the best scene in all the pictur' is when evenin' comes, when the
lamps are lit in the parlor, when the neighbors come in, and when
there is music an' singin' an' games. An' it's this part o' the
pictur' that makes me homesick now and fills my heart with a longin' I
never had before; an' yet it sort o' mellows an' comforts me, too.
Miss Serena Cadwell, whose beau was killed in the war, plays on the
melodeon, and we all sing,--all on us, men, womenfolks, an' children.
Sam Merritt is there, an' he sings a tenor song about love. The women
sort of whisper round that he's goin' to be married to a Palmer lady
nex' spring, an' I think to myself I never heard better singin' than
Sam's. Then we play games,--proverbs, buzz, clap-in-clap-out,
copenhagen, fox-an'-geese, button-button-who's-got-the-button,
spin-the-platter, go-to-Jerusalem, my-ship's-come-in, and all the
rest. The ol' folks play with the young folks just as nat'ral as can
be; and we all laugh when Deacon Hosea Cowles hez to measure six yards
of love ribbon with Miss Hepsy Newton, and cut each yard with a kiss;
for the deacon hez been sort o' purrin' round Miss Hepsy for goin' on
two years. Then, aft'r a while, when Mary an' Helen bring in the
cookies, nutcakes, cider, an' apples, Mother says: 'I don't b'lieve
we're goin' to hev enough apples to go round; Ezry, I guess I'll have
to get you to go down-cellar for some more.' Then I says: 'All right,
Mother, I'll go, providin' some one'll go along an' hold the candle.'
An' when I say this I look right at Laura, an' she blushes. Then
Helen, jest for meanness, says: 'Ezry, I s'pose you aint willin' to
have your fav'rite sister go down-cellar with you an' catch her death
o' cold?' But Mary, who hez been showin' Hiram Peabody the phot'graph
album for more 'n an hour, comes to the rescue an' makes Laura take
the candle, and she shows Laura how to hold it so it won't go out.
"The cellar is warm an' dark. There are cobwebs all between the rafters
an' everywhere else except on the shelves where Mother keeps the butter
an' eggs an' other things that would freeze in the butt'ry upstairs. The
apples are in bar'ls up against the wall, near the potater-bin. How
fresh an' sweet they smell! Laura thinks she sees a mouse, an' she
trembles an' wants to jump up on the pork bar'l, but I tell her that
there sha'n't no mouse hurt her while I'm round; and I mean it, too, for
the sight of Laura a-tremblin' makes me as strong as one of Father's
steers. 'What kind of apples do you like best, Ezry?' asks
Laura,--'russets or greenin's or crow-eggs or bellflowers or Baldwins or
pippins?' 'I like the Baldwins best,' says I, ''coz they've got red
cheeks just like yours.' 'Why, Ezry Thompson! how you talk!' says Laura.
'You oughter be ashamed of yourself!' But when I get the dish filled up
with apples there aint a Baldwin in all the lot that can compare with
the bright red of Laura's cheeks. An' Laura knows it, too, an' she sees
the mouse agin, an' screams, and then the candle goes out, and we are in
a dreadful stew. But I, bein' almost a man, contrive to bear up under
it, and knowin' she is an orph'n, I comfort an' encourage Laura the best
I know how, and we are almost upstairs when Mother comes to the door and
wants to know what has kep' us so long. Jest as if Mother doesn't know!
Of course she does; an' when Mother kisses Laura good-by that night
there is in the act a tenderness that speaks more sweetly than even
Mother's words.
"It is so like Mother," mused Ezra; "so like her with her gentleness an'
clingin' love. Hers is the sweetest picture of all, and hers the best
love."
Dream on, Ezra; dream of the old home with its dear ones, its holy
influences, and its precious inspiration,--mother. Dream on in the
far-away firelight; and as the angel hand of memory unfolds these sacred
visions, with thee and them shall abide, like a Divine comforter, the
spirit of thanksgiving.
