best scene in all the pictur' is when evenin' comes, when the lamps are
lit in the parlor, when the neighbors come in, and when there is music
an' singin' an' games. An' it's this part o' the pictur' that makes me
homesick now and fills my heart with a longin' I never had before; an'
yet it sort o' mellows an' comforts me, too. Miss Serena Cadwell, whose
beau was killed in the war, plays on the melodeon, and we all sing,--all
on us, men, womenfolks, an' children. Sam Merritt is there, an' he sings
a tenor song about love. The women sort of whisper round that he's goin'
to be married to a Palmer lady nex' spring, an' I think to myself I
never heard better singin' than Sam's. Then we play games, proverbs,
buzz, clap-in-clap-out, copenhagen, fox-an'-geese,
button-button-who's-got-the-button, spin-the-platter, go-to-Jerusalem,
my-ship's-come-in, and all the rest. The ol' folks play with the young
folks just as nat'ral as can be; and we all laugh when Deacon Hosea
Cowles hez to measure six yards of love ribbon with Miss Hepsy Newton,
and cut each yard with a kiss; for the deacon hez been sort o' purrin'
round Miss Hepsy for goin' on two years. Then, aft'r a while, when
Mary an' Helen bring in the cookies, nut-cakes, cider, an' apples,
Mother says: 'I don't b'lieve we're goin' to hev enough apples to go
round; Ezry, I guess I'll have to get you to go down-cellar for some
more.' Then I says: 'All right, Mother, I'll go, providin' some one'll
go along an' hold the candle.' An' when I say this I look right at
Laura and she blushes. Then Helen, jest for meanness, says: 'Ezry, I
s'pose you ain't willin' to have your fav'rite sister go down-cellar
with you an' catch her death o' cold?' But Mary, who hez been showin'
Hiram Peabody the phot'graph album for more 'n an hour, comes to the
rescue an' makes Laura take the candle, and she shows Laura how to
hold it so it won't go out.
"The cellar is warm an' dark. There are cobwebs all between the rafters
an' everywhere else except on the shelves where Mother keeps the butter
an' eggs an' other things that would freeze in the butt'ry upstairs. The
apples are in bar'ls up against the wall, near the potater-bin. How fresh
an' sweet they smell! Laura thinks she sees a mouse, an' she trembles an'
wants to jump up on the pork-bar'l, but I tell her that there sha'n't no
mouse hurt her while I'm round; and I mean it, too, for the sight of Laura
a-tremblin' makes me as strong as one of Father's steers. 'What kind of
apples do you like best, Ezry?' asks Laura,--'russets or greenin's or
crow-eggs or bell-flowers or Baldwins or pippins?' 'I like the Baldwins
best,' says I, ''coz they've got red cheeks jest like yours.' 'Why, Ezry
Thompson! how you talk!' says Laura. 'You oughter be ashamed of yourself!'
But when I get the dish filled up with apples there ain't a Baldwin in all
the lot that can compare with the bright red of Laura's cheeks. An' Laura
knows it, too, an' she sees the mouse ag'in, an' screams, and then the
candle goes out, and we are in a dreadful stew. But I, bein' almost a man,
contrive to bear up under it, and knowin' she is an orph'n, I comfort an'
encourage Laura the best I know how, and we are almost up-stairs when
Mother comes to the door and wants to know what has kep' us so long. Jest
as if Mother doesn't know! Of course she does; an' when Mother kisses
Laura good-by that night there is in the act a tenderness that speaks more
sweetly than even Mother's words.
"It is so like Mother," mused Ezra; "so like her with her gentleness an'
clingin' love. Hers is the sweetest picture of all, and hers the best
love."
Dream on, Ezra; dream of the old home with its dear ones, its holy
influences, and its precious inspiration,--mother. Dream on in the
far-away firelight; and as the angel hand of memory unfolds these sacred
visions, with thee and them shall abide, like a Divine comforter, the
spirit of thanksgiving.
1885.
+LUDWIG AND ELOISE+
LUDWIG AND ELOISE
Once upon a time there were two youths named Herman and Ludwig; and they
both loved Eloise, the daughter of the old burgomaster. Now, the old
burgomaster was very rich, and having no child but Eloise, he was anxious
that she should be well married and settled in life. "For," said he,
"death is likely to come to me at any time: I am old and feeble, and I
want to see my child sheltered by another's love before I am done with
earth forever."
