FROM GIRLHOOD TO WOMANHOOD.
The old adage of a poor beginning makes a good ending, may have been
true in my case; certain it is that my sorest mishaps, or those I had
least strength to bear, came between my fifth and sixteenth birthdays.
After this came the happy period in which I was helpmeet to my mother,
and the gaining of an almost complete victory over my temper, even when
teased by Hal, who at that time was developing rapidly into manhood and
was growing very handsome.
I was not changed outwardly, unless my smile was more bright and
frequent, as became my feelings, and my eyes, I know, shot fewer dark
glances at those around me when mishaps, although less frequent, came
sometimes to me. My good angel was with me oftener then, I thought, and
as I often told mother, it seemed to me I had daily a two-fold growth,
meaning that there was the growing consciousness of a nature pulsating
as a life within my heart that seemed like a strong full tide constantly
bearing me up. I scarcely understood it then, but now I know I had, as
every one has, a dual nature, one side of which had never been allowed
to appear above its earthly covering.
My daily trials, coming always from luckless mistakes of my own, were
equal in their effect to the killing of my blossoms, for if any dared to
show their heads an untimely word or deed would bring a reproach--if
only in the three words, "Emily did it"--and this reproach was like the
stamping of feet on violet buds, breaking, crushing and robbing them of
their sweet promise. The life then must go back into the roots and a
long time elapse ere they could again burst forth; so all my better
nature, with its higher thoughts longing to develop, was forced down and
back, and now, in the enjoyment of more favorable environment, I was
beginning to realize the fruitful life which daily grew upon me, and
with it came strength of mind and purpose and an imagery of thought that
filled my soul to a delicious fullness.
What a power those conditions were to me! I drank joy in everything. My
mother's step was as music, and her teachings even in household affairs
a blessing to my spirit. I remember how one day in September I was
dishing soup for dinner, the thought--suppose that she dies--came
rushing over me like a cold wave, and I screamed aloud; dropping my
soup-dish and all, and frightening poor mother almost out of her senses.
"Have you scalded yourself, dear?" she cried, running toward me, and I
was nearly faint as I replied:
"Only a thought. I am so sorry about the soup, but it was a terrible
thought," and then I told her.
No word of chiding came from her lips. I thought I saw tears in her eyes
as she said: "I should not like to leave you, dear. We are very happy
here together," and I know my eyes were moist as I thought, "Emily did
it," but her mother understands her.
How necessary all those days of feeling, full and deep, combined with
the details of practical life were to me, and although I shall never
date pleasant memories back to my earlier years, still if I had been too
carefully handled and nursed I never could have enjoyed those days so
much.
Nearly twenty-four months of uninterrupted work and enjoyment passed
over me--and here is a thought from that first experience in soul
growth; I cannot ever believe that people will enjoy themselves lazily
in heaven more than here; I have another, only a vague idea of how it
will be, but I cannot think of being idle there--when a little change
appeared, only to usher in what proved to be a greater one, and the days
of the June month in which the first came I shall never forget. It was
when Hal came to me, hemming and thinking under my favorite tree in the
old orchard, while beside me lay my scrap-book in which I from time to
time jotted thoughts as they came to me. Hal sat down beside me and said
at once:
"I'm going to try it, Emily." I dropped hemming and thinking together,
and said:
"Try what?"
"Try my luck."
I was only bewildered by his answer, and he continued:
"Emily, I'm determined to carry out the desires of my life, and now I am
intent on a Western city as the place best calculated to inspire me with
the courage and strength I need to carry out my aims and purposes, and
I thought I'd tell you now that I feel decided, and you will tell mother
for me; will you?"
Never before in my life had I felt Hal so near to me. His manner toward
me had changed, of course, as he grew into manhood, and "Emily, will you
sew on this button?" or "Emily, are my stockings ready?" were given in
place of "Emily did it," but now, as he looked full in my face, and even
passed his arm about me with true brotherly affection, he seemed so
near, that the hot tears chased each other down my cheeks, and I sat
speechless with the feelings that overcame me. I thought of the handsome
face--always handsome in whatever mood--opposite me at the table, of the
manly form and dignified carriage I had watched with pride, and when I
could speak, I said,
"Hal I cannot let you go." Hal was brave, but I knew he felt what I
said, for his looks spoke volumes as he said,
"Shall you miss me so much?"
"Oh! Hal," I cried, "we love you, mother and I, I never knew how much
till now." His head dropped a moment, and then he suddenly said,
"You are the best sister a fellow ever had," and swallowing something
that rose in his throat, marched off through the fields directly away
from the house. I gathered up my work and scrap book, went in and
prepared the supper, showing outwardly no emotion, but with my heart
throbbing as if it would tell the secret on which I pondered, while I
wondered how I should tell my mother.
Hal came in late to supper. I rushed from the table when I heard his
footsteps, and sought my room until I heard him coming up to his room,
when I went down stairs and busied myself with my work as usual.
I washed the milk pans three or four times over that night, and was
about carrying them into the "best room," when mother said,
"Why, Emily, we keep our milk pans in the buttery."
"Oh!" I said, turning suddenly and letting my pans fall and scatter. And
when I picked them up and collected my senses, I thought, "I cannot tell
mother to-night after all, Hal will stay with us." When things were at
last in their places, I sauntered out through the lane in the beautiful
moonlight, and coming back met Hal who took my hand in his and
whispered,
"Tell mother to-morrow, please, I want to go away next month and some
things are necessary to be done."
"Have you told father yet?"
"No, but he will not care."
"Father _will_ care," I replied, "but you know since his misfortune, and
his conclusion that he cannot do anything but carry on the farm, he
seems to have lost his sprightly step and his cheery ways of old."
"Well, Emily," said Hal, "I am no help to him on the farm, and could not
be if I tried, and the work I am doing now is anything but satisfying to
me."
Then the thought occurred to me, I had no idea of what the boy desired
to accomplish, and the question what would you do Hal? was answered in
this wise--
"Wait till I've been away six months."
"To build mud houses and fill them with mud people, was your favorite
amusement when you were a boy, I remember," I said, and he gave me such
a queer look that I started with the impression that came with it, but
said no more, and we walked along and went into the house together.
The next day after dinner, when we were cleared up and alone in quiet, I
told mother. She was of course covered with surprise, but her words came
in wisdom and she said:
"I can imagine what Halbert desires to do, and although the way looks
anything but clear, still I know I can trust him anywhere. He is a
blessed son and brother, Emily, and I doubt not I am selfish to feel
saddened by the thought of his leaving home (and a tear drop fell as she
spoke). I only fear he may be sick. His lungs are not very strong."
"What will father say?" I asked.
"Father's heart will miss him but he will not seek to stay an endeavor
of his earnest, ambitious boy."
So my trial was not so hard as I had expected, and father was just as
wise as mother, and I alone rebellious concerning his departure. I cried
night and day whenever I could get a moment to cry in, and I could not
help it. How perverse I felt, although doing all I could to forward his
departure, which was daily coming nearer, and when the 4th of July came
and with it the gala day which the entire country about us enjoyed, I
could not and did not go to the pic-nic, or the speech ground, and I
succeeded in making all at home nearly as unhappy as myself.