 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
HOW UNCLE DALE WAS TROUBLED.
Of that aristocracy whose right to live above other people and
by means of other people, no body ever questions, Uncle Dale
glided smoothly along, and in some noiseless undefinable way
his necessities were all supplied; whether there were pressures
in the money market or not was all the same to him; the curious
purse described in the preceding chapter, contained about
the same amount from one year to another.
Along the western line of the Dale farm, lies the silver dust
of the broad and even turnpike, and near it, with a few trees
intervening, and crowning two neighboring eminences, stand
two beautiful mansions, embracing not only every degree of
rural comfort, but many of the refined elegances of more luxurious
life. There live John and Joseph Dale, sons of the old
soldier of whom I have been writing. There they live, now
that they inherit the estate, reaping the harvest in peace which
was sown long ago amid perils and difficulties. But they also
lived here, reaping the same advantages, while the father was
yet in the world. His home was sometimes beneath one roof,
sometimes beneath the other; but an old man is not always
petted and caressed, either by children who have grown up to
think their own ways best, or by grandehildren, who are sure to
think a father in the right, and a grandfather in the wrong, when
there is disagreement.
And so it chanced at times—not often, I hope—that clouds
came over the sunshine of Uncle Dale's life; and with one hand
on the head of his cane, and the other folded over that, and his
chin resting on both, he would sit for hours, silent, thoughtful—
I shall never forget. Mrs. Joseph Dale had left him to
rock the cradle: for why could not grandfather tend it just as
easily as not? She had left to him this duty while she should
perform another, which country housewifes sometimes impose
on themselves, an unpleasant one, I fancy, even with no baby,
asleep in the cradle; it was nothing less than the yearly picking
of seventeen geese, and, perhaps, one or two ducks. The
good woman had been bred to habits of economy, and having
grown away from necessity, adhered nevertheless to primitive
customs. Her dozen beds were stuffed already to hardness with
feathers, but that mattered not—she would have thought as soon
of dispensing with her extra fine blue and red wool coverlids
with which all the chamber closets were heaped, and which
were only taken down about the tenth of July to garnish the
garden-fence and receive the benefit of sun and air, as with the
seventeen geese and two or three ducks. But passing these
peculiarities: herself, and the man servant, and the maid servant,
with the larger children, more or less, had succeeded, after
many crosses and drivings hither and thither, in lodging the
gabblers conveniently in the vacant room of an out-building,
denominated by common usage the goose-room, and clad in
an old-fashioned gown, used by her mother before her for a
similar purpose, and with her heavy brown hair ungracefully
wound beneath a closely-fitting cap of white muslin, Mrs.
Joseph Dale had but well commenced the picking, when the
cries of the baby aroused her motherly sympathies. For a
time she continued her work, trusting to the careful rocking of
grandfather—afterwards to the lulling influences of his gentle
talk and vibratory tossings—but all would not do: louder and
louder came the voice, till the angry mother, tossed from her
lap the gray goose whose neck had only in part been divested
of its graceful plumes, exclaiming, “Grandfather, I suppose,
means to let the baby cry itself to death!”
A moment after, she presented herself—her eyebrows full of
down, and a white fringe hanging all around the edges of her
hair; and taking the baby from his arms, in silence, bestowed on
the good old man a look that might have struck terror to a regiment,
any more—that he had fallen asleep at his task, and the mischief
had occurred in consequence. “So it seems,” replied the
daughter-in-law, no wise softened—and added something about
its being seldom enough he was asked to do anything; which,
though he but imperfectly heard it, caused him to twist the rim
of his hat to a more angular shape, before adjusting it for a
walk to his other home, which he performed in a manner erect
and stately, as though neither gout nor rheumatism had ever
made his acquaintance.
The dinner at both houses was usually served punctually at
the moment when the sunshine, streaming straight in at the
south door, indicated the noon, but to-day there had been a little
variation—Mrs. Joseph Dale had delayed dinner in consequence
of her occupation, and Mrs. John Dale had served hers already
in consequence of a proposed visit.
Uncle Dale was fond of his dinner, and a prospect of fasting
till tea time, was not calculated to smooth down his turbulence
of spirit. After a brief salutation he seated himself, and
moodily leaning his head on his cane, as his fashion was when
his equanimity had been in any way ruffled, remained silent,
thinking that Mrs. John Dale must know he had not dined, and
did not wish to give herself trouble on his account.
