University of Virginia Library

ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES.

Not unlike the Whitfields, were a family in another direction
from Clovernook, named Tompkins. The Tompkinses were
not quite so respectable as the deacon's folks; they were not so
well-to-do in the world, and were by no means regular in their
attendance at meeting; and their relations, generally, were of a
lower level. Nevertheless the two families were in many respects
very much alike, and, as this chapter will show, liable to
similar experiences.

It was dark and chilly out of doors, as it well might be, for
the sun had been set an hour, and the snow was falling in great
heavy flakes. The little branches of the sweet-brier that grew
close under the window, were bending lower and lower, and the
cherry-trees, beside the house, looked like pyramids, so much
snow had lodged in their limbs. On the sill, the great watch-dog
lay crouched from the cold, and whined sometimes, as he
heard the merry laughter of the children within, who, in the
warm sunshiny days, were often his play-fellows. These children
were three, the eldest, a girl of above fifteen, silently knitting
by the firelight, for the hickory logs blazed brightly on the
great stone hearth, making the silver spoons, fancifully set up
in a kind of paling along the open dresser, and before the carefully
outspread china, to glow and glitter in the warm cheerful
light. The other children were boys of nine and eleven, as like
as two peas, with the exception of a slight difference in size.
Their hair was a sandy-yellow, cut in a straight line over the
forehead, and an inch or so above their big gray eyes; and
never was it perceptibly longer or shorter, for once a month, at
the time of the new moon, their good mother, combing it very

smoothly, tied it down with a string, and trimmed it off with
mathematical precision. Their faces were round, and completely
gray with freckles; their cheeks standing out with fatness,
and shining as if just washed; and their hands of the
chubby sort, red, and checked off, just now, with the cold.
When they were tired of play—for they had been for an hour
boisterously chasing each other about the room, tearing up the
carpet in every direction, and tumbling and jostling against
their sister, who, knitting quietly, did not seem to heed them—
they lay down before the fire, and commenced a kind of whining
cry, which, as one ceased, from exhaustion, the other took up.

“I say, Susan, give me something to eat; give me something,
I say; I'm hungry, I am; Susan, give me some cake—I'll tell
mammy—see if I don't.”

“You had better be still,” said Susan, at last, quite worn out;
“I hear your father coming.” Susan never said “father,” when
speaking to her brothers, but “your father,” as though she were
a great deal older, and a great deal wiser than they—quite out
of the reach of paternal authority, in fact, which was by no
means the case, she being yet considered a mere child by her
parents, though she had attained the stature and full development
of womanhood and in every way her privileges were
much more circumscribed than were those of her saucy brothers;
and it cannot be denied that she sometimes exercised the power
she found herself possessed of, in something such sort as she
was accustomed to feel, and if her brothers had continued their
sniveling all night, they would not have obtained the cake with
her permission; and though she threatened them with the approach
of their father, it was on her own account, and not theirs,
for she well knew they would not have to repeat the request in
his hearing.

In a moment there was a muffled stamping on the snowy
door-steps, and Mr. Tompkins, with a very red face, and an
unusually surly expression, presented himself. Now, Mr.
Tompkins was of the most bland and genial manner imaginable,
when he went visiting, or to mill, or to meeting, but at
home, he maintained the most uncompromising austerity, only
relaxing a little when some neighbor chanced to drop in. He

evidently thought the least talk with his children, on terms of
equality, an abatement of proper dignity, and so he seldom
talked, and never smiled, for that might seem to imply a willingness
to talk. To Mrs. Tompkins, he sometimes yielded a
little, because she would talk whether he responded or not.

Drawing off his great coat, he shook out the snow, some of
which fell on the upturned faces of the two boys, and some in
the lap of Susan, making her needles grate under their yarn
stitches. This accomplished, he hung it on the back of a chair
before the fire to dry, and taking off his hat, shook it roughly
over his hand, by way of loosening the snow from the little fur
that remained on it. Mr. Tompkins never got a new hat, at
least not since I remember, though his wife wore fine shawls
and dresses.

