 | Pictures of country life |  |
LEM LYON.
The rain had fallen slowly and continuously since midnight
—and it was now about noon, though a long controversy
among the hands had decided the time, finally to be three
o'clock; no one among the dozen of them had a watch, except
Lem Lyon, the most ill-natured, the least accommodating of
all the work-hands on the farm, and no man ventured to inquire
of him, for he was more than ordinarily unamiable to-day, and
lay on the barn-floor apart from his work-mates, with a bundle
of oat-straw for his pillow, and his hat pulled over his eyes,
taking no part in the discussion about the time, and affecting
to hear nothing of it.
One after another stepped forth, and essayed to see his
shadow, but in vain—one after another looked up at the sky,
and guessed at the whereabouts of the sun, but it was only
guessing, for many a day has looked brighter after sunset than
did that one at high moon.
There was a half-holiday among the men, and as it had
happened to fall the day after Sunday, it was less welcome
than as if it had brought a log-rolling, brush-burning, or stone
quarrying with it, for people little used to leisure are apt to
find it lying heavily on their hands.
There had been some coarse jesting in the morning, which
silence, broken only by yawns and wonders about the time of
day. The cattle turning their faces from the rain and cowering
beneath the sheds, had been, in imagination, severally slaughtered,
and divided into hide, hoof and horns—the amount of
money each one might be turned into reckoned up, and there
was nothing more interesting to be said about them. Corncobs
had been thrown successively at the daring roosters that
ventured out from beneath the barn-sill, and they were done
with, having been fain, after a little scanty picking, to settle
back in their dusty hollows, and wait with shut eyes for their
dripping plumage to recover its wonted brilliancy.
“By thunder!” exclaimed Bill Franklin, dashing a pitchfork
at a colt that had ventured to put his fore feet on to the barn-floor,
partly to shelter himself from the storm, and partly to
steal from the mow a mouthful of hay—“I, for my part bleve
I'll roll up my sleeves and go to grubbing stumps, it's a
darnation sight easier than this ere kind of a way of worryin'
out the time—what d'you say, boys?”
“I'm with you,” said Jake Wilkinson, “guess we can
stand it long as the rain can, can't we, Bill?” And having
shouldered crowbars and grubbing hoes, amid a good deal of
laughter, the two men took their way resolutely to the clearing.
Joseph Barnet presently climbed to the hay-mow to read
over his first love-letter for the twentieth time—muse on it in
secret, and endeavor to compose an answer, which he did after
his own crude fashion. But what matters the fashion of the
speech, the sweet meaning is all the same whether the words
be, “I dreamed of you last night,” or “I will buy you a calico
frock to-morrow.”
Others followed the two energetic leaders before long, and at
length only four of the hands were left in the barn. Joseph
Barnet, cutting the initial letters of his sweetheart's name on the
weather-boards, with many flourishes; Lem Lyon, with hat
over his face, and wrapped in less pleasant contemplations;
and Peter and Dan Wright, brothers, and the oldest hands on
the farm. They had been farm-hands all their lives, and
neither had ever owned or expected ever to own a foot of land
—they were contented with hard work, did not know there
was anything better, and I am not sure that there is. Peter
was shelling corn very quietly in the trough of the weaned
calf, that was tied in the stable adjoining the open barn-floor,
and Dan had taken off his shoes and sat on the door-sill—the
slowly dripping rain falling upon his naked feet, when a-sound
like a stifled sob caused them both to look round—there lay
Lem with his hat over his eyes, and nothing else was to be seen.
“What was that noise?” asked Peter, putting his arm
about the calf's neck.
“I don't know,” answered Dan, as he drew one foot up
beneath him, “I thought I heard a kind of crying, but I reckon
it was an optical imagination—do you bleve in such things?”
Lem Lyon began to snore very loud, and the two brothers
innocently concluded that their previous impression was wrong,
for both had at first supposed the noise proceeded from him—
a more suspicious nature might have thought the sleep an
affectation.
“Well,” said Peter, leaving the calf munching at his corn,
and seating himself beside his younger brother on the sill of
the barn, “I thought t'other night, the time we had the husking
bee, that I see one of them ere ghostly critters you talk about.”
“You don't say!” inquired Dan, “where mought she a-been?
and did you feel skeery?”
“Well, as to being skeered, I ginerally wait till I'm hurt,
'cause you know there's no use wasting material of no kind—
but to own the truth; I did sort a hisitate.”
“You don't say?” ejaculated Dan, again.
