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| THE ZIGZAG SERIES. |
| BY |
| HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. |
| |
| ——————♦—————— |
| |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN EUROPE._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN CLASSIC LANDS._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE ORIENT._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE OCCIDENT._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN NORTHERN LANDS._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN ACADIA._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE LEVANT._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE SUNNY SOUTH._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN INDIA._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE ANTIPODES._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE BRITISH |
| ISLES._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE GREAT |
| NORTHWEST._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN AUSTRALIA._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS ON THE MEDITERRANEAN._ |
| _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE WHITE CITY._ |
| |
| ——————♦—————— |
| |
| ESTES AND LAURIAT, Publishers, |
| BOSTON, MASS. |
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[Illustration: WEST LAGOON, WOODED ISLAND, AND MANUFACTURES BUILDING.]
ZIGZAG JOURNEYS
IN THE WHITE CITY.
WITH
VISITS TO THE NEIGHBORING METROPOLIS.
BY
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
FULLY ILLUSTRATED.
BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT,
PUBLISHERS.
_Copyright, 1894,_
BY ESTES AND LAURIAT.
—————
_All Rights Reserved._
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
PREFACE.
—————♦—————
The last Zigzag volume sought to explain the American consular
service, and to relate wonder-tales told in consular offices. This
volume seeks to illustrate the White City, and to show what might have
been seen at the Fair that would be of service to patriotic American
holidays, the Village Improvement Societies, and social life, and
especially to commend the work of the Folk-Lore Societies, and to give
the history of the White Bordered Flag.
I have made the Folk-Lore Congress a leading feature of the book for
story-telling purposes, but give to the White Bordered Flag the place
of the crowning glory of the Fair, as the new education of Peace now
demands the attention of the people, and especially of societies and
schools. The recent resolution of the British Parliament calling for a
Peace Commission between America and England to settle international
disputes, and the worthy response of the President in his last
Message, would seem to be a promising and perhaps decisive advance
towards the union of the Anglo-Saxon race in the cause of Peace. The
history of the Peace movement in England and in America has now a new
interest, and this, amid the usual _mélange_ of stories which I have
used in this series of books, I have sought to illustrate and explain.
“What does the memory of the White City yield to our new patriotic
national life?”
This question, so far as it concerns young peoples’ societies, we have
sought to answer. The White City was the prophetic vision of the ages,
and was itself prophetic of the new eras of fraternity and peace. Its
memory is a delight, and to write of it is a pleasure. To the American
people it will ever be revelation: “See that thou makest all things
after the pattern that was showed to thee on the Mount.”
This is the sixteenth volume of this series of books. In other volumes
we have travelled in fancy over the world of stories; in this we go
to the White City by the Lake, and meet the story-telling world as it
came to us.
I am indebted to Messrs. Harper and Bros. for permission to republish
“The Last Song of the Robin,” which I wrote for the Thanksgiving
number of the “Weekly,” 1893; and “The Old Smoke Chamber,” which
appeared in the Christmas number, 1888; and to the “Youth’s Companion”
for like courtesy. Several popular authors have given me helps, and
they are duly acknowledged in their places. As in the former volume,
Miss Florence Blanchard has afforded me assistance, and in this volume
has rendered me much service in preparing the parts on the History of
Peace.
The “Chink, Chink” story was first published in “St. Nicholas,”
and the poem entitled “The White Bordered Flag” was read at the
Fair Auxiliary by the author at the opening of the Congress of
Representative Youth.
CONTENTS.
—————♦—————
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MARLOWES AT HOME 13
II. THE STORY OF THE OPENING OF THE WORLD’S COLUMBIAN
EXPOSITION 47
III. THE FOLK-LORE SOCIETY’S QUEER STORIES 59
IV. THE STORY OF THE BUILDING OF THE WHITE CITY 89
V. CHICAGO AND ITS MAKERS,—THE CITY OF THE TWENTIETH
CENTURY 98
VI. THE MARLOWES’ FIRST DAY AT THE FAIR.—THE MOST USEFUL
THING AT THE FAIR 118
VII. THE FUNNIEST THING AT THE FAIR 137
VIII. THE GRANDEST SCENE OF ALL 171
IX. FOLK-LORE TALES IN THE OLD COLONIAL KITCHEN 184
X. THE FOLK-SONG FESTIVAL 218
XI. WHAT MR. MARLOWE FOUND TO TAKE HOME IN THE STATE
BUILDINGS 237
XII. THE FOLK-LORE MEETINGS AT THE ART PALACE 281
XIII. NIGHT IN THE COURT OF HONOR 310
ILLUSTRATIONS.
—————♦—————
PAGE
West Lagoon, Wooded Island, and
Manufactures Building _Frontispiece._
Fine Arts Building 14
Agricultural Building 17
The Post Office 21
Manufactures Building and Electric
Fountain 27
The Forestry Building 33
Entrance to Egyptian Theatre, Street in
Cairo 39
Electricity and Mines Building 47
Administration Building and Court of
Honor 48
Opening Day Procession 49
Street Scene,—Opening Day 52
Administration Building 53
Machinery Hall 57
Port of Chicago 59
Government Building 60
The Agricultural Building 61
Macmonnies (Columbian) Fountain 63
The Peristyle 64
Chicago Hotels 65
Government Building 68
The Transportation Building 69
The Horticultural Building 73
Machinery Hall 76
Mines and Mining Building 81
Utah State Building 85
Madison Street 87
The Lake Front 89
Statue of the Republic and Manufactures
Building 91
The Art Palace 93
Michigan Avenue 96
Chicago in 1830 98
Chicago from the Auditorium 99
La Salle 101
Illinois Central Terminus and the Harbor 103
Produce Exchange 106
State Street 107
Mr. Potter Palmer 109
Mrs. Potter Palmer 109
Residence of Mr. McVeach 110
Great Union Stock-Yard 111
Residence of Mr. Kimball 113
High Buildings in Chicago 113
A Ten-Story House 114
A Pork-Packing Establishment 114
Mr. P. D. Armour 115
A Pig Killer 115
Residence of Mr. Potter Palmer 116
Mr. Pullman 116
Residence of Mr. Pullman 117
Byzantine Door of the Transportation
Building 118
A View of Midway, looking East 119
German Village 122
Ferris Wheel 123
Captive Balloon 125
Looking Southeast from the Ferris Wheel 126
Oriental Wedding Procession 127
Hagenback’s Museum 129
Irish Village,—Donegal Castle 130
Horticultural Building 131
The Whaleback Passenger Steamer 133
Atlas 135
Water Tower 137
Lincoln Park 138
Parade of Actors and Oriental Band on
Street of Cairo 139
Damascan Swordsmen 141
The Egyptian Donkey Boys, mounted 143
Corner of Mosque, in Cairo Street 147
Detail of the Golden Door 151
The Boat-Landing and the Lake, from
the Liberal Arts Building 155
Administration Building 159
Egyptian Juggler 165
Fisheries Building 171
Administration Building 172
The Electrical Building 175
Agricultural Building, from Electricity
Building 179
Convent of La Rabida 181
Caraval Santa Maria 182
Transportation Building 184
New England Kitchen 185
Mrs. Preston, New England Kitchen,
Midway 187
New England Girls and their Chaperon,
from the New England Kitchen 188
Detail of Statue, south of Manufactures
Building 191
Irish Village,—Blarney Castle 193
Scene in Old Vienna 196
Interior View, Manufactures Building 199
Spanish Building 203
United States Battleship “Illinois” 205
Columbian Fountain and Court of Honor 213
Mr. Field 218
Hungarian Dancers 219
Musicians from Moorish Theatre 223
Electricity and Manufactures Building 233
Kansas Building 238
Florida Building 239
California State Building 241
Illinois State Building 243
Woman’s Building 245
Chinese Theatre 248
A Family of Berberines in the Street of
Cairo,—Midway 253
Masonic Temple 259
Japanese Ho-o-den 265
City Hall 273
Ceylon Building 277
Manufactures Building 281
Clock Tower in the Manufactures Building 282
French Department of the Manufactures
Building 283
French Colonies Building 283
Horticultural Building and Woman’s
Building 297
Draw-bridges 301
Stock-Yards 305
Peristyle, from the Agricultural Building 311
The Electrical Building on a Moonlight
Night 313
German Building 315
Javanese Fiddler, from the Midway 316
The Ferris Wheel at Night 317
Administration Building by Night 319
India Building 320
ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE WHITE CITY.
