THE COMING WINTER, AND A MERRY-MAKING.
November was come now. The day I write of was damp and cheerless. Grey,
vapory clouds swept over the Tappan Zee, and a sad, sighing wind tossed
it into crests. A drizzling rain fell over Nyack, and the little town
looked as if it had just taken a bath and gone to sleep for the night.
The hills wore a cold and bleak look, the foliage had lost its bright,
golden tints, and now looked faded and colorless. The leaves, too, were
falling, and the naked trees seemed weeping and cold. Sheep browsed on
the hill-sides, or nibbled coldly under the branches of sheltering
trees. In the wet, dripping barn-yard cattle were seen huddled together
under a lee, now seeking warmth in the fresh shocks, now proclaiming
their troubles in subdued lowing.
The very landscape seemed weeping and melancholy. Even the summer birds,
whose songs give such a charm to the woods, were gone. And there was the
loon upon the lake gabbling his welcome to the approaching winter. The
rain, too, had filled the brooks, and their waters were gurgling down
deep, shadowy dells, mingling their touching music with the sad, sighing
wind. There were pleasant memories entwined in that departing summer;
and it now seemed as if all nature was joining in a requiem to its
fading beauties.
The settlers had gathered their winter fruit, and the cider-presses had
finished their work for the season. Squashes were hung up in the cellar,
the corn was shucked and in the bins, and heaps of ripe, lusty pumpkins
stood in the fields. In the houses fresh flitches of bacon hung by the
fireside, while festoons of dried apples decorated the beams overhead.
There, too, were the young nut-gatherers, coming home of an evening with
their well-filled satchels. There was to be peace and plenty at the
settlers' fireside this winter, for an all-wise Providence had so
ordained it in an abundant harvest.
It was a custom with Hanz Toodleburg, as it was also with many other of
the settlers, to entertain his friends and neighbors with a merry-making
when the harvest was gathered. Hanz had invited his neighbors on the
evening of the day I have described, and notwithstanding the cold and
cheerless character of the night, the little house was full ere it was
dark. The bright, happy faces of the women, and the jolly, ringing laugh
of the men, all dressed in their neat new homespun, presented a pleasant
picture of rustic life. Each man came armed with a long pipe, while his
good vrow had some little present for Angeline. Hanz had a warm, hearty
shake of the hand for each of his guests. Indeed, he welcomed each of
the good vrows with a kiss and an admonition to be happy while they were
under his roof. And these good vrows put their hands to the wheel, and
assisted Angeline in preparing the feast. Indeed, she soon had her table
spread with as good and well-cooked fare as could be found in the
county.
There was the cold boar's head, decorated with flowers; the fattest
turkey, roasted before the great fire; boiled beef, bathed in odorous
krout, and declared delicacies by every sturdy Dutchman; a spiced ham,
decorated with vegetables. Then there were apple and pumpkin pies just
baked, cuddled apples, and jam, and fresh cranberry sauce. And these
were backed up with new cider and home-brewed ale, and coffee. Such was
the supper Hanz had prepared for his friends, and which he invited them
to eat and be happy.
The good-natured Dominie was there, and so was Doctor Critchel and the
school-master. Nor was Titus Bright, the inn-keeper, forgotten. They
were equally important characters in the settlement, and no honest
Dutchman, who had any regard for his reputation for hospitality, would
think of giving a merry-making without them. The good Dominie was fond
of puddings and pies, and preached that the three highest objects a man
had to live for were peace, contentment, and a good dinner. The Dutch
regarded this as good enough religion for them--better, perhaps, than
that preached by the man of the church of progressive ideas. The
school-master could sing a good song, and, although an idle, shiftless
fellow, got more invitations to supper than any other man in the
settlement. As for the inn-keeper, he was a merry little man, who made
everybody laugh, and was held in high esteem by all the good vrows
around Nyack.
Now that the supper was ready, there was a general exchange of vrows,
for it was not considered etiquette to sit at table with your own wife
during one of these feasts. Then the Dominie invoked God's blessing on
the bounties He had spread before them, thanked Him for the bountiful
harvest, and for the love He had shown these happy people. He then
proceeded to carve the boar's head, while every man and woman present
went to enjoying the feast.
When supper was over and the table cleared away the men took to their
pipes and discussed their crops, and the women discoursed of carding,
and spinning, and housewifery in general. Then there was a dance around
the apple-basket, and a dance in which every man kissed every other
man's vrow, and in which the Dominie joined, and was as jolly as any of
his flock. And they danced to the music of a fiddle, played by Lame
George, who lived up in the mountain. Then the Dominie told a number of
amusing stories, and the school-master sang them several of his best
songs, and cider and ale was drank.
And while the pleasantry was at its highest, a loud knock was heard at
the door. The revelry ceased for a moment. There was the postmaster's
boy, bearing a letter with several curious stamps on it. Hanz was
overjoyed. He shook the boy's hand, and then scanned over the letter.
"God pless mine poor poy, Titus!" he exclaimed. "He wrotes dat ledder.
Yes, he does; mine poor poy Titus does;" and he struck his hands on his
knees, and laughed with joy. "He ton't forgets his old fadder. He be's a
goot poy, mine Titus." And he shook hands with the Dominie and the
inn-keeper. Indeed, he seemed so completely unmanned that he was
powerless to open the letter. Then he took a candle in his right hand,
and again scanned and scanned the superscription. "Sumthin' goot in dat
ledder. Mine poor poy Titus writes him!" he ejaculated, in a subdued
tone.
[Illustration: Then tears gushed into her eyes and moistened her pale
cheeks. Page 102.]
During all this time, for it seemed long to Angeline, she became pale
with anxiety. Then tears gushed into her eyes and moistened her pale
cheeks. But they were tears of joy, not sorrow--the wealth of that pure,
honest heart now beating so violently in anticipation of the good
tidings. When Hanz had somewhat controlled his feelings he sat down in
the big chair, and with Angeline looking anxiously over his shoulder
and holding the candle, opened and began reading the letter "Yesh, t'is
mine poor poy Titus as writes him," he said, pausing for a moment. "Hish
name shust as he wrotes him when a poy." The rest of the company looked
on and listened in silence. Then he resumed the reading. "Vell, dere
wash a pig sthorm, and t' ship most goes down to t' pottom. Den she
does'nt go to t' pottom. No, she no goes to t' pottom. Den mine poy, he
shaves t' ship." Hanz went over the letter in this incoherent manner,
and then handed it to the Dominie to read for the entertainment of the
company. The letter was dated at Bahia, where the ship had put in for
fresh supplies, as was the custom with whalers. He gave a glowing
account of the voyage, and the storm, and the persons he found on board.
The good Dominie was several times interrupted by some one of the
company invoking a blessing on Tite's head. And when it was announced
that he had been made third mate of the ship, an expression of joy broke
on every lip. The school-master shook Hanz warmly by the hand, and the
inn-keeper declared it would not surprise him if Tite came home captain
of the ship.
"High, high!" exclaimed the Dominie, re-adjusting his spectacles;
"here's news. An old acquaintance has turned up." Then turning to
Critchel, he touched that odd old gentleman on the elbow, saying: "You
remember the old grave-digger of thirty years ago, oh, Critchel?"
"Well, very well," replied Critchel; "he was a clever old man, and did
his business well. He used to say I brought people into the world, and
he sent them out."
"Bless me!" resumed the Dominie; "if here is'nt his son come to life
again. The poor fellow! we all knew him well. Tite says here that he has
found a good friend in the captain, an old acquaintance of his mother.
And who do you think it is?"
Not one in the company could answer, although Angeline blushed, and
looked confused. "Price Bottom, son of that clever old man, the
grave-digger," concluded the Dominie.
"How strange," said the inn-keeper. "Old Bottom had many a glass of ale
at my house, and never troubled anybody, except to dig their graves."
"He was very poor," rejoined Critchel, in a subdued voice, "and died
leaving my bill unpaid. But he was an honest man, and paid when he had
it."
"The son was a queer young man," resumed the Dominie. "Nobody seemed to
care anything about him. And when he left the settlement it was thought
he had got into the city and became a worthless. But here he is, made a
man of himself and has not forgot his old friends."
This was good news to Angeline and Hanz. Still the name of Price Bottom,
the grave-digger's son, revived old if not pleasant memories. The odd
old captain had not forgotten his first love. The flame of that love
always burns, but never dies out. Disappointment may cross it, may for a
time veil its charm, but never can quench it. How strange, Angeline
thought, that her darling boy, the consolation of her heart, should have
met this once discarded lover, and under such circumstances. And that he
should be such a friend and protector to her boy only showed how good a
heart he had.
The good news gave an additional charm to the evening's entertainment.
One after another shook Hanz and Angeline by the hand, and congratulated
them on the happy prospect. Indeed, they seemed the happiest people on
earth. Mugs of fresh cider were filled and drank to the health of
Captain Price Bottom, of the good ship Pacific--the poor fellow who had
only a grave-digger for a father, and left the settlement friendless and
without a shilling.
And now these sturdy settlers again took to their pipes, and having
smoked in silence for at least five minutes, embraced and kissed their
hosts, and parted for the night.