 | This, that and the other |  |
A HUSKING-PARTY AT RYEFIELD.
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay,
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name,
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.
“Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,
Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below;
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
And laughing eyes and busy hands, and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.
“Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
Talking their old times o'er again, the old men sat apart;
While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade,
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.
“Urged by the good host's daughter, — a maiden young and fair,
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes, and pride of soft brown hair, —
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue,
To the quaint tune of some old psalm a husking-ballad sung.”
Whittier.
“Do you ever have husking-parties in Ryefield?” wrote a
dear friend, the other day. The question awoke to life many a
sweet memory of the olden time; and this, my answer, must
needs be a long one.
It was many years since, — that is, it seems so now, though to
count them it would not be so very long, — that I passed my first
that we scarce had noted the summer putting away with
pale hands her bands of flowers, and closing her dim eyes in
death. The blossoms of the autumn had stood high and fair, —
the asters, and golden-rods, and the patient laurels. The fruit
hung heavily, and my life had been passing like the clear, ringing
song of a summer bird.
It was late in mild October, and I had gone out to search for
hen's eggs, — I was to have some pan-cakes, in the event of my
success, and I was highly elated by the importance of my mission.
I had climbed to the very highest beam, and was holding
on with all my might.
“Holloa, Sis, what are you up there for?” I heard brother
Frank's voice call, far beneath me; and, bending over, I peeped
down upon him. “Sis, do come down, won't you, — there 's a
good girl!”
“I 'm astonished,” I began.
“Astonished!” Frank cried, interrupting me; “well, I guess
you would be, if you knew what I do; but I 'm not going to tell
you till you come down here.”
Of course my curiosity was stronger than my wish for pan-cakes,
and I hurried down.
“Well, there, Lou,” said my brother, when I had safely
“landed,” as he called it, on the floor, — “well, there, Lou, you
just beat all for climbing, anyhow; — but what do you think, —
they are going to have a party, to-night, over in Grandfather's
barn!”
“A party in the barn, you stupid! — and who are they going
to ask, — the horses?”
“No, no, Lou, I tell you we are going to have a real party in
the barn. It 's to husk the corn, you know; and then they 'll go
into the house, and get some of Grandma's pumpkin-pies. All
the girls and boys are going, and mother says you and I can go
over and stay all day, for perhaps Grandma will want us to run
of errands for her.”
“You don't say so, Frank! Girls and boys and pumpkin-pies!
Glorious!”
In five minutes more, I had on my scarlet merino dress, and
Frank his new jacket, and we were hurrying over the fields
toward Grandpa's. O, what a dear old homestead was that
brown, one-story farm-house! How cheerful and home-like
the great, old kitchen always looked, — the strings of bright
red peppers across the windows, the rows of polished pewter
upon the dresser, and the broad old fireplace, with its brightly
blazing logs!
“Good-morning, children,” said Grandmother's pleasant voice,
as we entered. “You 've come to stay all day with me, I
suppose?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Frank, “if you 'll please not to send us
home. We will do anything in the world to help you, if you 'll
let us.”
“Well, well; I suppose you are hungry, an't you? Here
are some little pies, — made on purpose for little folks, like
you, — and then you can go into the long hall and see the
tables.”
Grandmother's tables! I wonder if ever there was anything
else just like them? They were as good as a written character.
You could see Grandmother there, unmistakably. They were
for the turkeys and the chicken-pies. All around stood the
deep, old-fashioned china-plates, heaped up with every variety
of goodies. There were custards and jelly-cakes, in immediate
proximity to pumpkin-pies and plum-puddings. Then there were
the great, red-cheeked apples, and the late October pears, just
getting ripe and mellow.
O, what a long, happy day we passed! now watching Grandma
stuff the turkeys, and now running out to the great, old barn
where Grandpa was helping his men to heap up the unhusked
corn in the western end. And by and by, when night came;
when we had watched the great fire kindled in the uncarpeted,
but nicely-sanded parlor; when Grandma had put on her black-silk
dress, and Grandpa his Sunday coat, we went into the barn
to watch the coming of the guests, feeling well assured that we
were the happiest children in the world.
Very soon Uncle Horace joined us. He was my father's
youngest brother, at that time about twenty, and during the
season of which I am writing the “schoolmaster” of the pleasant
village of Ryefield. He had got through trying to be terrible,
for this day at least, and made his way to his mother's pantry,
where stood a reserve corps of pumpkin-pies, flanked by a
cold chicken; and now, having satisfied the cravings of the inner
man, was whistling a merry tune as he joined us in the barn. I
have always thought my Uncle Horace was one of the handsomest
men I ever met. He was tall, and rather stoutly-made,
with a full, open brow, curling hazel hair, and laughing hazel
eyes. And then he was always so kind to us children, no wonder
he was a favorite.
Very soon the company began to assemble. First came the
old people and children, and after them the rustic beaux and
belles, and — Mary Andrews. This latter was the belle, par excellence,
of our little village. She was a saucy-looking gypsy of sixteen,
with as bright an eye as ever flashed back sunlight, and as
pretty a foot as ever trod the mazes of a country dance. She was
quite an exception to all the other Marys I ever saw — an arrant
little coquette as the moon ever shone on.
There was scarcely a young man in our village that had not
been down on his knees for one of her jetty ringlets, and deferentially
intimated that a marriage license would neither be
beyond his means or his inclination. For the past six months my
Uncle Horace had been the favored recipient of her “nods and
becks and wreathed smiles,” and the gossips had already begun
to look grave, and predict a wedding at the mansion of Squire
Andrews. To be sure, Uncle Horace told us children that he
had no such notion in his curly head, and that he would ask our
permission “before ever he went courting;” but of course we
did n't believe him. Mary had on a new dress, on this eventful
evening, — a large and very bright-colored plaid. They were just
coming in fashion then, and it was n't every one that could afford
one; but Mary Andrews was a rich man's daughter.
It was, perhaps, a little too showy for the occasion; still it was
very becoming, and, if Mary's object had been to excite the envy
of the feminine portion of community, she succeeded admirably.
They had all been assembled about half an hour, and of
course Uncle Horace was sitting by Mary, and there were jokes,
and smiles, and blushes; then there was a slight stir, occasioned
by the entrance of a new comer.
I looked around. Grandmother entered first, and after her
came a tall, thin lady, leaning on the arm of a slight, graceful
girl.
“This is my old friend, Mrs. Lee,” said Grandmother, in her
good, kind voice. “She moved into Honeysuckle Cottage a few
weeks ago, and I persuaded her to come over here to-night, because
this little girl of hers could not come alone, and I wanted
all of you should get acquainted with Norah Lee.”
People's sympathies move quicker in country places, reader;
there are not so many folds of silk and velvet to bind down the
heart; and the welcome extended to the pale widow and her
child was as cordial as that of dear old friends. I learned their
history afterward. Mrs. Lee, though much younger than my
grandmother, had, at one time, been her schoolmate, and a
strong friendship had sprung up between the kindly maiden
and the sweet child. But my grandmother then married, and
settled in another town; and, some few years after, her friend
married James Lee, a wealthy New York merchant. Occasionally
my grandmother heard of her — how, one by one, her
seven children faded from her arms, until, at last, there was none
left but Norah; and then there was a long interval of silence.
My grandmother was serenely growing old in her pleasant home,
and Mrs. Lee, moving in the midst of wealth and fashion, was
anxiously watching the childhood of her one ewe lamb, her little
Norah. But, a few weeks before the husking-party, my grandfather
brought a new dress home, from a neighboring town,
and around it was wrapped an old newspaper. Grandmother
untied the bundle, and was folding up the paper with her customary
thrift, when her eye fell upon the notice of the bankruptcy
his wife and daughter totally unprovided for.
Grandmother's letter-writing days were over long ago, and to
sign her name even was a work of time; but she would allow
no hand but her own to pen the missive which offered Mrs.
Lee the use of Honeysuckle Cottage, rent free, and besought her
to make her future home in Ryefield. To be sure, Honeysuckle
Cottage, romantic as its name sounds, was but a wee little moss-covered
building, with two rooms, and an out-house for cooking
and washing; but it was snug and warm, and the rich merchant's
widow thankfully accepted its shelter. At the time our brief
sketch opens, she had been in possession of her new home about
three weeks, and as yet few of the villagers had seen her. Even
Uncle Horace had never been over there, and the sweet face of
Norah Lee was as new to him as to any of us.
I have seen women, since then, whom the world called strangely
beautiful; proud, sultana-like beauties, that would make you hold
your breath to look at them; but never yet have I seen a face
that my eyes deemed so fair as Norah Lee's. She was dressed in
a plain, black frock, with high neck and long sleeves, and over
this her rich, golden-brown hair floated in heavy ringlets. Her
eyes were a clear, deep brown, large and soft as a gazelle's, and
her brow was fair and pale as marble. She had such soft, white,
dimpled hands, too, as had never before been seen in Ryefield;
and her look and smile were at once so appealing and sorrowfully
gentle that our hearts went forth to meet her.
At least, I was pretty sure, then, that Uncle Horace's did, for
something very like a blush passed over his cheek, and his
on his broad palm; and he said, very gently,
“For our mothers' sakes, let us be friends, Miss Lee.”
Norah answered all the salutations that were bestowed on her,
with a calm gentleness; and then, blushing timidly, she stole to a
seat by her mother's side.
“I can't get this husk off, Horace, it's so tough!” said Mary
Andrews; and once more Horace was at her side, and they were
chatting merrily as before. And yet, it was very singular, but I
could not help noticing how often a glance would steal around
to the quiet, golden-haired little Norah, in the corner.
At last the corn was husked, and Grandpa said, in his kindly
voice,
“Now, good friends, for supper!” and young and old rushed
pell-mell toward the house.
“Why, Louise, little girl,” said a big, and I thought very
saucy boy, “you need n't make such great mouths at that very
respectable turkey. He 's meant for older people than you.”
“Here, Simon,” said his mother, laughing, reaching toward him
a full plate of chicken-pie; “there 's supper enough for all of
you, and so you can just let the little girl look hungry to her
heart's content.”
Brother Frank, I remember, was in every one's way. He was
evidently convinced that he was the most important personage of
the whole company, and of course was sure to be just where his
presence was least welcome.
“Hey, old fellow! enjoying yourself, I suppose? We were
rather sorry to have supper so late, on account of the old folks!”
was his very respectful salutation to an antiquated bachelor, doing
maiden lady, near at hand, “Well, Aunt Eunice, your new teeth
look pretty well, but you got rather too dark-colored hair to look
natural.” But these were only little things. Altogether, the
supper passed off very pleasantly, and when it was over a high
degree of good humor prevailed.
Under its influence, the old people assembled themselves in
Grandma's pleasant kitchen, and left the spacious parlor for the
young ones; and then — but, dear reader, if you never assisted at
an old-fashioned husking, not even my eloquence can give you any
idea of it. The exercises, of course, opened with “Button, button,
who 's got the button?” and then there was “scorn,” and “forfeits,”
and “tape to measure,” and “skillets” and “gridirons”
to be made, and, last of all, Uncle Horace contrived to be sent to
Rome. Of course, every pretty girl in the room had to “pay
duty,” except Norah. I 'm sure Uncle Horace was n't at all unwilling
to kiss her; but the little one said, “Please don't, Mr.
Cleveland!” so prettily, and turned away her blushing little face,
and so of course he had n't the heart to do it.
Well, it was a merry husking-party enough; and it is indeed
queer, but Mary Andrews went home with her parents, for
Uncle Horace had a positive conviction that Mrs. Lee, as his
mother's friend, required his first attention, and I never heard
that he made the slightest objection to giving his other arm to
Norah.
The winter passed very quickly. There were sleigh-rides, and
apple-parings, and, O, such good times coasting! O, was n't it
bright? — and there never was such a kind schoolmaster as Uncle
Horace. He seemed just brimming over with happiness, and I
blue-eyed spring, flinging forth over the land the blossomy
robes of her glory; and we were to have a May-pole on the
green, and a pleasant picnic, the first of May. This was a time-honored
custom at Ryefield. Last year Mary Andrews had
been queen, and she had become her honors well; but we were
thorough-going little democrats, and could not possibly bow the
knee twice over to the same person; so, by universal acclaim,
Norah Lee was chosen queen of the May. In vain Mary pouted,
and shook down her jetty ringlets till they hid her flashing eyes;
never was parliament more determined on carrying a measure
into execution.
Early on May-day morning, we prepared our crown of roses
and myrtle-leaves, and started for Honeysuckle Cottage. Already
I had become, not prime minister, but prime favorite with
the queen elect; so I left my companions, and hurried over to the
cottage by a by-path through the fields, to apprize Norah of
their coming. Gently I put aside, as was my playful habit, the
honeysuckles from before the window, and looked in. Never shall
I forget the beautiful picture on which my eyes rested.
In the first place, it was a pleasant room. The furniture was
the only relic they had preserved of their old home in the far-off
city. A light and cheerful carpet was upon the floor. The
pattern was a running vine of roses and green leaves; and the
curtains were of delicate, fleecy-white muslin. In the centre
of the room was a round mahogany table, and on a smaller one
at the window stood Norah's little inlaid writing-desk and work-box.
The chairs were low and easy; and through the open door,
at the end of the room, you caught a glimpse of a pleasant bedroom,
little straw hat and blue ribbons lying on the white Marseilles
quilt, which half covered the low but richly-carved rose-wood
bedstead.
