 | Pictures of country life |  |
THE APPLE CUTTING.
Surely they need our pity who are so intent on ambitious
projects—on what are falsely termed the great aims of life—
that they cannot stop to plant by the way some little flowers
of affection.
For myself, though I had power to make the wisdom of the
past and the unrevealed truths of God my own, I should feel
life to be an incompleteness, a failure, if there were no eyes to
gather new light “when I looked down upon them, and when
they looked up to me.”
Whether blind contact and the strong necessity of loving
something are usually chiefly instrumental in drawing heart to
heart, I know not, but in the little story I have to tell they
may take some credit, I think.
Years ago, no matter how many, there came to live in our
neighborhood a widow lady of the name of Goodhue. Her
husband, shortly after purchasing the farm to which she and her
daughter, Louisa, came to live, was attacked with cholera, and
died; so the two ladies, and the three servants whom they
brought with them, made up the family. I well remember the
much notice they excited at church the first Sunday their
heavy and elaborate mourning filled one of the homely slips.
our gossips (and what village has not its gossips?) directed
his consolatory remarks almost entirely towards the new
comers, only once or twice remembering the three poor orphans
who sat in the rear of the church, thinking of the lonesome
grave of their poor drunken father, whom nobody had wept
for but them. “We suppose,” said the aforesaid gossips, “he
couldn't see through the thick black veils of the great Mrs.
Goodhue and daughter, to the scantily trimmed straw hat of
Sally Armstrong.” Others there were, however, who said that
brother Long had preached a good feeling sermon for the
drunkard, and that he had told the children the sins of their
father would be visited upon them to the third and fourth generations,
and they were sure the children and everybody else
ought to be satisfied.
They looked almost like sisters, mother and daughter, people
said, and indeed it was hard to believe there were twenty
years difference in their ages, for the elder lady was the
younger in behavior, and altogether the most stylish in appearance.
Her manner was set down against her for pride;
but I suspect she had not more than most other persons, though
its manifestations were more showy.
“I wonder which one the preacher is trying to comfort,”
said the neighbors, “Louisa or her mother;” for whether or
not their veils had blinded him on the occasion of their first
appearing at church, it was certain that he availed himself of
the earliest opportunity of making their personal acquaintance,
and Aunt Caty Martin, who nursed all the sick, helped to make
all the shrouds, and cook all the wedding dinners in our neighborhood,
remarked laughingly one day, as she was visiting at
expected to need it, before long, in the preparation of the
biggest dinner she had ever cooked. It was not worth while
to call names, she said, but it was generally thought that a
certain young preacher and a certain young lady, whose name
began with L., would make a match before long.
Wiser folks than Aunt Caty have been mistaken—but let me
not anticipate.
It was March when the Goodhues came to our neighborhood,
and as rough and unpromising a March as I remember ever to
have seen. The old house to which they came looked especially
desolate, for it had been vacant for a year, and the long unpruned
cherry trees and late-budding elms creaked against
the broken windows, and dragged along the mossy roof, dismally
enough. The wind had not whistled up a violet, and no
wood-flower, between the layers of frosty leaves, had pushed
its way into the light. Mr. Goodhue had proposed to build a
fine new house directly in front of the old one. The digging
of the cellar had been accomplished, but the work was interrupted
by his death, and the great clay pit stood there, partly
filled with water, out of which the black snakes lifted their
ugly heads, and into which the frogs dashed themselves when a
step drew near.
It looked unpromising when they came, as I said, and during
the summer the appearance of things was but little bettered.
The widow and her daughter had never lived in the country,
and knew nothing, of course, about managing a farm, but like
many city bred people supposed rural life to be a holiday.
They began energetically, to be sure; in addition to the three
servants they brought, they hired workmen enough to cultivate
complete order; but there was no directing hand among them,
and the consequence was, nothing was done properly, nor in
season, and after a large expenditure, with small gain, the lady
dismissed her workmen and offered the farm for sale.
She had come to the conclusion that her good husband had
for once erred in judgment, and bought the poorest land that
could have been found in the whole county.
