 | Pictures of country life |  |
MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING.
Five o'clock in the great city—a roar as of a mighty sea in
the streets, for the multitude is heaving hither and thither in
pursuit of interest or pleasure. “Dinner-time,” said Mrs.
William Hartly, looking up from the torn lace she was trying
to stitch together, “and I have not seen Annie to-day—what
can the girl be about?”
The door opens, and a feeble little man, with no more color
in his face than is in his handkerchief, enters, and in querulous
accents inquires, “What are you doing, my dear? and why
are you not dressed?” and opening his watch, he continues—
“five minutes past five,” which in the lady's estimation seems
equivalent to having said, “You outrage all propriety;” for
she hastily puts down the torn lace, and disappears with an
air not the most amiable in the world.
The white-faced feeble man walks nervously about the room
for some ten minutes, more or less, when the lady returns,
“made up” for the ceremony of dinner, which the bell has
rung for twice during her preparation.
“You are looking very sweetly, my dear; and Mr. William
Hartly slips the ringed fingers of his stout wife through his
together.
“Where is Pet?” he asks, placing a chair for the stout
woman, and crooking his lips into what is meant to be a
smile.
“If you mean Annie,” answers the injured wife, “I don't
know anything about her.”
“Very strange, madam,” says Mr. Hartly, unfolding his napkin
with trembling hands, “that we can't even eat and drink
like other folks—where is Albert?” The wife and mother
simply shakes her head this time, and the sensor continues:
“Have you resigned the government of your own household,
madam?”
And he goes on with some complaint about the soup, while
the wife, with eyes bent intently on the name of “Hartly,”
graven on her silver spoon, answers, with no submission except
in her words, that she will have nothing to do with children or
servants any more, and that if her husband thinks it so easy a
task to put his own notions into other people's heads, he is
welcome to try—she has tried and tried till she is tired, and
she can't make anything of either Albert or Annie, and she is
quite willing to resign the task to abler hands.
Mr. Hartly bows in acknowledgment of the compliment, and
says he will see what can be done, and his tone has in it something
of the authoritative meaning of a schoolmaster; for he was
bred in early life to the profession of one. His iron-grey hair
stands up with a more determinate expression, and his white
face grows whiter in the calmness of settled resolve.
A lubberly, yellow-haired boy of twelve years old kicks open
the door at this juncture, and with his fine and fashionably-made
in waiting, by way of eliciting attention to his wants, and
seats himself at table, without noticing father or mother.
“Albert, my son,” says the father, “what has detained you?
have you no excuse?”
“Detained myself,” replies the boy, “and that's the reason;
and besides, I stole a piece of molasses cake at school, and did
not get so hungry for dinner as common.”
Mr. Hartly frowned and Mrs. Hartly sighed, the one looking
the picture of indignation and the other of despair.
“Tell you what, old folks,” said the boy, without noticing
the troubled expression of his parents, “I'll run away from
school if you make me go there, 'cause I hate books—there
haint none of them got no sense in them—and I hate masters;
there never was a schoolmaster that had sense: I'm a going
to hire out to a livery-stable, and learn to nick and dock,
that's what I'll do; and when I'm sixteen I'll be sot up in the
trade, and I'll keep the fastest trotters in town. Old folks, do
you hear that?”
Both father and mother looked as though they did hear; Mrs.
Hartly dropping knife and fork, and limberly falling together
as if there were no more courage in her, and Mr. Hartly bracing
himself up as though about to be swept over the Niagara
Falls.
“What's matter? Anything in my composition surprise
you?”
“I think there are some things in your composition that
must be beaten down or wrenched out,” said the father; “and
now, sir,” he continued, “don't open your mouth again till I
give you liberty.”
“How will I eat, old man,” replied the boy, “if I am to
keep my mouth shut?”
Mr. Hartly here arose, and having struck the broad shoulders
of the lad with his little delicate hand, led him away by
one ear, assuring him that for the next forty-eight hours he
should have nothing but bread and water to eat.
Annie, ignorant of how matters stood, made her appearance
at this moment; carrying a great platter of steaming pudding,
her flushed face radiant with smiles, for she had made the pudding
with her own hands, and evidently in the expectation of
affording her parents a happy surprise.
No smile answered hers, however, as she placed the pudding
dish on the table, timidly turning her eyes from father to mother.
“Doesn't it look nice?” she ventured to say at last; “Mr.
Wentworth showed me how to make it—shan't I ask him to
come and eat with us?”
“I think you look nice,” said the mother, eyeing the flour on
Annie's apron, and the rosy face indicative of the cookery she had
been engaged in; “it's no use,” she continued, as Annie stood
still aghast, “I can't make anything of you, and I may just as
well let you run wild—go and live with Mr. Wentworth, and
learn to make butter and cheese; I expect that would suit you
better than going to dancing-school and practising your piano,
as you ought to do. Your father and I have used every means
in our power to make something of you and your brother—you
have had money enough spent on you, the dear knows, to make
you as accomplished as anybody in the city; and then, to the
neglect of your proper duties, you go in the kitchen and talk
about pumpkins with Mr. Wentworth, if that is the man's
name, and make puddings, and appear at the dinner-table with
a mother's heart.”
Annie answered that she did not know it was wrong to make
a pudding, nor to ask Mr. Wentworth to eat some of it when
he was so good as to show her the way to make it—and it was
such a cheap way.
“Economy is not the chief end and aim of our lives, my
dear,” said the father; “there may be people to whom a pound
of flour, more or less, makes a difference, but I humbly trust
you will never be in their sphere of life;” and for a moment
Mr. Hartly subsided, and seemed to be saying, “Does the forty
feet stone front of our house look like practising economy in
the making of a pudding? Do the stone steps and the stone
baluster look like it? Does the man-servant who attends the
door-bell look like it? Do the lace curtains, ten in all, look
like it? Do my wife's brocades look like it? Do the entertainments
I give look like it, or anything in any way appertaining
to us? No, no; nobody would suppose us to be people
to economize.” And having thus mentally soliloquized, he
turned to Annie, who stood at the foot of the table like a culprit.
“No, my dear, no; we are not the people to count the
eggs that go into a pudding;” and having emphasized the fact
by tapping his silver fork lightly against his plate, he added,
“Whom have you in the kitchen, and what is his occupation?”
“Why, father, it is Mr. Wentworth—you know him,” said
Annie, looking a little encouraged.
Mr. Hartly slowly moved his head from side to side, as though
he said, “I wash my hands of it—I know nothing of him.”
“One of these men, you know,” said Mrs. Hartly, in an explanatory
way, “who make pumpkins and milk, and cultivate
man that lives in an open place, you know, where there are
trees, and where there are no streets, you know; no houses,
only wigwams, or bamboo huts, or something; you know,
William, it's the old person that brings us our butter and
apples.”
Mrs. Hartly said person, to indicate that she did not know
exactly whether he were black or white, man or monkey. It
was a sheer affectation on her part, for Mrs. Hartly was a
woman of naturally good plain common sense, if she could
have been satisfied to let plain common sense be plain common
sense, but she could not; she had a large amount of that
“vaulting ambition which is apt to o'erleap itself and fall on
t'other side.” She was the daughter of a retired horse-jockey,
and could, in her youth, drive or ride the most unmanageable
animal in her father's stable, and not unfrequently did ride
without saddle from the suburbs of the village where she lived,
to the city, half a dozen miles away, where she served apprenticeship
as a milliner, and afterward herself kept shop. All
these things were doubtless forgotten, for they were long ago,
when stout Mrs. Hartly was gawky Debby Smith, and before
her nature was smothered and lost in affectations. Somewhere
about the same time, Mr. William Hartly, the present opulent
merchant, was a country schoolmaster, near the village of the
milliner, carrying his candle to the log school-house for the
evening meeting, and paying board by working in the garden
of nights and mornings. In the course of time it came about
that Debby Smith was employed by the schoolmaster, aforesaid,
to make shirts—for plain needle-work entered into the
young woman's accomplishments—and from these beginnings
house and all the appurtenances thereof, the pompous Mrs.
Hartly, the young woman Annie, and the hopeful Master
Albert.
There had been no sudden influx of wealth, such as often
turns the heads of silly people—all had been the growth of
years of steady industry and economy, attended with constant
good luck. And with the wealth, affectations had grown, for
Mr. and Mrs. Hartly were under the impression that their present
position demanded it—it was a duty they owed to the
world at large, in view of the stone front, the man-servant, the
rosewood furniture, and the inheritors of their great fortune,
Annie and Albert; the first a most active, good-tempered
young woman, but plain, and “without hope of change;” the
latter a coarse, vulgar lad, on whom no refinement could be ingrafted,
and whose natural abhorrence of books and love of
horses were not likely to be easily overcome.
So there they were together in their fine house, being supposed
to be dining at five o'clock, easily and elegantly, having
taken luncheon at twelve, and with tea and supper to be served
in due and proper course of time—supposed to be, I say, for
the luncheon, and the supper, and the tea, were all myths; the
luncheon, when traced to its reality, consisting chiefly of bread
crusts, strong butter, scraps of meat, and the like, kept in the
closet, and resorted to from time to time by such members of
the family as were about the house, and felt the demands of
appetite too importunate to be refused till the regular dinner
hour. Mr. and Mrs. Hartly had done well for themselves, as
they believed—all they could do; they wore good clothes, and
used what they thought good words; they affected high breeding,
was not less genuine to them than diamonds.
