A conversation to which I listened between the Widow Green and Mrs.
Waters, another neighbor who assisted in the preparations for the
funeral, filled me with astonishment, it being the first time I had ever
listened to any thing of the kind. It was the night before the burial
and the two women were busily employed in making up mourning for the
family; I was seated quietly in a corner of the room, and if they were
aware of my presence they did not allow it to interfere with the
conversation which they carried on in that low tone which people mostly
use in the house of death. "Do you believe in warnings?" said the Widow
Green, addressing Mrs. Waters. "Most sartinly I do, and with good
reason," was the reply. "For many and many a time I have been warned of
sickness and death in the neighborhood." The stillness and lateness of
the hour, together with the employment of the women, surrounded as they
were with crape and black cloths of different kinds, struck me with a
feeling of superstitious awe; and I listened to their conversation as
children listen to a story which fills them with terror, while yet they
are unwilling to lose a word. "It was only last winter," continued Mrs.
Waters, "just before old Mr. Harris died--you remember him, he lived,
you know, over on the east road toward the pond--as I was saying, one
night about nine o'clock, there came two quick raps at our front door,
as loud almost as if you had struck with a hammer; Waters was just
lighting his pipe at the kitchen fire, and he gave such a spring when
the sudden thumps came on the door that he upset a pitcher of yeast I
had left by the fire to rise, of course that was of no consequence, and
I only mention it as a circumstance connected with the warning, and to
let you know that he was frightened, for you know for a general thing he
kind o' makes light o' these things and says 'all old women, who drink
green tea, have dreams and wonderful warnings.' As I was sayin', he ran
to unbolt the door, without stoppin' to pick up the broken jar, and of
course no one was there. 'Now,' said I, 'perhaps you will believe in
warnings, for if ever there was a warning that was one.' 'I believe',
said he, 'that some of the boys that know how foolish you are, are trying
to frighten you.' 'I wonder which was most frightened', said I, 'for I
didn't upset the yeast jar at any rate,' and the next day when we got
word that old Mr. Harris died at nine o'clock the night before, he
looked kind o' sober, and said, 'well it _is_ singular, that is
certain,' and I could never get another word out of him about it, but
you may know he thought it was a serious matter, for the very next time
he went over to the village he brought me home a much nicer jar than the
old one, without me as much as reminding him of it, and most always I
have to tell him half a dozen times before I can get him to remember any
little thing of that kind." They went on with their work for a few
moments in silence, when the Widow Green, sinking her voice almost to a
whisper, said: "I will tell you, Mrs. Waters, but you mustn't mention
it for the world, we had two warnings over at our house of Grandma Adams'
death. It's better than a month ago, I dreamed of bein' over here,
helping to make up all kinds of finery for a weddin', and you know to
dream of a weddin' is a sure sign of a funeral; and the next mornin' I
said to my daughter Matilda Ann, there will certainly be a death over at
Nathan Adams' before long. I didn't say nothin' to any one else, but kept
kind o' ponderin' it in my mind, and then one night, about sunset, last
week, our dog Rover went over on the hill and sat with his face toward
here and give the mournfulest howls I ever did hear. I sent my boy
Archibald to call him in, for I couldn't bear to hear it. The dog
wouldn't stir, and the boy dragged him into the house by main strength,
and I shut him up in the back-kitchen, but the first time the door was
opened he sprung out, in less than a minnit he was over on the hill
again, and set up them awful howls a second time, and if that wasn't a
warnin' I don't know what would be one." The widow had a very
appreciative listener in the person of Mrs. Waters, and I know not how
many experiences of a similar kind might have been related, had not the
entrance of my aunt put a sudden check upon their conversation; for they
both knew her sufficiently well, to be aware that a conversation of this
kind would not for a moment be tolerated in her hearing. It was something
entirely new to me, and it kept me awake for a long time after I retired
to rest. Can it be, thought I, that an All-wise Providence makes known by
such means, events which are not revealed to the wisest and best of
mankind: and young as I was, I banished the idea, as an absurdity, and
to quiet my mind, I began repeating to myself what had been grandma's
favorite psalm, and before I reached the close fell quietly asleep. In
after years, the conversation between these two women often recurred to
my mind, and more than once I have smiled at the recollection of the
broken yeast-jar.
But they verily believed their own statements, having listened to
stories of a similar kind since their own childhood; a belief in them
almost formed a part of their education, and having never set reason at
work upon the subject, they were sincere in their belief that events are
often foreshadowed by those superstitious signs which formed the topic
of their conversation.
The funeral was over with its mourning weeds and solemn burial service,
and all that was earthly of Grandma Adams rested in the grave; but what
shall we say of those she has left in their now lonely home? My uncle
and aunt were still as deeply attached to their mother as in the days of
their childhood and youth, and her age and utter dependence upon them
for years past had all the more endeared her to their hearts, and when
she was thus suddenly removed a blank was left in their home which they
felt could never again be filled. But the affairs of life do not stand
still, and we are often obliged to take up again the realities of life,
with the tears of bereavement and anguish still upon our cheeks, and
even this may be wisely ordered to prevent us from indulging our grief,
even to a morbid melancholy. But lonely enough seemed the house when the
kind friends and neighbors had all again departed to their homes, and we
were left alone. There was grandma's arm-chair with the little stand for
her large Bible, her glasses lay upon its worn cover, even as she had
laid them aside on the last night of her life. Many had offered to
remove them, but my aunt would not allow them to be disturbed, and it
was several days after the funeral that I quietly removed them to
another room while my aunt was busied elsewhere, and she never
questioned me as to why I had done so. From the day of her mother's
death my aunt was a changed woman, her disposition seemed softened and
subdued, and if, from long habit, she sometimes spoke in sharp quick
tones, she was gentle and far more forbearing with the failings of
others than formerly. Uncle Nathan said but little, but it was easy to
see that the loss of his aged mother was much in his mind; and often was
he seen to brush away a tear when his eye rested upon the vacant corner.
It was not long after this that they received a letter from cousin
Silas, informing them that he expected to arrive with his family in
a few days. Aunt Lucinda never uttered an impatient word, but began
quietly to make preparations for their reception. Very likely she
remembered what her mother had said sometime before. It is very often
the case that advice which we give little heed to while the giver is in
life and health becomes a sacred obligation after their death. Almost
every day she went over to the house which was to be their home, and
spent several hours in putting it in order, and when they arrived, a
comfortable home awaited them. Cousin Silas was, as may be supposed, a
much talking, do-nothing kind of a man, his language was plentifully
adorned with flowery words, to which he often added scripture
quotations, although seemingly he took little pains to inculcate in his
own family the principles taught in that sacred volume. When, soon after
his arrival, he was informed of their late bereavement, he made a long,
and I suppose very appropriate speech, but I am inclined to think, it
failed to carry much consolation to his listeners. It would be difficult
for one to imagine a more disorderly family than was that of Cousin
Silas, and yet strange to say he seemed to regard his wild unmanageable
children as models of perfection. His own imagination was very fertile,
and he really indulged the illusion that they were all he would have
liked them to be. His wife, her spirits broken down by poverty and care,
had long since ceased to make the best of the little left in her hands,
and her family government was also extremely nominal in its nature, so
that their arrival at Uncle Nathan's, to say the least of it, was not
a desirable affair. There were five children altogether. I believe it
would have been hard to find a worse boy than their eldest son Ephraim,
aged about fourteen. The next in age was George Washington, but I am
certain, had he lived in the days of that illustrious man, he would have
looked upon his namesake with any other feeling rather than pride.
