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THE FATHERLESS CHILD.
All the saints had not appeared on earth till the birth of Chloe
Angeline Stickney on All Saints’ Day, 1830. At least, if she is not one
of the All Saints she is one of the Hall Saints. No doubt the
associations connected with her birthday helped the growing girl toward
a realization of her ideals; for in after life, in the sweet confidence
of motherhood, she used to tell her sons that her birthday fell on All
Saints’ Day.
But it appears that all the saints were not present at the baby’s birth.
Else the child’s father might have been rescued from the demon of strong
drink—the child herself might have been blessed with a strong body as a
fit abode for her spirit—and she might have been protected from the
silly women who named her!
Chloe Angeline! Think of it! The name Angeline alone might do. Chloe
might do; for, altho’ unheard of in the Cook and Stickney families, it
belonged to the good woman who nursed the child’s mother. But Chloe
Angeline!—the second name borrowed from a cheap novel current in those
days! What’s in a name? In this case this much: Proof that the father’s
standing in his own family was lost. His eldest daughter was named
Charlotte, the third one Mary—the same sensible names as were borne by
two of his sisters in New Hampshire. Apparently the defenceless babe was
a fatherless child from the day of birth.
Rough and crude was the civilization into which she was born. Bears
still haunted the woods and gathered blackberries in the more remote
fields. In a deep ravine Angeline’s sister Elmina encountered a
wild-cat. Matches were not yet in use. Spinning-wheel and household loom
supplied the farmer’s homespun clothing. For salt Grandfather Cook drove
sixty miles to Syracuse. Bigoted religion was rampant, with forenoon and
afternoon services, and a five-mile drive in Grandfather’s wagon. Aunt
Clary Downs, one of Elisha Cook’s daughters, kept a dream-book; and his
mother in her old age used to protect parties of young people from
witches. Singing schools flourished. Elmina Stickney, herself a good
singer, was won by David, not the sweet singer of Israel, but David
Cooley, sweet singer of Rodman. Education was dispensed in the brutal,
old-fashioned way. For example, a teacher in those parts invented the
fiendish punishment of piercing the lip of an offending pupil with a
needle. Elisha, a weak-minded boy who lived at Angeline’s, was flogged
within an inch of his life for cutting up and hiding the
school-mistress’s cowhide. Two school supervisors were present at this
flogging. The schoolmistress would ply her punishment until exhausted;
then rest, and go at it again. Small wonder that Elisha survived the
beating only a year or two.
Angeline’s oldest sister, Charlotte, married young. There were no
brothers or father, so that the mother and four young daughters were
thrown upon their own resources. Grandfather Cook, who lived half a mile
up the road, was their kindly protector. But from the beginning the
sisters learned to look out for themselves and one another. It must have
been a quiet household, saddened by the thought of the absent father,
and much too feminine. For one thing I am very grateful: the mother did
not whip the obedient, sensitive little Angeline.
Angeline was a very solemn little girl, happy at times, with a sort of
saintly happiness, but never merry. Perhaps too many of the saints had
watched over her nativity. Had some little red devil been present he
might have saved the situation. Had her cousin Orville Gilman, son of
the renegade Daniel, only appeared upon the scene to inform the company
that Elisha Cook’s hens, of New England ancestry, were stalking about
crying, “Cut-cut-cut-Connecticut”!
At three years of age Angeline began to attend district school. At five
she was spinning flax. As a little girl, watching her mother at work,
she wondered at the chemistry of cooking. At nine she had read a church
history through. At twelve she was an excellent housekeeper, big enough
to be sent for to help her sister Charlotte keep tavern. So from her
earliest years she was a student and worker. She had some playmates, her
life-long friends, and she enjoyed some sober pleasures. But the healthy
enjoyment of healthy, vigorous childhood she missed—was frightened
nearly out of her wits listening to the fearful stories told about the
fireside—and broke her leg sliding down hill when she was eight years
old. The victim of a weak stomach, coarse fare did not agree with her;
and again and again she vomited up the salt pork some well-meaning
friend had coaxed her to eat. But she accepted her lot patiently and
reverently; and after the cold dreary winters one blade of green grass
would make her happy all day long.
She really did enjoy life intensely, in her quiet way, and no doubt felt
very rich sometimes. There were the wild strawberries down in the meadow
and by the roadside, raspberries and blackberries in abundance, and in
the woods bunch-berries, pigeon-berries, and wintergreen. The flowers of
wood and field were a pure delight, spontaneous and genuine; and to the
end of her days wild rose and liverwort sent a thrill of joy to her
heart. She and her sister Ruth, three years younger, were inseparable
companions. Near the house was the mouth of a deep ravine—or gulf, as it
is called in Rodman—and here the little sisters played beside the brook
and hunted the first spring flowers. Still nearer was a field filled
with round bowlders, a delightful place to play house. Across the road
was a piece of woods where the cows were pastured, and whither the
sisters would go to gather hemlock knots for their mother.
The house stood upon a knoll commanding a pleasant landscape; and from
high ground near by the blue waters of Lake Ontario could be seen. The
skies of Jefferson County are as clear as those of Italy, and in the
summer Angeline lived out of doors in God’s temple, the blue vault
above, and all around the incense of trees and grasses. Little she cared
if her mother’s house was small; for from the doorstep, or from the roof
of the woodhouse, where she used to sit, she beheld beauty and grandeur
hidden from eyes less clear. Nor was she content simply to dream her
childhood’s dream. The glory of her little world was an inspiration.
Ambition was born in her, and she used to say, quaintly enough, “You may
hear of me through the papers yet.”
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