In the time of garden-making, a garden was made; but the
weeds grew faster than the vegetables, and the inexperienced
servants pulled them up together; so the ground was ploughed
and sowed anew, but the second gardening was worse than the
first—the dry season came on, and the work was all lost.
“Really, Louisa,” said the widow, one morning, as she held
up her mourning dress, heavy at the bottom with dew and
dust, “I wish I could get rid of the old place, on any terms.
I would willingly sacrifice two or three thousand to be rid
of it.”
“O mother, I do wish you could sell or give it away,” replied
Louisa—“it is the dreariest place I was ever in in my
life. If it wasn't for Parson Long I don't know what we
should do, for I believe he is about the only civilized man in
the neighborhood. And, by the way,” she continued, “he
has asked me to ride to the city with him to-morrow, and come
home by moonlight. Won't it be sentimental?” And the
young girl laughed heartily at the idea of a sentimental ride by
moonlight with the parson, who was really a person of fine
education and cultivated tastes. In all our neighborhood there
was no other gentleman with whom she for a moment thought
of associating on terms of equality, and as for marrying one of
scorned the suggestion.
The summer was gone at the time of this little conversation
between Louisa and her mother, and the warm September sun
pierced not between the thick boughs of the cherry trees which
still remained unpruned, for though Parson Long, in kid gloves,
had been seen cutting the dead limbs from among the roses
and lilacs, he had not ventured to touch the trees; and in
shady and damp isolation the old house stood, and there, in
discontented and thriftless seclusion, the two ladies lived.
They were in the midst of rather an uncharitable conversation
about the neighborhood, which they termed “horrid”—the
simple-hearted people were “good enough in their way,” as
they said, but persons in whom they could by no possibility
have any interest—when they were interrupted by a loud
and confident rap on the front door—an unusual thing—for
most of the country people, who ventured there at all, made
their entrance at the side door, as the family were not supposed
to be in the parlor of week days—or, at least, other families
were not.
The servant who opened the door came presently and, with
a smile of peculiar significance, announced Mr. Warren Armstrong.
“And pray, Louisa, who is he?” asked the mother, her face
reddening as she went on to say, “not the son of the Widow
Armstrong, who lives in the cabin across the field?”
“Even so, mother,” answered the proud girl, arranging her
curls and straightening her lace kerchief in mockery, and as if
she feared to enter the presence of so distinguished a personage;
“you see our kind neighbors are determined to overcome
useless trouble”—and turning to the servant she said, “Did
his honor ask for mother, or me, or you?”
“You, miss,” replied the maid, her smile this time widening
into a grin.
“Perhaps he wants me to help his sister Sally spin,” continued
Louisa, talking partly to herself and partly to her mother;
“I heard the thunder of her wheel, the other day, when Parson
Long and I were walking in the woods.”
“And what did he say of them?” inquired Mrs. Goodhue,
looking up from her embroidery.
“Oh,” he said “they were goodish people—poor, but respectable,
in short, and that, since the old man went the way of
all the living—which he did last spring, having been a drunkard
for twenty years—they seem to be increasing in worldly
goods.”
“Well, dear, don't detain the young man any longer,” said
Mrs. Goodhue.
“You are considerate, but no doubt his time is precious. I
should have remembered that—is it the time of sheep-shearing,
or potato planting, or what season is it with farmers? and she
ran laughingly towards the parlor, waiting only to say, “I
wish you could see mother Armstrong—her face is browner
than our cook's, and she dresses so queer.”
Her face, as pretty and genial a one as you would wish to
see, in its usual expression, grew severe and haughty as she
opened the door and appeared before Mr. Armstrong with her
stateliest step.
He was leaning carelessly over the rosewood table, and
looking into a volume which adorned it. One hand pushing
on the brim of his straw hat which hung over his knee, as
indolently graceful as though he had been used to fine books
and fine furniture all his life.
“Did you inquire for me, sir?” asked the lady, in a businesslike
way, but as though she could hardly think it possible that
he had inquired for her. “Pardon me,” said the young man,
as he bowed with natural gracefulness, “though we have had
no formal introduction, I could not fail of knowing Miss Goodhue.
