there I shall find no birds, nor trees, nor brooks, nor flowers to prate
of a monarch no one has ever seen. There shall there be no sea to vex me
with its murmurings, nor any human voice to displease me with its
superstitions."
So Rodolph went to the mountains, and he scaled the loftiest pinnacle,
hoping that there at last he might hear no more of that king whom none
had ever seen. And as he stood upon the pinnacle, what a mighty panorama
was spread before him, and what a mighty anthem swelled upon his ears!
The peopled plains, with their songs and murmurings, lay far below; on
every side the mountain peaks loomed up in snowy grandeur; and overhead
he saw the sky, blue, cold, and cloudless, from horizon to horizon.
What voice was that which spoke in Rodolph's bosom then as Rodolph's
eyes beheld this revelation?
"There is a king!" said the voice. "The king lives, and this is his
abiding-place!"
And how did Rodolph's heart stand still when he felt Silence proclaim
the king,--not in tones of thunder, as the tempest had proclaimed him,
nor in the singing voices of the birds and brooks, but so swiftly, so
surely, so grandly, that Rodolph's soul was filled with awe ineffable.
Then Rodolph cried: "There is a king, and I acknowledge him! Henceforth
my voice shall swell the songs of all in earth and air and sea that know
and praise his name!"
So Rodolph went to his home. He heard the cricket singing of the king;
yes, and the sparrows under the eaves, the thrush in the hedge, the
doves in the elms, and the brook, too, all singing of the king; and
Rodolph's heart was gladdened by their music. And all the earth and the
things of the earth seemed more beautiful to Rodolph now that he
believed in the king; and to the song all Nature sang Rodolph's voice
and Rodolph's heart made harmonious response.
"There _is_ a king, my child," said Rodolph to his little one. "Together
let us sing to him, for he is _our_ king, and his goodness abideth
forever and forever."
1885
* * * * *
The Hampshire Hills.
THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS.
One afternoon many years ago two little brothers named Seth and Abner
were playing in the orchard. They were not troubled with the heat of the
August day, for a soft, cool wind came up from the river in the valley
over yonder and fanned their red cheeks and played all kinds of pranks
with their tangled curls. All about them was the hum of bees, the song
of birds, the smell of clover, and the merry music of the crickets.
Their little dog Fido chased them through the high, waving grass, and
rolled with them under the trees, and barked himself hoarse in his
attempt to keep pace with their laughter. Wearied at length, they lay
beneath the bellflower-tree and looked off at the Hampshire hills, and
wondered if the time ever would come when they should go out into the
world beyond those hills and be great, noisy men. Fido did not
understand it at all. He lolled in the grass, cooling his tongue on the
clover bloom, and puzzling his brain to know why his little masters were
so quiet all at once.
"I wish I were a man," said Abner, ruefully. "I want to be somebody and
do something. It is very hard to be a little boy so long and to have no
companions but little boys and girls, to see nothing but these same old
trees and this same high grass, and to hear nothing but the same
bird-songs from one day to another."
"That is true," said Seth. "I, too, am very tired of being a little boy,
and I long to go out into the world and be a man like my gran'pa or my
father or my uncles. With nothing to look at but those distant hills and
the river in the valley, my eyes are wearied; and I shall be very happy
when I am big enough to leave this stupid place."
Had Fido understood their words he would have chided them, for the
little dog loved his home and had no thought of any other pleasure than
romping through the orchard and playing with his little masters all the
day. But Fido did not understand them.
The clover bloom heard them with sadness. Had they but listened in turn
they would have heard the clover saying softly: "Stay with me while you
may, little boys; trample me with your merry feet; let me feel the
imprint of your curly heads and kiss the sunburn on your little cheeks.
Love me while you may, for when you go away you never will come back."
The bellflower-tree heard them, too, and she waved her great, strong
branches as if she would caress the impatient little lads, and she
whispered: "Do not think of leaving me: you are children, and you know
nothing of the world beyond those distant hills. It is full of trouble
and care and sorrow; abide here in this quiet spot till you are prepared
to meet the vexations of that outer world. We are for you,--we trees and
grass and birds and bees and flowers. Abide with us, and learn the
wisdom we teach."
