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THE
HARVEST OF YEARS
BY
_M.L.B. EWELL_
NEW YORK
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
182 Fifth Avenue
1880
Copyright by
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
1880
TO MY FAMILY
THIS RECITAL OF MY LIFE IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
Old friends and other days have risen about me as I have written,
recalling, through my pen, these treasured experiences; and the pictured
characters are to me as real as earthly hands, whose touch we feel. I
have written as the story runs, with no effort at adorning, and those
who love me best will not bring to it the cold criticisms that may come
from other readers. To illustrate the truth of "a little leaven's
leavening the whole lump" has been my purpose, and if this purpose can
be even partially achieved, I shall deem myself sufficiently rewarded.
To those whom in previous years I have met in the field of my mission,
whose heart-felt sympathy and interest became the tide which bore me on,
as from public platform (as well as in private ways) I have, for truth's
dear sake, been impelled to utterances, to these friends I may hope this
volume will not come as a stranger, but that through it I may receive,
as in the days gone by, the grasp of their friendly hands.
M.L.B.E.
New Haven, Conn., _June_, 1880.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--Emily Did It 1
II.--From Girlhood to Womanhood 5
III.--Changes 11
IV.--Our New Friend 18
V.--Louis Robert 31
VI.--A Question and a Problem 49
VII.--Wilmur Benton 60
VIII.--Fears and Hopes 71
IX.--The New Faith 84
X.--Matthias Jones 95
XI.--The Teaching of Hosea Ballou 109
XII.--A Remedy for Wrong-talking 123
XIII.--Perplexities 137
XIV.--Louis returns 150
XV.--Emily finds peace 164
XVI.--Mary Harris 177
XVII.--Precious Thoughts 210
XVIII.--Emily's Marriage 226
XIX.--Married Life 240
XX.--Life Pictures and Life Work 254
XXI.--John Jones 274
XXII.--Clara leaves us 290
XXIII.--Aunt Hildy's Legacy 317
THE HARVEST OF YEARS
CHAPTER I.
"EMILY DID IT."
Among my earliest recollections these three words have a place, coming
to my ears as the presages of a reprimand. I had made a frantic effort
to lift my baby-brother from his cradle, and had succeeded only in
upsetting baby, pillows and all, waking my mother from her little nap,
while brother Hal stood by and shouted, "Emily did it." I was only five
years of age at that eventful period, and was as indignant at the
scolding I received when trying to do a magnanimous act, take care of
baby and let poor, tired mother sleep, as I have been many times since,
when, unluckily, I had upset somebody's dish, and "Emily did it" has
rung its hateful sound in my ears. To say I was unlucky was not enough;
I was untimely, unwarranted and unwanted, I often felt, in early years
in everything I attempted, and the naturally quick temper I possessed
was only aggravated and tortured into more harassing activity, rendering
me on the whole, perhaps, not very amiable. Interesting I could not be,
since whatever I attempted I seemed fated to say or do something to hurt
somebody's feelings, and, mortified at my failures, I would draw myself
closer to myself, shrinking from others, and saying again and again,
"Emily, why _must_ you do it?"
Introducing myself thus clouded to your sympathy, I cannot expect my
reader would be interested in a rehearsal of all my early trials.
You can imagine how it must have been as I marched along from childhood
through girlhood into womanhood, while I still clung to my strange ways
and peculiar sayings; upsetting of inkstands at school, mud tracking
over the carpet in the "best room" at home, unconscious betrayal of
mischief plans, etc., etc., made up the full catalogue of my days and
their experiences, and although I did have a few warm friends, I could
not be as other girls were, generally happy and beloved.
Mother was the only real friend I had; it seemed to me, as I grew older,
she learned to know that I was too often blamed, where at heart I was
wholly blameless, and when sometimes she stroked my hair, and said, "My
dear child, how unlucky you are," I felt that I could do anything for
her, and she never, to my remembrance, said "Emily did it."
From my father I often heard it. Hal rarely, if ever, said anything
else, and if I did sometimes darn his stockings a little too thick, it
was not such a heinous crime. He was handsome, and I was as proud of his
face as I was ashamed of my own; I know now that my features were not so
bad, but my spirit never shone through them, while Hal carried every
thought right in his face. My face also might have looked attractive if
I had only been understood, but I blame no one for that, when I was
covered even as a "leopard with spots," indicating everything but the
blessed thoughts I sometimes had and the better part of my nature. The
interval of years between my fifth and sixteenth birthdays was too full
of recurring mishaps of every kind to leave within my memory distinct
traces of the little joys that sometimes crept in upon me. I number them
all when I recall the face of my more than blessed mother and the mild
eyes of Mary Snow, who was kinder and nearer to me than the others of my
school-mates.
Hal grew daily more of a torment, and being five years my senior,
"bossed" me about to his satisfaction, except at such times as I grew
too vexed with him to restrain my anger, and turning upon him would pour
volleys of wrath upon his head. On these occasions he seemed really
afraid of me, and, for a time after, I would experience a little peace.
Learning from experience that keeping my thoughts to myself was the best
means of quiet, I grew, after leaving school, less inclined to associate
with anyone except sweet Mary Snow. One blessed consciousness grew daily
on me, and that was that I came nearer my mother's heart, and as I was
never lazy, I shared many of her joys and trials and learned to keep my
rebellious nature almost wholly in check. Father was a good man, but
unfortunate in business affairs, and the first time he undertook to
carry out an enterprise of his own, he pulled everything over on to his
head--just as I did the baby. This was of course a misfortune of which
his wife had her share, but she never complained. The lines about her
eyes grew darker, and she ceased to sing at her work as before, and I
knew, for she told me, that in the years that followed, I grew so close
to her, I became a great help to her and really shared her burdens. My
little brother, Ben, varied Hal's "Emily did it," and with him "Emily
will do it" was a perfect maxim. Kites I made without number, and gave
my spare time to running through the meadows with him to help him fly
them and to the making of his little wheelbarrows, and I loved him
dearly. I seemed now to be less unlucky, and at home, at least,
contented, but society had no charms for me and I had none for society;
consequently we could happily agree to let each other alone, but,
without repining, I had still sometimes, oh! such longings--for
something, I knew not what.