of old-fashioned square bee-hives near them, which I had not noticed
before. Miss Cynthia told me that the bee money was always hers; but
she lost a good many swarms on account of the woods being so near, and
they had a trick of swarming Sundays, after she'd gone to meeting;
and, besides, the miller-bugs spoilt 'em; and some years they didn't
make enough honey to live on, so she didn't get any at all. I saw some
bits of black cloth fluttering over the little doors where the bees
went in and out, and the sight touched me strangely. I did not know
that the old custom still lingered of putting the hives in mourning,
and telling the bees when there had been a death in the family, so
they would not fly away. I said, half to myself, a line or two from
Whittier's poem, which I always thought one of the loveliest in the
world, and this seemed almost the realization of it. Miss Cynthia
asked me wistfully, "Is that in a book?" I told her yes, and that she
should have it next time I came up, or had a chance of sending it.
"I've seen a good many pieces of poetry that Mr. Whittier wrote," said
she. "I've got some that I cut out of the paper a good while ago. I
think every thing of 'em."
"I put the black on the hives myself," said she. "It was for mother,
you know. She did it when father died. But when my brother was lost,
we didn't, because we never knew just when it was; the schooner was
missing, and it was a good while before they give her up."
"I wish we had some neighbors in sight," said she once. "I'd like to
see a light when I look out after dark. Now, at my aunt's, over to
Eliot, the house stands high, and when it's coming dark you can see
all the folks lighting up. It seems real sociable."
We lingered a little while under the apple-trees, and watched the wise
little bees go and come; and Miss Cynthia told me how much Georgie was
like his grandfather, who was so steady and quiet, and always right
after his business. "He never was ugly to us, as I know of," said she;
"but I was always sort of 'fraid of father. Hannah, she used to talk
to him free's she would to me; and he thought, 's long's Hannah did
any thing, it was all right. I always held by my mother the most; and
when father was took sick,--that was in the winter,--I sent right off
for Hannah to come home. I used to be scared to death, when he'd want
any thing done, for fear I shouldn't do it right. Mother, she'd had a
fall, and couldn't get about very well. Hannah had good advantages.
She went off keeping school when she wasn't but seventeen, and she
saved up some money, and boarded over to the Port after a while, and
learned the tailoress trade. She was always called very smart,--you
see she's got ways different from me; and she was over to the Port
several winters. She never said a word about it, but there was a young
man over there that wanted to keep company with her. He was going out
first mate of a new ship that was building. But, when she got word
from me about father, she come right home, and that was the end of it.
It seemed to be a pity. I used to think perhaps he'd come and see her
some time, between voyages, and that he'd get to be cap'n, and they'd
go off and take me with 'em. I always wanted to see something of the
world. I never have been but dreadful little ways from home. I used to
wish I could keep school; and once my uncle was agent for his
district, and he said I could have a chance; but the folks laughed to
think o' me keeping school, and I never said any thing more about it.
But you see it might 'a' led to something. I always wished I could go
to Boston. I suppose you've been there? There! I couldn't live out o'
sight o' the woods, I don't believe."
"I can understand that," said I, and half with a wish to show her I
had some troubles, though I had so many pleasures that she did not, I
told her that the woods I loved best had all been cut down the winter
before. I had played under the great pines when I was a child, and I
had spent many a long afternoon under them since. There never will be
such trees for me any more in the world. I knew where the flowers grew
under them, and where the ferns were greenest, and it was as much home
to me as my own house. They grew on the side of a hill, and the sun
always shone through the tops of the trees as it went down, while
below it was all in shadow--and I had been there with so many dear
friends who have died, or who are very far away. I told Miss Cynthia,
what I never had told anybody else, that I loved those trees so much
that I went over the hill on the frozen snow to see them one sunny
winter afternoon, to say good-by, as if I were sure they could hear
me, and looked back again and again, as I came away, to be sure I
should remember how they looked. And it seemed as if they knew as well
as I that it was the last time, and they were going to be cut down. It
was a Sunday afternoon, and I was all alone, and the farewell was a
reality and a sad thing to me. It was saying good-by to a great deal
besides the pines themselves.
We stopped a while in the little garden, where Miss Cynthia gave me
some magnificent big marigolds to put away for seed, and was much
pleased because I was so delighted with her flowers. It was a gorgeous
little garden to look at, with its red poppies, and blue larkspur, and
yellow marigolds, and old-fashioned sweet, straying things,--all
growing together in a tangle of which my friend seemed ashamed. She
told me that it looked as ordered as could be, until the things begun
to grow so fast she couldn't do any thing with 'em. She was very proud
of one little pink-and-white verbena which somebody had given her. It
was not growing very well; but it had not disappointed her about
blooming.