In another temper he would have stated his necessities; but
to-day he expected them to be anticipated; he was, he felt, at
best but a useless and troublesome old man, whom nobody
wanted to be burdened with, and as he occasionally lifted up
his eyes he glanced toward the graveyard, half wishing he
already filled the little space which would presently be allotted
to him.
Meantime, Mrs. John Dale, seemingly unconscious of his
presence, was busily preparing for “going abroad,” as the
passing an afternoon with a relation and neighbor was described.
Very smart and tidy she looked in her new gingham and black
silk apron, and cap with the crimped ruffle and blue ribbon;
and as, with a little parcel of visiting work in her hand, (stuff
for making two table-cloths and a sheet), she got out precisely
as the clock from the mantle struck one, Uncle Dale smiled;
looked as well as she; but he may have smiled for the plenteous
harvest, or for any of a thousand other things. Affectionate
as Mrs. John Dale generally was, she had to-day made
no apology for leaving home—perhaps that her father-in-law
seemed engrossed with his own thoughts; and he, on his part
had declined telling her that her sister-in-law was not in trim
for receiving visitors, for that she had not informed him of her
intentions. Changing his position a little to ascertain whether
he had divined aright, he found that, just as he expected, she
turned to the south, passed across the hollow over the bridge,
ascended the hill, and opening the little gate made especially
for visitors, entered the domicile of Joseph, whose wife, with
the down in her eyebrows and about her hair, sat vainly endeavoring
to rock to sleep the most sleepless child in the world.
How inopportune! thought uncle Dale; I could have told her
so. But he was mistaken, as was quickly evident from the surprised
lady's laughter. A little gay chatting, and she took up
the baby, while the sister arranged herself in more seemly
guise; the geese were released, and marched in procession to
the brook; and Nancy, the maid, appeared on the porch before
the kitchen, beating eggs. All signs seemed propitious of a
most enjoyable afternoon.
This was all vexing to the old man, who, alone and hungry,
sat within view—nothing, he felt, done for his pleasure or accommodation,
then, or ever; for one little slight leads to exaggeration
of all the slights and mischances of life.
After a while he grew weary of his own thoughts, and for the
want of other occupation, or led by the regretful nature of his
reflections, strolled away toward the long deserted cabin. At
first he sighed heavily, seeing how the birds had built their nests
among the loose stones of the chimney, how the roof had fallen
away, and the rain beaten through the chinks, how the floor
was decayed, and the mildew creeping along the walls. Then he
began to think how it might be restored—a few shingles, a
little repairing about the chimney and hearth, some new flooring,
a little plaster and whitewash, with the resetting of the
glass, would completely renovate the house, make it as good as
labors of a strong man for a day or two, and a trifling expenditure,
were needed, in fact, he believed he could well nigh
perform the whole task himself; and putting his cane aside,
and throwing off his blue coat, with the energy and earnestness
of twenty, he began heaping loose stones together, and
tearing out the floor as though the restoration of the old house
were a foregone conclusion, and he himself the architect and
mason, carpenter and glazier. His energies were soon exhausted,
however, for at sixty a man may not handle timbers
and stones as with the weight of forty less years upon him,
and at the spur of another resolution he ceased to work, as suddenly
as he had commenced. But his face, so far from expressing
regret, was full of light and satisfaction, and as he
briskly retraced his steps toward the house of his son, he looked
twenty years younger than when he left it.
During the long afternoon, while Mrs. John Dale wrought at
her table cloths and sheet, and Mrs. Joseph Dale sewed
together six great sacks for carrying wheat to the mill, they
naturally enough disclosed to each other their little trials,
many of which hinged upon the oddities and coming childishness
of the old man. Of course, neither wanted to say anything
unkind, nor would she, for the world; and yet when the
conversation had been repeatedly broken off, one or the other
would renew it by saying, “I must tell you of another thing
which to me is a great vexation;” whereupon followed some
little complaint—perhaps that grandfather would pass his cup
for more sugar in his tea—perhaps that he monopolized the
talk when visitors were present, or perhaps that he was stirring
too early in the morning.
True, Uncle Dale heard none of these things, but he felt instinctively
that they were likely to be said, and so they contributed
to his growing discomfort.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |