 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
LEARNING CONTENT.
1. I.
“What on earth am I to do now? I 'd just like to know—
here you are crying out `Mother, mother, mother!' a half a
dozen at a time—may be if I could make myself into two or
three women I might get along.”
So exclaimed Mrs. Polly Williams, throwing down a garment,
on which she had been resolutely and silently stitching,
and her air and manner indicating complete mental and physical
exhaustion. The children, who had caused this violent outbreak
and the more ominous relapse, stood back in affright for
a moment, and then recommenced the gambols and frolicsome
quarreling in which they had been previously engaged.
“I say, Billy, you and Jim pretend to be my horses, and
turn down the red chair and pretend it 's a stage, and get me
on the top and pretend I 'm the driver!” shouted John Williams,
a bright-eyed little fellow, not yet out of petticoats, and his
round rosy cheeks seemed shining with pleasure as he seized
the tongs for a whip.
“Eh, why! that 's a great whip—we won't be horses if you
are going to strike with that,” sung out both boys at once;
upon which the child began making so rapid and terrible a
stampede on the floor as to mollify their prejudices at once.
“Oh, yes, Johny may drive us with the tongs,” they said,
“just as much as he wants to; we can pretend it 's a whip with
two stocks and no lash—a new-fashioned whip that cost fourteen
hundred million dollars;” and turning down the red chair, they
put themselves in the traces, a feat that was accomplished in a
summary way, and by merely taking hold of the chair posts—
after which they trotted off in rather coltish style, looking
quite regardless of his team.
In vain they capered and made divers snorts and pitches at
him as they passed; all for some time proved ineffectual; but
ere long his hands slipped from over his eyes, and a slantwise
glance now and then betokened an increasing interest. The
pretended horses, at this juncture, began kicking up their heels
and dashing forward furiously, at the same time crying out at
the top of their voices, “Oh, Johny's team is running away—
they will break the stage all to pieces, and Johny can 't check
them—he is a little coward—Johny is!”
“No, I ain't,” said the young Jehu, indignantly; and uplifting
his two-stocked whip before the brothers, he brought them to a
sudden stand-still, on which he began pulling their hair right
viciously.
“Bubby must n't pull the mane of his colts so hard,” remonstrated
the boys, “or they will get mad and bite.” Then they
opened their mouths to the widest extent and closed them again
with a snap that was in fact rather fearful to see, while Johny,
with laughter on his lips, and the tears in his eyes, climbed upon
the prostrate chair and indicated his wishes by sundry kicks
and thrusts of the tongs.
A few rounds over the carpet, and one or two hair breadth
escapes in crossing the sunken hearth, which the talkative horses
pretended was a new stone-bridge over the Ohio, without protecting
railings, and consequently very dangerous, especially
with skittish colts, had a tendency to bring the little driver into
a phrenzy of good humor, and he began with almost unintelligible
earnestness to announce his progress. “Now we are
just going by the school-house,” said he, “and all the scholars
are trying to look at us: Ab Long will get whipt for shaking
his fist at me, and Rachel Day is running after me to get a
ride: run fast, horses, and get away from her! now we are
away a hundred miles past her, and I expect she is crying like
a good fellow. Whoa! horses, here's the green tavern”—and
he brought up before a dining-table covered with a green shining
oil-cloth, and dismounting, threw the reins, consisting of a string
of white rags, which passed for fair leather, on the ground, in
the boys carried their dinner to school, he vigorously beat the
air with one arm while he held the bucket beneath the door-knob,
under pretence of pumping water, after which he held the
empty bucket before the faces of the boys, whose noisy inhalations
of air passed for copiously refreshing draughts.
