COMING INTO THE WORLD.
It was mentioned in the last chapter that Hanz Toodleburg had seen
twenty years of the happiest of wedded life; and yet that Angeline had
not increased his joys with an offspring. Thoughtless people made much
ado about this, and there were enough of them in the settlement to get
their heads together and say all sorts of unkind things to Hanz
concerning this family failing. I verily believe that the time of
one-half of the human family is engaged seeking scandal in the
misfortunes of the other. And I have always found that you got the
ripest scandal in the smallest villages; and Nyack was not an exception.
No wonder, then, that Hanz had to bear his share of that slander which
one-half the world puts on the other. Not an idle fellow at the inn,
where Hanz would look in of an evening, but would have his sly joke.
Many a time he had to "stand" cider and ale for the company, and
considered he got off cheap at that. And when they drank his health, it
was with insinuating winks and nods; one saying:
"What a pity. He ought to have somebody to leave his little farm to."
"Yes," another would interrupt; "if he had a son he'd be sure to leave
him the secret of Kidd's treasure."
The gossips of the village were to change their tune soon. Dame rumor
had been whispering it around for a month that there was something in
the wind at Toodleburg's. And, to put it more plainly, it was added
that Hanz was soon to be made a happy man by the appearance of a little
Toodleburg. This change, or rather apparent change, in the prospects of
the family did not relieve Hanz from the tax for ale and cider levied on
him by the idle fellows at the inn. Indeed, he had to stand just twice
the number of treats in return for the compliments paid him as a man and
a Christian. It was noticed, also, that the Dominie took tea more
frequently at Hanz's table; and that Critchel, the little snuffy doctor,
who had practised in the settlement for a quarter of a century, and,
indeed, assisted in bringing at least one-half of its inhabitants into
the world, and of course was considered very safe in such cases, had
increased his visits at the house.
Now these honest old burghers had almanacs made with strict regard to
truth, and if they prognosticated a storm it was sure to come. They
would not consider it safe to navigate the Tappan Zee on a day fixed by
the almanac for a storm. On the 5th day of January, 1805, in the almanac
that never failed Hanz, there was this: "Look out for a snow storm."
This time, however, the snow, if not the storm, was ahead of the
almanac. Indeed, it had been falling slowly and gently for two days; and
a white sheet of it, at least three inches deep, covered the ground on
the morning of the 5th. The weather had changed during the night, and
now the air was sharp and cold. Dark, bleak clouds hung along the
horizon in the northeast, the distant hills stood out sharp and cold,
and a chilling wind whispered and sighed through the leafless trees.
Then the wind grew stronger and stronger, the snow fell thicker and
faster, making fantastic figures in the air, then dancing and scudding
to the force of the gale, and shutting the opposite shore from sight.
Nyack lay buried in a storm, and the Tappan Zee was in a tempest. Snow
drifted through the streets, up the lanes, over the houses, and put
night-caps on the mountain tops. Snow danced into rifts in the roads and
across fields, and sent the traveller to the inn for shelter. Lowing
cattle sought the barn-yard for shelter, or huddled together under the
lee of some hay-stack, covered with snow. Night came, and still the snow
fell, and the wind blew in all its fury.
It was on that cold, stormy night that a bright light might have been
seen burning in the little house where Hanz Toodleburg lived. The storm
had shook its frame from early morning; and now the windows rattled,
discordant sounds were heard on the veranda, wind sighed through the
crevices, and fine snow rifted in under the door and through the
latch-hole, and tossed itself into little drifts on the floor. Nyack was
buried in a storm that night. There was an old clock on the
mantle-piece, and it kept on ticking, and its ticks could be heard above
the storm. And the bright oak fire in the great fireplace threw out
shadows that flitted over the great loom, and the wheels, and the
festoons of dried apples, and the pumpkins that hung from the beams
overhead. And old Deacon, the faithful watch-dog, lay coiled up on the
flag hearth-stone.
The old clock had nearly marked the hour of midnight as Hanz came out of
the little room in an apparently agitated state of mind. The dog raised
his head and moved his tail as Hanz approached the fire and threw some
sticks on. "Dere's no postponin' it; and it sthorms so," muttered Hanz,
shaking his head. Then he put on his big coat and boots, drew his cap
over his ears, and went out into the storm, leaving the big dog on
guard. How he struggled through the snow that night, what difficulty he
had in waking up his two nearest neighbors, and getting one of them to
send his son for Doctor Critchel, and what was said about such things
always happening of such a night, I will leave to the imagination of my
reader.
It was nearly an hour before Hanz returned, bringing with him two stout,
motherly-looking dames. The storm had handled their garments somewhat
roughly, and they were well covered with snow. The old dog was pleased
to see them, and wagged them a welcome, and made sundry other signs of
his affection. And when they had shaken the snow from their garments,
and taken seats by the fire, Hanz gave them fresh pipes, which they
lighted and proceeded to enjoy while he went to preparing something warm
for their stomachs, and doing various other little things regarded as
indispensable on such an occasion.
The storm had caught the little house by the shoulders, and was giving
it one of its most violent shakes, when the dog suddenly started up,
gave a growl, then walked solemnly to the door and listened. A footstep
in the old veranda, then the stamping of feet, and a knock at the door
came. It was Critchel, the little snuffy doctor, who entered, looking
for all the world like an enlarged snow-ball. These were the occasions
in which the doctor rose into the most importance, and as his coming had
been waited with great anxiety, great efforts were made by those present
to assure him of the esteem in which he was held. Even the dog would not
go to his accustomed place on the hearth until he had caressed the
doctor at least a dozen times. Although held in great respect by the
settlers, Critchel was what might be called a shabby-looking little man,
for his raiment consisted of a brown coat, which he had worn
threadbare, a pair of greasy pantaloons that were in shreds at the
bottom, a spotted vest, and a Spitlesfield neckerchief. Indeed, he was
as antique in his dress as in his ideas of the science of medicine. He
had a round, red face, a short, upturned red nose, and a very bald head,
which Hanz always declared held more sense than people were willing to
give him credit for. There was no quainter figure than this familiar old
doctor as seen mounted on his big-headed and clumsy-footed Canadian
pony, his saddle-bags well filled with pills and powders, and ready to
bleed or blister at call. He was considered marvelously skilful, too, at
drawing teeth and curing the itch, with which the honest Dutch settlers
were occasionally afflicted. I must mention, also, that an additional
cause of the great respect shown him by the settlers was that he took
his pay in such things as they raised on their little farms and could
best spare.