Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: Orange (the color) (11/19/09)
TITLE: Mittens for the Benton Girls
By Deborah Caruso
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Molly’s bright, green cat eyes had spied it laying in the round, brown wicker basket that lay just underneath the old stone fireplace that had crackling flames of yellow-orange shooting up into a grand chimney. The fire that made the small cottage cozy and comfortable, a warm retreat from winter’s coldness.
The little orange ball of yarn had become the tabby’s conquest that day before the mittens were shaped. The feline had leapt at the wool bundle suddenly and pounced it firmly, as if the ball any chance of running away. She knocked it around with both of her paws, from one side of the room to the other; she ran into a table; she was mesmerized by all the orange colors swirling along the rustic wooden floors. She was relishing in the texture of the sphere, and was quite pleased with herself at her ability to knock it wherever she pleased, and she was aghast at having her prize suddenly snatched away from her by her owner, Emeline.
Emeline had rich auburn locks that hung way past her waist. She was wearing a willowy, green cotton dress with bell shaped sleeves that day. It had a dainty belt made of lace that lay right below her breasts. After she retrieved the marled yarn of every imaginable shade of orange, into porcelain hands, she sat down gently on an antiquated, wooden rocker that her husband had handcrafted just for her knitting. It had a firm back. It also had a plumb, quilted seat, that boasted stars of every color stitched onto yellow, that her mother had made just for her knitting. It was there on that rocking chair, on the quilted seat, that Emeline took the knitting needles in hand and started knitting the little orange mittens.
As she sat there knitting, she sung an old hymn…”Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace; streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise…” it was a hymn that the Methodist pastor had just written, everyone was singing it. Molly had settled down between the rocker and fireplace; she was exhausted from the yarn excursion. She lay there listening to her master’s gentle voice, and was lulled into a tranquil nap as she felt the rocking motion underneath her furry frame.
The wooly orange yarn began to take shape, as Molly napped. It would now be salvation from the better winter for ten little fingers. Emeline knew these little mittens would keep little Abigail's hands warm too, whenever she would build a frosty snowman, throw snowballs at Willie, or make snow angels.
“Thank God, there you are.” A frozen hand reached down and picked up the little orange mittens from off the snowy carpet. She carefully shook off all of the snow stuck to them, and put the mittens back on her hands, “What a relief! I wouldn’t ever want to be the Benton girl that lost dear Emeline's orange mittens.”
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