 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
WARD HENDERSON.
1. I.
The wild wind swept over the hills, and rocked and rattled
the naked boughs of the long strip of woodland, the dead leaves
of which sometimes drifted against the door and blew over the
windows of the little cottage of Mrs. Henderson. But that night,
the last night of the year the crying of the wind and the surging
of the fallen leaves seemed less mournfully suggestive to
the inhabitants of this humble house, than for a great many
previous nights.
The house was small and rude, being constructed of logs on
the exterior of which the rough bark was still remaining. The
roof was of clap-boards, battened, and so close as to be nearly
as impervious as the best shingling. The door was made of
slabs, and opened with a wooden latch, and from the small and
uncurtained window the light, on the evening I write of, shone
out brilliantly, streaming across the frozen ground, just beginning
to whiten with the finely sifted snow. From the top of
the low chimney, composed of sticks and mortar, showers of
red sparks issued, and were scattered by the wind until their
quick extinction. A short distance from the house, and fronting
it, stood an oak tree, shorter than most of its species, and with
an exceedingly heavy top; the gray leaves of this year clinging
thickly yet. A little farther down the slope, was a spring of
water, bubbling up in spite of the cold, though the snow was
beginning to form about it in a sleety rim. In the rear, and
meeting the woods, were a few ancient apple trees, which seemed,
from their thickly tangled boughs, not to have been pruned for
years, and out of them thousands of slim rods grew up straight.
There was no barn or other out-house, to give the place an air
made to serve as a cellar, walled and roofed with slabs, and built
partly in and partly out of the ground, which was heaped about
it, and over all rose a high green mound, green at least in
summer, though to-night it resembled a great heap of snow.
Her head turned from the driving wind, and her back crouched
down, stood a little black cow, with very clear and very
crooked horns, and an udder that looked shrivelled, as though
it would never yield milk again. But, notwithstanding that,
when she shall have had a bundle of hay, from the near stack,
encompassed with rails, the bright tin pail, now shining in the
dresser, will froth up to the brim. She is so gentle and kind
that young Ward Henderson, as well as his mother, may milk her.
In the light that falls from the window is a small dog, blacker
than the cow; he turns sideways as the wind comes against him,
but does not growl; he is crunching a bone quite too large for
his mouth, and in his efforts at mastication, turns his head more
and more to one side, and nearer and nearer to the ground.
The snow falls off from his sleek back, and his eyes glitter like
fire. Not every day the cur can get a bone so worth his care.
But let us look within. The logs of hickory and ash are
heaped high, and the dry chips between help to send the blaze
far up the chimney. The stones that make the broad hearth
are blue and clean. Some strips of rag carpet, looking new and
bright, cover the greater part of the floor, and the remainder is
scoured very white. The room is large, and in the two corners
farthest from the great fire-place, are two beds; between them
stands a bureau, on which a dozen books are carefully arranged;
some common chairs stand against the wall, which is white-washed,
as is also the low ceiling. A few sprigs of cedar are
festooned about the small looking glass, and in the cupboard,
which has no door, pewter platters and delf ware are arranged
to the most showy advantage.
But humanity deepens the interest of the picture, no matter
whether homely or refined. What could poets glean from the
desert, with its hot waste of sands, but for the tinkling bell of
the camel, and the cool well under the shrub, and the isolated
tent of the Arab. What were the dense forests and rugged
the bundles of arrows and crests of plumes and skin-lined lodges
of the red man.
In this cottage, sitting upright in an unpainted wooden cradle,
looking wide awake, but very sober, is the baby; he may be
two years old, with bright black eyes, and hair of the same
color, which, thick and parted either way from his forehead,
give him an old and wise look. He wears only a simple kilt
of calico, and one chubby hand plays with the rounded foot,
and the other lies on the patchwork quilt covering his cradle bed.
Sitting on a low stool, at one corner of the fireplace, is a boy,
ten years old, perhaps; he has a thoughtful, intelligent countenance,
and seems quiet and shy. His hands are locked together
over one knee and he seems to see neither the baby in the cradle,
nor the great blazing fire, nor yet his mother, who, in a tidy
apron and with sleeves turned back, is moulding cakes on the
white pine table near the window. She looks as though she
had known toil and privation and suffering, and yet, above the
sorrow is a look of cheerful resignation.
Near the abstracted little boy, closely wrapt in a great
shawl, sits a young girl; she is rocking to and fro before the
fire, and it seems that the light might almost shine through
her thin transparent hands. Her cheek is hollow and pale,
and her dark eyes look very large and brilliant, but she seems
happy, and talks with animation and gayety, not only of to-morrow
but of next month, and next year. There are no shoes
on her feet and as they rest on the cushion she often stoops to
draw up the stocking which slips down from the wasted and
wasting ankle.
“How merrily the wind whistles!” she says, “the old year
does not go out without music; but Ward, why do you sit
there so sober and still? see, you make the baby look sober
too;” and clapping her hands together, she tried to make him
laugh, but he pouted his lips instead, half crying. She continued,
“Bring some of the nuts we gathered last fall, and let
us have a merry evening, and not sit as though we never expected
to see another new year.”
Ward turned aside to hide tears that came to his eyes and
them precisely as they were before, and presently climbing
up to the loft, brought a basket of nuts.
Meantime the baby had fallen back on his pillow asleep,
and Mrs. Henderson, as she baked the cakes by the fire, sat
with her children, rocking the cradle now and then, and talking
more and more cheerfully and hopefully: so much do the moods
of those about us influence our own.
“I think, Mary, you are surely better,” she said, looking
anxiously at her daughter. “You must be careful and not get
another bad turn till spring and then the mild weather will
quite restore you.”
“i told you I should get well,” answered the girl, laughingly;
“just see how fat I am getting,” and drawing up her
sleeve, she exhibited an arm of ghastly thinness. The mother
said nothing, and Mary continued, “If I keep on improving, I
shall be well enough to begin sewing again in a week.” She
was interrupted by a severe fit of coughing, but added, when
she had recovered a little, “What a nice dinner we shall have
to-morrow; I think even Ward, indifferent as he seems, will
relish the minced pie; but the chicken—he won't care for that,”
she added playfully.
“Maybe not,” answered Ward, “I don't know how it tastes.”
Mary said he would know to-morrow, and he too at last began
to be interested. Naturally of superior intelligence, and
always accustomed to sorrowful privations, he was thoughtful
beyond his years. He was always making plans for the happiness
of his mother and sister, more than for his own, and proposed
to do a thousand things when he should be older. He
already rendered them much assistance—driving the cow to and
from the pasture, milking her, and making the garden, besides
bringing and taking home the sewing which his mother did for
neighbors, within three or four miles. These things were all
done out of school hours, for he never lost a day from the
school room, trudging manfully the long distance, when the
winds were too chill for his thin cotton coat, and when the
frosts made his feet so cold that he sometimes roused the cattle
from their places in the fence corners and warmed them in
and shoes, never stood at the head of his class; but this would
not repay him any longer for the frequent bitter taunts he
received for his poverty. He had never spoken of these things
at home, knowing it would only pain his mother, who did for
him the best she could. He had usually talked of his studies
with more interest than of anything else, and wishing to divert
his thoughts from the sad channel in which they seemed to
flow, Mrs. Henderson asked him whether he would not soon be
wanting new books. But, to her surprise, he answered, “No,
I don't want to go to school any more.” “Why, my child,
what in the world is the matter?” exclaimed the mother, in
unfeigned surprise. Ward did not reply, and without “hanging
up his stockings,” crept into bed, and stifling emotion he could
not quite suppress, he fell asleep.
2. II.
When the cakes were all baked, and the fire began to grow
dim, as the mother and daughter also prepared to retire, the
little black dog growled harshly, placing himself against the
door, and the old cock in the cherry tree cackled as though
suddenly awakened. Presently the growl became a bark, and
a footstep was heard crushing down the snow. The visitor
proved a brother of Mrs. Henderson, a butcher, from the city,
miles away from Clovernook. He had been in the country all
day, buying sheep and calves, and with a little cart pretty
well filled, was now on his way home, and stopped for a moment
to see how his sister prospered. He, too, was poor, with
seven children of his own, so that he could give her little but
counsel and the encouragement of sympathy. To-night, however,
he was in fine spirits; the prices of meat had risen, and
rents were low, and his oldest boy had just obtained employment
as carrier of the News, by which he earned three dollars a week.
The publisher wanted another—an intelligent lad from the
country would be preferred—and Mr. Dick, or Uncle Job, as
his sister called him, urged the expediency of sending Ward.
Mrs. Henderson was startled at the idea. How could she part
with her child, who had never been from beneath her roof for
“There is such necessity,” says Uncle Job, looking at Ward's
thin cotton trowsers, that hung on the back of a chair by his
bedside (Mr. Dick never softened anything); “you'll miss his
society, no doubt, but think of the pecuniary advantage;” and
he added, glancing at Mary, “there is no telling what expense
of doctor bills and the like you will have to defray before
spring: this weather goes hard with folks of her complaint.
I suppose,” he continued, “the disease is hereditary—her father
was consumptive always, as you may say. I was here at the
burying, but I forget what grave-yard you put him in.” Mr.
Job Dick never dreamed but that he was talking in the pleasantest
vein imaginable, and looked bewildered and surprised
when he saw his sister applying the corner of her apron to her
eyes. He could not have interpreted aright, for shrugging his
shoulders as the wind whistled through the crevices, he said,
“A miserable old house; it will tumble down upon you all, one
of these days; yes,” he continued, making a sort of reply to
himself, “it's fall is inevitable.”
“Perhaps it will,” thought Mrs. Henderson, and she trembled
as a stronger gust came by.
“Well, what have you determined?” asked Uncle Job; and
rising, he stood before the fire, awaiting her final decision.
“I cannot let him go,” faltered the poor widow; “I will keep
them all together, as long as I can.”
But the sound of a strange voice had broken the light slumbers
of Ward; with his elbow resting on his pillow, and his
head on his hand, he had heard all the conversation, and as his
mother ceased speaking, he replied, in a calm, firm voice, that
he would go. He was soon dressed—his uncle saying he liked
such energetic movements, and his mother silently and tearfully
preparing his scanty clothes. When he took the bundle in his
hand, he hesitated; it was hard to leave them all—the baby
asleep, and gentle Mary, and his dear kind mother. Once or
twice he untied and tied his bundle, and as his mother wrapt
a part of a blanket about him, and told him to be always a
good boy, the tears quivered through his eyelashes, and without
speaking a word he walked straight out of the room, and
through the snow.
How lonesome it was in the little cabin! the dog crouched
close against the door, and whined low and mournfully; the
empty bed, the old hat on the peg, everything reminded the
poor mother of her son, who, in the cold and dark, was going
farther and farther away.
And long and lonesome seemed the road to Ward, as he
nestled down in the bottom of the cart, among the sheep—
the old blanket drawn up over his head, and the snow settling
all over him. He had never been to the city but once before,
and everything seemed strange to him. He caught glimpses
of great houses, and of low dark sheds, whence the lowing of
cattle and the bleating of sheep came painfully upon his ears.
He half wished he was back home again; nor was he much
soothed and encouraged, when uncle Job said, “You must not
mind trifles, but persevere, and make a man of more efficiency
than your father, who was always a trifling, lazy scamp, and a
great detriment to your mother, who was better off without
him. I should n't wonder,” continued uncle Job, in the same
consolatory strain, “if you never saw your sister again. Your
mother will be lonesome, losing two at once. There is the
baby—it will be a long time before he is any help; he looks
smart and likely now, but for all that he may be growing up
to be hanged.”
Ward was half disposed to slip out of the cart and run home,
and more especially, when his uncle told him the city to which
he was going was full of temptations, and that unless he was
mighty resolute, he would get into the house of correction, or
on the “chain gang,” it might be. It was a long way back,
and he was afraid he could not find the road, and so, trembling
in fear of the pitfalls he supposed would be laid for him, he
remained shrinking from the snow, till, in the dingy suburbs of
the city, the little wagon halted.
Uncle Job lived in a small, rickety house: it might have
been easily repaired, and made comfortable, but Aunt Dick was
one of those women who never permit their husbands to accumulate
more than five dollars at one time. She was a large,
any prudent forecast or calculation—a sort of Mrs. Nancy
Yancey, toned down, to a degree. Ward thought she must be
very kind, for some hot coffee was waiting by the fire, and on
the table were spread some crackers and cheese. They were
dainties to him; and, after partaking of them and getting
warm by the fire, Uncle Job spread down his great-coat and
two sheep skins, on which, tired and sleepy from chilliness, he
slept till morning, when the voice of Aunt Dick, as she bent
over him, exclaiming, by way of expressing her surprise, “High,
diddle, diddle,” &c., aroused him to a consciousness of his new
position.
Uncle Job had seven children, and a great din and uproar
they made when one room contained them. But his amiable
help-meet said they must talk and laugh just as much as they
pleased, and if Joby did n't want to hear it, he must go out of
the house, which was only for women and children, at any rate.
Before Job went, however, he was required to empty his
pockets. Sometimes, but rarely, he asked what was wanting
now? but the inquiry was useless, as he well knew, for it was
always the same story,—the same in kind—Kitty had torn her
new frock, on the nail that tore Billy's coat the other day, and
so she must have a new one; and as the good woman received
the money, she would say, “Joby, you must drive the nail in,
with a piece of brick, or something; the children have lost the
hammer.”
“If we had what is wasted here,” thought Ward, as he sat
by the fire watching his aunt prepare the breakfast, “I should
not have been obliged to come away.”
“Where are the warm cakes, this morning?” asked Uncle
Job.
“Why, my griddle got broke in two, and I had n't anything
to bake them on.”
“But you might have baked biscuit in the oven of the stove,”
suggested the husband.
The wife said, “The stove has got choked with ashes, so it
will not bake any more; a man must be hired for a day to
clean it and make it bake. We will soon have to get a new
I guess I have had a half a dozen.”
Ward had always thought a stove would last a lifetime.
The breakfast was at length ready. Aunt Dick, having
arranged the table, and made the coffee, between intervals of
rocking before the fire, and telling Job what was worn out and
what was lost, and what he must bring home for dinner. But
the children were not ready for breakfast: one had lost her
shoes, and one had not got her face washed, and one was not
out of bed at all; but Mrs. Dick said those that were ready,
must help those that were not; and she and Job began breakfast
as complacently as though all were quiet and in order.
3. III.
After a day or two, Ward accompanied his cousin John to
the office of the News. John was a short, burly boy, a year or
two older than Ward; he had always lived in the city, and
was not afraid of man or beast—having been used to both.
He not only, in his own estimation, could lift more than any
other boy of his years, but he had suffered more, from various
causes, with a distinct relation of all which he favored Ward,
from time to time. And as they walked the long distance from
Uncle Job's to the News office, on the morning alluded to, he
related many peculiar and aggravated instances of affliction,
beginning with a mad ox of his father's that had once bruised
and tossed him in a terrible manner, tearing his trowsers into
ribbons, and that, but for his wonderful presence of mind, would
doubtless have crippled him for life, or killed him. In
the next place, having been sufficiently entertained with the
wonder of his cousin, he said he had once had a bee-sting on
his hand, causing such inflammation that a peck measure would
not have held it, and that he never slept a wink for two weeks
—the bee was called a poison bee, or thousand stinger, he said.
It was strange, Ward thought, that he had always lived in the
country, and never heard of any such insect. Many other
equally curious and interesting things the city youth related,
which gave him great consequence in his own estimation. And
drank whisky.
Such was the future companion of Ward. Poor little boy,
no wonder he wished he had stayed at home! There were a
good many men about the stove in the publisher's office, and,
naturally shy, and now frightened, he shrank tremblingly into
the obscurest corner; but John went boldly forward, saying,
“Gentleman, I have some business with the publisher—make
way.” And whether they heeded him or not, he soon made
way for himself, telling the man of business he had brought
him a country boy, such as he thought would suit—“ignorant
and awkward, of course,” he added, “but that will wear off,
sir;” and thrusting both hands in his pockets, he drew himself
up, evidently supposing he had acted a very distinguished part.
“Where is he from?” inquired the man. John put his hand
over his mouth, and in half whisper said, “The butcher picked
him up with some sheep and calves.”
“I should like to have a view of him,” said the respectable
personage, holding on his spectacles with one hand, and peeping
between the shoulders of the men by the stove.
“Ward, this way,” called out his exhibitor; and, grasping
his well-worn hat tightly with his freezing hands, and looking
down, the timid child came forward.
“Do you think we are thieves?” asked the publisher; and
as Ward answered, “No, sir,” he continued, “What makes
you hold your hat so tight, then?”
Ward began to dislike his cousin very much, and to doubt
whether there was any such bee as the poison bee or thousand-stinger.
That he was a vulgar, ill-bred boy, he knew, and yet
he stood silent and abashed before him.
The new arbiter of his fate saw he was just such a boy as
he wanted, and felt that as he had no guardian or friend, he
could manage him as he chose—make him do a great deal, in
fact, and give him little for it. Nevertheless, he said, “I am
afraid he will not suit,” surveying him from head to foot; “but
if you have a mind, you may come with me for a month, and if
I find you honest, and of any tolerable capacity, we can perhaps
make a bargain.”
“What answer do you give the gentleman?” interposed
John, getting one foot on the hearth of the stove, and pulling
down his vest.
Ward said he would go, for he thought he would rather go
anywhere than remain with his precocious relative, who said,
as he walked away consequentially, “I'll tell the butcher I've
disposed of you.”
4. IV.
The new situation was anything but agreeable. Ward was
obliged to perform many servile offices, such as tending the
bell, carrying in the coal and out the ashes, sweeping pavements,
and, in short, was made a sort of boy-of-all-work. His
bed was a hard one, and in a cold, empty garret—not by any
means so comfortable as the feather-bed with the patch-work
counterpane by the great blazing fire at home; and sometimes,
as he lay in the cold and dark, he wished he had never gone
from the quiet old cottage. Even the cow and the dog drew
him toward them with almost a human interest. The food was
such as he had not been accustomed to eat, and was less to his
taste; the cold and half-cooked beefsteak was less agreeable to
him than the potatoes roasted at home in the ashes. But
through the hardships and privations of the first month, he
cheered himself with the idea of receiving some money at its
close, and of going home; when, however, the long time expired,
and he ventured to hint his wishes, the publisher coolly told
him he had hardly earned his bread and lodging, and that to
go home was quite out of the question if he expected to continue
in his employ—that boys who could not live away from
their mothers were usually good for nothing. If he would stay,
nevertheless, till the next New-Years, and gave satisfaction as a
carrier, and make himself useful about the house, he would give
him fifty dollars.
“But you give John Dick more, a good deal,” urged Ward,
timidly.
“What I give other folks has nothing to do with you; and
if you wish, you can go further and fare worse—I can get
a hundred boys for less money.”
Ward with difficulty refrained from crying as he said he
would go and ask his uncle Job, and whatever he decided for
him he would do. John was not at home when Ward arrived
there, and he was glad of it, and almost hoped another “pison
bee” would sting him. Uncle Job had gone out to buy calves,
but Aunt Dick was in the kitchen, good-natured as ever, baking
pies, and she gave a whole hot one to Ward, telling him he
must eat it all. She said she was just trying her new stove by
baking twenty or thirty; that the old one had got full of ashes,
and almost worn out, for she had had it a year and a half, and
so had given it away, and got a new one. Ward felt so much
encouraged by her sunshiny face, her genial talk, and warm
fire, that the thought of a year seemed less terrible to him, and
he secretly resolved to stay. What a wearisome winter it
was! and as the little carrier-boy shivered along the street—
for his thin clothes and ragged shoes were but slight protection,
—no one noticed or pitied him, except myself, but I noticed
and pitied him often. Instead of leaving the paper at the gate,
as the other boys did, he brought it always and laid it on the
window-sill, beside which I sat writing. He never had anything
new—the same old cloth cap, pulled down over his eyes,
the same linsey roundabout and trowsers, and thick heavy
shoes, which gave way and gapped apart more and more every
day. I had noticed him all the winter, and while the sleet and
snow dripped from the eaves, and the daffodils came up under
the window; the old shoes were thrown aside, and the trowsers
were darned and patched, but worn still, and could not help a
deeper interest in him for a vague recollection of having seen
his childish face sometimes at Clovernook.
Now, my window was opened, and I sometimes spoke to the
boy; but, though I wished to do so, there was something about
the little fellow that prevented my offering him money. As
the summer went on, however, our acquaintance ripened slowly,
so that when it was raining, he sometimes stopped under the
porch, and I gave him apples, or other fruit; but I never talked
to him except of his occupation, the weather, or other commonplaces,
though I felt sure of his superior intelligence.
