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[Illustration]
When Life Was Young
At the Old Farm in Maine
BY
C. A. STEPHENS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY
THE YOUTH'S COMPANION
BOSTON, MASS.
_Copyright_, 1912
BY C. A. STEPHENS
_All rights reserved_
_Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A._
DEDICATED
WITH CORDIAL BEST
WISHES TO THE MANY
Readers of the Youth's Companion
WHO HAVE SO KINDLY REMEMBERED
US AT THE OLD SQUIRE'S
FARM
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
THE FARM ON THE PENNESSEEWASSEE 1
I. A NOSE IN COMMON 5
II. WHITE SUNDAY 13
III. MONDAY AT THE OLD FARM 28
IV. OUR FIRST JERSEY COW 47
V. SHEEP-WASHING--ADDISON'S NOVEL WATER-WARMER 57
VI. THE VERMIFUGE BOTTLE 72
VII. IMMERSING THE LAMBS 94
VIII. "OLD THREE-LEGS" 106
IX. HOMESICK AGAIN. BLUE, OH, SO BLUE 119
X. MUG-BREAD, PONES AND JOHNNY-REB TOAST 128
XI. THE BIRDS AND BIRD-SONGS AT THE OLD FARM 136
XII. TWO VERY EARLY CALLERS--EACH ON BUSINESS 153
XIII. WE ALL SET OFF TO HAVE OUR PICTURES TAKEN 166
XIV. "THERE IS A MAN IN ENGLAND, NAMED DARWIN" 176
XV. A WET FOURTH OF JULY, WITH A GOOD DEAL OF
HUMAN NATURE IN IT 187
XVI. WOOD-CHUCKS IN THE CLOVER--ADDISON'S STRATAGEM 208
XVII. HAYING TIME 218
XVIII. APPLE-HOARDS 227
XIX. DOG DAYS, GRAIN HARVEST, AND A TRULY LUCRETIAN TEMPEST 247
XX. CEDAR BROOMS AND A NOBLE STRING OF TROUT 255
XXI. TOM'S FORT 268
XXII. HIGH TIMES 286
XXIII. THE THRASHERS COME 297
XXIV. GOING TO THE CATTLE SHOW 308
XXV. THE WILD ROSE SWEETING 321
XXVI. THE OLD SQUIRE ALLOWS US FOUR DAYS FOR CAMPING OUT 329
XXVII. AT THE OLD SLAVE'S FARM 340
XXVIII. THE OLD SQUIRE'S PANTHER STORY 384
XXIX. THE OUTLAW DOGS 397
XXX. A HEARTFELT THANKSGIVING AND A MERRY YOUNG MUSE THAT
VISITED US UNINVITED 410
When Life Was Young
* * * * *
THE FARM ON THE PENNESSEEWASSEE
Away down East in the Pine Tree State, there is a lake dearer to my
heart than all the other waters of this fair earth, for its shores were
the scenes of my boyhood, when Life was young and the world a romance
still unread.
Dearer to the heart;--for then glowed that roseate young joy and faith
in life and its grand possibilities; that hope and confidence that great
things can be done and that the doing of them will prove of high avail.
For such is ever our natural, normal first view of life; the clear young
brain's first vision of this wondrous bright universe of earth and sky;
the first picture on the sentient plate of consciousness, and the true
one, before error blurs and evil dims it; a joy and a faith in life
which as yet, on this still imperfect earth of ours, comes but once,
with youth.
The white settlers called it the Great Pond; but long before they came
to Maine, the Indians had named it Pennesseewassee, pronounced
Penny-see-was-see, the lake-where-the-women-died, from the Abnaki words,
penem-pegouas-abem, in memory, perhaps, of some unhistoric tragedy.
From their villages on the upper Saco waters, the Pequawkets were
accustomed to cross over to the Androscoggin and often stopped at this
lake, midway, to fish in the spring, and again in winter to hunt for
moose, then snowbound in their "yards." On snowshoes, or paddling their
birch canoes along the pine-shadowed streams, these tawny,
pre-Columbian warriors came and camped on the Pennesseewassee; we still
pick up their flint arrow-heads along the shore; and it may even be that
the short, brown Skraellings were here before them, in neolithic days.