Georgie had come back from his ramble some time before. He had cracked
the lobster which Miss Hannah had promptly put on to boil, and I saw
the old gray cat having a capital lunch off the shells; while the
horse looked meeker than ever, with his headstall thrown back on his
shoulders, eating his supper of hay by the fence; for Miss Hannah was
a hospitable soul. She was tramping about in the house, getting
supper, and we went in to find the table already pulled out into the
floor. So Miss Cynthia hastened to set it. I could see she was very
much ashamed of having been gone so long. Neither of us knew it was so
late. But Miss Hannah said it didn't make a mite o' difference, there
was next to nothing to do, and looked at me with a little smile, which
said, "You see how it is. I'm the one who has faculty, and I favor
her."
I was very hungry; and, though it was not yet six, it seemed a whole
day since dinner-time. Miss Hannah made many apologies; and said, if I
had only set a day, she would have had things as they ought to be. But
it was a very good supper, and she knew it! She didn't know but I was
tired o' lobsters. And when I had eaten two of the biscuit, and had
begun an attack on the hot gingerbread, she said humbly that she
didn't know when she had had such bad luck, though Georgie and I were
both satisfied. He did not speak more than once or twice during the
meal. I do not think he was afraid of me, for we had had many a lunch
together when he had taken me out fishing; but this was an occasion,
and there was at first the least possible restraint over all the
company, though I'm glad to say it soon vanished. We had two kinds of
preserves, and some honey beside, and there was a pie with a pale,
smooth crust, and three cuts in the top. It looked like a very good
pie of its kind; but one can't eat every thing, though one does one's
best. And we had big cups of tea; and, though Miss Hannah supposed I
had never eaten with any thing but silver forks before, it happened
luckily that I had, and we were very merry indeed. Miss Hannah told us
several stories of the time she kept school, and gave us some
reminiscences of her life at the Port; and Miss Cynthia looked at me
as if she had heard them before, and wished to say, "I know she's
having a good time." I think Miss Cynthia felt, after we were out in
the woods, as if I were her company, and she was responsible for me.
I thanked them heartily when I came away, for I had had such a
pleasant time. Miss Cynthia picked me a huge nosegay of her flowers,
and whispered that she hoped I wouldn't forget about lending her the
book. Poor woman! she was so young,--only a girl yet, in spite of her
having lived more than fifty years in that plain, dull home of hers,
in spite of her faded face and her grayish hair. We came away in the
rattling wagon. Georgie sat up in his place with a steady hand on the
reins, and keeping a careful lookout ahead, as if he were steering a
boat through a rough sea.
We passed the house where the auction had been, and it was all shut
up. The cat sat on the doorstep waiting patiently, and I felt very
sorry for her; but Georgie said there were neighbors not far off, and
she was a master hand for squirrels. I was glad to get sight of the
sea again, and to smell the first stray whiff of salt air that blew in
to meet us as we crossed the marshes. I think the life in me must be
next of kin to the life of the sea, for it is drawn toward it
strangely, as a little drop of quicksilver grows uneasy just out of
reach of a greater one.
"Good-night, Georgie!" said I; and he nodded his head a little as he
drove away to take the horse home. "Much obliged to you for my ride,"
said he, and I knew in a minute that his father or one of the aunts
had cautioned him not to forget to make his acknowledgments. He had
told me on the way down that he had baited his nets all ready to set
that evening. I knew he was in a hurry to go out, and it was not long
before I saw his boat pushing off. It was after eight o'clock, and the
moon was coming up pale and white out of the sea, while the west was
still bright after the clear sunset.
I have a little model of a fishing dory that Georgie made for me, with
its sprit-sail and killick and painter and oars and gaff all cleverly
cut with the clumsiest of jackknives. I care a great deal for the
little boat; and I gave him a better knife before I came away, to
remember me by; but I am afraid its shininess and trig shape may have
seemed a trifle unmanly to him. His father's had been sharpened on the
beach-stones to clean many a fish, and it was notched and dingy; but
this would cut; there was no doubt about that. I hope Georgie was
sorry when we said good-by. I'm sure I was.
A solemn, careful, contented young life, with none of the playfulness
or childishness that belong to it,--this is my little fisherman, whose
memory already fades of whatever tenderness his dead mother may have
given him. But he is lucky in this, that he has found his work and
likes it; and so I say, 'May the sea prove kind to him! and may he
find the Friend those other fishermen found, who were mending their
nets on the shores of Galilee! and may he make the harbor of heaven by
and by after a stormy voyage or a quiet one, whichever pleases God!
End of Project Gutenberg's Old Friends and New, by Sarah Orne Jewett