Mr. Hartly had worn himself thin and pale; had, in fact,
coined his life-blood into money and the effort to be genteel.
Mrs. Hartly had, as she supposed, expanded easily to a model
of dignity and deportment; but she saw not herself as others
saw her—she was, in fact, in her best phases, a big woman
with fine clothes on. Her misfortune was, that nothing would
fit her; rings and ear-rings seemed hung on; dresses seemed
pinned on and hooked on, but not to have been especially made
for her, or in the least becoming to her; they might have belonged
to Mrs. Lundy, or any other woman who had money
enough to buy them; she was a personage on whom all these
things were hung, and when she wore a velvet train, she was
simply a big woman with a velvet train, and she was nothing
more.
Whether she improved her broad flat face in any very great
degree by the little curls she was at infinite pains to twist
along either temple was questionable to everybody but herself;
and whether the powder which she deposited among the pimples
of her face was not calculated to call attention to her
sorry complexion, was also questionable; but these were Mrs.
Hartly's taste, and in some sort the necessities of her station,
she thought. They had taught themselves divers little forms
and ceremonies, in the use of which they were most punctilious,
and a dozen times a day Mrs. Hartly sent her compliments to
Mr. Hartly, with some sweet and lady-like inquiry as to his
health, or wishes with reference to what dress she should appear
in at dinner, and as often Mr. Hartly sent back his compliments,
from the garret where he was putting in a pane of
might be, begging that Mrs. Hartly would oblige him by wearing
the blue dress, or the green one, and he often topped these
princely messages by a request that Mrs. Hartly, if she could
make it consistent with her previous engagements, would do
him the favor to accompany him on a visit to the house of
general, or governor so-and-so. The Hartlies liked to hear
themselves sending these messages; it had a lofty look in their
eyes to appear to know little about each other's affairs; their
house was so big, and the duties of their station so multifarious;
their suits of apartments so vast and separate, that they could
not be expected to know much of each other's movements.
These affectations were all that was left of them; as the moss
grows over a dead tree, so they were overgrown by them.
Thus they stood, ornaments of their age and generation, in
their own estimation—shams, to other people. If by any means
the children could have been screwed up, or pinched down;
stretched or flattened to genteel proportions, it would have
been done—but alack! they had been put through the artistic
mills in vain—they would not be made anything of.
This conviction, forced home upon Mrs. Hartly to-day, reduced
her to the ill-natured and somewhat natural demeanor,
of which she was grown mortally ashamed, and which she
essayed to cancel by the double distilled affectation about
cheese and butter. And to the close of this exquisite manifestation
of ignorance we return.
“A decent sort of person, I suppose,” said Mr. Hartly, in the
benevolent supposition that it is barely possible, and he is inclined
to hope for the best.
“Oh, he seems such a good old man, and he has got on
in ecstasy at the kindly disposition of her father.
“How foolish you are, Petty!” said Mrs. Hartly, in a kind of
softened and polite scorn; and she added, in a sweet pouting
style, “I would not have a big ugly wheel in my house, they
make a noise like one of these great winnow things that countrymen
have to put their chaff through. My grandfather
told me about one once. I never saw one. I would not look
at it.”
All this time Mr. Hartly has been sitting with knitted brows,
and twitching almost with the culmination of some most important
matter. At length he says: “Annie, my daughter, I am
resolved to send you to the wilderness with this old man as you
call him, and keep you there too, till you will be glad to come
back to civilized life.” Annie bites her red lips together, trying
to look demure; but a smile breaks out in her face that is
brighter than was ever there before.
Mrs. Hartly lifts up her hands and looks heavenward, as
though incredulous of her mortal understanding. “I am
determined,” continues Mr. Hartly, “that in some way I will
make something of my children. I have used bribes, and now
I shall use punishments. I have spent thousands of dollars to
accomplish my children, and what good has it done?” He
broke off abruptly, and sent his compliments to Master Albert,
with a request that he would drink a glass of wine with him.
The lad sent no message in return; but with cap pulled
down over his red eyes, and lips puffed out with anger, thrust
his sister aside, and commenced eating the pudding with a
table spoon. “Don't, my dear, don't,” said the mamma softly;
“I am afraid that odd-looking dish won't agree with you.”
“If you think this kind of stuff is going to hurt you,” replied
the boy, “I am glad of it—cause I could eat a
bushel.”
“Mother, shan't I give you some?” asked Annie, looking
proudly at her pudding.
“Petty, you speak so loud—it's vulgar,” said the mamma;
and she sends a servant to the other end of the table with her
compliments, and the reply that she will trouble her daughter
to be so good as to send her part of a spoonful. And having
received, she cuts it apart, and dips it up and down in order to
see whether it is made of anything of which she has any
knowledge, concluding, as it appears, that she has not
—for she tastes not, and presently ceases to touch and to
handle.
“My son,” said Mr. Hartly, lifting his glass.
“I see you,” answers the hopeful; “and when I finish this
pooden, I'll drink a bottle or two; haint got my appetite
squinched yet, and come to my drinkotite. I was at confession,
you know.”
For a while Mr. Hartly's head falls, as if a hammer struck
him; there is no doubt but that his suffering is sincere. At
length he says, in subdued and sorrowful accents: “Albert, it
has been the aim and the hope of my life to make something
of you, and now the time has come that you must choose a profession,
or rather begin one; for I am resolved to make a painter
of you. I shall send you to Florence at once, to study the
old masters.”
“I've studied you, haint I?” replies Albert; “I saw you
paint the kitchen floor, and I didn't learn nothing as I know
of.”
“I don't mean to paint houses, my son; you misapprehend—
I intend you shall make great pictures.”
“Well then, say what you mean, and don't go to sticking on
airs, and I'll tell you what trade I want to go to. I want to
be sot up in a stable—and you can fork out the cash as soon as
you like.”
“Why, baby dear,” says the mother, “you are just in fun—
a real live horse would scare you to death.”
“Scare your granny!” replies the baby; “just as if I didn't
run away from school every day, and curry horses and such
things, in the stables. You don't know me, do you?” And
with such a saucy, impudent look, as can't be described, he goes
on with the pudding.
Mrs. Hartly sends her compliments to Mr. Hartly, with the
suggestion that they make a poet of the hopeful; and Mr.
Hartly sends compliments in turn, though only the table
divides them, and begs that Mrs. Hartly will consider the
matter settled—the hopeful must be an artist, which is
responded to by a whisper of—“Just as you please, my
dear.”
This, then, being concluded, the person whom Annie had
so audaciously called an old man, and who, whatever he may
be, is supposed to answer to the name of Wentworth, is summoned
by his great patrons, and promptly answers the call;
not humbly and deferentially, but with a firm step, and a manner
of self-respect that commands respect.
Mr. Hartly waves him to a seat in a distant part of the
room, and proceeds to inform him that he desires the girl who
has just made his acquaintance in the kitchen, to be banished
to his residence, wherever that may be, and kept there on
habit of eating himself, till she shall be willing to return home,
and appreciate her advantages. Annie sits down on a stool
close by the old man, and rubs the flour from her apron by
way of keeping down her disposition to laughter; and the person
replies that he hopes to give his visitor something better
than bread and water, though the accommodations of his house
will be far short of what she is used to.
Mr. Hartly replies that it is not as a visitor that he
proposes to send his child, but as a boarder, or rather a prisoner.
Mr. Wentworth smiles, and says his folks have never taken
boarders or prisoners, but he is sure they will not object to
receive his little friend, for a time. She looks as if she might
make bread or butter with the smartest young women he
knows; and he smiles and lays his toil-hardened hand on Annie's
head as the finishing of his compliment.
Mrs. Hartly begins a little scream, which she concludes by
whispering in the white ear of her white-faced husband, that
she supposes the person don't know our child from any common
child and so the affair is negotiated.
While Annie is being denuded of ear-rings and breast-pins,
and all other ornaments, and having laces, and flounces, and
furbelows packed away for the uses of the genteel time that is
to come after her banishment—and such plain ginghams, calicoes,
aprons, and the like, as are thought suited to the term of
her imprisonment, made ready—Mr. Hartly, who is unwilling
that even the person, old man, farmer, or whatever he may be,
should remain ignorant of his great consideration, asks condescendingly,
whether he has ever seen so fine a house before.
The old man, who seems in no way overcome with the grandeur
about him, answers that it seems to be a good house; but
that, for his part, he prefers his own little farm and house. It
may be very fine, he thinks, but he doesn't want it.
“Good heavens!” exclaims Mr. Hartly; “you ain't in your
right mind, are you? have you seen what my house is? have
you seen the stone front, the balustrade? Why sir, the window-curtains
cost me five hundred dollars each—more than all
you are worth in the world, I expect.”
The old man says, it may be so; still he seems disposed to
regard his own possessions as preferable.
Mr. Hartly confronts him as he sits quietly contemplating
the carving of the marble mantel—thrusts his thin white fingers
through his iron-grey hair, sets his teeth together, and
sucks in a long breath, and then as though the countryman
were an idiot that he would make see if there were any eyes in
him, he takes him by the hand, and leads him up the broad
flights of stairs, and through all the rooms with their splendid
appointments; however, the old man sees nothing but things
that have cost money. It is all very well, he says, for people
that like it; but, for his part, he would not have the trouble of
taking care of so many things, even if they were given to
him.
