THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
“Meadow Brook Station! Stop five minutes for refreshments!” shouted the
conductor, and alighting from the noisy, crowded cars, I stood once more
in my own native town, gazing with a feeling of delight upon the sunny
hills, dotted over with the old-fashioned gable-roofed houses, and upon
the green, grassy meadow, through which rolled the blue waters of the
Chicopee. I had not stood thus long, when a broad hand was laid upon my
shoulder, and the next instant my arms were around the neck of my
father, who, I thought, had changed much since last I saw him; for his
face was thin and pale, while threads of silver were scattered through
his soft, brown hair.
It was the loss of Anna, I fancied; and when we at last were seated in
the buggy, and on our way home, I hastened to speak of her, and to tell
him of the favorable report we heard of Herbert. But naught which I said
seemed to rouse him; and at last I, too, fell into the same thoughtful
mood, in which even old Sorrel shared, for he moved with his head down,
scarcely once leaving the slow, measured walk he had first assumed.
When, at last, we reached the hill-top, from which could be seen the
Homestead, with its maple trees in front, and long row of apple trees,
now in full bloom, in the rear, I started up, exclaiming, “Home, sweet
home! It never looked half so beautiful to me before.”
In a moment, however, I checked myself; for my father groaned aloud,
while his face grew whiter than before.
“What is it, father,” I asked; “are they sick, or dead?”
“Neither, neither,” he replied, at the same time chirruping to old
Sorrel, who pricked up his ears, and soon carried us to the door of our
house, where I was warmly greeted by all.
And still there was in what they said and did an air of melancholy which
puzzled me; and when I was alone with Lizzie, I asked her the cause why
they looked so sad? Bursting into tears, she replied, “This is not our
home any longer. We must leave it, and go, we don’t know where—to the
_poor-house_, ’pa sometimes says, when he feels the worst, and then
grandma cries so hard—oh, it’s dreadful!”
“And why must we leave it?” I asked; and Lizzie answered, “Pa has signed
notes for Uncle Thomas, who has failed, and now the homestead must be
sold to pay his debts—and they so proud, too!”
It was as Lizzie had said. Uncle Thomas Harding was my mother’s brother,
who lived in Providence, in far greater style, it was said, than he was
able to support. Several times had Aunt Harding visited us, together
with her two daughters, Ellen and Theodosia. They were proud, haughty
girls, and evidently looked upon us, their _country cousins_, with
contempt; only tolerating us, because it was pleasant to have some place
in the country where to while away a few weeks, which, in the heated,
dusty city, would otherwise hang heavily upon their hands. On such
occasions they made themselves perfectly at home, and somehow or other
managed to have my mother feel that she was really indebted to them for
the honor they conferred upon her, by calling her Aunty, by
appropriating to themselves the greater portion of the house, by
skimming the cream from the pans of milk, by eating up the pie she had
saved for us children when we came hungry and cross from school, and by
keeping old Sorrel constantly in the harness, or under the saddle.
In return for all this, they sometimes gave us an old collar, a silk
apron, a soiled ribbon, or broken parasol—and once, when my parents
visited them, they sent us a trunk full of rubbish, among which was
Fielding’s “Tom Jones!” This my grandmother cautiously took from the
trunk with the _tongs_ and threw into the fire, thereby creating in me
so great a desire for a knowledge of its contents, that, on the first
occasion which presented itself, I gratified my curiosity, feeling, when
I had done so, that my grandmother was right in disposing of the volume
as she did. Dear old lady! her aversion to everything savoring of
fiction was remarkable, and when not long since a certain _medium_
informed me that she, my grandmother, was greatly distressed to learn
that I had so far degenerated as to be _writing a book_, I thought
seriously of giving up my project at once, and should probably have done
so, had not another _medium_ of still greater power than the first
received a communication, stating that, after due reflection, my
grandmother had concluded that “I might continue the story called Meadow
Brook, provided I showed off my Aunt Harding and her two daughters in
their true character.” So, as a dutiful child, it becomes me to tell how
my father, who was warmly attached to my Uncle Thomas, lent him money
from time to time, and signed notes to the amount of several thousand
dollars, never once dreaming that in the end _he_ would be ruined, while
my uncle, influenced by his more crafty wife, managed in some
unaccountable way to maintain nearly the same style of living as
formerly; and if his proud daughters ever felt the ills of poverty, it
was certainly not apparent in the rich silks and costly furs which they
continued to sport.
It was a terrible blow to us all, but upon no one did it fall so heavily
as upon my father, crushing him to the earth, and rendering him nearly
as powerless as is the giant oak when torn from its parent bed by the
wrathful storm. The old homestead was endeared to him by a thousand
hallowed associations. It was the home of his boyhood, and around the
cheerful fires, which years ago were kindled on its spacious
hearth-stone, he had played with those who long since had passed from
his side, some to mingle in the great drama of life, and others to that
world where they number not by years. There, too, in his early manhood
had he brought his bride, my gentle mother, and on the rough bark of the
towering maples, by the side of his own and his brothers’ names, were
carved those of his children, all save little Jamie, who died ere his
tiny fingers had learned the use of knife or hammer. No wonder, then,
that his head grew dizzy and his heart sick as he thought of leaving it
forever; and when at last the trying moment came, when with trembling
hand he signed the deed which made him homeless, who shall deem him
weak, if he laid his weary head upon the lap of his aged mother and wept
like a little child?
A small house in the village was hired, and after a few weeks’
preparation, one bright June morning, when the flowers we had watched
over and tended with care were in bloom, when the robins which, year
after year had returned to their nests in the maple tree, were singing
their sweetest songs, and when the blue sky bent gently over us, we bade
adieu to the spot, looking back with wistful eye until every trace of
our home had disappeared. Farewell forever to thee, dear old homestead,
where now other footsteps tread and other children play than those of
“auld lang syne.” The lights and shadows of years have fallen upon thee
since that summer morn, and with them have come changes to thee as well
as to us. The maple, whose branches swept the roof above my window,
making oft sad music when tuned by the autumn wind, has been cut away,
and the robins, who brought to us the first tidings of spring, have died
or flown to other haunts. “The moss-covered bucket which hung in the
well” has been removed; the curb, whose edges were worn by childish
hands, is gone; while in place of the violets and daisies which once
blossomed on the grassy lawn, the thistle and the burdock now are
growing, and the white rose bush by the door, from whence they plucked
the buds which strewed the coffin-bed of our baby brother, is dead.
Weeds choke the garden walks, and the moss grows green and damp on the
old stone wall. Even the brook which ran so merrily past our door has
been stopped in its course, and its sparkling waters, bereft of freedom,
now turn the wheel of a huge saw-mill, with a low and sullen roar. All
is changed, and though memory still turns fondly to the spot which gave
me birth, I have learned to love another home, for where my blessed
mother dwells, ’tis surely home to me. By her side there is, I know, a
vacant chair, and in her heart a lonely void, which naught on earth can
fill; but while she lives, and I know that there is in the world for me
a mother and a mother’s love, can I not feel that I have indeed a home,
though it be not the spot where first she blessed me as her child?