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From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
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Subject: {ASSM} new "Danielle 1902 .01" {Uther} (MF hist rom 1st) (1/2) <*>
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Date: Tue, 15 Jun 2004 10:10:02 -0400
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If you are under the age of 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else.

This material is Copyright, 2004, Uther Pendragon.  All rights 
reserved.  I specifically grant the right for all reproduction 
necessary for normal Usenet propagation.  I specifically grant 
the right of downloading and keeping ONE electronic copy for your 
personal reading so long as this notice is included.  Reposting 
requires previous permission.

Most of my other stories can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www

All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.


                          #  #  #  #  #

                          Danielle 1902 
                         Uther Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net

Chapter 1:

"This was," Danielle's papa commented, "the last harvest of the 
nineteenth century.  When everything's green and new again, it 
will be really new.  The twentieth century, the Christian 
Century.  Isn't this an exciting time, Nellie?"

Danielle didn't feel excited; being new wasn't -- pardon her -- 
very new for her.  Tomorrow, she was going to be the new girl in 
class once again.  She'd be starting the tenth grade in her ninth 
school.  (They'd stayed in Fort Plain two years.)


School was a lot like she'd expected.  Miss Blair, the teacher, 
knew all the other children, and -- worse -- they knew each 
other.  Nellie was 'the new girl' once again.  Recess was a chore 
for her, no more fun than lessons.

The only fun in the day was singing.  All the Osbornes could 
sing.  When they gathered 'round for devotions before bedtime, 
the readings were short, the prayers were short -- Papa said that 
saying short prayers was the hardest lesson a preacher ever 
learned -- but they sang three hymns.  Both mama and papa played 
the piano, and mama taught her children as they grew old enough 
to reach the pedals.

In the Whitesboro school, they not only sang "The Star Spangled 
Banner" every morning, they had music lessons three times a week.  
Miss Blair encouraged Nellie to sing as loudly as was comfortable 
for her.  "It doesn't help the others, dear, to hear best the 
voices which are off pitch."

Frank Granger, who sat behind her, was one of those voices.  Miss 
Blair suggested that he sing more quietly the first lesson.  She 
repeated that, now a direct order, during the second week while 
they were singing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."  This was 
one of Nellie's favorite songs, and when they got to the "glory, 
glory, hallelujah" part, she leaned back at her desk and 
gave it the volume it deserved.  Even when she felt a tug on her 
pigtail, she finished the verse.

"Frank Granger!" Miss Blair exclaimed.  The singing died out and 
there were gasps and giggles behind her.  She felt something wet 
against her shoulder.  "Don't shake your head, Nellie," Miss 
Blair continued.  "Mary go out to the pump with Nellie and help 
her rinse out her hair.  Here's a comb.  Nellie, if you want to 
go home and get another blouse after you've rinsed the ink out, 
you may.  Frank, come up here and bend over the desk."  Nellie 
had heard enough to figure out that Frank Granger had dipped her 
pigtail in his inkwell.

She bent over and held her pigtail in the stream of water that 
Mary pumped.  When the water seemed to be running clear, Mary 
helped unbraid her pigtail and pumped more water to wash it more 
thoroughly.  Nellie pumped for a minute while Mary rinsed her 
hands off, and then they undid the left pigtail and combed her 
hair.  "Thanks," she told Mary, as she started towards home.

"You're welcome.  I'm only sorry I missed seeing Frank whipped."

Back in class wearing a dress, Nellie exchanged desks with Frank.  
A boy came up to her at recess.  "Sorry for what Frank did," he 
said.  "Not as sorry as Frank will be after Papa hears about it, 
though.  Frank isn't going to want to sit down for dinner for a 
week.  Paul Granger."

"Nellie Osborne.  I wish I could see it."

"I know.  New Methody preacher's girl.  No you don't.  If you 
were in the woodshed with them, Papa would let him keep his pants 
up.  Going to be splinters in him this way.  Going to put your 
hair back in pigtails tomorrow?"

"Sure.  It will be dry then, and Miss Blair has me sitting 
behind Frank.  He won't touch my pigtails again."

"Well, do as *you* please.  I think you look nice like that, 
though."