The cricket in the raspberry-hedge heard them, and she chirped, oh! so
sadly: "You will go out into the world and leave us and never think of
us again till it is too late to return. Open your ears, little boys, and
hear my song of contentment."
So spake the clover bloom and the bellflower-tree and the cricket; and
in like manner the robin that nested in the linden over yonder, and the
big bumblebee that lived in the hole under the pasture gate, and the
butterfly and the wild rose pleaded with them, each in his own way; but
the little boys did not heed them, so eager were their desires to go
into and mingle with the great world beyond those distant hills.
Many years went by; and at last Seth and Abner grew to manhood, and the
time was come when they were to go into the world and be brave, strong
men. Fido had been dead a long time. They had made him a grave under the
bellflower-tree,--yes, just where he had romped with the two little boys
that August afternoon Fido lay sleeping amid the humming of the bees and
the perfume of the clover. But Seth and Abner did not think of Fido now,
nor did they give even a passing thought to any of their old
friends,--the bellflower-tree, the clover, the cricket, and the robin.
Their hearts beat with exultation. They were men, and they were going
beyond the hills to know and try the world.
They were equipped for that struggle, not in a vain, frivolous way, but
as good and brave young men should be. A gentle mother had counselled
them, a prudent father had advised them, and they had gathered from the
sweet things of Nature much of that wisdom before which all knowledge is
as nothing. So they were fortified. They went beyond the hills and came
into the West. How great and busy was the world,--how great and busy it
was here in the West! What a rush and noise and turmoil and seething and
surging, and how keenly did the brothers have to watch and struggle for
vantage ground. Withal, they prospered; the counsel of the mother, the
advice of the father, the wisdom of the grass and flowers and trees,
were much to them, and they prospered. Honor and riches came to them,
and they were happy. But amid it all, how seldom they thought of the
little home among the circling hills where they had learned the first
sweet lessons of life!
And now they were old and gray. They lived in splendid mansions, and all
people paid them honor.
One August day a grim messenger stood in Seth's presence and beckoned to
him.
"Who are you?" cried Seth. "What strange power have you over me that the
very sight of you chills my blood and stays the beating of my heart?"
Then the messenger threw aside his mask, and Seth saw that he was Death.
Seth made no outcry; he knew what the summons meant, and he was content.
But he sent for Abner.
And when Abner came, Seth was stretched upon his bed, and there was a
strange look in his eyes and a flush upon his cheeks, as though a fatal
fever had laid hold on him.
"You shall not die!" cried Abner, and he threw himself about his
brother's neck and wept.
But Seth bade Abner cease his outcry. "Sit here by my bedside and talk
with me," said he, "and let us speak of the Hampshire hills."
A great wonder overcame Abner. With reverence he listened, and as he
listened, a sweet peace seemed to steal into his soul.
"I am prepared for Death," said Seth, "and I will go with Death this
day. Let us talk of our childhood now, for, after all the battle with
this great world, it is pleasant to think and speak of our boyhood
among the Hampshire hills."
"Say on, dear brother," said Abner.
"I am thinking of an August day long ago," said Seth, solemnly and
softly. "It was _so very_ long ago, and yet it seems only yesterday. We
were in the orchard together, under the bellflower-tree, and our little
dog--"
"Fido," said Abner, remembering it all, as the years came back.
"Fido and you and I, under the bellflower-tree," said Seth. "How we had
played, and how weary we were, and how cool the grass was, and how sweet
was the fragrance of the flowers! Can you remember it, brother?"
"Oh, yes," replied Abner, "and I remember how we lay among the clover
and looked off at the distant hills and wondered of the world beyond."
"And amid our wonderings and longings," said Seth, "how the old
bellflower-tree seemed to stretch her kind arms down to us as if she
would hold us away from that world beyond the hills."
"And now I can remember that the clover whispered to us, and the
cricket in the raspberry-hedge sang to us of contentment," said Abner.
"The robin, too, carolled in the linden."
"It is very sweet to remember it now," said Seth. "How blue and hazy the
hills looked; how cool the breeze blew up from the river; how like a
silver lake the old pickerel pond sweltered under the summer sun over
beyond the pasture and broom-corn, and how merry was the music of the
birds and bees!"