—————♦—————
CHAPTER I.
THE MARLOWES AT HOME.
Manton Marlowe was the Superintendent of the Public Schools, and the
President of the Folk-Lore Society in his native town, which consisted
of a New England village surrounded by a wide extent of country. He
was usually the chairman of the Committee on Patriotic Celebrations;
and he took an active interest in the Society for Schoolhouse
Decorations, and in the Society for the Improvement of the Country
Roads. He was a Sam Adams-like man, always busy in some plan for the
public good. His father was Ephraim Marlowe, the Quaker, and he had
a son named Ephraim, a lad some fifteen years old,—“old Ephraim and
young Ephraim,” the townspeople called them.
The Village Improvement and Folk-Lore Society, as an active
organization in the old town had come at last to be called, passed
some singular resolutions in the spring of 1893. This society had
begun as a village improvement effort; but it had found so many old
traditions and legends in its historic work that it had added to it
the Historic Society, under the name of the Folk-Lore Society. The
workers in this organization had given a number of entertainments
on the evenings of patriotic holidays, and had saved several hundred
dollars for public use. Manton Marlowe had been the leading mind in
these societies. He had arranged the entertainments for the holiday
evenings, had conducted excursions into historic fields, had been a
leader in the repair of old roads and the marking of historic places.
He was a good story-teller, and he had collected the old traditions
of the place, and related them in story-telling lectures to the last
society.
[Illustration: FINE ARTS BUILDING.]
When the Village Improvement and Folk-Lore Society met in May, it
greatly surprised good Mr. Marlowe. It resolved:—
(1) “That the efforts of our worthy President merit practical
appreciation;
(2) “That the Society appropriate one hundred and fifty dollars
from its treasury to give him an excursion to the World’s Columbian
Exhibition;
“That he be asked to accept this as an expression of esteem, and that
he be respectfully requested to answer, on his return, the following
questions:
(1) “What was the most amusing thing that you saw at the Fair?
(2) “What was the most useful exhibit that you saw at the Fair?
(3) “What was the grandest sight that you saw at the Fair?
(4) “And what was the most useful lesson of the Fair?”
Mr. Marlowe listened to these resolutions with amazement. As President
of the Society, he left the chair, and the Vice President put the
resolutions to vote.
“As many as are in favor of these Resolutions, whose purpose is to
send our President to the World’s Columbian Exhibition, that he
may see the Fair for us, and return to us with new plans for the
improvement of our town and its social life, please say ‘Ay.’”
Every voice in the Society shouted “Ay.”
“It is a unanimous vote,” said the Vice President. “Mr. Marlowe, we
cannot go to the Fair, so we have selected you to see the Fair for us,
and to report what you may find there that may be of use to a country
town. Will you serve the Society?”
Mr. Marlowe stood silent for a time, and then said with a choking
voice:—
“Yes, yes, my friends, if you put it in that way! My heart is full,
but I promise you all that I will put my conscience into my eyes. I
will use my eyes for the town and not for myself. I would do anything
to advance the interests of this grand old town. Let me see, what is
it I am to do? Report to you what, is the funniest, most useful, and
the grandest thing that I see at the Fair, and all that I find that
can be of benefit to us here. Yes, my friends, I will go. I thank you
for your good will and confidence with all my heart!”
One of the Directors of the principal railroad to California _via_
Chicago, was present. He arose and said:—
“Mr. Marlowe, your interest in the Village Improvement Society was the
influence that led our company to extend a branch line here. I will
give you two passes to Chicago and return. You may like to take one of
your family with you.”
When Manton Marlowe returned home that night, he was a happy man. His
public spirit had returned to bless him. His wife was an invalid, and
she could not go to the Fair. His son Ephraim wished to go. He had
heard what the Society had done.
So Ephraim sat down by his father, and expected to receive the
invitation.
It was a mellow May evening. As the two sat side by side, old Ephraim
came slowly into the room and joined them.
“Manton,” said the latter, “I am an old man.”
“Yes, father, but not very old.”
“I can travel on the cars.”
“Yes, as well as I.”
“I never been to many places in my long life.”
“No. I wish that you could go to the Fair, father.”
“Manton, I want to go. Why, I have been preaching peace in the old
Meeting-House on the Hill for forty years, and I would feel as though
I could depart in peace, if I could only attend the meetings of the
Peace Congress. I have been reading about that proposed Congress, and
dreaming about it.”
“Young Ephraim,” said Mr. Marlowe, “I know that you want to go to the
Fair; but would you not rather have grandfather go?”
“Yes, father,” said the manly boy, “I shall be happy if he can go.”
“Thou hast well spoken,” said old Ephraim. “Thy heart is right, and I
can see that it is already consecrated. But why can we not both go? I
have a little money of my own. I will pay my own way.”
“Oh, grandfather, and we will see the world all living together in
peace in one white city.”
“Yes, boy. I have seen it in visions. I never expected to see it in
the flesh. What have you to say, Manton?”
“We will all go. The papers say that the White City by the Lake is the
most beautiful sight that ever arose in this world under the sun. I am
glad that we can see it together.”
[Illustration: AGRICULTURAL BUILDING.]
