In the Name of God Amen! the Thirteenth Day of September One
Thousand Seven Hundred Fifty & eight, I, Thomas Wales of
Braintree, in the County of Suffolk & Province of the
Massachusetts Bay in New England, Gent--being in good health of
Body and of Sound Disproving mind and Memory, Thanks be given to
God--Calling to mind my mortality, Do therefore in my health make
and ordain this my Last Will and Testament. And First I Recommend
my Soul into the hand of God who gave it--Hoping through grace to
obtain Salvation thro' the merits and Mediation of Jesus Christ my
only Lord and Dear Redeemer, and my body to be Decently inter^d,
at the Discretion of my Executor, believing at the General
Resurection to receive the Same again by the mighty Power
of God--And such worldly estate as God in his goodness hath
graciously given me after Debts, funeral Expenses &c, are Paid I
give & Dispose of the Same as Followeth--
_Imprimis_--I Give to my beloved Wife Sarah a good Sute of
mourning apparrel Such as she may Choose--also if she acquit my
estate of Dower and third-therin (as we have agreed) Then that
my Executor return all of Household movables she bought at our
marriage & since that are remaining, also to Pay to her or Her
Heirs That Note of Forty Pound I gave to her, when she acquited my
estate and I hers. Before Division to be made as herein exprest,
also the Southwest fire-Room in my House, a right in my Cellar,
Halfe the Garden, also the Privilege of water at the well & yard
room and to bake in the oven what she hath need of to improve her
Life-time by her.
After this, followed a division of his property amongst his children,
five sons and two daughters.
The "Homeplace" was given to his sons Ephraim and Atherton. Ephraim
had a good house of his own, so he took his share of the property in
land, and Atherton went to live in the old homestead. His quarters had
been poor enough; he had not been so successful as his brothers, and
had been unable to live as well. It had been a great cross to his
wife, Dorcas, who was very high-spirited. She had compared, bitterly,
the poverty of her household arrangements, with the abundant comfort
of her sisters-in-law.
Now, she seized eagerly at the opportunity of improving her style of
living. The old Wales house was quite a pretentious edifice for those
times. All the drawback to her delight was, that Grandma should
have the southwest fire-room. She wanted to set up her high-posted
bedstead, with its enormous feather-bed in that, and have it for her
fore-room. Properly, it was the fore-room, being right across the
entry from the family sitting-room. There was a tall chest of drawers
that would fit in so nicely between the windows, too. Take it
altogether, she was chagrined at having to give up the southwest room;
but there was no help for it--there it was in Deacon Wales's will.
Mrs. Dorcas was the youngest of all the sons' wives, as her husband
was the latest born. She was quite a girl to some of them. Grandma
had never more than half approved of her. Dorcas was high-strung and
flighty, she said. She had her doubts about living happily with her.
But Atherton was anxious for this division of the property, and he was
her youngest darling, so she gave in. She felt lonely, and out of
her element, when everything was arranged, she established in the
southwest fire-room, and Atherton's family keeping house in the
others, though things started pleasantly and peaceably enough.
It occurred to her that her son Samuel might have her own "help," a
stout woman, who had worked in her kitchen for many years, and she
take in exchange his little bound girl, Ann Ginnins. She had always
taken a great fancy to the child. There was a large closet out of the
southwest room, where she could sleep, and she could be made very
useful, taking steps, and running "arrants" for her.
Mr. Samuel and his wife hesitated a little when this plan was
proposed. In spite of the trouble she gave them, they were attached
to Ann, and did not like to part with her, and Mrs. Polly was just
getting her "larnt" her own ways, as she put it. Privately, she feared
Grandma would undo all the good she had done, in teaching Ann to be
smart and capable. Finally they gave in, with the understanding that
it was not to be considered necessarily a permanent arrangement, and
Ann went to live with the old lady.
Mrs. Dorcas did not relish this any more than she did the
appropriation of the southwest fire-room. She had never liked Ann very
well. Besides she had two little girls of her own, and she fancied
Ann rivaled them in Grandma's affection. So, soon after the girl was
established in the house, she began to show out in various little
ways.
Thirsey, her youngest child, was a mere baby, a round fat dumpling of
a thing. She was sweet, and good-natured, and the pet of the whole
family. Ann was very fond of playing with her, and tending her, and
Mrs. Dorcas began to take advantage of it. The minute Ann was at
liberty she was called upon to take care of Thirsey. The constant
carrying about such a heavy child soon began to make her shoulders
stoop and ache. Then Grandma took up the cudgels. She was smart and
high-spirited, but she was a very peaceable old lady on her own
account, and fully resolved "to put up with everything from Dorcas,
rather than have strife in the family." She was not going to see this
helpless little girl imposed on, however. "The little gal ain't
goin' to get bent all over, tendin' that heavy baby, Dorcas," she
proclaimed. "You can jist make up your mind to it. She didn't come
here to do sech work."
So Dorcas had to make up her mind to it.
Ann's principal duties were "scouring the brasses" in Grandma's room,
taking steps for her, and spinning her stint every day. Grandma set
smaller stints than Mrs. Polly. As time went on, she helped about the
cooking. She and Grandma cooked their own victuals, and ate from a
little separate table in the common kitchen. It was a very large room,
and might have accommodated several families, if they could have
agreed. There was a big oven and a roomy fire-place. Good Deacon Wales
had probably seen no reason at all why his "beloved wife" should not
have her right therein with the greatest peace and concord.
But it soon came to pass that Mrs. Dorcas's pots and kettles were all
prepared to hang on the trammels when Grandma's were, and an army of
cakes and pies marshaled to go in the oven when Grandma had proposed
to do some baking. Grandma bore it patiently for a long time; but Ann
was with difficulty restrained from freeing her small mind, and her
black eyes snapped more dangerously at every new offense.
One morning, Grandma had two loaves of "riz bread," and some election
cakes, rising, and was intending to bake them in about an hour, when
they should be sufficiently light. What should Mrs. Dorcas do, but mix
up sour milk bread, and some pies with the greatest speed, and fill up
the oven, before Grandma's cookery was ready!
Grandma sent Ann out into the kitchen to put the loaves-in the oven
and lo and behold! the oven was full. Ann stood staring for a minute,
with a loaf of election cake in her hands; that and the bread would be
ruined if they were not baked immediately, as they were raised enough.
Mrs. Dorcas had taken Thirsey and stepped out somewhere, and there was
no one in the kitchen. Ann set the election cake back on the table.
Then, with the aid of the tongs, she reached into the brick oven and
took out every one of Mrs. Dorcas's pies and loaves. Then she arranged
them deliberately in a pitiful semicircle on the hearth, and put
Grandma's cookery in the oven.
She went back to the southwest room then, and sat quietly down to her
spinning. Grandma asked if she had put the things in, and she said
"Yes, ma'am," meekly. There was a bright red spot on each of her dark
cheeks.
When Mrs. Dorcas entered the kitchen, carrying Thirsey wrapped up in
an old homespun blanket, she nearly dropped as her gaze fell on the
fire-place and the hearth. There sat her bread and pies, in the most
lamentable half-baked, sticky, doughy condition imaginable. She opened
the oven, and peered in. There were Grandma's loaves, all a lovely
brown. Out they came, with a twitch. Luckily, they were done. Her own
went in, but they were irretrievable failures.
Of course, quite a commotion came from this. Dorcas raised her shrill
voice pretty high, and Grandma, though she had been innocent of the
whole transaction, was so blamed that she gave Dorcas a piece of her
mind at last. Ann surveyed the nice brown loaves, and listened to the
talk in secret satisfaction; but she had to suffer for it afterward.
Grandma punished her for the first time, and she discovered that that
kind old hand was pretty firm and strong. "No matter what you think or
whether you air in the rights on't, or not, a little gal mustn't ever
sass her elders," said Grandma.
But if Ann's interference was blamable, it was productive of one good
result--the matter came to Mr. Atherton's ears, and he had a stern
sense of justice when roused, and a great veneration for his mother.
His father's will should be carried out to the letter, he declared;
and it was. Grandma baked and boiled in peace, outwardly, at least,
after that.
Ann was a great comfort to her; she was outgrowing her wild,
mischievous ways, and she was so bright and quick. She promised to
be pretty, too. Grandma compared her favorably with her own
grandchildren, especially Mrs. Dorcas's eldest daughter Martha, who
was nearly Ann's age. "Marthy's a pretty little gal enough," she used
to say, "but she ain't got the snap to her that Ann has, though I
wouldn't tell Atherton's wife so, for the world."
She promised Ann her gold beads, when she should be done with them,
under strict injunctions not to say anything about it till the time
came; for the others might feel hard as she wasn't her own flesh and
blood. The gold beads were Ann's ideals of beauty and richness, though
she did not like to hear Grandma talk about being "done with them."
Grandma always wore them around her fair, plump old neck; she had
never seen her without her string of beads.
As before said, Ann was now very seldom mischievous enough to
make herself serious trouble; but, once in a while, her natural
propensities would crop out. When they did, Mrs. Dorcas was
exceedingly bitter. Indeed, her dislike of Ann was, at all times,
smouldering, and needed only a slight fanning to break out.
One stormy winter day Mrs. Dorcas had been working till dark, making
candle-wicks. When she came to get tea, she tied the white fleecy
rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung them up in the
cellar-way, over the stair, to be out of the way. They were extra fine
wicks, being made of flax for the company candles. "I've got a good
job done," said Mrs. Dorcas, surveying them complacently. Her husband
had gone to Boston, and was not coming home till the next day, so she
had had a nice chance to work at them, without as much interruption as
usual.
Ann, going down the cellar stairs, with a lighted candle, after some
butter for tea, spied the beautiful rolls swinging overhead. What
possessed her to, she could not herself have told--she certainly had
no wish to injure Mrs. Dorcas's wicks--but she pinched up a little end
of the fluffy flax and touched her candle to it. She thought she would
see how that little bit would burn off. She soon found out. The flame
caught, and ran like lightning through the whole bundle. There was a
great puff of fire and smoke, and poor Mrs. Dorcas's fine candle-wicks
were gone. Ann screamed, and sprang downstairs. She barely escaped the
whole blaze coming in her face.
"What's that!" shrieked Mrs. Dorcas, rushing to the cellar door. Words
cannot describe her feeling when she saw that her nice candle-wicks,
the fruit of her day's toil, were burnt up.
If ever there was a wretched culprit that night, Ann was. She had not
meant to do wrong, but that, may be, made it worse for her in one way.
She had not even gratified malice to sustain her. Grandma blamed her,
almost as severely as Mrs. Dorcas. She said she didn't know what would
"become of a little gal, that was so keerless," and decreed that she
must stay at home from school and work on candle-wicks till Mrs.
Dorcas's loss was made good to her. Ann listened ruefully. She was
scared and sorry, but that did not seem to help matters any. She did
not want any supper, and she went to bed early and cried herself to
sleep.
Somewhere about midnight, a strange sound woke her up. She called out
to Grandma in alarm. The same sound had awakened her. "Get up, an'
light a candle, child," said she; "I'm afeard the baby's sick."
Ann scarcely had the candle lighted, before the door opened, and Mrs.
Dorcas appeared in her nightdress. She was very pale, and trembling
all over. "Oh!" she gasped, "it's the baby. Thirsey's got the croup,
an' Atherton's away, and there ain't anybody to go for the doctor. Oh,
what shall I do, what shall I do!" She fairly wrung her hands.
"Hev you tried the skunk's oil?" asked Grandma eagerly, preparing to
get up.
"Yes, I have, I have! It's a good hour since she woke up, an' I've
tried everything. It hasn't done any good. I thought I wouldn't
call you, if I could help it, but she's worse--only hear her! An'
Atherton's away! Oh! what shall I do, what shall I do?"
"Don't take on so, Dorcas," said Grandma, tremulously, but cheeringly.
"I'll come right along, an'--why, child, what air you goin' to do?"
Ann had finished dressing herself, and now she was pinning a heavy
homespun blanket over her head, as if she were preparing to go out
doors.
"I'm going after the doctor for Thirsey," said Ann, her black eyes
flashing with determination.
"Oh, will you, will you!" cried Mrs. Dorcas, catching at this new
help.
"Hush, Dorcas," said Grandma, sternly. "It's an awful storm out--jist
hear the wind blow! It ain't fit fur her to go. Her life's jist as
precious as Thirsey's."
Ann said nothing more, but she went into her own little room with the
same determined look in her eyes. There was a door leading from this
room into the kitchen. Ann slipped through it hastily, lit a lantern
which was hanging beside the kitchen chimney, and was out doors in a
minute.
The storm was one of sharp, driving sleet, which struck her face like
so many needles. The first blast, as she stepped outside the door,
seemed to almost force her back, but her heart did not fail her. The
snow was not so very deep, but it was hard walking. There was no
pretense of a path. The doctor lived half a mile away, and there
was not a house in the whole distance, save the meeting house and
schoolhouse. It was very dark. Lucky it was that she had taken the
lantern; she could not have found her way without it.
On kept the little slender, erect figure, with the fierce
determination in its heart, through the snow and sleet, holding the
blanket close over its head, and swinging the feeble lantern bravely.
When she reached the doctor's house, he was gone. He had started for
the North Precinct early in the evening, his good wife said; he was
called down to Captain Isaac Lovejoy's, the house next the North
Precinct Meeting House. She'd been sitting up waiting for him, it was
such an awful storm, and such a lonely road. She was worried, but she
didn't think he'd start for home that night; she guessed he'd stay at
Captain Lovejoy's till morning.
[Illustration: SHE ALMOST FAINTED FROM COLD AND EXHAUSTION.]
The doctor's wife, holding her door open, as best she could, in
the violent wind, had hardly given this information to the little
snow-bedraggled object standing out there in the inky darkness,
through which the lantern made a faint circle of light, before she had
disappeared.
"She went like a speerit," said the good woman, staring out into the
blackness in amazement. She never dreamed of such a thing as Ann's
going to the North Precinct after the doctor, but that was what the
daring girl had determined to do. She had listened to the doctor's
wife in dismay, but with never one doubt as to her own course of
proceeding.
Straight along the road to the North Precinct she kept. It would
have been an awful journey that night for a strong man. It seemed
incredible that a little girl could have the strength or courage to
accomplish it. There were four miles to traverse in a black, howling
storm, over a pathless road, through forests, with hardly a house by
the way.
When she reached Captain Isaac Lovejoy's house, next to the meeting
house in the North Precinct of Braintree, stumbling blindly into the
warm, lighted kitchen, the captain and the doctor could hardly believe
their senses. She told the doctor about Thirsey; then she almost
fainted from cold and exhaustion.
Good-wife Lovejoy laid her on the settee, and brewed her some hot herb
tea. She almost forgot her own sick little girl, for a few minutes,
in trying to restore this brave child who had come from the South
Precinct in this dreadful storm to save little Thirsey Wales's life.
When Ann came to herself a little, her first question was, if the
doctor were ready to go.
"He's gone," said Mrs. Lovejoy, cheeringly.
Ann felt disappointed. She had thought she was going back with him.
But that would have been impossible. She could not have stood the
journey for the second time that night, even on horseback behind the
doctor, as she had planned.
She drank a second bowlful of herb tea, and went to bed with a hot
stone at her feet, and a great many blankets and coverlids over her.
The next morning, Captain Lovejoy carried her home. He had a rough
wood sled, and she rode on that, on an old quilt; it was easier than
horseback, and she was pretty lame and tired.
Mrs. Dorcas saw her coming and opened the door. When Ann came up on
the stoop, she just threw her arms around her and kissed her.
"You needn't make the candle-wicks," said she. "It's no matter about
them at all. Thirsey's better this morning, an' I guess you saved her
life."
Grandma was fairly bursting with pride and delight in her little gal's
brave feat, now that she saw her safe. She untied the gold beads on
her neck, and fastened them around Ann's. "There," said she, "you may
wear them to school to-day, if you'll be keerful."
That day, with the gold beads by way of celebration, began a new era
in Ann's life. There was no more secret animosity between her and
Mrs. Dorcas. The doctor had come that night in the very nick of time.
Thirsey was almost dying. Her mother was fully convinced that Ann had
saved her life, and she never forgot it. She was a woman of strong
feelings, who never did things by halves, and she not only treated Ann
with kindness, but she seemed to smother her grudge against Grandma
for robbing her of the southwest fire-room.