William and John, meantime, kept up their cry for the cake,
but not till Mr. Tompkins had been sometime seated before the
fire, and quite a little puddle of water had thawed from his
boots, and soiled the bluestone hearth, did he sanction their appeal—not
by words, but by slowly and gravely turning his
head toward Susan, and slightly elevating his eyebrows, perceiving
which, she at once put down her work, lighted a tallow
candle, and went to the cellar, to do which, she was obliged to
go out of doors, and half-way round the house, whence she presently
returned with her light blown out by the wind, and a
great rent in her apron, caused by its catching, in the dark, on a
loose hoop of the vinegar-barrel. The tears came to her eyes,
partly from anger, partly from sorrow, for the apron was of
silk, and made with special reference to a gathering of friends,
which was to take place the next evening at Dr. Haywood's.
It was made of old material to be sure, being composed of two
breadths of her mother's brown wedding dress; but she had
done her best for it, dipping it in water, and ironing it, while
wet, and setting it off with knots of ribbon, which, by the way,
it would have looked much better without, as they were of
an unsuitable color, in some places of very deep dye, and in
others pale, from having been worn one summer on the bonnet
of Mrs. Tompkins, and two on that of Susan. But how should
she know, poor child! She had seen Mary Haywood wear an

apron similarly adorned, and naturally wished to be in the
fashion. She was by no means in the habit of wearing a silk
apron at home, but she had completed this in her mother's absence,
and under pretence of showing its effect—a harmless
stratagem—as a quiet reminder of the approaching party, she
had ventured to wear it for one evening.

In every neighborhood there must be one family more fashionable,
more aristocratic, than the rest. This family, in Clovernook,
was the Haywoods. Owing more to fallen fortunes, than
for the sake of free air and exercise for the children—the ostensible
motive—they had but lately removed from the city, where
they had previously resided, to the farm adjoining that of Mr.
Tompkins. The dilapidated homestead, with the addition of
new wings, piazzas, shutters, and some green and white paint,
was speedily made to assume a cottage-like and comfortable
appearance. The main entrance was adorned with a silver
plate, on which was engraved, the name of Dr. Haywood, and
this, with the bell-handle, completed the effect: no other house
in the neighborhood boasting such superfluous ornaments.

Dr. Haywood, naturally of a social and democratic manner,
and a little influenced, it may be, by the hope of professional
success, was not long in making himself a very popular man.
He even condescended to accept the office of trustee of the district
school—attending on set occasions, and inspecting copybooks
and geographies, and listening to the children's rhetorical
readings from Peter Parley's First Book of History, with an
easy dignity, as though

He also interested himself in the improvement of stock, and
was a frequent visitor to the barnyards of his neighbors, talking
of his own wheat and potato crops, and now and then asking
advice relative to the rules of planting and harvesting.

Still there were some malcontents, who persisted in calling
the family “big-bugs,” for that Mrs. Haywood wore flowers in
her cap every day, kept a negro woman in the kitchen, and had
visitors from town. Moreover, the Doctor, though he had been
seen in his shirt-sleeves among the hay-makers, very rarely, it

must be owned, wrought with his own hands. But the prejudice
almost ended, when he made a great raising for his new
barn, to which he invited all the men and boys, in person, very
often repeating the jest, that a farmer must have a barn whether
he had any house or not. At the conclusion of the raising, a
very excellent supper was provided—Mrs. Haywood doing the
honors of the coffee-urn, and inviting all the men to come and
bring their wives, regretting her own poor efforts to make the
neighborhood social.

This dissolved much of the unkind feeling, but any innovation
on established custom, is likely to meet opposition among
much wiser people than those of whom I write, and Mr. and
Mrs. Tompkins could or would not be reconciled to folks who
stuck themselves up with their waiters and door-bells. Mrs.
Haywood, waiving ceremony, had herself made the first call,
and the Doctor had made informal visits to Mr. Tompkins, in
the barn, repeatedly, with no effect.

Susan, however, had none of the obstinacy of her parents,
and consequently when she received a written invitation, to
honor, with her presence, Mary Haywood's birth-day, she was
on tip-toe with the desire to go. To her great discomfort, she
had as yet received but little encouragement, her father treating
the whole thing as preposterous, and her mother, though there
was sometimes a yielding in her look, seeming to feel that her
dignity required her to present an unshaken front against all
temptations. So the probabilities of the gratification of Susan's
darling wish were exceedingly dubious, up to the time referred
to in the beginning of this chapter, which was the evening preceding
the “Haywood fandango,” as Mrs. Tompkins was
pleased to describe it.

Stealthily, time and again, had Susan examined her scanty
wardrobe, trying on all her old summer dresses to see which
would look the best; but as they were all faded calicoes, it was
difficult to make choice. In her own mind, at last, she decided
on a pink, and bringing it from its winter quarters to press it
off, and make it look as smart as possible, her mother, as if
without the remotest conception of its intended use, dampened,
and almost prostrated all her hopes, by inquiring what she intended

to do with that thin gewgaw, this time of year. The poor
child could not summon courage to say what she felt her
mother already knew, and so, simply remarking that she wanted
to see how it looked, carried it away, and hung it in its accustomed
place. In a day or two her hopes revived, and she
made up the brown apron, with which she felt pretty well
satisfied, picturing to herself how it would look with the pink
dress, until the fatal hour it received that “envious rent.”

There was one hope left: if her mother would only let her
wear her Sunday silk! True, it might not fit precisely, but no
body would notice that; she would ask, as soon as her mother
came home; at any rate, there was a bare possibility of success.
Stimulated with this hope, and revolving in her mind in what
way she should approach the subject, she again took up her
knitting, and tried to forget her ruined apron, but her courage
sadly misgave her, when, towards eight o'clock, looking as
blustery as the storm through which she had been plodding, her
mother returned. She had been to the village—for Tompkins's
house was nearly a mile from Clovernook—to look at a corpse.

“Well, mother, doesn't it snow pretty hard?” said Mr.
Tompkins, breaking silence for the first time during the evening.
“Why, no,” said the good woman; “there's now and
then a flake, but I think it's quite too warm to snow.” She
thought the remark implied a reproof to her for being out.

“I hope it will stop before to-morrow night,” said Susan, and
her fingers flew faster than before; and receiving no notice, she
continued, after a moment, “because I can't go to the party if
it snows.”

“I guess you can't if it don't snow,” said Mrs. Tompkins, and
Susan felt it almost a relief, when one of the children, rising
from his recumbent posture on the carpet, said, “Mammy,
Susan tore her new silk apron, she did.” “I'll dare say, Susan
is always doing mischief—how did it happen, child?” she continued,
querulously, taking the torn apron in her hand, and fitting
it together. Susan explained how it chanced, but her
mother said, “if she had not had it on, as she had no business
to have it, this would not have happened.”

There is no telling how long she would have gone on, but for

the boy's asking her why she didn't get him something pretty,
to which she replied, “Something pretty costs money: do you
think it grows on bushes? Your father and me have to get
you shoes, and coats, and something to eat, and to pay your
schooling, and I don't know what all, before we get pretty things.”
Mrs. Tompkins always talked to her children as if they were
greatly to blame for wanting anything, or, in fact, for being in
the world at all; and it did not soften her present mood when
the child continued, that Walter Haywood had a knife, and he
wanted one.

“Walter Haywood,” she replied, “has a great many things
that you can't have; and if you had everything he has, you
couldn't be Walter Haywood: they are rich folks.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins embraced every opportunity of impressing
their children with the consciousness of their humility
and unworthiness; and, in keeping with this, she on the present
occasion told her little boy that he could not be Walter Haywood—as
though he belonged to quite a different order of
beings.

The little fellow sat down and hung his head, feeling very uncomfortable.
At length he asked his mother when he should
grow big—thinking, childishly, perhaps, of some great thing he
might then do. “La, child,” she said, “I don't know any more
than the man in the moon: here, Susan, take him to bed—it's
time little boys were asleep.”

So he was reluctantly dragged away, without any sort of idea
when he should become a man, and feeling that most likely he
could not be like Walter Haywood, if he were one.

When Susan returned, she found her parents engaged in an
unusually lively conversation about the recent death, and the
time of the funeral, and who would preach, and Mrs. Tompkins
concluded by saying “it was a very pretty corpse, and looked
just as natural.”

Mrs. Tompkins went to look at every body who died within
four or five miles—a peculiar taste, that of hers—and Susan
thought her mother's heart must be softened, and was about to
ask if she might go to the party, when she suddenly turned the
conversation in a different channel by exclaiming in a very

earnest tone—“Have you heard, father, of the great robbery
last night?”

“No, mother, I can't say that I have; I've been busy in my
barn, winnowing up a few bushels of oats.” There was another
evident reproof, and Mrs. Tompkins was silent, perceiving
which, he asked where the robbery was, and what its nature.

“At Mr. Miller's;” and the offended was again silent.

“What was lost?”

“Some hams, I believe, and other things?”

“How many hams, and what other things?”

“I don't ask how many; a fine shirt was taken, too.”

“Do they suspect anybody in particular?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it? somebody about here?”

“Not very far off.”

“Ah, indeed!” and Mr. Tompkins seemed to feel no further
curiosity. Whereupon, Mrs. Tompkins put the embers together
and related all she knew of the matter.

“I expect,” she said, “I have the story pretty straight: Mrs.
Miller told me herself about it. She says she thinks she was
awake at the very time. She had some toothache, along the
fore part of the night, and didn't get to sleep till almost midnight,
and then she got into a kind of a doze, and dreamed, she
said, that all the cattle had broke into the door-yard, and the
dog was trying to drive them out; and then, she said, she
thought one of the cows hooked open the smokehouse-door, and
she was scared, for she thought she would eat up a bag of buckwheat
that had been put in there that day; and she woke up
with a kind of start, she said, and the dog was barking and
making a dreadful racket, and she thought at first she would get
up, and then she thought it was foolish—it was just some of
the neighbor's dogs or something or other, and so she lay still
and went to sleep. When she got up in the morning, she said,
she saw the smokehouse-door open, but she thought the wind
had blown it open, likely, and didn't think anything till she
went out to cut the ham for breakfast, and found them all gone,
and the bag of buckwheat into the bargain. It seems likely it
was somebody that had some spite against them, she says, for

Mr. Troost had his hams there being smoked, and not one of
them was touched.”

“That is strange,” said Mr. Tompkins; “we must get a padlock;
they'll be after us next. Mr. Miller is pretty spunky; I
shouldn't wonder, mother, if he got out a sarch-warrant.”

“There has a family lately moved into Mr. Hill's old house,
that people think are no better than they should be,” said Mrs.
Tompkins. “They don't work, they say, and no body knows
how they live; but we all know they must eat, and some think
they get it between two days. Did you bring the towels off
the line, Susan?”

Mr. Tompkins put on his great-coat, and taking the hammer
from the mantel where it always lay, went out and nailed up
the door of the smokehouse, and chained the dog to the cellar
door—making him a kennel of an old barrel, which he turned
down for the purpose, and partly filled with straw, for he was
merciful to his beasts. This done, he wound up his watch, hung
it under the looking-glass, after first holding it to his ear a moment,
and retired. Mrs. Tompkins stirred up a little jar of
batter-cakes for breakfast, covering it with a clean towel, and
placing it on the hearth to rise; and, telling Susan it was time
for little girls to be sleepy, went to bed.

After thinking over the chances for the next evening—whether
she should be able to go, and if so, whether her mother would
let her have the dress, and in that case how it would look—that
young lady betook herself to her chamber.

In the morning she arose bright and early, and had the breakfast
nearly prepared when her mother came down, for she hope
in that way to merit a little extra indulgence. Cheerfully she
flew about the house, doing everything, and more than everything,
that was required of her—singing snatches of songs, and
running after the children, who were always ready with, “Susan,
give me something.”

Dinner came and passed just as usual, and Mrs. Tompkins
prepared to go to the funeral without speaking of the evening.
While she was gone, Susan put all her best things where she
could readily get them, combed and arranged her hair in the
most tasteful manner imaginable, and made ready the tea, so

that nothing should detain her. She could not eat any supper,
and finding longer suspense intolerable, said abruptly, “Mother,
may I go?”

“Go where, child?”

“To Mary Haywood's party: all the girls are going, and I
want to go.”

“It's a pretty story, if you are to be running about to parties
of nights, child as you are! What do you think Mary Haywood
wants of you? besides, I have use for you at home.”

Poor Susan; it would be in vain to attempt a description of
her feelings, but they availed nothing, and with a terrible
headache she sat down to her knitting—her brothers saying
every now and then, “Eh, Susan, I knew you wouldn't get to
go, if you did comb your hair so nice!”

The crickets chirped under the hearth—the boughs of the
cherry-trees creaked against the panes, as the rough wind went
and came: to Susan it had never seemed so lonesome, and she
scarcely could help the wish she were out of the world. Suddenly
the dog rattling his chain, barked furiously, then was still
for a moment, and then barked louder than before. There was
a stamping at the door, and a loud quick knock. “Come in,”
said Mr. Tompkins.

He was a dark handsome fellow, of perhaps twenty—in one
hand holding a small knapsack, and in the other a fine rifle,
highly polished and profusely plated with silver, together with
a string of dead birds. He bowed gracefully to the old people,
and something more than gracefully to Susan; and then asked
Mr. Tompkins if he were the proprietor of the farm—and
whether he would like to hire an assistant. Mr. Tompkins
said he “believed not; he had not much to do in the winter;
was not very well able to hire,” &c. But Mrs. Tompkins was
generally opposed to her husband in every thing, and said she
“thought for her part there was plenty to do; all the fences
were out of repair, which would be work enough for one man

for six months—then it would soon be sugar-making, and what
could one man do without help?”

“I don't know but you are right, mother,” said the husband;
“what may be your terms, young man?”

This the young man scarcely knew; he was not a farmer,
but was willing to do his best, and receive whatever should be
right. So it was agreed that he should remain for a month,
and putting by knapsack and gun, he drew up to the fire, and
was soon quite at home—relating odd adventures of travel,
and talking of different countries, and, also, saying something
of himself. He was, as the conversation developed, a Frenchman,
who coming to this country to seek his fortune, had exhausted
his means, and finding himself slightly out of health,
had resolved to spend some months in the country for the
benefit of both.

In listening to his stories of sea and land—for he talked well,
Susan forgot Mary Haywood and her party; and when he bid
her goodnight, he called her Miss Tompkins, producing a new
and altogether charming sensation, for every one had called her
Susan, or Miss Susan, till then.

The next day Mr. Maurice Doherty, for that was his name,
accompanied Mr. Tompkins to mill, taking his rifle to bring
down any game that might chance to put itself in his way.
During the day, Susan found time to mend her apron, and also
to press with extra care her black flannel frock, in which, having
prepared tea, she arrayed herself, and sat down with her
knitting, as usual, but listened very eagerly for the rumbling of
the mill wagon. At last it came, and when the horses were
duly stabled, and the bags deposited in the barn, Maurice presented
himself, with three birds in his hand, their wings dropping
loose and sprinkled with blood. These he presented to
Susan, giving her directions as to the best method of dressing
them, which she engaged to undertake, for his breakfast.

She was not handsome, being short and chubby, but she was
sprightly, intelligent, of an exceeding fair complexion—which,
when talking, especially when talking to Maurice, became roseate—and
she really looked pretty.

At breakfast the birds were forthcoming, and Mr. Doherty

said he had never before eaten any that were so deliciously
seasoned. He understood much better than Dr. Haywood,
how to ingratiate himself with the old people and was not long
in becoming a great favorite with them; so that when the month
of his engagement was expired, he was re-engaged for three
months longer.

Time wore on—the fences were propt and mended, stumps
uprooted, apple-trees trimmed, and many other things done,
making Mr. Tompkins feel how much better than one, two persons
could attend to his farm.

He should never try to get along alone again, and now that
he had assistance, he proposed building a little cabin in the
edge of the sugar-camp, which would be an admirable convenience
during the sugar making, and could afterwards when
Maurice was gone, be let to a tenant. The young man entered
heartily into the merits of the plan, and the work immediately
began. But Maurice insisted on its being well done; “it was,”
he said, “the first house he had ever built, and it must be
worthily executed: a carpenter must be had to make the door
and windows, to lay the floor and put in a closet or two, and a
mason to build the chimney and lay down the hearth. Mr.
Tompkins contended stoutly that it was all a useless expense;
it was only for a tenant; but Maurice urged the propriety of
its being comfortable and durable, and finally carried the point;
and when it was completed, it was really a convenient and
habitable looking cottage, especially when the fire was made
on the hearth for the sugar-making.

During the season, Susan was often sent down to tend the
kettles, while Maurice went to the house, to attend the evening
chores. But the cottage was all bright with fire-light, and
Maurice entertained his guest so pleasantly, that she sometimes
chanced to stay after he returned. One twilight, toward the
close of the sugaring, Susan tied on her bonnet, and taking a
little basket of apples and cakes with which Maurice might regale
himself and wile away the time, went to the “camp.”

All the way she was thinking, The sugar-making will soon be
over, and Maurice will go away; and she felt very sad; she
did not ask herself why, she only knew she had never been so

happy as while he was there, and she would be very lonesome
when he was gone.

“Why, what is the matter with my little wood-nymph?”
said Maurice, as she presented the basket and was sorrowfully
turning away; “you must sit down and tell me.”

She did sit down, and half turning away her face, said simply,
“I was thinking that we might, perhaps, never boil sugar here
any more.”

“Perhaps not,” said Maurice, putting his arm about her
neck and turning her cheek to his lips, “but couldn't we live
here without boiling sugar?”

The following morning after breakfast, he told Mr. Tompkins
if he was still disposed to let the cottage, he and Susan would
take it.