“I am told,” said the old man, “that the white-bordered flag is to be
carried there. That flag is the beginning of the peace of the world.
To see it would turn this old heart into a psalm. It would make me
sing like the men of old, Quaker that I am!”
The sunset lit up the far hills and faded, and the three sat together
long into the evening, planning their journey to the White City.
Mr. Marlowe was a popular story-teller. His love of folk-lore stories
had given him his place as leader of the Village Improvement Society.
He liked to relate stories in which old-time characters could be
imitated by voice and manner. We shall use in this volume several
stories of this kind, as he told them at some folk-lore social
gatherings at the Fair.
A favorite story of his, “The Old Auctioneer,” or “The Last Song of
the Robin,” is a specimen of his peculiar stories, and a picture of
that department of folk-lore called the “Folk-Lore Story.” We give it
here:—
THE LAST SONG OF THE ROBIN.
“Susan, I can see that old farm now in my mind’s eye,—the country
road, the guide-post on which was printed ‘20 Miles to Boston.’ I
can see the painted tavern, and the dark pond where the mysterious
travellers were killed. I can fancy hubbly oak-trees; the way-side
orchard; the corner under the trees where the white avens bloomed;
the balm bed, the red-pepper patch, the lilac-bushes, and the
bouncing-bet. I can hear conquiddles, as we called the bobolinks,
as they used to fly and sing in the windward meadows; red-winged
blackbirds in the woodland pastures; martin birds under the eaves;
and the first song of the robin as he came out of the woods, like
the dove from Noah’s Ark, to see if the dry land had appeared. And,
Susan, I can hear the last song of the robin.”
The old man’s eye looked over the great prairie, which spread out
before him like a sea.
“It didn’t look like _that_, Susan, where the sun rises and sets in
the same corn-field, and the rain-plover cries, and all is so wide,
wide, wide.
“Susan, I’ve been thinking. I never told you much about my twin
sister, who lives on the old farm now on the North River, in
Massachusetts. She’s seventy-five years old, come yesterday. I’ve had
a letter from her. She’s in trouble, Susan. I feel that I ought to go
to her, old as I am. I do, Susan.”
“You are too old, grandpa.”
“The old place is about to be sold at auction. She says so in the
letter, written in the same hand that we used to write together when
we sat side by side on the wooden bench at school. She says that the
poorhouse will soon be her home, but that there is One coming round
soon who will settle all things. She means, Susan—Well, you know who
it is that soon comes round and settles all things when a person
passes the shadow of seventy years. I am able to go, Susan, and I
must go. Somehow I can feel invisible hands pushing me like, as of
the old folk, and I have dreamed twice of the last song of the robin.
“What was that? Well, well, the robins used to sing their last songs
in the Indian-summer weather, before they went to their covers in
the deep woods for the long winter. It was peculiarsome like. It was
when the apples and leaves were falling, leaving bare the nests in
the trees; after the wild-geese had flown over, and the partridges
had begun to fly. I’ve heard ’em many a time. I would like to hear
them once more, as I used to hear, them among the red trees by the
old cranberry meadows. You may think me queer, Susan, and haunted
like; but I long to see that old slanting roof just once more, and my
twin sister, who was rocked in the same cradle with me, and is now in
sorrow, and to hear that last song of the robin. It seems as though
at times I could hear _that_ now.”
He listened. There was a murmur of the wind in the cottonwood-trees.
“It is comin’ Thanksgiving, Susan. It makes me think of the folks and
times that are gone; of the succotash, pandowdy, and puddings, and
pumpkin pies. There never was no such days anywhere like those, and
my hungry heart aches to spend one more Thanksgiving with my sister
Susan. The last one I spent there was sort of queer. The old minister
he ate of all the dishes in the kitchen before the table was set, and
then there were so many of them that it made him heavy like, and he
fell asleep saying grace, and we sat there feeling awkward like, and
the victuals all got cold. Oh, how I would like to talk over those
old times with Susan, my old sister Susan!
“And, Susan, my little granddaughter, I hid some letters behind a
board in the haunted garret under the candle-poles, and there’s going
to be a vendue, and I want to see them once again. That was more than
fifty years ago.
[Illustration: THE POST OFFICE.]
“Haunted garret? Such a place seems queer to you, does it, Susan? We
have no haunted garrets here out West. All the old houses and farms
in the Cape towns had their ghost-stories, and a family couldn’t have
amounted to much who hadn’t been followed by a ghost sometime.”
It was near sunset. Like a high arch of glory rose the red light in
the western air,—liquid rubies and gold. Against the sunset stood the
black outlines of some Lombardy poplars and cottonwood-trees, and
under the trees were three graves.
The old man’s face turned towards the graves. He sat musing for a
time in deep thought. The wind rippled through the faded leaves, and
scattered them about the graves.
“Susan!”
“Well, grandpa?”
“Susan!”
“Yes, I hear. What is it? Grandpa, I was thinking of the haunted
garret.”
“Your grandmother and I brought those trees here. They were twigs
then, and she was a bride. I brought her here some years after I took
my claim. Now her grave is there, and the graves of two of our own
little ones. I shall come back again. You and my sister Susan are all
that is left me now,—just old Susan and young Susan. _She_ needs me.
_He_ will take care of you. If I live a week, I am going to rocky old
New England once more. I hear voices calling me sometimes, and then
there drifts into the air that last song of the robin, peculiarsome
like.”
“What were the letters you hid behind the board, grandpa?”
“In the haunted garret?”
“Yes.”
“I may tell you sometime. It is a long story. It was in the garret
where I once saw the ghost of old Rachel, who ground red peppers with
a calash over her head. They used to hear her wandering about at
night in the herb-room, pounding, pounding, pounding with a pestle.
What times those were!”
“I, too, would like to see the old house, and my great-aunt, and eat
a Thanksgiving dinner with some of the good old families. What do you
say, grandpa?”
“You would? Well, you may go too. You’ll hear them, all those
ghost-stories and wonder-tales, right where they happened.”
The girl’s face brightened up with pleasure, followed by a doubtful
shadow, as of ghostly thoughts. She was still thinking of the haunted
garret.
The old man sat dreaming again. He at last said, “Susan!”
“Yes.”
“Susan!”
“Yes, I am listening.”
“I have a secret for you.”
“Yes? Let me hear.”
“We will not let the folks know that we are coming. We will meet ’em
as strangers like. Old Susan will not know me—likely not. Not know
_me_? and we were born on the same day and rocked in the same cradle.
It takes two to be happy always, and I used to be happy with her.”
The girl sat thinking.
“Grandpa!”
But the old man’s mind was in New England now. He was listening in
dreams to his sister’s voice, and perhaps the last song of the robin.
“Grandpa!”
“Yes, Susan.”
“Why could we not bring _her_ back with us?”
