 | I. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
1. I.
It was about the middle of the month of July, and intensely
not; scarcely a breeze stirred the russet gold of the wheat-field,
in which two men were at work—the one pausing now
and then to wipe great drops of sweat from his forehead, and
push back his gray hair, as he surveyed the heavy swaths
that lay drying in the sun; while the other kept right on, the
steady rush of his cradle sending up from the falling grain a
thin dust; and bending under the burning heat, and laying swath
after swath of the ripe wheat beside him, he moved around the
field, hour after hour, never whistling, nor singing, nor surveying
the work that was done, nor the work that was to do.
“Willard,” called the old man, as for the third time the
youth passed him in his round—and there was something more
impatient than kindly in his tone—“Willard, what in the name
of sense possesses you to-day? I can generally swing my
cradle about as fast as you, old as I am. Leave working for a
half-hour; you will gain in the end; and let us cross over by
way of the spring, and rest in the shade of the locust for a
while.”
“I am not very tired,” answered the boy, without pausing
from his work; “go on, and I will join you when I come round
again.”
The old man hesitated, cut a few vigorous strokes, threw
down his cradle in the middle of the field, and turned back.
And well he might; he had need of rest; the grasshoppers
could not hum, it was so hot, and the black beetles crept beneath
the leaves and under the edges of the loose clods, and
the birds hid in the bushes, and dropped their wings and were
into the full warmth.
One side of the field lay the public road, heaped with hot
dust, fetlock deep; and now and then a heavy wagon plowed
along, drawn by five or six horses, their necks ornamented with
bear skins and brass bells, the latter sending tinkling music
far across the fields, and cheering the teamster's heart, as
beneath his broad-rimmed straw-hat he trod through the dry
fennel beside his stout horses. All day the narrow foot-path
kept the print of naked feet, left by the school children as they
went to and came from their tasks. Bordering the field's edge,
opposite this dusty way, was a wooded hill, at the base of
which, beneath a clump of trees, burst out, clear and cool, a
spring of the purest water. To the north lay other harvest-fields,
and the white walls of cottages and homesteads glimmered
among the trees; and to the south, nestled in the midst
of a little cherry-orchard, were discernible the brown walls and
mossy roof of an old farm-house. A cool, quiet, shady place
it looked, and most inviting to the tired laborers; but it was
toward the spring, and not the house, that the old man bent his
steps when he left off work.
Having drank, from a cup of leaves, the tired man stretched
himself in the thick shadow that ran up the hillside from a
cluster of sassafras and elms that grew in the hollow. But he
seemed not to rest well; for every now and then he lifted his
head from its pillow of grass, and looked toward the field,
where the young man was still at his labor. More than an hour
had elapsed, when, for the third time nearing the shadows, and
seeing, perhaps, the anxious look directed toward him, he threw
down his cradle, and staggered, rather than walked, along the
hollow toward the spring, and, throwing himself flat on the
ground, he drew in long draughts of water from the cool, mossy
stones. As he rose, his cheeks were pale from exhaustion, and
his long black hair hung in heavy wet masses down his neck
and forehead.
“Well, my son,” said the older man, rousing from his slumberous
reverie, “you have come at last.” The youth made no
reply, and he continued, “If I had been as smart, we should
—I am getting old.” And his blue eyes grew moist, as,
drooping them on the ground, he silently pulled the grass and
white clover blossoms that grew at his feet, and scattered them
about.
“Oh, no, father, you are not so very old,” replied Willard,
anxiously and earnestly; “and I have fewer years before me
than you, though I have not lived quite so long.”
“It may be so,” said the father, “if you continue to work so
hard; your constitution cannot endure as much as mine. See
how your hands are trembling, from exhaustion, now.”
“That is nothing; I shall get over it soon, and for the time
to come I shall be more prudent; indeed, I have been thinking
that to rise an hour or two earlier, and rest for an hour or two
in the heat of the day, would be a wiser disposition of the
time.” The father made no reply, and he added, “In that way
I shall be able to do almost everything, and you need only
work for recreation.”