“It was getting well on toward midnight, I reckon, a
moughty moonshiny night, if you mind; I had taken the cider
jug to go to the house and tip a leetle might of whisky into it
—the dry cornblades was rustling on both sides of the lane, and
the owls in old Dick Wolverton's woods were howling kind of
lonesome like, but I was more listening to Lem than to the
owls—for he was husking up on the highest scaffold, you mind,
and singing a melancholy ditty to himself like—it was as good
to hear as a novel, coming over the noises of the winds—so I
walked slow along, thinking of the times when my hair was
black as yourn, Dan, and I could leap a six-barred gate with
the best of them, for there was something in Lem's song that
carried me away back and back, I didn't hardly know where—
walking slow along, I was, and just as I got so near to the
bars that I monght have touched them a'most with my hand,
what do you 'spose I saw?”
“One of the critters, I reckon, for a lively imagination like
yourn, Pete, is dreadful oncertain to be depended on, especially
after drinking cider.”
“No! it wasn't a critter—that is, it was no animal critter,
so to speak. It wasn't white, and it wasn't black; it was kind
of grey like, so to speak; but the first I see, and the most I see
was two bright shining eyes, and then gradually the operition
took shape like, and I see it was a human critter.”
“You don't say! Who mought she a been?”
“That ere now is just what I want you for to find out. She
don't belong no whar in this section—'cause I never see her till
that ere time I tell you of. She was apparently carried away
by Lem's singing, and forgotful, so to speak, of things in
gineral, and when I come of a suddent, her face turned as red
as a rosy—and she said something in moughty purty words, I
can't string 'em up as she did, but it was, so to speak, like as if
she had said she hoped she was not doing any harm. I told her
`no, mem,' as soon as I see that she wasn't a ghost; but says I
to her, at first, says I, `I thought, mem, you was a ghost,' and
then it was after that that I says to her, says I, `no, mem,
your doing no harm, fur as I see.' And then says she to me,
says she, `you see all the harm I'm doing, just listening here
to that man sing,' and then she says, says she, `it kind of
sounds like a voice I used to hear,' and then she hesitated like,
and then she hugged her baby up moughty close, and turned
and went away kind of moaning to it like.”
“Why didn't you follor her, and see whar she mought a
gone to?” asked Dan, eagerly.
Lem was now wide awake, and with his head propped on his
hand, listening attentively.
“I did foller her, 'cause thinks says I to myself, nobody
knows what nobody else is till they have found 'em out by close
watching—so I follered along kind a sly like, she never moustrusting
that I was anywhar a-near, and when she got along
just in the ege of old Wolverton's big woods, she sot right
down on the ground, and I reckon you mought a-heard her a
crying clear hur!”
“What business had you to pursue a woman as if she was
“I hate such idle curiosity—but what became of her at
last?”
The brothers did not remark that his last question contradicted
his assertion, and Pete, who was used to subserviency
to Lemuel, proceeded good naturedly to tell all he knew about
the woman, which, in truth, was little more. It contained one
or two hints, however, upon which Lemuel seized with avidity.
It appeared like she never would have done crying, Peter
said, but at last her baby, it sot up, and then she apparently
forgot whatever it mought have been that was troubling herself,
and hugging it with such noises as birds make to their
little ones, she took off right through the woods toward old
Dick Wolverton's house, where, to the best of Peter's belief,
she had been spinning part of the past summer. He remembered
to have seen a baby tied in a high chair, paddling against
one of the garret windows of old Dick's house, and of hearing
a wheel at the same time, and he knew Mrs. Wolverton's
youngest son was big enough to go sparking. Old Wolverton's,
he said, was a moughty hard place for the gal, whatever
kind of a lark she mought be.
“What need you care who or what the woman is?” said
Lemuel; “I don't see as she is anything to you.”
“You speak like as if she mought be to you, peers to me,”
remarked Peter, quietly.
“I do?” And Lem went on to say he did not see how that
could have been, for that as all knew, he hated women even
more than men, if that were possible; and he carelessly added
that she probably was a relative of the Wolvertons.
“No, she arn't that,” said Peter, “she arn't of their turn,
you mind, the Wolvertons are red-haired, the whole tribe
of them, and her hair was as black as a raven.”
Lem moved uneasily, and Peter went on to say that he
should not be surprised if he yet found out something about
the stray lark, for that he had picked up a handkerchief where
she sot so long on the ground, “and I see by the moonshine,”
he concluded, “that it was marked with sampler letters in one
corner.”
Lem listened with painful interest now, and Dan inquired
with a more stupid curiosity, “What mought the sampler letters
a been, Pete, do you mind?”
Peter could not make out the letters by the moonlight, he
said, but he had put the handkerchief in his Sunday hat, and
if he did not disremember, he would look at it before he went
to bed.
Lem drew his hat suddenly over his face, and muttering a
curse upon the weather, concluded, as he glanced towards the
house, with the wish that women and children had a world
made especially for themselves.
In vain the two brothers defended the gentler sex with eloquent
eulogies. Lem was unmoved—grew in fact more denunciatory,
and ended by heaping profanity on denunciation.
“Well,” said Dan, “I've got no woman, and I never calculate
I shall have, but the good it does me to go whar women
folks are is immense. To see them in meeting, bright as a row
of pinks a sitting on the benches, does me more good than the
preaching.”
“Their smiling,” said Pete, “iles up a man's heart, like, so
to speak,” and having laid this cap-sheaf upon the stack of
Lemuel's dark ones almost compassionately.
“Well, God bless the whole race of women, and all the
babies to boot,” cried Lem, in a tone which indicated anything
but a blessing mood, and buttoning his coat hastily, he went
down the lane with such stides as would soon have taken him
across the continent.
“That is a curious chap,” said Dan, when Lem was out of
hearing. “I'll be blamed if I don't bleve that some gal has
some time give him the mitten, and that's why he hates 'em
so.”
“If I mought be allowed to say just what I think,” mused
Peter, smoothing his grey hair, “I should say that that ere same
Lemuel Lyon had not allers done what was right by women.
Didn't you mind how he chewed his beard and frowned when
he said God bless 'em; mind, I tell you, he is a man, proud
and handsome as he is, that is onsatisfied with himself.”
“Shaw! Pete, you're getting childish,” replied Dan, who
was younger than his brother by seven years, and running up
the ladder, he joined Joseph Barnet on the hay-mow, where he
was still musing on his love-letter, and composing an answer
which did but imperfect justice to his feelings. He had told
his beloved that her letter was received, and that he had taken
his pen in hand to reply—that he was well at present—that
all the hands were well at present, and that he had no news
that could interest her at present, when Peter joined him, and
inquiring whether there were any hens' nests on the mow,
dragged him down to the dead level of ordinary life. Ah,
Joseph, it is only for stolen moments that we are permitted to
flourish the initials of our sweethearts upon the weather-boards
and be tired and heart-sick.
Toward night the clouds lifted in the west, and left a breadth
of blue sky above the wet tree tops; and the winds made
noises in the woods, especially in Dick Wolverton's woods, that
were indicative of coming winter. The hands were chilled
through and through, and impatient of supper time, hurried
toward the bran when first the sunset held up its red signal
They had not reached it, however, when the tin horn sounded
its welcome summons. There was a good deal of pretended
detention, and when the chores were done, a good deal more
idle lingering about the barn doors; so that the chickens were
crowding the roosts, and the windows of the farmhouse all
a-blaze (they had been close shut the preceding night, and
darkened all the day past), when Peter, a wise smile playing
among the wrinkles of his cheeks, led thither the rough troop,
shy and bashful as so many girls—Joseph in the rear, most
shy and bashful of all. The supper was laid in holiday style,
and the walls decorated with red and yellow maple boughs, in
honor of the little immortal that had that day taken up her
inheritance of mortality.
There was whisky as well as tea—plumcake as well as
bread, and the good Mr. Mayfield, master of the house and
hands, broke through social distinctions, and spiced the entertainment
with many a pleasant story. Peter proposed the
health of the new-comer, and on glancing down the table to
see whether he had unanimous sympathy, discovered that Lem
was absent. There was a general expression of wonder, and
of uneasiness on the part of Mr. Mayfield, for he was used to
consider Lemuel his best hand, notwithstanding his surly moods.
echoes, but no echo did Lemuel return—he had not partaken
of food since breakfast, and no one could imagine what could
detain him, unless he had been overtaken by a fit, or some
other terrible accident. The table broke up in confusion, and
the hands dispersed in different directions about the farm in
search of the missing man.
Peter instinctively took the path which led to the Wolverton
woods, and he it was who found the lost man. Nothing had
happened—he had heard the horn, he said, and should have
gone to the house if he had required anything to eat—he was
sorry the hands were such a set of fools as to waste their
strength in looking after him—for his part he did not care a
darn where any of them went, and did not wish them to care
for him any more—he hoped he could take care of himself.
“I wish that ere young man was not so kind of onsartin
like,” said Peter, when he found himself among the hands again.
“Sometimes I think his heart is froze, so to speak, and if something
could only thaw it out, it would be as good as any of our
hearts.”
“Whar mought he a been?—why, it's as cold as thunder!”
said Dan, shivering and buttoning his coat.
Then Peter told how he was found sitting like as if he was
moonstruck, so to speak, on a pile of dry stones that had once
been a lime-kiln—his hat on the ground beside him, and no sign
of a coat on. “Whatever mought have made him so,” concluded
Peter, “I don't know, but he was right onsociable
with me, so to speak—never see him more onclined to be to
himself.”