My name is Armstrong—Warren Armstrong.”
Miss Goodhue said she was happy, and sinking to a sofa,
motioned him to be seated again. He declined, however, and
did his errand so simply and politely that she found herself saying,
“Pray, accept a seat, Mr. Armstrong,” before he had
concluded.
In a minute, and without having made any remarks about
the weather, or asked her how many cows they milked, he was
gone; and slily pulling the curtain back, Miss Louisa Goodhue
was watching him down the path.
“Well, daughter, what did the clodhopper want?” asked the
mother directly.
“It seems to me you might call him by his name.”
“Indeed!”
Louisa laughed gaily, partly to cover her confusion and partly
at the unintentional earnestness with which she had spoken;
and saying he seemed a civil young person, explained that he
had called to ask her to come to an “apple cutting,” at his
mother's house, on the evening of the day after the next.
“And are you going, my dear?” asked the mother deferentially.
“Pshaw! What do you suppose I want to mix with such
a set of people for?” And going to the window, Louisa watched
the clouds with great interest, apparently.
There was a brief silence, broken by the mother's asking
if Mr. Armstrong wore cowhide boots and homespun, or in
what sort of costume he appeared.
“Really, mother, I don't know what he wore, replied the
girl, ingenuously—I saw nothing but his smile and his eyes.”
Mrs. Goodhue laughed, and said she would buy a spinning-wheel
for her child.
“Why, mother, you grow facetious,” and tying on her sun-bonnet,
Louisa took up a volume and set off towards the woods,
either by choice or accident turning towards the one which lay
nearest Mrs. Armstrong's.
The following morning the sun came up large and red, disappearing
shortly behind a great bank of black clouds; the
leaves dropped off silently, the air was close and oppressive,
and the water dried fast in the big clay pit.
Louisa asked everybody if they thought it would rain, and
everybody said they thought it would. Still she could not see
any signs of rain herself, she said; if Parson Long called for
her, she believed she would go to town; and by way of testing
her mother's views, she added that she wanted to buy a yard
of gingham to make an apron to wear to the “apple-cutting.”
“Do, dear, go if you want to,” replied the mother; “it will
be a harmless pastime enough, and no doubt gratifying to our
simple neighbors.”
Louisa said she was only jesting about the apron but that,
in truth, Warren Armstrong had quite a little manner of his
own, and the prettiest brown curls and eyes!
In due season the clergyman called, mingling, a little more
than was his wont, a worldly interest with his soberly-gracious
manner.
His well-fed black horse pricked up his ears and stamped
impatiently, but he was not in gayer mood than Louisa. She
didn't know why, she said, but her spirits had not been so
buoyant since they came to the old farm.
The lane leading down past Mrs. Armstrong's house looked
quiet and cool between its border of oaks and elms, and she
wondered she had never gone in that direction for a walk—
she would the very first time she went out again.
This purpose she expressed to Mr. Long, by way of assuring
herself that she could walk by the house of Warren Armstrong,
or talk of it as freely as of anything else, if she chose.
“You seem intent on the landscape, Miss Goodhue,” he
remarked, in a tone of dissatisfaction, for she had kept her face
turned away longer than was flattering to his vanity.
“What did you say?” she replied, abstractedly, after a minute
or two, during which she had been interesting herself in
the five cows that stood about the spring under the oak before
Mrs. Armstrong's house—and perhaps, too, in the light cart
that, with its white linen cover and smart grey horse, was
standing by the door, and about which Sally and her mother,
and a little boy, were busy handing in pails and baskets, etc.,
etc. Warren was nowhere to be seen.
“What were you saying?” she asked, having completed her
survey.
“Nothing—at least, nothing that could interest you,” and
the clergyman suddenly discovered that the management of his
horse required both hands, though one had previously rested
leaned.
But little cared the lady whether he drove with one hand or
two, and, with the exception of one or two common-place
remarks, five or six miles were driven over in silence.
At length Mr. Long fell back upon his clerical prerogative,
and asked Louisa, in a fatherly sort of way, if she didn't think
the flowers in her bonnet unbecoming—especially with mourning
habiliments.
“No,” she replied, tossing her willful head; “I think they
are pretty.”
“Vanity and vexation of spirit,” he answered.
He next inquired if she found prayer the greatest consolation
for earthly afflictions, saying that was the true test of
a Christian spirit.
“Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't,” replied the saucy
girl, “I make no pretensions to perfection.” And abruptly
changing the subject, she said she fancied she could drive as
well as he, and playfully taking the reins from his hand, the
gay black horse passed over the remaining distance so fast as
to preclude conversation.
“Call as early as six o'clock, if possible; I am fearful of the
night air,” was the request of Louisa, as Mr. Long set her
down at the door of her friend, Mrs. Jackson.
The clergyman replied civilly, and yet in a way that indicated
he had some interests of his own which might conflict
with hers, and which he should be at no pains to set
aside.
Truth is, Louisa was in no haste to be at home, neither was
she afraid of the night air—nor had the young man interests
tyrannize in a small way.
So they parted—the one saying, “Pray don't give yourself
trouble,” and the other replying, “to serve you at any sacrifice
would be a pleasure.”
Mrs. Jackson was one of those sweet, loving women who find
sermons in stones and good in everything. Instinctively a lady
as well as by birth and education, she recognized the natural
excellence and refinement in others, nor did she ever fear of
compromising herself by associating with persons whose hands
were less white, or whose purses were less heavy than her
own.
“Let me see,” she said, pausing with puzzled expression, as
if she were settling some matter of great moment in her mind,
after asking all about the neighborhood. “My paragon, Mr.
Armstrong must live somewhere near you. Do you know a
family of that name?”
A family of that name lived very near them, Louisa said—
poor, but good people, she believed.
“You may well say good people,” replied Mrs. Jackson,
“there is no family of my acquaintance I like better. Warren
and Sally, and the old lady, and timid little Moses—I like them
all.”
Here she proceeded to relate how she had first found them
out by the excellence of the butter they brought to market;
how she had engaged a regular supply, and so had made friends
of the entire family.
“Almost every week they send me,” she said, “some fresh
eggs, or vegetables, or some other nice things they have, and I
acknowledge the favor by filling the basket with something
dinner with me, and I am going to the country to stay a week,
and eat bread and milk, and apples fresh from the trees. Oh,
they are dear, delightful people—how much you have lost in
not knowing them.”
Mrs. Jackson's great wealth and high social position emboldened
Louisa to say she had actually seen Warren Armstrong,
and spoken with him; that, in fact, he had asked her to a little
party, at his mother's house. She did not say “apple cutting,”
lest Mrs. Jackson might be shocked; but that lady knew all
about it, and, opening the cupboard, showed her a huge fresh
pound-cake which she designed sending for the occasion, by
Warren, whom she was every moment expecting to bring her
the week's butter.
“Go to-morrow night, by all means,” she continued; “they
have shown a disposition to give you pleasure, and you would
not pain them, I am sure, even though it afford you no special
gratification to go;” and putting her arms about the plump
shoulders of Louisa, she repeated, “you will go, I am sure.”
“Would you, now, really?” said the girl, looking up; “it
will be so queer, and with such a set of people.”
“Why, the Armstrongs are not queer, but here comes Warren”—and
Mrs. Jackson left her guest to meet and welcome
him. Louisa could hear their voices distinctly, and much jesting
and good-natured talk about trifles there seemed between
them, as baskets were unpacked, jars were untied, and jugs of
milk were emptied. She would gladly have joined them, but
timidity, for almost the first time in her life, kept her in her
seat; and, before she could overcome it, she heard the firm step
sound along the paved walk, as the young man went away.
When Mrs. Jackson returned, she wore a disappointed expression.
Warren Armstrong could not dine with her, he
would only call for a minute in the evening, for the cake and
the bottle of yeast which she would have ready for him.
Louisa wondered what time he would return, though she
didn't know as she cared about seeing him; but she had told
Mr. Long to call at six o'clock. Possibly she might go to the
“apple-cutting.” She didn't think she should; nevertheless,
amongst her purchases that day was a yard of black and white
gingham, suitable for an apron.
