University of Virginia Library

ZEBULON SANDS

1. I.

“A capital fellow,” everybody said when speaking of Zeb,
for no one ever called him Zebulon—not even his brothers and
sisters: if you had called him Zebulon, he would have laughed
in your face. Poor fellow! I can see him now, in fancy, just as
I used to see him about the old farm-house when I was going to
school—always busy, and always cheerful, doing some good thing
or other, and laughing and whistling as he did so. Let me describe
him as I remember him, when he was perhaps sixteen,
and I quite a little girl. He was not handsome, but no one
thought whether he were or not, so good-humored and genial was
the expression of his countenance. He was a little below the ordinary
height, and stout rather than graceful, yet he was always
perfectly self-possessed, and so never awkward. His hair hung
in half curls of soft brown along a low white forehead, and a pair
of hazel eyes twinkled with laughter beneath. His face was full,
with the fresh glow of health breaking through the tan, for he
was a farmer's boy, and used to exposure and hard work; but
notwithstanding this, his hands and feet were delicately moulded
and beautiful.

At an early age he was fond of all manly exercises, and while
still a child would brave the severest cold with the fortitude of a
soldier. Many a time I have seen him chopping wood in the
mid-winter, without coat or hat, and standing knee-deep in the
snow: his hair tossing in the north wind, and his cheeks ruddy
as the air and exercise could make them. He was never too
busy to see me as I passed, or to whistle me a gay “good morning”
if I were near enough to hear it, and had often a pleasant
word or two beside. And I never forgot to look for him: children
are more fond of attentions than is apt to be imagined, and I perhaps

had the weakness in even an unusual degree. Commonly he
was chopping at the woodpile, but not always; sometimes I
would see him driving the oxen toward the woods, seated on the
cart-side, his great dog, Watcher, sitting beside him: he would not
see me, and straightway the distance before me seemed to lengthen,
and the winter wind to have a keener edge. Sometimes he was
about the barn, feeding the horses and cattle; and I remember
seeing him once on a distant hill, dispensing bundles of oats to the
sheep: he saw me, however, far as he was away, and waved a
bundle of the grain oats in friendly recognition.

Everybody in the neighborhood knew Zeb, and had a kind
word to say when they met him, for men and women, boys and
girls, were alike fond of his good nature; there was no distrust in
his brain: he never walked with an irresolute step, or rapped
at the proudest door with a misgiving heart, or doubted of the
cordial reception that waited him, wherever he might go. But
his confidence in the world was greater than its goodness warranted:
he did not recognize the weakness that is in humanity,
nor the weakness that was in himself, till too late. When he was
a little boy, he said often, “I will never be sick, and never die—I
will go out in the woods and sing.” And this was his spirit till
he grew into manhood.

Zeb had an only sister—Ruth, or Ruthy, as he always called
her, and the two children lived in the old farm-house with their
father, a querulous gray-headed man, who had long forgotten he
was ever young. He did not perhaps mean to be a hard master,
nevertheless he was so sometimes. “Use doth breed a habit in
a man,” and Mr. Sands, I suppose, became accustomed by little
and little to the much, to the all, his son did for him; so that at
last his expectations in regard to him could scarcely be equalled.
Sometimes Zeb would come in at night, weary and dusty with
the day's hard work, and, for his father's comfort, and perhaps in
the hope of a little praise, tell over what he had done; how he
had felled and chopped to firewood the most stubborn tree in the
forest, or, it might be, had plowed more ground than he had expected,
and so had unyoked the oxen before the sunlight was quite
gone. But never was he rejoiced by one word of congratulation.
If he had felled a tree, “Why, there was another knotty thing

close by—could he not have got that down too?” If he had
plowed more than another would have done, “He could have
plowed on yet for an hour—there was light enough.” This was
discouraging, but Zeb kept his patience through all, and tended
the farm year after year—giving all the profits that accrued into
the old man's hand, and keeping nothing for himself.

