 | CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE MINISTER'S WOOD-SPELL. Oldtown folks |  |
37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE MINISTER'S WOOD-SPELL.
IT was in the winter of this next year that the minister's
“wood-spell” was announced.
“What is a wood-spell?” you say. Well, the pastor was
settled on the understanding of receiving two hundred dollars a
year and his wood; and there was a certain day set apart in the
winter, generally in the time of the best sleighing, when every
parishioner brought the minister a sled-load of wood; and thus,
in the course of time, built him up a mighty wood-pile.
It was one of the great seasons of preparation in the minister's
family, and Tina, Harry, and I had been busy for two or three
days beforehand, in helping Esther create the wood-spell cake,
which was to be made in quantities large enough to give ample
slices to every parishioner. Two days beforehand, the fire was
besieged with a row of earthen pots, in which the spicy compound
was rising to the necessary lightness, and Harry and I
split incredible amounts of oven-wood, and in the evening we sat
together stoning raisins round the great kitchen fire, with Mr.
Avery in the midst of us, telling us stories and arguing with us,
and entering into the hilarity of the thing like a boy. He was
so happy in Esther, and delighted to draw the shy color into
her cheeks, by some sly joke or allusion, when Harry's head of
golden curls came into close proximity with her smooth black
satin tresses.
The cake came out victorious, and we all claimed the merit of
it; and a mighty cheese was bought, and every shelf of the
closet, and all the dressers of the kitchen, were crowded with
the abundance.
We had a jewel of a morning, — one of those sharp, clear,
sunny winter days, when the sleds squeak over the flinty snow,
and the little icicles tingle along on the glittering crust as they
steams up like a rosy cloud in the morning sun, and then falls
back condensed in little icicles on every hair.
We were all astir early, full of life and vigor. There was a
holiday in the academy. Mr. Rossiter had been invited over to
the minister's to chat and tell stories with the farmers, and give
them high entertainment. Miss Nervy Randall, more withered
and wild in her attire than usual, but eminently serviceable,
stood prepared to cut cake and cheese without end, and dispense
it with wholesome nods and messages of comfort. The minister
himself heated two little old andirons red-hot in the fire, and
therewith from time to time stirred up a mighty bowl of flip,
which was to flow in abundance to every comer. Not then had
the temperance reformation dawned on America, though ten
years later Mr. Avery would as soon have been caught in a
gambling-saloon as stirring and dispensing a bowl of flip to his
parishioners.
Mr. Avery had recently preached a highly popular sermon on
agriculture, in which he set forth the dignity of the farmer's life,
from the text, “For the king himself is served of the field”; and
there had been a rustle of professional enthusiasm in all the
mountain farms around, and it was resolved, by a sort of general
consent, that the minister's wood-pile this year should be of the
best: none of your old make-shifts, — loads made out with
crooked sticks and snapping chestnut logs, most noisy, and
destructive to good wives' aprons. Good straight shagbark-hickory
was voted none too good for the minister. Also the axe was
lifted up on many a proud oak and beech and maple. What
destruction of glory and beauty there was in those mountain
regions! How ruthlessly man destroys in a few hours that
which centuries cannot bring again!
What an idea of riches in those glorious woodland regions!
We read legends of millionnaires who fed their fires with cinnamon
and rolled up thousand-dollar bills into lamp-lighters, in the
very wantonness of profusion. But what was that compared to
the prodigality which fed our great roaring winter fires on the
thousand-leafed oaks, whose conception had been ages ago, —
and fibre of them made of most celestial influences, of sunshine
and rain-drops, and night-dews and clouds, slowly working for
centuries until they had wrought the wondrous shape into a gigantic
miracle of beauty? And then snuffling old Heber Atwood,
with his two hard-fisted boys, cut one down in a forenoon and
made logs of it for the minister's wood-pile. If this is n't making
light of serious things, we don't know what is. But think
of your wealth, O ye farmers! — think what beauty and glory
every year perish to serve your cooking-stoves and chimney-corners.
To tell the truth, very little of such sentiment was in Mr.
Avery's mind or in any of ours. We lived in a woodland
region, and we were blasé with the glory of trees. We did
admire the splendid elms that hung their cathedral arches over
the one central street of Cloudland Village, and on this particular
morning they were all aflame like Aladdin's palace, hanging
with emeralds and rubies and crystals, flashing and glittering
and dancing in the sunlight. And when the first sled came
squeaking up the village street, we did not look upon it as the
funereal hearse bearing the honored corpse of a hundred summers,
but we boys clapped our hands and shouted, “Hurrah for
old Heber!” as his load of magnificent oak, well-bearded with
gray moss, came scrunching into the yard. Mr. Avery hastened
to draw the hot flip-iron from the fire and stir the foaming bowl.
Esther began cutting the first loaf of cake, and Mr. Rossiter
walked out and cracked a joke on Heber's shoulder, whereat all
the cast-iron lineaments of his hard features relaxed. Heber had
not the remotest idea at this moment that he was to be branded
as a tree-murderer. On the contrary, if there was anything
for which he valued himself, and with which his heart was at
this moment swelling with victorious pride, it was his power of
cutting down trees. Man he regarded in a physical point of
view as principally made to cut down trees, and trees as the
natural enemies of man. When he stood under a magnificent
oak, and heard the airy rustle of its thousand leaves, to his ear it
was always a rustle of defiance, as if the old oak had challenged
“Next winter, old boy, we 'll see, — we 'll see!” And at this
moment he and his two tall, slab-sided, big-handed boys came into
the kitchen with an uplifted air, in which triumph was but just
repressed by suitable modesty. They came prepared to be complimented,
and they were complimented accordingly.
“Well, Mr. Atwood,” said the minister, “you must have had
pretty hard work on that load; that 's no ordinary oak; it took
strong hands to roll those logs, and yet I don't see but two of
your boys. Where are they all now?”
“Scattered, scattered!” said Heber, as he sat with a great
block of cake in one hand, and sipped his mug of flip, looking,
with his grizzly beard and shaggy hair and his iron features,
like a cross between a polar bear and a man, — a very shrewd,
thoughtful, reflective polar bear, however, quite up to any sort of
argument with a man.
“Yes, they 're scattered,” he said. “We 're putty lonesome
now 't our house. Nobody there but Pars, Dass, Dill, Noah,
and 'Liakim. I ses to Noah and 'Liakim this mornin', `Ef we
had all our boys to hum, we sh'd haf to take up two loads to the
minister, sartin, to make it fair on the wood-spell cake.'”
“Where are your boys now?” said Mr. Avery. “I have n't
seen them at meeting now for a good while.”
“Wal, Sol and Tim 's gone up to Umbagog, lumberin'; and
Tite, he 's sailed to Archangel; and Jeduth, he 's gone to th'
West Injies for molasses; and Pete, he 's gone to the West.
Folks begins to talk now 'bout that 'ere Western kentry, and so
Pete, he must go to Buffalo, and see the great West. He 's writ
back about Niagry Falls. His letters is most amazin'. The old
woman, she can't feel easy 'bout him no way. She insists 'pon it
them Injuns 'll scalp him. The old woman is just as choice of
her boys as ef she had n't got just es many es she has.”
“How many sons have you?” said Harry, with a countenance
of innocent wonder.
“Wal,” said Heber, “I 've seen the time when I had fourteen
good, straight boys, — all on 'em a turnin' over a log together.”
“Dear me!” said Tina. “Had n't you any daughters?”
“Gals?” said Heber, reflectively. “Bless you, yis. There 's
been a gal or two 'long, in between, here an' there, — don't jest
remember where they come; but, any way, there 's plenty of
women-folks 't our house.”
“Why!” said Tina, with a toss of her pretty head, “you
don't seem to think much of women.”
“Good in their way,” said Heber, shaking his head; “but
Adam was fust formed, and then Eve, you know.” Looking
more attentively at Tina as she stood bridling and dimpling before
him, like a bird just ready to fly, Heber conceived an indistinct
idea that he must say something gallant, so he added,
“Give all honor to the women, as weaker vessels, ye know;
that 's sound doctrine, I s'pose.”
Heber having now warmed and refreshed himself, and endowed
his minister with what he conceived to be a tip-top, irreproachable
load of wood, proceeded, also, to give him the benefit of a
little good advice, prefaced by gracious words of encouragement.
“I wus tellin' my old woman this mornin' that I did n't grudge a
cent of my subscription, 'cause your preachin' lasts well and pays
well. Ses I, `Mr. Avery ain't the kind of man that strikes
twelve the fust time. He 's a man that 'll wear.' That 's what
I said fust, and I 've followed y' up putty close in yer preachin';
but then I 've jest got one word to say to ye. Ain't free
agency a gettin' a leetle too top-heavy in yer preachin'? Ain't
it kind o' overgrowin' sovereignty? Now, ye see, divine sovereignty
hes got to be took care of as well as free agency. That 's
all, that 's all. I thought I 'd jest drop the thought, ye know,
and leave you to think on 't. This 'ere last revival you run along
considerble on `Whosoever will may come,' an' all that. Now,
p'r'aps, ef you 'd jest tighten up the ropes a leetle t'other side,
and give 'em sovereignty, the hull load would sled easier.”
“Well,” said Mr. Avery, “I 'm much obliged to you for your
suggestions.”
“Now there 's my wife's brother, Josh Baldwin,” said Heber;
“he was delegate to the last Consociation, and he heerd your
openin' sermon, and ses he to me, ses he, `Your minister
sartin doos slant a leetle towards th' Arminians; he don't quite
on us perfect; but,' ses I, `Mr. Avery ain't no Arminian, I can
tell you. Yeh can't judge Mr. Avery by one sermon,' ses I.
You hear him preach the year round, and ye 'll find that all
the doctrines gits their place.' Ye see I stood up for ye, Mr.
Avery, but I thought 't would n't do no harm to kind o' let ye
know what folks is sayin'.”
Here the theological discussion was abruptly cut short by
Deacon Zachary Chipman's load, which entered the yard amid
the huzzahs of the boys. Heber and his boys were at the door
in a minute. “Wal, railly, ef the deacon hain't come down with
his shagbark! Wal, wal, the revival has operated on him
some, I guess. Last year the deacon sent a load that I 'd ha'
been ashamed to had in my back yard, an' I took the liberty o'
tellin' on him so. Good, straight-grained shagbark. Wal,
wal! I 'll go out an' help him onload it. Ef that 'ere holds out
to the bottom, the deacon 's done putty wal, an' I shall think
grace has made some progress.”
The deacon, a mournful, dry, shivery-looking man, with a little
round bald head, looking wistfully out of a great red comforter, all
furry and white with the sharp frosts of the morning, and, with his
small red eyes weeping tears through the sharpness of the air,
looked as if he had come as chief mourner at the hearse of his
beloved hickory-trees. He had cut down the very darlings of
his soul, and come up with his precious load, impelled by a
divine impulse like that which made the lowing kine, in the Old
Testament story, come slowly bearing the ark of God, while
their brute hearts were turning toward the calves that they had
left at home. Certainly, if virtue is in proportion to sacrifice,
Deacon Chipman's load of hickory had more of self-sacrifice in
it than a dozen loads from old Heber; for Heber was a forest
prince in his way of doing things, and, with all his shrewd calculations
of money's worth, had an open-handed generosity of
nature that made him take a pride in liberal giving.
The little man shrank mournfully into a corner, and sipped his
tumbler of flip and ate his cake and cheese as if he had been at
a funeral.
“How are you all at home, deacon?” said Mr. Avery,
heartily.
“Just crawlin', thank you, — just crawlin'. My old woman
don't git out much; her rheumatiz gits a dreadful strong hold
on her; and, Mr. Avery, she hopes you 'll be round to visit her
'fore long. Since the revival she 's kind o' fell into darkness, and
don't see no cheerin' views. She ses sometimes the universe
ain't nothin' but blackness and darkness to her.”
“Has she a good appetite?” said Mr. Avery.
“Wal, no. She don't enjoy her vittles much. Some say
she 's got the jaunders. I try to cosset her up, and git her to
take relishin' things. I tell her ef she 'd eat a good sassage for
breakfast of a cold mornin', with a good hearty bit o' mince-pie,
and a cup o' strong coffee, 't would kind o' set her up for the
day; but, somehow, she don't git no nourishment from her
food.”
“There, Rossiter,” we heard Mr. Avery whisper aside, “you
see what a country minister has to do, — give cheering views to
a dyspeptic that breakfasts on sausages and mince-pies.”
And now the loads began coming thick and fast. Sometimes
two and three, and sometimes four and five, came stringing along,
one after another, in unbroken procession. For every one Mr.
Avery had an appreciative word. Its especial points were
noticed and commended, and the farmers themselves, shrewdest
observers, looked at every load and gave it their verdict. By
and by the kitchen was full of a merry, chatting circle, and Mr.
Rossiter and Mr. Avery were telling their best stories, and roars
of laughter came from the house.
Tina glanced in and out among the old farmers, like a bright
tropical bird, carrying the cake and cheese to each one, laughing
and telling stories, dispensing smiles to the younger ones, —
treacherous smiles, which meant nothing, but made the hearts
beat faster under their shaggy coats; and if she saw a red-fisted
fellow in a corner, who seemed to be having a bad time, she
would go and sit down by him, and be so gracious and warming
and winning that his tongue would be loosened, and he would tell
her all about his steers and his calves and his last crop of corn,
he should ever have, in a house of his own, a pretty little woman
like that.
By afternoon the minister's wood-pile was enormous. It
stretched beyond anything before seen in Cloudland; it exceeded
all the legends of neighboring wood-piles and wood-spells related
by deacons and lay delegates in the late Consociation.
And truly, among things picturesque and graceful, among childish
remembrances, dear and cheerful, there is nothing that more
speaks to my memory than the dear, good old mossy wood-pile.
Harry, Tina, Esther, and I ran up and down and in and about
the piles of wood that evening with a joyous satisfaction. How
fresh and spicy and woodsy it smelt! I can smell now the
fragrance of the hickory, whose clear, oily bark in burning cast
forth perfume quite equal to cinnamon. Then there was the
fragrant black birch, sought and prized by us all for the high-flavored
bark on the smaller limbs, which was a favorite species
of confectionery to us. There were also the logs of white birch,
gleaming up in their purity, from which we made sheets of woodland
parchment.
It is recorded of one man who stands in a high position at
Washington, that all his earlier writing-lessons were performed
upon leaves of the white birch bark, the only paper used in the
family.
Then there were massive trunks of oak, veritable worlds of
mossy vegetation in themselves, with tufts of green velvet nestled
away in their bark, and sheets of greenness carpeting their sides,
and little white, hoary trees of moss, with little white, hoary apples
upon them, like miniature orchards.
One of our most interesting amusements was forming landscapes
in the snow, in which we had mountains and hills and
valleys, and represented streams of water by means of glass, and
clothed the sides of our hills with orchards of apple-trees made
of this gray moss. It was an incipient practice at landscape-gardening,
for which we found rich material in the wood-pile.
Esther and Tina had been filling their aprons with these mossy
treasures, for which we had all been searching together, and
going down. The sleds had ceased to come, the riches of our
woodland treasures were all in, the whole air was full of the
trembling, rose-colored light that turned all the snow-covered
landscape to brightness. All around us not a fence to be seen,
— nothing but waving hollows of spotless snow, glowing with the
rosy radiance, and fading away in purple and lilac shadows; and
the evening stars began to twinkle, one after another, keen and
clear through the frosty air, as we all sat together in triumph on
the highest perch of the wood-pile. And Harry said to Esther,
“One of these days they 'll be bringing in our wood,” and
Esther's cheeks reflected the pink of the sky.
“Yes, indeed!” said Tina. “And then I am coming to live
with you. I 'm going to be an old maid, you know, and I shall
help Esther as I do now. I never shall want to be married.”
Just at this moment the ring of sleigh-bells was heard coming
up the street. Who and what now? A little one-horse sleigh
drove swiftly up to the door, the driver sprang out with a lively
alacrity, hitched his horse, and came toward the house. In the
same moment Tina and I recognized Ellery Davenport!
| CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE MINISTER'S WOOD-SPELL. Oldtown folks | |