[Illustration: “_Lucretia Mott quietly took her place beside the
colored man._”--Page 145.]
QUAKER IDYLS
BY
SARAH M. H. GARDNER
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1894
COPYRIGHT, 1894,
BY
HENRY HOLT & CO.
THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
RAHWAY, N. J.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
TWELFTH STREET MEETING, 1
A QUAKER WEDDING, 17
TWO GENTLEWOMEN, 33
OUR LITTLE NEIGHBORS, 53
PAMELIA TEWKSBURY’S COURTSHIP, 65
SOME ANTE-BELLUM LETTERS FROM A QUAKER GIRL, 87
UNCLE JOSEPH, 159
MY GRANDAME’S SECRET, 175
_This little book is
affectionately dedicated to two
dear “Friends,”
E. W. P. and M. M. T._
QUAKER IDYLS.
TWELFTH STREET MEETING.
Are the summer mornings longer in Philadelphia than elsewhere, or is
it the admirable Quaker custom of breaking the fast at the usual hour
on Sunday that gives such delightful leisure before the calm walk to
meeting at half past ten?
Certain it is that the Sabbath of June 11 was no exception to the
general rule, and when John and Martha Wilson, with their daughter
Cassy, passed beyond the brick wall which separates the sanctuary
from the street, there were groups of Friends kindly inquiring after
the welfare of each other, and offering greeting to such as were
unaccustomed to the place.
John passed to the right, where he extended his hand to a
fellow-worshiper. Martha paused in the doorway to stroke the shining
curls of a pretty child, whose gentle mother had failed in her efforts
to subdue Dame Nature. And Cassy, sweet Cassy, who was no longer very
young, felt the color rise, and modestly dropped her eyes, as she
noticed the pleased observance of her entrance depicted on the face
of George Evans, already occupying a seat on the “men’s side” of the
meeting-house.
Several elderly Friends were in their place on the floor, and in
the gallery were those who held the positions of elders and accepted
ministers. Their hands were folded, and one or two of the men, who held
walking sticks, rested their hands on the rounded tops. But the faces
of all wore a far-away look, as if the present surroundings could never
disturb the sweet serenity of their souls.
Quietly the congregation gathered. There was not a large company.
But few wore the garb of the past generation. There was, among the
middle-aged, a disposition to grow a little plainer with increasing
years, but the soft felt hat was conspicuous in the room, and the stiff
bonnets were relieved by silk shirrs of brown or gray.
Cassy, this warm day, has assumed a gown of white stuff, the very
essence of simplicity; a straw bonnet of half modern date, destitute
of embellishment, unless the satin ties, reaching halfway to the
crown, and the blond pleating surrounding her face, could be called
trimming. The dress was closed at the throat by a small gold clasp,
which confined also the edges of the linen collar; drab, openwork mitts
covered her well-shaped hands--hands that were never weary with good
work, nor ever fearful of losing their beauty in the performance of the
daily toils that fell upon them.
As the house grew silent, and more silent, a gentle prayer went up from
her heart that she might keep her spirit undefiled, and when, after a
little, the stillness was broken by the voice of an aged man in the
upper seat, she raised her head and paid the strictest attention to
his opening words.
“Like as a father pitieth his children,” he began, his pale face
reflecting the purity of his aspirations, and the trembling voice,
growing in volume as he proceeded, until after a few moments it had
fallen into that peculiar cadence, a sort of half melancholy rising
and falling inflection, measured and monotonous, that afflicts the
unaccustomed ear, and so often in these holy assemblies destroys their
solemnity.
Philo Thomas was a trial to poor Cassy; she revered his patient life of
tribulation, she caught the reflection of the light which glowed within
his soul, but his outward manifestations were singularly unacceptable
to her; she wished that so good a man might feel called upon to keep
silence in public places, and yet she half rebuked herself for the
seeming disrespect.
Patiently she tried to keep pace with the thought that so slowly
fell from the sing-song utterance, but gradually she drifted into a
different channel. The glowing face of the man who had rejoiced at
her coming was rising before her. Educated, as she had been, to the
strictest truthfulness, she could not even seek to shut out from
herself the knowledge that she felt and enjoyed his satisfaction at
her presence there, nor, indeed, her own pleasure and comfort in this
state of affairs. Her heart beat a trifle faster than it ought, and the
blush burned again as she forgot the preacher and the company and only
remembered the one face across the narrow line which divided the women
from the men.
Suddenly the voice ceased, and the solemn silence smote her like a
sword.
“What have I done!” she cried out in spirit, “I have desecrated the
holy place. My thoughts are the thoughts of a worldling! Can I bear
through the week the recollection that I wasted my opportunity on the
first day? that any human being can have the power to turn me from my
path, can destroy my self-respect, can make me forget my Creator?”
“The Lord is in his holy temple, blessed be the name of the Lord,”
passed through her heart, and formed on her trembling lips. Hot tears
filled her eyes and fell unheeded on her handkerchief, tears of shame
and humiliation.
A faint rustle aroused her. In the gallery a slight pale woman arose,
untied the strings of her stiff bonnet, and laid it on the bench beside
her. Stepping forward until her hand rested on the rail in front, she
spoke softly, distinctly, and the happy change from the droning tones
of the earlier speaker riveted the attention of the wandering.