“The old well is there, and the walls and the rooms where the folks
all were married and died. We could not bring her back. There are
some things that money cannot do. We might bring her body back; only
that, Susan.”
“But those things are to be sold?”
“Yes; but they are there.”
“And we will be there too, on Thanksgiving Day.”
“Yes; under the old roof on which I used to hear the rain fall in the
warm summer eves.”
The old man’s face contracted and turned away. He was crying.
“I have not cried before for years, Susan. Sing me that old song that
your mother used to sing when you was a baby. They called it ‘Ben
Bolt.’”
A piano stood in one corner of the room, and over it soon floated the
words of the haunting song:
“Oh, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?”
At the words,
“In the old church-yard by the orchard, Ben Bolt,
In the valley so sweet and so low,”
the old man bent over his cane, and great tears again ran down his
cheeks.
“I used to sing, Susan, and play the violin in the old house at
home. Father made me promise not to take _that_ with me. He said it
would hinder me. He meant well.”
Susan sang:
“But of all the boys that were schoolmates then,
There is left but you and me.”
Then there fell a silence, and the western twilight deepened, and the
walls of the sun seemed melting down.
“Thank you, my girl. That reminds me of the old times and the last
song of the robin.”
They sat in silence, save that the west winds rustled amid the
withering leaves of the old cottonwoods.
* * * * *
One cool day in September Susan alighted from her horse after a long
ride over the prairie. She was met at the door by her grandfather.
“I’ve brought you another letter from the old home,” she said. “It is
in aunt’s hand, and I think that she is in very great trouble. See!
it is blotted.”
The old man put on his spectacles, and held the letter close to his
eyes. “Yes, she is in trouble, you may depend. I knew how it would
be. Her hand shook when she wrote that. Let me open it.”
He sat down on the rude piazza and read the letter, rocking at times
nervously.
“Yes, she is in deep trouble, sure enough, Susan. We must go. I
haven’t done just right, Susan, by your aunt; I haven’t, now. When I
was young, I used to climb trees, and so hide from her and leave her,
and she used to cry. I can see her now. I do feel as though I had
been climbing a tree all of my life and hiding and leaving her. It
didn’t add to the stature of Zaccheus to climb a tree, but it did add
to his reputation. So it is with me, Susan. I’ve gained some property
by immigrating here to the prairies, but I am Zaccheus still, and I
hear a voice calling me to come down. That’s the way we used to talk
in the old New England times, in figures like, when I thought the
tree-tops reached clear up to the sky.”
“What does aunt write, grandpa?”
“The old place is going to be sold by vendue, and the debts will take
all—all.”
“What is a vendue?”
“Oh, it’s like this. When property people lose almost all they have,
and can’t pay their mortgages, then comes the sheriff, and after him
a man whom we call an auctioneer, and the auctioneer cries ‘Going,
going, gone,’ and when he gets through there’s not so much as a birch
broom left.”
The old man rocked uneasily.
“It’s my fault, Susan. I want to tell you, though I do it to my
shame, what a woman your old aunt is. She always put a person’s
feeling above money. You see, it was this way: I had a fever to go
West, and to marry, and Susan she wanted to marry a young farmer who
owned an old Cape farm. But one of us had to stay with the folks. She
was tender-hearted, Susan was, and she used to love me more than her
own life,—she always loved others more than herself,—and one day,
under the apple-trees, she said to me, ‘Martin,’ said she, ‘you may
go West, and I’ll live with father and mother.’ When I came to be
propounded for the Church, my conscience troubled me so that I made
a covenant with myself that I would always be true to my twin sister
Susan. And I nailed that covenant behind a board in the garret.
And now I am going back to find it, and to keep it. Just hear this
letter. She says:—
“‘Mother’s long sickness caused the mortgage, and the interest on it
grew. Now they are going to sell the old place at vendue, and I’ll
have to go to the poorhouse, or else live on the church, which is
poor. _Even my Thanksgiving turkeys will be sold._’
“Did you hear that, Susan? I remember how we used to go together
hunting turkeys’ nests when, we were young. A turkey is a sly bird,
and hides her nest, and always goes an opposite way when she starts
for her nest. How we used to follow the turkeys slyly amid the dews,
wild roses, and laurels, so as to find their nests! And now even her
turkeys are to be sold! Susan, I feel as though I hadn’t done as I
ought to. I must go back East, and I will do the right thing in the
end. I will keep the covenant. It was Susan that gave me a chance in
life. I can hear the old folks that are dead callin’, ‘Come home,
come home;’ seems as though I could.”
“Grandfather, have you any spare money?”
“What makes you ask that, child?”
“Couldn’t you buy the old place and give it to her?”
“To Susan? To Susan? Why, bless your heart, that’s just what I’ve
just been thinking! If I ought to—and a man ought to do what he
ought, or he’ll feel just as he hadn’t ought to, and I feel that way
now. No, Susan, none of those auction-attending folks shall eat my
sister Susan’s turkeys this year. We’ll get ready and go. You never
saw the sea, did you?”
“No; nor old houses with ghost-rooms. It all seems like a story.”
“Nor rocks, nor walls, nor great apple-orchards, nor woods of old
oak-trees?”
“No, nor a Thanksgiving—a real true one, grandpa.”
“Well, child, you shall see a real old New England Thanksgiving
this year, and I think it will be one well worth seeing. We’ll roast
those turkeys ourselves. They’re saying ‘quit, quit’ to the mortgage
now. I’m going to keep my covenant. It makes me happy to think of it.
But, as I said, we will not let them know that we are coming. And,
Susan, Susan, you maybe will hear that last song of the robin.”
[Illustration: MANUFACTURES BUILDING AND ELECTRIC FOUNTAIN.]
The old man paced the piazza, and hummed, in a broken voice,—
“How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
“I used to know the man that made that song,” he said. “He was a son
of a Revolutionary soldier who lived at Scituate. He went to live in
New York. Strange that people will go to live so far away! I used
to hear the boys sing it during the war,” he added, absently, “when
they would get Thanksgiving boxes from home. Seems as though I could
hear it now in the air: there are some songs that haunt one’s heart,
Susan: it seems as though I could hear it far away. Listen!”
He listened. The prairie air was still. He heard the song, but
Susan—she did not hear. The wind rippled through the dry leaves of
the cottonwoods over the three graves.
* * * * *
There are probably no roads in our country that are so legend-haunted
as those between Boston and Plymouth. The making of those roads by
the Massachusetts and Plymouth Bay colonies was the first map of
the nation. The men who built them, and guarded them by heavy stone
walls, were the descendants of some of the best families of England,
whose soul-training had led them to place principle above wealth,
pleasure, or fame. On their simple rural farms they lived, attended
the church and the folkmote, as the town meeting may be called, and
they made the latter the pattern of all future republics.
Their farms, with the gray stone walls, cool wells, and great elms,
retaining their names, still remain. The purple swallows come to them
as of old in the spring-time, and the ospreys, or fishing-hawks,
drift over at noon, wheeling in the sun. The partridge and quail may
still be found in the woodlands and woodland pastures, and a few
woodpeckers may still be heard tapping the trees.
The byways in their seclusion are even more poetic than the main
highways. The wild grape and clematis there cover the sinking walls.
The ancient graveyards are there, and their slate stones, with
their curious death’s-heads and virtuous poetry, still may be seen
zigzagging as it were among the bright sumachs. The slanting roofs
are covered with moss, and the great barn doors open to the sea.
It was down this way that the old man Martin Marlowe and his
granddaughter rode in one of the last stage-coaches that ever
passed down the winding roads by the sea,—past the homes of the two
Presidents Adams, past the church of the eloquent Henry Ware, past
the old Scituate farm, where Woodworth lived, who wrote “The Old
Oaken Bucket,” to a once famous but now forgotten neighborhood on
the North River, where a thousand ships had been built, and among
them the one which first entered the Columbia River of Oregon, and
that gave the river its name. The old Winslow place was near, as were
the green farms on the Marshfield meadows, where Daniel Webster came
to live, and the Winslow reservation, where live the last of the
Wampanoags.
The old man seemed dwelling in the past as the stage rattled along.
“There are not many of them left now,” he said to Susan. “How I shall
miss seeing my old friends! All that a man can have in this world is
his friends, and when they go his world is gone.”
He looked out on the great elms, which were flaming with color, and
dropping their leaves in golden showers. The weather was warm and the
air had a swampy smell.
The old man began to tell the legends of the old houses and places as
they passed along.
“Susan, there’s where old Parson White used to live in the Indian
days. His house stood in the meadow; there’s the chimney there
yet—see?—down by the alder-bushes. He preached nigh on to seventy
year, and he lived to be ninety. He preached to the Indians in
Eliot’s time, when old Waban was living. One day a good Indian
came to him, as I’ve hearn the old folks tell, and said to him,
‘Matthew—Mark—Luke—John—Jonah.’ And the tall parson talked to him
about his soul and redemption and heaven, and then gave him a mug of
cider to encourage him in his inquiries. It did. He came again, and
the minister was busy writing one of his long sermons that turned the
hour-glass twice. ‘Matthew—Mark—Luke—John—Jonah,’ said the Indian.
But the parson’s mind was in the skies now. So the poor Indian
repeated over the Scripture names again; but the parson’s mind was
absent, thinking,—Parson White was great on thinking. Then the Indian
pounded with his walking-stick, making a great noise after each name,
and especially after ‘Jonah.’ That brought the old parson down from
his Jacob’s ladder. ‘What do you mean?’ he shouted, rising up like a
steeple. ‘Cider!’ said the Indian, and the poor parson dropped his
face. He was discouraged, Susan.”
The stage stopped here and there at the country stores, about whose
doors hung woollens for winter wear, and on the wooden steps of which
were barrels of apples, onions, and potatoes.
One of the saddest sights on a New England byway is a dead church,
with its broken tower and silent bell, in some neighborhood where the
“boys” have nearly all gone to the cities and the West. The coach
rolled by such a one, with its briery graveyard and broken wall. The
old man saw it, and his memory of boyhood legends revived again.
“Susan—Susan—Parson White preached his last sermon there. It is
boarded up now. See the old bell that used to make the hills echo!
Parson White had gone eighty then; almost ninety he must have been.
“It was a Sunday morning in balm-breathing June, with the wild roses
blooming, and the orioles singing, and the bobolinks toppling in
the clover. The windows were open, and the shadows of the elms fell
across them. The communion-table was spread in front of the tall
pulpit, which was hung with silk curtains under the sounding-board.
Parson White, he went up the pulpit stairs and began to pray. The
old folks used to say that they never heard such a prayer as that.
He seemed to be looking into heaven. Suddenly he stopped. There was
a long silence. The church was so still you might have heard the
chippering of the wrens in the old trees. He said then: ‘The horsemen
of Israel, and the chariots thereof,’ Then he was silent again, and
then he seemed talking to himself, and said, in a low voice:—
“‘My willing soul would stay
In such a frame as this,
And sit and sing herself away
To everlasting bliss.’
He did not move again. Never. He lay there on the pulpit, his face
encircled in the arms of his long black robe, and resting on the
Bible. The deacons went up to him softly. He was dead.”
The old man dropped his head in silence for a time. The coach rolled
on its dusty way over the red and russet leaves that were falling in
the sun.
Little Susan was dreaming too,—of old Susan and haunted rooms and the
fairy-like day of Thanksgiving.
“Susan—Susan—we are near the old farm,” said the old man, starting.
“There’s the gable just over the savin-trees,—there, with the
woodbine on it, where the martin-boxes used to be. Many’s the time
I’ve looked out of that window. I was young then, Susan; we do not
live twice in this world.”
A strange sound fell on the Western girl’s ears.
“Going! going! How much am I offered for the old family cradle?
Fifty cents? Fifty cents am I offered for the old family cradle?
Fifty cents for this old oak cradle? One generation has slept in it,
and it is good for another. Fifty cents am I offered?”
The old man listened a moment, then thrust his head out of the
coach-door, and said to the driver: “Hurry up! I want to bid on _that
cradle_.”
The driver cracked his whip. The coach rolled by a thin grove of
trees that partly hid the yard from the way, and a strange scene was
brought to view. A crowd of people, young and old, were gathered
around an old gray farmhouse with an open door. There were vehicles
of almost all kinds about the place, with the horses hitched to
the trees. In the yard in front of the door was the furniture of
the house, and on a high chair stood the tall form of a country
auctioneer, crying the articles for sale in the singsong tone of
the old travelling preachers,—a tone that must be first heard to be
imitated.
In the doorway, close by a great stone step, sat an old woman in
a white cap and calico dress, and a handkerchief crossed over her
breast. She was watching the sale. Her face was beautiful in its
serenity, hope, and trust. Faith was written in it. She seemed to
have a soul that had a life above all changes.
“Is that aunt?” said Susan.
“My girl, I do not know. It looks like her. Does she look like me?”
The stage stopped. The driver called to the auctioneer: “Hold on!
Here’s a man that wants to bid on that cradle.”
The auctioneer ceased his singsong, and all eyes were turned on the
old man and the girl alighting from the stage. No one knew them.
“Now we are all ready,” began the auctioneer again. “The old
oak cradle. How much am I offered for the old oak cradle? Fifty
cents am I offered for the oak cradle? Some good people have been
rocked in this old cradle, and it is good enough yet. Fifty cents.
Seventy-five? Yes, the old gentleman who has just arrived bids
seventy-five. Eighty—do I hear it? Eighty now for the old oak
cradle? There were many prayers made over that old oak cradle.
