 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE DIFFERENCE, AND WHAT MADE IT?
1. I.
When I made my first call on Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, they
had been married about a year. Theirs had been what is
termed a love-match: the bride, who was an heiress in a small
way, having stolen from the comfortable and ample roof of her
father one tempestuous night, and taken, in the presence of the
priest and two or three witnesses, for better or for worse, John
Robinson, to cherish and love, in health and sickness, thenceforward.
Matilda Moore, previously to becoming Mrs. Robinson, was
a tall, slender, fair-faced woman, with a passionate vein in her
nature, which, as she was much indulged and petted, had
scarcely been thoroughly aroused. White teeth, flaxen curls,
rosy cheeks, and an amiable smile, with an unexceptionable
toilette, and graceful manners, gave her the reputation of a
beauty with many, though the few might have found in the
wide, full chin, and hanging lip, as in the general cast of her
countenance, a want of refinement and intellectuality. Be that
as it may, she had passed through the regular training of boarding-schools,
pianists, and dancing-masters, and in the circle which
her father's position, as a well-to-do lumber-merchant, commanded,
was quite a belle.
In the valley lying between the city, and the hill-country
wherein Clovernook nestles itself, stands a great irregular
building, known as the Columbia House. In days gone by, it
was a very popular resort of persons and parties in quest of
recreation. But the fashion of this world passeth away, and
at the time I speak of it was fallen somewhat from its genteel
pretensions, the once pretty pleasure-grounds were turned into
dormitories for drovers, and the slender ornamental railing
which once encompassed the house was quite broken away by
reason of having been used as hitching-posts for the fast trotters
of jockeys, whose partiality for the Columbia House was evinced
by the fact that from ten to twenty slender-wheeled buggies and
high-headed horses might be seen, any summer afternoon, hemming
it in. But this is a digression, and what the house is, or
was, has nothing to do with my story, farther than that it
chanced to be here, at a ball given in celebration of some political
triumph, that the first meeting of Mr. John Robinson
and Miss Matilda Moore took place.
“A pretty girl, I'll swear, you just danced with,” said Mr.
Robinson to Uncle Jo, as everybody called the well-known
dancing-master: tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of something
stronger than it should have been under the circumstances, for
he was that night the gallant of as pretty a country girl as one
may pick from the meeting-house of a summer morning.
“She dances with infinite grace, Uncle Jo. Won't you take
another glass? You haven't moistened your lips, man.”
Could Uncle Jo refuse? As he “tossed the rosy,” Mr. Robinson
continued, “Is there a better dressed lady in the saloon?”
And, as if some one dissented, he quickly added, “No, siree!”
Must have the dimes, eh, Uncle Jo? won't you produce me?”
Shortly after this one-sided conversation, Uncle Jo appeared
in the saloon, and made his way, with an indolent sort of
saunter, as of one conscious of welcome anywhere, toward the
nook wherein Miss Moore had seated herself, for a little respite,
and the refreshing influence of some light gossip with her cousin
Kate. At his side was Mr. Robinson.
Hardly had the lady time for the whisper behind her fan,
“Is n't he handsome?” when Uncle Jo presented him as Mr.
John Robinson, of —, son of Hon. Judge Robinson; and
she hastened to tuck away the white lace that hung in a series
of short skirts over her pink-satin petticoat, to make room by
her side for the splendid and dashing son of the judge.
“Excuse me, Tild,” said the cousin, rising, with a meaning
look, that indicated, “Do as much for me some time;” and
away for a promenade, rallying her captive coquettishly on not
giving himself exclusively to one, if he did not expect all the
ladies to claim his service.
“Gad, Uncle Jo,” said Mr. Robinson, toward the dawn of
the morning, “I'll remember you when I fall heir to the —
property. You have made me a happy and an envied man
to-night.”
“I congratulate you,” said the dancing-master, who cared not
a whit when young ladies fell in love, nor with whom; “but
remember, that belles may coquette on occasion. Do you see
anything of that?” He pointed to Miss Moore, who was at
the moment looking tenderly in the face of a very fat man with
very black whiskers, luxuriant and uncropped, reproaching him
in a way that might or might not have meaning in it, for having
deserted her wantonly and unprovokedly a whole evening,
which seemed to her interminable.
“Is the young woman a fool, that she is going to show a
whole ball-room which way her cattle run? No, sir! But
I'll bet you what you dare, or I'll play three games of eucre
with you, and stake my country property, that Miss Matilda
Moore will be Mrs. Matilda somebody else before this night
twelvemonth.”