Ephraim had one way, and George Washington had another. The eldest was
noisy and boisterous and delighted in malicious fun, and was continually,
as the neighbors said, "up to some kind of mischief;" while the other was
too indolent even to do mischief; he had one of those disagreeable sulky
natures which we sometimes meet with always grumbling and out of humor
with himself and every one else. Then there were three little girls, and
all that caused them to be less troublesome than the boys, was, that they
were younger; the youngest was little more than a babe and gave the least
trouble of either of the five. They remained at Uncle Nathan's for two or
three days before removing to the home prepared for them; and they
certainly were not an agreeable addition to our quiet household. I could
not have believed it possible that my aunt could have borne the annoyance
with so much patience. She went about quietly and made the best of the
matter, altogether unlike my Aunt Lucinda of two years ago, and I believe
she had a feeling of pity for the weary-looking mother of this disorderly
family; she did remark to the Widow Green, on the day of their removal,
that "she believed if they had staid much longer, her head would have
been turned with their noise and confusion." But they were gone at last,
and assisted by the Widow Green my aunt went from room to room, and
endeavored again to bring order out of the mass of litter and confusion;
remarking that the house looked as though it had been turned upside down,
and it did really seem pleasant when, after two days' labor, the rooms
were again put to rights, and the dwelling brought back to its usual
state of cleanliness and order. My aunt said, "it seemed a waste of labor
to fit up a home for a family who didn't know how to take care of it; but
then," added she, "if we do our duty, it wont be our fault if they fail
to do theirs." In a few days she went over to see how they were getting
along, and allowed upon her return that she had serious fears the
children would pull her in pieces. In spite of their mother's feeble
attempts at authority, the little girls pulled at the ribbons on her cap,
picked at her cuff-buttons, and one of them made a sudden snatch at her
brooch, my cherished gift; the mother ran to the rescue, but not till the
pin attached to the brooch was first bent, then broken. "What shall I do
with these children," said the mother. Provoked by the injury to her much
valued brooch, my aunt replied, hastily: "I know what I would do, I
would whip them till they'd learn to keep their hands off what they've
no business with." But when she saw how grieved the woman seemed to be,
she felt sorry she had spoken so hastily. My aunt said it seemed as
though night would never come, when I was to drive over to take her
home, for there was not, she said, a minute's peace in the house during
the whole afternoon, and glad enough was she to return at night to her
own quiet home. It was a severe trial to one of my aunt's orderly
habits, to be daily subjected to the visits of the noisy mischievous
children of her cousin, and although she bore it with more patience than
might have been expected, it was a serious annoyance. More than all, she
dreaded the eldest son Ephraim. From the first there had existed a kind
of feud between them. The boy was quick to notice the love of order so
observable in my aunt, and took a malicious pleasure in studying up ways
and means to annoy her in this respect. Articles of daily use were
misplaced, and many an accident occurred in the household which could be
traced in an indirect way to Ephraim; but the fellow was shrewd as well
as mischievous, and took good care that not a scrap of direct evidence
could be brought against him.
His father was for a time to assist Uncle Nathan upon the farm; and
under pretence of performing some of the lighter work Ephraim usually
came to the farm with him, but it was very little work which his father
or any one else got out of him; but it seemed an understood thing that
Cousin Silas and his family were to be borne with, and they endeavored
to bear the infliction with as good a grace as possible. My aunt was put
out of all patience, by finding one day, upon going to the clothes' yard
to hang out her weekly washing, the clothes-lines cut in pieces and
scattered about the yard. She knew at once that this was some of
Ephraim's handiwork, and when the men came home to dinner she taxed him
with the crime in no very gentle tones. As usual he declared himself
innocent, even saying that he did not know there was a line in the yard.
Then, as if a sudden thought had struck his mind, he said with the most
innocent manner imaginable, "I just now remember that when we went out
from breakfast this morning, I saw Tom Green coming out of the yard with
a jack-knife in his hand, and it must have been him who cut up the
lines." This was rather too glaring a lie, and Ephraim must have
forgotten for the moment that Tom Green had been absent from home for
several days; and cunning as he was, for once he had, as the saying is,
"overshot his mark." "Silas Stinson," said my aunt, "will you allow
that boy to sit there and tell such lies in your hearing?" His father
saw that there was no help for it, he must at any rate make a show
of authority; and looking at his hopeful son with a very solemn
countenance, he addressed him in the language of Scripture, saying "O!
Ephraim what shall I do unto thee?" "It wouldn't take me long to find
out what to do, if he was mine," said Aunt Lucinda. "I'd take a good
birch rod, and give him such a tanning, that he wouldn't cut up another
clothes-line in a hurry, I'll promise you." "Upon the whole I think your
counsel is wise, Cousin Lucinda," replied his father, "for the wisest
man of whom we have any account says, 'Foolishness is bound up in the
heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from
him,' and the same wise man adds in another place: 'He that spares the
rod spoils the child.'" I know not whether he acted from a sense of duty,
or to appease the anger of my aunt; but, for the first time in his life,
I believe he did use the rod upon his son Ephraim. He provided himself
with a switch, the size of which satisfied even Aunt Lucinda, and,
taking him to the back-kitchen, if we could judge by the screams which
issued from thence, the whipping he bestowed upon Ephraim was no
trifling affair.