S-e-v-e-n-t-ee-five! Eighty—do I hear it? Are you all done?
S-e-v-e-n-t-ee-five! Going, going, going! _Once_, do I hear the
eighty? _Twice_, do I hear the eighty? Three times—third and last
call—do I hear the eighty? Gone—to—What is your name, stranger?”
“Cash,” said the old man, with a quivering lip, as he passed through
the crowd, followed by the wondering girl.
“Sold to Cash,” said the auctioneer. “What have we here? The little
oak chair for the child at the table. Are you all ready to bid for
the little oak chair for the child at the table? It is as old as the
family, and as good as new. Look at it,—the little oak chair for the
child at the table,—how much am I offered? Here is another—two of
them. How much am I offered for them both?”
[Illustration: THE FORESTRY BUILDING.]
The old man Marlowe and Susan take a seat on the great stone step,
close to the feet of the serene old woman. Marlowe looks into her
face.
Her lip quivered.
“You bought that cradle,” said she. “Were you ever here before?”
“Yes, many years ago. I used to know your father.”
“You did!—and my mother, too?”
“Yes; they were good people.”
“They are buried over there, under the savin-bushes,” said the old
woman. “I was rocked in that there cradle, and my twin brother, who
went out West. I wish that he could have had that cradle. I think
of him all the time of late. He and a little granddaughter are all
that’s left. The auctioneer spoke true—he did; there’s been many a
prayer made over that cradle, and now it is gone out of the family.
I’ve prayed that it might not be so. It will all be right by-and-by.
The Lord is tedious, but He’s sure. I almost lose my faith sometimes,
and I can hardly keep back my tears now. Why did you come here,
stranger?”
“To spend Thanksgiving. I used to live in this town.”
“Have you any relations here?”
“Yes, a sister. I came to visit her, and I want to buy some of the
old furniture; it looks so natural.”
“There’s to be no more Thanksgivings for me in this world. Stranger,
it does seem rather hard. I’ve always been industrious, and have done
my best. Stranger, it is hard when a poor lone woman like me, that
never did any one harm, can neither die nor live. Did you ever have
any trouble, stranger? You have? Then you do feel for me, don’t you?
The Lord forgive me!”
The voice of the auctioneer rang out, “How much am I offered?”
“Fifty cents,” says old Marlowe, looking at the two chairs as the
auctioneer held one up in either hand.
“Fifty cents for two family chairs for children at the table.
Oak—good as ever—fifty cents! Going, going, going, at fifty cents. Is
that all? Fifty cents? Do I hear sixty? Sixty—do I hear it? Going,
going; once—do I hear it? Twice—do I hear it? Three times—do I hear
it? Are you all done? Fifty cents. Sold to—What shall I call you,
stranger?”
“Cash,” said the old man.
“Cash again,” said the auctioneer.
The old woman touches Marlowe on the shoulder: “Have you any
children?”
“No, my good woman. Only my grandchild here.”
“What is her name?”
“Susan.”
“That is my name, stranger. My twin brother and I used to sit in
those chairs. I wish I were able to save some of these things for
him. It is hard, isn’t it, stranger? But you and I will never be
young again. The withered stalk never blooms any more. I’ve ’most got
through.”
She looked out over the sunny fields in the last glow of the
Indian-summer days.
“Stranger, you came home to spend Thanksgiving. I’ll have my next
Thanksgiving in a better world than this. I did hope to see my twin
brother once more, but that can never be. The sun that goes down will
find me a burden to the world. There’s the old clock; they’re going
to sell that, too. It struck on the day that I was born, and at all
the weddings and funerals and Thanksgiving days. Are you going to buy
that, too? I wish you would. I have a good feeling for you,—somehow
I’m drawn towards you. I feel as though you felt for me. I’ve wound
that clock myself nigh on to sixty years.”
“The old eight-day clock comes next. Many a day that clock has seen,
and it is good yet. How much am I offered for the old family clock?
Start it, some one. I’ll give five dollars for it myself.”
“Six,” said the old man on the door-step.
“Are you going to buy that, too?” said old Susan. “I’m proper glad to
hear ye bid on that. How many times I’ve heard it strike one at the
family funerals, and then seen the minister rise beside the coffin
and say, ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of
trouble.’ I used to hear it strike one at night, when I watched with
my twin brother Martin, who went West, in the weeks and weeks when
he laid between life and death with the typhus fever. I wish that he
could be here to-day.
“Stranger, do you know of what I’ve been thinkin’? Of course you
don’t. I’ve just been wishing like, dreaming like, that brother
Martin would come here, as you have come, and would bid off the old
farm, and that I might die here at last in peace—where they all
died. I’ve been dreamin’ just that dream. It comes to me. Oh, what a
Thanksgiving this old heart would have, could such a dream as that
come true!”
“Six dollars I am offered. Six, six, six. Going, going, going. Do I
hear seven?”
“Seven,” bid a neighbor.
“Seven—do I hear ten? Seven dollars am I offered. Yes, once eight,
and nine. Do I hear ten? Ten, ten, ten—do I hear it?”
“Ten,” said the old man on the step.
“Ten I am offered. Do I hear the twelve? Ten, ten, ten. Going,
going, going, at ten dollars. Once—do I hear it? Twice—do I hear it?
Third and last call. Going at ten dollars, to—”
“Cash,” said the old man.
“Stranger,” said the auctioneer, “what shall we do with these things
that you have bought?”
The crowd gathered densely about the door-step to hear the reply.
“You may leave them right where they are. I have a good use for them.”
The parlor looking-glass was next offered. The old man on the step
bought that also. Then the old empty parrot-cage, and he bought that.
“I’m glad that you have bought the lookin’-glass,” said old Susan.
“What if all the faces that have looked into it could appear again!
What if I could see there my father and mother young again—and
Martin! What does make me think so much of Martin of late? Seems as
though sometimes he was hoverin’ around me. There, they are going
to sell the Concord musket and the dinner-horn! How many times I’ve
blown that old horn just at twelve o’clock, to call the folks to
dinner! Martin learned me how to blow it when he was a boy. We used
to blow a sea-shell at first.”
The sale continued without any regard to the order of the value of
the articles,—the parlor furniture, old school-books and almanacs,
china and pewter mugs. The old man on the step bought them all.
Mysterious looks began to pass from one to another of the country
folks. Why was the quiet old man buying all those things? What was
he going to do with them? Would he buy the house and farm? Had he
any interest in the poor old woman who was watching him now with
straining nerves and intense interest?
After the sale of the furniture the auctioneer said: “We will next
offer the house and farm. The old woman will show you the deeds.
There is no encumbrance on the property. We will stop the sale for an
hour. Then you will be ready for the finish. Stranger, where shall we
put all these things that you have been buying?”
“I’ll tell you later; I’m not ready to answer yet. Never mind
me—don’t crowd around me, friends. I’m an honest man. Go and take
your lunches under the trees.”