She spoke of the pure in heart; defining her terms, dwelling on the
growth of sin if permitted to linger, emphasizing the truth that we
must be ever on the alert to discern the shadow of transgression, until
poor Cassy--who had at once entered into the spirit of the sermon--poor
Cassy felt that this was being spoken directly to her.
Then as the sweet voice paused, a new measure filled it. She turned
from admonition to adoration, depicting the joy there is in heaven
over one sinner who returns from his ways, and as if carrying out
the thought of the aged man who had preceded her, and which he had
so sorely missed in his illustration, she urged the tenderness of
an earthly parent to an erring child, and the abounding love and
beneficence of our Heavenly Father.
“Dear children,” she cried, “do not fear to approach him. Open your
hearts! Search out the hidden places! Let the light stream in and your
sins shall be wiped away. Fear not man; that which it is impressed upon
you to reveal, dare not to keep secret.”
She resumed her seat and her bonnet, but the seed she had sown took
deep root in Cassy’s heart. All through the remaining hour she
revolved its teaching in her soul. It was clear the meaning for her was
a stronger and heartier purification of her thoughts. Not that George
Evans was an unholy object, nor that his affection was to be despised,
but that the meeting-house was not the place for human admiration. And
oh! what did these words mean, “Not to keep silent?” Was she bidden to
unfold this page to George, to tell him that the lesson was for him
also?
What pain it cost her to dream of such a task! yet was not this one of
those hidden places that should be flooded with light? What if he did
deem _her_ unwomanly who could speak on such a matter without having
been spoken to? Were not the commands of the Lord to be preferred to
any earthly comfort? She should perhaps lose her lover--see herself
dethroned, for never a word had he vouchsafed her but of the plainest
courtesy, but she should gain the respect of her own conscience. The
fires that purify, also blister and burn. How could she refuse? Perhaps
George Evans’ soul was in peril too, for well she knew that upon his
ear had fallen unheeded the words of the first preacher.
Solemnly the two men friends at the head of the gallery clasped hands,
and immediately a little hum of neighborly inquiry went round.
Cassy dreaded to move. She felt, rather than saw, her lover waiting for
her outside the door, and silently asking help in her time of trouble,
she walked down the aisle. She did not omit any of the customary
greetings; she promised to meet with the sewing committee the next
day, to carry jelly to an aged friend, and turned and shook the hand
which George Evans held out to her.
There was nothing strange that he walked beside her down Arch Street,
but he gave her little opportunity to open her heart. They had passed
but a short distance when he broke the silence by saying:
“Cassy, does thee know I almost felt that Mary Elwood’s sermon was
intended for me? And perhaps for thee, too. I have thought for some
time that the Lord had designed thy path and mine to run side by side.
Thee knows that this morning was the first opportunity I have had
to attend meeting for several weeks, but when I saw thy face it was
so pleasant to me that I fell into a worldly train of thought--how
I might tell thee of my great hope, that thee would respond to my
affection for thee. Mary Elwood’s voice broke my reverie, and showed
me where my way led. I resolved then to speak to thee at once, for
something in thy look betrayed thy feeling, and I feared I had led thee
into evil; that my glance, as I entered meeting, had possessed the
power of withdrawing thy meditation from the Lord, and the voice of his
servant warned me to repent, and hesitate not to reveal to thee the
source of my inquietude.”
Gravely she laid her hand upon his arm, and with but one shy upward
glance at his earnest face, she said solemnly:
“Blessed be the name of the Lord. This lesson was also revealed unto
me. Had thee not felt called upon to warn me against such temptation,
I should have dwelt upon it to thee at the first opportunity, but our
Heavenly Father hath spared me the trial.”
A QUAKER WEDDING.
A renowned foreigner characterized Philadelphia as a “city of
magnificent sameness.” Possibly this is true of the older portions of
the town, and surely there is little in the exterior of the compactly
built houses on upper Arch Street to distinguish the dwelling of the
Twelfth Street Friend from that of a more worldly citizen.
On a certain morning in October, the same atmosphere of seclusion
surrounded the whole block between Sixteenth and Seventeenth streets.
No possible hint came forth from No. -- that within its red brick
walls, outlined with the cold precision of white marble sills and
doorsteps and guarded by heavy shutters, there was about to be
consummated a tender little drama. The narrow door, with its painted
icy glare and glistening knob, opened at short intervals to admit tall
figures in long coats, cut with straight collars, and beaver hats in
gray or black, whose broad brims shadowed smooth-shaven, manly faces.
Trim little maidens too, and their quaint feminine relatives, waited
demurely on the spotless step, for the opening touch of a dark-skinned
hand within.
