SWEETS AND BITTERS.
Among the sources of amusement and instruction enjoyed by Mrs. Page’s
family, was a weekly newspaper. I do not mean one of those folio medleys
of literature, news and advertisements, whose weekly visits one or two
dollars per annum will insure to all who desire them—though this useful
class of publications was fully appreciated in the family; but _the_
newspaper _par excellence_ was quite another affair. Its title was “THE
HOME WREATH;” the publishers were “Page & Co.;” the terms were “gratis;”
the publication day was Saturday. It was usually composed of one, two or
three sheets of letter paper, according to the lack or press of matter
supplied. All the members of the family were regular contributors, and
Aunt Fanny was the editress. The contents consisted of original
articles, and short selections cut from other newspapers. All original
articles were written on one side of narrow strips of paper, of uniform
size, so that they could be neatly pasted into the columns—for the
“Wreath” was not printed, and only one copy was issued. There was a
letter-box in the entry, in which all contributions were dropped, and
through which private communications were exchanged between members of
the family. Before the newspaper was established, the family had
resolved itself into a “Letter-Writing Society,” each member of which
was bound by the by-laws to write at least one letter or note per week
to some other member. This proved for a while a pleasant and profitable
arrangement; but the newspaper enterprise had now nearly superseded it.
Jessie’s conversation with some of her school-mates on scandal,
mentioned in the last chapter, led her thoughts to that subject,
afterward; and the longer she reflected on it, the more confirmed was
she in the belief that she had taken the right ground in the dispute.
Still, she did not know how to silence objections, and prove that she
was right, and her investigations did not aid her much. She looked into
Webster’s large Dictionary, and found that one definition of scandal was
“something uttered which is _false_ and injurious to reputation.” This
rather bore against her; but the other definitions, “reproachful
aspersion,” “opprobrious censure,” and “defamatory speech or report,”
seemed to favor her side of the question, as they did not distinctly
recognize falsity as an ingredient of scandal. The matter was by no
means clear to her mind, however, and as she felt the need of further
light, she wrote the following communication for the “Wreath,” and
dropped it in the letter-box, in the evening:
“MISS EDITOR:—Several of the scholars of the academy had a little
dispute, to-day, on the question whether a person is guilty of scandal
who merely tells the _truth_ about another. I took the ground that to
circulate evil reports about a person, even if they were true, was
scandal; but the others all disagreed with me. Please inform me,
through the columns of the ‘Wreath,’ whether I am right or wrong; and
if I am right, have the kindness to tell me how I can prove it.
“INQUIRER.”
Several days passed, and it was now the middle of the week. Nothing had
been seen of Henry since the Friday evening previous, when the referee
case was decided, and Jessie began to feel uneasy about his absence. It
was expected that he would come over on Saturday afternoon, and help
build the “Temple of Peace.” It was now too late to do this, a warm rain
and thaw having carried off most of the snow. On Wednesday afternoon
Ronald and Otis were going in search of the truant, that being one of
the regular half-holidays of the week in all the schools; but before
they were ready to start, Henry made his appearance.
“Well, you’re a pretty fellow!” cried Ronald, as soon as Henry hove in
sight. “So you’ve come over to help me build that snow temple, now the
snow has all gone.”
“Can’t we scrape up enough in the garden to do it now?—let’s go and
see,” replied Henry.
The boys went to the rear of the house, and found some depth of snow yet
remaining under the shadow of the buildings and fences. But it was too
hard and icy to answer their purpose, even had there been enough of it.
Henry seemed to be quite disappointed, and exclaimed, with considerable
warmth:—
“It’s too bad! But there, I knew it would be just so. I could have come
over Saturday afternoon just as well as not, but Mrs. Allen wouldn’t let
me. She never lets me go anywhere, when I want to.”
“Never mind,” said Ronald, “it’s likely we shall have plenty of snow
yet, and we’ll build the temple when it does come.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Henry, shaking his head. “Besides, I
wanted to build the temple right away—it spoils all the fun, waiting so
long. I wish I _had_ come over here Saturday afternoon, in spite of
her.”
“How did you happen to get away this afternoon?” inquired Otis.
“I asked Mr. Allen to let me come, this morning, and he said I might.
She tried to keep me at home, as it was; but I got the start of her,
this time. Mr. Allen is a real good man—I like him first rate; but I
can’t bear his wife—she’s just as cross as she can be to me.”
Henry remained with his friends most of the afternoon, and spoke rather
freely of his mistress, in the presence of other members of the family.
Jessie was much pained by these remarks, and before her brother returned
home, she had a private interview with him, and cautioned him against
speaking so disrespectfully of Mrs. Allen. After a few moments’
conference, however, she was more inclined to pity than to censure the
boy. The resentful feeling he had manifested in the presence of others,
melted into grief, as he opened his heart to his sister, and poured into
her ear the story of his sorrows. The poor fellow was still the victim
of homesickness, and not without good reasons, it seemed. He had found a
father, in Mr. Allen, who treated him with parental kindness and
indulgence, but he wanted a mother. He was persuaded that Mrs. Allen had
no affection for him. He thought she actually disliked him. She
manifested no motherly interest in his welfare—she evidently felt little
sympathy for him. She never praised, commended or encouraged him, but
spoke to him only to give orders and find fault. She actually seemed to
take pleasure in thwarting his plans and wishes, and interfering with
his enjoyment.
Such was Henry’s opinion of Mrs. Allen. It may have been unjust to her,
but he evidently was persuaded in his heart that the woman disliked him,
and he felt unhappy in consequence, and hinted of running away. As an
illustration of his trials, he said that whenever he finished up his
work, and wanted to go anywhere, Mrs. Allen would set him to braiding
husk mats, just to keep him busy, although “she had mats enough to last
her fifty years,” he added, rather indignantly. It was mat-braiding that
prevented his coming over to build the snow temple at the appointed
time, and he could not refer to his severe disappointment, even now,
without some petulance.
“Well,” said Jessie, after listening patiently to this outpouring of
complaint, “I am very sorry to hear this. I thought you had got a good
home, and were happy. But I cannot believe that Mrs. Allen is as bad as
you represent. There must be some mistake about this. She appears to be
a good, kind-hearted woman, and she speaks of you as though she felt an
interest in you. I can’t think that she dislikes you, unless you have
given her cause. Are you careful to try to please her?”
“Why, yes, I do everything she tells me to do,” replied Henry.
“That may be,” continued Jessie, “and yet you may not try to please her.
Do you remember the anecdote about the little girl who was asked why
everybody loved her? ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘unless it’s because I
love everybody.’ Now isn’t it possible that you think Mrs. Allen doesn’t
love you, because you don’t love her?”
“I know I don’t love her—but it’s because I can’t,” replied Henry.
“Suppose, now,” resumed Jessie, “you go home with the determination of
making her love you. Try to please her in everything. Do everything
cheerfully, and do it just right. Anticipate her wishes. Don’t let her
see any scowls, or impatient looks, or hear any fretting. Try to feel
grateful and affectionate towards her, and think as well of her as you
can. Come, Henry, will you do this?”
“It’s of no use to try that,” replied Henry. “You wouldn’t talk so, if
you knew her as well as I do. I don’t like her, and I can’t.”
“Then do it for Mr. Allen’s sake,” continued Jessie, “if you cannot for
hers. He treats you kindly, and you like him, and I suppose you would be
glad to show your gratitude to him. But what would he think of you, if
he knew how you feel towards his wife, and how you speak of her? For his
sake, if for no other reason, you ought to try to get along pleasantly
with her. But in any event, I beg of you never to say another word about
running away, unless you want to _wholly_ break mother’s heart. Sam ran
away from home, and you know the consequences of it. You and I are all
that mother has left now, and if we——” but emotion checked her
utterance, and she gave way to her tears.
Henry seemed somewhat affected by the advice and entreaties of his
sister, and before he left her, he promised to do his best to please
Mrs. Allen, for one week, and to refrain, during that period, from
saying anything evil of her, and from cherishing any unkind feelings
towards her, whatever provocation she might give him. At the end of that
time, or as soon after as convenient, he was to report the result to
Jessie.
The “sugar season” had now commenced. The rock or sugar maple is a
common tree, in Vermont, and every spring the farmers make large
quantities of sugar from its sap. The sap, when it begins to ascend, and
before the foliage has put forth, is very rich in sugar. The time when
this takes place varies from February to May, according to the season.