“The looking-glass is the sign—don't you see, Bill? don't
you see it, Jim?” said John, pointing to a small square glass,
in a cherry frame, which was hung with some attempt at style
between the ceiling and the table, having for a back-ground some
two yards of bluish-colored paper, embellished with figures of
chickens and roosters of a bright pink color, decidedly well to
do, an almost defiant aspect, and tails outspread like the huge
fans with which fat old ladies in the country revive themselves
on Sunday afternoons, and also with little black demure
hens having yellow streaks, close at the neck, and widening out
into gores between the wings. This was, in fact, the genteel
part of the house, for closely neighboring the glass was the
skeleton of a clock, standing out from another strip of highly-colored
paper, with nothing but its square white face to screen
from view its curious mechanism of pegs, wires, and wheels,
while the pendulum ticked off the time below, and from hour
to hour the two great iron weights dangled lower and lower,
with a creaky, scraping sound, resembling the thunder of a
caty-did—if such a thing might be—till at length they almost
touched the floor, when the eldest daughter, Maria, whose
honorary privilege it was, climbed upon a little workstand, and
with slow and regular turning of the key, wound the aforesaid
weights quite out of view behind the great white face. But to
return to my young traveler: “Gee up, Bill; gee up, Jim!”
said Johny, taking up the fair leather reins, and snapping the
tongs together by way of cracking his whip; “now I 'm going
by the store; now I 'm going by the flour-mill; now I 'm going
away through the woods; now you must pretend all the chairs
are trees, and that you run against them and break the stage
and kill yourselves!”
“Oh, no, Johny, that's no way at all,” said Jim, looking back
in a dissatisfied way; “you don't know how to travel—I 've
like.”
John remained sullenly silent a moment, and then urging his
team forward, said, “If you know such great things, tell them.”
“Now, Bill, do just as I do,” said Jim, in an earnestly admonishing
way, on which the two boys gave a jump, as sudden,
and over as much distance, as they could, cumbered as they
were with stage-coach and passengers. “Now,” said Jim, “we
are at Cincinnati”—here followed another spring; “now we
are at New York!”—then came a quick succession of springs
and announcements, which took in the world in a few minutes,
and brought them back in front of the green tavern, when the
loud stamping of the mother's foot caused a momentary silence.
“Do you mean to tear the house down?” she exclaimed, in
a very loud and angry tone; “I do think I 've got the worst
boys of anybody in this world; I don't know what to do with
you; it 's no use to try to make you mind; I might as well
speak to the wind—bad, good for nothing boys that you are!
What would you think to see your father and me act as you
do?” The idea was so ludicrous that the boys laughed outright,
in spite of the solemnity of the occasion, and Johny, the
least and most timid, ran under the table, that he might the
more freely indulge his mirthful inclinations.
“Oh, Johny is a rabbit now, that we have burrowed,” said
the boys, dropping on their hands and knees, and barking at
him as much after the manner of dogs, as frequent practice had
enabled them to do.
At this juncture Mrs. Williams arose, and, taking down a
switch that depended menacingly from the ceiling, she brought
it to bear, much as a dexterous thresher would a flail, on so
many bundles of oats. John presently came out, with his
plump little fists in his eyes and a great blue spot on his forehead,
crying as if his heart would break. The older boys
made sundry dives and plunges, in which one of the clock
weights was pulled down and the table set askew, but all efforts
to escape were circumvented, and they soon gave up and joined
in the crying.
“Now,” said Mrs. Williams, with a good deal of exultation
for!”
But as their loud clamor subsided into reproachful moans,
the violence of the mother's wrath subsided too, and she began
pouring out lamentations as though she were doomed to all the
suffering in the world. Johny she took up in her arms and
rocked, with many essays, not altogether ineffectual, to kiss his
forehead well—under which treatment the little fellow, forgetting
his team and his bruises, sobbed into sleep. The older boys
picked their nails and turned their faces to their chair-backs,
while a sermon on this wise was inflicted by the matron: “Ain't
you ashamed, James and William, great boys, big enough to
be men, to act as you do, and give your poor mother so much
trouble! Here she sits, making and mending and cooking for
you all day, and you don't care—no, not a bit, you don't care
for your poor mother!” “You don't take the right means to
make us care,” they might have replied, but they said nothing,
and she went on: “Poor old mother! one of these days she 'll
get sick and die, and have to be buried in the ground, and then
what will become of you, and poor father too—at work all day
to get shoes, and bread, and everything—you will be sorry
then you did n't mind mother, and be good little boys.” Quite
overcome with the desolate picture which poor father and his
little orphans made in her imagination, she drew the corner of
her apron before her eyes, and indulged in melancholy reflections
much longer than, under the circumstances, she should
have done, for it was nearly night, and Mrs. Polly Williams
was a farmer's wife, and the evening should have been a busy
time—the tea-kettle should have been filled, the milk skimmed,
the room set in order, and many other things done, the while
her checked apron was being moistened with tears, that she said
nobody cared for.
Meantime, Jonathan Williams, whose shadow, as he plowed,
stretched half way across the field behind him, looked anxiously
towards the house, for he was tired and not sorry to see the sun
descending so near the western tree-tops. “What can be the
matter with Polly?” he thought, as he came over the ridge
and saw the house looking still and desolate, while all the
pleasantly indicative of approaching supper. “It is time, too,
the boys were coming for the cows; I wonder if our folks are
all dead, or what on earth they are about!” After another
moment's hesitation, he concluded to plow one more round,
before leaving off work for the day. The field in which he
was engaged joined that of his neighbor, Thomas Giles, who
ohanced also to be plowing; and it further happened that the
two teams drew up to the dividing fence together.
“Well, Mr. Williams,” said Mr. Giles, “how does plowing
go—ground in pretty good order?”
“So so,” answered Williams, too much disturbed in mind to
appreciate correctly his neighbor's question, perhaps.
“A nice colt that bay of yours: how many hands high is
he?” asked Giles, leaning over the fence and patting his arched
neck caressingly.
“Nice-looking enough,” answered Williams; “but his sight,
you see,” —
“Humph!—pity—but he has the eye of a kind critter;”
and Giles combed the long mane of the proud-looking animal,
with his fingers, as though he thought him a pretty good colt
after all. “Trade him,” he added, after a moment, “if a fellow
would give you boot enough?”
“No, sir! I have no idea of selling or trading him,” and
Mr. Williams looked toward his house, which was now out of
view, saying, “I must be getting along home.”
“Time for me, too,” said Giles; “I see by the smoke that
supper is ready, and I only meant to stop long enough to send
a message from my wife to yours, which is nothing more nor
less than an invitation from my wife to your wife to come to
our house to-morrow afternoon. `Early,' my wife told me to
say, and that she would be disappointed if your wife did n't
come.”
“I 'll tell her,” said Williams; and loosening the traces, he
sent his horses homeward alone, and set out himself in search
of the cows; while Giles plodded along, wondering whether
his neighbor had a touch of the rheumatism, (the weather had
been damp) or what made him so down-hearted. As he drew
sun-bonnet pulled down over her face. Little Daniel Giles
stood beneath a cherry-tree, varying his idleness by throwing
stones at the chickens which were going to roost in the boughs;
the mother paused, gave him a silent shake, boxed his ears,
right and left, and passed on, without so much as glancing at
Tommy.
“Why, Emeline, what sends you out to milk to-night?” said
the husband, kindly, as tucking up her skirts she placed herself
beside a little kicking heifer, with brindled hide, and horns
bent close together, switching her tail in the woman's face
by way of salutation.
“What sends me? why, it's time somebody was milking, I'm
sure.” Scarcely had she finished the sentence, when away went
the pail, with a deep indention in one side, and the little cow
was seen running and tossing her head in an opposite direction.
“Don't try to milk the ugly brute, Emeline,” said Mr. Giles,
consolingly; “it's as much as I can do.”
But Mrs. Giles, after shaking the milk from her apron, took
up the pail in silence, and resolutely resumed her milking.
Directly, however, she was left beside her overturned pail,
alone, and the tears, in spite of her winking and pulling down
the bonnet, dropped one after another down her cheeks.
“If you had minded me, that would not have happened,”
was the first exclamation of the husband; but when he saw her
tears, his tone changed to one of kind commiseration, and reaching
for the pail, to which she firmly held, he said, “Do n't, Emeline;
do n't be so stubborn; go in and prepare the supper while
I milk; come, Emelime, come—I expect Polly Williams will
come to see you to-morrow.”
“I do n't care for Polly Williams; I'm sorry she is coming,”
sobbed Mrs. Giles; but her heart was softened a little, evidently,
for she loosened her hold on the pail, which Mr. Giles
took, as he continued, “To be sure, Emeline, Polly Williams
is n't you, but I guess she is a good clever woman, for you
know she comes into our house if any of us is ailing, just as
though it was her own; she seems to know just where and how
to take hold.”
“She ought to have some good about her, the dear knows,”
persisted Mrs. Giles, the fires of whose anger were not yet all
burned down; “but I suppose if she is coming there is no help
for it.”
“Why, you told me this very noon-time,” answered the husband,
“just as I was dipping a tin of water from the pine
bucket—with your own lips you told me to try and get word
to Polly to come over here a visiting to-morrow afternoon.”
“Well, what if I did?”
“Nothing: only I supposed you wanted her to come.”
“Oh, you suppose great things, sometimes.”
“Well, well, never mind,” said Mr. Giles; “I do n't want
to quarrel, and I do want my supper.”
“You are always finding fault with me,” said Mrs. Giles,
petulantly, “when I try to do everything;” and then came out
one cause, at least, of the vexation—supper had been waiting
half an hour.
When the supper had been eaten by the husband, in silence,
(Mrs. Giles did n't want any, she had a headache,) and removed
suddenly, and the children were all asleep, happy in dreams of
new hen's nests, perhaps, Mr. Giles drew his chair up to that
of his wife, where she sat in a streak of moonlight, leaning her
head on her hand.
“Emeline,” he said, pressing between both his toil-hardened
hands one of hers, “don't you remember one night, when we
were walking down the lane, and you blushed that I called you
Mrs. Giles—for your name was not Mrs. Giles then—we saw
riding home from market Mr. and Mrs. Griffith, looking as
though none the happier for being together, and I said to you,
`Emeline, is that the way we shall do, by-and-by?' and you
said, `If I ever look so cross, Tommy, I shall not expect you to
love me.' Then,” he added, half sorrowfully, half reproachfully,
“I did n't think you ever would.”
Poor Mrs. Giles—over all her worn and faded and chilling
experiences, came a wave from that fountain that is always
fresh—she did n't look cross any more.
The next morning she went about preparations for Mrs.
Williams, cheerfully, though she said it was troublesome to
she was then, she supposed. And so, with sweating and toiling
and some scolding, she prepared custards and cakes, and such
other delicacies as farmhouses afford, arranging the dinner
meantime, that all might be in readiness at an early hour.
The children, who were frolicsome and noisy and not too obedient,
were called together from tree-tops and mud-puddles, and
from under the barn—their faces and hands reduced to a natural
color by soap and water applications, their heads, which Mrs.
Giles said looked like so many brush-heaps, combed and curled,
and their torn and soiled garments exchanged for neat and clean
ones—and they were told they must see how pretty they could
act, for that Mrs. Williams was going to bring her three nice
little boys, who would be frightened to death if they behaved
as they were accustomed to. A dozen whippings would not
have been so effectual, and, tying on bonnets and hats, they
walked down the lane and settled themselves in the shade of
a tree to greet the coming of their visitors. They did not have
long to wait, for the shadows were only slanting a little from
noon when Mrs. Williams, with three accompaniments, whom
she called at home the torments of her life, and abroad her
troublesome comforts, was seen coming over the hill, in a dress,
of a stiff woollen stuff, which she had worn from time immemorial,
and holding before her face the faded green parasol which
she had carried just about as long.
“I'll declare,” said Mrs. Giles, slipping out of one dress and
into another, “she might as well have come before dinner, and
be done with it; what on earth can I find to say all this long
afternoon?” The new cap was hardly tied when the creaking
of the gate announced the near approach of her neighbor, and
as Mrs. Giles opened the door her face broke into the happiest
smile. “Really, Polly,” she said, violently shaking hands, “it
does a body good to see you once more.”
“I am sure,” answered Mrs. Williams, “I ain't much to see,
and if I look happy it 's because I 've come to your house, where
everything is so nice;” and the two ladies, mutually pleased,
and, laughing as though they never did anything else, walked
into the house together.
2. II.
When, the previous evening, Mr. Williams brought home
the cows, with some misgivings he approached the house, for
he yet saw no indication of life thereabouts. “Why, Polly,
what in the world has happened?” he said, placing his hands on
either side of the door, and looking anxiously within; but
Polly neither looked up nor made any reply. “Heard any
bad news, any way?” he said, after a pause. Mrs. Williams
shook her head; and after a moment of bewildered silence, and
seeing his boys lopping over the backs of their chairs, with
swollen eyes and red noses, he renewed his efforts to ascertain
what manner of calamity could have overtaken his household.
“Sick, any of you?” he said, in a tone between petulance and
tenderness.
Mrs. Williams partly removed the apron from her eyes, and
looked askance at her husband, revealing a face reddened with
tears, but she only shook her head, this time more mournfully
than before.
“Then what is the matter? seems to me you act strangely,
for nothing.”
After lingering in vain anxiety a little while longer, he proceeded
to kindle a fire, and fill the tea-kettle; and Mrs. Williams,
laying her baby in the cradle, presently went about
preparations for supper. No farther explanation was asked or
given, and a night's sleep operated to restore things to their
usual tenor.
“I had a little talk with Mr. Giles, last evening,” said Mr.
Williams, at breakfast.
“Did you?” said Mrs. Williams; “well, what did he have
to say?”
“Oh, not much—he liked our bay colt pretty well, and he
said his wife said she wanted you to come over there this afternoon—airly,
he said she said.”
“I have quite as much as I can get along with, at home,”
said Mrs. Williams; and she looked as though she endured a
great many hardships that nobody cared anything about.
“Well, do as you like, Polly,” said Mr. Williams, as he
she wanted you to come, and bring the children, he said, she
said.”
“I am sure I do n't care much about visiting anywhere, and
least of all about visiting Mrs. Giles.”
“Why, what have you against Mrs. Giles? she is a nice
woman, I am sure—beautiful day, I guess it will turn out.”
“Oh, I have nothing particular against her—I don't lay up
hard thoughts against anybody,” said the wife; “but it seems
to me it would be hard work to talk to Mrs. Giles to-day.”
Notwithstanding all Mrs. Williams said, and half believed,
she went more briskly about her work than usual, though, when
the children asked if she was going, she replied, vaguely, that
she would “see about it.”
“Toot-to-to-to-o-o!” went the dinner-horn, at half-past eleven,
and Mr. Williams hastened home, for he well knew that visiting
was to be done. “And so you have concluded to go, have you,
Polly?” he said, as he sat down to dinner.
“I suppose I may as well go, and be done with it,” she
replied, “if I have it to do; and the children are all crazy to go;
the day is pleasant, and there is nothing more than there always
is to prevent; and so I must put on the old black dress that
everbody is tired of seeing, and trot along in the sun—I 'll be
glad when it 's over.”
An hour thereafter the happy meeting took place.
“I was so afraid you would not come,” said Mrs. Giles,
untying the bonnet-strings of her friend, “for I had the queerest
dream last night, and it has seemed to me that something bad
was going to happen.”
“I do hate to be plagued with ugly dreams,” said Mrs. Williams;
“but what was it about?”
“Why,” said Mrs. Giles, “I dreamed that you were sick,
and it did not seem precisely as if you were sick, either, but
you were blind, and I thought your face was white as a cloth,
and I tried to get where you were, for I saw you walking about
in your own yard, but I kept falling as I tried to walk, and
could n't get along, and when at last I was nearly there, I found
that I had no shoes on; still I thought I must go on, and just
right in the wrist, and I fairly jumped out of my skin and
waked right up—wide awake as I am now. A good little bit
it seemed to me as if it was the truth, for I could see just how
you looked, and the thought of the cross beast made me almost
trimble; all I could do I could n't get to sleep again, and as
soon as the first roosters crowed for daylight I got up, and it
appeared like I could have no peace till I saw you.”
“Some people think,” said Mrs. Williams, “that the state
of the mind, or the supper we eat, or something or other, influences
our dreams, but I don't think any such thing.”
“No, nor I,” answered Mrs. Giles, though she thought of
retiring supperless, and of some unpleasant words and feelings
previously; she did not speak of them, however. “I am sure
I have had dreams that were-omens-like,” resumed Mrs. Giles,
sadly; “along before my poor little Emeline died, I dreamed
one night that a strange woman, dressed in white, came to the
door and asked me to see the baby, and though I did n't know
who she was, it seemed to me that I must do as she bid, and I
put little Emeline in her arms and she carried her away—
walking right through the air, I thought. It was only a little
while till she took sick and died.”
At this recital the eyes of both the ladies filled with tears,
and their hearts flowed right together. The children stood in
silent wonder and fear, that seemed to say, “Why do you cry,
mother?” Mrs. Giles gave them some cakes and told them to
go out to some shady place and play, for that they were seeing
their best days. They did not believe that, though they obeyed,
and presently their merry shouts and laughter indicated that
their days were very good ones, whether their best or not.
How easily we are acted upon by outward influences! the
lively carol of a bird, a merry peal of laughter, or a smiling
face, gives tone and color to our feelings, and unconsciously we
begin to look at the cheerful side of things; and so, as the two
ladies heard the pleasant sport of their children, their thoughts
flowed into pleasant channels; and as they rocked by the vine-curtained
window, they chattered like two magpies—now of
the garden, now of the children and the school, now of what
which subjects were spiced occasionally with a little harmless
gossip.
“How well that dress does wear,” said Mrs. Giles, rubbing
the sleeve of her friend's gown between her fingers; “and it
looks just as good as new, yet—I wish I could get such a
thing.”
“I always thought it was a good black,” replied Mrs. Williams,
“and it does seem as if there was no wear out to it, and
it 's the handiest kind of a dress, for, being worsted, I can wear
it in winter, and yet it is so stiff and cool that I can wear it in
summer just as well as if it were lawn.”
“I 'll dare say,” said Mrs. Giles; “where did you get the
piece? I must have one just like it the first time I go to town.”
To have heard the conversation of the women, their little
confidences, and sly inuendoes, about Mr. Smith and Mrs. Hill,
and the way they managed things, you would have supposed
them two of the best friends in the world, and withal very
amiable. And so in fact they were, as friends and amiability
go; neither, as she had anticipated, felt at any loss for something
to say, and the hours glided swiftly by.
“La, bless me!” exclaimed Mrs. Giles, suddenly throwing
down her work; “just look at that shadder—why, the afternoon
don't seem to me to have been a minute long”—
“Did you ever! who would have thought it?” said Mrs.
Williams; but there they were, the long sunset shadows stretching
across the yard, and it was time for Mrs. Giles to make her
biscuits. “I guess, Polly,” she said, “you will have to move
your chair into the kitchen, for I don't like to leave you long
enough to get supper, and it 's getting so late that I must spring
about.” So they adjourned together, and Mrs. Giles, tying on
a checked apron and rolling back her sleeves, kneaded the
flour vigorously, and the tea-kettle was presently steaming like
an engine, and an extra large “drawing of tea” was steeping on
the hearth.
“Now, Emeline,” said Mrs. Williams, lifting the tea-table
into the middle of the floor, “you need n't say one word, for I
am going to set the table for you.”
“No, Polly, you are not going to do any such a thing; it's
a pretty story if you must go to work when you come to visit;
now just sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
“I shall do no such a thing,” said Polly, “that is, I won't sit
in my laziness when you are at work; it will make me a good
deal more comfortable to help; I'd be ashamed,” she continued,
laughing, “to tell you what you should n't do, if you were at
my house.”
“Well, have your own way, and live the longer,” replied
Emeline, playfully tossing the table-cloth toward her friend,
who proceeded to arrange the tea-things with as much ease and
grace as if she were at home.
The new dishes were admired; the quality of the sugar examined,
both ladies agreeing that it was the whitest brown
sugar they had ever seen, and so cheap; the knives and forks
were thought by Mrs. Williams perfect loves—so small and
highly finished; and Mrs. Giles thought them so too, though she
said she did n't know as they were anything more than common.
“I will have a set just like them before I am a month older,”
said Mrs. Polly Williams.
“And I will have a dress just like yours,” replied Mrs. Giles,
“and I must borrow the pattern too—it fits so beautifully.”
So, it was agreed that they should go to town together—Mrs.
Giles for the dress, and Mrs. Williams for the knives and forks.
Only the previous evening Mrs. Giles had said she hoped to
have some new knives and forks before Mrs. Williams came
again, though she supposed the old ones would have to do.
What a pleasant time they had, drinking tea together! the
cake had not one heavy streak, or if it had, neither of them
saw it; and the custard was baked just enough, the biscuits
were as light and white as new fallen snow, and the butter and
the honey, all the supper, in fact, was unexceptionable; of
course Mrs. Williams praised everything, and of course Mrs.
Giles was pleased; and as for the children, they were perfectly
happy, till the time of parting. “Now you must come right
soon, and bring all the children,” said Mrs. Williams, when
they separated at the end of the lane.
“Oh, yes, I shall come soon, but don't wait for me; whenever
you can, take your work and run over.”
And after much lingering, and invitations iterated and reiterated,
and promises made over and over, each to the other,
that she would be more sociable, they parted. And certainly
there was no affectation of interest they did not feel; the crust
of selfishness that gathered over their hearts, in isolation, was
rubbed off by contact, and the hard feeling, engendered by too
frequent contemplation of the darkest side of things, was changed
into kindness under the influence of genial looks and words—
so much in this journey of life do little things discourage, or
help us on.
When Mrs. Polly Williams opened the gate at home, she
saw her husband sitting by the open door, waiting and looking
for her; the milking was done, and the kettle boiling, and it
seemed no trouble at all to prepare supper for him; and the
less, perhaps, that he said, “Do n't give yourself trouble, Polly;
just set out anything that's convenient, and never mind changing
your dress and cooking for me.”
“It will only require a minute,” replied the wife, unslipping
the hooks, for the old black dress had acquired a new value,
and, turning it wrong side out, she hung it away more carefully
than she had done for a year.
“Well, how did you like your visit?” asked the husband,
drawing his chair inside the door, as the dishes began to rattle
down on to the table.
“Oh, it was the best visit I ever had; Emeline had everything
so nice, and was so glad to see me.” Then she related
many little particulars, only interesting to them—sipping tea,
the while, not that she wanted any, but merely for company's
sake; and saying, in conclusion, that if her children were only
like Emeline's, she would be so glad!
Meantime, Mrs. Giles returned, and began washing her dishes,
and singing as she did so, while Mr. Giles sat by, looking pleased
and happy. “Just step into the pantry, my dear,” said Mrs.
Giles, (she had not said “my dear,” previously, for a long time)
“and get me a nice piece of brown paper to wrap these knives
them through the tea-towel.
“And did you find the afternoon as tedious as you expected?”
inquired the husband, bringing the paper; but the wife was so
busy in praising the children of Mrs. Williams, that she did not
seem to hear him, though perhaps she did, and meant it a reply
when she said, “La, me! everybody has their little faults, and
little troubles, too, I expect—we are none of us perfect. Just
put the knives and forks on the upper shelf.”
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |