mountain waves sank into sleep, and the ship came safely into port. Then
the sailors sang a hymn of praise, and the hymn was of the king and to the
king.
"But there is no king!" cried Rodolph. "It is a lie; there is no king!"
Yet everywhere he went he heard always of the king; the king's name and
the king's praises were on every tongue; ay, and the things that had no
voices seemed to wear the king's name written upon them, until Rodolph
neither saw nor heard anything that did not mind him of the king.
Then, in great anger, Rodolph said: "I will go to the mountain-tops; there
I shall find no birds, nor trees, nor brooks, nor flowers to prate of a
monarch no one has ever seen. There shall there be no sea to vex me with
its murmurings, nor any human voice to displease me with its
superstitions."
So Rodolph went to the mountains, and he scaled the loftiest pinnacle,
hoping that there at last he might hear no more of that king whom none had
ever seen. And as he stood upon the pinnacle, what a mighty panorama was
spread before him, and what a mighty anthem swelled upon his ears! The
peopled plains, with their songs and murmurings, lay far below; on every
side the mountain peaks loomed up in snowy grandeur; and overhead he saw
the sky, blue, cold, and cloudless, from horizon to horizon.
What voice was that which spoke in Rodolph's bosom then as Rodolph's eyes
beheld this revelation?
"There is a king!" said the voice. "The king lives, and this is his
abiding-place!"
And how did Rodolph's heart stand still when he felt Silence proclaim the
king,--not in tones of thunder, as the tempest had proclaimed him, nor in
the singing voices of the birds and brooks, but so swiftly, so surely, so
grandly, that Rodolph's soul was filled with awe ineffable.
Then Rodolph cried: "There is a king, and I acknowledge him! Henceforth my
voice shall swell the songs of all in earth and air and sea that know and
praise his name!"
So Rodolph went to his home. He heard the cricket singing of the king;
yes, and the sparrows under the eaves, the thrush in the hedge, the doves
in the elms, and the brook, too, all singing of the king; and Rodolph's
heart was gladdened by their music. And all the earth and the things of
the earth seemed more beautiful to Rodolph now that he believed in the
king; and to the song all Nature sang Rodolph's voice and Rodolph's heart
made harmonious response.
"There _is_ a king, my child," said Rodolph to his little one.
"Together let us sing to him, for he is _our_ king, and his goodness
abideth forever and forever."
1885.
+THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS+
THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS
One afternoon many years ago two little brothers named Seth and Abner were
playing in the orchard. They were not troubled with the heat of the August
day, for a soft, cool wind came up from the river in the valley over
yonder and fanned their red cheeks and played all kinds of pranks with
their tangled curls. All about them was the hum of bees, the song of
birds, the smell of clover, and the merry music of the crickets. Their
little dog Fido chased them through the high, waving grass, and rolled
with them under the trees, and barked himself hoarse in his attempt to
keep pace with their laughter. Wearied at length, they lay beneath the
bellflower-tree and looked off at the Hampshire hills, and wondered if the
time ever would come when they should go out into the world beyond those
hills and be great, noisy men. Fido did not understand it at all. He
lolled in the grass, cooling his tongue on the clover bloom, and puzzling
his brain to know why his little masters were so quiet all at once.
"I wish I were a man," said Abner, ruefully. "I want to be somebody and do
something. It is very hard to be a little boy so long and to have no
companions but little boys and girls, to see nothing but these same old
trees and this same high grass, and to hear nothing but the same
bird-songs from one day to another."
"That is true," said Seth. "I, too, am very tired of being a little boy,
and I long to go out into the world and be a man like my gran'pa or my
father or my uncles. With nothing to look at but those distant hills and
the river in the valley, my eyes are wearied; and I shall be very happy
when I am big enough to leave this stupid place."
Had Fido understood their words he would have chided them, for the little
dog loved his home and had no thought of any other pleasure than romping
through the orchard and playing with his little masters all the day. But
Fido did not understand them.
The clover bloom heard them with sadness. Had they but listened in turn
they would have heard the clover saying softly: "Stay with me while you
may, little boys; trample me with your merry feet; let me feel the imprint
of your curly heads and kiss the sunburn on your little cheeks. Love me
while you may, for when you go away you never will come back."
