 | I. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
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.
| I. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |