_EARLY RECOLLECTIONS._
I THINK young children begin to notice and remember at a very much
earlier age than people generally suppose. I am sure I recollect
perfectly well my first going to meeting, though I was not more than
three years old, from this circumstance: I was standing up during
prayer, as the custom was then, on a little cricket, or foot-stool;
and not being well balanced, the stool slipped from under me, and
I fell, bumping my chin with considerable force on the edge of the
book-board, which caused me to bite my tongue; yet I was so impressed
with the necessity of not crying in meeting that I never made a
sound. My mother lifted me up and pressed my head against her, and a
lady in the next pew, Miss Temperance—or, as she was usually called,
Miss Tempy—Hutchinson smiled approvingly, and handed me her fan, I
suppose to divert me from my pain and grief. At any rate, it had that
effect. It was a very splendid fan, large and wide, with gilt sticks
and a painted picture of a gentleman in full court costume bowing to
a lady very gayly dressed, and with real gold spangles sewed on her
gown. I was so much impressed with this work of art, and with Miss
Tempy's kindness in entrusting to my hands anything so valuable, that
I quite forgot my grief, though I had a lump on my chin which lasted
for several days. After that I went to meeting regularly; and though
I often got very tired and sometimes went to sleep, I should have
considered it a great punishment to be left at home.
Our house was very pleasant and comfortable. There were two rooms in
front, with a hall and stairs between. In one my father and mother
slept, and usually the two younger children had a trundle-bed—an
article of furniture much in use in those times, but seldom seen
nowadays. The room on the other side was the parlour, or keeping-room,
as it was called in some places, because, I suppose, it was "kept"
and seldom used except for grand occasions—weddings, funerals, and
solemn tea-drinkings. It had a large fire-place, with bright brass
and irons to hold the wood, a handsome striped carpet, and other
suitable furniture, among which I remember specially a very tall
mahogany secretary or bureau, with a book-case on the top, a desk at
a convenient height for writing, and a great many drawers, both large
and small, which seemed to my youthful imagination to contain untold
treasures, though I believe its contents were chiefly table- and
house-linen, of which my mother had great store. The book-case was well
filled with valuable books, among which was that set of the "Rambler"
which is still in your father's possession, and which was given to my
mother for a wedding-present by that same uncle Landon who went away to
Canada. Both my father and mother were reading people, and came from
families who were very fond of reading and study.
At the back was the kitchen, running nearly the whole width of the
house, with a small bed-room and large pantry taken off one end, and a
larger bed-room and the cellar and kitchen stairs at the other. I do
not know how it would appear to me now; but as I look back at it that
kitchen seems to me the pleasantest room I can remember. It was floored
with narrow, hard boards which were always kept white as snow, and the
walls were finished to the height of one's elbow with painted woods. In
the middle of one side was the great fire-place, so wide that I have
often of an evening looked up through the chimney and seen the stars.
Over the fire were the crane and trammels on which the dinner-pots
were hung, and at one side was a large brick oven. It was quite a
piece of engineering to make the fire in this fire-place. First, there
was the backlog—a log indeed, so large that it often required all a
man's strength to get it in place. On this was laid the back-stick,
a smaller log, and in front, on the and-irons, the fore-stick. This
was the foundation of the fire, to which lighter fuel was added as
required; and the fire was never suffered to go out in cold weather. In
summer, however, we did the cooking in an outer kitchen or shed, where
there was a small fire-place, and that in the kitchen was filled with
asparagus bushes and other green things. Once I remember mother made a
bed of garden-mould in the hearth, and planted some nasturtium seeds,
which grew and blossomed very nicely, to my great admiration. Over
the fire-place always hung a gun, and some crook-necked squashes and
special ears of corn reserved for planting.
On one side of the fire-place was the settle, on the other the table
and sink, where mother washed her dishes and did her baking and other
cooking work. There were plenty of straight-backed, splint-bottom
chairs, one or two arm-chairs, and a low sewing- and nursing-chair with
rockers which belonged specially to my mother. There were also the
dining-table and two small stands; one was my mother's sewing-stand,
while the other held the great Bible in which father read at prayers
morning and evening. This Bible had pictures in it, and contained the
Apocrypha, which was one of our great resources on Sundays when the
weather was too bad to go to church. The rest of the house consisted
of the two bed-rooms I have mentioned, the outer kitchen, two or three
rooms up stairs, one of which was a spare bed-room, and a large garret
or store-room.
I must not forget to mention the spinning-wheels which almost always
stood either in the kitchen or in my mother's room. There were two of
them, the large one for wool and the smaller for flax, and on these
were spun most of the clothing of the family. Another wheel stood in
the garret, and was brought down when we had a spinning-girl, for
mother never liked to have any one use her wheel but herself.
Out of doors we had in front of the house a door-yard where mother
always had two or three flower-beds and some lilac and rosebushes. The
back yard was mostly given up to the wood-pile and the hens. There were
two barns, one near the house, the other some little distance away.
Back of these the ground sloped rather rapidly down to a meadow which
lay along the river, and was the most valuable part of the farm. My
father kept two horses and a saddle-horse, besides several cows and a
good many sheep. Besides this live-stock, we had both hens and ducks in
great plenty, an old yellow-and-white cat which always seems to me to
have had two kittens, and a big yellow dog, named Bose. He was a fine,
good-natured fellow and a capital watch-dog, but he came to a very sad
end. This tragedy of Bose was my first trouble in this world.
Our family, when I first remember, consisted of my father and mother,
my two brothers, older than myself, a baby sister named Ruth, and
an adopted child named Jeanne Dupont. Besides these, there was an
elderly coloured woman named Rose who really belonged to mother,
having been left her with other property by her grandfather, but who
lived sometimes with us and sometimes with Uncle David's family, as
she was most wanted, or, I suspect, as the fit took her. Latterly,
however, she lived entirely with us. We children were very fond of
her, and were always sorry to have her go away; for though she never
spoiled us, she was always contriving ways to give us pleasure,
being specially kind when we were sick or in any trouble, and was
one of the best storytellers I ever heard. She had belonged to my
great-grand-mother, and had many tales to tell of that lady's exploits
in spinning, weaving, and working generally. She always ended by
telling Jeanne and me that we never should be as smart or as handsome
as our mother—a prophecy which did not trouble us at all, for I think
we both considered our mother too far above us for us ever to think of
emulating her virtues.
But Rose did not approve of all grandmother's ways. I remember once,
when Mrs. Hyde came to spend the afternoon, mother showed her a piece
of table-linen which she spun and wove before she was twelve years old.
"Ah," said Mrs. Hyde, turning to Jeanne and myself, "do you think,
girls, you will ever be as smart as that?"
"Not it I's 'round dey won't," said Aunt Rose, who never hesitated
to put in her word. "I allers thought Miss Rachel's weak back and
her nerves all came from her doing so much work when she was young,
a-setting at her wheel and in the loom when she was weak and growing.
That 'ere linen cost more than it come to, according to my way of
thinking. Some kinds of work is all very well for girls if they don't
do too much, spinning wool, and churning, and such like—makes 'em grow
straight and strong; but not setting over the flax-wheel or in the
loom."
Mrs. Hyde looked sober at this, I remember, and said very quietly, "I
dare say you may be right, Rose."
And mother glanced at Rose in a way that silenced even her. Afterward I
learned that Mrs. Hyde had a young daughter in consumption, which was
brought on, as every one said, by doing so much fine work and sitting
so steadily over her books. Her father was a minister and a very
learned man, and he was determined she should have a boy's education,
as he had no boys, while her mother was equally determined to make her
a prodigy in the house-keeping line. She was to be the eighth wonder of
the world, only, unluckily, she took the consumption, lingered a few
years, and died.
Jeanne Dupont was six years older than I, and came into our family in
an odd way. Her father was one of the French soldiers who came over
with La Fayette, and a very brave man. He had only the one little
daughter, who, having no mother to care for her, he had sent for to
this country and placed at a convent school in the city of Baltimore,
the only place in the colonies at that time, I believe, where there
were any convents. Sergeant Dupont died at Yorktown from the breaking
out of an old wound. He commended his daughter to the care of my
father, whose life he had saved on the occasion when he got his wound
(I am sorry to say I don't know when or where it was), and his last
act was to write a letter to the superior of the convent authorizing
my father to take the little girl away. Father said the nuns were very
loath to give her up, and well they might be, since they knew nothing
about him, save that he was a heretic. However, they let her go at last
with many tears and blessings. My father brought her home, and I can
truly say she never was anything but a comfort from the time she came
into the house. She took to all our ways directly, learned English very
fast, though she always spoke it with a little foreign accent, and by
her winning ways took captive the hearts of all the family, even of
Rose, who had begun by being very jealous of the foreign interloper.
To me she was play-mate, guide, teacher, and everything; and when the
great break up came of which I shall speak presently, I grieved as much
in parting from Jeanne as from my parents.
Our mode of life was very simple in those days. We had breakfast at six
in summer, and half-past seven in winter. This last hour was reckoned
very late, but my father did not like getting up early in cold weather.
He used to say he had had enough of that in the army. In winter we had
prayers before, in summer after, breakfast. All who could read had
Bibles or Testaments. We read each a verse or two in turn, and then my
father finished the chapter and made a prayer. (On Sundays we always
sang part of a Psalm or hymn.) Then my father and the boys, and the
man if we had one, went about the farm-work in winter. In summer they
were often out at work two hours before breakfast. My mother and Rose
attended to all the kitchen work. Jeanne, with my help as soon as I was
big enough, made the beds, swept and dusted, fed the hens, and brought
in eggs, the latter being reckoned rather a pleasure than a task.
Mother always churned and took care of the butter herself, and now and
then made a cheese. She also did the brewing, for every one in those
days made home-brewed beer and drank it freely. Hence comes the saying,
"As you brew so you must bake;" for if the beer turned out badly,
there was no good yeast. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays,
Rose baked—such immense bakings!—bread, both rye and Indian and wheat,
pies, gingerbread, and loaf-cake, and always either a little saucer
pie, a turn-over, or a cake for each of us children. The house-work was
usually all done and out of the way by ten o'clock. Then, or a little
before, the great dinner-pot went on the fire, with a piece of salt
beef and another of pork, potatoes, beans, turnips, and all together.
Sometimes we ate salt meat for two or three weeks at a time, varied
only by a chicken now and then. At twelve dinner was on the table, and
we all sat down, except Rose, who had an odd fancy for always eating
alone, which she did sometimes in the shed, sometimes on the door-step
or in the pantry, but never by any chance at the table.
When dinner was out of the way, my mother invariably changed her dress.
When I first remember her, she used to wear in the morning a pressed
flannel petticoat of home manufacture, a short gown, made usually of
checked linen in summer and some thicker stuff in winter, and drawn in
with strings or pleats, very much like what your cousin calls a "French
waist." She had also a checked linen apron. In the afternoon she wore
usually a petticoat of some glossy black stuff; a chintz, or on extra
occasions a white short gown, and an apron and neck-handkerchief of
fine linen lawn, sometimes with narrow stripes of yellow or blue. When
mother was dressed, she usually lay down and rested for about an hour,
for, as I said, she was never strong. This was her great reading-time,
when she devoured every book that came in her way. At that hour I
usually stayed with Rose or played with little Ruth if she were awake.
When she got up, mother used to go to her spinning, either flax or
wool, or take her sewing, but even then she was apt to keep a book
open near her and glance at its contents. In that way she stored her
memory with a great deal of matter, especially of poetry. She knew Dr.
Young's "Night Thoughts," his satires, and his tragedies almost by
heart, and could repeat many favourite scenes from Shakespeare and more
modern dramatists; and I well remember, when Rose was away and Jeanne
at school, how she used to keep me quiet and contented with rocking
the baby by repeating long passages from "Venice Preserved," and from
"Julius Cæsar," as she paced back and forth at her wheels. Of course I
did not understand a tenth part of what I heard, but the music of my
mother's sweet voice, accompanied by the purring of the wheels, was a
never-ending delight. I enjoyed what I did understand, and what I did
not at least afforded food for my imagination.
We had supper at six, and prayers directly afterward, always singing
in the evening. The ringing of the nine o'clock bell sent every one to
bed; and so ended our day.
But I see Olive thinks I am running on rather too long with this
chapter, so I will bring it to an end by relating the history of my
first grief—the tragical end of poor Bose. It was a kind of era in my
life, being, as I think, the very first occasion of my realizing the
existence of trouble and evil in this world.
Bose was, as I have said, a fine dog, large and strong, with a great
head and neck of a deep yellow, with a good deal of black about his
muzzle. He was afraid of nothing and nobody, and had once saved the
life of a woman who was attacked by our bull when crossing our pasture
by actually holding down the creature's nose till some men in the next
field came to his assistance; but his temper was so perfect that the
youngest child might safely play with him. Our cat and he were on the
best of terms, and the kittens made game of him, jumping after his
tail, mounting on his back, and stealing his dinner; nor did I ever see
him resent these liberties in any other way than by sometimes laying
his paw on one of the little creatures and holding it down while he
licked it with his great red tongue—a bit of discipline at which the
old cat would look on approvingly.
Bose and I were the best of friends, and as soon as I was old enough
my mother committed to me the care of feeding him. It was one of her
maxims that children could not learn too early that they had duties to
perform, and each of us, as soon as we were old enough to understand,
had our allotted task, for which we were always held accountable. One
morning, when I went to take Bose his breakfast, I found him lying at
the door of his house looking very heavy and stupid, nor would he take
any notice of either me or his food. His eyes were red and he had foam
hanging round his jaws. Something—not my own sense, I am sure, for I
had never heard of a mad dog at that time—kept me from touching him,
but I went in and told mother the state of the case, adding that I
believed Bose had hurt his mouth, for he kept his teeth going all the
time.
I remember how my mother turned pale on hearing this news. She stopped
me as I was going toward the door; and bidding me stay where I was, she
went to the window and looked out. Poor Bose had left his kennel, and
was staggering about the yard, now and then running against something,
as if he could not see very well, and snapping fiercely. Rose came and
looked over her shoulder.
"The dog is mad," said my mother, quite quietly. "Rose, what shall we
do? Mr. Corbet is over on the mountain with Ulric, and the boys are at
school. The poor thing must be killed, but who is to do it?"
"I had better run down and get John Schneider to come up with his gun,"
said Rose.
I began to cry at this, and begged my mother not to let poor Bose be
killed, but to try and cure him.
"Hush, my child; you don't understand," said my mother. "Yes, go, Rose,
if you are not afraid, and be as quick as you can."
At that minute Ruth, who was not well, began to cry, and my mother
went to her, charging me on no account to open the door. But for once
I was disobedient. I could not endure the thought of having good, kind
Bose killed. I knew no meaning to "being mad" except the one in which
children use it—that is, being out of temper—and I thought, if Bose
were ever so much displeased, I could pacify him with a little coaxing.
So I opened the kitchen door and softly called him. Miserable as he
was, the poor creature knew my voice, and came staggering toward me. I
should have had my arms round his neck in another minute, when I was
sharply pulled back by my mother, who had heard the door opened and
returned to the kitchen just in time.
"Olive, you are very naughty," said she, more sternly than I ever heard
her speak. "Go into your bed-room and shut the door."
I knew there was no appeal. I rushed into my room, slammed the door,
and buried my head in the pillow, but I could not help hearing Rose
come back, John Schneider's Dutch accent asking, "Vere is the tog?" and
then the crack of the rifle. Poor Bose gave one sharp yelp, and then
all was still.
I crept to the window and looked out. John was going toward the
orchard, wheeling something on the barrow which I could not distinctly
see, but I knew it was the body of my poor old friend. Mother and Rose
were out with the fire shovel and a pan of ashes, which they were
scattering thickly wherever the dog had lain. I went back to the bed,
and throwing myself down cried and sobbed as if my heart would break.
People sometimes make light of the afflictions of children, but I think
such people must have very short memories. If a pint cup is full, it is
just as much full as if it held a gallon.
[Illustration: Poor Bose gave one sharp yelp.]
Presently mother came in and sat down on the bed beside me, laying her
hand on my head.
"Olive," said she, "don't you know it was naughty in you to open the
door when you were told not to do so?"
"Yes, mother," I sobbed, "but—but you said Bose was mad, but I knew he
would not be mad at me, and I thought I could make him good-natured if
I coaxed him."
"You did not understand," answered mother. "If I had not come just in
time to pull you back, Bose would probably have bitten you, and you
would have died a dreadful death." And then she explained the matter to
me and made me understand how it was only merciful to put the poor dog
out of pain and out of the way of doing harm. Mother had always a very
impressive way with her when she was talking seriously to us children,
and as she made me see what might have happened I shuddered and laid my
face on her shoulder, for she had lain down beside me on the bed.
"You see now," added mother, "how needful it is that children should do
just as they are told, even when they do not understand the reason."
"Yes, mother," said I; and indeed it was a lesson I never forgot. She
talked to me a long time very kindly, and then, when I had calmed down
a little, she proposed that I should dress myself and go with Rose over
to the carding-machine to see about some rolls which ought to have been
sent home; and as it was quite a walk, we should take some lunch and
eat it on the bank of the river under the trees.
I knew mother meant to divert me from my grief; and I am sure her
kindness affected me more than any punishment would have done, for I
began to be very sensible how naughty I had been in opening the door. I
bathed my eyes and dressed myself neatly, and we set out on our walk,
Rose carrying a basket containing our lunch.
The carding-machine was nearly half a mile away. We went, not by the
road, which was warm and dusty, but "across lots," down to the river,
and then along the bank, where grew many fine elms, all run over and
tangled together by wild vines. Rose told me they bore grapes called
frost grapes, because they only ripened after the frost had touched
them. We had a delightful walk, for Rose exerted herself to entertain
me, and I could hardly believe it when we arrived at our journey's end.
Carding-machines were rather new in those days. They took a great deal
of work off the hands of the women, for before that time all the wool
was carded at home and by hand, which was no joke. Some people thought
the rolls made by the machine did not spin as well as those made by
hand, but my mother was not of that opinion.
The man who managed the machine lived close by the mill in a little red
house with white window-frames—I think the smallest house I ever saw.
His wife came out to speak to Rose and me; and hearing of our trouble
in losing Bose, she asked Rose some questions in an under-tone, and
then, going into her house, she presently came out with a beautiful
tortoise-shell kitten, the first one I ever saw, and gave it to me to
keep.