There was a tableau vivant in the little parlor. Three persons
composed it. The first was Norah, looking more beautiful
than I had ever before seen her. She had left off her mourning,
and was dressed in a snowy muslin, confined at the waist with a
blue sash. Her long golden-brown ringlets floated over her
graceful shoulders, and half hid her blushing cheeks. At her
feet was kneeling a gentleman, with full, open brow, curling
hazel hair, and earnest, pleading hazel eyes — no other than
my Uncle Horace. Leaning over them, stood the tall, graceful
Widow Lee, with a hand on the head of each
“Yes, Horace,” I heard her say, “my daughter shall be
yours, in the cool pleasantness of the Autumn. She is my all,
Horace; promise me that she shall never miss a mother's
tenderness.”
“God knows, dear madam,” said Uncle Horace, fervently,
“that Norah's happiness will be ten thousand times dearer than
my own; and she shall never want for anything my love or my
toil can procure her.”
“I believe it,” said the Widow Lee, and tears were in her
eyes; “I believe it, and God bless you both, my children!”
Looking back upon this scene, I am thankful that, graceless
child as I generally was, I did have the grace to leave the window,
and only when I saw the rest of our party approaching the
cottage did I go up to the door and tap timidly. Mrs. Lee
herself opened it, and Norah, though there were tears in her
accustomed gentle and affectionate welcome.
Norah was crowned queen of the May, and very fair and
winsome she looked in her white robes, and her May-day garland
“Like an angel,” Grandma said, looking out of the door,
with tears in her eyes, as we passed the farm-house. Norah
leaned, that day, on Uncle Horace's arm; and somehow every
one seemed to know that they were betrothed, and that there
would be a wedding at Honeysuckle Cottage in the early
autumn.
Mary Andrews tossed her coquettish head, and flirted desperately
with a handsome young physician; and yet Horace
did n't seem to feel very badly. The picinc passed off delightfully.
Grandmother was n't there in person, but she sent a
representative, in the shape of a basket — large, fat, and round,
like herself — containing a supply of the good food we so much
loved. There were such nice waffles as nobody could bake but
Grandma, and such tender cold tongue, and dainty, delicate
slices of boiled ham, and such nice cakes and comfits. Truly
Grandmother ought to have been appointed Her Majesty's Purveyor
to the Household.
Then we had a dance, and Norah would dance with nobody
but Uncle Horace, and Uncle Horace with nobody but Norah.
O, it was a long, bright, beautiful day; and it was a long, bright,
beautiful summer which followed it. The wild-flowers grew and
brightened and the wild birds sang, and the land was merry
with the voices of children.
Norah could n't take very long walks, but Uncle Horace
did not mind that much, for every evening found him sitting
THE MAY QUEEN.
[Description: 655EAF. Illustration page. Image of a group of young girls. One girl is putting a wreath of flowers on another girl's head.]
the black ribbon of her guitar, and sing to him until the stars
rose, and the moon shone down upon her white robe. She grew
more and more beautiful. She had been pale formerly, but now
a sweet, delicate rose-tint flushed her cheeks, and her eyes
were strangely bright. When the early autumn came, her
feet could no longer go forth over the pleasant paths they had
trod together, and Mrs. Lee said, “Norah must n't marry
then — she must wait till she got stronger. She was n't very
well now, but would be better soon.”
And Norah smiled, and waited. She did n't suffer at all, she
said, only felt languid; and she would sit all day in her low
chair, or recline on the lounge by the window, with a calm,
sweet face, more beautiful than ever. Uncle Horace reaped the
waving grain, proud man as he was, with secret tears falling
upon the sheaves. He would steal all the time he could, from
the cares of his daily life, to sit by Norah's side, and hold her
fair white hand in his. Books were not quite so plenty then as
now, but it was an age of truth, and there was not much glitter
that had not the ring of the true metal. He never wearied
of reading to his “little darling,” as he used to call her, the
magnificent conceptions of Shakspeare, or the inspired pages of
Scott, with their gorgeous word-painting. And Norah would
smile, and look sweetly happy and contented. But, one day in
pleasant September, I was all alone with her, and, looking up
from her lounge, she said, “Louise, come here.” I went,
and kneeled down beside her. She had been for many days in
an uncommonly playful humor, and I was startled to see tears
on the fringes of her eyelids.
“I want to tell you a secret; — can you keep it?”
“O yes, yes — true as I live,” answered I, in the ready
phraseology of childhood. She smiled mournfully, and then,
parting my curls with her thin hand, she said,
“I am dying, Louise, fading with the leaves! They do not
know it, and I would not have them. For myself, I do not
care. There was a time when I longed to live — to pass my
whole life by Horace's side — to be his wife. I could not bear
the thought of death. I rebelled against it. But I am a
changed girl since I have been obliged to stay here in this little
room. I have watched the sun set and moon rise, until, out of
the clouds, I saw a great glory — Heaven seemed to come
nearer, and the Highest Love overshadowed me.
“Now I am ready to go — I sorrow only for Horace; and I
tell you this now, because you can remember it, in part, at
least; and when I am gone, I want you to tell him. Tell
him I knew that I was going, and all my sorrow was for
him. Tell him to try and meet me beyond the clouds and the
sunset; and that I want him to think of me, not sorrowfully,
not as her who should have been the wife of his youth, but as a
blessed spirit gone before him to heaven. Tell him to love some
gentle one on earth, who will be all to him I could have been,
and I will smile on him when the stars shine. I shall not be
jealous. He will have love enough for both of us, when hope
becomes fruition, and he sees my face in the far-off country.
Tell him all this, darling, and you — but, dear child, are you
crying? Was poor Norah loved so well?” And, drawing my
head to her bosom, she soothed me with more than a mother's
gentleness, till tears subsided into sobs, and at last, wearied out
the floor by her side.
But weeks passed on, and a change for the better seemed to
have taken place. Norah's eye became less bright, her cheek
less deeply flushed; and we almost thought our lily-flower
would brighten and bloom once more with other lilies, in the
sunshine of another summer. Horace talked hopefully of the
sweet cottage he would build, and the roses and jasmine she
should twine over its porch and windows, when she was well;
“for you know you are better already,” he would add.
Once more she passed over her shoulder the ribbon of her
guitar, and played lively, cheerful airs; though she was too
weak to sing much, but she would laugh and say, “I shall be
singing in a few weeks, better than ever,” and we did n't believe
her!
Mrs. Lee's face brightened, and her steps grew quick and
cheerful, and even Grandmother, when she used to come to the
cottage, and bring the nice little things that Norah loved, would
look at her with a smile on her kind, motherly face, and say
that “it was a lazy little girl, who liked petting, and it must
come over after its own cakes pretty soon.” And Norah would
laugh and reply that indeed she had n't much temptation to get
well, when being a little sick made every one so good to her.
And now it was the last quarter of the October moon, and
there was, according to time-honored custom, to be another
husking-party in grandfather's barn. Grandma had objected to
this, at first, for the sick one's sake; but then no one desired it
so strongly as Norah. It would be so like the first night she
came among them, she said; and though she could n't go to the
of the nice supper. And so we all thought, for she was certainly
getting better very fast. And the preparations went on.
Once more the tables were set out in the long dining-room,
and once more the board groaned beneath the choice array of
tempting viands. The barn-floor was swept and garnished, and
stored high with the golden corn. And at last the day dawned
clear and bright, as it should have done; for I lay awake all
night, every now and then rising, and going to the window to
watch it.
Early in the morning, Uncle Horace went over to Honeysuckle
Cottage, and brought back the intelligence that Norah was n't
quite so well, but still hoped to be able to come over. He was
going back, he said, to spend the day. He would take her over,
if she could come; and if not, stay with her. And the preparations
went on.
Evening came, and with it the expected company. Mary
Andrews, now the betrothed wife of the handsome young physician,
came, leaning on her lover's arm. They were all there,
young and old, and merriment was at its height. The corn was
nearly husked, and we were about to adjourn to the house, when
there was a stir at the door, and Uncle Horace appeared, pale
and ghastly. He stood silently for a moment, looking upon us,
like some terrible phantom; and then from his white lips fell
the words — “Norah, Norah Lee is dead!”
There was one quick shriek of horror, and then Grandmother
started, as fast as her trembling limbs would carry her, for the
cottage. Our company hurriedly dispersed, some for their own
homes, and some for the house of mourning. The fair girl had
was left untasted, and the viands of the party became the
“meats for the burial,” — and this was the last “husking-party
at Ryefield.”
I wish I could tell you that Uncle Horace vowed eternal constancy
to Norah's memory. But I must be truthful. Another
gentle and dearly-loved one shares the little cottage he planned
at the dead girl's side; and their child, who sits upon his knee
at twilight, lifts to his face her sweet brown eyes and pride of
golden hair, and sometimes the tears come to his eyes, as he
calls her by her name — “Norah.” But the mother is not
jealous; she, too, is loved, and she knows, when a few more
twilights shall have faded into night, they will all sit down
together, in a land where twilight never comes nor shadows
fall — even heaven!
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