“And so, Willard,” said the old man, at length, “you have
been tasking yourself so heavily to-day on my account?”
The son did not reply directly; in fact, he had been influenced
by far other than kindly feelings toward anybody in the
energetic prosecution of his work; farming was not to his taste;
the excessive heat that day had made him irritable; and to be
revenged on fate, and in defiance of his failing strength, he had
labored with all his might. But his sullenness subsided at the
first word of kindness; and he felt that his father was indeed
getting old, and that what he said about doing all the work in
future was perfectly sincere.
There was a long silence, broken at last by the elder of the
two. “You have always had a great notion of books, Willard;
and I have been thinking that if I could send you to college,
you might live more easily than I have done.”
“If I could go, father, I should be very glad; but if you
were able to send me, I could not be spared very well;” and
in a moment he added, “Could I?” in the hope of hearing
something further urged in favor of his wishes.
“There is `Brock' we might sell,” the father remarked,
oats this fall. Yes, I think we can manage; that is, if you
have a mind to let Brock go.”
“I should not mind parting with him; he is six years old,
and will never be worth more than now; besides, I can buy
plenty of horses, good as he, if I ever want them.”
An hour was consumed in speculations of one sort and
another, and the shadows had crept far up the hill when they
arose to resume their occupation.
“But how,” said Willard, as they walked toward the field,
“will you get along at home?” for it was now almost a settled
point that he should go to college.
“Do n't be troubled about us; our hearts are here, and that
makes work go much easier; besides, we have lived our day—
your mother and I—it is little matter about us; but you, Willard,
you are young and ambitious, and so smart. Linney,” he
added, after a moment, “will miss you.”
The young man seemed not to hear this remark, and taking
up their cradles, the father and the son worked and talked together
till set of sun. The grain was all down; and as they
swung their cradles over their shoulders to go home, the old
man sighed, and, looking on the sparkling eyes and flushed face
of the youth, he said, “Perhaps we may never reap this field
together again.”
Willard had always thought it would make him very happy
to know he should not have to swing the cradle any more; but
somehow his father's words made his heart heavy; and, in
spite of the fast-coming beard, he turned away and brushed the
tears from his browned cheek with the back of his hand. He
tried to count the outside passengers of the stage-coach, as it
rattled past, filling all the road with clouds of dust, in vain—
he was thinking of something else; the old farm, that he had
sometimes almost hated, looked beautiful now: the ripe standing
harvests, and the yellow stubble-fields, stretching away
toward the woodland, and the red and orange shadows trembling
along the hill-sides and among the green leaves. A little
and a little more he lingered, till, finally, where the birds
chirped in the hedge which divided the meadow from the
melancholy cries, and quick gushing songs, all mingled and
blended together, and the stir of leaves and the whirr of wings
sounded through and over all. The blue morning-glories had
puckered up their bells, but looked pretty yet, and the open
trumpet-flowers hung bright and flaunting everywhere.
Many a time he had come out to the hedge with Linney
Carpenter in the summer twilights. Now he might not come
any more; and if he went away, she would forget him—perhaps
love some one else.
There was a crashing and cracking of the boughs in the
hedge, and Brock, pressing as near as he could, leaned his
slender head upon the shoulder of the young man. “No, no,
I will not sell you!” he exclaimed, parting away the boughs
which divided them; “a thousand dollars would not buy you!”
and for a half hour he caressed and talked to the beautiful
animal, as though he had been a reasoning creature. At the
end of that time he was pretty nearly resolved to think no
more of the college; and, dismissing the horse, with an abrupt
promise to keep him always, he bent his steps hurriedly homeward.
But Brock had either a sudden fit of fondness, or else
some premonition of the hard things meditated against him,
and he followed his young master at a little distance, droopingly
and noiselessly. Willard had just reached the boundary
of the cherry-orchard, bending wearily under his cradle, and
with his face begrimed with dust and sweat, when a wave of
sweet perfumes came against him; and, looking up, he beheld
in the path directly before him a graduate of the most celebrated
institution of learning then in the west. “Ay, how are
you, Hulbert?” he said, approaching, and stripping the kid-glove
off his delicate hand.