1885
* * * * *
Ludwig and Eloise.
LUDWIG AND ELOISE.
Once upon a time there were two youths named Herman and Ludwig; and they
both loved Eloise, the daughter of the old burgomaster. Now, the old
burgomaster was very rich, and having no child but Eloise, he was
anxious that she should be well married and settled in life. "For," said
he, "death is likely to come to me at any time: I am old and feeble, and
I want to see my child sheltered by another's love before I am done with
earth forever."
Eloise was much beloved by all the youth in the village, and there was
not one who would not gladly have taken her to wife; but none loved her
so much as did Herman and Ludwig. Nor did Eloise care for any but Herman
and Ludwig, and she loved Herman. The burgomaster said: "Choose whom you
will--I care not! So long as he be honest I will have him for a son and
thank Heaven for him."
So Eloise chose Herman, and all said she chose wisely; for Herman was
young and handsome, and by his valor had won distinction in the army,
and had thrice been complimented by the general. So when the brave young
captain led Eloise to the altar there was great rejoicing in the
village. The beaux, forgetting their disappointments, and the maidens,
seeing the cause of all their jealousy removed, made merry together; and
it was said that never had there been in the history of the province an
event so joyous as was the wedding of Herman and Eloise.
But in all the Village there was one aching heart. Ludwig, the young
musician, saw with quiet despair the maiden he loved go to the altar
with another. He had known Eloise from childhood, and he could not say
when his love of her began, it was so very long ago; but now he knew his
heart was consumed by a hopeless passion. Once, at a village festival,
he had begun to speak to her of his love; but Eloise had placed her hand
kindly upon his lips and told him to say no further, for they had
always been and always would be brother and sister. So Ludwig never
spoke his love after that, and Eloise and he were as brother and sister;
but the love of her grew always within him, and he had no thought but of
her.
And now, when Eloise and Herman were wed, Ludwig feigned that he had
received a message from a rich relative in a distant part of the kingdom
bidding him come thither, and Ludwig went from the village and was seen
there no more.
When the burgomaster died all his possessions went to Herman and Eloise;
and they were accounted the richest folk in the province, and so good
and charitable were they that they were beloved by all. Meanwhile Herman
had risen to greatness in the army, for by his valorous exploits he had
become a general, and he was much endeared to the king. And Eloise and
Herman lived in a great castle in the midst of a beautiful park, and the
people came and paid them reverence there.
And no one in all these years spoke of Ludwig. No one thought of him.
Ludwig was forgotten. And so the years went by.
It came to pass, however, that from a far-distant province there spread
the fame of a musician so great that the king sent for him to visit the
court. No one knew the musician's name nor whence he came, for he lived
alone and would never speak of himself; but his music was so tender and
beautiful that it was called heart-music, and he himself was called the
Master. He was old and bowed with infirmities, but his music was always
of youth and love; it touched every heart with its simplicity and
pathos, and all wondered how this old and broken man could create so
much of tenderness and sweetness on these themes.
But when the king sent for the Master to come to court the Master
returned him answer: "No, I am old and feeble. To leave my home would
weary me unto death. Let me die here as I have lived these long years,
weaving my music for hearts that need my solace."
Then the people wondered. But the king was not angry; in pity he sent
the Master a purse of gold, and bade him come or not come, as he willed.
Such honor had never before been shown any subject in the kingdom, and
all the people were dumb with amazement. But the Master gave the purse
of gold to the poor of the village wherein he lived.
In those days Herman died, full of honors and years, and there was a
great lamentation in the land, for Herman was beloved by all. And Eloise
wept unceasingly and would not be comforted.
On the seventh day after Herman had been buried there came to the castle
in the park an aged and bowed man who carried in his white and trembling
hands a violin. His kindly face was deeply wrinkled, and a venerable
beard swept down upon his breast. He was weary and footsore, but he
heeded not the words of pity bestowed on him by all who beheld him
tottering on his way. He knocked boldly at the castle gate, and demanded
to be brought into the presence of Eloise.
And Eloise said: "Bid him enter; perchance his music will comfort my
breaking heart."
Then, when the old man had come into her presence, behold! he was the
Master,--ay, the Master whose fame was in every land, whose heart-music
was on every tongue.
"If thou art indeed the Master," said Eloise, "let thy music be balm to
my chastened spirit."
The Master said: "Ay, Eloise, I will comfort thee in thy sorrow, and thy
heart shall be stayed, and a great joy will come to thee."
Then the Master drew his bow across the strings, and lo! forthwith there
arose such harmonies as Eloise had never heard before. Gently,
persuasively, they stole upon her senses and filled her soul with an
ecstasy of peace.
"Is it Herman that speaks to me?" cried Eloise. "It is his voice I hear,
and it speaks to me of love. With thy heart-music, O Master, all the
sweetness of his life comes back to comfort me!"
The Master did not pause; as he played, it seemed as if each tender word
and caress of Herman's life was stealing back on music's pinions to
soothe the wounds that death had made.
"It is the song of our love-life," murmured Eloise. "How full of
memories it is--what tenderness and harmony--and, oh! what peace it
brings! But tell me, Master, what means this minor chord,--this
undertone of sadness and of pathos that flows like a deep, unfathomable
current throughout it all, and wailing, weaves itself about thy theme of
love and happiness with its weird and subtile influences?"
Then the Master said: "It is that shade of sorrow and sacrifice, O
Eloise, that ever makes the picture of love more glorious. An undertone
of pathos has been _my_ part in all these years to symmetrize the love
of Herman and Eloise. The song of thy love is beautiful, and who shall
say it is not beautified by the sad undertone of Ludwig's broken heart?"
"Thou art Ludwig!" cried Eloise. "Thou art Ludwig, who didst love me,
and hast come to comfort me who loved thee not!"
The Master indeed was Ludwig; but when they hastened to do him homage he
heard them not, for with that last and sweetest heart-song his head sank
upon his breast, and he was dead.
1885.
* * * * *
Fido's Little Friend.
FIDO'S LITTLE FRIEND.
One morning in May Fido sat on the front porch, and he was deep in
thought. He was wondering whether the people who were moving into the
next house were as cross and unfeeling as the people who had just moved
out. He hoped they were not, for the people who had just moved out had
never treated Fido with that respect and kindness which Fido believed he
was on all occasions entitled to.
"The new-comers must be nice folks," said Fido to himself, "for their
feather-beds look big and comfortable, and their baskets are all ample
and generous,--and see, there goes a bright gilt cage, and there is a
plump yellow canary bird in it! Oh, how glad Mrs. Tabby will be to see
it,--she so dotes on dear little canary birds!"
Mrs. Tabby was the old brindled cat, who was the mother of the four
cunning little kittens in the hay-mow. Fido had heard her remark very
purringly only a few days ago that she longed for a canary bird, just to
amuse her little ones and give them correct musical ears. Honest old
Fido! There was no guile in his heart, and he never dreamed there was in
all the wide world such a sin as hypocrisy. So when Fido saw the little
canary bird in the cage he was glad for Mrs. Tabby's sake.
While Fido sat on the front porch and watched the people moving into the
next house another pair of eyes peeped out of the old hollow maple over
the way. This was the red-headed woodpecker, who had a warm, cosey nest
far down in the old hollow maple, and in the nest there were four
beautiful eggs, of which the red-headed woodpecker was very proud.
"Good-morning, Mr. Fido," called the red-headed woodpecker from her high
perch. "You are out bright and early to-day. And what do you think of
our new neighbors?"
"Upon my word, I cannot tell," replied Fido, wagging his tail cheerily,
"for I am not acquainted with them. But I have been watching them
closely, and by to-day noon I think I shall be on speaking terms with
them,--provided, of course, they are not the cross, unkind people our
old neighbors were."