There was a jingle of bells on the clear bright air. The bread-cart
man was coming. The people bought gingerbread and bunns, and lounged
under the cool trees in a spot of ground where stood a large and a
small grindstone, and overhead hung scythes and corn-knives. There
was a buzzing of voices, and talking in a suppressed tone, and great
inquiry about the stranger who simply called himself “Cash,” and who
was purchasing everything.
The old woman now tried to find out the secret of the stranger’s
interest in these things.
“You and I must be about the same age,” she said.
“Yes,” said the old man; “the same suns have lighted us both. They
used to tell a ghost-story about the chambers here. My girl has often
asked me about them. Did you ever see anything strange upstairs?”
“No; but I found, just before the auction, some papers hidden behind
a board. They read mighty curious, and were signed with what the
writing said was blood.”
“You don’t say?” said the old man, starting. “What were they?”
“It was a covenant that some one had made with the Lord. I think that
it was Martin’s. Seemed as though his father asked him to make it. It
promised many things. There was one thing in it that made me write to
him. Whoever made it promised to be faithful to _me_. The signature
was faded. It was made on the day that the writer was propounded for
church.”
Martin Marlowe’s face fell. Had he been true to that covenant that he
remembered so vividly?
“Say, stranger,” said old Susan, “I hope you will excuse me; but what
may your name be?”
“Never mind my family history now. I will tell you later more about
myself. What was the story about the haunted chamber? Tell it to my
girl here.”
“About Rachel, who raised red peppers, and used to appear with a
calash over her head?”
“Yes. That ghost was the terror of all the children and hired people.
Rachel was an old maiden lady. She used to have charge of the balm
bed, the sage bed, and the pepper bed, and the dried apples and red
peppers, and sold them to get money for the church and her clothes.
She ground the red peppers in the garret, and to keep the pepper
dust from burning out her eyes, she used a calash, which was a great
bonnet, with whalebone ribs, that stood up from the head all around
as though it were hung on the air, and over the calash she wore a
long green veil. She put over her body a long white nightgown; and
when we went up to the top of the garret stairs to see her pound, she
looked kind of awful and scary, like a picture in the old ‘Pilgrim’s
Progress.’ When I heard that she had come back to haunt the old
herb-room in the garret, and I pictured in my mind how she used
to look, it fairly made my flesh creep. Of all ghosts I wouldn’t
have liked to see old Rachel with her calash like a shay’s top and
her pound, pound, pound. She used to punish me when I was a boy by
snapping her thumb and finger on the top of my head. I remember it
all as though it were yesterday. I once went up to the herb-room to
get some—”
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO EGYPTIAN THEATRE, STREET IN CAIRO.]
“Not herbs, my good friend,” said Susan.
“No; some preserves or cake. They used to keep the goodies there,
and I had been going there pretty often in a quiet way, when I felt,
just as I was bending over the marmalade-jar, a snap on the top of my
head, and I looked up suddenly, and there was the most awful sight
that I ever saw,—old Rachael herself, in her white nightgown, calash,
and all. I scooted after the first glance, and rolled over and over
down the first flight of stairs, and leaped down the second. No barn
or chimney swift could have gone quicker. I didn’t sleep much for a
long time after that, and I never dared to tell the story, because
I was at the marmalade-jar when she appeared. I never told it to
anybody until after I went away.
“I used to lay awake until morning, and when I heard the wings of the
swallows in the chimney my heart would beat like a trip-hammer, for I
thought it was old Rachael and her pepper-mill. When the fowls crowed
for day I would feel safe again, for no ghost ever could appear after
the cock crew in the morning, so the old folks said. Susan, what do
you think that ghost was?”
“Oh, my good friend, how can I tell it now? I think—oh, I know it
was poor old grandmother! She scared Martin once in that way to keep
him—oh, how can I say it?—to keep him from getting at her plum-cake.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me so, and told me never to tell.”
The two looked at each other.
“That accounts for it. I always thought it was kind o’ strange that
they should have whalebone calashes in another world.”
“Stranger, how familiar you seem to be with this old place, the
swallows in the chimney and all! You say you used to know our folks.
Any relation?”
“I used to work for your father.”
“Did ye?”
The two looked at each other—after fifty years.
“Somehow I almost feel related,” said old Susan.
* * * * *
The shining hour of noon was now passed. The auctioneer rang his bell.
“Are you ready for the sale of the farm? Thirty acres and the house
and buildings. Clear deed. How much am I offered? Some one start the
farm. Been in the same family one hundred and thirty years. How much
am I offered?”
“Five hundred dollars,” said a well-to-do-looking farmer named Pool.
“Five hundred dollars. Do I hear the six? Five hundred dollars am I
offered. Do I hear the six? Five hundred dollars.”
“Six,” bid another.
“Seven,” another.
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
“Nine hundred dollars I am offered. Do I hear the thousand? Nine
hundred dollars. Nine, nine, nine. Going, going, nine hundred
dollars. One thousand—do I hear it? Nine hundred dollars. Are you all
done? Going, going—”
“One thousand dollars.”
The voice came from the old man on the step. Old Susan rocked
violently, and appeared greatly agitated. The people gathered in a
close mass around the door-step, all eyes fixed upon the venerable
stranger.
“One thousand dollars. Do I hear eleven hundred? One thousand dollars
am I offered. Going, going, going. Once, twice, third and last call,
going, going, going, for one thousand dollars. The hammer is about to
fall. One th-o-u-s-a-n-d dollars. Sold.”
There was a deep silence that followed the fall of the hammer.
“Gone,” said the old woman, and she threw her apron over her white
head and bent over, adding: “I am homeless now. I never thought to
see a day like this.”
“What is to be done with these things?” asked the auctioneer.
The old man rises. His girl stands up beside him.
“Susan,” said he.
Old Susan uncovered her pitiful face.
“Susan, what will you have done with these things? I have bought them
for _you_.”
Susan stops her rocking. She looks dazed. Her face is upturned, and
her blue eye looks piercingly into the eye of the tall old man.
“I would have you have them. You do pity me, don’t you? It will do me
good to think that _you_ have them. You have spoken to me kindly.”
“The furniture shall all be brought back into the house again,” says
the quiet old man. “The cradle, clock, and looking-glass shall all be
placed where they were before.”
“To whom are the papers to be made out?” asks the auctioneer.
“My good friend, we shall need no new deeds. The old ones will do.
I used to know the family when I was a boy, and Susan’s father and
mother did much for me. To-morrow is Thanksgiving, and I shall spend
it here. I’m going to be good to Susan for the old folks’ sake.”
He bends over old Susan. She sits like one dead. He takes her
withered hand, stoops down and kisses her, and says,—
“I’ll let the place to her.”
There was a silence in the air that Indian-summer afternoon, and for
many minutes the silence was unbroken. A woodpecker tapped a hollow
tree at last, and a sea-bird on wide wings went screaming by.
“Let the place to me?” says old Susan. “Stranger, you are good, like
one sent forth out of the doors of heaven, but I have no money. I
must be plain, stranger. I have no money, and how are these old hands
to earn any? Look at them. Their work is done.”
She bends her gray head.
“Stranger, I want to say something to you in private. I have
something on my soul, and it troubles me. They have kept back a part
of the price.”
“What?”
“The neighbors, some of them, the Brewster boys, they’ve driven away
my Thanksgiving turkeys.”
“Why, my good woman?”
“So that the auctioneer should not sell them. The neighbors said
that my Thanksgiving turkeys should not be sold. Now that was kind
in ’em, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t quite right. I’ve always done just
the thing that I thought to be right. My motto has been, ‘I will be
what I ought to be.’ I’m poor, stranger, but, except the turkeys, my
conscience is clear. My folks were all good people, as you know, if
you used to work here when a boy, notwithstanding that grandmother
used to keep the children away from the herb-room with old Rachel’s
gown and calash. Now, stranger, what would you do? The folks here
wouldn’t like it if I were to tell the auctioneer; they’re too good
to me. But I must tell now; I must be honest, stranger. You are so
good to me. I don’t understand it. It is all a wonderment; but the
Lord will make it plain. Seems as though I was dreaming.”
She looks out over the hills, which are flaming with autumn glows.
She starts.
“Stranger, there’s one other thing that I want to tell you. There’s
another thing that I’ve kept back. But that is honest. My twin
brother Martin had a violin, and he left it here. I’ve felt that it
isn’t theirs; it’s his. He used to sing in the church over there. You
may see the steeple now. And he used to play on the violin.”
There was a new movement among the people in the yard. One of the
neighbors came up to the steps.
“It’s too bad, Susan; they’ve found those turkeys. The dog scented
’em out, and he’s driving ’em home. It is too bad; they might have
left ye a Thanksgiving dinner.”
There was great gobbling in the hillside pasture. A flock of
turkeys, one of which was white, was half running and half flying
towards the house, followed by the auctioneer’s dog. One of the
gobblers had lost his tail feathers, and he flew up in a zigzag way,
and alighted in a maple-tree. Another turkey followed him, flying
heavily and clumsily, and crying, almost like a human voice, “Quit!
quit!”
“Stranger,” said old Susan, “seems’s though that turkey spoke, as
Balaam’s turkey, if he had one, might have done. Stranger, I raised
them turkeys myself, and I hoped that I might have one myself; and
that perhaps—I dreamed of it, stranger—perhaps my twin brother
Martin, who went out West, might be here, and that we might have one
of them for Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll buy the turkeys for you.”
“You—well, you are proper good. But I don’t understand these things.
I’ve never been used to receiving anything from strangers, though the
neighbors have always been good to me. They tried not to have the
farm sold, but it was the law. Stranger, it had to be—it was the law.”
The auctioneer mounted the bench again, rang his bell, and swung his
hammer.
“There’s one thing we’ve overlooked. Hear, all! Here are the things
that everybody wants. Turkeys—to-morrow is Thanksgiving. A fine lot
of fat turkeys, and a white one. Just look at that fat old gobbler
up in that tree! One seldom sees a finer bird than that. And look at
that hen-turkey—”
“Quit! quit!” exclaimed the beautiful bird, in great astonishment, on
seeing all eyes turned towards her.
“That’s the mother turkey,” said old Susan. “She’s lost her family
before. She is a cosset turkey. I raised her in the chimney-corner.
She is used to coming into the house to be fed.”
“How much am I offered for this fine lot of turkeys? Just a dozen
of them. Twelve dollars. I am offered twelve dollars. Do I hear the
thirteen? Twelve dollars, twelve dollars. Thirteen—thirteen I am
offered. Thirteen—fourteen. Fifteen—do I hear it? Fourteen dollars.
Going, going, going. Once, do I hear it? Twice, do I hear it? Third
and last call—f-o-u-r-t-e-e-n dollars.”
He lifted his hammer.
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen dollars—fifteen I am offered. Going, going, going, for
fifteen dollars. Are you all done? Going for fifteen dollars to—”
“MARTIN MARLOWE,” said the old man in a firm voice.
He stood up and uncovered his white head. Old Susan’s form dropped
together as though she had been smitten. She buried her face in her
lap, and sobbed as she used to do in childhood.
The neighbors gather silently around the door-step, among the myrtles
and bouncing-bet. Some are whispering, some laughing, and a few are
crying.
“Susan,” says the old man, “get me my violin.”
The old woman sent for the instrument, and the old man saw that it
had not been wholly out of use. He tuned it, and lifted it into the
air. “Susan, we used to sing together in church, over there. What did
we use to say on Thanksgiving days?
“I remember, neighbors. I’m going to play that hymn. My voice is
almost gone, but I want you to sing it with me.”
He lifts the bow. “Tune—‘Hamburg.’”
The music floated out on the mellow autumn air, the violin playing as
in the old church days. Before the people ran the river to the sea.
The air was still; nature seemed listening.
“God is the Refuge of His saints
When storms of sharp distress invade;
Ere we can offer our complaints,
Behold Him present with His aid.
“Let mountains from their seats be hurled
Down to the deep and buried there,
Convulsions shake the solid world,
Our faith shall never yield to fear.
“Loud may the troubled ocean roar,
In sacred peace our souls abide,
While every nation, every shore,
Trembles and dreads the swelling tide.
“There is a stream whose gentle flow
Supplies the city of our God,
Life, love, and joy still gliding through,
And watering our divine abode.
“That sacred stream, thy Holy Word,
Our grief allays, our fear controls;
Sweet peace thy promises afford,
And give new strength to fainting souls.
“Zion enjoys her Monarch’s love,
Secure against a threatening hour;
Nor can her firm foundation move,
Built on His truth, and armed with power.”
“Now sing the Doxology!” He lifted his bow again. People turn aside
their faces to hide their tears. Then the strains of thanksgiving
rose up under the glimmering trees. And old Susan stood up and sung.
It is near sunset now. The red sky shines through the skeleton limbs
of the still trees. The crows are cawing afar over a dead corn-field.
The jaws are calling in the savin-bushes. Old Susan looks into her
brother’s face. She takes little Susan by the hand.
A bird comes flying through the air out of the woods and alights on
the top of an elm. It has a red breast, which shines in the sunset.
It lifts its brown wings joyfully and begins to sing.
It was the last song of the robin.[1]
[1] This story is used by permission of Messrs. Harper and Brothers. I
wrote it originally for the Thanksgiving number of “Harper’s Weekly,”
1893.
[Illustration: ELECTRICITY AND MINES BUILDINGS.]