Free Steeplechase by Jane Langton Page B

crisis was too great and her trouble too crushing to give him any right to look at her. Turning away, he put on his hat. “I’ll be back on Sunday, if it’s no trouble.”
    â€œOf course not,” said Isabelle, and she went back to James.
    â€œWhere were we, James?” she said, picking up A Tale of Two Cities. “Oh, I remember.” Sitting down beside him, she began to read. “‘ Good night, citizen,’ said Sydney Carton. ‘How goes the Republic? ’” Isabelle paused before reading the sawyer’s response.
    â€œâ€˜ You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount to a hundred soon. ’”

One of the Noblest Works of God
    T he giant tree that straddled the stone wall at the bottom of the Nashoba burial ground had already been growing on this hillside when the tribe of Nipmucks came from the north to fish at the junction of the rivers and hunt in the forest of the countryside known as Nashoba. Some of them had been “praying Indians,” but all of them, whether converted to Christianity or not, would have seen the branches of the chestnut tree hung with fragrant yellow flowers in summer. And they would have gathered the harvest of nuts that rained down in the fall, just as throngs of children did now, appearing like magic under the tree to fill pockets and baskets and pails.
    The chestnut tree was massively broad and tall, rising from its gnarled platform like a monument from a pedestal. Some of its branches were dead and bare, but new shoots had sprung up to become part of the whole, and now the entire tree was sprightly with fresh green leaves. Whenever Josiah Gideon left his front door, he gave it an admiring glance.
    This morning as he came out to prime the pump and fill a pitcher, Josiah looked across the road and saw Horatio Biddle standing under the tree. Josiah set the pitcher on the doorstep, walked across the road, and climbed over the wall to say good morning. Then the two clergymen, neighbors on this hillside and—whatever Ingeborg Biddle might say—colleagues in the ministry, stood side by side under the tree, contemplating the magnificent spread of leaf and branch over their heads. As always, the sight exhilarated Josiah. He wanted to exclaim, but he refrained.
    Then the man beside him made a remark. “See there, it’s cracked the monument to Deacon Sweetser.”
    Josiah lowered his eyes down and down, through layer after green layer, to the foot of the tree, where the slate tombstone of old Deacon Sweetser stood tall and tilted, heaved to one side by the thick mass of interwoven roots.
    â€œIt won’t do,” said Horatio Biddle. “And anyhow, that tree’s too old. Next big wind, the whole thing will fall down.”
    Josiah looked at him keenly. “It hasn’t fallen yet.”
    â€œNo, but it’s bound to happen.” Horatio whistled for a moment, then clapped his hands and made a pronouncement. “That tree must be removed.”
    â€œYou’re jesting,” said Josiah.
    â€œNo, no, it must come down.”
    â€œCome down?” Josiah was dumbfounded. “Surely you don’t mean it? Look here, Horatio, I have a better idea. Why not move Deacon Sweetser instead?”
    â€œMove Deacon Sweetser? Profane a Christian burial?” Horatio Biddle was shocked in his turn. “Remove a casket from the place where it was reverently interred a century ago? My dear Josiah, have you no respect for the dead? That is an abominable suggestion.” Horatio dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, turned away, and said once again, “The tree must come down.”
    â€œNo,” cried Josiah. “Horatio, you wouldn’t do anything so outrageous.”
    Pausing to look back, Horatio said patiently, “Calm yourself, Josiah,” and glanced up again at the tree. “Lord God in heaven, that trunk must be eight or nine feet