It rarely happened that a newcomer entered without a pleasant greeting
to the elderly colored woman: “How is thee to-day, Hannah?” or, “I
am glad to find thee has conquered thy rheumatism”; which brought a
low-voiced answer: “Thank thee; will thee go up to the second story,
or can I send thy bonnet?” This to the elder women, while the sweet
young damsels, in a happy subdued flutter, have turned to the guest
chamber to smooth their silken raiment, or possibly to venture so far
toward personal adornment as the fastening of a few white buds over
the dainty corsage. There was a little murmur of soft voices: the
expression of joy that Cassy and George had been blessed with such a
beautiful wedding day; the hope that Mary Anna Landers would be able to
reach there in time for the ceremony. “She always speaks so acceptably
to the young.” One told of a certain aged Friend in deep affliction
and the message that she bore from the dying bed to the gentle bride
whose helpful hands had so often soothed the pain away. And thus, in
groups, the guests descended to the parlor, the straight long room
where a strong light from tall windows in front and rear was modified
by means of drab Venetian blinds. Between these windows hung, on one
hand, a modest engraving of William Penn, and upon the opposite wall
that of Elizabeth Fry. Both were framed in dark-colored wood, and the
benign expression of the gifted man, and the wealth of dignity in
the face of the celebrated philanthropist charmed in spite of their
austere surroundings. Upon a marble mantel, under a glass shade,
rested a clock, as white and cold as the slab beneath; a small basket
of delicate ferns, as if half ashamed of their vivid green, retired
behind the solemn mouth of a tall undecorated silver candlestick. The
room was well-nigh filled with chairs placed in regular order, and
two hair-cloth sofas whose broad seats accommodated the elders of the
meeting. Directly below the picture of the venerable Penn were the
places designed for George and Cassy, straight-backed old oaken chairs,
that would be a delight to the antiquarian of to-day, and near the
right wall stood a small table upon which rested a roll of parchment, a
pen, and a substantial ink-well.
One of the windows was open, and the fresh sweet air came in laden with
the noises of the street: the rumble of the carts, the click of hoofs
upon the sharp stone pavements, the distant cries of venders, and the
whistle of the locomotive. The light breeze stirred the cap borders
and the kerchiefs of the placid women, who lifted their soft hands to
rearrange the muslin with the same instinct that prompts the care of
curl and ornament in their fashionable sisters. The parchment fluttered
to the ground, and in replacing it there was exposed to view a page of
exquisite penmanship, the great letters in ornate Old English hardly
belonging to Quaker simplicity.
Meanwhile in the sitting room at the head of the first flight of stairs
there was a sweet picture. This apartment was so entirely an emanation
from the home life that the stiffness and coldness of the lower room
was totally lacking. The very loud tick of the old-fashioned mahogany
clock that stood in the corner had a sound of cheer. The little wood
fire on the hearth gave out a welcome, and the half dozen rockers and
lounging chairs in gray and brown dress held open arms. A big Maltese
cat crouched by the rug, a few pencil sketches from the hand of a
favorite nephew graced the wall, and a heavy bookcase gave evidence
thro’ its glass door, of much substantial learning. There was a cluster
of periodicals on a stand, the clear title of “The Friend” recalling
their import; a stereo-scope with a tray of views, a basket of knitting
work, and, hanging on the back of a peculiar easy-chair, the round
pillow that betokens snatches of rest.
Cassy was standing by the east window. The broad beams of the morning
sun were growing more direct, and fell with force over her delicate
form. Her gown of silver gray enveloped her like mist, and chastened
the rising color. As she turned toward the advancing figure of the
bridegroom, her eyes suffused with tears. She held forth her hands and
said tremblingly, “Dear George, how earnestly I pray that our Heavenly
Father may ever guide me so that I walk aright, and fulfill toward
thee all the requirements of this holy relation.” Tenderly he kissed
her as he replied, “My soul is assured that thee never would have
been drawn so close to me were it not the will of the Divine Master:”
and presently when John and Martha entered they pressed the daughter
to their hearts and breathed upon the stalwart young man a blessing,
so full of emotion that the patience of awaiting Friends was quite
forgotten. Then the tall monitor on the corner, that had marked the
hour of Cassy’s birth, gave warning of another epoch in her life.
The company was seated as the little party entered the parlor. George
and Cassy advanced to the chairs assigned them, John and Martha next
their daughter, and the parents of George occupied a similar position
on the other side. There were a few minutes of absolute silence, then
the younger pair arose, joined hands, and in a clear unbroken voice the
bridegroom spoke these words:
“In the presence of the Lord and this assembly, I, George Evans take
Cassy Wilson to be my wife, promising with Divine assistance to be
unto her a faithful and loving husband until death shall separate us;”
and after an instant’s pause, the bride, with a far-away look in her
sweet eyes, calmly repeated the same tender promise. Then they sat
down again, and presently a white-haired man, with so great revelation
of power in his face that it might almost have been called conscious
strength, appeared in supplication before the throne of grace. He
asked that the twain now made one might become nearer and dearer to
each other as time went on, and that in fulfillment of the claims of
the spirit, they might ever be ready to respond to the call of the
Bridegroom who cometh while it is yet night. For some moments after
the prayer had ended the company remained with bowed heads, and the
stillness was but gently broken by the movement of another honored
Friend, who came forward as a member of the committee appointed by the
monthly meeting, to be present at the marriage and report that all
proceedings had taken place in strict accordance with the rules of the
society. He now read aloud the certificate, heretofore lying on the
table, testifying to such regularity, and advancing to the bridal pair
requested them to affix their signatures. The pen was then passed to
the parents, and as each person present gave hands to the happy George
and Cassy, the same favor was extended. During the conclusion of this
ceremony, Cassy’s color had brightened with the congratulations and
gentle admonitions of these so dear to her, and before it was finished
the little buzz of friendly interest had wreathed the placid face in
smiles, and dried the tears that were almost too ready to start to the
eyes of the tender mother. No one was forgotten; even the faithful
Hannah and the Cassius of long service added their irregular strokes
to the certificate, and Cassy caught up on her arm the three-year-old
guest, and guided his playful fingers over the smooth page.