"Oh, I do so hope there are no little boys in the family," sighed the
red-headed woodpecker; and then she added, with much determination and a
defiant toss of her beautiful head: "I hate little boys!"
"Why so?" inquired Fido. "As for myself, I love little boys. I have
always found them the pleasantest of companions. Why do _you_ dislike
them?"
"Because they are wicked," said the red-headed woodpecker. "They climb
trees and break up the nests we have worked so hard to build, and they
steal away our lovely eggs--oh, I hate little boys!"
"Good little boys don't steal birds' eggs," said Fido, "and I'm sure I
never would play with a bad boy."
But the red-headed woodpecker insisted that all little boys were wicked;
and, firm in this faith, she flew away to the linden over yonder,
where, she had heard the thrush say, there lived a family of fat white
grubs. The red-headed woodpecker wanted her breakfast, and it would have
been hard to find a more palatable morsel for her than a white fat grub.
As for Fido, he sat on the front porch and watched the people moving in.
And as he watched them he thought of what the red-headed woodpecker had
said, and he wondered whether it could be possible for little boys to be
so cruel as to rob birds' nests. As he brooded over this sad
possibility, his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a
voice that fell pleasantly on his ears.
"Goggie, goggie, goggie!" said the voice. "Tum here, 'ittle goggie--tum
here, goggie, goggie, goggie!"
Fido looked whence the voice seemed to come, and he saw a tiny figure on
the other side of the fence,--a cunning baby-figure in the yard that
belonged to the house where the new neighbors were moving in. A second
glance assured Fido that the calling stranger was a little boy not more
than three years old, wearing a pretty dress, and a broad hat that
crowned his yellow hair and shaded his big blue eyes and dimpled face.
The sight was a pleasing one, and Fido vibrated his tail,--very
cautiously, however, for Fido was not quite certain that the little boy
meant his greeting for him, and Fido's sad experiences with the old
neighbors had made him wary about scraping acquaintances too hastily.
"Tum, 'ittle goggie!" persisted the prattling stranger, and, as if to
encourage Fido, the little boy stretched his chubby arms through the
fence and waved them entreatingly.
Fido was convinced now; so he got up, and with many cordial gestures of
his hospitable tail, trotted down the steps and over the lawn to the
corner of the fence where the little stranger was.
"Me love oo," said the little stranger, patting Fido's honest brown
back; "me love oo, 'ittle goggie."
Fido knew that, for there were caresses in every stroke of the dimpled
hands. Fido loved the little boy, too,--yes, all at once he loved the
little boy; and he licked the dimpled hands, and gave three short, quick
barks, and wagged his tail hysterically. So then and there began the
friendship of Fido and the little boy.
Presently Fido crawled under the fence into the next yard, and then the
little boy sat down on the grass, and Fido put his forepaws in the
little boy's lap and cocked up his ears and looked up into the little
boy's face, as much as to say, "We shall be great friends, shall we not,
little boy?"
"Me love oo," said the little boy; "me wan' to tiss oo, 'ittle goggie!"
And the little boy did kiss Fido,--yes, right on Fido's cold nose; and
Fido liked to have the little boy kiss him, for it reminded him of
another little boy who used to kiss him, but who was now so big that he
was almost ashamed to play with Fido any more.
"Is oo sit, 'ittle goggie?" asked the little boy, opening his blue eyes
to their utmost capacity and looking very piteous. "Oo nose be so told,
oo mus' be sit, 'ittle goggie!"
But no, Fido was not sick, even though his nose _was_ cold. Oh, no; he
romped and played all that morning in the cool, green grass with the
little boy; and the red-headed woodpecker, clinging to the bark on the
hickory-tree, laughed at their merry antics till her sides ached and her
beautiful head turned fairly livid. Then, at last, the little boy's
mamma came out of the house and told him he had played long enough; and
neither the red-headed woodpecker nor Fido saw him again that day.
