LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET.
FROM
SOURCES OLD, NEW, ORIGINAL,
AND SELECTED.
[Illustration]
LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET.
_From Sources Old and New, Original
and Selected._
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
“When the Sun is setting, cool fall its gleams upon the earth,
and the shadows lengthen; but they all point toward the Morning.”
JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
“I am fully convinced that the Soul is indestructible, and that
its activity will continue through eternity. It is like the
Sun, which, to our eyes, seems to set in night; but it
has in reality only gone to diffuse its light
elsewhere.”--GOETHE.
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge.
1881.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
L. MARIA CHILD,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.
TWELFTH EDITION.
[Illustration]
TO
MY DEAR AND HONORED FRIENDS
MISS LUCY OSGOOD
AND
MISS HENRIETTA SARGENT,
_This Volume_
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THEIR EXAMPLE,
WHICH CONFERS BEAUTY AND DIGNITY ON DECLINING YEARS,
BY ACTIVE USEFULNESS AND KINDLY SYMPATHY
WITH THE HUMAN RACE.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
I occasionally meet people who say to me, “I had many a pleasant
hour, in my childhood, reading your Juvenile Miscellany; and now I
am enjoying it over again, with my own little folks.”
Such remarks remind me that I have been a long time in the world;
but if a few acknowledge me as the household friend of two
generations, it is a pleasant assurance that I have not lived
altogether in vain.
When I was myself near the fairy-land of childhood, I used my pen
for the pleasure of children; and now that I am travelling down
the hill I was then ascending, I would fain give some words of
consolation and cheer to my companions on the way. If the rays of
my morning have helped to germinate seeds that ripened into flowers
and fruit, I am grateful to Him, from whom all light and warmth
proceeds. And now I reverently ask His blessing on this attempt to
imitate, in my humble way, the setting rays of that great luminary,
which throws cheerful gleams into so many lonely old homes, which
kindles golden fires on trees whose foliage is falling, and lights
up the silvered heads on which it rests with a glory that reminds
one of immortal crowns.
L. MARIA CHILD.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE FRIENDS _L. M. Child_ 1
THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER _Anonymous_ 37
THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE _Zschokke_ 39
THE OLD MAN DREAMS _O. W. Holmes_ 44
A RUSSIAN LADY 46
THE OLD MAN’S SONG _Anonymous_ 51
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH _W. C. Bryant_ 52
A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR _Charles Dickens_ 53
GRANDFATHER
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO _Robert Burns_ 60
OLD FOLKS AT HOME _L. M. Child_ 61
EVERLASTING YOUTH _Edmund H. Sears_ 62
LIFE _Mrs. Barbauld_ 68
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE _L. M. Child_ 69
THE HAPPIEST TIME _Eliza Cook_ 81
ODE OF ANACREON 84
CICERO’S ESSAY ON OLD AGE 85
THE FOUNTAIN _W. Wordsworth_ 98
A POET’S BLESSING _Uhland_ 101
BERNARD PALISSY 102
OLD AGE COMING _Elizabeth Hamilton_ 123
UNMARRIED WOMEN _L. M. Child_ 127
THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER _Mrs. Tighe_ 144
GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE _Theodore Parker_ 146
THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW _Louise C. Moulton_ 149
A STORY OF ST. MARK’S EVE _Thomas Hood_ 152
WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID _Anonymous_ 161
THE SPRING JOURNEY _Heber_ 163
MORAL HINTS _L. M. Child_ 164
THE BOYS _O. W. Holmes_ 184
ODE OF ANACREON 185
MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE _Mountford_ 186
THE GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY _Alfred Tennyson_ 189
THE ANCIENT MAN _J. P. Richter_ 193
MILTON’S HYMN OF PATIENCE _Elizabeth L. Howell_ 210
LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN _L. M. Child_ 212
BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER _John G. Whittier_ 223
THE CANARY BIRD _John Sterling_ 224
OLD BACHELORS _L. M. Child_ 225
TAKING IT EASY _G. H. Clark_ 238
OLD AUNTY _Anonymous_ 241
RICHARD AND KATE _Robert Bloomfield_ 250
LUDOVICO CORNARO 256
ROBIN AND JEANNIE _Dora Greenwell_ 271
A GOOD OLD AGE _Mountford_ 273
MY PSALM _John G. Whittier_ 276
JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER 279
THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES _W. Wordsworth_ 290
DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM 292
THE OLD PSALM-TUNE _Harriet B. Stowe_ 297
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY 300
TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN _Alice Cary_ 322
YEARS OLD
GROWING OLD _Dinah Muloch_ 324
EQUINOCTIAL _Mrs. A.D.T. Whitney_ 334
EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED _E. S._ 335
A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT _Convers Francis_ 336
AT ANCHOR _Anonymous_ 339
NOVEMBER _H. W. Beecher_ 341
MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE _John Pierpont_ 343
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES _H. J._ 346
AULD LANG SYNE _Robert Burns_ 362
OLD FOLKS AT HOME _L. M. Child_ 363
OLD UNCLE TOMMY _M. S._ 364
SITTING IN THE SUN _Anonymous_ 377
AUNT KINDLY _Theodore Parker_ 379
CROSSING OVER _Uhland_ 383
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD _Mrs. Gaskell_ 385
TO MY WIFE _Anonymous_ 408
THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS _J. P. Richter_ 410
OUR SECRET DRAWER _Anonymous_ 414
THE GOLDEN WEDDING _F. A. Bremer_ 416
THE WORN WEDDING RING _W. C. Bennett_ 424
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH _L. M. Child_ 427
THE INVALID’S PRAYER _Wesley_ 440
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON _J. P. Richter_ 441
REST AT EVENING _Adelaide A. Procter_ 454
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE FRIENDS.