There was a quiet intimation that a collation was spread in an
adjoining apartment, and the thrifty folk, who scorn the embellishments
but not the substantials of life, did ample justice to the bounteous
repast, daintily served from the finest of linen, the clearest of
glasses, and the frailest of china. There was no spoken word of
thanksgiving, only a pause wherein their hearts might acknowledge the
mercies of the Giver of all Good. There was no haste, no indecorous
indulgence in the temptations of the table, but a cheerful, happy
tone pervaded the company who regarded marriage not as the absorption
of one life by another, but as a true union of strong souls for the
furtherance of God’s holy purpose.
As each guest departed, he or she was freighted with a package of
wedding cake for some friend or servant: “Maria, will thee kindly give
this to Eldridge Percy? We all feel to regret his absence, and trust
that he may be spared to meet with us once again.” “Philip, thee knows
how dear our Cassy was to Hagar the summer we spent at your home: thee
will not mind carrying her a bit of cake?”
And when at length the hour of parting came, there was no long line of
merrymakers to hurl slippers and showers of rice after the retreating
carriage, but there were last words spoken that dwelt in the hearts of
the earnest young husband and wife, and the injunction of the father
was a simple admonition to “search ever for the light that is revealed
in the soul”; and the loving children heard his brave voice reply to
the neighbor that regretted the distance that must henceforth separate
them: “I can safely trust my son and daughter in the hands of the Lord,
wheresoever he may lead them.”
TWO GENTLEWOMEN.
The square brick house with many windows, in the little village of
W., was called the “Mountain Place,” both from the name of one of its
occupants, and also from its situation, which was the most conspicuous
point in town.
The owner was a rich manufacturer, who had for many years placed it at
the disposal of his two widowed sisters less prosperous, financially,
than himself.
Mrs. Letitia Mountain’s family lived on the lower floor in a commodious
suite of “apartments,” hardly known as such in that day, when any
respectable person was supposed to occupy, or furnish, an entire
dwelling, but the idiosyncracy was in this case excused on ground of a
peculiar attachment existing between the sisters.
The double parlors, with high ceiling and heavy folding doors, were
forever resplendent in white china paint and velvet paper, and the
visitor felt almost obliged to observe the extreme complexity of
the figure on the carpet, evidently designed for homes of heroic
proportions.
The upper rooms were far less imposing, and thus better suited to the
smaller purse and household of the elder sister, Mrs. Honora Plum.
This poor lady endured much from the companionship of a stepdaughter,
ill-tempered and idle, and reflecting the blaze of an ancient
escutcheon stained by vice, for Mrs. Plum had married the younger son
of a titled English gentleman.
Nothing of the regret from which she must have suffered ever passed her
lips, and her patient smile sweetened the loaf which she so generously
shared with the woman whose only claim was the name she bore.
Mrs. Mountain’s past, on the contrary, was delightful to contemplate. A
happy marriage in early life shed a halo over even the long illness and
death of a beloved husband; but neither this break in the tide of joy,
nor the sorrows of Honora, ever darkened the light of true sister love
that doubled their present portion of helpfulness and cheer.
Both ladies were short and dark, with large brown eyes which never lost
their sparkle, and well-formed lips that kept a rosy color into late
years.
Fashion forever stamps some part of Nature’s work as reprehensible,
and at the period of which I write, the gray locks that represent
intensity of feeling as often as age were considered unfit to be seen
by the world. So the heavy silken bands that graced the brows of both
sisters were closely covered with beribboned caps, and bordered with
“false fronts” of dusky hair, coiled on each side over two small combs,
forming stiff and ungainly puffs that did not seem to belong to the
little women, but to which they were so much attached that one never
admitted the other to her chamber until the structure was erected, or a
huge nightcap entirely concealed the absence of it.
Far more suitable would have been the simplicity of the Friend’s
costume, which bore a wondrous charm for them, as the dress of their
beloved mother. But the sisters had wandered from the fold, each
had married “out of meeting” and thereby forfeited her birthright
membership; and having renounced the worship of their fathers, they
also felt it incumbent to robe themselves somewhat according to the
fashion of the world’s people, but the “Stranger” air which marked
their devotions before a “hireling ministry” also clung to their
garments.
It was a little pitiful, this estrangement from their early religious
associations, and perchance it might have been their greatest pleasure
to return to the fold when the days of their widowhood came, but the
meeting was held in a remote district of the township, and neither
of the sisters was robust. For this reason they made a church home in
the nearest house of worship, and carried thither so much of their
elementary religion as wrought daily miracles of love and patience.
They were charitable to a degree almost beyond praise, and the fine
bearing, the impressive presence of the little pair, could have come
from nothing else than a realization of noble attributes.
The annals of New York indeed would be incomplete without mention of
the exceeding service rendered the State in time of need by a rich
Quaker, who steadfastly refused any public recognition, but whose death
was everywhere heralded as that of a man combining in his character
modesty and rare worth.
Perhaps it was the consciousness of being heir to these virtues that
led Honora into a false conception of the inheritance of her husband,
but the painful knowledge of her error never lessened her understanding
of the motto “Noblesse oblige.”
Everybody forgave the sisters their touch of pride since both its
source and outcome were of such purity, but it was almost pathetic to
hear their personal disavowal of merit, attributing all things of worth
in their admirable womanhood to their ancestry, and when, in the days
of her children’s youth, Mrs. Mountain found it necessary to chastise
them, the rod was considered far less severe than a reminder that
through misdemeanor they were sullying the family record.
It was a matter of deep regret to both Honora and Letitia that they
had no sons. The former was childless, and the latter had buried her
boys in infancy, but it was a consolation that the marriage of their
brother, late in life, had resulted in securing a continuance of the
honored line.
Hospitality was one of the inherited virtues. The fruit cake jar
was never allowed to become empty, and on such holidays as were not
bespoken by their brother, their separate tables were surrounded by the
impecunious old and young of their acquaintance.
So long as Mrs. Mountain’s daughters remained unmarried there was an
abundance of merrymaking, but after they had gone to homes of their own
this youthful element was greatly missed. Mrs. Plum’s stepdaughter was
too grim to be social, and gradually the lives of the sisters fell
into a routine.
Certain days in the month were devoted to family visits. The rector
was entertained by them alternately, at stated periods, and once
every fortnight they dressed themselves in stiff silks and real
laces, and went through the formality of returning calls. No doubt
the conversation was as little varied as the wardrobe, yet it was a
pleasing duty, faithfully performed.
They had been educated like the majority of well-to-do women of
that period, but this was far from developing a love of study--that
progressive intelligence which furnishes the ladies of the present with
unfailing entertainment.
Nothing, therefore, was a greater satisfaction to them than the daily
visits of an old and respected colonel, living on a large farm just
beyond the border of the town.
He rode to the post office every morning on a white horse, quite as
stiff in his joints as his master, and it was one of the duties of the
postman to respond to the timely cough of the colonel by carrying out
the scanty mail, if such there chanced to be. The soldierly salutation
repaid him a hundred-fold for this small attention, while the colonel
turned his horse toward Mountain Place.
He was so prompt in all his proceedings that the servant prepared
herself, at ten o’clock, to answer the summons of the enormous brass
knocker, and with as much dignity as if he had come with a message of
state, the ruddy man inquired for “the ladies.” Then, as he entered the
hall, he graciously relieved any embarrassment by mentioning “Mrs.
Mountain’s parlor, if you please,” or “Mrs. Plum’s drawing room,”
alternating day by day. Immediately the lady presiding arose and
greeted him as though he was recently returned from a foreign mission,
and in the next breath spoke to the servant, who had long ago learned
to await this direction: “Ask Mrs. Plum if it will be convenient to
come down, Colonel Gray is here,” or “My compliments to Mrs. Mountain.”
The newcomer then formally welcomed the second sister, carefully asked
after her health, and conversation became general.
An hour, sometimes two, the colonel’s horse stood in the wind and
weather awaiting his agreeable master, but if, as rarely happened, the
latter limit was transgressed, a loud neighing brought the gentleman
to his feet. “Ladies, I have had a most entertaining morning; duty
alone calls me from your side. Allow me to wish you good-day.”
In the afternoon as the sisters sat by the front window knitting socks
for the poor, or daintily stitching some fine muslin for a baby’s
outfit, they discussed the Colonel’s visit.
“Letitia, I am sorry brother does not like the Colonel.”
They never disagreed, and from a constant desire to emphasize, each the
opinion of the other, there had grown a habit of repetition.
“Yes, Honora, I wish brother did incline toward the Colonel.”
“I cannot understand his objection. Colonel Grey is a gentleman, and
an excellent provider.”
This term embraced a multitude of small virtues, chiefly that of
generosity toward his immediate family, and to Mrs. Mountain and Mrs.
Plum, the man who failed in this respect had better not be alluded to.
It was a little strange that they knew the Colonel’s household habits,
for he lived alone with an aged housekeeper and her husband, and it was
only at long intervals that he opened his doors to his friends, albeit
he was justly proud of the frequent honor he enjoyed of “drinking a
dish of tea” at the Mountain Place, and on these occasions he never
forgot to be strictly impartial in his attentions, and addressed his
conversation first to one, then to the other of the sisters.
Like the entire village population, he was well aware that to these
ladies everyone looked for advice, and indeed for intelligent nursing.
So frequent were the midnight calls for services that one of the
servant’s regular duties was the disposition at nightfall of their
hoods, cloaks, and lantern conveniently near the front door.
A reference to this formed a staple joke between the friends, and
Letitia frequently asserted (and it was repeated by Honora) that in
case of illness at “Moss Farm,” they would consider themselves engaged.
Perhaps the good Colonel had more than a jest at heart when he referred
to the matter, for the ills of life come surely in train of age, and
the summons reached Mountain Place on an early morning of September. It
was a shock to the ladies, this forerunner of a parting from one who
had been so stanch a friend, and so inconsiderate a visitor, as their
brother insisted.
Just as the carryall came in sight of the Colonel’s homestead, the
first twitter of awakening birds brought a new sense of life and
activity into the world. The dark forest behind the house sent forth a
thousand notes of welcome to the day, and the clear spring, where the
old horse turned to drink, added its gentle murmur.
Mrs. Mountain was touched, her eyes moistened.
“Alas!” she said, noting the movement of the old gray, “the world never
stops for any of us. The birds sing, the horse wants to drink, the
sunlight flashes over the farm, just as if the good man that has lived
so long to lighten the cares of others, was not passing away.”
“Passing away! Yes, passing away,” and the solemn voice of her sister,
seemed like an echo from the hills.