Eloise was much beloved by all the youth in the village, and there was not
one who would not gladly have taken her to wife; but none loved her so
much as did Herman and Ludwig. Nor did Eloise care for any but Herman and
Ludwig, and she loved Herman. The burgomaster said: "Choose whom you
will--I care not! So long as he be honest I will have him for a son and
thank Heaven for him."
So Eloise chose Herman, and all said she chose wisely; for Herman was
young and handsome, and by his valor had won distinction in the army, and
had thrice been complimented by the general. So when the brave young
captain led Eloise to the altar there was great rejoicing in the village.
The beaux, forgetting their disappointments, and the maidens, seeing the
cause of all their jealousy removed, made merry together; and it was said
that never had there been in the history of the province an event so
joyous as was the wedding of Herman and Eloise.
But in all the village there was one aching heart. Ludwig, the young
musician, saw with quiet despair the maiden he loved go to the altar with
another. He had known Eloise from childhood, and he could not say when his
love of her began, it was so very long ago; but now he knew his heart was
consumed by a hopeless passion. Once, at a village festival, he had begun
to speak to her of his love; but Eloise had placed her hand kindly upon
his lips and told him to say no further, for they had always been and
always would be brother and sister. So Ludwig never spoke his love after
that, and Eloise and he were as brother and sister; but the love of her
grew always within him, and he had no thought but of her.
And now, when Eloise and Herman were wed, Ludwig feigned that he had
received a message from a rich relative in a distant part of the kingdom
bidding him come thither, and Ludwig went from the village and was seen
there no more.
When the burgomaster died all his possessions went to Herman and Eloise;
and they were accounted the richest folk in the province, and so good and
charitable were they that they were beloved by all. Meanwhile Herman had
risen to greatness in the army, for by his valorous exploits he had become
a general, and he was much endeared to the king. And Eloise and Herman
lived in a great castle in the midst of a beautiful park, and the people
came and paid them reverence there.
And no one in all these years spoke of Ludwig. No one thought of him.
Ludwig was forgotten. And so the years went by.
It came to pass, however, that from a far-distant province there spread
the fame of a musician so great that the king sent for him to visit the
court. No one knew the musician's name nor whence he came, for he lived
alone and would never speak of himself; but his music was so tender and
beautiful that it was called heart-music, and he himself was called the
Master. He was old and bowed with infirmities, but his music was always of
youth and love; it touched every heart with its simplicity and pathos, and
all wondered how this old and broken man could create so much of
tenderness and sweetness on these themes.
But when the king sent for the Master to come to court the Master returned
him answer: "No, I am old and feeble. To leave my home would weary me unto
death. Let me die here as I have lived these long years, weaving my music
for hearts that need my solace."
Then the people wondered. But the king was not angry; in pity he sent the
Master a purse of gold, and bade him come or not come, as he willed. Such
honor had never before been shown any subject in the kingdom, and all the
people were dumb with amazement. But the Master gave the purse of gold to
the poor of the village wherein he lived.
In those days Herman died, full of honors and years, and there was a great
lamentation in the land, for Herman was beloved by all. And Eloise wept
unceasingly and would not be comforted.
On the seventh day after Herman had been buried there came to the castle
in the park an aged and bowed man who carried in his white and trembling
hands a violin. His kindly face was deeply wrinkled, and a venerable beard
swept down upon his breast. He was weary and foot-sore, but he heeded not
the words of pity bestowed on him by all who beheld him tottering on his
way. He knocked boldly at the castle gate, and demanded to be brought into
the presence of Eloise.
And Eloise said: "Bid him enter; perchance his music will comfort my
breaking heart."
Then, when the old man had come into her presence, behold! he was the
Master,--ay, the Master whose fame was in every land, whose heart-music
was on every tongue.
"If thou art indeed the Master," said Eloise, "let thy music be balm to my
chastened spirit."
The Master said: "Ay, Eloise, I will comfort thee in thy sorrow, and thy
heart shall be stayed, and a great joy will come to thee."
Then the Master drew his bow across the strings, and lo! forthwith there
arose such harmonies as Eloise had never heard before. Gently,
persuasively, they stole upon her senses and filled her soul with an
ecstasy of peace.
"Is it Herman that speaks to me?" cried Eloise. "It is his voice I hear,
and it speaks to me of love. With thy heart-music, O Master, all the
sweetness of his life comes back to comfort me!"
The Master did not pause; as he played, it seemed as if each tender word
and caress of Herman's life was stealing back on music's pinions to soothe
the wounds that death had made.
"It is the song of our love-life," murmured Eloise. "How full of memories
it is--what tenderness and harmony--and oh! what peace it brings! But tell
me, Master, what means this minor chord,--this undertone of sadness and of
pathos that flows like a deep, unfathomable current throughout it all, and
wailing, weaves itself about thy theme of love and happiness with its
weird and subtile influences?"
Then the Master said: "It is that shade of sorrow and sacrifice, O Eloise,
that ever makes the picture of love more glorious. An undertone of pathos
has been _my_ part in all these years to symmetrize the love of
Herman and Eloise. The song of thy love is beautiful, and who shall say it
is not beautified by the sad undertone of Ludwig's broken heart?"
"Thou art Ludwig!" cried Eloise. "Thou art Ludwig, who didst love me, and
hast come to comfort me who loved thee not!"
The Master indeed was Ludwig; but when they hastened to do him homage he
heard them not, for with that last and sweetest heart-song his head sank
upon his breast, and he was dead.
1885.
+FIDO'S LITTLE FRIEND+
FIDO'S LITTLE FRIEND
One morning in May Fido sat on the front porch, and he was deep in
thought. He was wondering whether the people who were moving into the next
house were as cross and unfeeling as the people who had just moved out. He
hoped they were not, for the people who had just moved out had never
treated Fido with that respect and kindness which Fido believed he was on
all occasions entitled to.
"The new-comers must be nice folks," said Fido to himself, "for their
feather-beds look big and comfortable, and their baskets are all ample and
generous,--and see, there goes a bright gilt cage, and there is a plump
yellow canary bird in it! Oh, how glad Mrs. Tabby will be to see it,--she
so dotes on dear little canary birds!"
Mrs. Tabby was the old brindled cat, who was the mother of the four
cunning little kittens in the hay-mow. Fido had heard her remark very
purringly only a few days ago that she longed for a canary bird, just to
amuse her little ones and give them correct musical ears. Honest old Fido!
There was no guile in his heart, and he never dreamed there was in all the
wide world such a sin as hypocrisy. So when Fido saw the little canary
bird in the cage he was glad for Mrs. Tabby's sake.
While Fido sat on the front porch and watched the people moving into the
next house another pair of eyes peeped out of the old hollow maple over
the way. This was the red-headed woodpecker, who had a warm, cosey nest
far down in the old hollow maple, and in the nest there were four
beautiful eggs, of which the red-headed woodpecker was very proud.
"Good-morning, Mr. Fido," called the red-headed woodpecker from her high
perch. "You are out bright and early to-day. And what do you think of our
new neighbors?"
"Upon my word, I cannot tell," replied Fido, wagging his tail cheerily,
"for I am not acquainted with them. But I have been watching them closely,
and by to-day noon I think I shall be on speaking terms with
them,--provided, of course, they are not the cross, unkind people our old
neighbors were."
"Oh, I do so hope there are no little boys in the family," sighed the
red-headed woodpecker; and then she added, with much determination and a
defiant toss of her beautiful head: "I hate little boys!"
"Why so?" inquired Fido. "As for myself, I love little boys. I have always
found them the pleasantest of companions. Why do _you_ dislike them?"
"Because they are wicked," said the redheaded woodpecker. "They climb
trees and break up the nests we have worked so hard to build, and they
steal away our lovely eggs--oh, I hate little boys!"
"Good little boys don't steal birds' eggs," said Fido, "and I'm sure I
never would play with a bad boy."
But the red-headed woodpecker insisted that all little boys were wicked;
and, firm in this faith, she flew away to the linden over yonder, where,
she had heard the thrush say, there lived a family of fat white grubs. The
red-headed woodpecker wanted her breakfast, and it would have been hard to
find a more palatable morsel for her than a white fat grub.
As for Fido, he sat on the front porch and watched the people moving in.
And as he watched them he thought of what the redheaded woodpecker had
said, and he wondered whether it could be possible for little boys to be
so cruel as to rob birds' nests. As he brooded over this sad possibility,
his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a voice that fell
pleasantly on his ears.
"Goggie, goggie, goggie!" said the voice. "Tum here, 'ittle goggie--tum
here, goggie, goggie, goggie!"
Fido looked whence the voice seemed to come, and he saw a tiny figure on
the other side of the fence,--a cunning baby-figure in the yard that
belonged to the house where the new neighbors were moving in. A second
glance assured Fido that the calling stranger was a little boy not more
than three years old, wearing a pretty dress, and a broad hat that crowned
his yellow hair and shaded his big blue eyes and dimpled face. The sight
was a pleasing one, and Fido vibrated his tail,--very cautiously, however,
for Fido was not quite certain that the little boy meant his greeting for
him, and Fido's sad experiences with the old neighbors had made him wary
about scraping acquaintances too hastily.