5. V.
Time passed along, and away across the city, through openings
of roofs, and between spires, I could see the red woods of
October; and these faded and withered, and there came the
chill, dismal rains of November. A dull, dreary, and monotonous
storm had continued all night and all day, and all day and
all night again; and now and then one of the great sere leaves
of the sycamore that grew in the yard blew against the window.
I had chanced to miss seeing my little friend, and I took up my
pen on the depressing and comfortless morning, more with the
purpose of watching for him than because I felt any inclination
to write. I was presently wrapt in mediation, and quite forgot
my object, and so softly he came, that it was only by the darkening
of the window that I noticed him.
The smile which came to my lips was startled away when I
perceived him, haggard and wretched, turning back into the
rain, without noticing me. His coat was unbuttoned and
blowing wildly open, and he seemed to be buffeted in very
sport by all the merciless elements. He had no shoes on his
feet, and his cloth cap was drenched and matted close to his
head. I called to him, and, as he turned toward me, I perceived
that he had been weeping violently. “Come in and
get warm by the fire,” I said; “I have not seen you for a long
time.” He would have thanked me, but his lips trembled, and
the tears sprang to his eyes, as he silently obeyed, for my invitation
was almost a command. I re-arranged his papers, on
the table, that he might recover himself a little; but when I
turned to speak, he put his hands before his face and cried, and
when I inquired what was the matter, it was long before he
could answer me that his sister Mary was dead. Then it was
that I first learned all his sad history; and if I had been interested
in him before, I was doubly so now.
Afterward I had always some words of encouragement when
he came; sometimes a piece of pie or cake, for which he was
very grateful, for it was not often he had the privilege of going
to Aunt Dick's.
I repeated his story to a rich lady who lived near. She had
manage?” she said; “I cannot give him clothes or money.” At
length we decided on a plan; and the next day, when he threw
the paper in at the basement, she called and told him that if
he would put her paper on a particular window, she would pay
him on New-Year's eve. I had also a little project for a
present, at the same time, of which I said nothing. The printer
whom Ward served was a hard man, but he was honest; that is,
he paid what he said he would pay, and people called him
Christian.
The many sufferings, hardships, and long hours of home-sickness,
which Ward endured, it would be useless to enumerate,
but as they drew near the close, his heart became light, and his
countenance cheerful.
The period was come for the development of my design. I
had prepared for Ward a Carrier's Address, for the printing of
which he stipulated with the publisher, and the receipts were
to be entirely his.
New-Year's morning arrived at last, clear and sharply cold,
but Ward minded not that, for the nice suit of clothes the rich
lady had given him, kept him warm, and no frost could get
through the comfortable boots, and the new cap was altogether
better than the old. Such a picture of happiness it did one
good to see, as, tapping at my door, he laughingly handed in the
Address, neatly printed, with a border, on straw-colored paper.
He had disposed of nearly all the copies of it, and the shillings
and larger pieces he had received, were more, he thought, than
he could count.
He was now going home, and only sorrow came in between
him and happiness, as he thought of the new and lonesome
grave under the naked winter trees.
Cousin John, who obtained a great deal more money than he,
had spent it as fast as he earned it; he could tell larger stories and
eat more oysters than he could a year ago; and he still called his
father the butcher, which Aunt Dick thought a fine accomplishment.
As Ward bade the amiable woman good-bye, she told
him to spend his money in part for a fine silk dress for his
mother; he might also get her a velvet bonnet with plumes, and
any money left, he should get some sugar for his mother to
make preserves. But Ward had a plan of his own, which he
thought better. He was going to give his mother half of his
money to do with as she thought best, and the rest should pay
for his tuition at the academy.
As the twilight fell I pleased myself with making a picture
of the cabin home. I could see the bright hearth, and the table
all spread—for the loving mother knew her dear boy was coming
—and the baby, toddling about and prattling—all but the returning
son forgotten. And I could imagine the joyous, and
yet sorrowful, bewilderment, as the good boy should spread his
year's gains on the table, saying, “If Mary were here too!”
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |