There was a bright, full moon in the clear sky, and the sunset was still
shining faintly in the west. Dark woods stood all about the old Hilton
farmhouse, save down the hill, westward, where lay the shadowy fields
which John Hilton, and his father before him, had cleared and tilled
with much toil,—the small fields to which they had given the industry
and even affection of their honest lives.
John Hilton was sitting on the doorstep of his house. As he moved his
head in and out of the shadows, turning now and then to speak to his
wife, who sat just within the doorway, one could see his good face,
rough and somewhat unkempt, as if he were indeed a creature of the shady
woods and brown earth, instead of the noisy town. It was late in the
long spring evening, and he had just come from the lower field as
cheerful as a boy, proud of having finished the planting of his
potatoes.
“I had to do my last row mostly by feelin’,” he said to his wife. “I’m
proper glad I pushed through, an’ went back an’ ended off after supper.
’Twould have taken me a good part o’ to-morrow mornin’, an’ broke my
day.”
“’Tain’t no use for ye to work yourself all to pieces, John,” answered
the woman quickly. “I declare it does seem harder than ever that we
couldn’t have kep’ our boy; he’d been comin’ fourteen years old this
fall, most a grown man, and he’d work right ’longside of ye now the
whole time.”
“’Twas hard to lose him; I do seem to miss little John,” said the father
sadly. “I expect there was reasons why ’twas best. I feel able an’ smart
to work; my father was a girt strong man, an’ a monstrous worker afore
me. ’Tain’t that; but I was thinkin’ by myself to-day what a sight o’
company the boy would ha’ been. You know, small ’s he was, how I could
trust to leave him anywheres with the team, and how he’d beseech to go
with me wherever I was goin’; always right in my tracks I used to tell
’em. Poor little John, for all he was so young he had a great deal o’
judgment; he’d ha’ made a likely man.”
The mother sighed heavily as she sat within the shadow.
“But then there’s the little girls, a sight o’ help an’ company,” urged
the father eagerly, as if it were wrong to dwell upon sorrow and loss.
“Katy, she’s most as good as a boy, except that she ain’t very rugged.
She’s a real little farmer, she’s helped me a sight this spring; an’
you’ve got Susan Ellen, that makes a complete little housekeeper for ye
as far as she’s learnt. I don’t see but we’re better off than most
folks, each on us having a workmate.”
“That’s so, John,” acknowledged Mrs. Hilton wistfully, beginning to rock
steadily in her straight, splint-bottomed chair. It was always a good
sign when she rocked.
“Where be the little girls so late?” asked their father. “’Tis gettin’
long past eight o’clock. I don’t know when we’ve all set up so late, but
it’s so kind o’ summer-like an’ pleasant. Why, where be they gone?”
“I’ve told ye; only over to Becker’s folks,” answered the mother. “I
don’t see myself what keeps ’em so late; they beseeched me after supper
till I let ’em go. They’re all in a dazzle with the new teacher; she
asked ’em to come over. They say she’s unusual smart with ’rethmetic,
but she has a kind of a gorpen look to me. She’s goin’ to give Katy some
pieces for her doll, but I told Katy she ought to be ashamed wantin’
dolls’ pieces, big as she’s gettin’ to be. I don’t know ’s she ought,
though; she ain’t but nine this summer.”
“Let her take her comfort,” said the kind-hearted man. “Them things
draws her to the teacher, an’ makes them acquainted. Katy’s shy with new
folks, more so ’n Susan Ellen, who’s of the business kind. Katy’s
shy-feelin’ and wishful.”
“I don’t know but she is,” agreed the mother slowly. “Ain’t it sing’lar
how well acquainted you be with that one, an’ I with Susan Ellen? ’Twas
always so from the first. I’m doubtful sometimes our Katy ain’t one
that’ll be like to get married—anyways not about here. She lives right
with herself, but Susan Ellen ain’t nothin’ when she’s alone, she’s
always after company; all the boys is waitin’ on her a’ready. I ain’t
afraid but she’ll take her pick when the time comes. I expect to see
Susan Ellen well settled,—she feels grown up now,—but Katy don’t care
one mite ’bout none o’ them things. She wants to be rovin’ out o’ doors.
I do believe she’d stand an’ hark to a bird the whole forenoon.”
“Perhaps she’ll grow up to be a teacher,” suggested John Hilton. “She
takes to her book more ’n the other one. I should like one on ’em to be
a teacher same ’s my mother was. They’re good girls as anybody’s got.”
“So they be,” said the mother, with unusual gentleness, and the creak of
her rocking-chair was heard, regular as the ticking of a clock. The
night breeze stirred in the great woods, and the sound of a brook that
went falling down the hillside grew louder and louder. Now and then one
could hear the plaintive chirp of a bird. The moon glittered with
whiteness like a winter moon, and shone upon the low-roofed house until
its small window-panes gleamed like silver, and one could almost see the
colors of a blooming bush of lilac that grew in a sheltered angle by the
kitchen door. There was an incessant sound of frogs in the lowlands.
“Be you sound asleep, John?” asked the wife presently.
“I don’t know but what I was a’most,” said the tired man, starting a
little. “I should laugh if I was to fall sound asleep right here on the
step; ’tis the bright night, I expect, makes my eyes feel heavy, an’
’tis so peaceful. I was up an’ dressed a little past four an’ out to
work. Well, well!” and he laughed sleepily and rubbed his eyes. “Where’s
the little girls? I’d better step along an’ meet ’em.”
“I wouldn’t just yet; they’ll get home all right, but ’tis late for ’em
certain. I don’t want ’em keepin’ Mis’ Becker’s folks up neither. There,
le’ ’s wait a few minutes,” urged Mrs. Hilton.
“I’ve be’n a-thinkin’ all day I’d like to give the child’n some kind of
a treat,” said the father, wide awake now. “I hurried up my work ’cause
I had it so in mind. They don’t have the opportunities some do, an’ I
want ’em to know the world, an’ not stay right here on the farm like a
couple o’ bushes.”
“They’re a sight better off not to be so full o’ notions as some is,”
protested the mother suspiciously.
“Certain,” answered the farmer; “but they’re good, bright child’n, an’
commencin’ to take a sight o’ notice. I want ’em to have all we can give
’em. I want ’em to see how other folks does things.”
“Why, so do I,”—here the rocking-chair stopped ominously,—“but so long
’s they’re contented”—
“Contented ain’t all in this world; hopper-toads may have that quality
an’ spend all their time a-blinkin’. I don’t know ’s bein’ contented is
all there is to look for in a child. Ambition’s somethin’ to me.”
“Now you’ve got your mind on to some plot or other.” (The rocking-chair
began to move again.) “Why can’t you talk right out?”
“’Tain’t nothin’ special,” answered the good man, a little ruffled; he
was never prepared for his wife’s mysterious powers of divination. “Well
there, you do find things out the master! I only thought perhaps I’d
take ’em to-morrow, an’ go off somewhere if ’twas a good day. I’ve been
promisin’ for a good while I’d take ’em to Topham Corners; they’ve never
been there since they was very small.”
“I believe you want a good time yourself. You ain’t never got over bein’
a boy.” Mrs. Hilton seemed much amused. “There, go if you want to an’
take ’em; they’ve got their summer hats an’ new dresses. I don’t know o’
nothin’ that stands in the way. I should sense it better if there was a
circus or anythin’ to go to. Why don’t you wait an’ let the girls pick
’em some strawberries or nice ros’berries, and then they could take an’
sell ’em to the stores?”
John Hilton reflected deeply. “I should like to get me some good
yellow-turnip seed to plant late. I ain’t more ’n satisfied with what
I’ve been gettin’ o’ late years o’ Ira Speed. An’ I’m goin’ to provide
me with a good hoe; mine ’s gettin’ wore out an’ all shackly. I can’t
seem to fix it good.”
“Them’s excuses,” observed Mrs. Hilton, with friendly tolerance. “You
just cover up the hoe with somethin’, if you get it—I would. Ira Speed
’s so jealous he’ll remember it of you this twenty year, your goin’ an’
buyin’ a new hoe o’ anybody but him.”
“I’ve always thought ’twas a free country,” said John Hilton soberly. “I
don’t want to vex Ira neither; he favors us all he can in trade. ’Tis
difficult for him to spare a cent, but he’s as honest as daylight.”
At this moment there was a sudden sound of young voices, and a pair of
young figures came out from the shadow of the woods into the moonlighted
open space. An old cock crowed loudly from his perch in the shed, as if
he were a herald of royalty. The little girls were hand in hand, and a
brisk young dog capered about them as they came.
“Wa’n’t it dark gittin’ home through the woods this time o’ night?”
asked the mother hastily, and not without reproach.
“I don’t love to have you gone so late; mother an’ me was timid about
ye, and you’ve kep’ Mis’ Becker’s folks up, I expect,” said their father
regretfully. “I don’t want to have it said that my little girls ain’t
got good manners.”
“The teacher had a party,” chirped Susan Ellen, the elder of the two
children. “Goin’ home from school she asked the Grover boys, an’ Mary
an’ Sarah Speed. An’ Mis’ Becker was real pleasant to us: she passed
round some cake, an’ handed us sap sugar on one of her best plates, an’
we played games an’ sung some pieces too. Mis’ Becker thought we did
real well. I can pick out most of a tune on the cabinet organ; teacher
says she’ll give me lessons.”
“I want to know, dear!” exclaimed John Hilton.
“Yes, an’ we played Copenhagen, an’ took sides spellin’, an’ Katy beat
everybody spellin’ there was there.”
Katy had not spoken; she was not so strong as her sister, and while
Susan Ellen stood a step or two away addressing her eager little
audience, Katy had seated herself close to her father on the doorstep.
He put his arm around her shoulders, and drew her close to his side,
where she stayed.
“Ain’t you got nothin’ to tell, daughter?” he asked, looking down
fondly; and Katy gave a pleased little sigh for answer.
“Tell ’em what’s goin’ to be the last day o’ school, and about our
trimmin’ the schoolhouse,” she said; and Susan Ellen gave the programme
in most spirited fashion.
“’Twill be a great time,” said the mother, when she had finished. “I
don’t see why folks wants to go trapesin’ off to strange places when
such things is happenin’ right about ’em.” But the children did not
observe her mysterious air. “Come, you must step yourselves right to
bed!”
They all went into the dark, warm house; the bright moon shone upon it
steadily all night, and the lilac flowers were shaken by no breath of
wind until the early dawn.