The clouds, which had been slowly sailing about all day,
intermingled at sunset, and the sky was presently a dull
leaden mass. Louisa looked out anxiously—six o'clock went
by; seven came, and with it a slow, drizzling rain, which
promised to continue through the night.
“If Mr. Long had come at six, as I requested,” she said,
“we might have been at home. He wants to take his own
time, that is all,” and she pressed her flushed face to the pane,
tapping violently with her little foot on the carpet.
Suddenly the flush deepened, as a hearty, good-humored
voice, not altogether unfamiliar, gave the salutation of the
evening.
Louisa said she was not expecting him (for it was Warren);
she was watching for Mr. Long, who had brought her to town,
and whom she had expected an hour ago.
Mr. Armstrong manifested no confusion; but, taking off his
hat, turned his face skyward, and, shaking the rain-drops from
his curls, with a pretty carelessness, said he was sorry for her
disappointment; that her friend would certainly not detain her
much longer and that his carriage was doubtless a sure protection
and with a bow which seemed to indicate a leave-taking
of her, he passed to the rear portion of the house, where Mrs.
Jackson's kindly preparations awaited him.
“I wish he had only asked me to ride home with him,”
thought Louisa. “I am under no obligations to Mr. Long,
that I should wait here all night;” and, moving restlessly to
and fro, she saw the young man passing from the kitchen to the
street, and placing in the wagon, jugs, baskets, and boxes
again, as regardless of her as of the Newfoundland that lay at
the doorway.
“I could go with him just as well as not,” she thought;
“his wagon-cover would protect me from the rain, and if it
didn't, why, a little rain wouldn't hurt me—and then I should
be revenged upon Mr. Long.”
But while she thus thought, the preparations were completed;
and, with the rain-drops standing bright in his hair, and his
ungloved hands wet and red, Mr. Armstrong was climbing into
the wagon.
“Would it inconvenience you much to take me?” called an
unsteady voice, and throwing up the sash, Louisa leaned anxiously
from the window. The youth, for he was scarcely more
—something past twenty-one, perhaps—was on the ground in a
moment. His poor accommodation was quite at her service;
he only regretted it was not better. The storm looked threatening;
had she not better consider?
“I will pay you whatever you ask,” said Louisa, coldly,
piqued at the young man's indifference, for he stood with one
hand resting on his stout grey and the other held discouraging
out into the rain.
“I think we shall be able to settle terms, Miss Goodhue,”
he said, laughingly, “if not, we will `leave it to men,' as
farmers do sometimes, when they make a trade.”
Louisa joined in the laugh, for his good humor quite disarmed
her, and, wrapped in Mrs. Jackson's great blanket
shawl, she was presently assisted into the wagon.
Before they reached the suburbs it was quite dark, and the
rain, which had been only a drizzle, fell in larger and colder
drops. The road was muddy and broken, and a slow drive
unavoidable.
But, strange to say, Miss Goodhue was not afraid of the
night, nor the rain, nor the rough roads. Was it because she
had retaliated upon Mr. Long? or because she felt a greater
assurance of safety and protection than she had ever felt
before?
I know of nothing more favorable to familiar intercourse
than a rainy night and a lonesome old house, or a lonesome
road. Almost any two young persons, who find each other
likeable, will, travelling slowly through the storm, or sitting by
the ember fire, open their hearts as they would not in the
inquisitive noonday, But whether or not this be generally
true, it was in this particular instance.
A mile was not gone over when the rain plashed through the
cover of the wagon. Mr. Armstrong feared for the lady, and
she in turn feared for him—he would really be quite drenched;
her shawl was ample enough for both. Of course, the young
man's fears were all for her, not for himself; he had been used
to hardship and exposure, and she was so delicate, so frail.
I can't tell all they said, for I don't know. I wish I did,
believing it would interest us, as it always does, to read the
both, notwithstanding the ugly night; and that Louisa declared,
when Mr. Armstrong set her down at home, that she was just
as dry as if she had been all the time by the hearthside. She
would not suffer, she knew; and Mr. Armstrong would find her
the gayest of all on the following evening.
“I hope so,” he replied; “I had feared you would not honor
our little merry-making, but our humble life and homely pleasures
might at least amuse you.”
“True honest manhood and womanhood,” replied Louisa,
with dignity, “are the best and noblest attainments; and I hope
I have at least enough of the one to recognize the other, though
it be beneath a roof a little lower than mine.”
For the first time in his life the young man had spoken
depreciatingly of his station and its pleasures; and for almost
the first time in her life Louisa had uttered a sentiment worthy
of her real nature.
The morning looked unpromising, but about noon the clouds
broke up, and at one o'clock the sun shone bright and clear.
Mrs. Goodhue made herself merry, when she saw her daughter
sewing the gingham apron; but her estimate of the Armstrongs
was modified somewhat when she learned that Mrs.
Jackson had spoken well of them; and at last she concluded
that girls would be girls, and if Louisa had a fancy for going
to the “apple cutting,” why, she would allow her to go.
Active preparations had been going forward, at Mrs. Armstrong's,
all day. Moses, who was a pale, thoughtful boy, had
been unusually lively. Sally had sung, “When I can read my
title clear,” in a key louder than common, and the mother had
seemed quite rejuvenated, as she beat eggs, and rolled sugar,
seeming scarcely soberly glad. Sally, who was not much given
to sighing, rallied him repeatedly; but though he said nothing
was the matter, and he was sure he didn't see what they found
about him to laugh at, it was evident his thoughts were not on
his work, as he brought in basket after basket of fine apples,
and arranged the boards on which they were to dry.
Shortly after sunset all was in readiness. Moses, in his new
boots, and wearing a broad linen shirt collar—the first one he
ever had—stood at the little white-curtained window, watching
down the lane for the first arrivals. Sally, wearing a pink
dress and white apron, was trying the effect of some red brier
buds in her hair; and the mother in her plain black gown, sat
in the big rocking-chair, with a fan of turkey feathers in her
lap, placidly contemplating the appearance and prospects of
things in general. As for Warren, he was yet lingering about
the fields, half wishing the “apple cutting” had never been
thought of.
“Oh, Sally! there is a lady, somebody I don't know,” called
out Moses from his station at the window.
“Well, well, child, come and sit down,” said the mother;
but Sally ran to see, and in a moment reported in a whisper
that she believed in her heart it was Miss Goodhue, for she
wore a white dress, and a black apron.
A minute more, the old gate creaked, a light step sounded on
the blue stones at the door, and Miss Goodhue was come.
She advanced at once to Mrs. Armstrong, and extending her
little white hand, said she had taken the liberty of coming
early, that she might learn to feel at home by the time the
others should arrive.
Truth is, she had come thus early in order to make excuses
and return home before dark, if on taking an observation, she
should feel so inclined.
“How kind of you, darling,” said Mrs. Armstrong, in her
sweet motherly way; and, seating her in the rocking-chair, she
untied her veil, offered her big fan, and, in various ways strove
so cordially to entertain her, that she quite forgot her intention
of making excuses and returning home. Moses brought her a
bright red apple, and Sally showed her the garden, though
there was nothing in it to see, she said—and, sure enough
there were but a few faded hollyhocks and marigolds; but the
kindly spirit was the same as if there had been ever so many
flowers; and, recognizing this, Louisa's heart softened more
and more, till before an hour had gone, she laid aside all
restraint and affectation, and even outvied Sally in merry
laughter and talk. Everything was so new and strange, and
made so welcome and so at home, she ran about the house like
a pleased child. A humble dwelling it was, consisting of but
three rooms—all perfectly neat and clean, and even displaying
some little attempts at taste and ornament. The low ceilings
and rough walls were white-washed; the window curtains were
snowy white, and a plaided home-made carpet covered the
floor of the best room; and maple boughs, now bright crimson
and yellow, filled the fire-place. But that which made the
room chiefly attractive, on the night I speak of, was the table.
