"I wish you would go over to the post office, Nathan," said my aunt one
evening in the latter part of winter; "none of us have been over to
Fulton this week, and who knows but there may be letters," "Who knows
indeed!" replied Uncle Nathan, "I am as you say a careless mortal, and
never inquired for letters the last time I was over, so I'll just
harness up and drive over this clear moonlight evening." He returned in
an hour's time and soon after entering the house, handed a letter to my
aunt saying, "read that and see what you think of it." Seating herself
and adjusting her glasses, she unfolded the letter, and perused it
carefully; but any one acquainted with her would at once have been
aware, by the expression of her countenance, as she read, that the
communication, whatever it was, was not of an agreeable nature. The
letter was from a cousin residing in the State of Massachusetts whom
they had not seen for many years, but who used in his youthful days to
be a frequent visitor. Indeed it would seem, by all accounts, that he
was fonder of visiting than of any regular employment. This cousin,
Silas Stinson, had grown up to manhood with no fixed purpose in life. As
a boy he was quick at learning, and obtained a fair education, which, as
he grew older, he was at much pains to display by using very high-flown
language, which often bordered upon the flowery and sublime. I believe
in their younger days Aunt Lucinda used to allow "it fairly turned her
stomach to hear the fellow talk." He was a dashing, showy follow when
young, and was soon married to a delicate and lady-like girl, just the
reverse of what his wife should have been. A woman like Aunt Lucinda
would have given him an idea of the sober realities of life, but the
disposition of the wife he chose was something like his own, dreamy and
imaginative, with none of the energy necessary to face the trials and
difficulties which lie in the life-path of all, in a greater or less
degree. He had tried various kinds of business but grew weary of each
in its turn. At the time of his marriage his father set him up in a
dry-goods store, and, had he given proper attention to his business,
would probably have become a rich man. For a time things went on
swimmingly, but the novelty of the thing wore off, and he soon felt like
the clerk who told his employer "he only liked one part of the business
of store-keeping, and that was shutting the blinds at night." After
trying various kinds of business, with about equal success, he got
the idea, and a most absurd one it was, that farming "was his proper
vocation." His indulgent father again assisted him, by purchasing for
him a small farm, thinking he would now apply himself and make a living.
His father maintained a kind of oversight of matters during his
life-time, but in process of time he died, and Silas was left to his
own resources. His father's property was divided among the surviving
children, and it was found that Silas had already received nearly double
his share of the patrimony, so, of course, nothing remained for him at
the time of his father's death. Necessity at length drove him to
mortgage his home, and he never paid even the interest on the claim, and
when the above mentioned letter was written, the term of the mortgage
was nearly expired, and he must soon seek another home for his family.
Such was the idle whimsical being who now wrote to these relatives to
know what they thought of his removal to Canada, and only waited, as he
said, to see what encouragement they could give him adding that he was
willing to work and only asked them to assist him in getting his family
settled till he could look about him a little and see what was to be
done, signing himself their attached but unfortunate cousin. But the
professed attachment of her Cousin Silas failed to call up a very
pleased expression of countenance as my aunt refolded the letter,
saying, "Well if this isn't a stroke of business, then I'm mistaken.
What are you going to do about it Nathan Adams?" "I can't answer that
question just yet," said my uncle, reflectively. "I think we'd better all
have a night's sleep before we say any more about it." They felt in duty
bound to reply to the letter, but what reply to make was an unsettled
question for several days. They were aware that, for all their cousin's
professed willingness to work, the care of his family would in all
probability devolve upon them, for some time at any rate. But Grandma
Adams had tenderly loved her brother, Silas' father, and at length by
her advice a favourable reply was written. "I can tell, you one thing,"
said Aunt Lucinda, after the letter was sent away, "I cannot, and will
not have Silas Stinson's family move in here, for if he has no more
method in governing his children than in other things we might as well
have as many young Indians right out of the Penobscot Tribe brought into
the house. I am willing to help them as far as I can, but bringing them
into the house is out of the question." "I'll tell you what you can do,
Nathan," said grandma, "you know there's an old house on that piece of
land you bought of Squire Taylor last fall, and you just fix it up as
well as you can, and let them live in it this summer, and by the time
another winter comes you can see further about it; perhaps by keeping
round with Silas you may get some work out of him on the farm this
summer, and his family must have a home of some kind. Providence has
been very kind to us, and we must lend them a helping hand." "I dare
say," replied my aunt, in her usual sharp manner, "that Providence has
done as much for Cousin Silas as for us, only while we have toiled early
and late, he has been whiffling about from one thing to another, trying
to find some way to live without work; but I guess he'll learn before
he's done that he'll have to work for a living like other people. But I
suppose, Nathan as they've got to come you'd better see about fixing up
that old house right away. If there was only himself and wife, I'd try
and put up with them here for a while, but with their five wild tearing
children--it makes me shudder to think of it!"
When the matter of Cousin Silas' removal to Canada became a settled
thing it appeared less terrible than upon first consideration. April
arrived, bringing it's busy season of sugar-making, and it's mixture
of sunshine and showers. Amid the hurry of work Uncle Nathan found time
to give some attention to the matter of repairing the house, for the
reception of the expected new-comers. Aunt Lucinda said she supposed her
mother was right, and it was their duty to extend a helping hand to
Cousin Silas, but at the same time it appeared to her that the path of
duty really did have a great many difficult places, and she supposed as
we could not go round about them we must keep straight forward and get
over the hard places as well as we could. Preparations went on apace,
and before the last of April the repairs on the house were completed. I
was still studying hard, expecting this to be my last year at school. Of
all the family I had become most attached to my aged grandma, whose life
was evidently drawing near the close. She liked to have me near her,
and, to her, no other reading was like mine; and the best which any one
else could do, fell far below my services in waiting upon her; and my
uncle and aunt often wondered what mother would do when the time came
that I must leave them. Considerate ones, spare yourselves these
forebodings, for, before I shall have left your family-circle, your aged
mother will have been called to enjoy that rest which remaineth to all
who live the life she has lived. It was thought by many to be somewhat
singular that a youth of my age should have been so happy and contented
in the quiet dwelling of my uncle, whose youngest occupants were
middle-aged, and they could not be supposed to have much sympathy with
the thoughts and feelings of youth. I had gone there in the first place
merely to obey the wishes of my mother, which had ever been as a law
unto me. I loved my uncle from the first, and, instead of feeling anger
at the distrust with which my aunt was inclined to regard me, I felt a
sort of pity for the lonely woman, and resolved, if possible, to teach
her by my conduct that I was not altogether so bad as she supposed; and
my kindness to her soon softened a heart which had become somewhat
unfeeling, from having so few natural ties, as well as for want of
intercourse with the world at large; and I learned that my attempts to
please her, especially when they involved self-sacrifice, made me all
the happier, so true it is that "it is more blessed to give than to
receive."
And in time I learned to love my home at the old farm house, with an
affection so deep that the thought of leaving it was very unpleasant to
me. I had also become much attached to my kind teacher and his family,
and thought with pain of a separation from them. But the time was now
drawing nigh when, like every youth who must depend upon his own
exertions for success, I must go forth to make my own way in the world.
By diligent study I had acquired an education which would enable me to
fill a position of trust and responsibility, when I should have gained
a practical knowledge of business. My mind turned toward mercantile
pursuits, and it was my intention (after leaving school) to seek a
situation where I could obtain experience in business.