So these old men, who had been little boys together, talked of the
August afternoon when with Fido they had romped in the orchard and
rested beneath the bellflower-tree. And Seth's voice grew fainter, and
his eyes were, oh! so dim; but to the very last he spoke of the dear old
days and the orchard and the clover and the Hampshire hills. And when
Seth fell asleep forever, Abner kissed his brother's lips and knelt at
the bedside and said the prayer his mother had taught him.
In the street without there was the noise of passing carts, the cries of
trades-people, and all the bustle of a great and busy city; but,
looking upon Seth's dear, dead face, Abner could hear only the music
voices of birds and crickets and summer winds as he had heard them with
Seth when they were little boys together, back among the Hampshire
hills.
1885.
* * * * *
Ezra's Thanksgivin' out West.
EZRA'S THANKSGIVIN' OUT WEST.
Ezra had written a letter to the home folks, and in it he had complained
that never before had he spent such a weary, lonesome day as this
Thanksgiving day had been. Having finished this letter, he sat for a
long time gazing idly into the open fire that snapped cinders all over
the hearthstone and sent its red forks dancing up the chimney to join
the winds that frolicked and gambolled across the Kansas prairies that
raw November night. It had rained hard all day, and was cold; and
although the open fire made every honest effort to be cheerful, Ezra, as
he sat in front of it in the wooden rocker and looked down into the
glowing embers, experienced a dreadful feeling of loneliness and
homesickness.
"I'm sick o' Kansas," said Ezra to himself. "Here I've been in this
plaguey country for goin' on a year, and--yes, I'm sick of it, powerful
sick of it. What a miser'ble Thanksgivin' this has been! They don't know
what Thanksgivin' is out this way. I wish I was back in ol'
Mass'chusetts--that's the country for _me_, and they hev the kind o'
Thanksgivin' I like!"
Musing in this strain, while the rain went patter-patter on the
window-panes, Ezra saw a strange sight in the fireplace,--yes, right
among the embers and the crackling flames Ezra saw a strange, beautiful
picture unfold and spread itself out like a panorama.
"How very wonderful!" murmured the young man. Yet he did not take his
eyes away, for the picture soothed him and he loved to look upon it.
"It is a pictur' of long ago," said Ezra, softly. "I had like to forgot
it, but now it comes back to me as nat'ral-like as an ol' friend. An' I
seem to be a part of it, an' the feelin' of that time comes back with
the pictur', too."
Ezra did not stir. His head rested upon his hand, and his eyes were
fixed upon the shadows in the firelight.
"It is a pictur' of the ol' home," said Ezra to himself. "I am back
there in Belchertown, with the Holyoke hills up north an' the Berkshire
mountains a loomin' up gray an' misty-like in the western horizon. Seems
as if it wuz early mornin'; everything is still, and it is so cold when
we boys crawl out o' bed that, if it wuzn't Thanksgivin' mornin', we'd
crawl back again an' wait for Mother to call us. But it _is_
Thanksgivin' mornin', an' we're goin' skatin' down on the pond. The
squealin' o' the pigs has told us it is five o'clock, and we must hurry;
we're goin' to call by for the Dickerson boys an' Hiram Peabody, an'
we've got to hyper! Brother Amos gets on about half o' my clo'es, and I
get on 'bout half o' his, but it's all the same; they are stout, warm
clo'es, and they're big enough to fit any of us boys,--Mother looked out
for that when she made 'em. When we go downstairs we find the girls
there, all bundled up nice an' warm,--Mary an' Helen an' Cousin Irene.
They're goin' with us, an' we all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's
not to wake up the ol' folks. The ground is frozen hard; we stub our
toes on the frozen ruts in the road. When we come to the minister's
house, Laura is standin' on the front stoop, a-waitin' for us. Laura is
the minister's daughter. She's a friend o' Sister Helen's--pretty as a
dagerr'otype, an' gentle-like and tender. Laura lets me carry her
skates, an' I'm glad of it, although I have my hands full already with
the lantern, the hockies, and the rest. Hiram Peabody keeps us waitin',
for he has overslept himself, an' when he comes trottin' out at last the
girls make fun of him,--all except Sister Mary, an' she sort o' sticks
up for Hiram, an' we're all so 'cute we kind o' calc'late we know the
reason why.
