Much to my surprise, I was asked one day if I would be willing to edit
the William Henry Letters for publication in a volume.
At first it seemed impossible for me to do anything of the kind; “for,”
said I, “how can any one edit who is not an editor? Besides, I am not
enough used to writing.” It was then explained to me that my duties
would simply be to collect and arrange the Letters, and furnish any
little items concerning William Henry and his home which might interest
the reader. It was also hinted, in the mildest manner possible, that I
was not chosen for this office on account of my talents, or my learning,
or my skill in writing; but wholly because of my intimate acquaintance
with the two families at Summer Sweeting place,--for I have at times
lived close by them for weeks together, and have taken tea quite often
both at Grandmother’s and at Aunt Phebe’s.
* * * * *
After a brief consideration of the proposal, I agreed to undertake the
task; at the same time wishing a more experienced editor could have been
found.
My acquaintance with the families commenced just about the time of
William Henry’s going to school, and in rather a curious way.
I was then (and am now) much interested in the Freedmen. While serving
in the Army of the Potomac, I had seen a good deal of them, and was
connected with a hospital in Washington at the time when they were
pouring into that city, hungry and sick, and half-naked. I belonged to
several Freedmen’s Societies, and had just then pledged myself to beg a
barrelful of old clothing to send South.
But this I found was, for an unmarried man, having few acquaintances in
the town, a very rash promise. I had no idea that one barrel could hold
so much. The pile of articles collected seemed to me immense. I wondered
what I should do with them all. But when packed away there was room left
for certainly a third as many more; and I had searched thoroughly the
few garrets in which right of search was allowed me. Even in those, I
could only glean after other barrel-fillers. A great many garrets
yielded up their treasures during the war; for “Old clo’! old clo’!” was
the cry then all over the North.
Now, as I was sitting one afternoon by my barrel, wishing it were full,
it happened that I looked down into the street, and saw there my
_unknown friend_, waiting patiently in his empty cart. This _unknown
friend_ was a tall, high-shouldered man, who drove in, occasionally,
with vegetables. There were others who came in with vegetables also, and
oftener than he; but this one I had particularly noticed, partly because
of his bright, good-humored face, and partly because his horse had
always a flower, or a sprig of something green, stuck in the harness.
At first I had only glanced at him now and then in the crowd. Then I
found myself watching for his blue cart, and next I began to wonder
where he came from, and what kind of people his folks were. He joked
with the grocery-men, threw apples at the little ragged street children,
and coaxed along his old horse in a sort of friendly way that was quite
amusing. And though I had never spoken a word to him, nor he to me, I
called him my unknown friend, for a sight of him always did me good.
It was a bony old gray horse that he drove, with a long neck poking way
ahead; and the man was a farmer-like man, and wore farmer-like clothes;
but he had a pleasant, twinkling eye, and the horse, as I said before,
was seldom without a flower or bit of green stuck behind his ear or
somewhere else about the harness.
And often, when the town was hot and dusty, and business people were
mean, I would say to myself, as my friend drove past on his way home,
How I should like to ride out with him, no matter where, if ’t is only
where they have flowers and green things growing in the garden!
On this particular afternoon, as I have said, I observed my friend
sitting quietly in his cart, “bound out,” as the fishermen say,--sitting
becalmed, waiting for something ahead to get started.
It happened that I was just then feeling very sensibly the heat and
confinement of the town, and was more than usually weary of business
ways and business people; actually pining for the balmy air of pine
woods and the breath of flowery fields. And perhaps, thought I, my
friend may live among warm-hearted country folk, who will be delighted
to give to my poor contrabands, and whose garrets no barrelman has yet
explored!
So, giving a second look, and seeing that he still sat there, patiently
awaiting his turn, I ran down, without stopping to think more about it,
and asked if I might ride out with him.
“O yes. Jump in! jump in!” said he, in the pleasantest manner possible;
then he offered me his cushion, and began to double up an empty bag for
himself.
“No, no. Give me the bag,” said I; and folding it, I laid it on the
board, just to take off the edge of the jolting a little. And my seat
seemed a charming one, after having been perched up on an office-stool
so long.
That cushion of his took my eye at once. It looked as if it came out of
a rocking-chair. The covering was of black cloth, worked in a very
old-fashioned way, with pinks and tulips. The colors were faded, but it
had a homespun, comfortable, countrified look; in fact, the first glance
at that queer old cushion assured me that I was going to exactly the
right place.
Presently we got started, and certainly I never had a better ride, nor
one with a pleasanter companion. He asked me all sorts of funny
questions about electricity, and oxygen, and flying-machines, and the
telegraph, and the moon and stars.
“Now you are a learned man, I suppose,” said he; “and I want you to tell
me how that golden-rod gets its yellow out of black ground.” I said I
was not a learned man at all, and I didn’t believe learned men
themselves could tell how it got its yellow, and the asters their
purple, and the succory its blue, and the everlasting its white, all out
of the same black ground. He said he was pretty sure his wife couldn’t
boil up a kettleful and color either of those colors from them.
So we went talking on. He asked me where I’d been stopping, and what I
did for a living. And I told him what I did for a living, and all about
soldier life, and the contrabands, and about my barrel. Our road led
through woods part of the way, and I drew in long breaths of woody air.
He told me a funny woodchuck story, and had a good deal to say about
wood-lots,--how some rich men formerly owned great tracts, but becoming
poor were forced to sell; and how, when pines were cut off, oaks grew up
in their place. And among other things he told me that a hardhack would
turn into a huckleberry-bush. I said that seemed like a miracle. He was
going on to tell me about one that he had watched, but just then we
turned into a pleasant, shady lane.
We hadn’t gone far down this shady lane before we heard a loud screaming
behind us, and looking round saw a small boy caught fast in the bushes
by the skirt of his frock.
“Do you see that little boy?” I asked.
“O yes, I see him,” he said, laughing. “Hullo, Tommy! what you staying
there for?”
The boy kept on crying.
“What you waiting for?” he called out again, just as if he couldn’t see
that the bushes would not let the child stir.
We found out afterwards that little Tommy had hid there to jump out and
scare his father, but got caught by the briers. I went to untangle
him,--his clothes had several rents,--and was going to put him in the
cart; but he would get in “his own self,” he said. Then he stopped
crying, and wanted to drive. His father said, “No, not till we get
through the bars.”
Then Tommy began again. And at last he said, half crying and half
talking, “When I’m--the--father, and you ’m--the--ittle Tommy--you
can’t--drive--my--horse!”
His father laughed and said: “Well, when I’m the little Tommy, I’ll
brush the snarls off my face--so, and throw them under the wheels--so,
and let ’em get run over!”
This made Tommy laugh, and very soon after we came to the bars.
I looked ahead and saw a neat white house, not very large, with green
blinds and a piazza, where flowering plants were climbing. There was a
garden on one side and an orchard on the other. Just across the garden
stood an old, brown, unpainted house. There were tall apple-trees
growing near it, that looked about a hundred years old. My friend, Uncle
Jacob,--I’ve heard him called Uncle Jacob so much since that I really
don’t know how to put a Mister to his name,--said those were Summer
Sweeting trees, that had pretty nigh done bearing. He said there used to
be Summer Sweeting trees growing all about there; and that when he took
part of the place, and built him a house, he cut down the ones on his
land, and set out Baldwins and Tallmans and Porters; but his mother
kept her’s for the good they had done, and for the sake of what few
apples they did bear, to give away to the children.
The houses had their backs towards me, and I was glad of that, for I
always like back doors better than front ones.
Uncle Jacob whistled, and I saw a blind fly open, and a handkerchief
wave from an upper window, where two girls were sitting. Uncle Jacob’s
wife stepped to the door and waved a sunbonnet, and then stepped back
again.
“Here, Tommy,” said Uncle Jacob, “you carry in the magazine to Lucy
Maria, and here’s Matilda’s gum-arabic. I don’t see where Towser is.”
I jumped out, and said I guessed I would keep on; for I began to feel
bashful about seeing so many women-folks.
“Where you going to keep on to?” Uncle Jacob asked. “This road don’t go
any farther.”
I said I would walk across the fields to the next village and find a
hotel.
“O no,” said he, “stay here. Grandmother’ll be glad enough to hear about
the contrabands. She’ll knit stockings, and pick up a good deal about
the house to send off. And I want to ask much as five hundred questions
more about matters and things myself. Come, stay. Yes, we’ll give you a
good supper, a first-rate supper. Don’t be afraid. My wife’ll--There! I
forgot her errand, now! But if you--Whoa! whoa! Georgiana, take this
pattern in to your Aunt Phebe, and tell her I forgot to see if I could
match it; but I don’t believe the man had any like it.”
Georgiana was a nice little girl that just then came running across the
garden,--William Henry’s sister, as I learned afterwards.
Just then Aunt Phebe stepped to the door again.
“Here are two hungry travellers,” said Uncle Jacob, “and one of us is
bashful.”
“Well,” said Aunt Phebe, very cheerily, “if anybody is hungry, this is
just the right place. How do you do, sir? Come right in. We live so out
of the way we ’re always glad of company. Father, can’t you introduce
your friend?”
“Well--no--I can’t,” said he. “But I guess he’s brother to the
President!”