University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE HUSKING BEE.

It was now later in the Fall. The leaves of the trees,
merging from their bright dappled colors into a dull, uniform
brown, had dropped to the earth, and were swept by
the winds in dusty crackling torrents, and borne to unknown
resting-places on the bosom of every tinkling rill. The
crops were harvested; potatoes garnered in the cellar,
apples carried to the cider-mill, corn stacked for husking.
A part of Margaret's work for the season was gleaning
from the bounties of forest and field; and aided by Rose,
she got quantities of walnuts, chestnuts, and vegetable
down.

The family had formerly relied on beasts of the chase to
meet their extraneous expenses, but Chilion was no longer
able to hunt for them, even if the supply itself were not
diminished. What a poorly-cultivated farm afforded could
no more than keep these people in food and clothing. Pluck
had done little towards the redemption of his estate. Nor
could it fail of observation that Solomon Smith had rendered
himself quite conspicuous of late, in urging the claim
of his father on Mr. Hart. It was evident he regarded
Margaret, and through her, the whole house, with a pointed
interest, a mixed feeling of aversion and esteem. Ever
since the unfortunate issue of the gold-hunt, he seemed to
look upon her as his evil genius, yet one of a nature not
to be slighted, and whose favor it was worth no small effort
to gain.

At the time in which this chapter opens, the affairs of
the family were not a little involved. There were sundry
items at Deacon Penrose's; a large item of rum, interest
money, expenses accruing at the hospital, etc., and a beggarly
account of offsets. Nimrod might have afforded
some relief, but his habits were reckless as his temper was
volatile; he tended bar, groomed, raced, peddled, smuggled,
blacksmithed, and what not, but saved little money. The
drafts on Mr. Girardeau were regularly made and conscientiously
devoted to Margaret. What she earned during
her few weeks school-keeping, Pluck refused utterly to
employ on his own necessities, but insisted she should lay
it out for clothes. Mistress Hart, originally a good weaver,
fell off in her care and her business together, and drank more,
and was more irritable than ever; while her husband, from
the same cause, grew every day more merry. Through
the intercession of Deacon Ramsdill and Master Elliman,
Esq. Beach consented to receive Margaret as private tutor
to his children; a duty upon which she was expecting to
enter immediately after the Husking Bee, the great annual
family festival. Before attending to that, let us go
back in our narrative for a moment.

The early infantile relations of Margaret cannot have
been forgotten. What became of Mr. Girardeau? Had
he no knowledge of Margaret these many years? It may
not be out of place to state the following. The year previous
to that of the present chapter, there came to the Pond
an old man wearing a wig, and dressed in other respects
like a clergyman. When he entered the house, Brown
Moll, who seemed to have an intuitive dread of the cloth,
disappeared, and the stranger was left alone with Margaret.
He asked for a cup of water, gave her a close perusal with
his eye, inquired the road to Parson Welles's, mounted his

horse and disappeared. This was Mr. Girardeau. His
object in this transient visit is not disclosed.

At the Bee, which fell on a pleasant evening, in the early
part of October, were collected sundry people from the
several districts bordering on Mons. Christi; there were
also present the Master, Abel Wilcox, Sibyl Radney, and
Rose, who if she had become an inmate, as Margaret
promised, of her heart, was almost equally so of her house
and bed. Nimrod was also at home, and for his honor in
part this occasion was supposed to make. The corn was
piled in the centre of the capacious kitchen, around the
heap squatted the huskers. The room was abundantly as
well as spectrally lighted from the immense fireplace
briskly glowing with pitch knots and clumps of bark.
Chilion sat near the fire, quietly busy, platting a basket,
which he now and then laid down for his fiddle, as better
suited to the hour. The workmen varied their labors with
such pleasantry as was natural to the occasion; great ardor
was evinced in pursuit of the red ear, for which piece of
fortune the discoverer had the privilege of a kiss from any
lady he should nominate. The much coveted color at last
made its appearance in the hands of Solomon Smith; but
Ambrose Gubtail said that Solomon brought it in his pocket,
while Smith himself was equally certain he found it in the
heap. Relying upon this assurance he announced that
he should select Margaret for the customary favor, while
she delayed responding to his call till it should be ascertained
how he came by the ear in question; and thus for
the present the matter dropped. The pile was finished,
and the hard glossy ears were stowed under the eaves of the
garret. Next came a brief relay of food and drink. This
was followed by a dance, in form and spirit befitting the
character of the company and that of their musician. Even

Rose dismissed her gloom and exchanged smiles with
Margaret, when Master Elliman, in full-blown wig and
flaunting cuffs, sought her for a partner, and, bowed her to
the floor with the precise courtliness and bland mannerism
of the Old School. Next succeeded a scene that promised
greater entertainment than any thing before.

A long table of rough boards stretched across the room,
laden with the fruits of the season, pewter platters of cakes,
bottles of wine and spirits, and prominently, the silver
family tankard of cider. These were in part the contribubution
of the Master, Nimrod, and the neighbors, who in
this matter were either returning or anticipating obligations
in kind. Preëminent above all in the centre of the table
was a grotesque piece, a pyramidal pile of pumpkins, each
emptied of its core, perforated with sundry holes, and
containing a piece of lighted candle; and the whole
representing a very comical sort of lantern, or a monstrous
beast bestarred with glaring eyes. Pluck sat at the head
of the table, having Rose at his side, Master Elliman
occupied the foot; the others were disposed on blocks of
wood, the shaving horse and the kit. Margaret lighted
the pumpkin-chandelier, and took her seat by the fire
opposite Chilion.

“Brethren and Sisters,” began Pluck, who was excited
by liquor, “it behoveth us to proceed with solemnity.

“In yonder pumpkin shrine burn the fires of our Divinity,
fed by mutton tallow. Rising all, in meek obeisance due,
pressing the bottom of our soles, worship we his Majesty.
Thy health we drink, thy name we praise, Great King
of Puppetdom! defender by the grace of God of England,
France and America; with the most serene, serene, most
puissant, puissant, high, illustrious, noble, honorable, wise
and prudent Burgomasters, Counsellors, Governors, Committees

and all demigods of thy powerful and mighty realm.
Now, brethren, sincethe gods help them that help themselves,
as Poor Richard says, let us verify the promise, by
laying hold. In the words of my bibblecal son, Maharshalalhashbaz,
`I feel that in my flesh dwelleth no good
thing.' Rose, dear, have an apple, a pearmain, here is no
curse; it shall wed your name to your face; pity it is, as
the old Indian said, Eve had not left the apples to make
cider with. S'death! how pale you grow. Take some
genuine Bacrag. That's charming. What a nice example
you set to our Molly.

“I dont hold to getting drunk,” said Abel Wilcox. “I
believe in drinking just enough.”

“Thou art an homulculus, Abel,” responded Master
Elliman, waving to and fro betwixt inebriation and an
attempt to be merry. “Thou wilt not reel in honest drunkenness
but dost posture-make before heaven and earth after
a most damnable sort.”

drawled Pluck. “The toasts, friends. Twelve, in honor
of the Twelve Apostles.

“First; Ourselves, and all that pertains to us.

“Second; The Constituted Authorities of every man's
body and mind.

“Third; Freedom of speech, thought, touch, sight, smell,
taste, earth and air.

“Fourth; Jemima Wilkinson, Consul Napoleon, Dr.
Byles and St. Tammany.

“Fifth; Success to our arms.

“Sixth; The Memory of the brave Johnny Stout.

“Seventh; The Patriots of the Pond, No. 4, Breakneck
and Snakehill.

“Eighth; Perpetual itching without the benefit of scratching
to all our enemies.

“Ninth; All true and upright Masons, who saw the
East when the light rose, and, by name, the Right Worshipful,
Past Grand Deacon, Bartholomew Elliman,
pedagogue; with a tear for all brother Cowans.

“Tenth; All pumpkin-headed, mutton-tallow-lighted
Gods and Goddesses, Priests and Lawyers.

“Eleventh; The liquor of Jove.

“Twelfth; The Officers and Soldiers in the Present
War.”

Abel Wilcox. “Now that the Regulars are disposed of,
I begin with the volunteers.

“Death to the Excise Laws.”

Joseph Whiston. “The memory of Eli Parsons and
Daniel Shays, with a tear for Bly and Rose.”

Brown Moll. “General Washington, Jonathan Trumbull
and John Hancock.”

Pluck. “King George III.”

Mr. Tapley. “Samuel Adams.”

Tony, the Barber. “The honorable Profession of all
gentlemen.”

The Widow Wright. “Death teu quacks and success
teu the gennewines.

The Master. “Mistress Margaret, C. B. Custos Bibbleorum.”

Many Voices. “Margaret, Margaret!”

Pluck. “Let this be drank standing.”

The Master. “Nay, good friends, be not too hasty.
Feminam et vinum, Margaret, C. B. and the Bey of
Muscat.”

“Do drink with us,” called Rose to Margaret, who
quietly tended the fire. “There is marvellous relief in it.
Let us accept what the hour gives and forget ourselves. I
have heard of drowning sorrows in liquor,—why retain
them when they can be despatched so easily?”

added the Master.

“Come, Molly, pretty dear;” set in her father, “no blackstrap
to night; no switchel, or ginger-pop. Brown Bastard,
Aqua Cœlestis, Geneva, Muscadine—have your choice;
come crush a glass with your dear Papa; and all this nice
company. You have skinked quite long enough.”

“I hold under my thumb and finger the veritable Lachrymæ
Christi,” resumed the Master, “just what you are in
search after, Mistress Margaret.”

“Tears of Christ!” answered Margaret. “Can it be
that name is given to any? Who could have thought of the
idea? I could drink a barrel of those tears.”

“The unsophisticated, megalopsychal, anagogical Lachrymæ
Christi!” rejoined her teacher.

“The songs, gentlemen and ladies, the songs,” vociferated
the head of the house.

“Let us edify ourselves with one stanza of the New
England Hymn in memory of our distinguished friend and
the prince of Paronomasiacks, Dr. Byles,” said the Master;
whereupon they all sang

Pluck himself then sang:—

Immediately his loving wife answered in agreeable
antiphony:—

“You've got the fogs broke; let us have a few select
pieces,” cried Pluck. “Sweet Sibyl begin. What shall it
be—give us `Lovewell's Fight.'”

The delicate maiden, thus invited, with tone and cadence
that cannot be described while it yet captivated her
audience, sang a lay which an earlier patriotism had
inspired, and such as was still cherished by the people:—

“Grace, thou apostolic child, give us the pathetic,” was

the next call of the president of the assembly. “Chilion,
you must change your key; try some Malaga, my son.”

Grace Joy indulged them with a ballad that brought
more tears into the eyes of the friends of Margaret than it
ever will again; a portion of which is preserved:—

“Beulah Ann will favor us with the sentimental,” said
Pluck. “New cider, my son, soft and sweet.”

This young lady responded in such lines as these:—

“We want a dash of the heroic,” continued the chairman.
“Molly, the Indian's Death Song; you like the Indians,
show them off to the best advantage. Silence all.”

Margaret repeated what Chilion had taught her, and
what she had more than once sung in the loneliness and
grandeur of the hills about them:—

“Beautiful! glorious!” so the old man applauded his
child; but having copiously shared in festivities that he
helped apace, advancing from liveliness to extravagance,
he rapidly fell into his wonted dedirium. “How the
pumpkin gods grin!” he shouted. “Another brimmer!
Scrape away, Chilion. Egad! what a breeze we are getting
into! Hoora for the Old Bastile! I goes ahead, keep
up who can:—

“Ho! neighbors, a hurdy-gurgy. See the puppets caper.
There's two priests, in sailor's rig, black-balling one another.
Whew! That's Religion you see next, in Harlequin's
dress; with Faith and Repentance playing Punch
and Judy. Six Pumpkin gods after a nincompoop sinner!
Grind away, my boy —”

“Pa is going off, Nimrod,” said Margaret, “what shall
we do?”

“Never mind,” replied her brother, “he'll come to. He
flakes and scatters like hot iron; get some water, that will
cool him.”

“Haven't you learned your manners yet, Miss Molly?”
continued the old man, in his wild, wandering way. “Speak
not at the table; if thy superiors be discoursing, meddle
not with the matter. Smell not of thy meat, turn it not the
other side upward to view it upon thy plate. Talk not in
meeting, but fix thine eye on the minister. Pull off thy hat
to persons of desert, quality, or office. Hem! you'll never
do for Miss Beach, in the world, till you learn your rules.
Don't interrupt the sport. Knuckle to, my good fellow.
Ha! ha! King George and old Johnny Trumbull playing
football with the head of the people. Look sharp, Rose.
Land! what's this? Old Nick himself, in a coach and two,
with the Parson's wig and bands; the Archbishop of Canterbury
on the box; St. Peter and Whitfield outriding.
Give them the long oats, Old Sacristy! Jack Pudding
baptizing four Indians in the River Jordan; souse them under,
they'll be damned if you leave a hair dry—”

“Don't let him go on so,” said Margaret; “shall I
sprinkle it in his face?”

“Hand me the gourd,” answered Nimrod; “I'll make
him sober as a walrus.”

“Don't refuse a penny, my boy,—glory!” continued
the frantic wretch. “Didn't coachee throw the silk handsomely,
Rose? Don't have such a show every day. By
the living jingo! it grows cold and dark. Don't I shiver?
Has it rained over night? You are all here, ladies and
gentlemen, hope none of you are wet. Molly, pile on the
chips. Hand down the pipes; who will smoke? Give
your dear mamma the tobacco. Here is for a game of
cards, Old Sedge; the most worshipful Deacon, my bibblecal
son, Nimrod, and the divine Widow, come. Grace,
you stand flasher. Cut, my son. It's the divinity's deal—
we shall have fair play. Clubs trumps, knock down and

drag out. You are flush, Nimrod, in your face, if you an't
in hand.”

“You'll have teu put mugwort in yer stampers, Old
Crisp, before ye ketch me this time, I cal'late; I'm high,
low,” vapored the Widow.

“I'm Jack and game,” said Nimrod.

“You are two and. Round again,” was the answer of
the father.

“That is not conformable to syntactic rules. Conjunctiones
copulativæ conjungunt verba similia,” the Master
attempted to deliver himself.

“Molly, dear,” said Pluck, very softly, “stir the embers,
we want some light on this subject. What are you doing
with Sol Smith in the corner? Is he giving you lessons
in the bibblecal art?

“Studium grammaticum omnibus est necessarium,” murmured
the Master.

“Come, Molly, unravel the skein of the Master's,” insisted
Pluck.

“You shan't go, Peggy, till you answer me.” So Solomon
Smith might have been overheard speaking to Margaret,
whom he had penned in the chimney corner, where
he seemed to be urging some point, with drunken and
dogged pertinacity. “Let the buffleheads work out their
own game.”

“I would not endure it a moment, if she were my sister.”
This, Rose, who had been watching the conduct of Solomon,
and flushed with more than common excitement, addressed,
under her breath, to Chilion; who replied, “Sol is a bad
fellow. He has no music in his soul, and such, I have heard,
are fit for any villany. He has not forgotten the wild-goose
chase after gold, and he wreaks his disappointment
on Margaret.”

“Quantinupio tentrapiorum quaggleorum, rattle bang,
with a slap dash?” So Pluck rallied his friends. “It is
your play, Sir Deacon.”

The night wore on; they drank, sang, and gamed.
Animation was heated, freedom rose to boisterousness,
sport turned into orgies. Solomon Smith, boozy and gross,
dangled the red corn in Margaret's face, but she would not
yield to his roguery what she would have been loath to
confer on his better moods, the disputed kiss. Chilion
asked Rose to bring him a file wherewith to fix the screws
of his fiddle. Rose herself had drank; she sought to
dissipate the gloom of her mind in the gayeties of the hour,
or at least to induce upon the troubled surges of her being
the foam-like glow of rustic hilarity. She shuddered at
the contact of Margaret with the taverner from No. 4, and
strove to fill Chilion's mind with apprehensions that blindly
agitated her own. The file was violently hurled across the
room. At the same moment, Pluck was violently thumping
the table. Uproar and confusion filled the place. But
why multiply words when the catastrophe is even now
passed? Solomon Smith then and there fell, killed,
murdered, under the agency of passions that from innocent
pastime had mounted to criminal excess. Darkness and
shadows preceded and followed the terrible event. The
table with its multifarious contents was upset, and the
wretched victim lay bleeding under the file. Alarm,
bewilderment, paralysis of purpose and endeavor succeeded.
Let morning dawn on the scene before we
attempt to analyze it.