John Lyman was what his neighbors and townsfolk called a "hard-fisted"
man; and he had earned the name by dint of persevering stinginess from
boyhood up. He and his good wife Phoebe had accumulated a snug little
property, besides the many-acred farm which was to be his when
"grandmother" should relinquish her claim to all earthly possessions.
So he was really able to live in comfort; but, instead of that, the
old red farmhouse, which was his father's before him, was a model of
angularity, unadorned and unattractive, both inside and out, only
preserving a decent aspect through Phoebe's thrift and neatness.
Six little ones made music in the old house, save when their father
was there. His presence always seemed to send a chill to their little
warm hearts; for he made them feel that they were "bills of expense,"
and whenever they clamored for pretty things he told them that they
"cost money," and sent them away with a reproof for their desires.
And yet John Lyman claimed that he was _just_. "Don't I pay the
minister two dollars every single year?" he would say when the puzzled
collectors came to him, bank-book in hand. Of course he did; and, if
the reverend gentleman was a smart preacher, he added a peck of beans
to his annual subscription, although this came a little hard when the
harvest was poor. Not being a church member, he didn't feel called to
give to the "heathen," as he was wont to style all benevolent objects
of whatever character; and it was generally understood that the two
dollars were given on grandmother's account.
Dear Grandmother Lyman! Known and loved by everybody in Peltonville,
she was peacemaker, adviser, and, in fact, condensed sunshine in
John's household from January to December. She was a _Christian_, too;
and John was glad of that, for he believed that she and the Bible were
good in case of sickness or death; and, to tell the truth, he had a
vague idea that she would see that he had a place in heaven sometime,
after he had grown old and tired of this world. But Grandmother Lyman
knew better than this; and morning, noon, and night, her prayers
ascended for him, her only remaining child, and his family.
One would suppose that such a mother would have every want supplied,
even by a _penurious_ son. But Oh! the love of gain had so eaten into
John's best affections that it sometimes seemed as if he had forgotten
all claims upon him! So it was very trying to ask a favor of him, and
his mother denied herself many a necessity before doing it.
Something more than usually important troubled her mind, however, on
one bright spring morning as she sat by the kitchen fire. All the
funny little wrinkles in her dear old face, which were generally only
telegraph lines for smiles to run over, were sobered by some weighty
consideration. Her knitting-work lay idle in her lap; and she did not
even notice that little Tillie had pulled two of the needles out, nor
that mischievous Nick was sawing away on the back of her chair with
his antiquated pocket-knife. Whatever the problem was, it troubled her
all the forenoon; but after dinner she followed John to the door, and,
said she, "I've been thinking, John, couldn't I have a little room
somewhere all to myself? I'm going on seventy-eight now, you know, and
the children get pretty noisy sometimes; and I thought, maybe, if it
wouldn't be too much trouble--" "Hem! Well, really, grandma'm,"
taking off his hat and scratching his head dubiously, "the children do
make a precious hubbub here, that's a fact. But I declare! Well, I'll
see." And John went to the field.
As result of the "seeing," on the next rainy day there was heard the
noise of hammer and saw in a chamber over the kitchen. This chamber
had never been finished or used save as a place in which to store old
rubbish of all kinds, and was a gloomy, out-of-the-way room at best.
Grandmother Lyman looked rather sober over the prospect; and Phoebe
wanted to interfere, but as that was against the rules of the house,
John worked on in his own way, until, at the end of two days, and
after Phoebe had made several journeys up and down the back-stairs,
grandmother was told that her room was ready. The dear old lady
dragged herself up to the little chamber, while two little tots came
scrambling after, bearing her Bible, hymn-book, Wesley's Sermons, and
knitting-work. But it was no "palace of beauty" which she found
awaiting her. The room was low, slanting on one side, unpapered,
uncarpeted, and only lighted by two little dormer-windows, which did
their best to admit pure daylight in spite of the dark gingham
curtains so trimly hung before them. A bed stood in one corner, before
which was a braided rug, while a stove with two good legs occupied the
center of the room.
Grandmother looked out at the windows, but the view was not pleasant;
two barns, the watering trough, and the fashionable summer resort of
the ducks and geese, that was all. She was not one to complain; but
she sadly missed the grand sweep of mountain and valley which had
greeted her eyes from the "fore-door" ever since she was brought there
a happy bride. Turning to arrange her books on the little table, she
sang, in her wavering way,
"Thus far the Lord hath led me on;"
and, before the verse was finished, her heart was at peace again.
"Doin to stay up here all 'lone, g'anma?" said wee Tillie in pitying
accents. "O no! I guess you and Nick will come up real often, won't
you?" "I dess so; but 'taint very pitty," said the little one, as she
trotted down-stairs again.