The bellflower-tree heard them, too, and she waved her great, strong
branches as if she would caress the impatient little lads, and she
whispered: "Do not think of leaving me: you are children, and you know
nothing of the world beyond those distant hills. It is full of trouble and
care and sorrow; abide here in this quiet spot till you are prepared to
meet the vexations of that outer world. We are for _you_,--we trees
and grass and birds and bees and flowers. Abide with us, and learn the
wisdom we teach."
The cricket in the raspberry-hedge heard them, and she chirped, oh! so
sadly: "You will go out into the world and leave us and never think of us
again till it is too late to return. Open your ears, little boys, and hear
my song of contentment."
So spake the clover bloom and the bellflower-tree and the cricket; and in
like manner the robin that nested in the linden over yonder, and the big
bumblebee that lived in the hole under the pasture gate, and the butterfly
and the wild rose pleaded with them, each in his own way; but the little
boys did not heed them, so eager were their desires to go into and mingle
with the great world beyond those distant hills.
Many years went by; and at last Seth and Abner grew to manhood, and the
time was come when they were to go into the world and be brave, strong
men. Fido had been dead a long time. They had made him a grave under the
bellflower-tree,--yes, just where he had romped with the two little boys
that August afternoon Fido lay sleeping amid the humming of the bees and
the perfume of the clover. But Seth and Abner did not think of Fido now,
nor did they give even a passing thought to any of their old friends,--the
bellflower-tree, the clover, the cricket, and the robin. Their hearts beat
with exultation. They were men, and they were going beyond the hills to
know and try the world.
They were equipped for that struggle, not in a vain, frivolous way, but as
good and brave young men should be. A gentle mother had counselled them, a
prudent father had advised them, and they had gathered from the sweet
things of Nature much of that wisdom before which all knowledge is as
nothing. So they were fortified. They went beyond the hills and came into
the West. How great and busy was the world,--how great and busy it was
here in the West! What a rush and noise and turmoil and seething and
surging, and how keenly did the brothers have to watch and struggle for
vantage ground. Withal, they prospered; the counsel of the mother, the
advice of the father, the wisdom of the grass and flowers and trees, were
much to them, and they prospered. Honor and riches came to them, and they
were happy. But amid it all, how seldom they thought of the little home
among the circling hills where they had learned the first sweet lessons of
life!
And now they were old and gray. They lived in splendid mansions, and all
people paid them honor.
One August day a grim messenger stood in Seth's presence and beckoned to
him.
"Who are you?" cried Seth. "What strange power have you over me that the
very sight of you chills my blood and stays the beating of my heart?"
Then the messenger threw aside his mask, and Seth saw that he was Death.
Seth made no outcry; he knew what the summons meant, and he was content.
But he sent for Abner.
And when Abner came, Seth was stretched upon his bed, and there was a
strange look in his eyes and a flush upon his cheeks, as though a fatal
fever had laid hold on him.
"You shall not die!" cried Abner, and he threw himself about his brother's
neck and wept.
But Seth bade Abner cease his outcry. "Sit here by my bedside and talk
with me," said he, "and let us speak of the Hampshire hills."
A great wonder overcame Abner. With reverence he listened, and as he
listened a sweet peace seemed to steal into his soul.
"I am prepared for Death," said Seth, "and I will go with Death this day.
Let us talk of our childhood now, for, after all the battle with this
great world, it is pleasant to think and speak of our boyhood among the
Hampshire hills."
"Say on, dear brother," said Abner.
"I am thinking of an August day long ago," said Seth, solemnly and softly.
"It was _so very_ long ago, and yet it seems only yesterday. We were
in the orchard together, under the bellflower-tree, and our little dog--"
"Fido," said Abner, remembering it all, as the years came back.
"Fido and you and I, under the bellflower-tree," said Seth. "How we had
played, and how weary we were, and how cool the grass was, and how sweet
was the fragrance of the flowers! Can you remember it, brother?"
"Oh, yes," replied Abner, "and I remember how we lay among the clover and
looked off at the distant hills and wondered of the world beyond."
"And amid our wonderings and longings," said Seth, "how the old
bellflower-tree seemed to stretch her kind arms down to us as if she would
hold us away from that world beyond the hills."
"And now I can remember that the clover whispered to us, and the cricket
in the raspberry-hedge sang to us of contentment," said Abner.
