University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER FIFTH.
THE CHILDREN.

There was no question where the children were to
lodge, for there had been allotted to them from time
immemorial, ever since children were known in the
Peabody family, a great rambling upper chamber,
with beds in the corners, where they were always bestowed
as soon after dark as they could be convoyed
thither under direction of Mopsey and the mistress
of the household. This was not always—in truth it
was rarely—easy of achievement, and cost the shuffling
black servant at least half an hour of diligent search
and struggling persuasion to bring them in from the
various strayings, escapes, and lurking-places, where
they shirked to gain an extra half-hour of freedom.

To the children, however darker humors might
work and sadden among the grown people, (for whatever
hue rose-favored writers may choose to throw
over scenes and times of festivity, the passions of character
are always busy, in holiday and hall, as well as

in the strifes of the world,) to the Peabody children
this was thanksgiving time indeed—it was thanksgiving
in the house, it was thanksgiving in the orchard,
climbing trees; it was thanksgiving in the barn,
tumbling in the hay, in the lane. It was thanksgiving,
too, with the jovial Captain, a grown-up boy,
heading their sports and allowing the country as he
did, little rest or peace of mind wherever he lead the
revel; it was not four-and-twenty hours that he had
been at the quiet homestead before the mill was set
a-running, the chestnut-trees shaken, the pigeons
fired into, a new bell of greater compass put upon the
brindle cow, the blacksmith's anvil at the corner of
the road set a-dinging, fresh weather-cocks clapped
upon the barn, corn-crib, stable, and out-house, the
sheep let out of the little barn, all the boats of the
neighborhood launched upon the pond. With night,
darkness closed upon wild frolic; bed-time came, and
thanksgiving had a pause; a pause only, for Mopsey's
dark head, with its broad-bordered white cap, was no
sooner withdrawn and the door firmly shut, than
thanksgiving began afresh, as though there had been
no such thing all day long, and they were now just
setting out. For half a minute after Mopsey's disappearance
they were all nicely tucked in as she had left
them—straight out—with their heads each square on
its pillow; then, as if by a silent understanding, all
heads popped up like so many frisking fish. They
darted from bed and commenced in the middle of the
chamber, a great pillow-fight amicable and hurtless,
but furiously waged, till the approach of a broad foot-step
sent them scampering back to their couches,
mum as mice. Mopsey, well aware of these frisks,
tarried till they were blown over, in her own chamber
hard by, a dark room, mysterious to the fancy of
the children, with spinning wheels, dried gourd-shells
hung against the wall, a lady's riding-saddle, now out
of use this many a day, and all the odds and ends of an
ancient farm-house stored in heaps and strings about.

It was only at last by going aloft and moving a
trap in the ceiling, which was connected in tradition
with the appearance of a ghost, that they were at
length fairly sobered down and kept in bed, when
Mopsey, looking in for the last time, knew that it
was safe to go below. They had something left even
then, and kept up a talk from bed to bed, for a good
long hour more, at least.

“What do you think of the turkey, Bill?” began

Master Robert Peabody, the flat-featured, rising from
his pillow like a homely porpoise.

“I don't know,” Peabody Junior answered, “I
don't care for turkeys.”

Little Sam Peabody, the master of the turkey,
took this very much to heart.

“I think he's a very fine one,” continued Master
Robert, “twice as big as last year's.”

“I'm very glad to hear you say that, Cousin Robert,”
said little Sam Peabody, turning over toward
the quarter whence the voice of encouragement
came.

“As fine a turkey as I've ever seen,” Robert went on.
“When do they kill him?”

Little Sam struggled a little with himself, and
answered feebly, “To-morrow.”

There was silence for several minutes, broken presently
by Peabody Junior, fixing his pillow, and saying
“Boys, I'm going to sleep.”

Allowing some few minutes for this to take effect,
Master Robert called across the chamber to little Sam,
“I wonder why Aunt Hannah wears that old green
shade on her face?”

“Pray don't say anything about that,” little Sam
answered, “Cousin don't like to hear about that!”

Master Robert—rather a blunt young gentleman—
is not to be baffled so easily.

“I say, Bill, why does your mother wear that
green patch over her eye?” he called out.

There was no answer; he called again in a louder
key.

“Hush!” whispered Peabody Junior, who was
not asleep, but only thinking of it, in a tone of fear,
“I don't know.”

“Is the eye gone?” Robert asked again, bent on
satisfaction of some kind.

“I don't know,” was the whispered answer again.
“Don't ask me anything about it.”

“I'm afraid Aunt Hannah's not happy,” suggested
little Sam, timidly.

“Pr'aps she is'nt, Sam,” Peabody Junior answered.

“What is the reason,” continued little Sam, “I
always liked her.”

“Don't know,” was all Peabody Junior had to
reply.

“Did you ever see that other eye? Bill,” asked the

blunt young gentleman, whose head was still running
on the green shade.

“Oh, go to sleep, will you, Nosey,” cried Peabody
Junior. “If you don't leave me alone I'll get up
and wollop you.”

The flat-featured disappeared with his porpoise
face under the bed-clothes and breathed hard, but
kept close; and when he fell asleep he dreamed of
dragons and green umbrellas all night, at a fearful
rate.

“I would'nt be angry, Cousin,” said little Sam,
when the porpoise gave token that he was hard-bound
in slumber. “He don't mean to hurt your
feelings, I don't believe.”

“Pr'aps he don't,” Peabody Junior rejoined.
“What could I tell him, if I wanted to; all I know
is, mother has worn the shade ever since I can recollect
anything. I think sometimes I can remember
she used to have it on as far back as when I was at
the breast, a very little child, and that I used to try
and snatch it away—which always made her very
sad.”

“Don't she ever take it away?” asked little Sam.

“I never saw it off in all my life; nor can I tell

you whether my dear mother has one eye or two. I
know she never likes to have any one look at it. It
makes her melancholy at once; nurse used to tell me
there was a mystery about it—but she would never
tell me any more. It always scares father when she
turns that side of her face on him, that I've noticed;
and he always at home sits on the other side of the
table from it.”

“I would'nt think any more about it to-night,
Cousin,” said little Sam. “I know it makes you
unhappy from your voice. Don't you miss some one
to-night that used to keep us awake with telling
pleasant stories?”

“I do,” answered Peabody Junior. “I'm thinking
of him now. I wish Cousin Elbridge was back again.”

“You know why he is'nt?”

“Father says it's because he's a bad young man.”

“And do you believe it, William?”

“I'm afraid he is—for father always says so.”

A gentle figure had quietly opened the chamber-door,
and stood listening with breathless attention to
the discourse of the two children.

“You wait and see,” continued little Sam firmly,
“I'm sure he'll come back—and before long.”

“What makes you think so?” William asked.
“I'm sure I hope he will.”

“Because the red rooster,” answered little Sam,
“crowed yesterday morning for the first time since
he went away, and the red rooster knows more than
anybody about this farm except old grandfather.”

Thinking how that could be, Peabody Junior fell
asleep; and little Sam, sure to dream of his absent
brother, shortly followed after. The gentle figure of
Miriam Haven glided into the chamber, to the bed-side
of little Sam, and watching his calm, innocent features—which
were held to greatly resemble those of
the absent Elbridge—with tears in her eyes, she
breathed a blessing from her very heart on the dear
child who had faith in the absent one. “A blessing!”
such was her humble wish as she returned to her
chamber and laid her fair head on the pillow, “a
blessing on such as believe in us when we are in
trouble and poverty, out of favor with the world,
when our good name is doubted, and when the current
running sharply against, might overwhelm us,
were not one or two kind hands put forth to save
us from utter ruin and abandonment!”