THE LANDSWOMAN
December, I 9 I 8
StoryCompetition-Anne in the Moonlight.
Second Prize
A NNE felt decidedly cross.
It was pouring with rain, and
.n..she had been ordered to mend sacks in the barn, in company
with the red-headed farm boy. And Anne hated mending
sacks and all farm boys, but particularly red-haired ones. This
special boy, too, seemed to be an unusually obnoxious specimen.
He sat on a barrel and whistled "Annie Laurie," out of tune,
and kicked his heels, and, in fact, did everything possibleexcept mend sacks .
.. Annie Laurie." having begun to pall, he addressed himself
to Anne, in a needlessly loud tone :
"Say 1 you ever mended sacks afore ? 'Cos I tell you, y' aint
doin' tbat one right I "
Anne maintarned a stolid silence .
"Y'aint, you know J That 'ere 'ole- - Hi 1 There goes
a rat J u
Anne Jlew off her perch on the sack of potatoes, and made
for the door.
" Where ? Where ? " she gasped.
"There ain't no rat," returned the red-headed one. "You're
easy frightened, ain't yer ? "
Anne returned to her seat with all the dignity she could muster.
"I think you're very silly," she remarked, frigidiy. "Wh
don't you do some work ? "
An ne had left the City only eight short weeks previously,
and though she had overcome her one-time horror of mice,
worms, grubs, and other creepy things, rats were still a source of
terror-rats, and one other thing, which she never mentioned
to anyone-the darkness. It seemed to her an appalling thing
to have to go out of doors after dark, and on the few occasions
on which she had accompanied the farmer on his last rounds
she had been thankful for the friendiy light of the lantern he
carried.
He of the red hair was chewing an apple, but suddenly gulping
down a lump, he looked across at Anne.
" I say I " he exclaimed- " Who's a-goin' to see after the
sheep to-night, I'd like to know? Guv'nor always does it, but
he's a-bed to-day, ain't he ? That leaves me-and you I l
expect it'll have to be you, for I ain't a-goin' to turn: out once l
get inside the door to-night. You've only got to go up to see
they haven't broken through to the next field."
An ne made no reply.
Red-head regarded her speculatively.
"Hope you ain't afraid of the dark, 'cos it is dark all up
the road." A pause. Then, peering across, "Yah 1 You are
afraid. 'Fraid of the dark I Oh, my I "
.. Doti't talk nonsense t·" said An ne, in what were meant ·
be severe tones, but which collapsed in a quaver half-way through.
Would she really have to go-and alone ? It seemed likely .
The farmer was in bed with an attack of " Jlue," and his wife
much too busy. There remained herse If-and the boy. AndEto
ask for his company would be impossible-a confession of panic.
"Yes, you are 'fraid I Oh, what a baby I " sang red-head.
"I'm not afraid I" cried Anne indignantly, and, sweeping
aside the sacks, she marched out of the barn.
It was after tea, when the lamps were lighted, the curtains
drawn, aud everywhere warm and cosy, that the bolt fell.
Someone mnst go to the sheep. Would Anne go? Anne
put on a bold front and acquiesced. But her .tar was not in
ascendant that evening, for the farmer's wife was sorry, but
the lantern wi\S out of order.
"It'll be a bit dark up the road, but you'll see all rrght when
you get to the field," she cheerfully remarked. "Perhaps the
moon 'll come out. You can go across and get the boy if you
like," she added.
"Oh I no, thank you," said An ne airily. But when she Dad
stepped out and closed the door behind her, and stood alone
in the blank darkness of the farmyard, she knew she was not
so brave as she sounded, but only afraid of being thought afraid.
However, there she was, and as she could not, for obvious
reasons, go back she began to stumble forward to the gate
leading to the road. The rain had stopped, but how dark it
was I The darkness wrapped you all about and seemed to le
something solid, against which you had to push to make headway.
Ah I here was the gate. Anne opened it, and felt,the,hard~road
under her feet.
The faintest possible shaae of lightness showedfthe tops of
the hedges and the trees, and Anne made her way along by
feeling the ed!'(e of the grass by the roadside. Queer! noi!;es,
such as she had never heard before, came to he! t.hrough the
blackness-the movement of tiny creatures in the grass,
mysterious rustlings in the trees, and the squeak of a field-mouse
as he scuttled home. Somewhere, far off, an owl hooted, and,
from nearer, came the sleepy quack-quack of some restless duck.
Anne felt as if she had been walking for centuries. She had
no means of telling how far she was up the hill, for the more
she strained her eyes the less she seemed to see.
A light breeze sprang up and blew a long branch from the
hedge against her face. Anne sprang back nervously, and
realised she was at the top of the hill by the sheep field. With
a creeping sensation all up her spine, and her breath coming
quickly, she struggled in the darkness with the g"te. Once
through it she would be away from the hedges and able to see
better.
Suddenly a faint silvery light began to quiver up behind the
trees, and grew stronger and stronger till at. last Anne noticed
it, and turned. Up over the brow of a hi11 rose the moon,
slowly, slowly, mounting higher and higher-a great beaming,
friendly moon, not like the remote yellow blob that had hung
over the streets of Anne's native town. This was something
different. The whole countryside was transformed, too. And
the stars I Never had Anne seen so many. They were sprinkled
over the wide sky in clu•ters and bunches, and they twinkled
and shone down cheerfully on her. The river winding past the
foot of the hill was a shimmermg blue and silver pathway,
stretching away and away. Gone were all her fears of
the night as she stood staring with wide eyes at this wonderful
new world she had suddenly tumbled into-this world which
was not frightening in the least, but comfortable, restful, and
somehow strangely familiar. The moon was well up in the
sky now, and every blade of grass seemed to stand out separately.
Away over at the other side of the field the sheep clustered
in a silvery-white group. Sl