It was the usual trouble, a shock of paralysis, and the faithful doctor
gave little encouragement, yet he thought it possible the Colonel’s
speech might become clear again, and when the stupor that enthralled
the poor man had passed, the pale eye wandered about the room. Words
were unnecessary, the watchers understood that he wanted a hand laid
in his own, and Letitia gently slid her soft palm beneath the chilled
fingers. Honora as promptly took her place at the other side, stroking
the withered arm that lay motionless upon the bed.
The doctor opened the window, and as the delicious breath of the pines
crept in, the sick man stirred. He moved his head restlessly. But
when Mrs. Mountain would have left her place to rearrange his pillows,
suddenly his tongue loosed and he spoke, feebly indeed, and with an
effort, but the words fell distinctly upon the listeners.
“Years ago, I wanted--I intended she should be my wife if----” He
stopped. Presently he gave evidence that the same thought was still in
his mind.
“Yes,” he murmured, “but I love her just as well.”
The doctor moistened the dry lips, and the sisters both moved as if to
assist, but one lifeless hand pressed heavily, and the poor member with
a little vitality motioned Mrs. Mountain not to stir.
So they remained, while hour after hour went by.
The noonday was upon them when again the old face brightened and the
quavering voice said slowly:
“Yes, yes, I love her just as well.”
The silence that followed was not broken again, and soon the faithful
sisters spread the white sheet over the dear dead.
That night, as they sat together in Mrs. Mountain’s stately parlor,
Honora said with a sigh:
“Perhaps, Letitia, it is just as well the Colonel never spoke to you
about marriage. His family was not so good as our own, but I thought it
strange he could see you so often and not love you.”
And Letitia startled Mrs. Plum by contradicting her.
“Child alive, Honora! I always knew the Colonel loved the ground you
trod on.”
OUR LITTLE NEIGHBORS.
A first of April story.
Jerry came in one spring morning wearing a very triumphant air. He
caught the baby from the floor and tossed him as he said:
“Well, Kittie, I have taken the house.”
“Have you, dear? Now do just tell me all about it. Is it ‘The Cottage
by the Sea’ or a ‘cobble-stone front’ at Riverdale? Have you plenty
of neighbors, and a garden spot, and what rent? Pray don’t keep me in
suspense!”
An amused smile passed over his face as he seated himself.
“Let me see, question No. 1. Is it the ‘Cottage by the Sea?’ Yes, if
you choose, for the ocean is only three miles away; just a lovely drive
or even walk through delicious pine wood. A ‘cobble-stone front?’ No,
thank you. A small plain wooden box, of a dull gray color, well suited
to its neighbors, for there is quite a community of Quakers in the
vicinity. Neighbors near? Yes, decidedly, as our share is only half
the box, after all. It was built for a summer home for two brothers,
the Allens, next door to us, you know. Caleb cannot leave town this
year, so we can occupy his quarters. Garden spot? Oh, yes; abundantly
large, but all in one inclosure. The house is regularly divided, but
the grounds are not. Don’t look worried, little wife; you and I and the
baby are not likely to be troublesome, and I am sure Joseph Allen’s
staid household will behave itself.”
And so on the “First of April” we moved. My costume was considerably
demoralized when we reached our summer home. The baby had quite
destroyed all the beauty my hat ever had, and my small nephew, who had
insisted upon going to visit us the first day, was so timid in crossing
the river that he clung to my draperies with too much fervor, and I
presume that I was an object of pity to the few ladies in the cabin.
Certain it is that I felt decidedly shabby, tired, and perhaps a trifle
out of humor as I entered the cottage door and dropped my heavy boy
on the clean, but carpetless floor. Bridget soon made her appearance
with a list of the casualties, and as Jerry had not yet arrived, I was
growing very gloomy when a light tap at the side entrance caused me to
spring to my feet.
What a picture of simplicity and purity stood before me! I blushed at
the contrast which my disordered finery presented! Here on my doorstep
were two little wrens (I could call them nothing else, although they
were certainly girls), one just a trifle taller and larger than the
other; both with soft pink cheeks and brown hair cut close on the neck
and parted smoothly and evenly, without a suggestion of crimp or curl.
Their dresses were of a drab color, just visible below long white
aprons, on which there was not even a superfluous button! Their linen
sunbonnets boasted of no ruffles, and the colored stockings, which
peeped from beneath their rather long dresses, were of the same shade.
Little gray birds, with just such shy little ways!
The elder one looked up timidly and held toward me a basket, saying:
“Mother sent thee this lunch.”
“And don’t forget, Sallie,” whispered the younger, “don’t forget about
the baby.”
“Thee can ask that, Debby.”
The only worldly looking feature between them was Debby’s blue eyes,
and they sparkled and ran riot in spite of her, but her mouth was very
serious as she asked:
“Would it not relieve thee if Sally and I were to ’tend the baby?” then
glancing at my company, “the children, I mean, while thee lies down on
mother’s bed.”
My eyes filled with tears at the thoughtfulness of these strangers. I
had never known anything about “Quakers” before.
The baby was ready enough to exchange Bridget’s charms for the dainty
little ladies’, and I clasped each of his small hands in Debby’s, but
instantly she transferred one-half her treasure to sister Sally, who
turned demurely, and said:
“Thank thee. We will watch over him, and presently, if thee thinks
best, I can give him some milk.”
They had not quite reached the garden when Johnny burst forth. In great
wrath he was indeed.
“Do they fink I am a baby!” he roared out. “Get my cap, I want to go on
the boat again!”
“On the boat, Johnny!”
He colored, and remembering his terror, revenged himself upon me by
saying:
“I s’pose the reason they calls me chillen is ’cause they’s such ole
womans demselves;” and having flung his parting shot he walked off with
great dignity.
A moment later he was lunching superbly from cold chicken and apple
tart out of the “’ole womans’” basket! Such is mortal man!
Although I felt inclined to decline my little neighbor’s invitation
to “lie down on mother’s bed,” it was a great help to me to have the
baby so well cared for, and Bridget’s stout arms ready to stretch and
nail carpets. Down they went rapidly, and was it the fresh breeze from
the ocean, wafted through the pine trees, or was it the glass of rich
Jersey milk that toned me up to such a cheery condition that, when
Jerry’s step sounded on the gravel, I rushed to meet him, singing
“Home, Sweet Home”?
The good man was delighted with my progress, and especially with my
report of the lovely little neighbors, which I lingered over.
“And where are they now, Kittie?”
“Let us go quietly out to the garden and see, for I am sure I do not
intend to impose on good nature by giving over baby entirely to them.”
The tall drooping willow tree in the grass plot sheltered a lovely
group. Baby mine, sound asleep in the big clothes basket, was snugly
tucked up and protected by the little ladies, attended by that fickle
youth, Master Johnny. His squeaky voice was plainly heard explaining
the mysteries of Cat’s Cradle and Wood Sawyer. But in a moment more he
called wildly:
“Ain’t that a big snake on the baby?” His companions sprang forward
hurriedly, but the vicious boy only replied, “April Fool.” The two
girls hung their heads and colored. I held my breath. I could not
believe they did not understand the joke. It was only an instant, and
then Sally, laying her soft hand on stupid little Johnny’s head, said
in the silvery voice, so low and clear:
“Dear, could thee not just as well say ‘Fourth Month Dunce’?”
PAMELIA TEWKSBURY’S COURTSHIP.
In a certain section of Central New York the contour of the hills forms
a remarkable resemblance to a huge _pitcher_, and by this name the
region has long been known.
A few years since my husband and I, with a young son, took a delightful
outing through that locality. Having our own horses and carriage,
we made a very leisurely journey, aiming always for a comfortable
resting place at night, and bearing away with us each morning a hamper
containing luncheon for ourselves and a bag of oats for the ponies.
Thus equipped, we traversed the distance to our next lodging according
to our daily whim; picnicking at noon, in true gypsy fashion, beneath
some pine trees, or beside a rippling stream; turning from coffee and
sandwiches to a delicious course of “Humorous Sketches,” or a siesta
upon pine boughs.
Many comical adventures had we. It was difficult to convince the
country people, who often stopped to chat with us, that this was
recreation. They invariably demanded a legitimate reason for such
unusual proceedings, and more than one inquiring visitor searched the
light vehicle for some wares that he had “made sure” we were peddling.
Genuine offers of hospitality were not wanting, and many a pedestrian
found a seat in the comfortable little carriage.
It so happened one morning that my husband was somewhat bewildered by
the conjunction of several roads, and seeing in advance of us a sturdy
figure moving forward at a good pace we hurried to overtake it. At the
sound of approaching wheels, and the words “My friend, can thee tell me
just where _Pitcher_ lies?” a genial countenance was turned toward us.
“Wal, I reckon, this here,” indicating the abrupt hills just before us,
“is the handle. What part be ye looking fer?”
He had a ruddy face, very grizzly as to beard, and when he removed
his weather-worn hat his smooth, bald crown, with a fringe of white
curls, seemed an unfit accompaniment for the twinkling eyes of deep
blue--such eyes as one sometimes sees in babies, wholly undimmed by
care or tears.
“Why, I really don’t know,” laughed my husband; “I was directed to
Hosmer’s Inn.”
“Oh, ho! that’s atwixt the nose and the swell. Now ye are smiling, and
well ye may; but just step out here and ye can see that God A’mighty
shaped a perfecter pitcher out of them hills than most men can turn on
a wheel--no, ye can’t drive nigh to this stump, and that’s whar yer
woman wants to stand.”
He helped us all to alight, gave me his hand as I climbed to the top of
the stump, and pointed with his thumb to a rise of ground far in the
rear.
“That thar’s the rim, being what the pitcher ought to rest on if the
Lord had sot it on end.” There was no possible irreverence in his
tone. “Hereabouts,” a rolling section nearer us, “is the swell. Just
across Bub’s left shoulder lies the nose, and here right for’ard is the
beginning of the handle. Foller it--see it curves jest so.”
It was very plain, and we all expressed our complete understanding of
the “lay of the land.”
“There is jest four p’ints where you can see the whole figger to onct.
Here, by this hick’ry stump; yander, north of the nose; south of them
pines ye see, and kinder back of the rim. Them’s all, but it’s worth a
journey--and I take it ye are travelers--to see how darned perfect the
thing is. Looked to right, it couldn’t be beat; and I reckon, somehow,
it’s about so with the most of God A’mighty’s doin’s--ef we look to
’em _right_ they’re about perfect, that’s all there is of it.”
My husband thanked the old man cordially and invited him to ride with
us if his route lay that way.
“Wal, now, I don’t care ef I do, squire. Ye hev the speech of the
Quakers and them’s mighty good folk, and it haint often nowadays that
I get behind two such spankin’ roans as them be. Nor,” as he clambered
into the front seat, “nor nigh so sensible a looking woman--yer wife,
maybe?”
“Yes; this is my wife and son.”
“It’s a darned good thing to hev yer wife with ye, along in life. I
haint never had one yit,” he added evasively.
We all smiled, but the old man didn’t notice it. My husband spoke of
the crops, of the fine air and good water. Our visitor answered in
monosyllables. At last, pointing to a white gleam in the distance, he
said, almost gleefully:
“Now, thar’s a woman livin’ in that house, that I cal’late to call my
wife one o’ these days; but time an’t come yet.”
“How so?” asked I, rather hastily, I fear, for I scented a romance.
“Wal, it’s a long story, but ef ye an’t amiss I’d jest as lief tell it.
We’re mor’n six miles from Hosmer’s.” And with this little introduction
the story proceeded.
“It was in 1846 that I first come to the nose. Our farm lay afar off to
the rim--a little mite further. But our deestric wa’n’t a-goin’ to keep
no school that winter; so I up and asked father ef I dassent go off
somewheres and get a job o’ chores fer my board, and so git one more
term of schoolin’. He hadn’t no objections, and kinder thought it over,
and spoke about Deacon Hinman at the nose being laid up with _teesick_
and reckoned how he might want me. So I packed my big red han’kercher
full o’ traps and socks and shirts, and away I come. I can see myself
now a-bobbin’ up and down this very lane. It wa’n’t worked by team
then, and it was full o’ yaller-rod and spikenet, for it had been an
awful pretty fall. So I, like a boy--and I love to pick ’em yit--hung
a posy bed around my neck, and clean forgot it when I knocked at the
deacon’s side door. And what do ye think? The durndest prettiest gal up
and opened it. I never was so took back. I allers knowed Deacon Hinman
hadn’t no darters; and there she stood and me a-meachin’, till all at
once she said:
“‘A-peddlin’ posies?’
“Then my feelin’ came back, and I answered her quick: ‘Do you like ’em?’
“And she took ’em, and was a-turnin’ away as red as a piny herself when
I recollected the deacon’s teesick. So I stepped in the room and sot
down on the settee, and says I: ‘How’s the deacon?’
“‘He’s abed,’ says she.
“‘Got a man around?’
“‘Ef we haint it’s none o’ your business. I’m man enough to tell ye
that, and if ye haint got nothin’ better to do than to sass folks and
string posies ’round yer neck, I’d thank ye to git up and go.’
“I do not know as I ever heard Pamely Tewksbury say so much to onct in
all my days since, fer she a’nt no talker; but, land’s sake, didn’t
she skeer me, and didn’t she look purty! I kinder shook all over, so I
scarce got tongue to tell her who I was and what fetched me. She was
ashamed enough then; I see it in her eyes, but she didn’t never tell
me. No, sir. That a’nt her way.
“The deacon’s wife came in jest then, half a-cryin’, for the cow had
kicked her, and it didn’t take long afore we struck a bargain, and
in the evenin’s she told me all about the deacon’s teesick and her
rheumatiz; but the only thing I could remember was that the gal was the
deacon’s niece come to live with them, and her name was Pamely.
“My! how that winter flew by. I don’t reckon I l’arned a great deal
to school, but I knew jest how many sticks of wood het the stove up
right to bake, and how to plan to git time fer the churning Saturdays,
and to turn out the wash-water Monday nights fer a gal who never said
tire--but I couldn’t a-bear to see them little arms a-liftin’ so.
“Summer time come, and the deacon wa’n’t no better, and father said
how I’d better stay and hire out for hayin’. I was a powerful worker
then--I can mow my swath pretty reg’lar now--and I was a powerful big
eater, too; but there wa’n’t no lack of vittles. The deacon was allers
a good provider, and Pamely was a rare cook.”
Here he paused, and turning toward the white speck, now grown into a
distinct homestead, he said gravely:
“Ef ye was to put up there this very day, and no one a-knowin’ of yer
comin’, _she’d_ set ye afore as good a meal at an hour’s notice as
ever Hosmer sot for two dollars and a half a day.” Then the story went
on.
“At first I used to talk to Pamely some, but after a while every time I
tried to speak somethin’ crammed in my throat, and it got to be so that
I dassent try to talk. Evenin’s I jest sot and whittled mush-sticks
out of white pine, till she bu’st out one night, and says she: “S’pose
you think I’m goin’ to spile my mush every time with a new tastin’
stirrer.” And she laughed till she had to go out the room; but what did
I care ef she used them stirrers fer kindlin’? I’d had my luck lookin’
at her fingers fly a-sewin’ or a-knittin’, and I’ve got a pair of
double blue and white streaked mittens now that she made that winter.
It went along so fer ’bout three year and more. I don’t think I keered
much fer time. I jest wanted to be a-earnin’, winter and summer, and
that was what it had come to, fer the deacon didn’t git much better,
and the wimmen folks couldn’t git along without me very well. They do
say now I’m dreffle handy; and so long’s Pamely set store by me, I was
all right. I declare to goodness, I clean forgot there was another
young man in Pitcher but me! But I had to wake up to it, arter all, and
I’ve wished a thousand times I had waked up sooner.