It was now the second week in March, and the sap had begun to run
freely. Mrs. Page did not own a “sugar plantation,” as a maple forest is
called; but there were several large maple trees on her land, near the
house, which Marcus had always been accustomed to tap, in the spring,
for his own amusement. The process of sugar-making was familiar to all
the family except Oscar, who had resided in Highburg only since the
previous autumn, and had never witnessed the operation. As Ronald hinted
pretty broadly that he was quite willing to undertake the responsibility
of extracting from the aforesaid half dozen trees their yearly rental of
molasses and sugar, Marcus, remembering the pleasure he derived from the
same occupation when a boy, gave up the business into the hands that
coveted it.
Ronald commenced his sugar operations early the next morning. With a
small auger he bored several holes in each tree, two or three inches
deep, and inclining upwards. These holes were about eighteen or twenty
inches from the ground, and on the south side of the tree. Into each
hole he drove a spile, which consisted of a piece of sumac, elder, or
sassafras, with the pith bored out, and one end sharpened. The sap
flowed through these spiles into the tubs or buckets placed to receive
it. When Ronald came home from school, in the afternoon, he found he had
collected several gallons of the sweet liquid, which he and the other
boys removed to the house. A large iron kettle was filled with the sap,
and placed over the fire. We are so accustomed to speak of “making”
sugar, that it is possible the word sometimes misleads us. We cannot
make sugar. The cane, the maple, the beet, and other plants, are our
sugar factories, but they give us their saccharine treasures greatly
diluted in water. We boil this water away, or evaporate it, and the
solid sugar remains—and that is the way we “make” sugar. As fast as the
water evaporated in Ronald’s kettle, new sap was added, so that the mass
did not thicken much that evening.
The next morning, Ronald again emptied his buckets, which were partly
filled. The kettle was kept over the fire, through the day, the sap
being turned in as fast as room was made for it by evaporation. In the
afternoon, when the liquid had thickened to a syrup, Mrs. Page removed
it from the fire, and strained it through woollen, and then suffered it
to cool and settle. In the evening, the boiling was resumed, under
Ronald’s direction, the white of an egg and a little milk being thrown
into the kettle, to clarify the compound. The scum was carefully removed
as it rose to the surface, and then the syrup was boiled with a gentle
fire until it began to grain. All hands were now called into the
kitchen, and the poetry of sugar-making commenced in earnest. Some of
the children had provided themselves with pieces of ice hollowed out
upon the upper surface, like saucers, into which a ladle full of the
delicious liquid was dropped, when it immediately assumed the
consistency of wax. Others dipped snow-balls into the “liquid
sweetness,” or dropped the syrup into cold water, in which it assumed
the waxy form; while the older ones were content to eat their “maple
honey” out of plain saucers. The syrup was by this time hard enough to
be taken off the fire. And now it had to be stirred vigorously until it
was cool enough to cake, when it was dipped into little round fluted
moulds. The grain now quickly hardened, the molasses drained off, and
the boys had a good supply of prime maple sugar the next morning.
The next morning was Saturday, and as the day was fine, and the maple
sugar fever was now fully developed, when Oscar proposed a visit in the
afternoon to a “sugar camp” about a mile distant, there was a general
response in favor of the suggestion, among the young folks, and Marcus
promised to go with them. When the party were about starting, after
dinner, it was found that Jessie was not among them. Her brother Henry,
too, whom Ronald had seen, on his way home from school, and invited, did
not make his appearance—a circumstance ominously suggestive of “husk
mats” to Jessie’s mind. Perhaps it was partly this fact, and not
entirely her sense of duty to the family, that led her to insist on
remaining at home and doing her part of the Saturday afternoon’s work,
although Marcus and Mrs. Page both urged her to join the party. She had
her reward, however, in an approving conscience, whichever may have been
the motive of the act of self-denial.
[Illustration: [Sugar Boiling]]
The “sugar camp” which the young people visited that afternoon, belonged
to one of their neighbors, who had about a hundred and fifty maple
trees. They found the man and one of his sons engaged in collecting and
boiling down the sap. The kettles were suspended by chains and hooks
attached to a stout pole, which was supported by two crotched posts.
There was a lively fire under the kettles, which was often replenished
by wood that had been seasoned and split. During the boiling process, it
is necessary to have some one on the ground night and day, and so they
eat and sleep in the camp, and there is no rest until the work is done.
A rude shed was erected, opposite the fire, for their protection. The
side towards the fire was open, for the sake of the warmth, and for
convenience in watching the boiling. The floor was thickly carpeted with
straw, and here the men sometimes took a nap when weary. One of the men
in the engraving is represented as bringing sap, and the other is
blowing the candy or wax, to ascertain how far the boiling has advanced.
Marcus and his companions passed an hour or two very pleasantly in the
camp, chatting with the men, watching their operations, and occasionally
taking a sip of the delicious syrup. Meanwhile Jessie, by virtue of
their absence, got the first reading of the “Home Wreath,” which made
its appearance in the afternoon. Under the editorial head, she found the
inquiry she had sent to the editress, appended to which was the
following reply:
“Our correspondent is right. To circulate evil reports about another,
without a good object in view, is wrong, even if the reports be true.
Those who do this from a habit of tattling, or to gratify an idle
curiosity, or from envy or malice, or from no cause whatever, are
guilty of scandal. We have no right to publish the evil deeds of
others, unless there is a prospect that we can accomplish good by
doing so. There are several ways in which our correspondent can prove
this to the satisfaction of her young friends, if they possess
ordinary candor.
“1st. She can prove it from the Bible, by such passages as these:
‘Thou shalt not go up and down as a tale-bearer among thy people.’[3]
‘Be not a witness against thy neighbor without cause.’[4] ‘Judge not,
that ye be not judged.’[5] ‘Speak evil of no man.’[6] There are many
other passages, enjoining the same duty.
Footnote 3:
Lev. 19:16.
Footnote 4:
Prov. 24:28.
Footnote 5:
Matt. 7:1.
Footnote 6:
Tit. 3:2.
“2d. She can prove it from writers on moral science, who generally
teach that it is wrong to utter injurious truth concerning others,
except in certain specified cases, where the ends of justice require
it”.
“3d. She can prove it by an argument drawn from analogy, thus:—Every
person possesses a reputation, which is the estimation in which he is
held by the community. This is a priceless possession, and the
greatest harm we can do to another, next to corrupting his moral
character, is to injure his reputation. This is what scandal does, and
it is this that makes it wrong. When we expose another’s faults,
without adequate cause, we virtually declare that he has more
estimation than he deserves, and we proceed to strip him of a portion
of it. If this is right, then when we find a dishonest man, who has
more property than really belongs to him, it would be right for us to
rob him of a part of it. Nobody would justify the latter case, and the
other must be settled on the same principles.”
“The exceptions to this rule are few and simple. When the ends of
justice, the protection of the innocent, or the good of the offender,
demand the exposure of a transgressor, we are bound to tell what we
know of his guilt, to those whose duty it is to call him to account,
or who may be exposed to danger from him.
“We are glad our friend has called our attention to this subject.
Evil-speaking is a sadly prevalent sin, in our community. Some wise
man once said, that ‘if all persons knew what they said of each other,
there would not be four friends in the world.’ We are afraid there are
many people in our town who would think themselves suddenly deserted
by every friend they ever had, if all the scandal and gossip in
circulation should be borne to their ears. Let us set our faces
against this mean and debasing sin.”
Miss Lee, while alluding to the facility with which scandal was
circulated in that community, might have pointed to a striking
exception, had it been proper. There was in that town a youth who had
run a wild and reckless course, bringing sorrow and shame to his
parents, and retribution to himself. He had twice been put into prison
on a charge of crime, and had finally been tried and sentenced for
larceny. There were three persons in the town who knew these facts in
his history, and only three. So inviolably had they kept the secret,
that no one else, not even the members of their own family, suspected
that the young man had ever departed from the path of rectitude. That
youth was Oscar Preston; and the three friends who had so jealously
guarded his reputation in Highburg from injuries which seemed almost
inevitable, were Mrs. Page, Miss Lee, and Marcus. They were induced to
receive him into their home, because he expressed a sincere desire to
reform; and to encourage him in his good purposes, they had carefully
refrained from all allusion to his past errors. Oscar at one time feared
that the secret had been divulged, by one of his old city comrades who
passed through the town with a circus company; but so far as he could
ascertain, his apprehensions were unfounded. He had now lived about six
months in Highburg, and had proved himself worthy of the kindness which
had been shown to him by his aunts and cousin.[7]
Footnote 7:
The early career of Oscar is related at length in the first two
volumes of this series, “Oscar,” and “Clinton.”