But the next morning the little boy toddled down to the fence-corner,
bright and early, and called, "Goggie! goggie! goggie!" so loudly, that
Fido heard him in the wood-shed, where he was holding a morning chat
with Mrs. Tabby. Fido hastened to answer the call; the way he spun out
of the wood-shed and down the gravel walk and around the corner of the
house was a marvel.
"Mamma says oo dot f'eas, 'ittle goggie," said the little boy. "_Has_ oo
dot f'eas?"
Fido looked crestfallen, for could Fido have spoken he would have
confessed that he indeed _was_ afflicted with fleas,--not with very many
fleas, but just enough to interrupt his slumbers and his meditations at
the most inopportune moments. And the little boy's guileless impeachment
set Fido to feeling creepy-crawly all of a sudden, and without any
further ado Fido turned deftly in his tracks, twisted his head back
toward his tail, and by means of several well-directed bites and plunges
gave the malicious Bedouins thereabouts located timely warning to behave
themselves. The little boy thought this performance very funny, and he
laughed heartily. But Fido looked crestfallen.
Oh, what play and happiness they had that day; how the green grass
kissed their feet, and how the smell of clover came with the springtime
breezes from the meadow yonder! The red-headed woodpecker heard them at
play, and she clambered out of the hollow maple and dodged hither and
thither as if she, too, shared their merriment. Yes, and the yellow
thistle-bird, whose nest was in the blooming lilac-bush, came and
perched in the pear-tree and sang a little song about the dear little
eggs in her cunning home. And there was a flower in the fence-corner,--a
sweet, modest flower that no human eyes but the little boy's had ever
seen,--and she sang a little song, too, a song about the kind old mother
earth and the pretty sunbeams, the gentle rain and the droning bees.
Why, the little boy had never known anything half so beautiful, and
Fido,--he, too, was delighted beyond all telling. If the whole truth
must be told, Fido had such an exciting and bewildering romp that day
that when night came, and he lay asleep on the kitchen floor, he dreamed
he was tumbling in the green grass with the little boy, and he tossed
and barked and whined so in his sleep that the hired man had to get up
in the night and put him out of doors.
Down in the pasture at the end of the lane lived an old woodchuck. Last
year the freshet had driven him from his childhood's home in the
cornfield by the brook, and now he resided in a snug hole in the
pasture. During their rambles one day, Fido and his little boy friend
had come to the pasture, and found the old woodchuck sitting upright at
the entrance to his hole.
"Oh, I'm not going to hurt you, old Mr. Woodchuck," said Fido. "I have
too much respect for your gray hairs."
"Thank you," replied the woodchuck, sarcastically, "but I'm not afraid
of any bench-legged fyste that ever walked. It was only last week that I
whipped Deacon Skinner's yellow mastiff, and I calc'late I can trounce
you, you ridiculous little brown cur!"
The little boy did not hear this badinage. When he saw the woodchuck
solemnly perched at the entrance to his hole he was simply delighted.
"Oh, see!" cried the little boy, stretching out his fat arms and running
toward the woodchuck,--"oh, see,--nuzzer 'ittle goggie! Tum here, 'ittle
goggie,--me love oo!"
But the old woodchuck was a shy creature, and not knowing what guile the
little boy's cordial greeting might mask, the old woodchuck discreetly
disappeared in his hole, much to the little boy's amazement.