The spirit of hilarity which had been subdued by the fear that
and there was wrestling and racing, swapping of knives and trading
of hats—rude jesting, some of it upon women, I am sorry
to say, profanity, rising more from recklessness than wickedness
I am glad to say; and when at a late hour the hands went to
bed, each one felt himself considerably richer than when he got
up in the morning.
“I say, Pete,” whispered Dan, as the brothers were about
retiring, “whars that handkerchief you was talking about to
day?”
Peter took down the Sunday hat from its peg in the wall,
looked inside of it—uttered an exclamation of surprise—turned
it round and over, thumping it on the sides and top, but nothing
except a Bible, hymn-book, pocket-book, red silk handkerchief,
and two or three cigars fell out of it.
“I'm sartin,” he said, at last, slowly and soberly, moving his
eyes searchingly about the room, and holding up the empty hat,
“that I put that ere little squar of linen in thar, and no whar
else!”
Notwithstanding this conviction, he prolonged the search
for half an hour, but without success—at the end of that
time he hung up the Sunday hat in its proper place, and with a
soliloquy on the onsartainty of human evidence, went to bed—
no suspicion linked with Lem's curiosity finding any room to
harbor in his innocent/soul.
For some days after the events recorded, Lem was unusually
silent and moody. If he spoke at all it was sourly and sarcastically—he
selected the work that was hardest, and in fact
seemed to take pleasure in imposing tasks upon himself that
nobody else could or would perform. Often in the chill rainy
instead of joining the circle about the kitchen fire, he would stray
away by himself, and it was noticed that he generally took the
path toward the Wolverton woods. Peter said he must be fond
of coon hunting—what else could take him thar of nights that
were cold enough to freeze a bar, so to speak. And Peter,
chiefly owing to his wrinkles and grey hair, was conceded to be
the wisest of all the hands, so it was settled that Lem was fond
of coon hunting, and there was no more speculation or wonderment
about it.
It was the pleasant custom of Mr. Mayfield to give a frolic
to his hands two or three times in the year, and the season was
now come, the corn being gathered, for one of these happy
occasions. There was to be a fine supper, and dancing—all the
young women for seven miles round were invited, and Bill Franklin,
Jake Wilkinson and Jo Barnet had “been at charges”
for new white cotton shirts, and “fine dancing pumps,” and
some of the other hands had provided themselves with new
boots, and other articles, specially designed for the occasion;
but Lem made never a call upon shoemaker or tailor—frolics
might do well enough for women and children, but for his part
he hated them.
Since the conversation which took place on the barn-sill, he
had manifested a consideration for Peter, relieving him of
hard chores sometimes, and had indicated a disposition to cultivate
his acquaintance never shown before. He had inquired of
Peter, on one occasion, if he knew where he would be likely to
get some flax-thread, he wanted some to mend his saddle-girth,
and he could not find any strong enough at the stores.
It might be had, Peter thought, of some of the neighbor
good as to make inquiry he would be doing a great favor, and
he named Mrs. Wolverton as the person likeliest of all he knew,
to have the thread.
Peter did the errand willingly, for not one of the hands but
was glad to oblige Lemuel—all felt with Peter that his heart was
frozen, and if it could only be thawed it would be a very good
sort of heart. When Peter returned he found Lem sitting on a
log in the edge of the woods, and would have thought he was
waiting for him, had not he said expressly that he just happened
to be there—his first inquiry was, not whether Peter had got the
thread, but whom he had seen, and when informed that he had
only seen Mrs. Wolverton, he was further inquisitive to know
whether she had mentioned anybody; Peter thought not, and
Lemuel then remarked, carelessly, that he did not know but
that she might have said something about that ghostly woman
that lived with her.
No, he neither saw the woman nor heard mention of her.
Upon hearing this, Lemuel laughed confusedly, and said, that
since Peter told the ghost story, he had not thought of her till
now. It occurred to Peter that it was a little strange Lemuel
never once thought of the thread.
Once or twice on Peter's return from church, Lemuel had met
him by the merest accident, and inquired, simply for the sake
of saying something, Peter supposed, whom he had seen at
meeting, and whether any one who looked like a ghost. After
these manifestations of humanity and familiarity, it is no wonder
Peter was disappointed at Lemuel's behavior in view of the
grand frolic.
“Of course you will outshine them all!” he ventured to say,
their eyes upon you.” “I wonder if all men are fools and dupes
to the last?” soliloquized Lemuel, and he made no other
answer.
He had a habit of looking about him in a startled way, as if
in expectation of some unwelcome visitor, and this peculiarity
grew upon him of late, so much that Peter said Lem reminded
him of a wild beast that had once been in a trap, and was
“afeared of it again, so to speak.”
“I think,” said Lemuel, approaching Mr. Mayfield, a day or
two before the frolic, “that I will go to some other part of the
country, if you are satisfied to have it so.”
Mr. Mayfield was not satisfied—had he not done all that was
right, and if so what objection could Lemuel have to remain—
the season of hard-work was over, and there would be comparatively
easy times, for awhile—nevertheless he was willing to
increase the wages a little to his best hands. Lemuel said he
was not begging for an increase of wages—as to that he did
not care a curse whether he earned a cent or not, he had
always done his duty, pay or no pay—he laid great stress upon
having done his duty, and glared upon Mr. Mayfield as though
he had asserted the contrary, and finally he ended with the
declaration, covered all round with profanity, that nobody on
the farm could understand him, and he would see if there was
any place where they could. Argument, entreaty, were useless.
Mr. Mayfield saw it, and informed him that he would make
arrangements to settle with him that day. When he was making
up his knapsack in the cold red light of that evening, there
was a little tap on the door, and Mrs. Mayfield's nurse-girl
informed him that her mistress desired to speak with him.
shame for such rudeness subdued him, and having thrust his
fingers through his long black hair, and pulled his wrinkled
shirt collar about his chin, he descended.
“Ah, how kind of you!” cried Mrs. Mayfield, running forward
and shaking both his hands.
“What did you want with me, madam!” asked Lemuel,
withdrawing his hands, and standing erect.
“Why, to see you, to be sure,” she answered, pulling him
forward by the coat-sleeve, and almost forcing him to sit in the
best chair.
His startled eyes swept the room with a glance, and seeing
nothing but the cradle he gave himself passively up, resolved
to suffer it out, if it must be so. Mrs. Mayfield talked of the
late frost, of the apple-crop, of the prospect of snow, and then
she told Lemuel she should look to him to see to it that she did
not freeze to death during the winter—he must provide the best
hickory in unlimited quantities, that was her royal command.
Lemuel smiled a grim smile; perhaps he found it not disagreeable
to be softly ordered by so pretty a woman. He replied,
however, that he had made up his mind to go away. Not till
the winter was past, certainly! Mrs. Mayfield could not hear
of it—in the spring he might go if he chose. Why what would
become of her poor baby, if Lemuel did not stay to make the fires
—nobody but he knew how to make a fire at all. “By the way,”
she concluded, drawing the cradle close to Lemuel's side, “you
have never seen the baby!”
“Humph!” said he. She did not hear him, but with a
countenance beaming with pride and tenderness folded the
blanket, oh, so softly, from the little face. Lemuel looked
and forced him to see her darling.
He said nothing even then, and a frown, as he looked, knitted
up his handsome forehead into positive ugliness.
“Why, you don't like my baby, Lemuel,” she said, in a tone
made up of grief and tenderness, as she looked up reproachfully.
“Oh, yes, I do,” he answered, his own heart condemning
him, “God bless all the babies, I say.”
But there was no blessing in his tone or manner, and Mrs.
Mayfield turned away to conceal her disappointment. Just
then the little creature opened its blue eyes and looked up to
Lemuel for the protection and comfort it was used to receive—
the hard man felt the appeal, and unawares, perhaps, extended
his rough, brown hand. The baby caught it in its delicate
fingers, and held it with so soft, yet firm a grasp, that Lemuel
could not for the life of him resist the appeal, and began
shaking the cradle about after the only fashion of rocking he
was acquainted with. When the baby smiled in his face he
smiled back again. Mrs. Mayfield smiled too, nay, laughed
outright when she heard him chirping to her darling as he had
heard the wood birds to their little ones.
“I think,” said Lemuel, as he softly touched the rosy little
cheeks with his rough palms, “that more fire is needed here,”
I'll think of what you said. The next morning he went to
cutting and splitting wood with right good will—he had made
up his mind to remain a month longer and lay in the winter
wood for Mrs. Mayfield. On the farm and among the men his
behavior was no whit gentler than formerly, but when at night
he filled his brawny arms with hickory wood and heaped it
mask, and he was sure before leaving the room to give the
cradle a jog and shake hands with the baby.
With the frolic Lemuel would have nothing to do, and while
the other hands were making ready, he was observed to take
his way alone toward the Wolverton woods.
It was “clar and sartin, to his mind,” Peter said, that Lem
liked coon hunting better than any other fun. That simple-hearted
old man was drawing water at the well, when near
midnight Lemuel returned.
“Well, how many simpletons have come to the dance?” he
said, stopping and taking a drink of water.
Peter was enthusiastic as to the number and beauty of the
young women who graced the occasion. “When I see them
smiling so, and looking so pretty,” said he, “I can't help
wishing I was young, and here are you, so young and so handsome,
who would rather go coon hunting than stay at home
where they are blushing like a hedge of roses—how strange!”
Lemuel replied that he had always been just so, that at no
time of his life would he have preferred the society of any woman
to the winds and woods, and his own thoughts. Peter was
right, he said, to infer that he had been hunting—it was a sport
of which he never tired. As they walked together toward the
house, he repeated over two or three times that he had never
cared a straw for any woman, and that he had always cared a
great deal about hunting coons. “By the way,” he said, when
they reached the door, “is that ghost-woman that you are
always talking of, at your merry-making?”
“Oh, no,” replied Peter, and instinctively stumbling on the
truth, he added, eagerly, “you need not be afeard of seeing
Peter's shoulder so violent a jerk as to jar the water he was
carrying over the pail, and answered with a round oath that he
was not afraid of ghosts—much less of women, and that he would
go in and show the whole of them that he was not afraid of
them, nor ashamed of himself. And so saying he rushed rudely
past Peter, and with his red woollen shirt-collar thrown open,
and brawny bosom bare, entered the gay assemblage, where he
became at once the pointed object of attention—nay, of admiration,
notwithstanding his rough manners and rougher costume.
His eyes were dark and beaming with intelligence—his hair
and beard of massy luxuriance of growth, and his tawny cheeks
sufficiently bright with angry excitement to make him as handsome
a specimen of rustic nobility as may anywhere be found.
He was too proud to manifest any interest in what was going
forward, if he felt any, and sat with an abstracted air, paying
no heed to the many soft glances that invited him to dance as
plainly as glances could invite him.
“Pray, Lemuel, what has happened?” asked Mrs. Mayfield,
joining him in the obscure corner where he sat.
“Nothing,” he answered, without glancing toward her.
“Why, you look as if you had lost your sweetheart,” she
continued, gaily.
Lemuel reddened with anger, and said women were always
thinking of love—always talking of sweethearts, and turning
everything into sentiment, which he hated. He had never had
a sweetheart, and of course could not have lost her. Mrs.
Mayfield was determined not to be angry with him, and answered
playfully that for her foolish talk to so grave and wise a
man, she was in the dust of humiliation and repentance, and
reconciliation dance with her. No, Lemuel never danced—he
would as soon be caught stealing a sheep—he hoped Mrs.
Mayfield would find a more interesting partner.
The good-natured little woman called him an ugly bear—said
she would try to find a more interesting partner, and meantime
if he would not use his feet, she would compel him to turn his
hands to good account, and placing her baby on his knees as
she said so, she skipped lightly away.
It was an awkward position for Lemuel, and he was at first
half inclined to let the child fall off his lap, but when he found
it tipping one way and the other, he caught it in his arm,
and having once caught it, he could not let it go. The soft,
little hands found the way to his face, and the stubborn man
presently found himself leaning down his head so they might
tear his whiskers and eyes just as they chose.
When it grew tired and fell asleep to the music of the violin,
he tenderly carried it away to its cradle, and rocked and kept
the fire bright till long after midnight.
When the spring came round, and the nurse would carry the
baby out on the south porch, Lemuel would stop as he passed
that way to attend his work—smooth its silken curls beneath
his rough hand, and perhaps give it some bright flower which
he had brought from a distant field. Sometimes one or two of
the other hands would join him on the porch, for the baby was
gradually becoming a central object of interest to them all,
and it was curious to see how the manners and voices of those
rude men softened as they approached the little creature. The
greatest change imaginable was being wrought in Lemuel—he
was less sullen than he used to be—isolated himself less from
the Wolverton woods. Before the summer was gone, little
Blossom, for by that name she was known among the hands,
had learned to know who loved her, and to clap her hands and
shout when she saw Lemuel coming, and reach up her little
arms with a tender appeal that brought his neck right down to
her—then he would seat her on his shoulder, and as she clung
tightly to his ears, hair or beard, as it happened, carry her up
and down the door-yard till she was tired out. Sometimes,
when Mrs. Mayfield rocked her darling to sleep on the moonlit
porch, Lemuel would busy himself with chores that kept him
near about, not knowing himself perhaps what influence was
secretly at work in his heart. In the antumn, and before she
could hold one of them in her tiny hand, Blossom's little lap was
filled every day with bright apples, and when the old mare was
brought to the well to drink at night, Lemuel's great coat was
doubled up into a cushion and laid across her neck, and little
Blossom, in her soft, white cloak and cap, was handed up, and
rode sometimes to see the cattle, sometimes to see the sheep,
but it was always Lemuel that protected her so softly, and
brought her back so safely.
In one corner of the door-yard was a maple tree, beneath
which was a rude bench, where often in the early evening
Lemuel sat trotting the baby on one knee, and singing old
ditties for her that he never sang at other times. Sometimes
he would tell her long stories, and the pathos and the power of
his voice at those times, not unfrequently frightened the little
listener, and when she would cling to his bosom in strange
alarm, he would tell her very softly that what he had been
saying was all a great story—that no such people ever lived as
she was soothed, for she understood nothing of what he said,
he would carry her up and down the door-yard until she fell
asleep, for she loved him now as well as she loved her mother,
almost, and her first faltering steps were towards him.
When her birth-day came round, the farm house was lighted
up, the hands wore their best clothes, and Lemuel danced with
her on his shoulder, to the great delight and amusement of the
young women, whose admiration he was sure to win, no matter
what he did.
It was about the middle of June, and little Blossom, who
was now a year and a half old, could run about the door-yard
and pick flowers for herself. She was become the pet and
plaything of all the hands, and even upon the most careless
there fell a silence when it was mentioned at dinner-time one
day that she was not well. That evening, when Lemuel took
her on his shoulder, she did not laugh and clap her hands as
usual, but put her arms around his neck very quietly, and
leaned her cheek down upon his head. He carried her longer
than usual, and told her over all the pretty stories she had
been used to listen to with delight, but her cheek grew hot as
it rested heavily upon his head, the arms clung more and more
tightly to his neck, and she moaned and fretted, not noisily,
but piteously, and to herself, as it were.
When he had exhausted all resources, he carried her back
to the porch and placed her on her mother's knees, thinking
that all would now be well, but when she moaned and fretted
piteously as before, he went to his old seat beneath the maple
tree and watched the stars as they flew away from the clouds.
Two or three times he came to the porch-side to ask whether
katydids had sung her to sleep, he went to bed saying no
doubt she would be better in the morning, but not altogether
believing it.
At daybreak he was astir—he did not know why he could
not sleep, he said, he thought it was owing to the heat—poor
man, he was ashamed to say it was his love for a baby that
could not yet speak plainly that kept him awake.
The hands were all silent at breakfast that morning, for they
missed the prattle of little Blossom, and the fear that they
should never hear it again was making its way to their hearts.
At noontime Lemuel brought the oxen close to the door,
and when the baby, pleased for a little while, put her hands on
their heads, as they bent them down to her gentle touches, he
deceived himself with the hope that she was better. It was
strange to see the rough man parting her silken hair—rocking
the cradle so softly, and leaning over it with such tenderness—
his heart was more than touched.
The third day of the illness of little Blossom, the hands
walked softly along the porch-side when they came to dinner,
for they saw standing under the cherry tree at the gate the
old white faced horse of the village doctor. Lemuel left the
table long before the other hands that day—he did not feel
very well, he said. Soon after this the usual order of the work
was suspended, the hands loitered about the barns and sheds,
some of them, and some found their own work.
One evening, as Peter sat on the wood-pile cutting sticks
with his penknife to divert his thoughts, Lemuel joined him
and inquired if he knew whether little Blossom was any better.
“Better!” Peter exclaimed, “why, no, sartainly she never
will be any better,” and he proceeded to say without circumlocution
or softening, that in his opinion she was struck with
death the midnight past. For a few moments he cut his stick
in silence, and then, as if in pursuance of some train of
thought, inquired of Lemuel whether he had brought the spade
and grubbing-hoe from the hollow where he had been ditching.
A cold chill crept over Lemuel as he replied irritably, “No!
why should I bring them? We shall be using them again to-morrow.”
“I know we shall use them to-morrow,” answered Peter,
“but not there—I will go and fetch them.”
“Oh; no, no!” cried Lemuel, “for Heaven's sake don't go;”
and seizing his arm, he pulled Peter back to the log from
which he had half risen. While the two men talked together,
several neighbors passed along, and each one stopped to inquire
how the baby was, and to suggest some remedy or proffer
sympathy. Among the rest was Mr. Wolverton. Lemuel had
never liked him, for he was a hard, money-loving man, but
leaning over the fence he shook hands with him, and entered
with unaffected interest into all his affairs.
“Sartainly,” said Peter, joining the “work-girl” at the
kitchen door, “that Lem Lyon is the most onreasonable critter
I ever see—he was angry just now because I wanted to go
to the field and bring home the grubbing-hoe—'cause I see it
would be needed, you know, and then he seemed mournful-like,
more than mad, so to speak, and all at once he goes and begins
to talk with old Wolverton, whom we all know he never could
bar—a strange nater he's got.”
Ah, Peter, you hit the truth there, it was a strange nature
much less you.
Trial and tribulation are to trivial natures always hard to
bear, and the “work-girl,” glad of any pretext, said the Mayfields
were a queer set. She was tired of being among them—
afraid, in fact, of catching the baby's fever, and would, she
believed, tie up her bundle and go home.
She gave no other intimation of her intention, to any one,
but without more ado carried it at once into execution, throwing
upon poor Mrs. Mayfield a burden of domestic care and
responsibility to which at that time she was unequal.
The morning was cloudy with prospects of rain, and on
rising Lemuel saw with alarm the doctor's horse standing beneath
the cherry tree, and he judged by the circle of turf
pawed away, that he had been there a long time. He knocked
at Mrs. Mayfield's door, and was bidden in a low voice to come
in. The inquiry, “How is little Blossom?” died on his lips—
he saw how it all was. The mother vainly hoped that her darling
might recognize the voice of Lemuel and look up once
more. He was not ashamed now of showing that he loved her
—he took the little hands in his, but they would not grow
warm—kissed the blue eyelids and called her by her pet name,
but though at last she looked up, she did not know her good
friend any more. There fell the last hardness, the last unworthy
pride from the heart of Lemuel Lyon. Just as the
candle flickered in the whitening light of day, the little life
went out.
Peter saddled the old mare and rode away to the village to
bespeak a coffin; and Dan, who never lost sight of his personal
comfort, took upon himself the overseeing of the housework,
to fill the tea-kettle, took the coffee-mill between his knees, and
fancied he was doing an efficient work, albeit he was turning
the crank the wrong way. About sunset Lemuel set out from
home in Mr. Mayfield's covered wagon, for what purpose none
of the hands could imagine; the rain was falling pretty fast,
and there were indications of violent winds, which would make
the roads through the woods dangerous to travel.
We will pass over the funeral, saying only that when the
service was over, the coffin was placed under the maple tree in
the corner of the dooryard, and that the hands, when they
had seen the little face for the last time, followed Peter who,
with tear-wet cheeks, carried the coffin in his arms to the burial
ground. From all the sad ceremony, we will pass to the time
of Lemuel's return.
It was just after sunset—the birds whistling and chirping
among the branches of the trees, along the topmost fence-rails,
and here and there from the ground, as if there had never
been a cloud nor a sorrow in the world; the bereaved mother
stood at the window, gazing steadily one way—the only way
she cared to look, now, when her attention was arrested by a
noise at the gate—there stood the farm wagon, splashed with
mud, and the farm horses, their tails knotted up, their heads
down, and a cloud of steam rising above them—and there was
Lemuel, and by his side a woman, not handsome nor young,
but with a good heart shining in her face, and a bright-eyed
boy of three years old in her arms.
Lemuel, seeing that he was observed, hesitated, slightly, and
a deep flush brightened the bronze of his cheek, but he mastered
the weakness, and taking the child in his own arms, said with
or was made up of both, perhaps, “What do you call
him, Lydia?”
“Lemuel—what else should I call him?” replied the woman,
in a tone that was exceedingly soft and gentle. The boy turned
his bright face bashfully aside from Lemuel, and with one hand
clinging tightly to his mother's shawl, they came down the walk
together.
Mrs. Mayfield met them on the porch, and covering the boy
with kisses, said, perhaps to save Lemuel the embarrassment of
an introduction, “how very much he resembles your wife,
Lemuel,” and shaking hands with the woman, she led her into
the house, where she sunk into a seat and burst into a flood of
tears—the result of mingled emotions—pride in Lemuel—pride
in her beautiful boy—shame for herself.
When Peter had completed the chores and was coming
towards the house to supper, he saw the strange child at play
in the door yard—trying to cover a butterfly with a white
handkerchief. At sight of him the boy ran away, leaving the
handkerchief behind him, which Peter picked up, and idly examined.
All at once there came a glow of curious wonder into
Peter's face, and turning back in the path and joining Dan who
was a few steps behind, he exclaimed, “I b'lieve my soul this
is the very handkerchief I found and hid in my Sunday hat,
the one that vanished away, so to speak, and here's the name
in the corner, in sampler letters, `Lydia;' the whole affair is a
great mystery,” and a mystery it always remained, for Mrs.
Mayfield kept faithfully the secret that Lemuel had only now
made the woman who had been the mother of his boy so long,
his true and honorable wife. Once indeed, Peter remarked to
out of her face she would look 'amost like the gal what took
that cryin'-spell in old Wolverton's woods.
Innocence and beauty win their own way, and little
Lemuel was soon the light of the house—the favorite of everybody,
Lydia was installed housekeeper and mistress of the
kitchen, and Lemuel, now Mr. Lyon, became manager of the
farm, and as much beloved by the hands as he had formerly
been feared.
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