BY L. M. CHILD.
“By some especial care
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A being, who, by adding love to peace,
Might live on earth a life of happiness.”
_Wordsworth._
In the interior of Maine two girls grew to womanhood in houses
so near that they could nod and smile to each other while they
were making the beds in the morning, and chat through the open
fence that separated their gardens when they went to pick currants
for the tea-table. Both were daughters of farmers; but Harriet
Brown’s father had money in the bank, while Jane White’s father
was struggling hard to pay off a mortgage. Jane was not a beauty,
but her fresh, healthy countenance was pleasant to look upon. Her
large blue eyes had a very innocent expression, and there was
always in them the suggestion of a smile, as if they sung the
first note of a merry song for the lips to follow. Harriet was the
belle of the county; with rosy cheeks, a well-shaped mouth, and
black eyes, that were very bright, without being luminous from
within. A close observer of physiognomy could easily determine
which of the girls had most of heart and soul. But they were
both favorites in the village, and the young men thought it was
a pretty sight to see them together. In fact, they were rarely
seen apart. Their leisure moments, on bright winter days, were
spent in snow-balling each other across the garden-fence; and they
kept up the sport hilariously long after their hands were numb
and red with cold. In the long evenings, they made wagers which
would soonest finish a pair of socks; and merry were the little
crowings over the vanquished party. In spring, they hunted anemones
and violets together. In autumn, they filled their aprons with
brilliant-colored leaves to decorate the mantel-piece; stopping
ever and anon to twine the prettiest specimens in each other’s
hair. They both sat in the singing-seats at meeting. Harriet’s
shrill voice was always heard above Jane’s, but it was defective
in modulation, while music flowed through the warbling voice of
her companion. They often bought dresses alike, with the agreement
that, when the sleeves were worn, the two skirts should be used
to make a new dress for the one who first needed it; and shrewd
observers remarked that Harriet usually had the benefit of such
bargains. Jane waited assiduously upon her mother, while Harriet’s
mother waited upon her. One seemed to have come into the world
to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. Harriet was
prim in company, and some called her rather proud; but Jane was
deemed imprudent, because whatever she said or did bubbled out
of her heart. Their friendship was not founded on any harmonious
accord of character; few friendships are. They were born next door
to each other, and no other girls of their own age happened to
be near neighbors. The youthful heart runs over so perpetually,
that it needs another into which to pour its ever-flowing stream.
Impelled by this necessity, they often shared each other’s sleeping
apartments, and talked late into the night. They could not have
told, the next day, what they had talked about. Their conversation
was a continuous movement of hilarious nothings, with a running
accompaniment of laughter. It was like the froth of whip-syllabub,
of which the rustic took a spoonful into his mouth, and finding it
gone without leaving a taste behind, he searched the carpet for it.
The girls, however, never looked after the silly bubbles of their
bubbling syllables. Harriet thought Jane excessively funny, and
such an appreciative audience was stimulus sufficient to keep her
friend’s tongue in motion.
“O Hatty, the moon’s up, and it’s as light as a cork!” exclaimed
Jane, springing out of bed in the summer’s night, and looking out
of the window.
“What a droll creature you are!” replied Hatty; and they laughed
more heartily than they would have done over one of Dr. Holmes’s
wittiest sayings.
When merriment subsided into a more serious mood, each gave her
opinion whether Harry Blake, the young lawyer, or Frank May, the
young store-keeper, had the handsomest eyes. Jane said, there was a
report that the young lawyer was engaged to somebody before he came
to their village; but Harriet said she didn’t believe it, because
he pressed her hand when they came home from the County Ball, and
he whispered something, too; but she didn’t know whether it would
be fair to tell of it. Then came the entreaty, “Do tell”; and she
told. And with various similar confidings, they at last fell asleep.
Thus life flowed on, like a sunny, babbling brook, with these girls
of sixteen summers. Fond as they were of recreation, they were
capable, in the New England sense of the term, and accomplished
a great deal of work. It was generally agreed that Harriet made
the best butter and Jane the best bread that the village produced.
Thrifty fathers said to their sons, that whoever obtained one of
those girls for a wife would be a lucky fellow. Harriet refused
several offers, and the rejected beaux revenged themselves by
saying, she was fishing for the lawyer, in hopes of being the wife
of a judge, or a member of Congress. There was less gossip about
Jane’s love affairs. Nobody was surprised when the banns were
published between her and Frank May. She had always maintained
that his eyes were handsomer than the lawyer’s. It was easy enough
for anybody to read her heart. Soon after Jane’s marriage with
the young store-keeper Harriet went to visit an uncle in New
York. There she attracted the attention of a prosperous merchant,
nearly as old as her father, and came home to busy herself with
preparations for a wedding. Jane expressed surprise, in view of
certain confidences with regard to the young lawyer; but Harriet
replied: “Mr. Gray is a very good sort of man, and really seems
to be very much in love with me. And you know, Jenny, it must be
a long time before Harry Blake can earn enough to support a wife
handsomely.”
A few weeks afterward, they had their parting interview. They
kissed and shed tears, and exchanged lockets with braids of hair.
Jane’s voice was choked, as she said: “O Hatty, it seems so hard
that we should be separated! I thought to be sure we should always
be neighbors.”
And Harriet wiped her eyes, and tried to answer cheerfully: “You
must come and see me, dear Jenny. It isn’t such a great way to New
York, after all.”
The next day Jane attended the wedding in her own simple bridal
dress of white muslin; and the last she saw of Harriet was the
waving of her white handkerchief from a genteel carriage, drawn
by two shining black horses. It was the first link that had
been broken in the chain of her quiet life; and the separation
of these first links startles the youthful mind with a sort of
painful surprise, such as an infant feels waking from sleep to be
frightened by a strange face bending over its cradle. She said to
her husband: “I didn’t feel at all as I always imagined I should
feel at Hatty’s wedding. It was so unexpected to have her go off
with that stranger! But I suppose she is the best judge of what is
for her own happiness.”
The void left by this separation was soon filled by new pleasures
and duties. A little boy and girl came. Then her husband was
seized with a disease of the spine, which totally unfitted him for
business. Jane had acquired considerable skill in mantua-making,
which now proved a valuable assistance in the support of her
family. The neighboring farmers said, “Young Mrs. May has a hard
row to hoe.” But her life was a mingled cup, which she had no
wish to exchange for any other. Care and fatigue were sweetened by
the tenderness and patience of her household mate, and brightened
by the gambols of children, who clung to her with confiding love.
When people expressed sympathy with her hard lot, she answered,
cheerfully: “I am happier than I was when I was a girl. It is a
happiness that I feel deeper down in my heart.” This feeling was
expressed in her face also. The innocent blue eyes became motherly
and thoughtful in their tenderness, but still a smile lay sleeping
there. Her husband said she was handsomer than when he first loved
her; and so all thought who appreciated beauty of expression above
fairness of skin.
During the first year of her residence in New York, Harriet wrote
every few weeks; but the intervals between her letters lengthened,
and the apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties,
making calls, and attending to mantua-makers. To Jane, who was
constantly working to nurse and support her dear ones, they seemed
like letters in a foreign language, of which we can study out the
meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to think. She felt
herself more really separated from the friend of her girlhood than
she could have been by visible mountains. They were not only living
in different worlds, but the ways of each world did not interest
the other. The correspondence finally ceased altogether, and years
passed without any communication.
The circle of Jane’s duties enlarged. Her husband’s parents became
feeble in health; they needed the presence of children, and could
also assist their invalid son by receiving him into their house.
So Frank May and his wife removed to their home, in a country
village of Massachusetts. Her parents, unwilling to relinquish the
light of her presence, removed with them. There was, of course,
great increase of care, to which was added the necessity for
vigilant economy; but the energy of the young matron grew with the
demands upon it. Her husband’s mother was a little unreasonable
at times, but it was obvious that she considered her son very
fortunate in his wife; and Jane thankfully accepted her somewhat
reluctant affection. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous cares,
she replied cheerfully: “Yes, it is true that I have a good deal
on my shoulders; but somehow it never seems very heavy. The fact
is,” she added, smiling, “there’s great satisfaction in feeling
one’s self of so much importance. There are my husband, my two
children, my two fathers, and my two mothers, all telling me that
they couldn’t get along without me; and I think that’s blessing
enough for one poor woman. Nobody can tell, until they try it, what
a satisfaction there is in making old folks comfortable. They cling
so to those that take good care of them, that, I declare, I find
it does me about as much good as it did to tend upon my babies.”
Blessed woman! she carried sunshine within her, and so external
circumstances could not darken her life.
The external pressure increased as years passed on. Her husband,
her parents, her son, departed from her, one after another. Still
she smiled through her tears, and said: “God has been very merciful
to me. It was _such_ a comfort to be able to tend upon them to the
last, and to have them die blessing me!” The daughter married and
removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved mother yearned to
follow her; but her husband’s parents were very infirm, and she had
become necessary to their comfort. When she gave the farewell kiss
to her child, she said: “There is no one to take good care of the
old folks if I leave them. I will stay and close their eyes, and
then, if it be God’s will, I will come to you.”
Two years afterward, the old father died, but his wife survived
him several years. When the estates of both fathers were settled,
there remained for the two widowed women a small house, an acre of
land, and a thousand dollars in the bank. There they lived alone.
The rooms that had been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as
Jane moved about, “on household cares intent,” she was often heard
singing the tune her dear Frank used to sing under the apple-tree
by her window, in their old courting days:--
“The moon was shining silver bright.
No cloud the eye could view;
Her lover’s step, in silent night,
Well pleased, the damsel knew.”
Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang, but, ere the tears
fell, tender memories would modulate themselves into the tune of
“Auld lang syne.” And sometimes the old mother, who sat knitting in
the sunshine, would say: “Sing that again, Jenny. How my old man
used to love to hear you sing it! Don’t you remember he used to say
you sung like a thrush?” Jenny would smile, and say, “Yes, mother,”
and sing it over again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old
woman’s memories, she would strike into “John Anderson, my Jo,” to
which her aged companion would listen with an expression of serene
satisfaction. It was indeed a pleasure to listen; for Jenny’s sweet
voice remained unbroken by years; its tones were as silvery as
her hair. Time, the old crow, had traversed her face and left his
footprints there; and the ploughshare of successive sorrows had cut
deep lines into the once smooth surface; but the beauty of the soul
illumined her faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glorifies
ruins. When she carefully arranged the pillows of the easy-chair,
the aged mother, ere she settled down for her afternoon’s nap,
would often look up gratefully, and say, “Your eyes are just
as good as a baby’s.” It was a pleasant sound to the dutiful
daughter’s ears, and made her forget the querulous complaints in
which her infirm companion sometimes indulged.
The time came when this duty was finished also; and Mrs. Frank
May found herself all alone in the house, whither she had carried
her sunshine thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter that,
as soon as she could sell or let her little homestead, she would
start for Illinois. She busied herself to hasten the necessary
arrangements; for her lonely heart was longing for her only child,
whose face she had not seen for seven years. One afternoon, as she
sat by the window adding up accounts, her plans for the journey
to meet her daughter gradually melted into loving reminiscences
of her childhood, till she seemed to see again the little smiling
face that had looked to her the most beautiful in all the world,
and to hear again the little pattering feet that once made sweetest
music in her ears. As she sat thus in reverie at the open window,
the setting sun brightened the broad meadows, crowned the distant
hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold across the wall of
her humble little room. The breath of lilacs floated in, and with
it came memories of how her little children used to come in with
their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every mug and pitcher
they could find. The current of her thoughts was interrupted by
the sound of a wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger with
two little children! Who could it be? She opened the door. The
stranger, taking off his hat and bowing respectfully, said, “Are
you Mrs. Frank May?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Well, then,” rejoined he, “if you please, I’ll walk in, for I’ve
got some news to tell you. But first I’ll bring in the children,
for the little things have been riding all day, and are pretty
tired.”
“Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them rest, and I will give
them a cup of milk,” replied the kindly matron.
A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon and led in. Mrs.
May made an exclamation of joyful surprise. The very vision she had
had in her mind a few minutes previous stood before her bodily! She
took the little girl in her arms and covered her face with kisses.
“Why, bless your little soul!” she exclaimed; “how much you look
like my daughter Jenny!”
“My name _ith_ Jenny,” lisped the little one.
“Why, you see, ma’am--” stammered the stranger; he paused, in an
embarrassed way, and smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve.
“You see, ma’am--” he resumed; then, breaking down again, he
suddenly seized the boy by the hand, led him up to her, and said,
“There, Robin! that’s your good old granny, you’ve heard so much
about.”
With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to him: “And where is my
daughter, sir? Surely these little children wouldn’t come so far
without their mother.”
The man again began to say, “You see, ma’am--” but his heart came
up and choked his voice with a great sob. The old mother understood
its meaning. She encircled the two children with her arms, and drew
them closely to her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a
subdued voice, “When did she die?”
Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with a steady voice he
replied: “You see, ma’am, your daughter and her husband have been
neighbors of mine ever since they went to Illinois. There’s been
an epidemic fever raging among us, and they both died of it. The
last words your daughter said were, ‘Carry the children to my good
mother.’ I’ve been wanting to come and see my old father, who lives
about three miles from here, so I brought them along with me. It’s
sorrowful news for you, ma’am, and I meant to have sort of prepared
you for it; but somehow I lost my presence of mind, and forgot what
I was going to say. But I’m glad to see you so sustained under it,
ma’am.”
“I thank God that _these_ are left,” she replied; and she kissed
the little faces that were upturned to hers with an expression that
seemed to say they thought they should like their grandmother.
“I’m so glad you’re helped to take it so,” rejoined the stranger.
“Your daughter always told me you was a woman that went straight
ahead and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring you through.”
“I am forgetting my duty now,” she replied. “You must be hungry and
tired. If you’ll drive to Neighbor Harrington’s barn, he will take
good care of your horse, and I will prepare your supper.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am; but I must jog on to my old father’s, to
take supper with him.”
Some boxes containing the clothing of the children and their mother
were brought in; and, having deposited them, the stranger departed
amid thanks and benedictions.
Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at Mrs. May’s door, and
go off without the children. Being of an inquiring mind, she
straightway put on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She
found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round the children’s
necks, preparatory to their supper of brown bread and molasses,
which they were in a great hurry to eat.
“Why who on earth have you got here!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington.
“They are my daughter’s children,” replied Mrs. May. “Bless their
little souls! if I’d have known they were coming, I’d have had some
turnovers ready for them.”
“I guess you’ll find they’ll _make_ turnovers enough,” replied Mrs.
Harrington smiling. “That boy looks to me like a born rogue. But
where’s your daughter? I didn’t see any woman in the wagon.”
“The Lord has taken her to himself,” replied Mrs. May, in quivering
tones.
“You _don’t_ say so!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington, raising both
hands. “Bless me! if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come right in
upon you so sudden.”
They sat down and began to talk over the particulars which the
stranger had related. Meanwhile, the children, in hungry haste,
were daubing their chins and fingers with molasses. The little
four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Drawing a long breath,
expressive of great satisfaction, she lisped out, “O Bubby!
_larthiz_ top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?”
Robin, who was two years her senior, and felt as if he were as much
as ten, gave a great shout of laughter, and called out, “O Granny!
you don’t know how funny Sissy talks.”
Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipe their hands and faces,
and when she heard what the little Tot had said, she could not
help smiling, notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. As for
Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright.
“You see they are just as well satisfied as they would have been
with a dozen turnovers,” said she. “But this is a sad blow for you,
Neighbor May; coming, too, just at the time when you were taking so
much comfort in the thoughts of going to see your daughter; and it
will be a pretty heavy load for a woman of your years to bring up
these orphans.”
“O, it’s wonderful how the dispensations of Providence are softened
for us poor weak mortals,” replied Mrs. May. “Only think what a
mercy it is that I have these treasures left? Why, she looks so
much like her dear mother, that I seem to have my own little Jenny
right over again; and I can’t seem to realize that it isn’t so.
You see, Neighbor Harrington, _that_ softens the blow wonderfully.
As for bringing up the children, I have faith that the Lord will
strengthen those who trust in him.”
“That’s just like you,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “You always
talk in that way. You always seem to think that what happens is the
best that _could_ happen. You’re pretty much like this little one
here. If you don’t get tarts and turnovers, you smack your lips and
say, ‘Lasses top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?’”
The neighbors bade each other a smiling good-night. When Mrs.
Harrington returned home, she told her husband the mournful news,
and added, “Mrs. May don’t seem to feel it so much as I should
think she would.” Yet the good grandmother dropped many tears on
the pillow where those little orphans slept; and kneeling by their
bedside, she prayed long and fervently for support and guidance in
rearing the precious souls thus committed to her charge.
She had long been unused to children; and they did, as Neighbor
Harrington had predicted, make plenty of turnovers in the
house. Robin had remarkable gifts in that line. Endless were his
variations of mischief. Sometimes the stillness of the premises
was suddenly disturbed by a tremendous fluttering and cackling,
caused by his efforts to catch the cockerel. The next thing, there
was the cat squalling and hissing, because he was pulling her
backward by the tail. Then he was seized with a desire to explore
the pig’s sleeping apartment, and by that process let him out into
the garden, and had the capital fun of chasing him over flowers and
vegetables. Once when the pig upset little Sissy in his rounds, he
had to lie down and roll in the mud himself, with loud explosions
of laughter. Quiet little Jenny liked to make gardens by sticking
flowers in the sand, but it particularly pleased him to send them
all flying into the air, at the point of his boot. When the leaves
were gay with autumn tints, she would bring her apron full and sit
at grandmother’s feet weaving garlands for the mantel-piece; and it
was Master Robin’s delight to pull them to pieces, and toss them
hither and yon. It was wonderful how patiently the good grandmother
put up with his roguish pranks. “O Robin, dear, don’t behave so,”
she would say. “Be a good boy. Come! I want to see how fast you
grow. Take off your boots, and Jenny will take off hers, and stand
even, and then we’ll see which is the tallest.”
“O, I’m _ever_ so much taller. I’m almost a man,” responded Robin,
kicking off his boots.
Honest little Jenny stood squarely and demurely while grandmother
compared their heights. But roguish Robin raised himself as much as
possible. To hide his mirth, he darted out of doors as soon as it
was over, calling Jenny after him. Then he gave her a poke, that
toppled her half over, and said, with a chuckle, “Sissy, I cheated
grandmother. I stood tiptoe. But don’t you _tell_!”
But wild as Robin was, he dearly loved his grandmother, and she
loved him better than anything else, excepting little Jenny. When
Neighbor Harrington said, “I should think that boy would wear your
life out,” she answered, with a smile: “I don’t know what I should
do without the dear little creatures. I always liked to be called
by my Christian name, because it sounds more hearty. There’s nobody
to call me Jenny now. The little ones call me granny, and the
neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. But I have a _little_ Jenny,
and every time I hear her name called, it makes me feel as if I
was young again. But what I like best is to hear her tuning up her
little songs. The little darling sings like a robin.”
“Then she sings like _me_,” exclaimed her ubiquitous brother, who
had climbed up to the open window, holding on by the sill. “I can
whistle most any tune; _can’t_ I?”
“Yes, dear, you whistle like a quail,” replied his grandmother.
Satisfied with this share of praise, down he dropped, and the next
minute they saw him rushing down the road, in full chase after a
passing dog. Mrs. May laughed, as she said: “It seems as if he was
in twenty places at once. But he’s a good boy. There’s nothing
the matter with him, only he’s so full of fun that it _will_ run
over all the time. He’ll grow steadier, by and by. He brought in a
basket of chips to-day without upsetting them; and he never made
out to do that before. He’s as bright as a steel button; and if I
am only enabled to guide him right, he will make such a man as my
dear husband would have been proud to own for a grandson. I used
to think it was impossible to love anything better than I loved my
little ones; but I declare I think a grandmother takes more comfort
in her grandchildren than she did in her own children.”
“Well, you do beat all,” replied Mrs. Harrington. “You’ve had about
as much affliction as any woman I know; but you never seem to
_think_ you’ve had any trouble. I told my husband I reckoned you
_would_ admit it was a tough job to bring up that boy, at your age;
but it seems you don’t.”
“Why the fact is,” rejoined Mrs. May, “the troubles of this life
come so mixed up with blessings, that we are willing to endure one
for the sake of having the other; and then our afflictions do us so
much good, that I reckon _they_ are blessings, too.”
“I suppose they are,” replied Mrs. Harrington, “though they don’t
always seem so. But I came in to tell you that we are going to
Mount Nobscot for huckleberries to-morrow; and if you and the
children would like to go, there’s room enough in our big wagon.”
“Thank you heartily,” replied Mrs. May. “It will be a charming
frolic for the little folks. But pray don’t tell them anything
about it to-night; if you do, Robin won’t sleep a wink, or let
anybody else sleep.”
The sun rose clear, and the landscape, recently washed by copious
showers, looked clean and fresh. The children were in ecstasies at
the idea of going to the hill behind which they had so often seen
the sun go down. But so confused were their ideas of space, that,
while Jenny inquired whether Nobscot was as far off as Illinois,
Robin asked, every five minutes, whether they had got there. When
they were lifted from the wagon, they eagerly ran forward, and
Robin’s voice was soon heard shouting, “O Granny! here’s lots o’
berries!” They went to picking green, red, and black ones with all
zeal, while grandmother proceeded to fill her basket. When Mrs.
Harrington came, she said, “O, don’t stop to pick here. We shall
find them twice as thick farther up the hill.”
“I’ll make sure of these,” replied Mrs. May. “I’m of the old
woman’s mind, who said she always took her comfort in this world as
she went along, for fear it wouldn’t be here when she came back.”
“You’re a funny old soul,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “How young
you look to-day!”
In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive, the joyous little
ones, and the novelty of going from home, so renovated the old
lady, that her spirits rose to the temperature of youth, her color
heightened, and her step was more elastic than usual.
When they had filled their baskets, they sat under the trees, and
opened the boxes of luncheon. The children did their full share
toward making them empty. When Robin could eat no more, he followed
Joe Harrington into a neighboring field to examine some cows that
were grazing. The women took out their knitting, and little Jenny
sat at their feet, making hills of moss, while she sang about
A kitty with soft white fur,
Whose only talk was a pleasant purr.
The grandmother hummed the same tune, but in tones too low to drown
the voice of her darling. Looking round on the broad panorama of
hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm-houses, her soul
was filled with the spirit of summer, and she began to sing, in
tones wonderfully clear and strong for her years,
“Among the trees, when humming-bees
At buds and flowers were hanging,”
when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out, “Sing something
funny, Granny! Sing that song about _me_!” He made a motion to
scatter Jenny’s mosses with his foot; but his grandmother said,
“If you want me to sing to you, you must keep quiet.” He stretched
himself full length before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in
her face while she sang:
“Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’ Robin.
“He’ll have misfortunes great and sma’
But ay a heart aboon them a’;
He’ll be a credit till us a’;
We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”
“That means _me_!” he said, with an exultant air; and, turning a
somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they
heard him whistling the tune.
Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and
bushes. It brought back very vividly to Mrs. May’s mind similar
ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked
slowly toward their wagon, she was looking dreamily down the long
vista of her life, at the entrance of which she seemed to see a
vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in
girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party
lingered to arrange the baskets. Presently Jenny came running back,
and said, “Granny, there’s a carriage down there; and a lady asked
me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl.”
“Pretty _is_ that pretty _does_,” replied the grandmother. “That
means it is pretty to be good.” Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington,
she asked, “Whose carriage is that?”
She answered, “It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to
meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York
gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old
lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife’s mother.”
“Mrs. _who_?” exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone.
“They say her name is Gray,” replied Mrs. Harrington; “but what
_is_ the matter with you? You’re all of a tremble.”
Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of
agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old
lady very handsomely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked
at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the
wrinkled forehead. It was _so_ unlike the charming vision she
had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memory! She
asked herself, “_Can_ it be she?” Then, with a suppressed,
half-embarrassed eagerness, she asked, “Are you the Mrs. Gray who
used to be Hatty Brown?”
“That was formerly my name,” replied the lady, with dignified
politeness.
She threw her arms round her neck, nothing doubting, and exclaimed:
“O Hatty! dear Hatty! How glad I am to see you! I’ve been thinking
of you a deal to-day.”
The old lady received the embrace passively, and, readjusting her
tumbled cape, replied, “I think I’ve seen your face somewhere,
ma’am, but I don’t remember where.”
“What! don’t you know _me_? Your old friend, Jenny White, who
married Frank May?”
“O yes, I remember. But you’ve changed a good deal since I used to
know you. Has your health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May?”
This response chilled her friend’s heart like an east wind upon
spring flowers. In a confused way, she stammered out, “I’ve
been very well, thank you; and I hope you have enjoyed the same
blessing. But I must go and see to the children now. I thought to
be sure you’d know me. Good by.”
“Good by, ma’am,” responded the old lady in gray.
The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington and her party entered
the big wagon to return home. Mrs. May, having made a brief
explanation of her proceedings, became unusually silent. It was
a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment on the beauty of
the landscape, as she had done in the morning. She was kind and
pleasant, but her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved through
her mind: “Could it be my shabby gown? Hatty always thought a deal
of dress.” But the suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to
drive it away.
“Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make you down-hearted,”
remarked Mrs. Harrington; “and that’s something new for _you_.”
“I _was_ disappointed that she didn’t know me,” replied Mrs. May;
“but when I reflect, it seems very natural. I doubt whether I
should have known _her_, if you hadn’t told me her name. I’m glad
it didn’t happen in the morning; for it might have clouded my day a
little. I’ve had a beautiful time.”
“Whatever comes, you are always thankful it wasn’t something
worse,” rejoined Mrs. Harrington. “Little Jenny is going to be just
like you. _She_’ll never be pining after other people’s pies and
cakes. Whatever she has, she’ll call it ‘Lasses top on bread! What
_can_ be gooder?’ Won’t you, Sissy?”
“Bless the dear little soul! she’s fast asleep!” said her
grandmother. She placed the pretty little head in her lap, and
tenderly stroked back the silky curls. The slight cloud soon
floated away from her serene soul, and she began to sing. “Away
with melancholy,” and “Life let us cherish.” As the wagon rolled
toward home, people who happened to be at their doors or windows
said: “That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a clear, sweet voice she
has for a woman of her years!”
Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer than she had done
for years. “I _am_ changed,” said she to herself. “No wonder Hatty
didn’t know me!” She took from the till of her trunk a locket
containing a braid of glossy black hair. She gazed at it awhile,
and then took off her spectacles, to wipe from them the moisture
of her tears. “And _this_ is my first meeting with Hatty since we
exchanged lockets!” murmured she. “If we had foreseen it then,
could we have believed it?”
The question whether or not it was a duty to call on Mrs. Gray
disturbed her mind considerably. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her
off-hand. “She did not ask you to come,” said she; “and if she’s
a mind to set herself up, let her take the comfort of it. Folks
say she’s a dreadful stiff, prim old body; rigid Orthodox; sure
that everybody who don’t think just as she does will go to the bad
place.”
These words were not uttered with evil intention, but their effect
was to increase the sense of separation. On the other hand,
influences were not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her
former friend, whose sudden appearance and enthusiastic proceedings
had disconcerted her precise habits. When the Sewing-Society met
at her son-in-law’s house, she happened to be seated next to an
austere woman, of whom she inquired, “What sort of person is Mrs.
Frank May?”
“I don’t know her,” was the reply. “She goes to the Unitarian
meeting, and I have no acquaintance with people of that society.
I should judge she was rather light-minded. When I’ve passed by
her house, I’ve often heard her singing songs; and I should think
psalms and hymns would be more suitable to her time of life. I rode
by there once on Sunday, when I was coming home from a funeral, and
she was singing something that sounded too lively for a psalm-tune.
Miss Crosby told me she heard her say that heathens were just as
likely to be saved as Christians.”
“O, I am sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Gray. “She and I were
brought up under the Rev. Mr. Peat’s preaching, and he was sound
Orthodox.”
“I didn’t know she was an acquaintance of yours,” rejoined the
austere lady, “or I wouldn’t have called her light-minded. I never
heard anything against her, only what she said about the heathen.”
Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her straightforward
mind, came to the conclusion that Neighbor Harrington’s advice
was not in conformity with the spirit of kindness. “Since Mrs.
Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call first,” said
she. “I will perform my duty, and then she can do as she pleases
about returning the visit.” So she arrayed herself in the best
she had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Harrington, and
went forth on her mission of politeness. The large mirror, the
chairs covered with green damask, and the paper touched here and
there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the setting sun,
formed a striking contrast to her own humble home. Perhaps this
unaccustomed feeling imparted a degree of constraint to her manner
when her old friend entered the room, in ample folds of shining
gray silk, and a rich lace cap with pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs.
Gray remarked to her that she bore her age remarkably well; to
which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and she supposed it
was because she generally had pretty good health. It did not occur
to her to return the compliment, for it would not have been true.
Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty. Much of this difference
might be attributed to her more perfect health, but still more it
was owing to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived
to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. The interview
was necessarily a formal one. Mrs. Gray inquired about old
acquaintances in Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent
from that part of the country that she had little or nothing to
tell, and all she had struggled through meanwhile would have been
difficult for the New York lady to realize. The remark about her
light-mindedness was constantly present in Mrs. Gray’s mind, and at
parting she thus expressed the anxiety it occasioned: “You say you
have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed you must have, with
all the care of those little children; but I hope you find time to
think about the salvation of your soul.”