"Turn, 'ittle goggie!" persisted the prattling stranger, and, as if to
encourage Fido, the little boy stretched his chubby arms through the fence
and waved them entreatingly.
Fido was convinced now, so he got up, and with many cordial gestures of
his hospitable tail, trotted down the steps and over the lawn to the
corner of the fence where the little stranger was.
"Me love oo," said the little stranger, patting Fido's honest brown back;
"me love oo, 'ittle goggie!"
Fido knew that, for there were caresses in every stroke of the dimpled
hands. Fido loved the little boy, too,--yes, all at once he loved the
little boy; and he licked the dimpled hands, and gave three short, quick
barks, and wagged his tail hysterically. So then and there began the
friendship of Fido and the little boy.
Presently Fido crawled under the fence into the next yard, and then the
little boy sat down on the grass, and Fido put his fore-paws in the little
boy's lap and cocked up his ears and looked up into the little boy's face,
as much as to say, "We shall be great friends, shall we not, little boy?"
"Me love oo," said the little boy; "me wan' to tiss oo, 'ittle goggie!"
And the little boy did kiss Fido,--yes, right on Fido's cold nose; and
Fido liked to have the little boy kiss him, for it reminded him of another
little boy who used to kiss him, but who was now so big that he was almost
ashamed to play with Fido any more.
"Is oo sit, 'ittle goggie?" asked the little boy, opening his blue eyes to
their utmost capacity and looking very piteous. "Oo nose be so told, oo
mus' be sit, 'ittle goggie!"
But no, Fido was not sick, even though his nose _was_ cold. Oh, no;
he romped and played all that morning in the cool, green grass with the
little boy; and the red-headed woodpecker, clinging to the bark on the
hickory-tree, laughed at their merry antics till her sides ached and her
beautiful head turned fairly livid. Then, at last, the little boy's mamma
came out of the house and told him he had played long enough; and neither
the red-headed woodpecker nor Fido saw him again that day.
But the next morning the little boy toddled down to the fence-corner,
bright and early, and called, "Goggie! goggie! goggie!" so loudly, that
Fido heard him in the wood-shed, where he was holding a morning chat with
Mrs. Tabby. Fido hastened to answer the call; the way he spun out of the
wood-shed and down the gravel walk and around the corner of the house was
a marvel.
"Mamma says oo dot f'eas, 'ittle goggie," said the little boy. "_Has_
oo dot f'eas?"
Fido looked crestfallen, for could Fido have spoken he would have
confessed that he indeed _was_ afflicted with fleas,--not with very
many fleas, but just enough to interrupt his slumbers and his meditations
at the most inopportune moments. And the little boy's guileless
impeachment set Fido to feeling creepy-crawly all of a sudden, and without
any further ado Fido turned deftly in his tracks, twisted his head back
toward his tail, and by means of several well-directed bites and plunges
gave the malicious Bedouins thereabouts located timely warning to behave
themselves. The little boy thought this performance very funny, and he
laughed heartily. But Fido looked crestfallen.
Oh, what play and happiness they had that day; how the green grass kissed
their feet, and how the smell of clover came with the springtime breezes
from the meadow yonder! The red-headed woodpecker heard them at play, and
she clambered out of the hollow maple and dodged hither and thither as if
she, too, shared their merriment. Yes, and the yellow thistle-bird, whose
nest was in the blooming lilac-bush, came and perched in the pear-tree and
sang a little song about the dear little eggs in her cunning home. And
there was a flower in the fence-corner,--a sweet, modest flower that no
human eyes but the little boy's had ever seen,--and she sang a little
song, too, a song about the kind old Mother Earth and the pretty sunbeams,
the gentle rain and the droning bees. Why, the little boy had never known
anything half so beautiful, and Fido,--he, too, was delighted beyond all
telling. If the whole truth must be told, Fido had such an exciting and
bewildering romp that day that when night came, and he lay asleep on the
kitchen floor, he dreamed he was tumbling in the green grass with the
little boy, and he tossed and barked and whined so in his sleep that the
hired man had to get up in the night and put him out of doors.
Down in the pasture at the end of the lane lived an old woodchuck. Last
year the freshet had driven him from his childhood's home in the
corn-field by the brook, and now he resided in a snug hole in the pasture.
During their rambles one day, Fido and his little boy friend had come to
the pasture, and found the old woodchuck sitting upright at the entrance
to his hole.
"Oh, I'm not going to hurt you, old Mr. Woodchuck," said Fido. "I have too
much respect for your gray hairs."
"Thank you," replied the woodchuck, sarcastically, "but I'm not afraid of
any bench-legged fyste that ever walked. It was only last week that I
whipped Deacon Skinner's yellow mastiff, and I calc'late I can trounce
you, you ridiculous little brown cur!"
The little boy did not hear this badinage. When he saw the woodchuck
solemnly perched at the entrance to his hole he was simply delighted.
"Oh, see!" cried the little boy, stretching out his fat arms and running
toward the woodchuck,--"oh, see,--'nuzzer 'ittle goggie! Turn here, 'ittle
goggie,--me love oo!"
But the old woodchuck was a shy creature, and not knowing what guile the
little boy's cordial greeting might mask, the old woodchuck discreetly
disappeared in his hole, much to the little boy's amazement.
Nevertheless, the old woodchuck, the little boy, and Fido became fast
friends in time, and almost every day they visited together in the
pasture. The old woodchuck--hoary and scarred veteran that he was--had
wonderful stories to tell,--stories of marvellous adventures, of narrow
escapes, of battles with cruel dogs, and of thrilling experiences that
were altogether new to his wondering listeners. Meanwhile the red-headed
woodpecker's eggs in the hollow maple had hatched, and the proud mother
had great tales to tell of her baby birds,--of how beautiful and knowing
they were, and of what good, noble birds they were going to be when they
grew up. The yellow-bird, too, had four fuzzy little babies in her nest in
the lilac-bush, and every now and then she came to sing to the little boy
and Fido of her darlings. Then, when the little boy and Fido were tired
with play, they would sit in the rowen near the fence-corner and hear the
flower tell a story the dew had brought fresh from the stars the night
before. They all loved each other,--the little boy, Fido, the old
woodchuck, the redheaded woodpecker, the yellow-bird, and the
flower,--yes, all through the days of spring and all through the summer
time they loved each other in their own honest, sweet, simple way.
But one morning Fido sat on the front porch and wondered why the little
boy had not come to the fence-corner and called to him. The sun was high,
the men had been long gone to the harvest fields, and the heat of the
early autumn day had driven the birds to the thickest foliage of the
trees. Fido could not understand why the little boy did not come; he felt,
oh' so lonesome, and he yearned for the sound of a little voice calling
"Goggie, goggie, goggie."
The red-headed woodpecker could not explain it, nor could the yellow-bird.
Fido trotted leisurely down to the fence-corner and asked the flower if
she had seen the little boy that morning. But no, the flower had not laid
eyes on the little boy, and she could only shake her head doubtfully when
Fido asked her what it all meant. At last in desperation Fido braced
himself for an heroic solution of the mystery, and as loudly as ever he
could, he barked three times,--in the hope, you know, that the little boy
would hear his call and come. But the little boy did not come.
Then Fido trotted sadly down the lane to the pasture to talk with the old
woodchuck about this strange thing. The old woodchuck saw him coming and
ambled out to meet him.
"But where is our little boy?" asked the old woodchuck.
"I do not know," said Fido. "I waited for him and called to him again and
again, but he never came."
Ah, those were sorry days for the little boy's friends, and sorriest for
Fido. Poor, honest Fido, how lonesome he was and how he moped about! How
each sudden sound, how each footfall, startled him! How he sat all those
days upon the front door-stoop, with his eyes fixed on the fence-corner
and his rough brown ears cocked up as if he expected each moment to see
two chubby arms stretched out toward him and to hear a baby voice calling
"Goggie, goggie, goggie."
Once only they saw him,--Fido, the flower, and the others. It was one day
when Fido had called louder than usual. They saw a little figure in a
night-dress come to an upper window and lean his arms out. They saw it was
the little boy, and, oh! how pale and ill he looked. But his yellow hair
was as glorious as ever, and the dimples came back with the smile that
lighted his thin little face when he saw Fido; and he leaned on the window
casement and waved his baby hands feebly, and cried: "Goggie! goggie!"
till Fido saw the little boy's mother come and take him from the window.
One morning Fido came to the fence-corner--how very lonely that spot
seemed now--and he talked with the flower and the woodpecker; and the
yellow-bird came, too, and they all talked of the little boy. And at that
very moment the old woodchuck reared his hoary head by the hole in the
pasture, and he looked this way and that and wondered why the little boy
never came any more.
"Suppose," said Fido to the yellow-bird,--"suppose you fly to the window
'way up there and see what the little boy is doing. Sing him one of your
pretty songs, and tell him we are lonesome without him; that we are
waiting for him in the old fence-corner."