THE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER.
THE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER.
Where the bend of a beautiful river kept bright and green a little spot
of this goodly earth longer than it stayed bright and green elsewhere,
there used to be made, year after year, at the season when the leaves
turn yellow and the mosses brown, a gypsy camp.
When the frost first bit the grass, and the rivulets hid themselves
away, expectation stood a-tip-toe among the young people, and so
continued, till some farmer’s boy, perchance, riding home from mill,
along the river road, would see the smoke of their fires curling and
rippling high above the tree-tops, and hurrying home, would set the
household astir with the news,--“The gypsies have come!”
Then there would be whispering and laughing among the girls, and a
missing of the lads when the family circle drew about the evening
fire; for it was the habit of the youth of both sexes to steal out to
the gypsy camp and have their fortunes told; and many a cock that had
been used to crow in the morning, and tell the sleepy inmates of the
farm-house it was time to get up and set the breakfast in order, and
yoke the steers, had to boil in some gypsy pot to pay for it. Among
the vagrants of the camp was an ugly old woman, known to the people of
the neighborhood by the name of “Mother Crow.” She seldom strayed from
among the tents, and was usually to be found, till after the middle
of the night, peeping and muttering over a great kettle of simmering
herbs, of wonderful power, if she were to be believed; and indeed some
persons said, who had watched her stirring her mess with a crooked and
thorny stick, that they had seen sparkles of unearthly light rising out
of it and settling along her forehead like a row of stars. However this
were, she was certainly more feared and believed in than all her tribe
put together. It may be that her wisdom was made up chiefly of cunning,
but no matter,--it passed current; it may be too that the snow-white
hair, straggling from beneath her cap of rabbit-skins, and veiling
the intense glitter of her snaky eyes, had somewhat to do with her
fascination. She was very tall, and upright as an oak sapling, but her
dimensions in other respects no one could arrive at very definitely, as
she was generally loosely wrapt in a big blue blanket, with a border of
scarlet stripes.
Many a night the home-going fisherman rowed softly ashore by the
gypsy camp, to learn of Mother Crow whether his sweetheart were false
or true, and paid her with the choice treasure of his net; and it
generally happened that he was richer than before; such exceeding worth
is there in a happy heart, and Mother Crow was apt to see the bright
side of things.
She could instantly tell, so she used to say, when she stepped on the
graves of persons who had been buried a hundred or more years, but she
could not tell whether the ground she trod on were to hold a coffin on
the morrow or not. She could see future events, she used to say, but
not the time at which they would take place, and so she got along very
well with her prophecies.
Some persons, too good or too great to seek a gypsy fortune-teller
themselves, would gladly listen to the gossip about her; or if they
happened near the camp at night, would stop and peep over the shoulder
of some lad for the sake of seeing her as she sat inside a ring of
eager upturned faces, telling all the girls and boys whether their
sweethearts had black eyes or blue, and whether they would marry and
make a journey across the sea, and come back with a great deal of gold,
and live happy forever afterwards, or whether they would marry, get
gold, and be happy without the great journey.
And it is no wonder these people thus stole a glimpse of the strange
woman, for she made such a picture as one does not see every day in the
week, nor every month in the year, nor every year in ten.
Among those who visited her the oftenest, and upon whom she levied the
heaviest taxes, was an old man who lived in a ruinous house by the
river-side, alone, and whose strange ways had shut him quite without
the pale of society,--in truth, he was supposed to have lost his wits,
and was treated accordingly, when, by chance, his neighbors came in
contact with him. The columns that once held up the porches of his
house fell down one after another, and lay where they fell; the once
beautiful garden ran to weeds, and, instead of flower-stalks, thistles
stood up very high and proud; spiders made looms in the windows, and
wove there all the day long, making curtains so thick it could hardly
be told at night whether or not the old man’s candle were alight.
And the truth is, nobody cared whether or not his candle was alight. He
wore a shirt of patched flannel, trousers of an old fashion, and shoes
quite distinct from the modern style; and instead of riding in a fine
carriage he walked on foot. Perhaps it was not altogether his fault
that he was shy and unneighborly, for certain it is, nobody stopped to
inquire whether it were or not; and Mother Crow herself, skinny and
haggish as she was, created a lighter sensation of awe than he. His
hair hung over his shoulders white as snow, and his beard fell down
his bosom in a profusion of silver waves, that contrasted strangely
with the black and wonderfully inquisitive eyes, and made the children
hang their heads when he came near, and older people too sometimes, for
there was in his face, it must be owned, a look that seemed to accuse
men. Indeed, he avoided men and women too, as far as might be; but when
he could not help seeing them he was civil in spite of the accusing
look, which, if it had been examined closely, would perhaps have been
found to be distrust rather than accusation, after all.
“I don’t like him!” people used to say; and it may be that they did not
stop to think why they did not like him, and it may be that they would
not have seen much to like if they had stopped to think, for we cannot
very well see what is lovable in anybody till we first love them. Love
not only sees existing good qualities, but creates good qualities.
All sorts of strange stories were told of this man, and in connection
with everything belonging to him; this, among the rest.
One of the chimneys of his house had fallen, or had been blown down by
the wind, perhaps, and the story ran that it had been tumbled down by
the witches who were in the habit of seeking the crazy man’s chamber
by this means. Then it was reported, too, that a well of once sweet
waters in his door-yard had grown brackish, and had petrified an ox
that had chanced to fall into it, and that his horns might be seen any
day sticking out of the well’s mouth!
It is strange that such things should ever have been believed; but let
a story once get afloat, no matter how improbable, and it will hold its
place a long time in spite of everything.
The strangest and most improbable of all the stories related to the
wife of the “crazy man,”--for there was a time when his beard was not
white, when his flannel shirt was not patched, and when he had as
pretty a wife as was to be seen in all the county-side. Most of his
neighbors could remember very well when the fallen chimney stood up red
and proud as could be; when at night there were lights shining through
all the windows, so dark and gloomy now; and when the cedar beams along
the porches, against which hung the gray muddy nests of wasps, were
bright and sweet, and the rows of pillars white as milk. They could
tell about having sometimes seen a gentle-faced and golden-haired
woman walking in the garden, and how all the roses bowed their heads
down toward her as she went; and about the little child that she used
to lead by the hand; and they could whisper too, and they often did
whisper dark surmises as to what became of the woman and the child,
for they disappeared one after the other, and were never seen or heard
of more.
There were even hints of murder, and some people said that the
beautiful woman and child were lying petrified away down in the well
under the stone ox!
But these things were only spoken under breath, for all that was
certainly known was, that a fair-faced woman and a lovely little child
used to be seen about the grounds, and that they were seen no more; but
that anything mysterious was connected with their disappearance nobody
dare positively assert. But it was asserted and believed that often,
at night, strange and unearthly sounds were heard about the old house,
and in the end it came to be thought that the old house was haunted
with witches, if with nothing worse; so that often when these noises
were supposed to prevail, the more superstitious of the people would
shake their heads, and whisper, apart from the hearing of the children,
“They are the echoes of the love-ditties the crazy man used to sing to
the beautiful woman!” And then the windows would be put down and the
Bibles opened and prayers offered, and sometimes, after all these pious
ceremonies, a horseshoe would be hung over the door-case to protect the
household against witch-work, so strangely are the minds of men and
women constituted. And at such times the frightened children would look
wonderingly up into the faces of the old folks, and ask to have the
candles trimmed anew, or that another stick might be added to the fire.
The story ran too, that often of winter nights, when the moon shone
bright on the snow that had been drifted into fantastic but smooth
curves along the meadows, and in the ragged edges of the woods,
there used to be heard a footstep going along their edges,--tramp,
tramp,--and in the morning it would be seen that the snow was written
all over with letters which the crazy man had traced with his finger,
and the letters spelled one name, over and over, sometimes a thousand
times, and that name was Hesther; but whether it had been borne by the
missing woman, or whether it was a fantasy of his bewildered brain, was
left to conjecture.
The only person in the world for whom this sad old man appeared to
cherish any kindly regard was Mother Crow. Under the straggling boughs
of an apple-tree he at length built her a house, a very goodly house
for a gypsy, with a roof and door of pine planks; albeit there were
gaps between the logs of which it was composed more than wide enough
for the moon to peep through and see what was going forward. Many
a basket of bright apples he bore to Mother Crow’s house on his
shoulder, and many a bag of corn he emptied on her broad clay hearth;
and once, at least, during every period of encampment, he might be seen
leading thither by the horns a fat heifer or steer, and then be sure
there was great feasting among the gypsies.
It was noticeable that during the stay of these people the old man
always became more like other men, that he would smile when he met his
neighbors, and sometimes speak to them, not only cheerfully, but with
great good sense.
It was strange his lucid intervals should always occur at the time of
the gypsies’ encampment, people used to say, but they never inquired
into the mystery, for the world generally takes but little interest in
its old crazy men that live in ruined houses.
Scarcely a midnight came and went that did not find the crazy man by
the gypsy’s fire, bowing his white head beneath the skinny hand of the
old fortune-teller, and listening to her muttering, which contained
always one and the same story; and of course the story was all about
the crazy man’s wife and child, for she pretended that she could look
back into the past and see what had happened to them, and she commonly
begun her story something after this fashion:--
“I see a beautiful river with a border of fine trees, and moonlight
shining along the billows; I see herds of cattle grazing, and a great
house with porches white as snow; and now there comes to the porch
a fair young woman, with curls down her shoulders bright as the
sunshine, and eyes blue as a morning sky in May. She wanders toward the
river-bank, leading by the hand a child like herself, but even more
beautiful,--her eyes being like the color of the morning-glory, and the
fingers fair as the fingers of a lily.
“And now there leaps from his boat on the river wave a man, sleek and
bright and stealthy as a leopard; he approaches her with smiles and
gentle words, but his feet are shod with evil, and his heart is full of
all manner of dark things. Now he talks to her and his voice is soft
and low as the voice of the wind when it talks to the violet; and now
he sings, and the song of the nightingale is not so sweet.”
At this point of the story the old woman would stop and tell her eager,
trembling listener that she could not see any more until he had again
crossed her palm with silver, and so having got more money she would go
on.
“All the scene that I lately saw is vanished, but I see the same woman
walking in the fields alone. It is a wild windy night, and the clouds
are flying across the face of the moon, and the autumn leaves are
blowing about withered and dry, and still the woman walks on alone
until she comes to a blackthorn-tree, under which, on a little heap of
stones, sits a gypsy fortune-teller,--a wicked woman as I can see by
her wolfish face, and her long, lithe, snake-like body; and now she
crosses the palm of this old hag with silver, and she tells her a tale
that is like a fairy tale, of the splendid fortune that is waiting for
her in a far-off country,--how she shall eat from plates of gold, sleep
on a bed of swan’s down, wear her hair braided up with diamonds, have
gowns with hems embroidered with pearls, ride in a gilded coach, and
have a hundred lovely maids of honor to be about her and to tend her
day and night, and all just for going with the stranger who sings to
her so sweetly, and who, she says, is a man of honor and authority in
his own country. And the eyes of the fair woman are dazzled, and she
seems almost persuaded to go away with the leopard-like man, and leave
forever her comfortable home and her good husband.”
And here again, Mother Crow would pause in her story, and profess that
she could not see anything more until she had more silver, and then she
would say that she saw a boat sailing down the river, and seated within
it three persons, a man and a woman and a child, and that the three
looked like the other three which she had seen before.
Then the shadows would come between her and the boat, and her vision
would grow dim, so she would say, and not till the old man had paid her
more money could she see anything further.
Sometimes she would sit for half an hour holding out her rabbit-skin
cap, and not till she heard something clink in it would she speak one
word. Then at last she would profess to see the beautiful woman sick
and dying, and to see the child, grown to be a beautiful young girl
now, standing by her bedside; then she could see the eyes of the woman
closed, and a long funeral procession; and after this, no matter by
what prices the crazy man sought to buy her vision, Mother Crow could
see no further; though she always professed to be growing in prophetic
wisdom, and quite sure that at the time of the full moon, or at the
falling of the November rain, or at some other designated season, she
should be able to trace further the history of the young girl.
[Illustration: THE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER.]
And this was the secret of her power over the crazy man, as he was
called; and by this means it was that the entire gypsy camp fared so
well year after year. But the more liberal the old man was, the more
the fortune-teller demanded; and at last one night when the fumes of
her bitter stew had gotten into her brain a little more than common,
it may be, she professed to see the fate of the beautiful young girl.