"The robin, too, carolled in the linden."
"It is very sweet to remember it now," said Seth. "How blue and hazy the
hills looked; how cool the breeze blew up from the river; how like a
silver lake the old pickerel pond sweltered under the summer sun over
beyond the pasture and broomcorn, and how merry was the music of the birds
and bees!"
So these old men, who had been little boys together, talked of the August
afternoon when with Fido they had romped in the orchard and rested beneath
the bell-flower-tree. And Seth's voice grew fainter, and his eyes were,
oh! so dim; but to the very last he spoke of the dear old days and the
orchard and the clover and the Hampshire hills. And when Seth fell asleep
forever, Abner kissed his brother's lips and knelt at the bedside and said
the prayer his mother had taught him.
In the street without there was the noise of passing carts, the cries of
tradespeople, and all the bustle of a great and busy city; but, looking
upon Seth's dear, dead face, Abner could hear only the music voices of
birds and crickets and summer winds as he had heard them with Seth when
they were little boys together, back among the Hampshire hills.
1885.
+EZRA'S THANKSGIVIN' OUT WEST+
EZRA'S THANKSGIVIN' OUT WEST
Ezra had written a letter to the home folks, and in it he had complained
that never before had he spent such a weary, lonesome day as this
Thanksgiving day had been. Having finished this letter, he sat for a long
time gazing idly into the open fire that snapped cinders all over the
hearthstone and sent its red forks dancing up the chimney to join the
winds that frolicked and gambolled across the Kansas prairies that raw
November night. It had rained hard all day, and was cold; and although the
open fire made every honest effort to be cheerful, Ezra, as he sat in
front of it in the wooden rocker and looked down into the glowing embers,
experienced a dreadful feeling of loneliness and homesickness.
"I'm sick o' Kansas," said Ezra to himself. "Here I 've been in this
plaguy country for goin' on a year, and--yes, I'm sick of it, powerful
sick of it. What a miser'ble Thanksgivin' this has been! They don't know
what Thanksgivin' is out this way. I wish I was back in ol'
Mass'chusetts--that's the country for _me_, and they hev the kind o'
Thanksgivin' I like!"
Musing in this strain, while the rain went patter-patter on the
window-panes, Ezra saw a strange sight in the fireplace,--yes, right among
the embers and the crackling flames Ezra saw a strange, beautiful picture
unfold and spread itself out like a panorama.
"How very wonderful!" murmured the young man. Yet he did not take his eyes
away, for the picture soothed him and he loved to look upon it.
"It is a pictur' of long ago," said Ezra, softly. "I had like to forgot
it, but now it comes back to me as nat'ral-like as an ol' friend. An' I
seem to be a part of it, an' the feelin' of that time comes back with the
pictur', too."
Ezra did not stir. His head rested upon his hand, and his eyes were fixed
upon the shadows in the firelight.
"It is a pictur' of the ol' home," said Ezra to himself. "I am back there
in Belchertown, with the Holyoke hills up north an' the Berkshire
mountains a-loomin' up gray an' misty-like in the western horizon. Seems
as if it wuz early mornin'; everything is still, and it is so cold when we
boys crawl out o' bed that, if it wuzn't Thanksgivin' mornin', we'd crawl
back again an' wait for Mother to call us. But it _is_ Thanksgivin'
mornin', an' we're goin' skatin' down on the pond. The squealin' o' the
pigs has told us it is five o'clock, and we must hurry; we're goin' to
call by for the Dickerson boys an' Hiram Peabody, an' we've got to hyper!
Brother Amos gets on 'bout half o' my clo'es, an' I get on 'bout half o'
his, but it's all the same; they are stout, warm clo'es, and they're big
enough to fit any of us boys,--Mother looked out for that when she made
'em. When we go down-stairs we find the girls there, all bundled up nice
an' warm,--Mary an' Helen an' Cousin Irene. They're goin' with us, an' we
all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's not to wake up the ol' folks. The
ground is frozen hard; we stub our toes on the frozen ruts in the road.
When we come to the minister's house, Laura is standin' on the front
stoop, a-waitin' for us. Laura is the minister's daughter. She's a friend
o' Sister Helen's--pretty as a dag'err'otype, an' gentle-like and tender.
Laura lets me carry her skates, an' I'm glad of it, although I have my
hands full already with the lantern, the hockies, and the rest. Hiram
Peabody keeps us waitin', for he has overslept himself, an' when he comes
trottin' out at last the girls make fun of him,--all except Sister Mary,
an' she sort o' sticks up for Hiram, an' we're all so 'cute we kind o'
calc'late we know the reason why.
"And now," said Ezra, softly, "the pictur' changes; seems as if I could
see the pond. The ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and Hiram Peabody
slips up the first thing, an' down he comes lickety-split, an' we all
laugh,--except Sister Mary, an' _she_ says it is very imp'lite to
laugh at other folks' misfortunes. Ough! how cold it is, and how my
fingers ache with the frost when I take off my mittens to strap on Laura's
skates! But, oh, how my cheeks burn! And how careful I am not to hurt
Laura, an' how I ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she tells me
'jist a little tighter,' and how we two keep foolin' along till the others
hev gone an' we are left alone! An' how quick I get my _own_ skates
strapped on,--none o' your new-fangled skates with springs an' plates an'
clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones with steel runners
that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass button on the end! How I
strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on! An' Laura waits for me an' tells
me to be sure to get 'em on tight enough,--why, bless me! after I once got
'em strapped on, if them skates hed come off, the feet w'u'd ha' come with
'em! An' now away we go,--Laura an' me. Around the bend--near the medder
where Si Barker's dog killed a woodchuck last summer--we meet the rest. We
forget all about the cold. We run races an' play snap the whip, an' cut
all sorts o' didoes, an' we never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in
on the ice an' trips us up every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we
boys jump over the airholes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an' tell us
they know we're agoin' to drownd ourselves. So the hours go, an' it is
sun-up at last, an' Sister Helen says we must be gettin' home. When we
take our skates off, our feet feel as if they were wood. Laura has lost
her tippet; I lend her mine, an' she kind o' blushes. The old pond seems
glad to have us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest in the willer-tree waves
us good-by. Laura promises to come over to our house in the evenin', and
so we break up.
"Seems now," continued Ezra, musingly,--"seems now as if I could see us
all at breakfast. The race on the pond has made us hungry, and Mother says
she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as hers. It is
the Yankee Thanksgivin' breakfast,--sausages an' fried potatoes, an'
buckwheat cakes an' syrup,--maple syrup, mind ye, for Father has his own
sugar-bush, and there was a big run o' sap last season. Mother says, 'Ezry
an' Amos, won't you never get through eatin'? We want to clear off the
table, for there's pies to make, an' nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive!
the turkey's got to be stuffed yit!' Then how we all fly round! Mother
sends Helen up into the attic to get a squash while Mary's makin' the
pie-crust. Amos an' I crack the walnuts,--they call 'em hickory nuts out
in this pesky country of sage-brush and pasture land. The walnuts are
hard, and it's all we can do to crack 'em. Ev'ry once 'n a while one on
'em slips outer our fingers an' goes dancin' over the floor or flies into
the pan Helen is squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder. Helen says
we're shif'less an' good for nothin' but frivollin'; but Mother tells us
how to crack the walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an'
so's not to be all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the party
at the Peasleys' last winter. An' now here comes Tryphena Foster, with her
gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone up to Amherst for
Thanksgivin', an' Tryphena has come over to help our folks get dinner. She
thinks a great deal o' Mother, 'cause Mother teaches her Sunday-school
class an' says Tryphena oughter marry a missionary. There is bustle
everywhere, the rattle of pans an' the clatter of dishes; an' the new
kitch'n stove begins to warm up an' git red, till Helen loses her wits an'
is flustered, an' sez she never could git the hang o' that stove's
dampers.
"An' now," murmured Ezra, gently, as a tone of deeper reverence crept into
his voice, "I can see Father sittin' all by himself in the parlor.
Father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his honest old face.
He is lookin' through the winder at the Holyoke hills over yonder, and I
can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a boy like me an' Amos,
an' useter climb over them hills an' kill rattlesnakes an' hunt
partridges. Or doesn't his eyes quite reach the Holyoke hills? Do they
fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little buryin'-ground jest beyond
the village? Ah, Father knows that spot, an' he loves it, too, for there
are treasures there whose memory he wouldn't swap for all the world could
give. So, while there is a kind o' mist in Father's eyes, I can see he is
dreamin'-like of sweet an' tender things, and a-com-munin' with
memory,--hearin' voices I never heard an' feelin' the tech of hands I
never pressed; an' seein' Father's peaceful face I find it hard to think
of a Thanksgivin' sweeter than Father's is.
"The pictur' in the firelight changes now," said Ezra, "an' seems as if I
wuz in the old frame meetin'-house. The meetin'-house is on the hill, and
meetin' begins at half-pas' ten. Our pew is well up in front,--seems as if
I could see it now. It has a long red cushion on the seat, and in the
hymn-book rack there is a Bible an' a couple of Psalmodies. We walk up the
aisle slow, and Mother goes in first; then comes Mary, then me, then
Helen, then Amos, and then Father. Father thinks it is jest as well to
have one o' the girls set in between me an' Amos. The meetin'-house is
full, for everybody goes to meetin' Thanksgivin' day. The minister reads
the proclamation an' makes a prayer, an' then he gives out a psalm, an' we
all stan' up an' turn round an' join the choir. Sam Merritt has come up
from Palmer to spend Thanksgivin' with the ol' folks, an' he is singin'
tenor to-day in his ol' place in the choir. Some folks say he sings
wonderful well, but _I_ don't like Sam's voice. Laura sings soprano
in the choir, and Sam stands next to her an' holds the book.
"Seems as if I could hear the minister's voice, full of earnestness an'
melody, comin' from 'way up in his little round pulpit. He is tellin' us
why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes Scriptur' an' Dr. Watts, we
boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the Bible. Then I get
nervous and worried. Seems to me the minister was never comin' to lastly,
and I find myself wonderin' whether Laura is listenin' to what the
preachin' is about, or is writin' notes to Sam Merritt in the back of the
tune-book. I get thirsty, too, and I fidget about till Father looks at me,
and Mother nudges Helen, and Helen passes it along to me with interest.
"An' then," continues Ezra in his revery, "when the last hymn is given out
an' we stan' up ag'in an' join the choir, I am glad to see that Laura is
singin' outer the book with Miss Hubbard, the alto. An' goin' out o'
meetin' I kind of edge up to Laura and ask her if I kin have the pleasure
of seen' her home.
"An' now we boys all go out on the Common to play ball. The Enfield boys
have come over, and, as all the Hampshire county folks know, they are
tough fellers to beat. Gorham Polly keeps tally, because he has got the
newest jack-knife,--oh, how slick it whittles the old broom-handle Gorham
picked up in Packard's store an' brought along jest to keep tally on! It
is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and light, and the ball is
small and soft. But the Enfield boys beat us at last; leastwise they make
70 tallies to our 58, when Heman Fitts knocks the ball over into Aunt
Dorcas Eastman's yard, and Aunt Dorcas comes out an' picks up the ball an'
takes it into the house, an' we have to stop playin'. Then Phineas Owens
allows he can flop any boy in Belchertown, an' Moses Baker takes him up,
an' they wrassle like two tartars, till at last Moses tuckers Phineas out
an' downs him as slick as a whistle.
"Then we all go home, for Thanksgivin' dinner is ready. Two long tables
have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths Gran'ma had when
she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both. We all set round, Father,
Mother, Aunt Lydia Holbrook, Uncle Jason, Mary, Helen, Tryphena Foster,
Amos, and me. How big an' brown the turkey is, and how good it smells!
There are bounteous dishes of mashed potato, turnip, an' squash, and the
celery is very white and cold, the biscuits are light an' hot, and the
stewed cranberries are red as Laura's cheeks. Amos and I get the
drumsticks; Mary wants the wish-bone to put overthe door for Hiram, but
Helen gets it. Poor Mary, she always _did_ have to give up to
'rushin' Helen,' as we call her. The pies,--oh, what pies Mother makes; no
dyspepsia in 'em, but good-nature an' good health an' hospitality! Pumpkin
pies, mince an' apple too, and then a big dish of pippins an' russets an'
bellflowers, an', last of all, walnuts with cider from the Zebrina
Dickerson farm! I tell ye, there's a Thanksgivin' dinner for ye! that's
what we get in old Belchertown; an' that's the kind of livin' that makes
the Yankees so all-fired good an' smart.