How pretty the pink china (which Mrs. Armstrong had had
ever since she was married) showed in the candle-light!
There were cups of flowers, and there was Mrs. Jackson's
beautiful cake, with many excellent confections of Mrs. Armstrong's
own making. In the kitchen, the tea-kettle was
biscuit were moulded and ready to bake.
At eight o'clock, the guests were assembled—eight or ten in
all—young men and women, neighbors and friends.
With right good will they set to work, and very fast, despite
the mirth and jesting, the streaked, and red, and golden apples,
were peeled and sliced ready for the drying.
It happened to Louisa and Warren to sit together, and it
also happened the rest of the company were not much edified
by what they said.
At half-past nine, came Parson Long. The work was so
nearly done, it was not thought worth while for him to join in
it; and so, seated in the best chair, and slowly waving a turkey-feather
fan before his face, he looked graciously on the
volatile people before him. At supper, it chanced that he and
Sally were seated together, and whether it was the red buds in
her hair, and the pink dress, or whether it was that he learned
the cream biscuit, and the crisp pickles, and the plum preserves,
were all of her making, I know not, but certainly he
manifested a new and surprising interest in her; and Louisa,
so far from feeling any pique, appeared delighted with his preference—that
is, whenever she sufficiently disengaged her attention
from Warren Armstrong to notice him at all.
But I cannot linger over that supper, which Louisa said was
the best ever prepared; nor over the merry-making afterward,
which lasted till twelve o'clock; nor can I describe the pleasant
walks homeward, which, in separate pairs, the young people
enjoyed—Warren and Louisa most of all.
In a day or two, that young lady tied on her black apron
again, and went over to Mrs. Armstrong's to learn how to make
down the lane to her own home—and that was the beginning
of many such visits and walks.
Before the apples were half dry, Parson Long paid a pastorly
visit to Mrs. Armstrong's. He had been intending to do
so for a long time, he said, but there were always many things
to come between him and his wishes; and shortly after this,
Sally stopped at Mrs. Goodhue's gate, one Sunday morning, to
speak to Louisa. She was going to teach in the Sunday school,
she thought she ought to do some good as she went along.
But Miss Goodhue did not join her; she went to church in the
morning, and in the afternoon she liked to walk in the fields
and woods, and worship through nature. Need I say Mr. Armstrong
accompanied her in these walks?
I do believe the course of true love sometimes does run
smooth, the poet's declaration to the contrary, notwithstanding.
I do believe there are kindred spirits, and happy homes, few
and far between though they be.
Stop, O wayfarer, when you see eyes smiling back to eyes
that smile, for you are very near to heaven.
Months the apples had been dried and hung in a bag, in the
cabin kitchen; the lane leading from Mrs. Armstrong's to the
main road was white with the level snow; the wind whistled up
and down the hills, and night hung dreary over the world.
But within doors, it was cheerful and warm. True, the genial
face of Warren was wanting—but then, there was an honored
guest seated by the hickory fire talking mostly to Sally (who
wore a lace collar which Mrs. Goodhue gave her) but sometimes
to quiet Moses, and sometimes to Mrs. Armstrong, whom he
calls mother. Is it Mr. Long?
Across the fields, and almost-meeting their own, fall the window
lights of Mrs. Goodhue, who has become reconciled to the
country, and thinks it less dreary in the winter than it was in
the summer. The fire is no less bright than Mrs. Armstrong's,
and beside it sit Warren and Louisa—lovers, now.
“By the way,” said the young man, with an arch expression,
and passing his arm around the waist of the girl, “there is one
little matter which has not been adjusted—you have never paid
me, as you proposed, for that first bringing you from the city.
You know, at the time, I suggested leaving the settlement to a
third party; I have selected Parson Long, and if you don't
object to him, pray fix the time as early as possible.” The
reply she made was smothered by the sweetest of all impediments;
but it is certain she did not object to the parson, as
arbiter, and that the time was fixed, for she has been, for many
a day, one of the most painstaking and exemplary wives in all
our neighborhood—scarcely rivalled, indeed, by Mrs. Sally Long.
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