“Very likely,” said Uncle Jo, quietly; and the two gentlemen
retired for a social glass at parting.
I need say no more of Mr. Robinson, I think. The reader
may form his own idea of what sort of young men drink with
the dancing-master, boast of property which is still their father's
and of conquests of ladies who have but chanced to chat
with them half an hour.
Thereafter Mr. Robinson had, to use his own characteristic
phrase, a devilish sight of business in town. He usually drove
his father's, horse and chaise, which he described as “mine,”
and, in company with the rich and accomplished Miss Moore,
went off to the fashionable resorts for ices, strawberries, and
other such delicacies, which have been, longer than I can remember,
the “food of love.” At all balls, races, and pic-nics, too,
they were the most dashing and noticeable couple.
Miss Moore was proud of being escorted by Mr. Robinson,
son of the Judge, and Mr. Robinson of attending the handsome
and wealthy Miss Matilda. For a time all went merry, but
“the course of true love never did run smooth.”
2. II.
“Where is Tildy to-night? Just shove the lamp this way,
my dear,” said Mr. Moore, the lumber-merchant, unbuttoning
his vest, and extending his rough boots over the elaborately
carved foot of the tea-table. Mrs. Moore did as directed, and,
as she passed the tea, asked her husband if he thought there
were really so much danger in the camphine. Mr. Moore
opened the evening paper, and, glancing over the advertisements,
said, after a minute, and in a tone which indicated a
ruffled temper, “How much do you mean?”
“Why, you know,” replied the wife, blandly, and affecting
not to see his ill-humor, “a good many people are afraid to
burn it, and almost every day we read of accidents from it.”
“Then,” said Mr. Moore, in no milder tone, “I should think
there was danger.”
“Well, I suppose there is danger; but one must talk, or
one 'll not say anything,” said Mrs. Moore, half deprecatingly
and half in justification.
“So it seems.” And Mr. Moore was apparently absorbed
in the paper, sipping carelessly now and then of his tea.
“You don't seem to eat,” suggested Mrs. Moore, putting
more than usual tenderness in her voice.
“If I do n't seem to, I suppose I do n't.”
“Won't you try a little of the honey? Just see how white
and clear it is!” And Mrs. Moore held up the ladle, that her
husband might behold and admire; but he neither looked up,
nor made any reply.
For a moment she continued to nibble her bread in offended
silence. She knew right well she had vexed him, by not
replying directly as to the whereabouts of Matilda; and, like
the faithful, loving wife she was, she resolved to make amends,
and by way of bringing the subject naturally about, asked the
turned the face toward her, without speaking. Had he spoken
one word, or even looked up, she would have said it was time
for Tildy to come; but under such painfully repelling circumstances,
she could not go on; she ceased even to nibble the
crust, sat a moment in silence, and then, hastily removing her
chair, left the table, and in the solitude of her own chamber,
wept: not “a few tears, brief and soon dried”—no, not so
were these many wrongs and slights and silent sufferings to be
appeased—she had a regular, sobbing, choking cry—such as
have relieved all similar feelings since husbands became petulant,
and wives first had “their feelings hurt.”
Mr. Moore saw, though he affected not to see, how he had
changed the lady's mood, and he felt some misgivings, though
he affected not to feel any. He was irritated to a most unhappy
degree, vexed with his wife, and vexed with himself—
first, for having been in ill-humor with her; and next, for
having refused to meet her repeated overtures, as he should
have done. He was half resolved to follow her, and say,
“Jemima, my dear wife, I was wrong; come down, and let us
eat our supper, which you have been at such pains to prepare,
as though this little recounter had not chanced.” But he was
proud, as well as passionate, and though he wished it were done,
he would not do it.
Mrs. Moore was accustomed to obey his slightest wishes,
though unexpressed; and the little stratagem she used in talking
about camphine, when he asked about Tildy, was harmless,
and originated, in fact, in love; for she well knew he would be
angry if she said “She is out in the country, with Mr. Robinson;”
and therefore she meant to divert his attention from the
subject, though she should have known she was thereby treasuring
wrath against the day of wrath. In her evasion he was
sufficiently answered, and, as his indignation must be poured
out somewhere, he resolved that Mr. Robinson, whose character
he thoroughly disliked, should receive it. So, to wile away the
time, he seated himself in the parlor, and, taking up an old
English Annual, read poems and love-stories, accounts of shipwrecks,
and treatises on the mind, with the same avidity. It
he was neither to be wearied nor softened at all; and at length
three o'clock came, and Mr. Robinson with it. I need not describe
the scene: Mr. Robinson did not come again.