Her visitor replied, with characteristic simplicity: “I don’t know
whether I do, in the sense I suppose you mean. I have thought a
great deal about what is right and what is wrong, and I have prayed
for light to see what was my duty, and for strength to perform
it. But the fact is, I have had so much to do for others, that I
haven’t had much time to think about myself, in _any_ way.” Then,
with some passing remark about the vines at the door, the old
ladies bade each other good-by.
When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the conversation, she said, in
her blunt way: “It was a great piece of impertinence in her. She’d
better take care of her own soul than trouble herself about yours.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Mrs. May. “I believe she meant it
kindly. She don’t seem to me to be stern or proud. But we’ve been
doing and thinking such very different things, for a great many
years, that she don’t know what to say to _me_, and I am just as
much puzzled how to get at _her_. I reckon all these things will
come right in another world.”
During the summer she often saw Mr. Jones’s carriage pass her
house, and many a time, when the weather was fine, she placed fresh
flowers on the mantel-piece, in a pretty vase which Hatty had given
her for a bridal present, thinking to herself that Mrs. Gray would
be likely to ride out, and might give her a call. When autumn came,
she filled the vase with grasses and bright berries, which she
gathered in her ramblings with the children. Once, the carriage
passed her as she was walking home, with a little one in either
hand, and Mrs. Gray looked out and bowed. At last a man came with a
barrel of apples and a message. The purport of it was, that she had
gone with her daughter’s family to New York for the winter; that
she intended to have called on Mrs. May, but had been poorly and
made no visits.
Winter passed rapidly. The children attended school constantly;
it was grandmother’s business to help them about their lessons,
to knit them warm socks and mittens, to mend their clothes, and
fill their little dinner-kettle with provisions. The minister, the
deacon, and the neighbors in general felt interested to help the
worthy woman along in the task she had undertaken. Many times a
week she repeated, “How my path is strewn with blessings!”
With the lilacs the New York family came back to their summer
residence. The tidings soon spread abroad that Mrs. Gray was
failing fast, and was seldom strong enough to ride out. Mrs.
May recalled to mind certain goodies, of which Hatty used to be
particularly fond in their old girlish times. The next day she
started from home with a basket nicely covered with a white damask
napkin, on the top of which lay a large bunch of Lilies of the
Valley, imbedded in one of their broad green leaves. She found Mrs.
Gray bolstered up in her easy-chair, looking quite thin and pale.
“I know you have everything you want, and better than I can bring,”
said she; “but I remembered you used to like these goodies when we
were girls, and I wanted to bring you _something_, so I brought
these.” She laid the flowers in the thin hand, and uncovered her
basket.
The invalid looked up in her face with a smile, and said, “Thank
you, Jenny; this is very kind of you.”
“God bless you for calling me Jenny!” exclaimed her warm-hearted
old friend, with a gush of tears. “There is nobody left to call me
Jenny now. The children call me Granny, and the neighbors call me
old Mrs. Frank May. O, it sounds like old times, Hatty.”
The ice gave way under the touch of that one sunbeam. Mrs. Gray
and Mrs. May vanished from their conversation, and only Hatty and
Jenny remained. For several months they met every day, and warmed
their old hearts with youthful memories. Once only, a little of the
former restraint returned for a few minutes. Mrs. Gray betrayed
what was in her mind, by saying: “I suppose, Jenny, you know I
haven’t any property. My husband failed before he died, and I am
dependent on my daughter.”
“I never inquired about your property, and I don’t care anything
about it,” replied Mrs. May, rather bruskly, and with a slight
flush on her cheeks; but, immediately subsiding into a gentler
tone, she added, “I’m very glad, Hatty, that you have a daughter
who is able to make you so comfortable.”
Thenceforth the invalid accepted her disinterested services without
question or doubt. True to her old habits of being ministered
unto, she made large demands on her friend’s time and strength,
apparently unconscious how much inconvenience it must occasion to
an old person charged with the whole care of two orphan children.
Mrs. May carefully concealed any impediments in the way, and,
by help of Mrs. Harrington, was always ready to attend upon her
old friend. She was often called upon to sing “Auld Lang Syne”;
and sometimes, when the invalid felt stronger than common, she
would join in with her feeble, cracked voice. Jenny sat looking at
Hatty’s withered face, and dim black eyes, and she often felt a
choking in her throat, while they sang together:
“We twa hae ran about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine.”
More frequently they sang the psalm-tunes they used to sing when
both sat in the singing-seats with Frank May and Harry Blake.
They seldom parted without Jenny’s reading a chapter of the New
Testament in a soft, serious tone. One day Mrs. Gray said: “I have
a confession to make, Jenny. I was a little prejudiced against you,
and thought I shouldn’t care to renew our acquaintance. Somebody
told me you was light-minded, and that you told Miss Crosby the
heathen were just as likely to be saved as Christians. But you seem
to put your trust in God, Jenny; and it is a great comfort to me to
hear you read and sing.”
“I have a confession to make, too,” replied Mrs. May. “They told me
you was a very stern and bigoted Orthodox; and you know, when we
were girls, Hatty, I never took much to folks that were too strict
to brew a Saturday, for fear the beer would work a Sunday.”
“Ah, we were giddy young things in those days,” replied her friend,
with much solemnity in her manner.