"And now," said Ezra, softly, "the pictur' changes; seems as if I could
see the pond. The ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and Hiram Peabody
slips up the first thing, an' down he comes lickety-split, an' we all
laugh,--except Sister Mary, an' _she_ says it is very imp'lite to laugh
at other folks' misfortunes. Ough! how cold it is, and how my fingers
ache with the frost when I take off my mittens to strap on Laura's
skates! But, oh, how my cheeks burn! And how careful I am not to hurt
Laura, an' how I ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she tells me
'jist a little tighter,' and how we two keep foolin' along till the
others hev gone an' we are left alone! An' how quick I get my _own_
skates strapped on,--none o' your new-fangled skates with springs an'
plates an' clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones with
steel runners that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass button
on the end! How I strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on! An' Laura
waits for me an' tells me to be sure to get 'em on tight enough,--why,
bless me! after I once got 'em strapped on, if them skates hed come off,
the feet wud ha' come with 'em! An' now away we go,--Laura an' me.
Around the bend--near the medder where Si Barker's dog killed a
woodchuck last summer--we meet the rest. We forget all about the cold.
We run races an' play snap the whip, an' cut all sorts o' didoes, an' we
never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in on the ice an' trips us up
every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we boys jump over the
air-holes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an' tell us they know we're
agoin' to drownd ourselves. So the hours go, an' it is sun-up at last,
an' Sister Helen says we must be gettin' home. When we take our skates
off, our feet feel as if they were wood. Laura has lost her tippet; I
lend her mine, and she kind o' blushes. The old pond seems glad to have
us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest in the willer-tree waves us good-by.
Laura promises to come over to our house in the evenin', and so we break
up.
"Seems now," continued Ezra, musingly,--"seems now as if I could see us
all at breakfast. The race on the pond has made us hungry, and Mother
says she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as
hers. It is the Yankee Thanksgivin' breakfast,--sausages an' fried
potatoes, an' buckwheat cakes an' syrup,--maple syrup, mind ye, for
Father has his own sugar bush, and there was a big run o' sap last
season. Mother says, 'Ezry an' Amos, won't you never get through eatin'?
We want to clear off the table, for there's pies to make, an' nuts to
crack, and laws sakes alive! the turkey's got to be stuffed yit!' Then
how we all fly round! Mother sends Helen up into the attic to get a
squash while Mary's makin' the pie-crust. Amos an' I crack the
walnuts,--they call 'em hickory nuts out in this pesky country of
sagebrush and pasture land. The walnuts are hard, and it's all we can
do to crack 'em. Ev'ry once'n a while one on 'em slips outer our
fingers an' goes dancin' over the floor or flies into the pan Helen is
squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder. Helen says we're shif'less
an' good for nothin' but frivolin'; but Mother tells us how to crack the
walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an' so's not to be
all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the party at the
Peasleys' last winter. An' now here comes Tryphena Foster, with her
gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone up to Amherst for
Thanksgivin', an' Tryphena has come over to help our folks get dinner.
She thinks a great deal o' Mother, 'cause Mother teaches her
Sunday-school class an' says Tryphena oughter marry a missionary. There
is bustle everywhere, the rattle uv pans an' the clatter of dishes; an'
the new kitch'n stove begins to warm up an' git red, till Helen loses
her wits an' is flustered, an' sez she never could git the hang o' that
stove's dampers.
"An' now," murmured Ezra, gently, as a tone of deeper reverence crept
into his voice, "I can see Father sittin' all by himself in the parlor.
Father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his honest old
face. He is lookin' through the winder at the Holyoke hills over yonder,
and I can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a boy like me an'
Amos, an' useter climb over them hills an' kill rattlesnakes an' hunt
partridges. Or doesn't his eyes quite reach the Holyoke hills? Do they
fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little buryin' ground jest beyond
the village? Ah, Father knows that spot, an' he loves it, too, for there
are treasures there whose memory he wouldn't swap for all the world
could give. So, while there is a kind o' mist in Father's eyes, I can
see he is dreamin'-like of sweet an' tender things, and a-communin' with
memory,--hearin' voices I never heard an' feelin' the tech of hands I
never pressed; an' seein' Father's peaceful face I find it hard to think
of a Thanksgivin' sweeter than Father's is.
"The pictur' in the firelight changes now," said Ezra, "an' seems as if
I wuz in the old frame meetin'-house. The meetin'-house is on the hill,
and meetin' begins at half pas' ten. Our pew is well up in front,--seems
as if I could see it now. It has a long red cushion on the seat, and in
the hymn-book rack there is a Bible an' a couple of Psalmodies. We walk
up the aisle slow, and Mother goes in first; then comes Mary, then me,
then Helen, then Amos, and then Father. Father thinks it is jest as well
to have one o' the girls set in between me an' Amos. The meetin'-house
is full, for everybody goes to meetin' Thanksgivin' day. The minister
reads the proclamation an' makes a prayer, an' then he gives out a
psalm, an' we all stan' up an' turn 'round an' join the choir. Sam
Merritt has come up from Palmer to spend Thanksgivin' with the ol'
folks, an' he is singin' tenor to-day in his ol' place in the choir.
Some folks say he sings wonderful well, but _I_ don't like Sam's voice.
Laura sings soprano in the choir, and Sam stands next to her an' holds
the book.
"Seems as if I could hear the minister's voice, full of earnestness an'
melody, comin' from way up in his little round pulpit. He is tellin' us
why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes Scriptur' an' Dr. Watts, we
boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the Bible. Then I get
nervous and worried. Seems to me the minister was never comin' to
lastly, and I find myself wonderin' whether Laura is listenin' to what
the preachin' is about, or is writin' notes to Sam Merritt in the back
of the tune book. I get thirsty, too, and I fidget about till Father
looks at me, and Mother nudges Helen, and Helen passes it along to me
with interest.
"An' then," continues Ezra in his revery, "when the last hymn is given
out an' we stan' up agin an' join the choir, I am glad to see that Laura
is singin' outer the book with Miss Hubbard, the alto. An' goin' out o'
meetin' I kind of edge up to Laura and ask her if I kin have the
pleasure of seein' her home.
"An' now we boys all go out on the Common to play ball. The Enfield boys
have come over, and, as all the Hampshire county folks know, they are
tough fellers to beat. Gorham Polly keeps tally, because he has got the
newest jack-knife,--oh, how slick it whittles the old broom-handle
Gorham picked up in Packard's store an' brought along jest to keep tally
on! It is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and light, and the
ball is small and soft. But the Enfield boys beat us at last; leastwise
they make 70 tallies to our 58, when Heman Fitts knocks the ball over
into Aunt Dorcas Eastman's yard, and Aunt Dorcas comes out an' picks up
the ball an' takes it into the house, an' we have to stop playin'. Then
Phineas Owens allows he can flop any boy in Belchertown, an' Moses Baker
takes him up, an' they wrassle like two tartars, till at last Moses
tuckers Phineas out an' downs him as slick as a whistle.
"Then we all go home, for Thanksgivin' dinner is ready. Two long tables
have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths Gran'ma had when
she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both. We all set
round,--Father, Mother, Aunt Lydia Holbrook, Uncle Jason, Mary, Helen,
Tryphena Foster, Amos, and me. How big an' brown the turkey is, and how
good it smells! There are bounteous dishes of mashed potato, turnip, an'
squash, and the celery is very white and cold, the biscuits are light
an' hot, and the stewed cranberries are red as Laura's cheeks. Amos and
I get the drumsticks; Mary wants the wish-bone to put over the door for
Hiram, but Helen gets it. Poor Mary, she always _did_ have to give up
to 'rushin' Helen,' as we call her. The pies,--oh, what pies mother
makes; no dyspepsia in 'em, but good-nature an' good health an'
hospitality! Pumpkin pies, mince an' apple too, and then a big dish of
pippins an' russets an' bellflowers, an', last of all, walnuts with
cider from the Zebrina Dickerson farm! I tell ye, there's a Thanksgivin'
dinner for ye! that's what we get in old Belchertown; an' that's the
kind of livin' that makes the Yankees so all-fired good an' smart.