She saw that she was living in the castle of a nobleman, and that she
was become a lovely woman, with golden hair and blue eyes like her
mother’s, and that she saw little shining letters along her forehead
which spelled the name of Hesther. But in what castle Hesther was,
and how she was to be obtained by the old man, she would not tell
until twelve pots of rum had been ranged along her clay hearth, with
a beehive full of new honey at their head. This request was no sooner
complied with, however, than Mother Crow declared that her vision was
become dim, and that the anxious inquirer must wait another day. Of
course she had her way; but, alas! things turned out as she little
expected.
Having feasted to excess on the honey and rum, she lay down in her
cabin to sleep, and feeling presently that the lease of her mercies was
run out, and that the pains of death were hold of her, she called the
old man back, and taking from her bosom the picture of his wife, she
gave it into his hand, and also a piece of yellow parchment written
over with clumsy and curious characters; but the eyes of love can
decipher hard things, and the old man read all the parchment contained,
as if it had been written by a scribe.
Mother Crow watched him as he read, and at the close of the reading
lifted up her hands and hid the light from her eyes, even before death
hid it, and turned her face to the wall; so fearful, sooner or later,
are the effects of wrong-doing.
It was all a lie that Mother Crow had been telling the old man, after
all. There had never been a man who was sweet-voiced and sleek and
shining as a leopard, there had never been a little boat that rocked on
the river of nights, and there had never been any running away, first
or last. She herself had stolen the child in the hope of getting money
from the father by telling him where it was, and how he could get it
again; but when it came to pass, as it did, that the mother pined for
her child till she became crazy, and wandered away and was lost to her
house and her husband, and to all who knew her, she was afraid to say
aught about the child lest she herself should be accused of murder.
She was afraid even to keep it any longer, and pinning to its dress a
paper that said it had been stolen and was to be given up if the father
should ever come for it, or any one, bearing a certain parchment which
the said paper mentioned, she one dark night, having taken it a long
way off, shut it up in a rich man’s garden, where the gardener would
be likely to hear its cries and take it to the rich man’s house, as
indeed he did, and here the girl had lived and was now grown to be
a beautiful woman. She had meant always to tell the truth some time
or other, but had put it off month after month and year after year,
knowing that her palm would no more be crossed with silver by the
old man if he once came to know where his child really was. And the
story was never told until Death came and put her soul in torture that
pressed the secret out of her lips.
And the red leaves drifted in a red heap over the grave of Mother Crow,
and the rain beat out the fires, and the pot of bitter herbs simmered
no more, and the winter snow fell and lay in smooth curves about the
stone house, for there was no name written on it now, and no crazy
man anywhere to be seen. All the windows were dark as they could be,
the fallen pillars lay one across another along the porches, and the
chimney, in a stack of ruins, frowned from the roof, and at night not
a sparkle was seen to rise above it. Now it was that the corpse of the
old suspicion floated up on the stream of gossip again, more black and
malignant than ever.
The crazy man, in addition to his other crimes, it was asserted, had
poisoned Mother Crow, and, lest they who saw him should murder him, had
shut himself in his own house, and was slowly dying of starvation and
cold. Some even declared that they could hear him making the night
hideous by his hungry howls.
But no man and no woman sought out the truth, or made one effort to
alleviate the miserable condition of the old man.
All at once, and as by magic, the stone house was transformed into its
original grandeur; the columns stood in white rows along the porches,
the windows shone with curtains of crimson stuff, mixed with satin,
white as snow,--the stack of ruins stood up in a high, proud chimney,
and above it, at night, there glittered a shower of sparkles red as
roses.
And every day, riding along the river road, in a coach with shining
panels, was seen the man that his neighbors called crazy when he
_walked_ along the road. Magnificent horses, in the most dazzling
furniture, drew the carriage; and by the man’s side sat a lovely young
woman, who folded his mantle tenderly about him with her sweet white
hands.
But the most marvellous thing I have to tell is the change that came
to the hearts of the people when they saw the gold trappings of the
horses, and the diamonds on the white hands of the young woman,--whose
name was Hesther, and the ermine that lined the mantle of the old man.
The proudest of them bowed down as he went by, and saluted him as
though he had been a king, and his wisdom and beauty were the continual
themes of conversation and admiration. The white hair and beard that
used to be thought so frightful were considered regal now, and the
austerity that used only to excite derision fitted him right royally
now.
In short, no man could be found to own he had ever believed the rich
man to be crazy. On the contrary, every one was loud in the declaration
that it had always been his belief that the owner of the stone house
was some great person in disguise, and a very wise person too. And
those who had affirmed most vehemently, when the stone house was
ruinous and dark, that they could hear its crazy inmate howling with
hunger, were the first to make feasts for him, and illuminations, now
that his house was full of light, and his board beautiful and shining
with plate.
Not a soul could be found to own he had ever believed the rich man’s
well had a stone ox in it, and only one or two simple and old-fashioned
old women would admit that they had ever heard the story.
Every one who could afford it built a porch against his house; white
beards became the fashion, and the rich man’s advice was asked upon the
most trivial occasions.
Thus ends the story of Mother Crow and the Crazy Man, and I hope the
reader has been taught by it two things,--first, that conscience will
find out your sins, though you hide them under heaps of gold, mountain
high; and secondly, that those who make feasts for you and do you the
humblest reverence while your mantle is lined with ermine, will be the
first to cry out _Crazy!_ and see you starved if your chimney chances
to tumble down.
THE COW-BOY.
Day after day, when the tawny-bills
Were twittering through the boughs,
“Sook! sook!” across the sunset hills
He would call his mother’s cows.
“Whee! whee!” and then the thrum and fall
Of the clumsy meadow-bar,
And we knew he had found them one and all,
“Mottle,” and “Rose,” and “Star.”
A merry cry, and then a hush,
And then a merrier ring,--
He had found a bird’s-nest in a bush,
And was happier than a king.
“Plash and plash!” and “Sook, sook!”
And tramp and trill again,--
He had brought his cows across the brook,
And was singing up the lane.
Spingspang! whish! in the bucket cool
And burnished silver-bright,
And then he had gotten his milking-stool,
And was milking with all his might.
Clump! clatter! spinkle! span!
He had done with the milking-chore,
And was setting each shining and shallow pan
On the watery “spring-house” floor.
Days went and came, and came and went,
And over the sunset hills
No more his cheerful call was blent
With the twittering tawny-bills.
But in the dingle and in the dell
Deep silence held the rule;
The little lad that we loved so well
Was gone to the grammar-school.
Years came and went, and went and came;
He had made, or mastered fate,
For the little cow-boy’s humble name
Was the name that ruled the state.
LITTLE ELLIE.
Darling Little Ellie,
Stout of heart and limb,--
What, I often wonder,
Will the future make of him?
Where will be the roses
That keep his cheeks so red,
When years with their temptations
And trials shall have fled?
Stirring with the morning,
As if he owned the farm;
On the floor at sunset,
Sleeping on his arm:
Tom and faded jacket,
Feet brown and bare,
Sunshine laughing in his eyes,
And tangled in his hair.
In his little bucket,
Helping milk the cows,--
Riding on the horses,
Tumbling down the mows;
Wading in the water,
Working mimic mills,--
Chasing through the meadows,
Rolling down the hills;
Making strings of elm-bark,
Stealing mother’s yarn,--
All to see his kite fly
Higher than the barn;
Planning long aforetime,
With ambitious pride,
How, when snow has fallen,
He’ll have a sled and ride.
Gravely puzzling over
Each childish little plan,--
Working, and tugging,
And scheming like a man.
Now upon grandfather’s knee,
Listening with delight
To the stories that are new
Every day and night.
Now, with joyous make-believe
In despite his frown,
Turning chairs to railcars,
And riding into town.
Ah, ’tis wisely well for us
That we cannot see
What in years that are to come
He will grow to be.
THE BRICKMAKER’S BOY.
The ground of the brick-yard is burning and bare;
By the hedgerow are plenty of shady spots,
But Ralph, when he gets a white apron to wear,
Plays in the mortar, and shapes it to pots.
That is his mother’s house over the hill,
With the pitcher of pinks in the window, so sweet,
And Ralph is her darling, and sets at his will,
In the soft bricks, the prints of his bare little feet.
Poor soul!--she is homely and wrinkled and old,
And work is her portion, but what does she care
For herself, since no neighbor has need to be told
That her darling has beauty enough, and to spare!
Low down on the limbs of the prickly sweet-brier
Are handfuls of roses, but still he will push
His cheek through the thorns, for the one red as fire
That grows out of reach at the top of the bush.
Sometimes the old brickmaker, sunburnt and bent,
Will tug him about on his shoulder awhile,
Whereat, growing restless instead of content,
He scarcely repays the good man with a smile.
He makes of a stray piece of cedar a shelf,
Sometimes, where he sets up his pots in the sun,
And then, growing vexed with his work or himself,
He breaks them, and tramples them down, every one.
From the time when the locust puts on the white mass
Of his odorous plumes, till in summer’s decay,
His bright yellow jacket he throws on the grass
And braves the bleak wind, he is busy each day.
I know it is all in his own wilful way,
Yet sigh, as I see him a-working so hard,
His hands and his apron so heavy with clay
He scarcely can toddle about in the yard.
My heart often says to me, wherefore employ
Your thoughts in a fashion so pitiful? then,
Reflecting, I see in the brickmaker’s boy
A type of the work and the wisdom of men.
FAIRY FOLK.
The story-books have told you
Of the fairy-folk so nice,
That make them leather aprons
Of the ears of little mice,
And wear the leaves of roses
Like a cap upon their heads,
And sleep at night on thistle-down,
Instead of feather-beds!
These stories, too, have told you,
No doubt to your surprise,
That the fairies ride in coaches
That are drawn by butterflies;
And come into your chambers,
When you are locked in dreams,
And right across your counterpanes
Make bold to drive their teams;
And that they heap your pillows
With their gifts of rings and pearls;
But do not heed such idle tales,
My little boys and girls.
There are no fairy folk that ride
About the world at night,
Who give you rings or other things
To pay for doing right.
But if you do to others what
You’d have them do to you,
You’ll be as blest as if the best
Of story-books were true.
LESS OR MORE.
Seven trees grew beside our door,--
We used to wish they were six, or four!
Seven,--each standing so close to each,
The boughs from one to the other could reach,
And when the wild winds over them run
The tops of the seven trees looked like one.
There they stood in the rain and shine,
Like so many soldiers, all of a line,
Beating the tempest away when it came;
And still when the midsummer burned like a flame,
Dropping their shadows, now less, now more,
Over the door-stone and into the door.
Seven, and one of the seven, an oak,
Scarred and scathed by a lightning-stroke,
That, leaving it at the fork gaped wide,
Ran like a black vein down one side;
An elm, with a shaggy red vine at the top,
Hanging loose, and as though it were ready to drop.
Three sweet silver maples, a willow so fair
That like a lithe swimmer took hold of the air;
A walnut, too proud to yield ever a nut,
With all its black bark into rough diamonds cut.
And so there were seven--we wished they were four,
Or six--we would have them be less or be more!
Fair every tree of them--why should we say
If this one or that one were only away!
O, ’tis no matter,--the story is meant
To show you that mortals are never content,
And if the trees had been six, or four,
We still would have wished they were less, or more.
FINE TALK
They may talk about talk
With a silvery ring,
But silence is sometimes
An excellent thing.
Of course there’s no statute
To limit the breath,
And he that so chooses
May talk you to death!
But if you have nothing
To tell or to teach,
There’s no use abusing
The good gift of speech!
I’ve heard tongues that clattered
Like shallowest brooks,
But never the fine talk
You read of in books!
I often hear things
That were tolerably good,
But not your fine, fine talk,--
I wish that I could!
For when words like music
Have ravished the air,
It somehow has happened
I never was there.
It is, as I fancy,
The fault of my star,
For certainly somewhere
Fine talkers there are;
And sometimes I’ve thought,
For a minute or two,
Here is one! He was telling me
All that he knew!
For when we next met,
Without switching the train
Of a thought, he repeated
The same things again.
And if I might venture
One word to suggest
To the talkers, who brilliantly
Prey on the rest,
I would tell them that no
So far as I’ve heard,
Likes always to listen
And say not a word;
And that it were wisdom
To ponder my rhyme,
And utter their oracles
One at a time!