University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
RICE CORNER.

Yes, Rice Corner! Do you think it a queer name?
Well, Rice Corner was a queer place, and deserved a
queer name. Now whether it is celebrated for anything
in particular, I really can't, at this moment, think, unless,
indeed, it is famed for having been my birth-place!
Whether this of itself is sufficient to immortalize a place,
future generations may, perhaps, tell, but I have some misgivings
whether the present will. This idea may be the
result of my having recently received sundry knocks over
the knuckles in the shape of criticisms.

But I know one thing,—on the bark of that old chestnut
tree which stands near Rice Corner school-house, my
name is cut higher than some of my more bulky cotemporary
quill—or rather steel—pen-wielders ever dared to
climb. To be sure, I tore my dress, scratched my face,
and committed numerous other little rompish miss-demeanors,
which procured for me a motherly scolding.
That, however, was of minor consideration, when compared
with having my name up—in the chestnut tree, at
least, if it couldn't be up in the world. But pardon my
egotism, and I will proceed with my story about Rice
Corner.

Does any one wish to know whereabouts on this rolling

sphere Rice Corner is situated? I don't believe you can
find it on the map, unless your eyes are bluer and bigger
than mine, which last they can't very well be. But I can
tell you to a dot where Rice Corner should be. Just
take your atlas,—not the last one published, but Olney's,
that's the one I studied,—and right in one of those little
towns in Worcester county is Rice Corner, snugly nestled
among the gray rocks and blue hills of New England.

Yes, Rice Corner was a great place, and so you would
have thought could you have seen it in all its phases,
with its brown, red, green, yellow, and white houses, each
of which had the usual quantity of rose bushes, lilacs,
hollyhocks, and sunflowers. You should have seen my
home, my New England home, where once, not many
years ago, a happy group of children played. Alas! alas!
some of those who gave the sunlight to that spot, have
left us now forever, and on the bright shores of the eternal
river they wait and watch our coming. I do not expect
a stranger to love our old homestead as I loved it, for
in each heart is a fresh, green spot—the memory of its
own early home—where the sunshine was brighter, the
well waters cooler, and the song-bird's carol sweeter than
elsewhere they are found.

I trust I shall be forgiven, if, in this chapter, I pause
awhile to speak of my home,—aye, and of myself, too,
when, a light-hearted child, I bounded through the meadows
and orchards which lay around the old brown house
on my father's farm. 'Twas a large, square, two-storied
building, that old brown farm-house, containing rooms,
cupboards, and closets innumerable, and what was better
than all, a large, airy garret, where, on all rainy days,
and days when it looked as if it would rain, Bill, Joe,
Lizzie and I, assembled to hold our noisy revels. Never,
since the days of our great-grandmothers, did little spinning

wheel buzz round faster than did the one which, in
the darkest corner of that garret, had been safely stowed
away, where they guessed “the young-ones would n't
find it.”

“Would n't find it!” I should like to know what
there was in that old garret that we did n't find, and appropriate,
too! Even the old oaken chest which contained
our grandmother's once fashionable attire, was not
sacred from the touch of our lawless hands. Into its
deep recesses we plunged, and brought out such curiosities,—the
queerest looking, high crowned, broad frilled
caps, narrow gored shirts, and what was funnier than all,
a strange looking thing which we thought must be a side-saddle,—any
way, it fitted Joe's rocking horse admirably,
although we wondered why so much whalebone was
necessary!

One day, in the midst of our gambols, in walked the
identical owner of the chest, and seeing the side-saddle,
she said, somewhat angrily, “Why, children, where upon
airth did you find my old stays?” We never wondered
again what made grandma's back keep its place so much
better than ours, and Bill had serious thoughts of trying
the effect of the stays upon himself.

In the rear of our house and sloping toward the setting
sun, was a long, winding lane, leading far down into
a wide-spreading tract of flowery woods, shady hillside,
and grassy pasture land, each in their turn highly suggestive
of brown nuts, delicious strawberries, and venomous
snakes. These last were generally more the creatures of
imagination than of reality, for in all my wanderings over
those fields, and they were many, I never but once trod
upon a green snake, and only once was I chased by a
white ringed black snake; so I think I am safe in saying

that the snakes were not so numerous as were the nuts
and berries, which grew there in great profusion.

A little to the right of the woods, where, in winter,
Bill, Joe, Lizzie, and I dragged our sleds and boards for
the purpose of riding down hill, was a merry, frolicking
stream of water, over which, in times long gone, a saw-mill
had been erected; but owing to the inefficiency of its
former owner, or something else, the mill had fallen into
disuse, and gradually gone to decay. The water of the
brook, relieved from the necessity of turning the spluttering
wheel, now went gaily dancing down, down into
the depths of the dim old woods, and far away, I never
knew exactly where; but having heard rumors of a jumping
off place, I had a vague impression that at that spot
the waters of the mill-dam put up!