In the great easy-chair of the parlor Mr. Hartly sinks down
exhausted, and locking his little white fingers together, repeats to
himself; “Well, well, well!” each time a little louder, and as
though nothing could be said of such stupidity. Meantime the
farmer makes his way out into the sunshine, seeming to find
that more genial than the heavy, damp air within the thick
walls. The stout horses, having eaten their dinner of oats, are
fills the wagon-bed, for the accommodation of Annie, who presently
makes her appearance and tells her friend that her father
wishes to speak to him.
“Old person,” says Mr. Hartly, as though it were not likely
the man had a name, “I consign my daughter to your charge
for a certain time, and for reasons that to me are greater than
you can comprehend; and I wish you to receive an equivalent,
that is pay, for the trouble she may give you—what sum shall
you accept? Not that it makes any difference to me—money
is to me no object.”
These are not precisely his words, to be sure; but both
manner and words indicate, or are meant to indicate, that he
has had money till he is tired of money. However, it is finally
arranged that Annie shall work for her board for her own punishment
merely, and not to save a few sixpences, more or less.
She is also required to keep a journal of her exile life, and once
a week submit the same to her very loving parents, which letter-writing
is supposed, on their part, to pave the way to making
her a famous author. And she is informed, that when
she shall find herself willing to come home, and wear silks and
laces, and learn dancing and music, keep out of the kitchen,
and, in short, be made something of, she shall return. She is
furthermore bidden to take an affectionate leave of Master
Albert, who, she is informed, is to be sent immediately to
Florence to be made into a painter. Miss Annie essays an
embrace, but the hopeful twists out of her arms, and with a
rude push informs her that he means to run away and be a
horse-jockey, for that the old folks can't make him over into
anything that he aint.
“That has been my notion pretty much,” said the old man;
“I have always thought it was best to let natur' have its
way; and Joshua, that's my eldest son, has made a preacher;
and Cliff, who is sturdy and stout, and full of fun, has staid
on the farm with me. It seems to come nat'ral to him to work,
somehow.”
Mr. Hartly looks pityingly on the old person's ignorance; and
abruptly turning away, offers his arm to dear Mrs. Hartly, and
with one or two affected little sobs, she is led off.
I will pass over all the preparation made for the departure of
Master Albert, nor trouble the reader with an account of Mrs
Hartly's protracted darnings of lace, and hemming, scalloping
and fringing, crimping and curling—all the hanging on, and
the taking off of fine things—all the powdering, and the combing
of her poodle—and likewise pass by all Mr. Hartly's
examinations into the quantities of meat cooked for dinner, all
his parcellings out of beans and potatoes, all his contemplative
pacings up and down before his own house, in happy admiration
of the extent thereof—all compliments sent back and forth for
the space of eight days, when I must beg the reader to imagine
him in his great chair—spectacles shoved up over his hair—a
sealed paper lying before him on the table; and also to imagine
the transport with unusual form and dignity, to Master Hartly
of his compliments, begging that he will oblige his father by his
immediate presence—also of a similar message to Mrs. Hartly,
with fear that she may be detained by the general pressure of
her position.
The simple fact is, a letter has been received from Annie,
which is about to be read. That it is a sort of humiliation and
prayer to be permitted to return home, is expected; and
but he, failing to make his appearance, the reading goes on.
The letter was as follows:
“I have so many things to say, and am so little used to
writing, that I don't know how to begin; but as I promised to
keep a sort of journal of every day's experience, I suppose I
may as well begin now, for this is the second night of my being
here. You can't imagine what a nice ride we had in the open
wagon, so much pleasanter than being shut up in a coach—it
was such a pleasure to see the stout horses pull us along, and
trotting or walking just as Uncle Wentworth directed: I say
uncle, because I like Mr. Wentworth, and wish all the time he
was some true relation. The straw in the wagon smelled so
sweet, sweeter than flowers, it seemed to me; and when we got
into the real country everything looked so beautiful, that I
laughed all the time, and Uncle Wentworth said folks would
think he had a crazy girl. I was very much ashamed of my
ignorance, for I thought all country people lived in holes in the
ground, or little huts made of sticks, and that cows and horses
and all lived together; but we saw all along the road such
pretty cottages and gardens, and some houses indeed as fine as
ours. I kept asking Uncle Wentworth what sort of place we
were going to, for I could not help fearing it was a very bad
place; but he only laughed, and told me to wait and see. A
good many men were at work in fields of hay—some cutting
and some tossing it about—and I kept wishing I was among
them, they seemed so merry, and the hay was so sweet. In
some places were great fields of corn, high as my head, with
there too, it shook so; but Uncle Wentworth said it was only
the wind. And back of the fields, and seeming like a great
green wall between the earth and the sky, stood the woods. I
mean to go into them before long, but I am a little afraid of
wild beasts yet; though uncle says I will find no worse thing
than myself there. We met a good many carriages, full of
gayly dressed people coming into town; and saw a number of
young ladies dressed in bright ginghams, tending the flowers in
front of the cottages, sometimes at work in the gardens, indeed,
so my dresses will be right in the fashion. In one place we
passed a white school-house, set right in the edge of the woods;
and when we were a little by, out came near forty children,
some girls as big as I, and a whole troop of little boys, all
laughing, and jumping, and frolicking, as I never heard children
laugh. I asked Uncle Wentworth if it were proper? and he
said it was their nature, and he supposed our wise Father had
made them right. Some of the boys ran and caught hold of
the tail of our wagon and held there, half swinging and half
riding, ever so long. Pretty soon uncle stopped the horses, and
asked a slim, pale-faced girl, who was studying her book as she
walked to ride; and thanking him as politely as anybody could
do, she climbed up, right behind the horses, and sat down by
me, and spoke the same as though she had been presented.
She had a sweet face under a blue bonnet, but was as white,
and looked as frail, as a lily. After she was seated, she looked
back so earnestly, that I looked too, and saw the schoolmaster
come out of the house and lock the door, and cross his hands
behind him as he turned into a lane that ran by, which seemed
to go up and up, green and shady as far as I could see. I
under his straw hat. The girl kept looking the way he went;
but if it were he she thought of, he didn't turn to look at her.
Close by a stone-arched bridge, from under which a dozen birds
flew as we rattled over it, Uncle Wentworth stopped the horses,
and the young lady got out, and went through a gate at
the roadside; and I watched her walking in a narrow and deep-worn
path that was close by the bank of a run, till she turned
round a hill, and I could not see her any more; but I saw a
lively blue smoke, curling up over the hill-top, and in the hollow
behind, Uncle Wentworth said she lived.
“We were now eight miles from the city—the sun was
almost down; we saw great droves of cows coming towards the
milk-yards—not driven as they are in the streets, but coming
of themselves, and flocks of geese waddling out of ponds, and
going towards home; I began to feel a little tired, and sleepy,
with the motion of the wagon, when all at once the horses
began to neigh and trot fast, and Uncle Wentworth said,
`Here's your prison, Annie; how do you like the looks of it?'
We were right before a white gate that was being opened by a
black man, who was smiling so as to show all his teeth, and
who bowed twice to us as we drove through and along a
gravelly narrow lane towards a barn as large as our house. I
could hardly think it the place where I was to stay, at first—
all was so beautiful. The house itself is really as good as our
house, built of stone—blue hard stone—better than is in ours;
and on every side of it is a white porch, curtained with green
vines, some bearing red, and others blue flowers. About the
house is a large yard inclosed by white pickets, against which
is a perfect thicket of currant-bushes, raspberries and roses. It
quince, and peach-trees—the latter sticking full of little green
peaches, and some of the apples turning red and yellow.
There were flowers of all colors growing here and there; and
while I sat in mute surprise, a huge dog lifted himself up on the
wheel of the wagon, and frightened me so, that I almost cried,
though he neither barked nor growled. Uncle Wentworth
said he was only saying `How do you do?' And, indeed, it
seemed as if that was what he meant; for as I went towards the
house, he walked along by me very quietly. A middle-aged
woman came to the door to meet us; she was wiping her hands
on a towel, and by her heightened color and the speck of flour
on her apron, I saw she had been at work in the kitchen. She
shook hands with me as though I were some friend, when
Uncle Wentworth said who I was, and went with me herself
to the tidiest little bedroom you ever saw, telling me, just as
though she had been my mother, to put all my things away
neatly, showing me where; and when I had done so, to come to
her in the kitchen. There was no carpet on the floor, which
was very white, and the bed-spread and the curtains were
white too. I had my dresses hung up and my other things in
the bureau very soon, and hearing some one speaking in the
yard, I raised the window, and saw coming down the straight
walk, which was carpeted with tan-bark, Uncle Wentworth,
and a young man with a seythe swung over his shoulder He
had on a broad-brimmed straw hat, grey trowsers, and a
shirt of white and blue calico fastened about the waist with a
leather strap. I drew my head in a little when I saw him, but
not till Uncle Wentworth had spied me, and calling out aloud,
(for I was up stairs), he said, `Annie, this is my boy, Cliff—
a funny introduction, that I felt my face all burning red as I
tried to answer the polite salutation of the young man, for he
took the straw hat quite off, and bowed so low, that his brown
curls fell along his forehead, and made him look just like a picture.