Meanwhile, John, as he followed the plow, was thinking of the five
dollars expended in repairing the room, and trying to persuade himself
that he was indeed a worthy son. "Five dollars! It aint every one that
would do as much for his mother as I do for mine," he soliloquized.
"Too old to go up-stairs! Oh well, when she once gets up she is more
out of the way; and she wants quiet, you know."
Be it known that John sometimes found it necessary to reason with
himself in order to assure his conscience that everything was as it
should be in her domain; and sometimes, as on this occasion, she asked
so many questions that he was obliged to talk the livelong afternoon.
He retired that night thinking, "Five dollars for grandma'm's room and
the mare lame in both forefeet!" But while these dismal thoughts
filled his mind, his body seemed to be very suddenly transported to
the kitchen below. He was not alone, however, for a woman was there
before him, walking the floor with a child in her arms. Back and forth
she paced, carefully holding the pale-faced boy in the same position
while he slept.
"Ruth," said a voice from an adjoining room, "that little chap will
wear you all out. Can't I take him a little while?" "O no," was the
reply. "He likes to have me carry him so, poor little fellow." "Ah,"
said John to himself, "that's the way mother carried me six nights,
when I got scalded so terribly." The scene changed, and he saw himself
again. A crushed foot this time, demanding his mother's untiring care.
Again and again incidents of his life were re-enacted before him, but
always with his mother there, comforting, working, watching, or
praying. Whether sick in body or in mind, he saw how, all through his
life, a mother's tender love had surrounded him. And then he stood
once more beside his father's death-bed, and heard again the solemn
charge: "Be kind to your mother, John, and make her old age pleasant.
She is all you've got now." With these words ringing in his ears John
Lyman awoke to find the perspiration standing on his forehead, and a
strange, weird sensation resting on him like a spell, which he tried
in vain to throw aside. He tried to compose his mind, and again to
sleep; but though nothing peculiarly frightful had troubled his
slumber, he trembled from head to foot. In fact, Conscience so long
soothed and stifled, had with a terrible effort freed herself, and
determined to make one more effort for John's soul. She lashed him
unmercifully. She showed him how his soul was growing smaller and
meaner every day--how he was just a plague-spot on God's fair earth.
He saw himself in a mirror that reflected the inmost recesses of his
heart, and he was horrified at sight of the foulness so long
concealed.
As the hours wore slowly on toward the day, John grew to hate himself
more and more, until, almost stifled in-doors, he rose and went out.
Everything wore that unreal look that the first faint twilight gives.
Mysterious and still the mists lay along the foot of the mountain,
while the stars twinkled in the sky that seemed very, very far away.
From force of habit John Lyman strode into the yard where the cattle
were; but they only stared at him sleepily, as they lay tranquilly
chewing the cud; so he wandered out and down the path that led into
the little maple grove, which had been a playground for three
generations. As he passed slowly along under the solemn trees, his
boyhood days came back to him so fresh that the twoscore years of
hard, grinding toil, flew away as by magic. Oh, that happy, careless
boyhood! How had its golden promises been fulfilled! A blush of shame
rose to the man's cheek as he thought how hard and cold his heart had
grown. Hundreds of times he had stood beside the little stream which
he had now reached, without noticing a trace of beauty; but now, as
the sun lighted the distant mountain-top with a glow that crept over
its sides, a gladdening, awakening glow, seen only in the spring, it
seemed as though he had never looked upon the scene before. So new, so
beautiful! And a wonderful sense of God's nearness stole over him,
such as he had not felt before for years, and, at the same time, a new
love for his mother, who had so long been the only Bible he read,
filled his heart, like a fresh revelation from the Father. The lowing
of the cattle recalled him to himself, and he turned homeward, passed
up the lane into the barn, and was soon throwing hay into the mangers
below. Suddenly he stopped, thrust his pitchfork deep into the hay,
and said: "My mother _shall_ have a better room than that if it costs
_five hundred dollars_! Now that's so! Hurrah!" Good once more had
triumphed over evil, as the experience of the morning culminated in
this worthy resolution.
Soon the patter of childish feet was heard, and Tillie cried, "Pa, pa,
mother wants to know where you be, 'cause she's been worryin' about
you, fear you's sick, and breakses is all gettin' cold this minute.
Boiled eggs, too, aint it, Ruth?"
"I'll be in directly," came the answer from the high mow; so happy,
chattering, Tillie and quiet Ruth climbed down the high steps and
started toward the house. Their father overtook them as they stopped
to look at the ducks taking their morning bath, and catching Tillie
up, he put her on his shoulder, then drew down the little face and
kissed the fresh, sweet lips. "How natural!" one may say. No, not
natural for John Lyman, whose children feared far more than they loved
him.
Tillie was astonished and half frightened, and as she began to wriggle
uneasily, her father set her gently down.
In a trice she was beside Ruth, and pulling her head down she
whispered in her ear, "Pa just kissed me all his own self, Ruth." "Did
he?" said Ruth, opening her eyes very wide. Then she hurried on and
walked close by her father's side, while at her little heart fluttered
the hope that she too might receive a kiss. But she was not noticed;
and very much grieved she shrank away wondering if he loved Tillie
best.
"I dreamed of your father last night, John," said grandmother while
they were at breakfast, "and you can't think how good and natural he
looked." John didn't say anything. During the forenoon John had a long
conference with his wife which seemed to be satisfactory, for as he
left her he said, "Well, then, you take the things out this afternoon,
and Johnson shall come over to do the painting to-morrow." Before
night the cheerful little spare room which adjoined the parlor was
empty, and the old-fashioned paper, with its ever-recurring pictures
of a shepherdess, a hunter, and Rebecca at the well, stripped from the
walls.
Silence was imposed upon the children, for "grandma'm mustn't know,"
and the little things went round the house fairly aching with the
importance of their secret, and holding on to themselves for fear they
might tell. Mysterious trips were taken in the old market-wagon, and a
suspicious smell of new things filled the air; but when grandmother
inquired what was going on down-stairs, Ruth clapped both hands over
her mouth and Tillie screamed, "O nuffin, grandma, on'y--O Ruthie,
come down, quick!"
One bright May afternoon, however, the work was finished, and John,
jealous of the privilege, donned his Sunday coat and stumbled up to
his mother's room in the most awkward manner to break the news.
"Mother, can you come down below a few minutes now?" said he, trying
to appear unconcerned.
"Why, la me!" smoothing her "front" and refolding her neckerchief,
"has the minister come? I aint fixed up one bit."
"No, no, mother, there's no occasion for fixin' up. It aint much of
anything, only me--that is,--well, perhaps you'd better come now."
"John," said the old lady solemnly, laying her hand on his arm, "if
it's bad news, just tell me right away. The Lord will give me strength
to bear it, just as he has the dispensations all along."
Poor John! how to acquaint the old lady with this "dispensation" he
didn't know; but Tillie came to the rescue.
"O g'anma," said she, seizing one of the wrinkled hands, "we can't
wait another minute. It's all splendid; and Nick, and Ruth, and baby,
and I have all got our clean aprons on, and Wesley, he's in, so come
straight down," and timing her impatient hops to the tottering
footsteps she guided, Tillie soon had grandmother in the midst of a
smiling group, while the relieved father brought up the rear.
"Now, g'anma," said Ruth, seizing the free hand, "shut up your eyes
tight till we say open 'em," and then the delighted children, followed
by the rest of the family, drew her into the old spare room. "Now,
now, g'anma, open, open! and what do you see?" they cried, dancing and
clapping their hands. Grandmother looked around her in perfect
amazement. Truly a wondrous change had been wrought! Beautiful light
paper covered the walls, and a bright, soft carpet the floor, while
pretty shades hung before the four great windows, whose tassels swung
back and forth in the sweet May air like bells, dumb for joy.
"John, John, what does this mean?"
"It's your room, g'anma," shouted a chorus of voices.
"Why, this is good enough for a queen! You can't mean it all for a
poor old creature like me," and the darling old lady's eyes began to
run over with happy tears, while John tried in vain to find voice to
answer, and dear, patient Phoebe sobbed outright.
"Why, g'anma," shouted little Nick at the top of his voice, "I
shouldn't think you'd cry, 'cause this is the cutest room in the
house; and when me and Wes comes in, we've got to take off our boots
and talk real soft. And Oh, just look at this table-cloth and this
rug! It feels like velvet! and this stool--do you see?--it's got a
cat's foot on every one of its legs. That's to put you foot on, you
know; and, O say, can't we play puss in the corner sometimes if we're
easy?" "G'anma, I can almost smell the roses," said Ruth, patting the
paper.
So with the help of the children the room was christened, everything
examined and praised, and at last the noisy little troop withdrew.
Then Grandmother Lyman, with a sense of exquisite comfort, sank into
the nice, new arm-chair close to the window.
"Like it pretty well, do you?" queried John, as he took another chair
near her.
"Like it? It seems too good to be real. I've thought sometimes that
perhaps in my mansion--heavenly, you know--I should find everything
soft, and bright, and cozy like; but to have a room like this here on
earth, why, John, I can't tell you how thankful I feel. 'Twas lonesome
up garret there, and yesterday I dragged in the old cradle and the
little wheel to make it seem more social like; but the cradle was
empty and broken, and the wheel brought back the old days when I used
to sit and spin, while your father husked corn; so they didn't cheer
me up much. But I never mistrusted what you was doing down here for
me. John, I believe nothing but the Spirit of God could have coaxed
you into this. Don't you think I'll see you a Christian yet before I
die?" and the anxious mother laid her trembling hand on her son's big
brown one.
"Well, mother, I don't know;" then came a long pause, for the farmer,
almost as silent habitually as the fields he tilled, could find no
words to express his feelings.
"I've been feelin' kind of queer lately, and seems as if everything
has changed wonderfully. 'Twas a shabby trick, my putting you up in
that old room, and it troubled me considerably one night, and then
other things kept coming up, till--well--I believe I'm the worst man
on earth. Speaking of being a Christian, I guess likely I might fly
about as easy. I wish I was an out-and-out one; but I tell you what,
mother, there aint a man in town but that would think I pretended it
all so's to make a dollar out of somebody;" and John drew his hand
across his eyes, as though there were tears starting somewhere which
must be warned to keep away from the windows.
Grandmother didn't care if the tears did come in her eyes, for they
were joyful ones.
[Illustration: Grandmother's Room.]
"Well, the Lord would know better," said she comfortingly, "and by and
by others would. It'll be your works, as well as your words, that will
tell if you're in earnest."
"That's so, mother, that's so; the minister said that very thing last
Sabbath. He's been preaching right at me this two months, and it made
me mad at first. I thought I wouldn't give him a cent this year, but I
guess he told the truth."
"Yes, of course he did. That's what he's made for. But now, John, you
won't give up seeking until you get the blessing, will you? Promise me
this and one thing more. Don't let the love of this world, and the
deceitfulness of riches, tempt you to give way to Satan for one
minute."
"Well, I'll see what I can do, but it looks like a great task before
me." And John really felt as though he was preparing for a stern
conflict. He went out to his work again, while Grandmother Lyman knelt
down on the soft, bright carpet, the sunset light falling around her,
and sent a prayer up to the Father's throne so full of thanksgiving
and love that the answer was not delayed, but came, bringing peace and
joy to her trusting heart.
Pretty soon Phoebe came stealing in with a look of apprehension
resting upon her countenance.
"Mother," said she, sinking into the first chair she reached, "I'm
afraid John's going to die."
"My child, what do you mean?" queried the old lady, pushing her
spectacles to the top of her head.
"Because he's changed so lately. Fixing up this room, you know, and
being so gentle like--what can it mean unless he's going to die?"
"Don't worry, Phoebe, John's just getting ready to live. I tell you,
daughter, he's experiencing religion."
A flash of joy lighted up Phoebe's worn face as she spoke.
"Do you think so, mother? Oh, if it only could be true!"
A cry from the kitchen called her thither again, but her heart was
light, and old hymns sprang unbidden to her lips, all tuned to the
upgushing happiness within. The little ones caught the infection, and
capered up and down the old kitchen, until wearied out they dropped
off to sleep and to bed.
That day saw the beginning of true happiness in the old red farmhouse.
Not but that John passed through many fierce struggles, for the world
acquires a strong hold in forty-five years, but with God's help he
gained the victory; and humble and happy, one week later he called his
little family together, and told them of his new hopes and purposes.
We can not describe that scene, but surely the angels saw and rejoiced
over it. Then once more, before his friends and neighbors in
prayer-meeting, with trembling voice he related his experience. Tears
and "amens" greeted it, all testifying to the spirit of true brotherly
love. Some, to be sure, there were who said, "Can the leopard change
his spots?" But when, Sabbath after Sabbath, they saw that the head of
the "Lyman pew" neither pretended to be asleep, nor to have forgotten
his wallet when the much-abused green contribution bag swung along,
but instead deposited therein the freshest scrip, they said, "Truly,
this is the Lord's doings, and is marvelous in our eyes."
Perhaps the story of the change at home is about as Tillie whispered
it in the ear of a confidential friend. "You see pa asks a blessin'
now 'fore we eats; and then we read the Bible; and he prays the Lord
to keep us good all the day long; and so we grow gooder and gooder. Pa
bought mother a new black silk dress the other day, and Oh, he's so
much lovinger than he ever was before!" Yes, he was "lovinger," as
Tillie called him, for truly he had passed from death unto life.
The old homestead, too, soon began to change visibly. The shades of
ugliness that had so long hung over it vanished away. Its very angles
seemed to grow less acute, and never, in its palmiest days, had it
rejoiced in such bright coats of paint. But, with all the brightening
up without and within, there was one most cozy place of all where the
family was wont to assemble each Sabbath evening. "Seem's though it's
always full of rainbows," Nick said; but that must have been owing to
the blessed influence of her who sat there, for this dearest of all
nooks was "grandmother's room."
God has not promised skies ever blue,
Flower-strewn pathways always to you;
God has not promised sun without rain,
Joy without sorrow, peace without pain;
But God has promised strength from above,
Unfailing sympathy, undying love.