Girls played in one part of the school yard at recess, and boys 
played in another.  When she wasn't in the girls' games, however, 
Paul often came over to talk to her.  She had wanted so much to 
be invited into the games of tag; now, when she was, she felt a 
little disappointed that she wouldn't talk with Paul.  Farm kids 
and town kids didn't get together much out of school.  When they 
did, it was mostly at church-related events, and Paul was a 
Presbyterian.

Just before the weather turned cold, Paul invited her to his 
church's last picnic.  "I'll have to ask," she said.

"Of course."

She asked Papa, praying silently first.  She was a preacher's 
daughter and she knew what it meant to cross denominational 
lines.  "He the guy who pulled your pigtails?"  Papa asked.

"No."  Mama had been able to get *almost* all the ink out of her 
blouse, but you could still see the stain if you looked hard.  
"That was his bratty brother.  Paul is nice."

"You really want to go?"

"Yes."  She'd do anything to go.

"Lottie?"

"Why not?"  Mama asked.  "I'll help her cook the food."

"You can go, then."

She packed enough food for Paul and herself -- and a little extra 
if somebody should come by.  It turned out that Mrs. Granger had 
packed enough to feed Nellie as well as the Grangers.  Paul's 
parents sent their children away while they and Nellie repacked 
the baskets.  "So," said Mr. Granger, "you're the gal my sons 
like."

"Sons?"  She couldn't deny that Paul liked her, but Frank was a 
brat.

"Never pulled the pigtails of a gal I didn't like."  She left Mr. 
Granger with his opinion.  She thought Frank was a brat, and he 
didn't think any better of her.

She cheered for Paul's team in the baseball game.  Then, when it 
was over, they walked apart where nobody could hear them.  Some 
couples moved out of sight, but they couldn't, of course.  She 
was a preacher's daughter, and the story would be all over town 
as soon as the people got back from the picnic.

Over the winter, they talked during recess.  She froze nearly 
solid standing there instead of running around like everybody 
else.  There was an all-school Christmas party, and they talked 
there.  She was even his partner in the square dances, not that 
partners danced together awfully much.

When spring came, Paul invited her to three picnics, and she 
invited him to two.  But then planting season came along.  Paul 
wasn't even in school.  And, annual conference was looming.  Her 
family would move again, and she'd never see Paul.  "Can't you 
*ask* to stay here?" she begged Papa.

"It wouldn't do any good."

"The people like you."

"They'll like their new preacher.  They're fine people."

On the last Sunday before Annual Conference, Paul showed up in 
the Methodist church.  "Papa," Nellie said after the service was 
over, "this is Paul Granger."

"Presbyterian, aren't you?" Papa asked.  "The talk of my powerful 
preaching must have reached far to bring you here."  Paul, who 
was unused to Papa's humor, looked startled.  Papa laughed and 
shook his hand.

Then Mama came up, "Paul, Nellie, I want to show you something."  
They walked out of church and in back of the parsonage until the 
people getting into their buggies were all out of sight.  "Once 
upon a time," Mama said, "the man I loved was about to be 
reassigned.  I knew I would never see him again.  I said I would 
show you something. This is my back."  And she walked away.

While she was still in sight, Paul pulled Nellie into a hug.  It 
was her first kiss from a boy; it would be her last.  She would 
never look at another boy, and she would never see Paul again.  
"Danielle," Paul said.  "You're not a Nellie, you're Danielle.  
Danielle, I love you."

"Oh, Paul, I love you."  And they kissed until the slamming of 
the kitchen door made them jump apart.  They looked over there 
guiltily, but it was a minute before they saw it open again.

"Paul," mama said from the parsonage kitchen, "I think your 
family is looking for you.  Nellie, get in here."

"Thanks, Mama," she said when she was in the kitchen.

"Parting is always sad."

"Were you really in love with a preacher who you never saw 
again?"

"He came back and married me.  But I didn't know he would, I 
didn't even know he loved me back, until almost this time of the 
year."

"Do you think Papa will be reassigned here?  The people like 
him."

"Your Papa is a traveling preacher, Nellie.  He'll preach 'til 
the Good Lord takes him, and he'll travel just that long."

And they were assigned to Second Church, Rochester.  It was a 
step up, with water coming into the kitchen from city pipes; but 
it was half the state away.  She'd never see Paul again.  They 
did write.  But Paul didn't write as often as she would have 
liked.  

"You know, dear," Mama said after Nellie came back from the 
mailbox dejected, "Paul is a nice boy.  But there are plenty of 
nice boys in Rochester."

"I'll never forget him."

"I'm not suggesting that you do.  I'm suggesting that you give 
some of the nice boys in your class, some of the nice boys in the 
youth group, a chance."

"You just hate him because he's a Presbyterian."

"I don't hate him.  I just think you're making too much of this.  
There are nice girls in Whitesboro, too."

"Oh, Mama."  She collapsed into her arms and cried.  "Do you 
think he loves somebody else?"

"I don't think anything.  I think you're sixteen, he's what?  
Seventeen?"

"He's eighteen by now.  He's a man.  And I'm almost seventeen.  
How old were you when you were married?"

"We're not talking about me.  And you're not married."

"You were younger than I am when you fell in love."

"And the man I loved came back to marry me and took me away to 
where he lived."

"Oh Mama, do you think Paul will?"

"No.  I think that Paul is living his own life, and there is a 
life right here for you to live."  But it wasn't much of a life.  
There was school, and home chores, and she played the piano well 
enough by now that she was teaching eleven-year-old Ethel.  Two of 
Ethel's schoolmates wanted lessons, and Mama let her keep a 
nickel a week out of the quarter apiece that the girls paid for 
their lessons.

Papa had been assigned to so many places, her only hope was that 
he would be assigned back close to Whitesboro again.  Not to the 
church in Whitesboro, that was too much to ask, but somewhere 
close.  When the bishop came to visit late that winter, she 
almost asked him if he would.  Papa would whip her if she did, 
but that wasn't what kept her from doing it; she knew that 
bishops didn't make assignments for that sort of reason.

"Charles is in high school, isn't he?" the bishop asked at 
dinner.  The Rochester school system was fancy with several 
elementary schools and a separate high school.

"Yes, sir," her brother said.  "I'm in tenth grade."

"Well, I'm a preacher's son, and I know how new schools tear up 
your education."  It couldn't have torn up the bishop's education 
that much.  He was a college graduate, unlike Papa who had gone 
through the Course of Study.  "I can't make any promises, of 
course.  But I'll try to keep your father here for the next two 
years."

"Why thank you," Papa said.

"I can't make promises."

"Go to now," Papa quoted, "ye that say, 'today or tomorrow we 
will go into such a city, and continue there a year, and buy and 
sell, and get gain.'  Whereas ye know not what shall be on the 
morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor, that 
appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

"Precisely," said the bishop. "And it's not only my life but a 
thousand other accidents.  We may need you somewhere else, and 
that is in God's hands."  So Nellie prayed that the church would 
need Papa close to Whitesboro, in Whitesboro -- if you're asking 
God for a miracle, Papa often said, why ask him for a small one?  
But, anyway, somewhere within buggy-ride distance.

It didn't happen, though.  She delayed answering Paul's letter 
describing his graduation until after Annual Conference.  Then 
she wrote: "Papa has been assigned to this church for a second 
year, and I think the members are happy.  I know that PAPA is 
happy.  I'm less happy."

He took even longer to reply than she had.  "This means you will 
be able to finish school there.  You should be happy.  I'm happy 
for you."  Well, she *wasn't* happy.  And she was even less happy 
that he wrote such nonsense.  Mama must be right; he'd found a 
girl in Whitesboro, and he wasn't interested in Nellie's living 
close to him.

She was despondent.  Mama noticed.  "Your life is just beginning, 
Nellie, don't act like it's over."  Well, it might drag on for 
decades more, but what had made it meaningful was over.

Papa noticed.  "Want to talk to me about it?"  At her head shake, 
"Well you have a heavenly Father who already knows all about it.  
Take your worries to him."

Even Charlie noticed.  "What are you dragging around like that 
for?  You look so low you could fit under the rug."

Then, one day, there was a knock at the door.  She answered it, 
looking at the visitor's boots.  They were dirty.  "Nellie?" he 
said.  It was Paul's voice.  It was Paul!

She must have shouted.  Mama came running.  "Get in here, 
immediately," she said.

"I'm not really dressed for a parlor," said Paul.

"That's all right.  Come into the kitchen if you want to wash up.  
Tell us why you're here."

Paul explained that he had a job with the traction company, a 
hostler caring for the horses.  "I'm a farm boy.  I really know 
about machinery, but nobody in Rochester will give me a chance.  
But they'll believe a farm boy can feed horses and clean out the 
stables.  The streetcars run sixteen hours a day, from five to 
nine, but each horse only work two four-hour shifts a day."

"I would hope so," said mama.  "Those horses work hard."

"So, I have to be there when they start out and when they come 
back, but I only have to be in the barn twelve hours a day.  I 
can ride any streetcar free on my breaks from work, but I don't 
really know my way around town yet."

"Well, when you're free -- decent hours, of course -- you're 
welcome here.  If you worry about the parlor rug, come back by 
the kitchen door if you want."

"That's generous of you."

"Not really.  Let's not pretend you're here to visit me.  If 
you're in the kitchen, Nellie will be in the kitchen.  And if 
she's in the kitchen, she can peel some potatoes or something."

"I can peel spuds," Paul said.

"No need.  You're a guest.  Now, if you'll excuse me...."  She 
left, but eight-year-old Mary popped in.  She stared at Paul.

"Mary, this is Paul Granger," Nellie said.  "He used to live in 
Whitesboro.  Now, mama wants me to peel potatoes.  If you're 
going to be here, I'll get a knife for you, too."

"School work," Mary said and went out.

"Have a seat," Nellie said.  She got out the tools and potatoes 
and sat across from him.

"I can peel spuds."

"You can talk.  Tell me about your work.  What did your papa say 
about your leaving the farm in the summertime?"

And they talked until the bell from the grandfather's clock in 
the parlor told him it was time to go back.  They were alone most 
of that time, but Nellie's brothers and sisters made frequent 
trips in and out.

"Tell us about Paul," Mama said at supper.

"I'll tell Papa.  You already know, and nobody gave us a minute's 
peace."

"What about Paul?" asked Papa.

"You remember Paul Granger.  He's in Rochester.  He's working for 
the streetcars, tending the horses.  He came to see me."  She 
told the whole story.

"He's sweet on her," Charlie said.

"You know, Charlie," Papa said, "at John's age," ten, "that is an 
appropriate way of teasing his playmates.  At your age, it's a 
little silly.  And *never* is it an appropriate thing to say 
about a guest in our house.  Anyway, Nellie, are you happier 
now?"

"You know, Papa, you say we should thank God for answered 
prayers."

"Certainly.  If somebody -- even little Mary -- does something 
you ask, you should say 'thank you.'  How much more to the 
Creator of all?"

"And if He doesn't answer prayers?  I mean, right now I'm 
grateful for what He didn't give me."

"Well, I've been told God always answers prayers.  Sometimes the 
answer is 'no.'"

And, at devotions that night, she thanked God for not moving Papa 
the way she had asked.

With his free pass on the horsecars, Paul visited often.  He even 
made it -- in his good suit and with boots cleaned -- to church 
some Sundays.  

He couldn't come in the evenings, and she moved her piano lessons 
back to 4:00.  Their original times had been set according to 
when school let out.  

When he was visiting, Nellie did what cooking she could.  Mama 
was only in the kitchen when she needed to be.  Nellie couldn't 
say the same for her younger brothers and sisters.  Every one of 
them drank more water, always getting it from the kitchen sink, 
than when he wasn't there.  If they wanted to stay, Nellie put 
them to work, which most of them avoided.  Twelve-year-old Ethel, 
though, seemed to have a pash on him.  Nellie couldn't blame her, 
though she could be jealous.  It was high time Ethel learned more 
kitchen chores, anyway.


Concluded in Chapter 2
Danielle 1902
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
2004/06/15


Thanks to Denny for editing this. 

For another story of another couple in another century:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/med/gather.htm
"A time to gather stones together"

More than a hundred of my stories can be found through:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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