Nevertheless, the old woodchuck, the little boy, and Fido became fast
friends in time, and almost every day they visited together in the
pasture. The old woodchuck--hoary and scarred veteran that he was--had
wonderful stories to tell,--stories of marvellous adventures, of narrow
escapes, of battles with cruel dogs, and of thrilling experiences that
were altogether new to his wondering listeners. Meanwhile the red-headed
woodpecker's eggs in the hollow maple had hatched, and the proud mother
had great tales to tell of her baby birds,--of how beautiful and knowing
they were, and of what good, noble birds they were going to be when they
grew up. The yellow-bird, too, had four fuzzy little babies in her nest
in the lilac-bush, and every now and then she came to sing to the little
boy and Fido of her darlings. Then, when the little boy and Fido were
tired with play, they would sit in the rowen near the fence-corner and
hear the flower tell a story the dew had brought fresh from the stars
the night before. They all loved each other,--the little boy, Fido, the
old woodchuck, the red-headed woodpecker, the yellow-bird, and the
flower,--yes, all through the days of spring and all through the summer
time they loved each other in their own honest, sweet, simple way.
But one morning Fido sat on the front porch and wondered why the little
boy had not come to the fence-corner and called to him. The sun was
high, the men had been long gone to the harvest fields, and the heat of
the early autumn day had driven the birds to the thickest foliage of
the trees. Fido could not understand why the little boy did not come; he
felt, oh! so lonesome, and he yearned for the sound of a little voice
calling "Goggie, goggie, goggie."
The red-headed woodpecker could not explain it, nor could the
yellow-bird. Fido trotted leisurely down to the fence-corner and asked
the flower if she had seen the little boy that morning. But no, the
flower had not laid eyes on the little boy, and she could only shake her
head doubtfully when Fido asked her what it all meant. At last in
desperation Fido braced himself for an heroic solution of the mystery,
and as loudly as ever he could, he barked three times,--in the hope, you
know, that the little boy would hear his call and come. But the little
boy did not come.
Then Fido trotted sadly down the lane to the pasture to talk with the
old woodchuck about this strange thing. The old woodchuck saw him coming
and ambled out to meet him.
"But where is our little boy?" asked the old woodchuck.
"I do not know," said Fido. "I waited for him and called to him again
and again, but he never came."
Ah, those were sorry days for the little boy's friends, and sorriest for
Fido. Poor, honest Fido, how lonesome he was and how he moped about! How
each sudden sound, how each footfall, startled him! How he sat all those
days upon the front door-stoop, with his eyes fixed on the fence-corner
and his rough brown ears cocked up as if he expected each moment to see
two chubby arms stretched out toward him and to hear a baby voice
calling "Goggie, goggie, goggie."
Once only they saw him,--Fido, the flower, and the others. It was one
day when Fido had called louder than usual. They saw a little figure in
a night-dress come to an upper window and lean his arms out. They saw it
was the little boy, and, oh! how pale and ill he looked. But his yellow
hair was as glorious as ever, and the dimples came back with the smile
that lighted his thin little face when he saw Fido; and he leaned on the
window casement and waved his baby hands feebly, and cried: "Goggie!
goggie!" till Fido saw the little boy's mother come and take him from
the window.
One morning Fido came to the fence-corner--how very lonely that spot
seemed now--and he talked with the flower and the woodpecker; and the
yellow-bird came, too, and they all talked of the little boy. And at
that very moment the old woodchuck reared his hoary head by the hole in
the pasture, and he looked this way and that and wondered why the little
boy never came any more.
"Suppose," said Fido to the yellow-bird,--"suppose you fly to the window
way up there and see what the little boy is doing. Sing him one of your
pretty songs, and tell him we are lonesome without him; that we are
waiting for him in the old fence-corner."
Then the yellow-bird did as Fido asked,--she flew to the window where
they had once seen the little boy, and alighting upon the sill, she
peered into the room. In another moment she was back on the bush at
Fido's side.
"He is asleep," said the yellow-bird.
"Asleep!" cried Fido.
"Yes," said the yellow-bird, "he is fast asleep. I think he must be
dreaming a beautiful dream, for I could see a smile on his face, and his
little hands were folded on his bosom. There were flowers all about
him, and but for their sweet voices the chamber would have been very
still."