Of course, Mr. Moore became at once the most unnatural
and tyrannical of fathers; but Miss Moore had spirit as well
as her father, and was not to be so thwarted. Violent opposition
tends always to the growth of whatever is opposed; and
the young lady's predilection for Mr. Robinson was speedily
strengthened into what she at least believed to be love. Secret
meetings were contrived and effected, during which the despair
of the young man, his unalterable devotion, and her own softened,
it may be slightly perverse heart, worked together for
the establishment of a decree of fate, and on a tempestuous
night, as before intimated, Miss Matilda Moore became Mrs.
John Robinson, and, with her husband, took up her abode at
one of the most fashionable and expensive hotels of the city—
after the usual bridal tours, receptions, parties, &c.
The disobedience of the lady not only cut her off from any
marriage portion, but from any prospects in that way, and the
country property of the young man was not available. “Why
do n't you make it so by exchange or sale?” urged the wife;
and the truth was forced at last—the country property was his
only by a possible and remote contingency.
Judge Robinson and his good wife were pleased with the
marriage of their son with the heiress, for they both loved
money, though, as is often the case with persons with such
affections, they never had much about them. They had begun
the world with nothing but their hands and hearts, and, with
patient industry and perseverance, had accumulated enough to
make them rich, in their own estimation and in that of their
neighbors.
On the occasion of their son's nuptials, they had bestowed
on him five hundred dollars—a sum that seemed to them sufficient
for an entrance into business, and for making all housekeeping
arrangements. They also believed that the wife's
father would soon become reconciled to the union, and settle on
the refractory daughter the handsome portion which she had a
as in the prudent foresight and frugal management they had
calculated upon in their children.
Taking from five hundred dollars continually with one hand,
and adding nothing thereto with the other, will in the course
of time diminish the sum; and of this fact Mr. and Mrs. Robinson
became gradually aware, as indeed they well might, when,
before the close of the first year, a new claimant for protection
lifted its arms toward them from the cradle, and the last penny
was gone, and they had incurred obligations by value received
to an extent which they had no means of meeting.
3. III.
Judge Robinson had become discouraged from any further
efforts to assist his improvident children; but the little grandchild
softened his heart somewhat, and the appeal to his sympathy
and aid became irresistible, when, one gusty March
morning, as he sat by his ample hearth and read a political
essay by a favorite senator, to his wife, who meantime baked
custard pies by the glowing wood coals, the daughter-in-law
entered, bearing the “precious darling” in her arms.
“And where is John?” inquired the parents, when the bonnets,
cloaks, shawls, &c., had been laid on the bureau, and the
baby called a pretty little doll, and kissed, time and again, the
while it opened its dewy blue eyes and stretched out its chubby
arms in terror and wonder, and the mother said, “Do n 't the
baby know what to make of grandpa and grandma, and every
ting?” in the tenderest falsetto imaginable.
But before Matilda could answer, the sturdy strokes of the
axe sounded from the wood-pile, and, a moment after, John entered,
bearing in his arms a quantity of freshly split sticks.
“Did you call the boy to take care of your horse?” asked
the judge; and turning to his wife, he continued, “Caty, can't
you get your spider out of the corner? It keeps back the
warmth so.”
John replied that he was boy enough himself, and had cared
for his own horse. John was politic, and suspected these little
would give his father pleasure. In this he was not mistaken,
as he knew, by the request for the removal of the spider that
he might enjoy the heat.
“Now, is n't that just like the inconsideration of men?” said
Mrs. Robinson, appealing to Matilda, as she turned the handle
of the spider aside; “or have n't you been married long enough
to larn that they think a woman can do anything and everything,
without either time or chance? Mr. Robinson, I a'n't
going to do no sich a thing. I've got a good custard pie in
here, and I sha'n't spile it by taking the spider off the coals,
when it's half baked.”
This was said with the utmost good nature, for Mrs. Caty
Robinson loved her husband, and thought, as was right and
proper, that he was a little cleverer than most men; but her
devotion was not of a sort to induce the removal of the spider
at his suggestion, spoil her custard, and then pout half a day
at the misfortune.
When the custard was baked, the good old lady held it up in
triumph. A white linen towel, she herself had spun and woven,
prevented the dish from burning her hands, while she advised
Matilda to take a lesson from her old mother and begin right,
not humoring John in all his whims, but always to use her own
wit when she knew she was in the right: urging, that in this
particular instance, she had, as fruit of her prudence, the beautifulest
pie she ever see, while if she had minded Robinson, she
would have had a batch that nobody could eat, and that would
have aggravated her whenever she thought of it.
“Well, well, mother,” said the judge, as she brushed the
ashes from the corner with the wing of a turkey, “your judgment
is generally pretty correct; and while your pie baked, I
cooked up a little plan which I want seasoned with your
opinion.”
It happened, as is often the case with well-to-do farmers, that
Judge Robinson had on an obscure nook of his handsome estate
an old house. He had formerly dwelt in it himself; but
since his more affluent days, and the building of a more commodious
residence, it had been let to a tenant, with a quantity
with mossy roof, steep gables, whitewashed walls, &c. Nevertheless,
it was a comfortable-looking tenement, with orchard,
barn, crib, smoke-house, and other like conveniences. The plan
which he had now cooked up was, to renovate the old house
a little, for the occupancy of John and Matilda. As much
ground as he could cultivate was placed at the young man's
disposal: a garden, in which currant bushes, strawberries,
horse-radish and asparagus were beginning to sprout, with a
cow, two horses, and the necessary agricultural implements.
This kind of assistance—the means of helping themselves—
was not precisely the kind they had hoped for. But “beggars
must not be choosers,” said Mrs. John Robinson, disposed,
woman-like, to make the best of the best; and, in truth, as she
thought more about the plan, she began to like it: it would be
so delightful to have the garden, and to learn the art of butter-making,
and all the other mysteries of country life. Then, too,
the baby would have a nice green yard to play in—the idea
was really charming.
Mr. John Robinson soon after told his friends that he should
remove to his country property for the summer, that the health
of his family required it, and that he proposed to take a house
in town another winter: a hotel was a miserable apology for a
home, which he continued to describe with the richest and most
peculiar selection of adjectives.
Preliminaries arranged, Mr. and Mrs. John Robinson removed
to their country seat; in other words, they betook themselves,
with their baby, a very excellent trunk (which was Mrs.
Robinson's), and a very poor old one (which was Mr. Robinson's),
to the ancient tenant-house of Mr. Robinson—because, in
brief, they could not do otherwise.
And to that place, as related in the beginning of this chapter,
I one evening, toward the close of the following May,
crossed the meadows to make my first call. John Robinson
had been my school-mate; I had known him in all the devious
paths “that led him up to man,” and therefore looked with
more leniency, perhaps, on his faults and foibles, than I otherwise
should have done. Besides, he had, mixed up with idle
and disposition to tyrannize where he had power to do so, some
generous and good qualities. His wife, I fancied, must find the
old place lonesome, shut from the contemplation of everything
but wood and meadow, and would meet with many discouragements,
accustomed as she had been to stylish and luxurious
habits of life.
I had seen nothing of John for several years; but I had heard
reports not altogether favorable to his growth in grace or refinement.
The wife I had never seen: and as I walked down the
hollow, skipped over the run, (still trickling noisily with the
spring thaw,) climbed the next hill, passed the old oak, quickened
my steps through a strip of woods, and struck into the
lane leading directly to the door, I mused as to what sort of
person I should meet.
A thousand stars were out in the blue sky when the old gate
creaked on its hinges to admit me; there was sufficient light
for an outside observation, and I recognized such signs of thrift
and industry as I little expected to see; the picket fence had
been mended and whitewashed, the shrubberies trimmed, the
raspberry vines tied to supporting stakes, and a deal of rubbish
cleared from the yard, where the turf now lay fresh and smooth,
save here and there, where little patches had been broken for
the planting of flowers. The glimpse I caught of the high garden
beds, straight rows of peas, pale shoots of onions, and
straggling radish-tops, were no less pleasantly suggestive.
From the cow-yard, I heard the rustling of hay, the sharp ringing
of the first streams of milk on the bottom of the tin pail,
and the hummed fragment of a rural song. The windows of
the kitchen were aglow, and the crying of a child, with the voice
of one who seemed trying to still it while some other task was
being performed, met my ear as I rapped for admission.