“I now began to consider my dress, for it was full of
wrinkles with sitting on the straw, and riding so far, and looking
in the glass that hung over the bureau, I found my face
was white with dust. There was no water in the room; so I
went down, and finding Mrs. Wentworth, whom I call Aunt
Margaret now, taking biscuits out of the stove, I asked her for
water, and she directed me to a shed outside the door, where
there was a cistern, and all conveniences for washing. I
was quick, you may be sure; for I feared Cliff, whom I
heard talking to his dog on the other side of the house, might
come round and see me; and as I went towards my room to
put on a smooth dress, Aunt Margaret patted my cheek and
told me I must be very smart, for that supper was all ready.
I told her not to wait—that I would come presently; and I
did try to, but everything went wrong—the hooks were off
from one dress, and another fitted so ill, and then my hair
never looked so badly; it was nearly dark in my room, and I
had no light, so that altogether I was vexed and flurried a
good deal when I went down. Aunt Margaret had taken me
at my word, and Uncle Wentworth and Cliff were already gone
away from the table; they had their evening work to do, she
said, and would not stand upon ceremony. She had kept some
tea and biscuits warm for me, and I ate heartily, for the ride
had made me hungry. While we were yet at the table, the
black man who opened the gate, and whose name is Peter, and
the porch, carrying four tin pails full of milk, and Aunt Margaret
said I might have a bowl of it, which I accepted, and
found sweeter than any milk I ever drank. I found Peter and
Maria very nice and kind, and while they took their supper I
staid by and talked with them, which seemed to please them
very much. Peter offered to make a swing for me, to show me
about the barn, to teach me to milk, and many other things;
and Maria said she would make me as good a cook as herself,
when I told her about the pudding I had made. Aunt Margaret
came into the kitchen, and as Maria washed the dishes,
dried them on a towel, and helped about almost everything.
Coffee was ground for breakfast, and short-cakes made, and
all the parcels which Uncle Wentworth had brought from
town were put each in its place, sugar and spice and dried
beef, and I don't know what all. Among the rest, or rather
above the rest, was one paper carefully pinned up, at which
Maria and Aunt Margaret wondered not a little, and opening
it they found it to contain the neatest little cap that ever was
—it had no flowers on it nor ribbon, except the strings, but it
was real lace, and prettier, I thought, than ma's gay caps.
Maria lighted another candle to look at it, and doubled herself
together with laughter, she was so pleased, and Aunt
Margaret said it was just like Uncle Wentworth, he was
always buying things she didn't send for, and that she would
rather he had bought a new hat for himself. She is a good
woman, and I loved her the more when she said so. Maria
would make her try it on, and she and I thought it becoming;
but Aunt Margaret says she thinks it a little too small—though
she would not say so to Uncle Wentworth for anything.
“He and Cliff had taken some chairs out beneath a cherry
tree, and staid there talking together in the moonlight; the
great dog, whose name is Guard, lying by them on the grass.
The moonlight fell about them pleasantly, and if Cliff had not
been there I would have gone out; but I thought he would
think me bold, or perhaps not want me there. The big-clock
which stood at the foot of the stairs where I came down, struck
nine directly, and Aunt Margaret said I must be tired and had
best go to bed, for that they eat breakfast at six o'clock in the
morning. She gave me a candle and told me to find my way,
which I did, and on opening the door I saw a whole handful
of flowers—some lying about the floor, and others on the
pillow—looking as if they had been thrown in at the window
and lodged just as they were. I don't know who could have
done it; perhaps Peter—but I don't care who did it, they
made the room very sweet, and I left them seattered just as
they were, on bed and floor. I was not sleepy, I suppose,
because of the strange place, and sitting down by the table at
the window, I found a book lying upon it, which proved to be
a volume of bound newspapers. On the blank leaf was written,
`The property of Clifton Wentworth,' in the roundest,
best hand I ever saw; I could read it as well as print; so the
young man knows something if he does live in the country. I
read a good while in the papers, selecting the pieces which
seemed to have been most read, for I supposed they were the
best; and, indeed, I found some excellent articles, better than
I remember to have read before. I went to bed under the
roses, at last, and listened to the strange sounds in the air,
of birds and insects. Nothing else could be heard, except now
and then a team rattling along the turnpike road.
“The sun was shining bright across my bed when I woke,
and afraid I had slept too long, I hastened down, and sure
enough, breakfast was over, and Uncle Wentworth and Cliff
gone out to the fields, and milking done, and Aunt Margaret
making bread, for it was after eight o'clock.
“I asked why she didn't call me; and she said she knew I
was tired and sleepy, and that I would soon learn their way,
and she complimented me by saying I seemed very smart and
clever. I tried to atone for my sloth, and be as good as she
had thought me; so I told her she must not let me sleep so late
again—that I was to work for my board, and would begin
then. I hope Uncle Wentworth did not know I was sleeping
so late—he might think badly of me; Cliff, of course, would
not think of me at all. I breakfasted on milk-toast, and then
having put my room in order, went with Maria to the garden,
where we picked a basin of currants, and another of green
beans; and afterwards, sitting in the shade of a tree, prepared
them to cook. It is not lonesome here as I thought it
would be; everything seems happy and busy; bees, and birds,
and butterflies, and chickens, and men and women the busiest
of all. It was noon before I dreamed of it, and Aunt Margaret
said it was time to `set the table,' which she showed me
how to do, telling me I was `handy,' and that work seemed
to come natural to me. I like her more and more, she is so kind
to everybody, and working seems to her like play; her bread
bakes just right, and everything is just where she wants it.
She says we must like work in the first place, and then have a
place for everything and everything in its place, and all will go
well; and she says if I keep on for a week as well as I have
begun, I will more than earn my board, and she will give me
get the breakfast. We had for dinner to-day beans and pork
and potatoes, and baked apples, and custard pies, and milk; I
blew the dinner horn myself, as well as anybody, Aunt Margaret
said.
“Cliff was gone to get his scythe mended, and he did not
come home to dinner, which I was sorry for, though no more
for him than I would have been for Uncle Wentworth. He
said the dinner was very nice, and he supposed it was because
I helped to prepare it.
“When the dishes were put away, Aunt Margaret put on a
clean dress and cap, and sat in the porch with some sewing,
and having given the required attention to my own wardrobe,
I sat with and assisted her for the rest of the afternoon. We
had a pleasant time together, and though we talked all the
while, I made two shirt-sleeves for Cliff, stitching the wristbands,
which was more than Aunt Margaret did.
“At sunset I assisted to set the table again—this time on
the porch; and just as the light became a little dim, we sat
down, altogether. Aunt Margaret told Cliff I had made a
pair of sleeves for him, and said a good deal more about how
smart I was, which made me ashamed—he did not share my
embarrassment, but laughing, said, as he shook his curls away,
that was very well for me, but that he knew a young lady who
could make an entire shirt in an afternoon. His mother said
that was one of his stories, and I believe it is—I am sure he
doesn't know any such young woman. After supper I went out
with Peter to learn to milk, and Uncle Wentworth told Cliff
to go and show me; but though he came along, he only laughed
at my awkwardness a little while, and went away—he is
the dress he wears is so becoming. I have not yet seen him
wear a coat, but am sure he looks better without than he
would with one, and I don't believe he has studied dress as an
art at all. I found him examining the new sleeves when I
came in, and he politely offered me his chair, providing another
for himself—for all were sitting together on the porch.
I don't know why, but I declined, and went straight to my
room, where I found on the table a small leaf basket full of
ripe blackberries. I don't know who put them there; it could
not have been Cliff, for he don't think anything about me.
The book was open too, and a rose laid on this verse:
Alas, unhappy I,
The simple gift of flowers I brought
Has won me no reply.'
“I wonder if Cliff had anything to do with all this? More
likely it was the work of Peter or Maria.
“THIRD EVENING.
“Two days have gone since I came here, and two days so
short I never saw, and yet they are not broken in upon by calls,
by dressing, or by going out, though Aunt Margaret says we
shall go visiting a little and see some visitors, she hopes, when
the harvest is past. I do not feel the need of any change yet;
it will keep me busy for a month more to see all the things on
the farm, and it will require longer than that to learn to keep
house well, Aunt Margaret says. While it was yet dark in my
room I heard such a crowing of roosters as I never heard before—it
was like a band of music, and especially when,
about the yard began to shake their wings and sing as if it did
their hearts good. I cannot make you understand how sweet
it was—I could not bear to lie in bed, and as soon as I could
see to dress, arose, and throwing the window open wide, looked
out: there was no dew on the grass, though yesterday
morning it was all wet, and streaked with green paths where
footsteps had been. One great white star stood away in the
south, as it were right in the tree-tops; and where the sun was
coming up lay a long bank of clouds, red as fire. No wind
stirred the leaves, or the curtain of my window, and I could
not smell the hayfields as I did yesterday. I heard dogs barking
across the hills, and boys calling the cows, but mostly it
was very still. While I staid at the window I saw a young
man walk along the turnpike road, with a brisk lively step,
and an energetic swing of the arms, as though he had something
important to do, and was thus early astir to do it; as he
passed by I knew it was the schoolmaster, and on telling Aunt
Margaret about it, she said he walked so every morning—
sometimes two or three miles—for his health's sake, and that
he is thought a young man of great promise, and is educating
himself to go as a missionary to some distant country. I
thought about the young schoolgirl, and wondered if she
would go with him.