There are two ponds, or lakes, of this name, the Great and the Little
Pennesseewassee, the latter lying a mile and a half to the west of the
larger expanse and connected with it by a brook.
To the northeast, north and west, the land rises in long, picturesque
ridges and mountains of medium altitude; and still beyond and above
these, in the west and northwest, loom Mt. Washington, Madison,
Kearsarge and other White Mountain peaks.
The larger lake is a fine sheet of water, five miles in length,
containing four dark-green islets; and the view from its bosom is one of
the most beautiful in this our State-of-Lakes.
Hither, shortly after the "Revolution," came the writer's
great-grandfather, poor in purse; for he had served throughout that
long, and at times hopeless struggle for liberty. In payment he had
received a large roll of "Continental Money," all of which would at that
time have sufficed, scarcely, to procure him a tavern dinner. No
"bounties," no "pensions," then stimulated the citizen soldiery. With
little to aid him save his axe on his shoulder, the unremunerated
patriot made a clearing on the slopes, looking southward upon the lake;
and here, after some weeks, or months, of toil, he brought his young
family, consisting of my great-grandmother and two children. They came
up the lake in a skiff, fashioned from a pine log. Landing on a still
remembered rock, it is said that the ex-soldier turned about, and taking
the roll of Continental scrip from his pocket, threw it far out into the
water, exclaiming,--
"So much for soldiering! But here, by the blessing of God, we will have
a home yet!"
While going through the forest from the lake up to the clearing, a
distance of a mile or more, they lost their way, for night had fallen,
and after wandering for an hour, were obliged to sleep in the woods
beneath the boughs of a pine; and it was not till the next forenoon that
they found the clearing and the little log house in which my
great-grandmother began her humble housekeeping.
Other settlers made their way hither; and other farms were cleared.
Indians and moose departed and came no more. Then followed half a
century of robust, agricultural life, on a virgin soil. The boys grew
large and tall; the girls were strong and handsome. It was a hearty and
happy era.
But no happy era is enduring; the young men began to take what was
quaintly called "the western fever," and leave the home county for
greater opportunities in Illinois, Wisconsin and Iowa. The young women,
too, went away in numbers to work in the cotton factories at Lowell,
Lawrence and Biddeford; few of them came back; or if they returned, they
were not improved in health, or otherwise.
The third son of the Revolutionary soldier and pioneer remained at the
old farm and lived on alone there after his own sons had left home, to
enter other and less certain avocations than farming.
Then came war again, the terrible Civil War, when every one of these
sons, true to their soldier ancestry, entered the army of the Republic.
Of the five not one survived that murderous conflict. And so it happened
that we, the grandchildren, war waifs and orphaned, came back in 1865-6,
to live at grandfather's old farm on the Pennesseewassee.
We came from four different states of the Union, and two of us had never
before even seen the others. It is, therefore, not remarkable that at
first there were some small disagreements, due to our different ideas of
things.
We were, of course, a great burden upon the old folks, who were
compelled to begin life over again, so to speak, on our account. At the
age of sixty-five grandfather set himself to till the farm on a larger
scale, and to renew his lumbering operations, winters. Grandmother, too,
was constrained to increase her dairy, her flocks of geese and other
poultry, and to begin anew the labor of spinning and knitting.
It is but fair to say, however, that we all--with one exception,
perhaps--had a decent sense of the obligations we incurred, and on most
occasions, I believe, we did what we could to aid in the labors of the
farm.
Much as we added to the burdens of our grandparents, I can now see that
our coming lent fresh zest to their lives; they had something new to
live for; they took hold of life again, for another ten years.
Ten years of youth.
It was Life's happy era with us, full of hopes and plans for the future,
full, too, of those many jolts which young folks get from inexperience,
nor yet free from those mistakes which all of us make, when we first set
off on Life's journey. Like some bright panorama it passes on Memory's
walls, so many pictures of that hopeful young life of ours at the old
farm, as we grew up together, getting an education, or the rudiments of
one, at the district school, and later at the village Academy, Kent's
Hill Seminary and Bowdoin College.
And later I may try to relate how we came out and what we are still
doing in life.
CHAPTER I
A NOSE IN COMMON
It was on a sunny, windy May afternoon, late in the month, that the old
gentleman drove to the railway station, eight miles from the farm, to
fetch home the writer of this narrative. Till that day I had never seen
either of my grandparents. But I knew that grandfather was to meet me at
the station, and immediately on getting out of the car, I saw an erect,
rather tall, elderly man with white hair and blue eyes, peering over the
crowd, as if on the lookout for a boy. The instinctive stir of kinship
made me sure who he was; but from some childish bashfulness I did not
like to go directly to him and came around from one side, then touched
his arm. He glanced down. "Are you looking for a small fellow like me,
sir?" I asked.
"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed and laughed.
He looked at me searchingly, and his face grew sorrowful as he gazed.
"Yes, you are poor Edmund's boy. You've your father's forehead and eyes.
Well, well, my son, I am glad to see you, and I hope you will like with
us. You are coming to your father's old home, where he used to live when
he was a boy. Your grandmother will be glad to see you; and you must not
think of such a thing as being homesick. Your cousins are there; and
there will be plenty of things to take up your mind."
I hastened to say that I was thankful for the home he was giving me, and
that I had come to work and pay my way. (My mother had fully explained
the situation to me.)
Grandfather smiled and looked at me again. "Yes, you are quite a boy!"
he said. "If you are as good a boy as your father was, your coming may
prove a blessing instead of an additional tax on us."
I felt much gratified that he considered me "quite a boy," and said that
I knew so many of us must be a great care; but that I meant to do my
best and to take my father's place with him, if he ever needed a son.
(More of my good mother's ideas, rather than my own, I am afraid.)
Unwittingly I had touched a pleasant chord, albeit a sad one.
Grandfather grasped me by the hand, and I saw that his worn blue eyes
had moistened.
I drew out my baggage check and ran to get my small trunk, which I
dragged forward while grandfather backed the wagon up to the platform.
We drove off much reassured in each other; and I remember still that the
old gentleman's kind words stirred me to an impulsive boyish resolve
never to disappoint his confidence; but it was a resolve that I often
lost sight of in the years that followed.
Presently our road led along the shore of the Pennesseewassee, past
woodland and farms, mile on mile, with the lake often in sight. I was
much interested in watching the loons, and also a long raft of peeled
hemlock logs which four men were laboriously poling down the lake to the
saw-mills.
After a time grandfather began to talk more cheerily; he spoke of
farming and of town affairs to me as if I were older; and once or twice
he called me Edmund, although that was not my name; but I did not
correct the mistake; I thought that I could do that some other time.
"There will be six of you now," he said, "six cousins, all in one
family; and all not far from the same age." Then he asked me my age.
"Twelve, almost thirteen," I replied. "Why, I thought you were
fourteen," he said. "Well, now Addison is fifteen, or sixteen, and
Theodora is near fourteen. Addison is a good boy and a boy of character,
studious and scholarly. I do not know what his learning may lead to;
sometimes I am afraid that he is imbibing infidelic doctrines; but he is
a boy of good principles whom I would trust in anything. He is your
Uncle William's son, you know, and came to our house two years ago,
after his father's death at Shiloh. Theodora came at about the same
time; she is your Aunt Adelaide's daughter. Poor Adelaide had to send
her home to me after your Uncle Robert's death at Chancellorsville.
Theodora is a noble-hearted child, womanly and considerate in all her
ways; and she is as good a scholar as Addison.
"Then there's Halstead." Grandfather paused; and looking up in his face,
I saw that a less cheery expression had come there. "Sometimes I do not
know what to do with Halstead," grandfather remarked, at last. "He is a
strange boy and has a very unsteady disposition. He came to us after
your Uncle Henry's death. Your Uncle Henry and Uncle Charles both lost
their lives in the Gettysburg fight. O this has been a terrible war! But
what we have gained may be worth the sacrifice; I hope so! I hope so!"
exclaimed the old gentleman, fervently.
"How old is Halstead?" I asked, after a silence of some minutes.
"He is fifteen; and your little cousins, Ellen and Wealthy, are twelve
and nine," replied the old gentleman, resuming his account of my cousins
to me. "They are your Uncle Charles' little girls, good dutiful children
as one would ever need to have."
It was a long drive. At length the road, bending round the north end of
the lake, led for half a mile or more up an easy hill. Here, on either
hand, fields, inclosed with wide stone walls, were now beginning to
show green a little through the dry grass of last year. Other fields,
ploughed and planted, faintly disclosed long rows of corn, just breaking
ground, presided over by tutelar scarecrows which drummed on pans and
turned glittering bits of tin as the breeze played over them.
"We have lately finished planting," grandfather explained to me. "The
crows are very bold this spring. Halstead and Addison have been
displaying their ingenuity out there, to frighten them off."
At some distance below the farm buildings, we entered between rows of
apple trees, on both sides of the walled road, trees so large and leafy,
that they quite shut out the fields. These were now in blossom.
"To-morrow will be White Sunday," grandfather remarked, as old Sol (the
farm horse) toiled up the long hill. "Nature's own bright Whitsuntide,
never brighter, despite war and mourning."
The great trees stood like huge bouquets; their peculiar, heavy odor
loaded the air, which resounded to the deep, musical hum of thousands of
bees. The near report of a gun rang out, followed by a great uproar of
crows.
"The boys are scaring them out of the wheat-field," said grandfather.
I was looking for the house, when old Sol turned in before a high
gate-frame of squared timber, overhung by the apple trees (we sometimes
walked across on the top timber from one tree into the other), and I
jumped down to open the gate. "Pull out the pin," grandfather said. I
did so, and the gate swung of its own accord, disclosing a grassy lane,
marked with wheel-ruts. The farm buildings stood at the head of the
lane; a two-story house, large on the ground, lately painted straw
color. Three great Balm o' Gilead trees towered over it. A long
wood-shed led from the house to a new stable, with a gilt vane and
cupola, which showed off somewhat to the disadvantage of the two larger
barns beyond it; for the latter were barns of the old times, high-posted
with roofs of low pitch, and weathered from long conflicts with storms.
Around them, like stunted children, clustered sheds, sties and a
top-heavy corn-crib, stilted on four long, smooth legs.
Two boys, one carrying a gun, were coming in from the field; and I saw
girls' faces at the front windows.
We drove in at the open door of the stable; and while we were alighting
from the wagon, grandmother came out to welcome me and see, I suppose,
what manner of lad I was. The two boys, larger than myself and bearing
little resemblance to each other, approached to unharness the horse;
they regarded me casually, without much apparent interest; and a sense
of being an utter stranger there fell on me. I hardly ventured to glance
at grandmother, who took me by both hands and looked earnestly in my
face. I feared that she would kiss me before the others and durst not
look at her. "Yes," I heard her say, in a low voice, "it is Edmund's own
boy." She led the way into the house, through the long wood-shed and
ell. Supper was waiting; and after a hasty wash at a long sink in the
wood-shed, I followed grandfather through the kitchen to the room beyond
it, where the large round table was spread. The family all came in and
sat down. I still felt very strange to the place; but a glance into
grandmother's kind face reassured me a little.
Grandmother, as I remember her, was then fair and plump, with hair
partially gray, and a tinge of recent sadness upon a face naturally
genial. With a quiet sigh, she seated me next to her--a sigh for the
last of her boys.
"They are all here now, father," she said, "the last one has come. It's
a strange thing to see them coming as they have and know why they have
come."
My cousins were regarding me with a kind of curious sympathy. I picked
out Halstead at a glance: a boy with a rather low forehead, dark
complexion and a round head, which his short clipped hair caused to
appear still more spherical. A hare-lip, never appropriately treated,
gave his mouth a singular, grieved droop; but, as if in contradiction to
this, his eyes were black and restless. The contrast with the steady
gray eyes, and high forehead of the boy sitting next to him, was as
great as could well be imagined.
As a boy, I naturally looked at the boys first; but while doing so, I
knew that a girl in a black dress, was regarding me in a kind, cousinly
way, a girl with a large, fair face, calm gray-blue eyes and a profusion
of light golden hair. Grandfather's remark, that Theodora was "a
noble-hearted child," came back to me with my first glance at her.
Two smaller girls, who frequently left their chairs, to wait on the
table, were sitting at grandmother's left hand; girls with brown eyes,
brown hair, and rosy faces, one larger than the other; these were Ellen
and Wealthy.
"They don't look much alike," said grandmother, looking at us all, over
her glasses. "One never would mistrust they were cousins."
The old gentleman contemplated us kindly. "Only their noses," said he.
"Their noses are somewhat alike."
Grandmother looked again, _through_ her glasses this time.
"So they are!" cried she. "They've all got your nose, Joseph;" and the
old lady laughed; and we all laughed a little oddly and looked at
grandfather and laughed again. I think we felt a little better
acquainted after that; we had, at least, a nose in common. But even our
laughter that evening was distrait, or seemed to me so, as if shadowed
by something sad.
As evening drew on, we all, save Halstead, gathered in the front
sitting-room without lights; for the windows were open; and there was a
hazy moon. Theodora sat at one window, looking off upon the lake; while
Ellen slowly and rather imperfectly played tunes on a melodeon, lively
tunes, I believe, but the old instrument seemed to me to be weeping and
wailing to us under a mask of pretended music. Beyond doubt I was a
little homesick and tired from my journey; and after a time grandmother
lighted a candle to show me the way up-stairs to bed. I remember feeling
disappointed when she told me that I was to sleep with Halstead. The
latter had come in and followed us up-stairs. He seemed surprised at
finding me in his room.
"Thought you was going to roost with Ad," said he. "Heard the old gent
say so. Guess Ad has been whining to the grandmarm not to have you. He
is a regular old Betty. 'Fraid you'll upset some of his precious
gimcracks."
"What are they?" I asked.
"Don't know much about them. I don't go near him, and he keeps his door
fastened. Lets Doad and Nell in once in awhile. No admittance to me.
"Hold on a bit!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Don't sit down on the side o'
the bed just yet. There's (feeling under the bed-clothes) something soft
in there. Here 'tis (drawing out half a large apple pie). Have a piece?"
Not liking to commit myself to pie under such dubious circumstances, I
said that I guessed not. Halstead began eating it without further
ceremony.
"I always want a luncheon before I go to bed," he explained, between
mouthfuls. "The old folks think it's hurtful to eat and go right to
sleep. I don't; and I generally manage to get a bite stowed away during
the day."
I inquired how he managed it.
"Oh, watch my chance at the cupboard. 'Bout three o'clock in the
afternoon is a pretty good time. Women-folks all in the sitting-room
then."
While Halstead was finishing the pie, I got into bed, taking the farther
side. There was a shockingly hard lump under my back and after trying in
vain to adapt myself to it, I asked Halstead if he knew what it was.
"Oh! I forgot that," said he; and coming round, he made another
investigation in the straw bed and took out an old pistol, a very large,
long one.
"It is loaded!" I exclaimed, for I caught sight of the bright brass cap.
"Course 'tis," said he. "What's the good of a pistol, if you don't load
it? I had a pair. They're hoss pistols. But the old gent don't 'prove of
pistols. He nabbed the other one. I have to keep this one hid."
"I should think they would find it when they make the bed," said I.
"Oh, the grandmarm don't stir the straw very often. She's kind o' fat.
It tires her, I expect. After she's stirred it once, I know I'm safe to
put things in there for quite a spell."
After secreting the pistol in the leg of an old boot, Halstead came to
bed, and was asleep in a few moments. Falling asleep almost as soon as
he touched the bed was one of his peculiarities. I, too, was soon
asleep.