Near the saw mill, and partially hidden by the scraggy
pine trees and thick bushes which drooped over its entrance,
was a long, dark passage, leading underground;
not so large, probably, as Mammoth Cave, but in my estimation
rivaling it in interest. This was an old mine,
where, years before, men had dug for gold. Strange
stories were told of those who, with blazing torches,
and blazing noses, most likely, there toiled for the yellow
dust. The “Ancient Henry” himself, it was said, sometimes
left his affairs at home, and joined the nightly revels
in that mine, where cards and wine played a conspicuous
part. Be that as it may, the old mine was surrounded
by a halo of fear, which we youngsters never
cared to penetrate.

On a fine afternoon an older sister would occasionally
wander that way, together with a young M. D., whose
principal patient seemed to be at our house, for his little
black pony very frequently found shelter in our stable by
the side of “old sorrel.” From the north garret window

I would watch them, wondering how they dared venture
so near the old mine, and wishing, mayhap, that the time
would come when I, with some daring doctor, would risk
everything. The time has come, but alas! instead of being
a doctor, he is only a lawyer, who never even saw
the old mine in Rice Corner.

Though I never ventured close to the old mine, there
was, not far from it, one pleasant spot where I loved
dearly to go. It was on the hillside, where, 'neath the
shadow of a gracefully twining grape-vine, lay a large,
flat rock. Thither would I often repair, and sit for hours
listening to the hum of the running water brook, or the
song of the summer birds, who, like me, seemed to love
that place. Often would I gaze far off at the distant,
misty horizon, wondering if I should ever know what
was beyond it. Wild fancies then filled my childish
brain. Strange voices whispered to me thoughts and
ideas, which, if written down and carried out, would, I
am sure, have placed my name higher than it was carved
on the old chestnut tree.

I was a strange child, I know. Everybody told me so,
and I knew it well enough without being told. The wise
old men of Rice Corner and their still wiser old wives,
looked at me askance, as 'neath the thorn-apple tree I
built my play-house and baked my little loaves of mud
bread. But when, forgetful of others, I talked aloud to
myriads of little folks, unseen 'tis true, but still real to
me, they shook their gray heads ominously, and whispering
to my mother said, “Mark our words, that girl will
one day be crazy. In ten years more she will be an inmate
of the mad-house!”

And then I wondered what a mad-house was, and if
the people there all acted as our school teacher did when
Bill and the big girls said he was mad! The ten years
have passed, and I'm not in a mad-house yet, unless, indeed,
it is one of my own getting up!

One thing more about Rice Corner, and then, honor
bright, I'll finish the preface and go on with the story. I
must tell you about the old school-house, and the road
which led to it. This last wound around a long hill, and
was skirted on either side with tall trees, flowering dog-wood,
blackberry bushes, and frost grape-vines. Halfway
down the hill, and under one of the tallest walnut trees,
was a little hollow, where dwelt the goblin with which
nurses, housemaids, hired men, and older sisters were
wont to frighten refractory children into quietness. It
was the grave of an old negro. Alas! that to his last
resting place the curse should follow him! Had it been
a white person who rested there, not half so fearful would
have been the spot; now, however, it was “the old nigger
hole” — a place to run by, if by accident you were
caught out after dark — a place to be threatened with, if
you cried in the night and wanted the candle lighted—a
landmark where to stop, when going part way home with
the little girl who had been to visit you, and who, on
leaving you, ran no less swiftly than you yourself did,
half fearing that the dusky form in the hollow would rise
and try his skill at running. Verily, my heart has beat
faster at the thoughts of that dead negro, than it ever has
since at the sight of a hundred live specimens, “way down
south on the old plantation.”

The old school-house, too, had its advantages and its
disadvantages; of the latter, one was that there, both
summer and winter, but more especially during the last
mentioned season, all the rude boys in the place thought

they had a perfect right to congregate and annoy the
girls in every possible way. But, never mind, not a few
wry faces we made at them, and not a few “blockheads”
we pinned to their backs! Oh! I've had rare times in
that old house, and have seen there rare sights, too, to
say nothing of the fights which occasionally occurred.
In these last, brother Joe generally took the lead of one
party, while Jim Brown commanded the other. Dire
was the confusion which reigned at such times. Books
were hurled from side to side. Then followed in quick
succession shovel, tongs, poker, water cup, water pail,
water and all; and to cap the climax, Jim Brown once
seized the large iron pan, which stood upon the stove, half
filled with hot water, and hurled it in the midst of the enemy.
Luckily nobody was killed, and but few wounded.

Years in their rapid flight have rolled away since then,
and he, my brother, is sleeping alone on the wild shore
of California.

James Brown, too, is resting in the church-yard, near
his own home, and 'neath his own native sky.