The door was opened by a young and pale-looking woman,
whom I supposed to be Mrs. Robinson, and to her I introduced
myself, as a neighbor, well known to her husband. There was
a slight trepidation in her manner, indicating a diffidence I did
not expect, though her welcome was full of cordiality, grace,
and sweetness. The roses were gone from her cheeks, and the
that look of patient, motherly meekness, which made her more
beautiful; her dress was neat and tasteful, and as she left the
tea-kettle steaming on the hearth, the table, with its snowy
cloth falling almost to the floor, and the tea things partially arranged,
and took the baby on her knees, she presented, with
her surroundings, a picture which might have made a painter
immortal. Their furniture was neither expensive nor profuse;
but the happy disposition of such as they had, gave an air
even of elegance to their home. The white muslin curtains at
the windows, flowing draperies over the tables, the few books,
the guitar, and the flowers, imparted that particular charm to
the place which I have known a much larger expenditure fail to
produce.
Mr. Robinson's first exclamation, on seeing me, was profanely
good-natured; and after his surprise had thus vented
itself he gave me a friendly welcome, and taking the baby
from his wife's arms, entertained me with accounts of his success
as a farmer. Nor did he neglect to praise the aptitude and
many excellencies of his wife; telling me she had not only
learned to bake bread, pies, puddings, and the like, but that she
could wash, iron, and scrub; in fact, understood all the less elegant
duties of housekeeping. The lady blushed to hear herself
so praised; but she shrunk with mortification from the
rough adjectives with which each compliment was confirmed.
After partaking of their delicious tea, and various etceteras, I
was quite willing to endorse all commendation of the housekeeper,
and as I took leave of my new acquaintance I could
not avoid saying something of the pleasure I had enjoyed,
as well as expressing a hope that we should meet each other
very frequently.
Often of summer evenings, as I sat in the moonlight, I heard
the music of the guitar across the hill; and once in a while,
when it was very still, I could hear the young wife singing to
her baby. We had soon a little path worn through the meadow,
and many were the exchanges of ginger cakes and pies which
it facilitated. Sometimes I caught the flutter of the white
blanket on the edge of the hill and ran to meet my friend and
or close sympathy between us, but however different the circle
of our lives and thoughts, there were points that touched. She
could teach me to embroider, and to make various little articles,
pretty and useful, while in other ways I was not less useful to
her. Though she never heard of the Mask of Comus, or read
the Fairie Queen, there were other things to talk about.
So the summer went by, and the fall; and when the fires
were kindled on the hearth, the long skirts of the baby were
tucked up, and she was toddling from chair to chair, and delighting
father and mother by lisping the name of each. Mrs.
Robinson was well pleased with her new life, and often expressed
surprise that the idle nothings of her former experience
could have satisfied her. The autumn tasks, of putting up and
down sweetmeats and pickles, were accomplished without difficulty
or complaint; and even the winter, which she had always
heard was so lonely and comfortless in the country, was to the
young wife and mother just as pleasant as any other season.
There were knitting and patchwork, sewing and mending, always,
to make the days short; then the meat was to be minced
for pies, the eggs beaten, or the cakes baked; so that, far from
having time hang heavy on her hands, she had scarcely sufficient
for all the duties of the day. During the blustering
months of snow we saw less of each other than previously;
yet we had not a few pleasant chats and rural games in the
broad light of the wood fires.
For the most part, the demeanor of Mr. Robinson toward
his wife and child was gentle and affectionate: but sometimes,
for he was of an arbitrary and irritable temperament, he gave
expression to such coarseness and harshness as must have
driven a sensitive and refined woman “weeping to her bed.”
As my presence began to be less a restraint, these unpleasant
encounters became of more frequent occurrence; and the wife,
instead of the silent endurance practiced at first, learned to retort
smartly, then angrily. However, these were episodes useful
for the general domestic tranquillity, and were very far
from requiring the binding over of either party to keep the
peace.
4. IV.
The following spring, Mr. Moore, who had never forgiven
his daughter, died suddenly, and without any will, and Mrs.
Robinson became heir to some eight or ten thousand dollars.
The humble home in the country, in which they had taken so
much interest, and where they had really had much of happiness,
lost its attractions. Carpets were torn up, and curtains
down, and, with beds, chairs, and tables, disposed of in summary
order. The old things were no longer of use. Necessary
preparations were soon effected, and early one April
morning the fires were put out, the doors locked, and the farm
house left alone.
A handsome house was rented in town, stylish furniture
bought, and half a dozen servants employed, for with the
renewal of old associations and ampler means, more than the
old indolence and extravagance were indulged.
For three years, owing partly to chances which I need not
explain, I saw nothing of the Robinsons. At the close of that
period, I chanced to be in their neighborhood, and, with some
mingling of curiosity among kindly remembrances, sought
them out.
The exterior of their dwelling had an humble, even a dingy
and comfortless appearance. Perhaps, thought I, reports have
spoken falsely, but as the door was opened, by a slatternly
black girl, the faded remnants of better times which met my
eyes spoke for themselves. I was scarcely seated when a
child of some four years presented herself, with dress and face
indicating a scarcity of water, and looking at me with more
sauciness than curiosity, asked me bluntly how long I meant
to stay at their house. I confess to the weakness of being
disconcerted by such questions from children, and before I had
time fully to recover, a boy, who might have been two years
younger, and whose white trousers, red jacket, and milky face,
indicated a similar want of motherly attention, entered the
room, and taking the remnant of a cigar from his mouth, threw
his cap against me with as much force as he was master of, by
a broken cupid that graced a “windowed niche,” challenged
my admiration of his boots. The little girl, probably wishing
me to know she was not without accomplishments, opened a
piano, and began drumming on the keys, when, the noise
drowning the boy's voice, a lively quarrel ensued, and blows
were exchanged with wonderful rapidity.
“A'n't you ashamed?” said the girl, relenting first, and
looking at me.
“No,” replied the boy, “I do n't care for her. Ma said
she did n't want to see her; and pa was gone with all the
money, and there was nothing for supper but half a mackerel
and two ginger cakes. And,” he added, “I am going
to eat both of them.”
Mrs. Robinson, as she descended, caught the whole or a part
of this little piece of conversation, and, calling the black girl
from the kitchen, ordered her to bring “them two little
plagues out of the parlor by main force.” Dinah blustered
in, feeling all the dignity of her commission, and dragged them
out, as directed, in spite of the triple remonstrances of feet,
hands, and voices.
As Mrs. Robinson drew them up stairs by a series of quick
jerks, she told them, in a voice neither low nor soft, that she
had a sharp knife in her pocket, and that if she ever heard
them talk so again, she would cut off their ears; that for the
present, she should shut them up in her room, and if they
quarreled, or made a bit of noise, a big negro who was in the
chimney would come down and eat them up. But the last and
awfulest terror she brought to bear on them, was an intimation
that she would tell their father.
She presently entered the parlor, with an infant in her arms;
and if I had not been in some measure prepared for a metamorphosis,
I must have betrayed my surprise at her altered
appearance. There was no vestige of beauty remaining; even
the expression of her countenance was changed, and she looked
the picture of sullen, hard, and dissatisfied endurance. Her
pale hair had become thin, and was neither arranged with
taste nor care; her eyes were dull and sunken; her nose, always
once really beautiful, were blackened and decaying. The dress
she wore had formerly been pretty and expensive silk, and was
still set off with flounces, buttons, and ribbons, which brought
out the faded colors, grease-spots, and tatters, in bold relief.
The tidy chintz, and the loving and trusting heart she had,
when I first saw her in the old house, were both gone.
They had made many moves and removes during three
years; and Mrs. Robinson took occasion to tell me of the
many fine things she had had, of the places she had visited,
&c., so that I could easily fill up the history. Her husband
was gone to the races—had a heavy bet on “Lady Devereaux,”
and if she won, Mrs. Robinson was to have a new bracelet
and satin dress!
“John is very much changed,” said the wife; “the children
are as much afraid of him as they are of death, and I am glad
of it, for I could not get along with them when he is away,
unless I frightened them by threats that I would tell their father
on his return. You know,” she continued, “he used to have
Helen in his arms half the time when she was a baby, but
now he never touches one of the children unless it is to beat
them. However, he is never home now-a-days.”
“He must have changed,” I said, “for when you lived in
the country he was always at home.”
“Oh, yes; but we were just married then!” replied the
wife.
How much that sentence revealed! and I have thought often
since, that if men and women would continue to practice the
forbearance, the kindness, the politeness, and little acts that
first won love, the sunshine of happiness need never be
dimmed.
In this case, however, the neglect of these things was not
the only misfortune. There are people to whom money is an
evil, people who will only learn industry, and moderation,
and the best humanities, in the school of necessity. They who
sit down and sigh for wealth, who have youth and health, and
God's fair world before them, though never so penniless, are
unworthy of wealth, and to such adversity is a good thing.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |