THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD
BY
CLARA BARTON
NEW YORK
THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.
1907
Copyright, 1907, by
THE JOURNAL PUBLISHING CO.,
Meriden, Conn.
THE JOURNAL PRESS.
THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD.
PREFACE
_Dear Miss Clara Barton_:
Our classes in The History of the United States are studying about
you, and we want to know more.
Our teacher says she has seen you. That you live in, or near
Washington, District of Columbia, and that, although very busy, she
thought you might be willing to receive a short letter from us, and
I write to ask you to be so kind as to tell us what you did when you
were a little girl like us. All of us want to know. I am almost
thirteen.
If you could send us a few words, we should all be very happy. I
write for all.
Your little girl friend,
MARY ST. CLARE,
* * * New York.
October third, nineteen hundred, six.
_Miss Clara Barton_:
I am studying about you in my History, and what you did in the war,
and I thought I would write and ask you what you did afore you did
that.
Yours truly,
JAMES C. HAMLIN.
* * * Center, Iowa,
May 24th, 1906.
=Dear Children of the Schools:=
Your oft-repeated appeals have reached me. They are too many and too
earnest to be disregarded; and because of them, and because of my
love for you, I have dedicated this little book to you. I have made
it small, that you may the more easily read it. I have done it in
the hope that it may give you pleasure, and in the wish that, when
you shall be women and men, you may each remember, as I do, that you
were once a child, full of childish thoughts and action, but of whom
it was said, “Suffer them to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for
of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Faithfully your friend,
CLARA BARTON.
Glen Echo, Maryland,
May twenty-ninth, 1907.
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD.
BY CLARA BARTON.
It was May—the cherry trees were in bloom. For the first time in three
years I had been able to sit for an evening among a company of persons
(invalids like myself seeking strength), trying to entertain them with
some remembrances of bygone days. I see it still, the broad parlor of
that grand old “Hillside Home,” the mother and inspiration of all the
hundreds of sanitariums and health restoring institutions of the country
to-day. I had made my home near it, at the foot of the blossoming
orchard.
Down among the trees and twittering robins next morning came one of my
listeners; a broad-shouldered, manly looking man, the face so full of
benign intelligence that once seen was never to be forgotten. He came in
at the open door, merrily shaking off the cherry blossoms like large
flakes of early snow, an entire stranger to me until the previous
evening. He seated himself and entered into conversation with a familiar
ease that bespoke the cultured gentleman. After a few minutes he turned
earnestly to me with: “Miss Barton, I have an errand in coming to you. I
have a request to make.”
I said I hoped I should be able to comply. He hesitated, as if thinking
how to commence, but at length said: “I want you to recall and write the
first thing you remember—the first event that made sufficient impression
upon you to be remembered.”
I waited in silence and he went on:
“And then I want you to write the next, and then the next, and so on,
until you have written all—everything connected with yourself and your
life that you can recall. I want it; we want it; the world wants it, and
again I ask you to do it. Can you promise me?”
His earnest manner demanded an earnest reply. I could not promise to do
it, but would promise to consider it.
This was in the spring of 1876. I have never forgotten the request
through all these thirty-one busy years, and have carefully kept the
promise to consider it; and to-night take my pencil to describe the
first moment of my life that I remember.
By the dates I must have been nearly two and a half years old, for I was
born on Christmas day, and now the lilacs were in bloom. It was a rather
newly built country house where I had commenced my earthly pilgrimage,
and being the youngest by a dozen or so years, of a family of two
brothers and two sisters, I naturally lacked child playmates and was
left much to my own entertainment.
On this occasion I must have been enjoying a ramble by myself in the
grass-green dooryard, with the broad hand-hewn doorstep and the
traditional lilacs on either side. Suddenly my resounding cries brought
the whole family to the door in alarm. My wailing took the form of a
complaint expressed with my best linguistic ability:
“Baby los’ ’im—pitty bird—baby los’ ’im—baby mos’ caught him—pitty
bird—baby mos’ caught ’im.”
At length they succeeded in inducing me to listen to a question, “But
where did it go, Baby?”
Among my heart-breaking sobs I pointed to a small round hole under the
doorstep. The terrified scream of my mother remained in my memory
forever more. Her baby had “mos’ caught” a snake.
I recall nothing more for nearly a year and a half, when my terrors
again took possession. An esteemed and greatly beloved relative of the
family had died. The funeral services were to be held four miles away.
All the household would attend excepting myself and the younger of my
two brothers, David, some sixteen years old, who was deputed to act as
body guard, doubtless under strict orders.
I can picture the large family sitting room with its four open windows,
which room I was not to leave, and my guardian was to remain near me.
Some outside duty called him from the house and I was left to my own
observations. A sudden thunder shower came up; massive rifts of clouds
rolled up in the east, and the lightning darted among them like blazing
fires. The thunder gave them language and my terrified imagination
endowed them with life.
Among the animals of the farm was a huge old ram, that doubtless upon
some occasion had taught me to respect him, and of which I had a mortal
fear. My terrors transformed those rising, rolling clouds into a whole
heaven full of angry rams, marching down upon me. Again my screams
alarmed, and the poor brother, conscience stricken that he had left his
charge, rushed breathless in, to find me on the floor in hysterics, a
condition of things he had never seen; and neither memory nor history
relate how either of us got out of it.
In these later years I have observed that writers of sketches, in a
friendly desire to compliment me, have been wont to dwell upon my
courage, representing me as personally devoid of fear, not even knowing
the feeling. However correct that may have become, it is evident I was
not constructed that way, as in the earlier years of my life I remember
nothing but fear.
There can be no doubt that my advent into the family was at least a
novelty, as the last before me was a beautiful blue-eyed, curly-haired
little girl of a dozen summers. That the event was probably looked for
with interest is shadowed in the fact of preparations made for it. The
still existing few pieces in my possession testify to the purchase of a
full, complete and withal rather aristocratic dinner set of “Old
Willow,” which did faithful service many years; and the remaining bits
of dainty pink and white, tell of the tea set to match, in the cups of
which were told the future of many a merry party that learned their
reality through still later years, not all pink and white.
I became the seventh member of a household consisting of the father and
mother, two sisters and two brothers, each of whom for his and her
intrinsic merits and special characteristics deserves an individual
history, which it shall be my conscientious duty to portray as far as
possible as these pages progress. For the present it is enough to say
that each one manifested an increasing personal interest in the
newcomer, and as soon as developments permitted, set about instructing
her in the various directions most in accord with the tastes and
pursuits of each.
Of the two sisters, the elder was already a teacher. The younger
followed soon, and naturally my book education became their first care,
and under these conditions it is little to say, that I have no knowledge
of ever learning to read, or of a time that I did not do my own story
reading. The other studies followed very early.
My elder brother, Stephen, was a noted mathematician. He inducted me
into the mystery of figures. Multiplication, division, subtraction,
halves, quarters and wholes, soon ceased to be a mystery, and no toy
equalled my little slate. But the younger brother (he of the thunder
storm and hysterics) had entirely other tastes, and would have none of
these things. My father was a lover of horses, and one of the first in
the vicinity to introduce blooded stock. He had large lands, for New
England. He raised his own colts; and Highlanders, Virginians and
Morgans pranced the fields in idle contempt of the solid old farm
horses.
Of my brother, David, to say that he was fond of horses describes
nothing; one could almost add that he was fond of nothing else. He was
the Buffalo Bill of the surrounding country, and here commences his part
of my education. It was his delight to take me, a little girl five years
old, to the field, seize a couple of those beautiful young creatures,
broken only to the halter and bit, and gathering the reins of both
bridles firmly in hand, throw me upon the back of one colt, spring upon
the other himself, and catching me by one foot, and bidding me “cling
fast to the mane,” gallop away over field and fen, in and out among the
other colts in wild glee like ourselves. They were merry rides we took.
This was my riding school. I never had any other, but it served me well.
To this day my seat on a saddle or on the back of a horse is as secure
and tireless as in a rocking chair, and far more pleasurable. Sometimes,
in later years, when I found myself suddenly on a strange horse in a
trooper’s saddle, flying for life or liberty in front of pursuit, I
blessed the baby lessons of the wild gallops among the beautiful colts.
Various as were the topics of instruction pursued by my youthful
teachers, my father had still others. He was “Captain” Stephen Barton,
had served as a non-commissioned officer, under General Wayne (Mad
Anthony) in the French and Indian Wars on the then Western frontiers.
His soldier habits and tastes never left him. Those were also strong
political days—Andrew Jackson days—and very naturally my father became
my instructor in military and political lore. I listened breathlessly to
his war stories. Illustrations were called for, and we made battles and
fought them. Every shade of military etiquette was regarded. Generals,
colonels, captains and sergeants were given their proper place and rank.
So with the political world; the president, cabinet and leading officers
of the government were learned by heart, and nothing gratified the keen
humor of my father more than the parrot-like readiness with which I
lisped these often difficult names, and the accuracy with which I
repeated them upon request. My elder sister, with a teacher’s intuition,
mistrusting that my ideas on these points might be somewhat vague,
confidentially drew from me one day my impressions in regard to the
personages whose names I handled so glibly, and to the amusement of the
family found that I had no conception of their being men like other men,
but had invested them with miraculous size and importance. I thought the
president might be as large as the meeting house, and the vice-president
perhaps the size of the school house. And yet I am not going to say that
even this instruction had never any value for me. When later, I, like
all the rest of our country people, was suddenly thrust into the
mysteries of war, and had to find and take my place and part in it, I
found myself far less a stranger to the conditions than most women, or
even ordinary men for that matter; I never addressed a colonel as
captain, got my cavalry on foot, or mounted my infantry.
My mother, like the sensible woman that she was, seeming to conclude
that there were plenty of instructors without her, attempted very
little, but rather regarded the whole thing as a sort of mental
conglomeration, and looked on with a kind of amused curiosity to see
what they would make of it. Indeed, I heard her remark many years after,
that I came out with a more level head than she would have thought
possible.
My first individual ownership was “Button.” In personality (if the term
be admissible), Button represented a sprightly, medium-sized, very white
dog, with silky ears, sparkling black eyes and a very short tail. His
bark spoke for itself. Button belonged to me. No other claim was
instituted, or ever had been. It was said that on my entrance into the
family, Button constituted himself my guardian. He watched my first
steps and tried to pick me up when I fell down. One was never seen
without the other. He proved an apt and obedient pupil, obeying me
precept upon precept, if not line upon line. He stood on two feet to ask
for his food, and made a bow on receiving it, walked on three legs when
very lame, and so on, after the manner of his crude instruction; went
everywhere with me through the day, waited patiently while I said my
prayers and continued his guard on the foot of the bed at night. Button
shared my board as well as my bed. This fact gave opportunity for an
amusing bit of sport for the family at my expense, as was their wont.
One would, with considerable ado (to lend importance to the occasion),
make me a present of some divisible luxury, as cake or candies. This
called, on my part, for positive orders to all to sit down and share my
gift with me, as I never partook of it alone. A line or circle was
formed, comprising the entire family, Button occupying the last seat. I
then proceeded to make a careful hand count of each, including Button;
then retired and accurately divided my gift, a piece for each, but not
myself, as I was not in the count. I then went and gave a piece to every
one. The fun came in watching the silent wonderment and resignation with
which I contemplated my own empty hands, a condition of things I could
not at all comprehend, but made no complaint. Of course, each in
generous sympathy offered to give back to me his or her piece; but here
came in my careful mother’s protest and command, so seldom heard. “No,”
I must not be taught to think I could give a thing and still possess it,
or its value. A gift must be outright. I must do earnestly all that I
did. Each might generously give me back a very small piece, to make in
all no more than would have been my share, and I must be made to
understand that even this was a favor and not a right. I then went
around and received my crumbs. This all went well till I came to Button.
When I held out my hand for his little charity, he had nothing for me. I
could never understand this discourtesy of Button.
This was one of the many jokes reserved for me as I grew older. But far
above and beyond it all, as the years sped on, and the hands were still,
shone the gleam of the far-sighted mother’s watchfulness that neither
toil could obscure, nor mirth relax.
My home instruction was by no means permitted to stand in the way of the
“regular school,” which consisted of two terms each year, of three
months each. The winter term included not only the large boys and girls,
but in reality the young men and young women of the neighborhood. An
exceptionally fine teacher often drew the daily attendance of advanced
scholars for several miles. Our district had this good fortune. I
introduce with pleasure and with reverence the name of Richard Stone; a
firmly-set, handsome young man of twenty-six or seven, of commanding
figure and presence, combining all the elements of a teacher with a
discipline never questioned. His glance of disapproval was a reprimand,
his frown something he never needed to go beyond. The love and respect
of his pupils exceeded even their fear. It was no uncommon thing for
summer teachers to come twenty miles to avail themselves of the winter
term of “Col.” Stone, for he was a high militia officer, and at that
young age was a settled man with a family of four little children. He
had married at eighteen.
I am thus particular in my description of him, both because of my
childish worship of him, and because I shall have occasion to refer to
him later. The opening of his first term was a signal for the Barton
family, and seated on the strong shoulders of my stalwart brother
Stephen, I was taken a mile through the tall drifts to school. I have
often questioned if in this movement there might not have been a touch
of mischievous curiosity on the part of these not at all dull
youngsters, to see what my performance at school might be.
I was, of course, the baby of the school. I recall no introduction to
the teacher, but was set down among the many pupils in the by no means
spacious room, with my spelling book and the traditional slate, from
which nothing could separate me. I was seated on one of the low benches
and sat very still. At length the majestic schoolmaster seated himself,
and taking a primer, called the class of little ones to him. He pointed
the letters to each. I named them all, and was asked to spell some
little words, “dog,” “cat,” etc., whereupon I hesitatingly informed him
that I did “not spell there.” “Where do you spell?” “I spell in
‘Artichoke,’” that being the leading word in the three syllable column
in my speller. He good naturedly conformed to my suggestion, and I was
put into the “artichoke” class to bear my part for the winter, and read
and “spell for the head.” When, after a few weeks, my brother Stephen
was declared by the committee to be too advanced for a common school,
and was placed in charge of an important school himself, my unique
transportation devolved upon the other brother, David.
No colts now, but solid wading through the high New England drifts.
The Rev. Mr. Menseur of the Episcopal church of Leicester, Mass., if I
recollect aright, wisely comprehending the grievous inadaptability of
the school books of that time, had compiled a small geography and atlas
suited to young children, known as Menseur’s Geography. It was a
novelty, as well as a beneficence; nothing of its kind having occurred
to makers of the school books of that day. They seemed not to have
recognized the existence of a state of childhood in the intellectual
creation. During the winter I had become the happy possessor of a
Menseur’s Geography and Atlas. It is questionable if my satisfaction was
fully shared by others of the household. I required a great deal of
assistance in the study of my maps, and became so interested that I
could not sleep, and was not willing that others should, but persisted
in waking my poor drowsy sister in the cold winter mornings to sit up in
bed and by the light of a tallow candle, help me to find mountains,
rivers, counties, oceans, lakes, islands, isthmuses, channels, cities,
towns and capitals.
[Illustration:
MY BIRTHPLACE.
]
The next May the summer school opened, taught by Miss Susan Torrey.
Again, I write the name reverently, as gracing one of the most perfect
of personalities. I was not alone in my childish admiration, for her
memory remained a living reality in the town long years after the gentle
spirit fled. My sisters were both teaching other schools, and I must
make my own way, which I did, walking a mile with my one precious little
schoolmate, Nancy Fitts. Nancy Fitts! The playmate of my childhood; the
“chum” of laughing girlhood; the faithful trusted companion of young
womanhood, and the beloved life friend that the relentless grasp of time
has neither changed, nor taken from me.
On entering the wide open door of the inviting schoolhouse, armed with
some most unsuitable reader, a spelling book, geography, atlas and
slate, I was seized with an intense fear at finding myself with no
member of the family near, and my trepidation became so visible that the
gentle teacher, relieving me of my burden of books, took me tenderly on
her lap and did her best to reassure and calm me. At length I was given
my seat, with a desk in front for my atlas and slate, my toes at least a
foot from the floor, and that became my daily, happy home for the next
three months.
I partially recall an event which occurred when I was five years old;
the incidents which I could not have personally remembered, must have
been supplied by later relations. It seems that I was suddenly
discovered to be alarmingly ill. In response to the terror of the
moment, the saddle was thrown on Black Stallion, the king of the herd,
his rough rider mounted and away for the doctor, on “Oxford Plain,” five
miles away. “Not at home—out on a professional drive.” Followed to
“Sutton Street,” six miles further on. “Gone.” Back over “Hog Hill” and
across the town to the west. At length overtaken and brought back at a
speed little less than that which had called him, for the doctor was a
fearless driver. The thunder of the flying hoofs and the speed of the
rider as they passed had alarmed the people. All the town knew the horse
and the rider, and knew as well that something bad had happened at
Captain Barton’s. Men dropped their work, harnessed their own teams and
drove with all haste to see if, perchance, it were anything in which
they could help. When the doctor arrived, the yard and road were filled
with people, waiting his coming and diagnosis.
Shortly the verbal bulletin went out: “A sudden, unaccountable and
probably fatal attack of bloody dysentery and convulsions.” There was no
more for the sympathetic neighbors to do; they turned sadly away, and
with them went the report that Captain and Mrs. Barton had lost their
little baby girl.
[Illustration:
CAPTAIN STEPHEN BARTON, MY FATHER.
]
[Illustration:
SALLY STONE BARTON, MY MOTHER.
]
Of all this I have, naturally, no recollection—neither do I know the
lapse of time till memory again got hold; but her first grasp of the
event was this: I had occupied as a bed a great cradle which had been
made for some grown invalid, and preserved in the household. I was
bolstered up in this cradle, with a little low table at the side on
which was my first meal of solid food. How I had previously been
nourished I do not know, but I can see this meal as clearly as if it had
been yesterday. A piece of brown bread crust, about two inches square,
rye and Indian, baked on the oven bottom; a tiny wine glass, my
Christmas gift, full of home-made blackberry cordial, and a wee bit of
my mother’s well cured old cheese. There was no need to caution me to
eat slowly; knowing that I could have no more, and in dread of coming to
the last morsel, I nibbled and sipped and swallowed till I mercifully
fell asleep from exhaustion.
There are a good many men over the country who would readily believe
that sometimes, at the end of a long fast, food might have tasted very
good to me, as it did to them; but no food through the longest fast,
ever had the relish of that brown bread crust; and no royal table has
ever been so kingly as that where I presided alone over my own feast.
Of the succeeding years, six, seven and eight, I recall little of note
beyond my studies, excepting a propensity I indulged for writing verses,
many of which were preserved to amuse, others to tease me for many
years. Colonel Stone had closed his series of common schools, and opened
a special institution on “Oxford Plain,” known as the “Oxford High
School.” Its fame had spread for miles around, and it was regarded as
the _Ultima Thule_ for teachers, and in a manner a stepping stone or
opening door to Harvard and Yale.
My brother Stephen had succeeded Col. Stone in the winter terms of the
home school, and my sisters mainly had charge of them in summer. Thus
six months of each year offered little change, the others were long
vacations in which the out-of-doors played by far the most prominent
part. There were garden and flower beds to be made, choice pet animals
to look after, a few needy families with little children to be thought
of, and some sewing to be attempted. These latter were in accordance
with my mother’s recommendations. I recall no season of dolls, and
believe they were never included in my curriculum.
Meantime, I fell heir to my mother’s side saddle, a beautiful piece of
workmanship, and with some difficulty learned to adjust myself to it, a
rather useless adjustment it seemed to me at the time, which opinion I
still entertain.
These were years of change in the family. My brothers had become of age
and were young men of strength, character and enterprise. They had
“bought out” as the term went, the two large farms of my father, and
commenced business in earnest for themselves. My father had purchased
another farm of some three hundred acres, a few miles nearer the center
of the town.
This was a place of note, having been one of the points used for
security against the Indians by the old Huguenot Settlers of Oxford, and
which has made the town historic. Their main defense was on “Fort Hill,”
several miles to the east. I was naturally greatly interested in the
changes, and doubtless gave them all the time I could spare from my
increasing studies. I can recollect even now that my life seemed very
full for a little girl of eight years.
During the preceding winter I began to hear talk of my going away to
school, and it was decided that I be sent to Col. Stone’s High school,
to board in his family and go home occasionally. This arrangement, I
learned in later years, had a double object. I was what is known as a
bashful child, timid in the presence of other persons, a condition of
things found impossible to correct at home. In the hope of overcoming
this undesirable _mauvais honte_, it was decided to throw me among
strangers.
How well I remember my advent. My father took me in his carriage with a
little dressing case which I dignified with the appellation of
“trunk”—something I had never owned. It was April—cold and bare. The
house and school rooms adjoined, and seemed enormously large. The
household was also large. The long family table with the dignified
preceptor, my loved and feared teacher at three years, at its head,
seemed to me something formidable. There were probably one hundred and
fifty pupils daily in the ample school rooms, of which I was perhaps the
youngest, except the colonel’s own children.
My studies were chosen with great care. I remember among them, ancient
history with charts. The lessons were learned to repeat by rote. I found
difficulty both in learning the proper names and in pronouncing them, as
I had not quite outgrown my lisp. One day I had studied very hard on the
Ancient Kings of Egypt, and thought I had everything perfect, and when
the pupil above me failed to give the name of a reigning king, I
answered very promptly that it was “Potlomy.” The colonel checked with a
glance the rising laugh of the older members of the class, and told me,
very gently, that the P was silent in that word. I had, however, seen it
all, and was so overcome by mortification for my mistake, and gratitude
for the kindness of my teacher, that I burst into tears and was
permitted to leave the room.
[Illustration:
COLONEL RICHARD C. STONE, MY TEACHER AT THREE YEARS OF AGE.
]
I am not sure that I was really homesick, but the days seemed very long,
especially Sundays. I was in constant dread of doing something wrong,
and one Sunday afternoon I was sure I had found my occasion. It was
early spring. The tender leaves had put out and with them the buds and
half open blossoms of the little cinnamon roses, an unfailing
ornamentation of a well kept New England home of that day. The children
of the family had gathered in the front yard, admiring the roses and
daring to pick each a little bouquet. As I stood holding mine, the heavy
door at my back swung open, and there was the colonel, in his long,
light dressing gown and slippers, direct from his study. A kindly spoken
“come with me, Clara,” nearly took my last breath. I followed his
strides through all the house, up the long flights of stairs, through
the halls of the school rooms, silently wondering what I had done more
than the others. I knew he was by no means wont to spare his own
children. I had my handful of roses—so had they. I knew it was very
wrong to have picked them, but why more wrong for me than for the
others? At length, and it seemed to me an hour, we reached the colonel’s
study, and there, advancing to meet us, was the Reverend Mr. Chandler,
the pastor of our Universalist church, whom I knew well. He greeted me
very politely and kindly, and handed the large, open school reader which
he held, to the colonel, who put it into my hands, placed me a little in
front of them, and pointing to a column of blank verse, very gently
directed me to read it. It was an extract from Campbell’s “Pleasures of
Hope,” commencing, “Unfading hope, when life’s last embers burn.” I read
it to the end, a page or two. When finished, the good pastor came
quickly and relieved me of the heavy book, and I wondered why there were
tears in his eyes. The colonel drew me to him, gently stroked my short
cropped hair, went with me down the long steps, and told me I could “go
back to the children and play.” I went much more easy in mind than I
came, but it was years before I comprehended anything about it.
My studies gave me no trouble, but I grew very tired, felt hungry all
the time but dared not eat, grew thin and pale. The colonel noticed it,
and watching me at table found that I was eating little or nothing,
refusing everything that was offered me. Mistrusting that it was from
timidity, he had food laid on my plate, but I dared not eat it, and
finally at the end of the term a consultation was held between the
colonel, my father and our beloved family physician, Dr. Delano Pierce,
who lived within a few doors of the school, and it was decided to take
me home until a little older, and wiser, I could hope. My timid
sensitiveness must have given great annoyance to my friends. If I ever
could have gotten entirely over it, it would have given far less
annoyance and trouble to myself all through life.
To this day, I would rather stand behind the lines of artillery at
Antietam, or cross the pontoon bridge under fire at Fredericksburg, than
to be expected to preside at a public meeting.
Referring to the breaking up of the first home, and the removal of my
father and mother to the new one, it might be well to state the reasons
for the change. A favorite nephew of my father, Mr. Jeremiah Larned, had
died after a lingering illness, leaving a widow and four children, from
thirteen to six years of age, on the fine farm which had descended to
him from his father, Captain Jeremiah Larned, one of the leading men of
the town. Unfortunately, during his long illness the farm had become
involved to the extent of necessitating a sale. This would result in
depriving the widow and her small children of a home, and in order to
prevent this, and the disadvantages of a creditor’s sale, it was decided
that my father and a brother-in-law of Mrs. Larned, Captain Sylvester
McIntire, who had no children, purchase the farm, and remove there,
keeping the widow and children with them.
The hill farms—for there were two—were sold to my brothers, who,
entering into partnership, constituted the well known firm of S. & D.
Barton, continuing mainly through their lives. Thus I became the
occupant of two homes, my sisters remaining with my brothers, none of
whom were married.
The removal to the second home was a great novelty to me. I became
observant of all changes made. One of the first things found necessary
on entering a house of such ancient date, was a rather extensive
renovation, for those days, of painting and papering. The leading
artisan in that line in the town was Mr. Sylvanus Harris, a courteous
man of fine manners, good scholarly acquirements, and who, for nearly
half a lifetime, filled the office of town clerk. The records of Oxford
will bear his name and his beautiful handwriting as long as its records
exist.
Mr. Harris was engaged to make the necessary improvements. Painting
included more then than in these later days of prepared material. The
painter brought his massive white marble slab, ground his own paints,
mixed his colors, boiled his oil, calcined his plaster, made his putty
and did scores of things that a painter of to-day would not only never
think of doing, but would often scarcely know how to do.
Coming from the newly built house where I was born, I had seen nothing
of this kind done, and was intensely interested. I must have persisted
in making myself very numerous, for I was constantly reminded not to
“get in the gentleman’s way.” But I was not to be set aside. My combined
interest and curiosity for once overcame my timidity, and encouraged by
the mild, genial face of Mr. Harris, I gathered the courage to walk up
in front and address him: “Will you teach me to paint, sir?” “With
pleasure, little lady, if mama is willing, I should very much like your
assistance.” The consent was forthcoming, and so was a gown suited to my
new work, and I reported for duty. I question if any ordinary apprentice
was ever more faithfully and intelligently instructed in his first
month’s apprenticeship. I was taught how to hold my brushes, to take
care of them, allowed to help grind my paints, shown how to mix and
blend them, how to make putty and use it, to prepare oils and dryings,
and learned from experience that boiling oil was a great deal hotter
than boiling water, was taught to trim paper neatly, to match and help
to hang it, to make the most approved paste, and even varnished the
kitchen chairs to the entire satisfaction of my mother, which was
triumph enough for one little girl. So interested was I, that I never
wearied of my work for a day, and at the end of a month looked on sadly
as the utensils, brushes, buckets and great marble slab were taken away.
There was not a room that I had not helped to make better; there were no
longer mysteries in paint and paper. I knew them all, and that work
would bring callouses even on little hands.
When the work was finished and everything gone, I went to my room,
lonesome in spite of myself. I found on my candle stand a box containing
a pretty little locket, neatly inscribed, “To a faithful worker.” No one
seemed to have any knowledge of it, and I never gained any.
The new home presented a phase of life quite unfamiliar to me. From
never having had any playmates, I now found myself one of a very lively
body of six—three boys and three girls nearer of an age than would have
been probable in the same family. My father had taken charge of the
young son of a friend—Lovett Stimpson—a fine, robust, intelligent lad of
about my age, who lived with us.
It would be difficult to describe what this new life, for the time it
continued, became to me, or indeed I to it. As I look back upon it I
realize that we were a group of good children with honorable instincts,
obedient and kindly disposed. In later years none of us could recall a
serious difference of any kind, no cruelty and no broken faith. It took
just six, and no more, to keep a secret. But this portrayal of
characteristics gives no clue to, indeed casts no shadow, of what we
were capable of accomplishing in a day. The territorial domain comprised
something over three hundred acres. We knew it all. From “Peakèd Hill,”
to “Jim Brown’s”—across the “Flowed Swamp,” three miles, we knew every
rod of it. Old “Rocky Hills,” so high, so steep, so thickly wooded that
a horse would never attempt them, were no strangers. We knew where the
best chestnuts were. We explored the “Devil’s Den,” in spite of the
tradition that it was an abode for the tempters of Eve. The “French
River,” that later carried all the factories of North Oxford, spread
itself out in lazy rest, after its rugged leaps, as it meandered through
the broad, beautiful meadows and interval land, the pride of the farm.
A long hewn log or pole stretched across it in its narrowest, deepest
place. I would not dare to say how long, but it could not have been more
than fourteen inches wide, and swayed and teetered from the moment the
foot touched till it left it. The waters glided still and black beneath.
It was there as a convenience for the working men in crossing from one
field to another; but if ever a week day passed that we did not cross it
several times, we knew one duty had been neglected. The only sawmill in
that section of the town was a part of my father’s possessions. The
great up-and-down saw cut its angry way through the primeval forest
giants from morning till night, and not unfrequently from night till
morning. The long saw-carriage ran far out over the raceway at the rear
end. How were we to withstand the temptation of riding out over the
rushing mill stream twenty feet below, and then coming quickly in as the
sawn log was drawn back for another cut? Hurt? Never one of us. Killed?
We knew not such a thing could be.
There were three temptingly great barns, scattered between the house
premises and the interval. Was there ever a better opportunity for
hide-and-seek, for climbing and jumping? It would have been no athlete
at all that couldn’t jump from the great beams to the hay, in scant
summer time before the new hay came in, and land on the feet safely.
There was, and still is, directly in front of the house, a small,
circular, natural pond, fed by springs in the bottom and surrounded by a
cordon of hills forming a basin in which the little pond basks and
sleeps through the summer, but in winter becomes a thing of beauty and a
joy forever to the skater. From its sheltered position it freezes
smooth, even, and glare, and has no danger spots. I dwell upon this
description, for that little pond was my early love; the home of my
beautiful flock of graceful ducks. The boys were all fine skaters; I
wanted to skate, too, but skating had not then become customary, in
fact, not even allowable for girls; and when, one day, my father saw me
sitting on the ice attempting to put on a pair of skates, he seemed
shocked, recommended me to the house, and said something about
“tomboys.” But this did not cure my desire; nor could I understand why
it was not as well for me to skate as for the boys; I was as strong,
could run as fast and ride better, indeed they would not have presumed
to approach me with a horse. Neither could the boys understand it, and
this misconception led them into an error and me into trouble.
One clear, cold, starlight Sunday morning, I heard a low whistle under
my open chamber window. I realized that the boys were out for a skate
and wanted to communicate with me. On going to the window, they informed
me that they had an extra pair of skates and if I could come out they
would put them on me and “learn” me how to skate. It was Sunday morning;
no one would be up till late, and the ice was so smooth and “glare.” The
stars were bright, the temptation was too great. I was in my dress in a
moment and out. The skates were fastened on firmly, one of the boy’s
wool neck “comforters” tied about my waist, to be held by the boy in
front. The other two were to stand on either side, and at a signal the
cavalcade started. Swifter and swifter we went, until at length we
reached a spot where the ice had been cracked and was full of sharp
edges. These threw me, and the speed with which we were progressing, and
the distance before we could quite come to a stop, gave terrific
opportunity for cuts and wounded knees. The opportunity was not lost.
There was more blood flowing than any of us had ever seen. Something
must be done. Now all of the wool neck comforters came into requisition;
my wounds were bound up, and I was helped into the house, with one knee
of ordinary respectable cuts and bruises; the other frightful. Then the
enormity of the transaction and its attendant difficulties began to
present themselves, and how to surround (for there was no possibility of
overcoming them), was the question.
The most feasible way seemed to be to say nothing about it, and we
decided to all keep silent; but how to conceal the limp? I must have no
limp, but walk well. I managed breakfast without notice. Dinner not
quite so well, and I had to acknowledge that I had slipped down and hurt
my knee a little. This gave my limp more latitude, but the next day it
was so decided, that I was held up and searched. It happened that the
best knee was inspected; the stiff wool comforter soaked off, and a
suitable dressing given it. This was a great relief, as it afforded
pretext for my limp, no one observing that I limped with the wrong knee.
But the other knee was not a wound to heal by first intention,
especially under its peculiar dressing, and finally had to be revealed.
The result was a surgical dressing and my foot held up in a chair for
three weeks, during which time I read the “Arabian Nights” from end to
end. As the first dressing was finished, I heard the surgeon say to my
father: “that was a hard case, Captain, but she stood it like a
soldier.” But when I saw how genuinely they all pitied, and how tenderly
they nursed me, even walking lightly about the house not to jar my
swollen and fevered limbs, in spite of my disobedience and detestable
deception (and persevered in at that), my Sabbath breaking and
unbecoming conduct, and all the trouble I had caused, conscience
revived, and my mental suffering far exceeded my physical. The Arabian
Nights were none too powerful a soporific to hold me in reasonable
bounds. I despised myself and failed to sleep or eat.
My mother, perceiving my remorseful condition, came to the rescue,
telling me soothingly, that she did not think it the worst thing that
could have been done, that other little girls had probably done as
badly, and strengthened her conclusions by telling me how she once
persisted in riding a high mettled unbroken horse in opposition to her
father’s commands, and was thrown. My supposition is that she had been a
worthy mother of her equestrian son.
The lesson was not lost on any of the group. It is very certain that
none of us, boys or girls, indulged in further smart tricks. Twenty-five
years later, when on a visit to the old home, long left, I saw my
father, then a grey-haired grandsire, out on the same little pond,
fitting the skates carefully to the feet of his little twin
granddaughters, holding them up to make their first start in safety, I
remembered my wounded knees, and blessed the great Father that progress
and change were among the possibilities of His people.
I never learned to skate. When it became fashionable I had neither time
nor opportunity.
Along these lines I recall another disappointment, which, though not
vital, was still indicative of the times. During the following winter a
dancing school was opened in the hall of the one hotel on Oxford Plain,
some three miles from us. It was taught by a personal friend of my
father, a polished gentleman, resident of a neighboring town, and
teacher of English schools. By some chance I got a glimpse of the
dancing school at the opening, and was seized with a most intense desire
to go and learn to dance. With my peculiar characteristics it was
necessary for me to want a thing very much before mentioning it; but
this overcame me, especially as the cordial teacher took tea with us one
evening before going to his school, and spoke very interestingly of his
classes. I even went so far as to beg permission to go. The dance was in
my very feet. The violin haunted me. “Ladies change” and “all hands
round” sounded in my ears and woke me from my sleep at night.
The matter was taken up in family council. I was thought to be very
young to be allowed to go to a dancing school in a hotel. Dancing at
that time was at a very low ebb in good New England society, and
besides, there was an active revival taking place in both of the
orthodox churches (or rather one a church and the other a society
without a church), and it might not be a wise, nor even a courteous,
thing to allow. Not that our family, with its well known liberal
proclivities, could have the slightest objection on that score; still,
like St. Paul, if meat were harmful to their brethren they would not eat
it, and thus it was decided that I could not go. The decision was
perfectly conscientious, kindness itself, and probably wise; but I have
wondered if they could have known (as they never did) how severe the
disappointment was, the tears it cost me in my little bed in the dark,
the music and the master’s voice still sounding in my ears, if this
knowledge would have weighed in the decision.
I have listened to a great deal of music since then, interspersed with
very positive orders, and which generally called for “all hands round”
but the dulcet notes of the violin and the “ladies change” were missing.
Neither did I ever learn to dance.
From the peculiar gifts that were wont to be made me in those days, I am
led to infer that my peculiarities in the direction of the dumb animal
part of creation, were decidedly noticeable. On one occasion an English
gentleman, a friend of the family, and, like my father, a promoter of
fine stock, had been paying us a visit, and upon returning to his home,
near Boston, sent to me a beautifully soft, wool-wadded basket
containing two and a half dozens of fine, large duck’s eggs. It was not
difficult to find among the numerous feathered inhabitants of the barns,
three domestically inclined, motherly hens, willing to take charge of
the big tinted eggs, albeit not their own, giving to them the strictest
attention. The result was, that within four weeks, the shallow end of
the little pond was covered with tiny balls of yellow down floating
calmly and majestically on the water—darting rapidly this way and that,
for every fly or bug so unfortunate as to appear, while the shore
presented the scene of three of the most distracted mothers that
imagination can picture. There was nothing majestic nor calm in their
motions, and the tones which called the recreant broods were far from
soothing; but like the mothers of other wayward, unnatural offspring,
the lesson of submission was theirs to learn; and through resignation at
length came peace.
In the course of two or three years my flock of ducks became so numerous
as to attract the attention of the wild ducks, passing over from the
northern lakes to the southern bays, and it was no uncommon thing for an
entire flock, wearied with a long journey, to alight for a few days’
rest. My tame ducks learned athletics from these native divers and
dippers, and the scene became at times not only interesting, but
inspiring and instructive.
It is very evident to me, as I remember it, that my aspirations were by
no means satisfied with an interest in these small specimens, such as
ducks, hens, turkeys, geese, dogs, cats, etc., of which I had no lack.
This not including canaries, of which I received from time to time a
number as gifts; but I had no pleasure in them, and although doubtless
the most inhuman thing that could have been done, I invariably opened
the cage door and let them out.
But all that farm land, the three great barns and accompanying yards,
called for cattle. A small herd of twenty-five fine milch cows came
faithfully home each day with the lowering of the sun, for the milking
and extra supper which they knew awaited them. With the customary greed
of childhood I had laid claim to three or four of the handsomest and
tamest of them, and believing myself to be their real owner, I went
faithfully every evening to the yards to receive and look after them. My
little milk pail went as well, and I became proficient in an art never
forgotten.
One afternoon, on going to the barn as usual, I found no cows there; all
had been driven somewhere else. As I stood in the corner of the great
yard alone, I saw three or four men—the farm hands—with one stranger
among them wearing a long, loose shirt or gown. They were all trying to
get a large red ox onto the barn floor, to which he went very
reluctantly. At length they succeeded. One of the men carried an axe,
and stepping a little to the side and back, raised it high in the air
and brought it down with a terrible blow. The ox fell, I fell too; and
the next I knew I was in the house on a bed, and all the family about
me, with the traditional camphor bottle, bathing my head to my great
discomfort. As I regained consciousness they asked me what made me fall?
I said “some one struck me.” “Oh, no,” they said, “no one struck you,”
but I was not to be convinced and proceeded to argue the case with an
impatient putting away of the hurting hands, “then what makes my head so
sore?” Happy ignorance! I had not then learned the mystery of nerves.