“I put my room in nice order before I left it to-day, which
Aunt Margaret said was greatly better than coming down an
hour after breakfast. I thought to be the first one up; but
Maria and Peter were already gone to milk, the tea-kettle was
steaming, and Aunt Margaret was spreading the table.
“Seeing nothing I could do, Aunt Margaret told me I
to make food for them by mixing corn-meal and water together.
I had two quarts or more of it, which I scattered about the
ground, calling the chickens to come; and I do believe two
hundred of them came running from every direction: roosters,
red and black and speckled, with tails shining like a peacock's;
and hens of all colors—some old and having feathers
hanging loose; others with cunning brown eyes, and combs as
red as roses, and looking plump and sleek, and well to do—
these I take to be the young lady hens; and then there were
faded prim-looking ones that kept apart and made no noise,
and these I supposed to be the old maids: the lean ruffled
ones, seeming cross and picking at other hens, I thought were the
worn mothers of hungry broods, themselves giving all to their
little ones. But the dear little chickens were prettiest of all—
some yellow as gold, and some black as a crow, and others
speckled—I could not tell which was the most cunning, all
were so pretty. I caught one or two of them in my hands;
but the mother hens, seeing me, flew right at my face, and I
was glad to let them go. While I was feeding, Uncle Wentworth
came along from his morning work at the barn, and I
said to him I wished Albert was there to see the chickens and
ride the horses, but that I supposed he was gone to Florence
before that time to learn to paint. He asked me if Albert had
any genius for painting; I told him I did not know, but that I
was sure he liked horses better than pictures; and he then said
money would not put genius into anybody—it must be born in
them, and that a great thing couldn't be got out of a man
unless it was first in him. The minds of people, he said,
were just as various as their bodies, and we could not greatly
It seemed to me worth thinking about, but perhaps you will
not agree with me.
“While we were talking, Cliff joined us, having in his hand
a small basket full of eggs—all fresh and white: he said he
would show me where the nests are, that I may gather them
to-morrow myself. He is very handsome, but I don't believe
he gave me the berries. I went this afternoon to the meadow
where he was at work to see if I could find any—I thought,
perhaps, he would think I came to see him, and so I kept on
the other side of the field. Uncle Wentworth came and showed
me where there were plenty of berries, and I soon filled the
little basin I had quite full. I then thought I would sit a little
while in the shade of a walnut tree that grew in the meadow,
and see them make hay, for there were a dozen men in the
field, some mowing, some pitching, some raking, and others
loading and hauling it into the barn. All worked as fast as
they could, for uncle said it would rain—black clouds were
flying about the sky, and now and then a gust of wind swept
through the corn-field, making a solemn sort of noise, and
away in the orchard I could hear the apples falling from the
early trees, as they call the harvest-apple trees. The horses
were almost covered up with the great load of hay, as they
drew it towards the barn—two or three men followed, the others
remaining to work in the field, for the clouds grew blacker and
began to close together. I was not near the house, yet I
thought I could run home when the sprinkling began, and sat
still. I could see the schoolhouse across the field, and see the
children when they came out to play—up and down the woods
they ran, talking and laughing so loud that I could sometimes
us—I knew her by the blue bonnet, and the quiet, melancholy
way she had; for she did not join in the playing nor the talking,
but went apart, picking flowers. I left my berries, crossed
the meadow, and joined her in the woods, intending to ask her
to come and see me at Uncle Wentworth's; but we were
scarcely seated on a mossy log together when the rain came
dashing down in a perfect torrent, so that I was forced to go
with her into the schoolhouse for shelter. The master made
me welcome very politely, saying many pleasant things which I
do not remember. The name of the young girl is Mary Bell,
and the master's name is Hillburn. I noticed that Mary kept
the flowers she had gathered in her hand, and I could not help
thinking she would gladly have given them to the master, but
she did not, and presently seeing that she was picking them to
pieces I took them out of her hands, and the master coming
that way shortly after admired one of them very much, and on
my giving it to him he set it in his button-hole and wore it
while I staid, which was not long, for the storm was soon
past, the heavy wind seeming to drive away the clouds. The
trees swung their tops together, and we heard the fall of some
dead limbs in the woods, which made me a little afraid. The
master told me there was no danger—that the trees near the
schoolhouse were too sound to break, and that the wind was
not strong enough to uproot them. Mary, who sat by me, was
trembling with fright, and her pale cheek was paler than ever,
but he spoke never a word to her about her fear or anything
else. She is a sweet, modest girl, and I could not help putting
my arm around her and kissing her when I came away. The
schoolmaster is handsome, having black curls along his smooth
manner for the most part that of one whose thoughts are upon
himself. He is quiet, but I should think not easily turned
aside from a purpose when once fixed. As I said, he spoke
most politely to me; nevertheless I could not feel as though he
thought of me even while he was speaking—I wish I had not
seen him—I can't get the picture of his sad sweet face out of
my mind—if he is happy it is happiness so subdued that I cannot
understand it.
“Whether my going into the schoolhouse was a fortunate
thing for the master or not, it certainly was to the children,
for I was never so much looked at in my life—not one of them
could see a book while I staid; some of them, indeed, held
their books before their faces, but their eyes were fixed on me
—and so many bright eyes I never saw—I think they would
light the house at night without any candle. The little school-house
stands on the edge of a green maple woods, and as I
walked through them on my return home, I could not help
building a little cottage there in my mind, and of putting Mary
and the schoolmaster in it. Why I should have joined them
together from the first I don't know; but I did.
“Half an hour after the rain began the clouds broke apart
and the sun shone again, hot as ever. Crossing on the green
swaths of hay to the tree where I had left my berries, I found
the basin heaped full with finer ones than I had gathered. I
asked Uncle Wentworth if he did it, but he said no, and told
me to inquire if Cliff knew anything about it. Just then I
saw him drop his scythe and lift up one hand, from which the
blood was streaming; and putting down my berries, I ran to
him and found that he had cut two of his fingers badly; he
bound up the hand with my handkerchief (it was not a lace
one), and ran and told Uncle Wentworth how bad it was; he
laughed, and said it was a trick of Cliff's, done for the sake of
being allowed to go to the house to stay with me; Cliff grew
angry at this and threw himself down in the shade of the tree
where my berries were. He had been out in all the rain, and
his clothes were wringing wet; I thought he might get his
death-cold—so I coaxed him to go to the house with me, for I
would not have left anybody lying alone on the wet grass if I
could have helped it. The mowers laughed when they saw us,
and one of them said he thought Cliff more of a man. I told
Cliff I did not hear what he said, and I did not care either,
and that I supposed if one of his hands was cut off he would
be glad to leave working. Cliff turned his head away, and I
am sure there were tears in his eyes; poor Cliff!—it was
heathenish in the mowers to laugh; I hope Uncle Wentworth
did not give them one drop of whisky the whole afternoon. I
think it strange if one person cuts off a hand, and another
person ties it up, that other persons must laugh. Aunt Margaret
said Cliff must not go to the field any more that day—
and she called him an unfortunate boy; but he is not a boy—
he is, he will be twenty-one years old next year, and I am sure
that is old enough. She gave him the new shirt that I helped
to make; I dressed the hand myself; I knew just how it was,
and could do it best; Maria, who stood by, had to say that
Master Cliff's hand didn't look much like Miss Annie's; I told
her I wished she would go back to her work, and mind her
work; but she did not, and Cliff said, `No, Maria, my hands
look more like yours;' and he put his head down on his arm
because the sun had made his hands a little brown, he thought
what was not the truth, and I wanted to tell him so, but I
could not say it—and so I turned back my sleeves and began
to scour knives to show him that I was not afraid of my hands,
and tried to make him forget the mowers and Maria too, by
telling him about my visit to the schoolhouse. He smiled
directly, and asked me if I thought Mr. Hillburn was handsome?
I said yes; upon which he told me that he and Mary
Bell were thought to like each other very much. I told him
the master had worn my flower, at any rate; but still he
would not give up that he liked Mary better than any one
else.
“When I came back, after a short absence from the room, I
found Cliff looking at the stitching in the wristbands of his
new shirt. I asked him if he liked it, for the sake of saying
something, and he replied that he liked anything I did—he is so
kind you would like him, I know. I read for him some amusing
stories I found in the paper; but the night seemed to come
in a minute; so I left the reading to assist about the supper,
for I don't want Cliff, nor any of them, to think me lazy.
Maria could not get water enough to fill the tea-kettle out
of the well to-night, and Peter took a bucket, and I went
with him to a spring at the foot of the orchard hill, which, he
said, was never known to be dry in his time. The water breaks
right out of a bank in a clear, cold stream as big as my arm,
and falls into a shallow well, about which is a pavement of
flat stones, and running over this, it flows along the hollow in a
stream half a foot deep in places. If the drought continues,
Peter said, the cattle will all have to be brought there to drink,
grass grow along the sides of the run, and two or three
brown birds, having very long legs, flew up before us, and one
rabbit started from its hiding-place, and ran so fast I could not
see what it looked like. Uncle said at supper-time, the rain
had not done any good at all; that the ground was not wet
to the depth of an inch, and that the corn-leaves are all curling
together for the want of it. Cliff looked pale and did not eat
much, nor say much. I am afraid the wound is going to make
him sick; even Aunt Margaret, who is so good and kind,
does not seem so much alarmed as I should think she would be.
When the meal was concluded, Uncle Wentworth sent Cliff
about the farm to see if there was water enough for the cattle;
I wanted to go with him—I thought it would be a good opportunity
for me to see all the farm; but no one asked me to go,
so I left Maria to do her own work, and came to my room to
write to my dear parents. The sun is gone down behind the
trees, and all the western sky is golden and orange, shaded
with black—one star stands out, clear and beautiful, but I can
see to write by the daylight yet. Aunt Margaret says I must
be up at four o'clock in the morning and help to churn, and if
the day bids fair she will have something to tell me. I wonder
what it can be. There is Cliff, standing under my window, with his
hands full of scarlet and blue flowers—he says I may have them,
but he can't throw them up to the window, so I must go down.
“FIFTH EVENING.
“When I dropped my pen the third evening, it was with
the intention of taking it up in a few minutes; but Cliff
seeemed so lonesome, I thought it my duty to stay with him.
said it was not then too late; so we strolled together into the
high road, and turned down the way I had come from the city.
We could hear voices across the hills at the houses of the
neighbors; some, indeed, were just calling the cows home—
could hear the tinkling of bells, and sometimes the chirp of
a bird, and that was all. Cliff told me about his college days,
and how much he had tried to like study as well as did his
older brother, but that he would always rather plough an acre
than commit a Latin lesson, and that after he had obtained a
certain amount of knowledge, it seemed to him that he was
losing time, and that for the future he could better learn by
experience as he went along than by books alone. His idea of
happiness, he says, is fifty acres of ground, containing woods,
and orchards, and springs of water, and being nicely stocked
with cattle, and horses, and sheep; having on it all the best
implements of husbandry, a good little house full of everything
to make comfort. But what that everything would be, Cliff
didn't say. I cannot repeat half so well as he said it; but if
you heard him, you would be convinced that a farmer's life is
the happiest one in the world.
“We were standing on the stone bridge and talking, when
we heard some one singing the sweetest and saddest song I
ever heard; and looking about, we saw Mary Bell sitting
beneath a walnut tree, a little distance down the hollow. She
did not see us—and with one hand pushed partly under her
hair, and her blue bonnet on her knees, was singing to herself.
The water from the spring at Uncle Wentworth's made a pleasant
sound, as it ran a little way from her, and blue and white
violets were thick all along the bank; but she had not gathered
bark was peeled from the top to the very bottom of the tree
against which she leaned, and the wood was cracked apart, in
some places wide enough for me to have slipped my hand in
the body of the tree. It is very tall, and has been struck with
lightning, Cliff says, two or three times. We called Mary—and
tying on her hood, she presently joined us; and turning into
the long green shady lane, which I noticed when I first passed
by, we walked up and up; Cliff quite forgetting his hand, and
talking and laughing gaily all the time. But no matter what
Cliff does, it seems the properest and most becoming thing in
the world, and I wish he would keep on; but when he turns to
something else, it seems better still. I never saw anybody like
him—he could not do anything that he would not make graceful.
“Mary smiled now and then, for no one could help sharing
somewhat in the merriment of Cliff; but she did not once
laugh outright, and often seemed not to hear what we said.
We had gone a mile, perhaps, without passing a house, or seeing
anybody; now and then we met some cows feeding along
the roadside; but it was quite dark, the working was done, and
only we seemed out for pleasure, when we came in view of a
large red house standing near the roadside. All was still about
it, for the country people go to bed very early; but in one of
the chambers next the road a light was burning, and seated by
the open window, with his book before him, was the schoolmaster.
Cliff called him to come out; and putting down his
book as quietly as though our visit were just what he expected,
he came out; but when we asked him to walk with us, excused
himself by saying his studies would not permit. Cliff would
have another opportunity of walking with us all; and after
some further pleasant urging, he finally came along; and, don't
you think, most provokingly offered his arm to me. I was so
vexed I didn't hear what he said; but try all I could, I could
not invent any way by which I could amend matters. Coming
to a mossy log, Cliff said we would sit down, and came to me
to get the bandage tightened on his hand, and when that was
done he sat by me; and when we went forward again, he
slipped my arm through his, leaving Mr. Hillburn to walk with
Mary. I heard him tell her that he had fixed the day of his
departure from the neighborhood, and that that walk would
probably be the last they should ever take together. I did
not hear what Mary said, her tones were so low; and presently
we fell further apart, and soon lost sight of them altogether.
“When we gained the stone bridge again we met the schoolmaster,
returning home with a brisk step. He had taken Mary
home, and was thus soon returning, so it cannot be he loves
her. The moon was coming up when we reached the house,
and so bright and beautiful it looked, that we sat on the porch
a little while to watch it; but Aunt Margaret came to the
door pretty soon, and told me it was ten o'clock, and she feared
I would not be up in time for the churning in the morning.
“I was not sleepy, nevertheless I went to bed, though for
hours I lay wide awake, thinking of a great many things that
would not interest you, if I should write them. The clock
struck twelve, and I was listening to hear it strike one, the last
I remember.
“It was not quite light when I awoke. I heard Maria singing
her. The cream was in the churn, and with right good will I
set to work; and when Aunt Margaret came, I had taken up
six pounds of hard yellow butter. After breakfast, which
Maria had ready in a twinkling, Aunt Margaret asked me if I
could ride on horseback, and said inasmuch as Cliff could not
work that day, she had fixed in her mind a little visit for us to
her brother's house, six miles away. I was pleased with the
thought of riding, and Cliff said he knew I could manage a
horse without trouble; so it was soon arranged that we should
go. Aunt Margaret's side-saddle was brought from the garret,
looking as bright and nice as new; and a beautiful little black
mare, that uncle said was gentle as a lamb, was bridled and
saddled; and a dark grey, with fine limbs and little sharp ears,
was placed beside her for Cliff.
“`Oh, what shall I wear?' I said, when I thought of it, for I
had no riding-dress nor hat. But Aunt Margaret, who has always
some provision, found for me an old black skirt of hers,
and Uncle Wentworth said I might have his hat, if I wanted
it. I said I would take Cliff's cap—at which they all laughed
very much; but when I had tied my green veil on it, they
agreed that it became me charmingly; and having taken
charge of many messages, we mounted and rode away. I felt
strange, a little afraid at first, but we went slow till I got
more courage. I managed my mare admirably, Cliff said, and
he ought to be a judge, having been used to horses all his
life.
“We soon left the turnpike-road, and turned aside into a road
much less travelled, narrow and crooked, and running for the
most part through the woods. The day was hot, not a leaf
and the parched and dusty grass made us look for them often.
We rode slowly, partly for the sake of talking, and partly because
I was not used to riding; so it was not far from noon
when we turned the heads of our horses into a lane almost
overgrown with grass, and having thistles and briers along the
fences. It seemed a lonesome place, and I should have felt
homesick but for Cliff, who had never been more merry. I
asked whether the aunt we were going to visit was like his
mother; and then it was that I first learned, the aunt, whose
house we were going to, had been dead many years, and that
his uncle was a man over fifty years old, with whom two
grandchildren lived, and that the woman who kept house for
him was a widow, named Mickmick; `and I think,' said Cliff,
`she would not be averse to becoming my aunt.' As we talked,
we came to the barn, which stood on the side of the lane opposite
the house, and a hundred yards from it perhaps. The
doors were open wide, and looking in, we saw two young girls
there spinning wool—they stopped their wheels when they saw
us, and stood still bashfully, for it is not often, I suspect, they
see visitors. We dismounted by a great block near the gate,
and took our way down a narrow path towards the house.
Stepping-stones were laid along, but the path was not regularly
paved. The dwelling stood on a little eminence slopoing
either way, and on one side was the garden where we saw
bean-vines in abundance, with hollyhocks and sunflowers growing
among them. Quite a hedge of herbs grew along the paling
fence, and underneath them a great many hens and chickens
were wallowing in the dust. I think they knew we were
strangers, for they cackled and ran fluttering away like wildfire.
logs, and is quite overgrown with moss and creepers.
“In the hollow opposite the garden, and beyond the house,
stands an old mill, moss-grown too, and the day of our visit
it was making a lively click. We rapped again and again, but
our summons was not answered: so we went in; the door
stood open, and Cliff said I might sit down, and he would see
if he could not find Uncle John—that he was somewhere about,
he knew, inasmuch as the mill was going. Mrs. Mickmick was
seated on the porch next the mill, and hearing our voices, came
in with no very amiable manner. Thieves might break in and
steal the silver spoons, she said, for anything she knew—not a
man about the house to tend to things—she didn't know as she
need to care if everything was burnt up; and yet she was
such a fool, she could not help but care. She told Cliff he
could put his horses in the stable, if he had not got too big to
wait on himself in consequence of keeping tip-top company,
and she glanced at me as though she could not determine what
I was. Finally, she said she would ask me to take off my bonnet,
if I had one on; but as I had not, I might do as I pleased.