Ruth was as good as most persons, but less thoughtful of her
brother's pleasure than her own. “Zeb, I want to go to town
to-morrow, or next week,” she was accustomed to say, and before
the appointed time Zeb would haul the little wagon to the
creek, and wash the old paint to look as fresh as new. The corn
was left ungathered or the mowing undone, and Ruth went to town
and bought a new dress, and bonnet too, if she chose; and Zeb
said, “How pretty you will look when you wear them! you will
be ashamed to go with me in my threadbare coat and old hat: I
am rather behind the fashion, ain't I, Ruthy?” He laughed gaily
all the while, and Ruth laughed too—never thinking how many
new hats she had had since Zeb had once indulged in such a
luxury.

The grass was whitening in the hazy days of October; the orchards
were bright with ripe fruit, and the corn was rustling and
dry; it was the autumn that made Zeb twenty years old. His lip
was darkening a little from its boyish glow, and now and then
soberer moods came to him than he had known before. Across a
dry ridge of stubble land, overgrown with briers, he had been
plowing all the windy day; the oxen bent their heads low to the
ground as the dust blew in their faces, and Zeb took off his torn-brimmed
straw hat now and then, and shook out his curls. heavy
with sweat, and fell behind the team, as though thinking of other
things than his plowing. One side of the field was bordered by a
lane leading from the main road to an obscure neighborhood. It
was quite dusky where the lane struck into the woods, when a
lady came riding thence on a gay black horse, and seeing Zeb at
his plowing, tightened her rein, and, waiting for him to approach,
gave the salutation of the evening in a sweet, good-humored tone.
She was not dressed in the costume which ladies now-a-days think
indispensable for riding, but wore instead a straw hat with red
ribbons and a dress of sky-blue muslin—not trailing low, but so

short that her feet peeped now and then from beneath it. She sat
her horse gracefully, and her cheeks were deeply flushed, perhaps
from the proximity of the young farmer, perhaps merely from exercise;
and her black hair hung in curls down her shoulders, and
her black eyes sparkled with healthful happiness. So, altogether,
she made as pretty a finishing to the rural picture as one could
imagine. Certainly Zeb thought so, as leaning against the fence
be caressed the glossy neck of the horse, champing the bit and
pawing the dust impatiently; and as he stood there it might
have been noticed that he removed his hat, and so rolled the brim
in his hand as to conceal how badly it was torn. It was observable
too that he talked in a subdued tone and with downeast
eyes—very unlike his usual manner. After a brief delay, and a
little restrained conversation, the young woman rode forward,
putting her horse at once into a canter.

For five minutes or more Zeb lingered where she left him—not
looking after her, nor seeming to see anything, as he idly cut
letters in the fence-rail with his knife. Directly, however, he
took up his hat from the ground, upon which it had fallen, replaced
his knife in his pocket, drew a sigh, and began to unyoke
his team. But before he had quite freed the weary oxen he
looked up: the blue dress and red ribbons were yet visible in the
distance: he hesitated, and after a moment resumed his plowing,
whistling a merry tune, but so plaintively and with such variations
as made it sad almost as a dirge.

The pretty girl just riding out of sight is Molly Blake, a young
person who lives a mile or so beyond the woods that stand against
the field in which the youth is at work. Zeb and Molly once
stood together at spelling school, and Zeb spelled for her all the
hard words, in whispers; and on a time, while picking berries,
they chanced to meet, and it so happened that Zeb went home
with an empty basket, while Molly's was heaped full. The cause
of their seeing each other to-day is, that Molly is going to make
an apple-cutting in a night or two, and has given the earliest invitation
to Zeb. As he carved letters in the fence he was debating
whether he would go or not; and as he unyoked the oxen, he
was saying to himself, “I will go home and rest, I am tired;
and I can't go to the apple-cutting, at any rate, in my old clothes

and hat.” Still he hesitated, and as he did so, saw the blue
dress and red ribbons in the distance; then came the thought
that he might plow an hour or two more, and so gain time to go
to town with some oats or potatoes, and bring home such articles
as the frolic seemed to demand. And at this thought he resumed
his work.

It not unfrequently happens that a young man is not regarded
by his sisters as he is regarded by other women; such was the
case with Zeb; and on this special occasion Ruth never once
thought whether her brother had been invited to the party or
not, so engaged was she with her own plans and pleasures. It
chanced this evening, as such things will chance sometimes, that
supper was prepared an hour earlier than usual; and, until it was
too late for her to see, Ruth stood at the window, watching for
her brother to come home.

Meantime the fire burned out and the tea grew cold; and then
came impatience, and then petulance, so that Ruth said at last,
“Come, father, we will eat without him, and let him come when
he gets ready.”

But Zeb came pretty soon, wearied, but with a brain full of
pleasant thoughts, which shone out upon his manly countenance.
“Well, Ruthy, I am sorry I have kept you waiting,” he said, as
he drew water for his oxen at the well.

“I am sorry too,” she answered in a calm, decided tone, that
indicated a frigid state of feeling.

“Come, Ruthy, do n't be vexed,” said Zeb, laughing after the
old fashion, “but get my supper, while I turn the oxen into the
meadow—(you do n't know how tired and hungry I am)—and I
will tell you what detained me.”

“You need n't trouble yourself to do that,” she answered,
tossing her head, “it 's of no importance to me.”

Zeb pulled his old hat over his eyes, and walked soberly
away with his oxen, quite forgetting that he was either tired or
hungry. If Ruth felt any misgivings, pride kept them down;
and, to justify herself, she said, half aloud, “Well, I do n't care!
he had no business to stay away till midnight.” Nevertheless,
she arranged the supper as nicely as might be; but Zeb did
not come—his appetite had quite deserted him. Across the

meadow, near where the oxen were feeding, he lay on the
grass, the moonlight, flecked by the apple-boughs, falling over
and around him.

A day or two of unhappy reserve went by, Zeb remaining
little about the house, and saying little when he was there, but
plowing early and late, grieved rather than vexed. When he
spoke to Ruth, it was with words and in a manner studiously
kind, and with her duller sense she did not see that he was
changed, but a crisis had been reached at length in the young
farmer's life and nature.

The evening of so many happy anticipations was near at
hand. The morning was bright, and Zeb rose early, and was
busy with preparations for a little project he had in his mind,
when Ruth came out, and assisting him to lift a bag of potatoes
into the wagon, inquired whether he were going to town that
day: she would like to go, she said, if he could make room for
her. “I am invited to Molly Blake's to-morrow night,” she
continued, “and that is the reason I wish to go to town this
morning.” She did not ask Zeb if he also were invited: she
never thought of the possibility.

It was after noon before they reached the city, and leaving
his sister at the house of a cousin, in the suburbs, with a promise
of meeting her at an appointed hour, he drove away in search
of a market for his oats and potatoes. The grocers with whom
he was in the habit of dealing were all supplied; the few offers
he received were greatly below his expectations, and hours
were spent in driving from street to street, before he was able
to dispose of his produce at any reasonable price. He had
found no time to dine—no time to feed his horses—and the
heads of the tired animals drooped sadly, as he turned them
toward the place where he was to meet Ruth.

The show at the window of a hatter attracted him; he had
never had a fur hat, and checking his team close against the side-walk,
he looked at the tempting display, and had mentally
selected one which he thought would please him—at the same
time putting his hand in his pocket to ascertain whether he
could afford one so fine—when his attention was arrested by
the sudden appearance of his sister. “Why, Zeb!” she said

pettishly, “are you charmed with a hatter's window? I waited
and waited till I was tired to death, and then set out in search
of you.” Zeb laughed, and answered, that if she looked at his
old hat she would see why he was charmed, and assured her of
his regret that she was alarmed about him.

It was not fear for his safety that induced her to look for
him, but need of money. The youth averted his face from the
window, and a disappointed expression passed across it, as he
answered, “How much do you want, Ruthy?”

“Oh, I do n't know,” she said carelessly, “all you 've got.”

He turned away, as if to take up the reins—perhaps even his
dull sister, could she have seen it, would have been able to
read something of what was at the moment written on his countenance—and
reaching backward all the money he had, and
climbing into the wagon, began to rub the mud from his trowsers
with a wisp of straw. Away went Ruth—her thoughts
full of new ribbons and shining shoes, and more than all, of the
gold ring that was to sparkle on her finger the next evening.

While these little purchases were being made, the horses
stamped their feet, and switched their tails restlessly; and Zeb,
feeling that he had no very present purpose, nor any sympathy
to lessen his half-surly and half-tearful mood, turned his back
to the hatter's window, and, seated in the front corner of the
wagon, brushed the flies from the tired animals with his old hat.
The sun was near setting when Ruth returned, her hands full
of little packages and parcels, and her face beaming with joy.
So they went home together, and when Ruth rode to town in
the little wagon again, Zeb was not sitting beside her.

The next day was a busy one, but before night the new white
apron was made, the pink ribbon knotted up, and the ring glittering
where Ruth had long desired to see it. “Well, Zeb,”
she said, as she turned down the lane to go to Molly Blake's,
“I want you to make me a flower-pot to-night—sawed in
notches at the top, you know—it 's time to take up my myrtle.”
All day he had been thinking she would say something about
his going with her—disclose some regret, perhaps, when he
should tell her he could not go; but now the poor satisfaction of
giving any expression to his disappointment was denied him, and

making pictures in the air, of gayeties in which he could have no
part, he set to work about the flower-pot. He thought hard,
and wrought as hard as he thought, and the little box was soon
completed—notched round at the top, just as had been desired.
It was not yet dark when the work was done, and Zeb held it
up admiringly when he had filled it with fresh earth, and arranged
the long myrtle vines to drop gracefully through the
notches. He placed it in the window of Ruth's room, and, the
task accomplished, there came a feeling of restlessness that he
could not banish, try as he would. The full moon was reddening
among the clouds, and the yellow leaves raining down with
every wind, as, folding his arms, he walked up and down among
the flowers that he had planted in May.

2. II.

“Ah, Zeb, is that you?” said a good-natured voice, in a familiar
tone; and a young man, driving in a rattling cart, drew up
before the gate, and followed the salutation with an oath and an
inquiry as to Zeb's being at home, when there was “such
almighty attraction abroad.”

Zeb came indolently forward, remarking that his friend was
insensible to that great attraction as well as himself.

“Oh, Jehu!” answered the young man, laughing boisterously,
“I hope you do n't think I was invited. Gracious me! you
do n't expect a wood-chopper like me could get into such a
place as Molly Blake's house?” And he laughed again, saying,
“Zeb, my dear boy, how very verdant you are!”

The man in the cart was, as he said, a wood-chopper—a most
genial and amiable fellow, notwithstanding some buffetings of
adverse fortune—for he had been cast loose on the world at an
early age, and had faced scorn and hunger, laughing all the
time. “Come, come, Zeb,” he said, seeing the moping mood
of the young farmer—“climb into my coach, and allow me to
give you an airing by the light of the moon. In with you! I
can fight down the bluest devils that ever got hold of a chap.”

We are apt to imbibe the spirit of whomever we associate
with, and Zeb affected a liveliness at first which he presently

felt, and joined in the wild chorus which the chopper every now
and then pealed out:

They drove rapidly, and talked mirthfully, and soon reached
their destination, the ball-room of the Clovernook tavern, in
which that night a political speech was to be made. It was
late and raining when the meeting broke up, and a portion of
the assemblage adjourned to the bar-room, to wait for the rain
to slack, and to talk off their excitement and prejudice.

“Well, boys,” said our Jehu, who was moved to the highest
pitch of his best humor by the politician's speech, which chanced
to “meet his ideas exactly,” “I feel as if a little drop of something
would do me good; and besides I want you to jine me in
drinking the health of the apple-cutters. Here!” he continued,
exhibiting a bottle to the circle about him, “who of you will
take off the head of this `Lady Anne?”'

But one bottle did not suffice, nor two, nor three; the spirits of
the company rose higher and higher; strong and stronger drinks
were called for—the wood-chopper protesting that he could stand
a treat as well as another, and especially urging the liquor upon
his friend Zeb, topping off each proffer with, “Darn the expense,
old feller; drink, and forget your sorrows, and Molly into the
bargain.” Zeb declined at first, replying that he did n't care
anything about Molly: but it would not do; he was asked if he
feared to vex the proudy, and had so soon surrendered his
manhood to her caprice. At last he yielded to the current so
strongly set against him, and, swearing a great oath, drank off
more brandy than might safely be taken by the most habitual
tippler. But it is not necessary that I linger on that dreadful
night. Alas, for poor Zeb! it was a night that for him had
never any ending.

The sun was struggling up, and the mists were rising out of
the ground like hot steam, when the wood-chopper again drew up

his cart before the old farm-house; and arousing his companion
from the straw in which he lay in a fevered and maddened sleep,
assisted him to the ground, balancing him on his feet as one
might a little child, and steadying him as he tried to walk—for
he staggered feebly one way and the other, telling the chopper
he did n't care a damn who saw him, that he was just as good
as any man, and that Molly Blake was the prettiest girl in the
world, and he would fight anybody who said she was not.

“Come, Zeb,” said his companion, “have more pluck; do n't
talk so like a fool;” and passing his arm around him, he continued,
“be like me—be a man!” And with such encouragement,
he brought his friend as near the house as he dared, and
left him to make his entrance alone.

“Zebulon Sands,” said his father, meeting him at the door,
and giving the severest expression to a naturally severe countenance,
“are you not ashamed to show your face to me? I
wish you had died before I saw this day. I do n't want to see
nor speak to you,” he continued, “till you can behave yourself
better.” Ruth stood by, speaking not a word, but looking her
contempt and indignation, while Zeb staggered against the wall,
and with downcast eyes picked the straws out of his hair and
from off his coat. He heard her laugh derisively, saw her turn
away, and when he called her, she did not come—perhaps she
did not hear him. In a moment all the imbecility of drunkenness
was gone—he knew what he had done, and felt a self-condemnation
bitterer than a thousand curses.

The rain came on again after an hour or two, and continued
throughout the day, and Zeb, creeping into the barn, listened to
its falling on the roof, half wishing that some dread accident
would come upon him, whereby a reconciliation with his father
and sister might be brought about. But hour after hour went by,
and the dull and dreary beating of the rain was all he heard;
no gleam of sunshine broke the gloom that was about him; no
voice but the still, reproving one of conscience, met his listening;
so the day faded, and the night fell. At last, worn down physically,
and exhausted mentally, he slept, waking not till the break
of day. The rain had ceased, and the wind was whistling chillily
from the north. He remembered what his father had said to

him, and the contemptuous laugh of his sister rang in his ears.
If they had looked kindly on him, his heart would have been
melted; he would have asked their forgiveness, and perhaps
would never again have yielded to temptation, made even
stronger by his transient weakness. But they had met him with
no kindly admonitions, and he had too much pride to seek an
opportunity of humbling himself; so giving one sorrowful look to
the old farmhouse, he pulled the torn hat over his eyes, thrust
his hands in his pockets, and in a few minutes the hills of home
were lost to him forever.

Zeb whistled as he went, not for want of thought, but to drown
it, and he walked fast, in a vain effort to get away from himself.
The sun was scarcely risen when he found himself in the suburbs
of the city, friendless and penniless. I need not describe his
efforts to find employment: of course he understood nothing but
the work to which he had been used, and his rustic manners and
anxious credulity made him liable to constant impositions.

3. III.

“Well, Ruthy, I wonder if Zeb has found a better place?”
said Mr. Sands one evening about a fortnight after the young man
had gone to seek his fortune.

“I do n't know,” she answered, laying the embers together, for
it was cold enough for fire now; “I do n't know—I do wonder
where he is—but he will take care of himself, I 'll warrant that.”

“I hope he will,” said Mr. Sands; “but I do n't know. He
was always a good boy—I wish I had not been quite so hard
with him.”

The silence that followed was broken by a rap on the door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Sands, and the cousin mentioned as living in
the city suburb entered. Zeb was at his house, and very sick.
The physicians had pronounced his disease small-pox of the most
virulent nature.

With the suspense, some softness had gathered about the hearts
of father and sister; but when this intelligence came, more than
the old hardness returned.

“If he had staid at home and minded his business,” said the

father, “he would have been well; as it is, he must get along
the best he can. It would be an awful thing to bring him into
the neighborhood.”

“Dear me, I can 't go to see him,” said Ruth, rolling up her
sleeve, to examine the scar of vaccination. “It was too bad in
Zeb to act so. I hope when he gets well he 'll behave himself.”

“He is very good, all at once,” said the father. “Is he broke
out in the face?”

So the cousin rode back again, little profited by his journey.

Two or three days went by without any further tidings of
Zeb, and then a neighbor chanced to hear in town that he was
very bad; still it was not definitely known that his case was
desperate.

“Very bad!” said Mr. Sands, when he heard this news—
“every body is very bad who has the small-pox: like enough
he 'll be marked for life.” But though he was uneasy, he
neither sent a messenger nor went himself to visit his unhappy
son. For three days nothing further was heard. Ruth said she
thought he must be better, else they would hear; and the father
said he guessed so too, or they would certainly get some news
from him.

The day was one of those deliciously genial ones which sometimes
gladden the autumn; and the father and daughter, well
and strong, could not realize that Zeb was dying. In the afternoon
Ruth went to pass an hour or two and drink tea with a
friend. There were many new things to be seen, and many
interesting matters to be talked about; so her thoughts were
quite drawn away from her brother; or, if now and then they
returned to him, it was less fearfully than they had done before.
It was nightfall when she set out for home, and though the distance
was not long, star after star came out, as, slowly walking,
she recounted all that she had seen and heard that afternoon;
how such an one had made her a new dress, and whether
it were probable that such another were to be married, as reported;
and so, musing, she reached the hill that overlooked
the homestead. All was dark: involuntarily she quickened her
step, and in a moment recognized her father walking backward
and forward in the road before her. His form seemed more

than usually bent, and his hands were crossed behind him according
to his habit in times of trouble—and his gray hair was
uncovered, and blown about in the wind. He was waiting for
her she knew, and why he was waiting she felt. “Oh, father,”
she said, seeing he did not speak, “have you heard from Zeb?”

“I wish I had gone to see him, Ruth,” he answered, covering
his face with his hands.

“Is he dead?” she asked in a low tone—for the awful fear
kept her heart still.

“I do n't know,” he answered trembling, “but I 'm afraid
we shall never see him alive. He has not spoken, since last
night at midnight—then he said he should not get well, and
that he should like to see me and you, Ruthy; yet he told
them not to send for us, saying we could do no good, and that
our lives must not be endangered for him.”

“Oh, poor Zeb!” sobbed out the girl, “let us go and see
him. Can 't we go to-night?”

“Dear child, he does not know anybody to-day,” answered
the father, “and has not spoken since sunrise. Poor Zeb! it
is all our fault.”

So, talking and weeping together, they entered the old house.
How lonesome it was! the wind had never been so mournful
before. Ruth remembered when she and Zeb had listened to
it in the autumns that were gone, but it was not dirge-like,
as now. The drifting of the yellow leaves in the moonlight
seemed to have a sorrowful significance; and, years after, Ruth
could not see them fall without recalling something of the feeling
that came upon her that night.

It is a long time since they sat together, father and daughter,
listening to the winds and to the reproaches of their own hearts,
as they remembered their harsh words and hard behavior. It
is a long time since Ruth took from the notched flower-pot
Zeb had made for her the greenest and freshest vines of the
myrtle, and set them over his grave. And once or twice in
every year the wood-chopper may be seen mending the mound,
and pulling the weeds from among the flowers. He has never
been known to “stand a treat” since the night he tempted his
friend to ruin.