction author who particular her studies as a lady within the West in dozens of essays, brief tales, and novels. In "A Mountain Woman," Peattie provides us the interesting 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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Extra resources for A Mountain Woman
But she had a wonderful way of mak- ing things with eggs and milk, and she kept her little table always inviting. The day before Thanksgiving she determined that they should all have a frolic. "By Christmas," she said to Kitty, "the snow may be so bad that I cannot get to town. " Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor 34 There is no denying that Catherine used slang even in talking to the children. The little pony had been sold long ago, and going to town meant a walk of twelve miles.
They were his theatre, his opera, his library, his lecture hall. He rehearsed them again there on the cars. He never wearied of them. To be sure, other thoughts had come to him at night. Much that to most men seems com- plex and puzzling had grown to appear simple to him. In a way his brain had quickened and deepened through the years of solitude. He had thought out a great many things. He had read a few good books and digested them, and the visions in his heart had kept him from being bitter. Yet, suddenly confronted with liberty, turned loose like a pastured colt, without master or rein, he felt only confusion and dismay.
He was going to the little chapel where the mission school had previously been held. Here was a rude pulpit, and back of it a much-disfigured virgin, dressed in turkey- red calico. Two cheap candles in their tin sticks guarded this figure, and beneath, on the floor, was spread an otter-skin of perfect beauty. The seats were of pine, without backs, and the wind whistled through the chinks between the logs. Moreover, the place was dirty. Lenten service had been out of the question. The living had neither time nor strength to come to worship; and the dead were not given the honor of a burial from church in these times of terror.
A Mountain Woman by Elia Wilkinson Peattie