“Having inquired of Cliff if his mother was well, she said
she should think she had enough to do without waiting on
townfolks; and on being told that I was come to learn to
work, she replied that the room of some folks was as good as
their company. I did not like Mrs. Mickmick; she is tall and
dark, and I should think had not smiled for many years. Her
frock and cap were in the fashion of half a century ago, and
she seemed vexed that I was not so too. She wore no stockings,
her shoes were very coarse, and her bony hands were the
color of Maria's, from having been dyeing wool.
“`Where is Uncle John?' asked Cliff. `How should I
know?' she replied; `but if he is not deaf and dumb, I'll
make him hear;' and taking down a tin horn that hung beside
the door, she puffed her withered cheeks quite round in
blowing on it. `There!' she said, after tooting for five
minutes; `if John Gilbraeth don't hear that, it's because of
the gabble of old widow Wakely.'
“Uncle John did hear it, however, and stepping out to the
door of the mill; asked what was wanting; but Mrs. Mickmick
told him sourly to come and see; upon which he came slowly
forward, looking both ashamed and afraid, I thought, and more
like a boy about to be whipped, than a man in the midst of his
own possessions. `There's your nephew in the house,' she
said, when he came near, `and a girl from town—it's them
that want to see you, and not me, I'm sure—little do I care
how long you stay in the mill talking to old widow Wakely.'
Uncle John shied as though fearful she would scratch his eyes
out, and coming in, shook hands with us very cordially, and
sitting down, asked Mrs. Mickmick why she had not called the
girls. `Because,' she said, `the girls had no time to entertain
visitors—if we had come to see the girls we could go
where the girls were—as long as she had any authority about
that house she was not going to have the spinning stop for every
town flirt that didn't know how to wash her own hands.'
“Cliff said, very provokingly, that he would go to the mill
and find Mrs. Wakely—that she was a good-natured and lovable
woman; and without more ado he left us and went to the
mill, sure enough. Uncle John and I now went to the barn
together, where the young ladies were still at their spinning.
Sweet, modest girls they are, and as pretty as I have seen in a
the day as they chose, and with radiant faces they hastened
to obey, and having reeled up their yarn, we all went to the
house together. The grand-daughters were soon clad in holiday
dresses, and with slippers which they had probably not
worn till then, except to church. Mrs. Mickmick lifted up her
hands in horror, and ordered the girls to go straight to the
chamber and strip off their Sunday frocks, and go back to
their spinning again. At this instant Mrs. Wakely, a tidy,
nice-looking little woman, who it seemed had ridden to the mill
to buy a sack of flour that morning, appeared at the door,
having come as she said to see me; and Mrs. Mickmick, thinking
it a good time, doubtless, to show her authority, repeated
her order, and said, `if John Gilbraeth didn't see fit to make
them girls mind her, he might find another housekeeper as
soon as he chose, that was all.' The youngest grandchild,
whose name is Dolly, with the tears in her blue eyes, went
close to Mrs. Wakely, and putting one arm around her neck,
said, `Won't you come and be housekeeper?'
“`Well,' said Mrs. Wakely, looking at Uncle John, `that
depends on what your grandfather says.'
“`Well, then,' says he, shying away from Mrs. Mickmick,
`I say, Come.'
“Cliff threw up his hands and shouted. I felt delighted;
the girls laughed and cried together; and Mrs. Mickmick,
slinging a sun-bonnet on her head, flew across the fields like a
mad woman, to tell the scandal to the nearest gossip she
could find.
“Just then Squire Wedmam rode past the house towards the
mill; Cliff called him in, and by virtue of his authority, Uncle
I rejoiced that so speedy a termination was made, for I knew
if Mrs. Mickmick once got her bony hands on Uncle John, he
would never be free again.
“A happy day we had, though the beginning was inauspicious
enough. The widow said she was not dressed just as
she would like to have been, but it did not make much difference,
and turning back her sleeves, she fell to work as readily
as though it had always been her own house. We—girls and
Cliff—went to the woods, and brought home green boughs and
flowering twigs, with which we filled the fireplace and ornamented
the wall; and when the table was spread with the extra
china and plate, the girls said they had never seen the
house half so cheerful and pretty in their lives. Mrs. Wakely
seems a famous cook, and as fond of her children, as she calls
them, as if they were her own. She cut the pattern of my
sleeve, and says she will go to town and buy them dresses like
mine with her own money, and that they shall not be tied to
the spinning-wheel in the barn all the time—it must not be all
work nor all play, she said, but a wholesome mixture of the
two.
“The ride home seemed very short, so engaged were we in
talking of the new turn affairs had taken. The widow Mickmick,
Cliff told me, had been his Uncle John's housekeeper for
seven years, and that she had appeared to him to be mad all
the time because his uncle did not marry her—`and I believe in
my heart,' he said, `uncle would have done so some time or
other, but for the accidental combination of circumstances to-day.'
Uncle John had seemed to me to grow taller and larger,
and more of a man, the moment Mrs. Mickmick was out of the
girls, that I loved her from the first: it is a happy change for
them, I am sure; two or three visits were planned, and one day
was set apart to go to town, before we came away; so they will
not be left to spin barefoot in the barn, all the time, I am sure.
They walked to the end of the lane with us to drive the cows
home from the meadow; as we rode away, and after we were
out of sight of them, we could hear them laughing. They are
to visit us in a week or two, and their new grandma with
them.
“It was after sunset, but not yet dark, when we got home
Aunt Margaret sat on the porch looking for us, and beside her
a grave, handsome young man, whom she introduced as her son
Joshua. He has the manner and look of a city-bred man, is
taller than Cliff—whom he does not much resemble in any way
I suppose most folks would think him finer-looking, but I don't.
Cliff seemed to lose all his merriment when he saw his handsome
and finely-dressed brother, and said to me, aside, that if Joshua
had anything to do in town, he might as well stay there and
do it.
“Aunt Margaret told us that we were all invited to drink tea
at Mrs. Bell's the next afternoon.
“While we were talking, Cliff complained of his hand, which
he said had not been so painful all the day past, and asked if
he dare trouble me to make another application of the balsam
with which it had been dressed.
“I told him it was not any trouble, and I am sure it was not.
I would be very hard-hearted if I could refuse to do so small a
favor as that. I found it so neatly bandaged that I thought it
were best not disturbed till morning; but when I said so Cliff
longer keep me away from the very profitable conversation of
the great Joshua. I can't think what makes him so pouty. I
never saw him so before.
“I was tired and went early to my room, with the intention
of writing on my journal, but I kept thinking of Cliff, and of
what he said to me, and could not write at all.
“This morning I was up and milked a cow before breakfast;
to be sure Maria milked three while I was milking one, but I shall
keep trying till I learn to work as well as she. Cliff says the
most useful and active life is the happiest, and I think so too.
Good words, he says, are good as far as they go, but they are
less than good works. He could not go to the field to work,
and so he and I weeded the garden beds. Joshua came into
the garden, and picked and ate some currants, but he did not offer
to help us work. Cliff told him the sun was burning his face as
red as fire, which seemed to alarm him, for he presently
returned to the shade of the porch, at which Cliff made himself
merry. Aunt Margaret called me directly, upon which Cliff
said he expected she wanted me to listen to the edifying conversation
of his wonderful brother, and that he could not pretend
to outweigh such an attraction; but when I told him I would
rather weed the garden all day with him to help me, than do
nothing with Joshua to help me, he gathered and gave me a
cluster of ripe red currants, and said he was not worth my
thinking of, and that his brother Joshua was a great deal wiser
and better than he was. Poor dear Cliff! I don't believe anybody
is better than he is. Aunt Margaret wanted me to find
her some fresh eggs, so I must needs ask Cliff to show me the
nests; it seems to happen so that we are together a great deal.
from a pile of fresh straw, cackling so loud that she got one or
two roosters to cackling with her, and peeping into the straw-heap,
there was a nest full of white, warm eggs; we took out
nine, leaving one, which Cliff called the nest egg, and returned,
to the surprise of Aunt Margaret, who had not expected us so
soon. She gave me a bowl and told me to break six of the
eggs and beat them well; and when I seated myself on the
porch with the bowl in my lap, Joshua brought his chair near
me and began to talk; and seeing him, Cliff said, a little spitefully,
I thought, that he would go to the field, and rake hay—
he guessed he could do a little good with one hand.
“I had the eggs soon ready, and Aunt Margaret, measuring
some sugar and flour, baked the nicest pound-cake you ever
saw—it was not like those we buy at home at all. We had
spring chickens and an apple-pudding for dinner, the latter
caten with a sauce of cream. I wish you were both here for a
week—I think you would feel like new-made butterflies—I do;
I have thrown away my corsets, and for two days have not
tried to make my hair curl. Uncle Wentworth says, if it is not
the nature of it, it will only make it dry and harsh to twist it
into curl. At three o'clock Aunt Margaret and I were ready
—that is the fashionable hour of visiting in the country—and
Aunt Margaret wrapped the cake in a napkin and carried it
with her: not but that Mrs. Bell would have enough and to spare,
she said; but that her pound-cakes were a little better than
most folks made, if she did say it herself. I forgot to tell you in
its proper place, that I carried home from Uncle John's a half
peck of apples, tied in a handkerchief, and hung on the horn
of my saddle, and that Cliff carried as many potatoes—enough
cap and a nicely washed and ironed dress of small brown and
white checks, a white silk shawl on her neck, and a close fitting
grey bonnet. I wore the pink gingham with the plain skirt;
I did not like to wear ruffles, because I knew Mary Bell would
not have them. I was careful to be tidy; but with a rose in
my plain hair I looked quite stylish enough, Aunt Margaret
said.
“We went through the gate by the stone bridge, and along
the path by the run, round the base of the hill, and were there.
Mrs. Bell and Mary were at the door looking for us. The house
where they live is very small, having only two rooms, made of
logs—but whitewashed within and without, and looking very
comfortable. Green boughs ornamented the wall and filled the
fire-place; some pots of pretty flowers were in the windows, and
on the bed was a red and white patch-work quilt. Over the
door was a porch roofed with green boughs, and a dozen yards
or more from the house was a baking oven, over which a shed
was built, and against which a fire was burning—for it is here
that Mrs. Bell does her cooking in the summer.
“We took sewing-work with us, and all sat on the shady
porch together, and worked till sunset, when our hostess set
about preparing the tea-table. Mary was joyous and full of life
during the afternoon, but her spirits flagged when it was time
for the schoolmaster, who did not come. I too was disappointed,
seeing that Joshua came alone.
“The table was kept waiting till nearly dark, and Mary and I
walked out to the bridge, and looked down the lane—in vain—
we saw no Mr. Hillburn. We saw Cliff bringing the cattle to
the spring; he waved his straw hat to us, but shook his head
back. I had little appetite for all the excellences spread before
us; and Mary could not eat at all, even of Aunt Margaret's
cake. Joshua tried to entertain us, but we could not make
right answers to what he said.
“Mary walked with us to the gate on our return home; and
when she turned back alone, I could not keep the tears from
my eyes. She is melancholy, and most of the time muses
silently, and I think it is the master she is thinking about.
Everywhere the talk is that he is to go away shortly, and
whenever Mary hears it I can see that it gives her pain. The
grass is withered and the cornblades have lost much of the
brightness which they had a few days ago; the blue bells of
the morning glories scarcely come out at all; everything is suffering
for the want of rain. It is so close in my room I can
scarcely breathe. The dust is settled all over the rose-bushes,
and uncle is afraid his good spring will dry pretty soon. I did
not see Cliff when we came home. I can't think where he is.
It grows late, and I will stop writing for this time. The lightning
runs along the sky all the time, yet there are no clouds.
“SEVENTH EVENING.
“When I laid down my pen the fifth evening, I expected to
resume it on the sixth; but how short-sighted we are at the
best. The day following our visit to Mrs. Bell's was still and
sultry; one black cloud lay low in the west, and that was all
—we sat on the porch with fans nearly all the day, wishing
and wishing for rain. I have no recollection of the day except
a sense of suffering and a looking for clouds. We could see
sky, and great clouds of dust going after the teams, as one
after another went along. About four o'clock a sudden breeze
sprung up, turning the leaves of all the trees wrongside up,
and filling all the air with dust; then came a distant growl of
thunder, then another louder and rattling up the sky, with
clouds, black as midnight, behind it. The shutters blew round,
striking violently together, troops of swallows came hurrying
home to the barn, and shortly after, the cattle, running one
after another, some of them bellowing, others pawing the dust,
or turning their foreheads up to the fast-blackening sky. I was
afraid, as the wind tore down the vines from the porch, and a
flash of lightning, that almost struck us blind, was followed by
such a clap of thunder as I never heard. The rain now came
plashing down, sending the smoking dust up at first, and in a
moment driving furiously against us, and forcing us into the
house. We heard the limbs of the trees cracking and falling,
and then the men from the field came running in. I hurried to
Cliff, and held fast his hand, and would not let him go away, I
was so much afraid he would be killed. He told me not to
fear—that the greatest danger was passed—but that he believed
the lightning had struck somewhere near by. He had
no more than said this, when Mr. Peters, the neighbor who
lives nearest to Uncle Wentworth, came to the door, the water
dripping from his hair, his clothes completely drenched, and his
lip trembling: `Mrs. Wentworth,' he said, `I want you to get
ready as quick as you can and go with me to Mrs. Bell's—poor
Mary has been killed with lightning;' and when he had said so,
he hid his face in his good honest hands for a minute before he
could say any more. Presently he told us that as he was crossing
dog, that always went with him, howl, and turning his head
saw him with his fore paws lifted on the gate, and saw at the
same time a woman lying beneath the tall walnut tree. He
hurried to her, and found it to be Mary. `I carried her in my
arms,' he said, `to her mother's house, and she lies there on
the bed—poor Mary!' And through the driving rain Aunt
Margaret and Joshua went together to the house of death.
We were stunned speechless, almost; and sat all together—
Maria and Peter and all—till late at night. Cliff held close
my trembling hand, and I am sure we felt the worthlessness of
everything in comparison with love.
“To-day was the funeral. Joshua, who had known Mary
from a baby, spoke an hour in such a sweet, comforting way,
that even Mary's mother was still to hear him. I felt, as I
heard him, that he was a good man, and that his hopes were,
indeed, anchored beyond this life. I determined then more
than I ever had to live a good life, and to grow in grace as
much as I can. Mr. Hillburn sat close by the coffin with Mrs.
Bell, and his suffering seemed greater than he could bear.
Over Mary's bosom lay beautiful flowers, and when he had
looked at her and kissed her, he took up one of them and
kissed that too; he would not have done it if she had been alive.
All the school-children walked behind their mate, holding each
other's hands tightly, and seeming to be afraid.
“When the grave-mound was heaped smooth, Mr. Hillburn,
who had all the time been with Mary's mother, walked with
her to her lonesome home. An hour ago Joshua was sent for,
and he has not yet come home. I cannot make it seem that
sweet Mary Bell is dead! Where is her home, and what are
an angel. Life is a great, a solemn thing.
“Cliff has just come to my door, and asked me to come
down stairs—he is so lonesome, he says. So for to-night,
good bye.
“EIGHTH EVENING.
“I asked Cliff what he would do when I was gone, and he
replied I must never go away—the house was big enough for
us all, and I would never find any one to love me better than
he did.
“The sun is not yet set; I came early to write you, that I
might have the twilight to walk in the yard with Cliff, who is
impatient at a minute's absence—he is the best young man in
the world.
“Aunt Margaret told me to-day that Mr. Hillburn told
Joshua last night the story of his life, and that it is indeed
true he loved Mary Bell, but that he was pre-determined to become
a missionary, and to leave behind him all he loved. It
appears, she says, he designed it as some atonement for what
he considers a sin of early life. He loved books, and was of a
serious and thoughtful turn of mind always; but his father,
contrary to his wishes, apprenticed him to a blacksmith, from
whom he ran away, and by dint of industry and perseverance,
succeeded in finally educating himself. But when he thought
to return home in triumph, he found his bright anticipations
turned into the bitterest sorrow—his parents had died in
extreme poverty, crushed to the earth by what they esteemed
the ingratitude and worthlessness of their son. Penitent, and
broken-hearted almost, he resolved to consecrate his life to
prosecute his studies for the ministry, undertook the school in
the neighborhood of Uncle Wentworth's, where the sweetness
and gentleness of Mary Bell quite won his heart; but he
guarded his foregone resolve, and never spoke that sentiment
which she, nevertheless, silently received and responded to.
Aunt Margaret thinks it likely he will remain with Mary's
mother, and continue the school for a year at least; but he
scarcely seems to have plans or purposes left. She says I am
sure he meant for the best, and how sadly has it all ended!
“When Uncle Wentworth came home from the near village
to-day, he brought me a letter from the post-office there, and
on opening it I found it was from Albert, telling me that he
had run away from home, and engaged to ride the horses of a
canal-boat. I therefore hasten to let you know, that you may
not be so much alarmed about him.
“MIDNIGHT.
“Here I am in my pretty, quiet room again. The moon is
smiling out of the sky as gently and lovingly as though she
looked not on fallen harvests and broken boughs, where the
storm went yesterday. The stars are as thick as the dew in the
grass almost, and I never saw them so bright. I have been
sitting at the open window, and as I looked out upon the beautiful
world, I felt more humbly grateful, more truly and reverently
prayerful, than I ever felt till to-night. Heaven has
been very good to me always: but especially so, I think, in
bringing me to this pleasant home, and making me loved and
useful here.
“As I promised, I joined Cliff at twilight, and we walked
off the blossoms which the storm had broken to pieces. It
was a sweet silent evening, and we were very happy, and yet
sad too, thinking and talking of Mary and Mr. Hillburn.
“We sat together on the stone door-step, and made pictures
of the happy home they might have had—a cottage in the
woods, where Mary might have milked the cow and tended the
flowers, while the schoolmaster might have continued to be a
schoolmaster year after year, teaching the children, and then
the children's children, and so going on happily and usefully to
the end.
“`But,' said Cliff, looking very close in my face, `if the
master had left teaching, which is wearisome, and had become a
farmer, having some land of his own, and fine cattle; and if
Mary had been a little more like Annie; what a heaven they
might have made?' And when I said, `Yes,' he asked me
why we could not make just so sweet a home as we had
pictured? For the life of me, I could see nothing in the way;
so do not be troubled any more about making something of me;
for before you hear from me again, I shall have made a farmer's
wife of myself.”
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