University of Virginia Library

1. I.

As there is in every neighborhood a first family, so there is
a last family—a family a little behind everybody else—and in
Clovernook this family was named Ryan. They did not indeed
live very near the village, but rather on the very verge of our
neighborhood. A little dingy house, off the main road, and situated
in a hollow, was their habitation, and, though they were
intelligent, they had no ideas of the elegancies of life, and but
meagre ones, indeed, of its comforts.

Charlotte, the eldest daughter, inherited all the cleverness
of her parents, with few of their prejudices against modern improvements,
so that, now and then, her notions ran out into a
sort of flowery border along the narrow way in which she had
been taught to walk. Small opportunities had she for the indulgence
of refined or elegant tastes, but sometimes, as she brought
home the cows at night, she lingered to make a “wreath of
roses,” or to twist the crimson tops of the iron-weeds with her
long black hair; and once I remember seeing her, while she was
yet a little girl, with a row of maple leaves pinned to the bottom
of her skirt; she was pretending they were the golden
fringe of her petticoat.

Clovernook boasted of one or two select schools even at that
time, to which most of the people, who were not very poor,
contrived to send their daughters: but little Charlotte went
down the hollow, across a strip of woods, to the old schoolmaster,
who taught in a log house and in an obscure neighborhood
for the summer, and made shoes in the winter, and I suspect
he was but imperfectly skilled in either vocation, for I remember

it used to be said that he had “taken up both trades out of
his own head.” The girls of the “high school” were in her
eyes “privileged beyond the common run—quite on the verge
of heaven.” And no wonder she regarded them so: the ribbons
that tied their braids, were prettier than the two or three
teeth of horn comb that fastened her own hair, and her long
checked-apron compared unfavorably with their white ones.
But with this period of her life I have little to do, as the story
I am going to relate is limited to the circle of a few days, when
Charlotte had ceased to pin maple leaves on her petticoat, and
wore instead ornaments of glass and pinchbeck.

“Here is a letter for Miss Ryan: it will not be much out of
your way, if you will be so kind,” said the post-master to me
one evening, as I received my own missives, for at that time
the postmaster of Clovernook knew all the persons in the habit
of receiving letters, and as one for Miss Ryan had never been
there before, I, as well as he, naturally supposed it would be a
surprise, probably an agreeable one to her, and I therefore
gladly took charge of it, choosing instead of the dusty highway,
a path through the meadows, and close under the shadow
of the woods, which brought the home of Charlotte directly in
my way, though the duty I undertook added more than a mile
to my walk homeward. It was in the late autumn, and one of
those dry, windy, uncomfortable days which brings thought
from its wanderings to hover down about one's home; so, as
the night fell, I quickened my steps, pausing now and then to
listen to the roar down deep in the woods, which seemed like
the moan of the sea—which I had heard only in imagination
then—or to mark the cabin homes, peering out of the forest,
and calculate the amount of comfort or discomfort in them or
about; and I remember to this day some particular facts from
which inferences were drawn. Before one door, a dozen dun
and speckled pigs were feeding from a trough, and sunken in
mud knee deep, and near them, barefooted, and wearing a red
flannel shirt, stood a ragged urchin, whose shouts of delight
would have been pleasant to hear, but for the harsh, scolding
voice that half drowned them. Both the joy and the anger

were a mystery at first, but I presently saw by what they were
caused.

“I 'll come out and settle with you, my boy, if you do n't
quit that—mind I tell you!” screamed an old woman, leaning
over the low rail fence of the door-yard, her cap-border flapping
like a flag of war, and with one foot on the ground and one in
the air, as she bent eagerly forward, gesticulating vehemently,
but chiefly in the direction of an old cat, which the boy had put
in a slender harness of twine—his own ingenious workmanship,
I suspect. He laughed heartily, in spite of the threatened settlement,
calling out in high glee, as pussy ran up a tree to
escape him, “Jementallies! how she goes it!”

“I 'll go you,” continued the monitor, “as sure as you 're
born, if you do 'nt ungear the poor sarpent before you 're a
minute older!” And so I passed out of hearing and out of
sight, and I have never since been enlightened as to the adjustment
of the pending difficulty.

It was quite night, and the candle-light streamed bright
through the dead morning-glory vines which still hung at the
window, when my rap at the door of Mr. Ryan was answered
by a loud and clear “Come in!” so earnest that it seemed
half angry.

Homely, but still home-like, was the scene that presented
itself—the hickory logs were blazing in the deep wide fire-place,
the children were seated quietly on the trundle-bed, for their
number had grown faster than that of the chairs, and talking in
an under-tone about “choosing sides” at school, and what boys
and girls were “first-rate and particular” as choosers, and what
ones were big dumb-heads: they presently changed their tone
from a low key to a sharp whisper, much more distinct, but my
entrance did not interrupt their discussion.

Mr. Ryan, wearing a coat and trowsers with patches at elbow
and knee of a dissimilar color, was seated on a low stool
in the corner, engaged in softening with melted tailow the hard
last year's shoes of the children, which had been put aside
during the summer season.

“A young winter,” he said, by way of welcoming me, and
then continued apologetically, and as though it was almost a

disgrace to wear shoes, “the wind to-day makes a body feel
like drawing their feet in their feathers.”

I said the winter brought its needs, or something of that sort,
implying that we regarded things in the same way, and he
resumed and continued the mollifying process without speaking
another word.

Golden rings of dried pumpkins hung along the ceiling, bags
of dried apples and peaches, bunches of herbs, and the like, and
here and there from projections of framework, hung stockings,
by dozens, and other garments suited to the times. A limb of
bright red apples, withering in the warmth and smoke, beautified
the jamb, beneath the great “bake oven,” and such were
all the ornaments of which the room could boast, I think.

Mrs. Ryan was busy at the kneading trough, making shortcakes
for breakfast—silent mostly, and wearing a look of
severity, as though she knew her duty and did it. Only Charlotte
came forward to meet me, and smiled her welcome. The
Methodist “Advocate” lay open on the table, and some sewing
work dropped from her lap as she rose. She politely offered
me the chair with the leather bottom, and added to the sticks
on the fire, manifesting her good will and courtesy in the only
ways possible.

She had grown beautifully into womanhood, and though her
dress was neither of choice material, nor so made as to set off
her person very advantageously, it was easy to perceive that
under the hands of an artist in waists, skirts, &c., her form
would seem admirable for its contour and fine proportion,
while her face should be a signal for envy or for admiration to
youthful women and men, if she were “in society.” And she
had in some way acquired, too, quite an agreeable manner of
her own, only wanting a freedom from restraining influences to
become really graceful and captivating; and I could not help
wishing, as I looked on her, that she could find a position better
suited to her capacities and inclinations. A foolish wish.

The letter elicited expressions of surprise and curiosity from
all members of the family, except Charlotte, who suppressed
her interest for the time. “Let me see it, let me see it,” exclaimed
the children, but the stamp of the father's foot brought

silence into the room, on which he arose, and wiping his hands
on his hair, prepared to read the letter, for Charlotte did not
think of breaking the seal herself.

“It 's from down the river I reckon,” said the mother, “and
tells us all about Peter's folks.” Charlotte blushed and looked
annoyed. “I'll just bet!” said one of the boys, a bright-looking
lad of nine or ten years, “that a queen gets letters every
day; yes, and written on gold paper, likely enough,” he continued,
after a moment, and in response to himself as it were.

“I wish I was there,” said a younger sister, smiling at the
pleasant fancy, “and I'd climb away up on her throne some
time when she was gone to meeting, and steal some of her
things.”

“And you would get catched and have your head chopped
off with a great big axe,” replied the brother.

The little girl continued musingly, “I expect Charlotte's new
Sunday dress is no finer than a queen wears every day.”

“Every day!” exclaimed the mother in lofty contempt,
“she wears as good washing-day in the kitchen.” In the midst
of these speculations I took leave. A day or two afterwards, I
learned that Charlotte was gone to pass a month or two with
some relations near the city.