Willard recognized him as a former school-fellow and playmate,
but his greeting was cold and formal, expressing nothing
of the cordial surprise which a sometime absent friend might
have expected. Having addressed him as Mr. Welden, he set
his cradle on the ground beside him, dashed back his heavy,
wet hair, and seemed to wait for the young man to make known
instead, something of the heat of the day.
“I should scarcely have expected you to know anything
about it,” Willard replied, drily.
“Why, I have been making hay, and think I should know,”
answered Welden; “just look here,” and he showed two blisters
on the palm of his hand.
But Willard was in one of those dissatisfied moods which an
angel could not soften, and, simply saying, “Is it possible?” he
took up the cradle again. He felt as if the blistered hands had
offered a terrible insult to his own, which were too much accustomed
to toil to be affected in that way.
“Will you go to the house, Mr. Welden?” he said, after he
had advanced a step or two. The habitual, or, it may be, well-bred
amiability of Mr. Welden, seemed not at all disturbed,
and, politely assenting, he followed rather than accompanied
the moody young farmer to the house, replying for the most
part to his own observations.
“He accepts my invitation in the hope of seeing Linney,”
thought Willard, “and not that he cares anything about me;”
but, to his equal surprise and displeasure, the gentleman seemed
not to notice Linney at all. “Perhaps he thinks her beneath
his notice,” said Willard to himself. “If he does, he is mistaken;
she is as good as he, or any one like him.”
Reaching the house, there was still no perceptible improvement
in the youth's temper, despite many kindly advances on
the part of his guest.
“And so you are going to college?” Mr. Welden said.
“Ay, indeed am I,” he answered, petulantly, and without
looking up.
“Willard, Willard!” interposed Mr. Hulbert, with a reproving
look, that sent blood mantling into his cheek and
forehead; for such correction from his father implied that he
was still a boy, and it was that, joined to the knowledge that
he merited a more severe rebuke, which stung him.
The family were at tea, and but for the coming pride of manhood,
he could have risen from the table, and gone out into the
night, and cried. That privilege was denied him, however, and,
sat sullenly silent till the meal was concluded.
Mr. Welden then said, apologetically, “As I was passing
here, Willard, I chanced to meet your father, who informed me
you were going to college, and that, having no further use for
him, you would dispose of a fine horse you have.”
“I am obliged to you for so politely suggesting my necessities.
I cannot afford to leave home for this purpose unless I
sell the horse—that is the amount.”
“Then there is no obstacle in your way; for, unless your
terms are exorbitant, I can find a purchaser; in fact, I would
like to get him myself.” But that he was afraid to do, as he
would have said he wanted the horse, and would have him at
any price. “I will come to-morrow morning,” he concluded,
as he took leave, after some further conversation, “and then
we shall both have determined what we can afford to do.
Good-night!”
“Good-night—and the devil go with you!” muttered Wil
lard; and, sitting down against an old apple-tree, he threw his
hat on the grass beside him, folded his arms, about which hung
gracefully the full shirt-sleeves, and gave way to the mingled
feelings which had been gathering in his heart—feelings which
could be repressed only with tears. The harvest moon came
up round and full, the dew gathered on the grass, and dropped
heavily now and then from the apple-tree boughs; and far
away hooted and called the owl; but all beside was still.
And here, lost in bitter musings, we will leave the young
man for a little while, to speak of Linney, who does not see
the pride and ambition that darken between her and her hopes.
Her history may be comprised in a few words. A poor man,
living a short distance from Clovernook, died, leaving a large
family, who, as fast as they were old enough, must needs be
sent from home, to earn something for themselves. One of
these was Linney, who fortunately fell into the care of Mrs.
Hulbert, a plain, good, quiet woman, with a pale face, full of
benevolence, and blue eyes, beaming with love. She had never
considered the girl as a servant, but in all ways treated her
kindly as she did her own child. It was, indeed, for the good
beneath her roof. She and Willard, who was four years older,
had been playmates, and workmates, too, for the Hulberts were
far from rich, and, though they owned the farm on which they
lived, it required thrift and economy and continual labor, to
keep the fences in repair, pay the taxes, and supply the household
wants. They had made the garden, edging the vegetable
beds with rows of hollyhocks and prince's feathers; they had
gathered the eggs, and fed the broods of young chickens, and
shook down and gathered up the ripe apples; they had hunted
the silver-white hickory-nuts along the brown, windy woods of
November, gathered the small black-frost grapes from the long
tangling vines that ran over the stunted red trees, making
pyramids of their tops; and in these sometimes they had
climbed, and as they sat fronting the sun, and rocking merrily,
Linney had listened to the first ambitious dreams that brightened
the humble way of her companion. “When I am a man,
Linney, I am going to be rich. I will have a house as big as
two of father's, all painted red, and with corner cupboards in
the parlor, full of honey-jars and roast turkey. Then I mean
to have a fine coach, that will move along more softly than
these vines move now; and I will ride outside and drive the
horses, and you shall be a lady, and ride within; and if George
Welden happens to be anywhere about, we 'll run right over him.”
Of such sort were the dreams of the boy, and whatever good
fortune he pictured for himself, it was forever to be shared by
his playmate; and always the crowning of his delights was to
be a triumph in some way over George Welden—a lad whose
only crime was that he was the son of a man of fortune, that
he wore fashionable clothes, and rode to the academy on a pony
of his own; while Willard's garments were patched, and he
walked barefooted to the free-school. True, George was an
amiable boy, and often came to play with him; but Willard
said he only pretended to be very good, for, in fact, he was
selfish and ugly as he could be.”
As he grew older, and as they walked in the orchard, or sat
in the shade of some favorite tree, his dreams took other shapes;
or if he still thought he should be rich, and ride in a coach with
over George Welden. Still he dreamed of a great world that
was somewhere—he had no definite notion where—but outside
the little circle in which he lived—a world where sorrow was
scarcely sorrow, but only a less degree of happiness, and where
everything was loftier and grander than the things with which
he was familiar. And how to get out of the one world and
into the other, was the subject that occupied his thoughts
mostly, as he grew into maturer boyhood. He became more
thoughtful, less communicative, and often, when he strayed
into the orchard, or sat in the shade, it was alone. George
Welden was gone to college.
Linney was fifteen, and a pretty girl, quiet and amiable;
and if she had any ambition, it was for Willard, and not for
herself. It was little she could do, but all that seemed possible
to do, she did quietly, joyously. The long winter evenings she
employed in knitting, and all she could earn in that way, was
her own; and in the summer she picked berries sometimes,
which Mr. Hulbert sold for her in the market. The little
money thus accumulated was carefully put by for Willard.
She had amassed at length nine dollars; and when she should
get ten, she had resolved to reveal to him the precious secret,
and perhaps they would go to town together and buy books;
for she had heard him relate some stories he had read, and she
smiled, thinking how many he would have to tell when he
should read all the new books they would buy.
Willard was now nearly twenty. His life had been all
passed at home, and mostly in working on the farm. Sundays
he had gone to church with Linney, and in the longer evenings
he had read some of the few books they possessed, while she
employed herself with knitting or sewing. So, sharing the
same toils, and hopes, and fears, they had grown very dear to
each other—more dear than they were aware till the parting
came. They had never spoken of love, but whatever Linney's
feelings or dreams, Willard regarded her as one of whom no
one but himself had a right to think at all.
“Where in the world can Willard be so long?” said his
the low porch, in the yellow moonlight.
“I don 't know,” answered Linney, after a pause; and Mrs.
Hulbert continued, “He did not seem well at supper, poor
boy!”
“True,” answered Mr. Hulbert, significantly; in a moment
adding, “I think he needs to go to college, or somewhere else.”
“Seems to me the air is chilly,” said the mother, not heeding
the suggestion of the father; and, with a shiver, she arose, and
went into the house.
It was lonesome to Linney, as she sat there with the old
man; a cricket chirped under the doorstep, early as it was in
the season, and the heavy breathing of the cows, as they lay
together in the near yard, was heard now and then. The view
was closely shut in by a thick grove of cherry-trees—only the
gray gable of the barn was to be seen over their black shadows.
Linney rose, and, wrapping a shawl about her, for the evening,
as Mrs. Hulbert had said, was cool, she walked out into the
moonlight. She had not, perhaps, very clearly apprehended
her motive, though it would very readily have suggested itself
to another.
She had not long pursued her lonely walk, when she encountered
the object of her thoughts, sitting, moody and silent, under
a tree. He looked up as she approached, but did not speak;
Linney, however, cared little for this—she could have found
excuses for him had he been twice as morose; and, seating herself
on a tuft of clover, a little way from him, she talked cheerfully
and hopefully of the future. Not till she had disclosed
the long-cherished secret about the money she had saved for
him, did his stubborn humor bend at all. Taking from his
pocket a large red silk handkerchief, he spread it on the grass
beside him, saying, “Won't you sit here, Linney?” and when
she did so, he said, by way of apology for his rudeness, “That
George Welden has been the curse of my life!”
“Never mind him, Willard; you need not be envious of
any one, now!”
He laughed, because he thought there was something amusing
in her limited notions of position and independence; but, in
think him, now that he was to go to school, and have nine
dollars, all his own, to do with as he pleased. And as
he was reconciled to himself, and George Welden forgotten,
they were very happy. A long time they lingered under the
apple-tree, the yellow harvest moonlight falling quietly through,
and though neither said to the other, “I love you,” it was felt
that it was so.
They might sit under that apple-tree now, as then, but
through the yellow moonlight each would look upon how
different a world! And would they be happier?
At last they returned to the house, and Willard said, “When
at the close of the session I come home, what a joyous time it
will be! And you, Linney, will be as glad to see me as I
you?”
“Oh, Willard! can you ask? I shall pass all the days we
are parted in thinking of the time when we are to meet. But
you will be so wise, then,” she continued, half sadly, “I shall
not be a fit companion for you.”
“Linney!” he said, quickly, looking reproachfully; and perhaps
he felt at the same time that her fear was unkind.
“Oh! no,” she answered, as though he had assured her of
his truth, “you will not forget me—I know you will not; and
how happy we shall be, and how much you will know, to
tell me!”
A week afterwards Brock was pacing proudly to the guidance
of a fairer hand than Willard's; the old man was at work
alone, making shocks of the wheat; Mrs. Hulbert sat on the
porch sewing, and thinking what would be nice for her good
man's supper; and Linney was in the shadow of the apple-tree,
her heart fluttering, and her hands unwrapping from its
brown paper envelop a small parcel, which she had that day
discovered on the table of her own room, addressed to herself
in the round and careful but not yet very graceful hand of
Willard. He had meant it as a pleasant surprise for her, she
knew; but he could not have fancied it would be so pleasant
as it was—it seemed like a new tie between them. And if it
seemed so while she knew not yet what it was, how much
she saw within it a small bible, bound in red morocco and gilt.
She opened it, and, on the blank leaf, read—
For here you find the owner's name.
“Malinda Hulbert.”
She blushed, though no one saw her, to see, with the couplet
gracing the books of so many school boys—the name which
had never been whispered—even to herself—written clearly
out.
Kissing the book, she pressed it close to her bosom, while
she recounted the hours and the days that Willard had been
gone, saying—“In six days more he will have been gone two
weeks; and then another week will soon go, and then another,
and he will have been gone a month; then I shall get a letter,
and in four months after that he will come home.” Further
than this she did not suffer her thoughts to go, but, concealing
the book, she returned to the house very happy; yet there was
one sad reflection: Willard had appropriated two dollars of
the money, especially designed for his own use, to the getting
of the Bible.
| I. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |