MY BOYHOOD ON A FARM
1833-1843
The old house where I spent these years of my childhood and boyhood is
now more than two hundred years old. It was the home of the old
Methodists in that section, and had been the headquarters of the sect
for a hundred years before it began to have regular "conferences." Here
lived the slave-owner Pickering, who married my grandmother, the
farmer's daughter. If it had not been for this home, which was a refuge
and asylum for the itinerant preacher, grandfather Pickering would have
starved. The farm was his anchorage. Otherwise he would have gone
adrift.
A religious atmosphere pervaded the place. It left the deepest impress
upon my mind. The only paper we took was Zion's Herald, a religious
weekly published by Stevens, of Boston. The difference between this
calm, religious life of the Methodists and the turbulent, rough, and
swearing life of the fo'cas'le was very marked. But it took me a long
time to get away from the atmosphere of the fo'cas'le and into that of
the Methodists. Even the bath and the clean clothes did not seem to
change me very much. I discovered that cleanliness is not so very near
to godliness, after all.
Of course the old Methodists had prayers in the morning and at night,
and they had grace at every meal. Every one knelt at prayers. But they
could not make me kneel. I would not bow the knee. I had not got over
the sailors' ways, and the monkeys, and the throwing down sugar from the
plantation in the sails--the Santa Claus part of it. I always remembered
it.
Of course I was taken to the little church, a mile off up in the woods,
where my grandfather preached. It was in his "circuit." As we were
coming home one day, and I was driving, the chaise struck a stone, and
the old gentleman was jostled considerably. He impatiently seized the
reins from me and gave the horse a severe flip with them, and drove the
rest of the way himself. The little incident made a deep impression on
my mind. I said to myself: "If this is the way Christians act, I do not
want to have anything to do with them."
The Pickerings were an ancient Southern--and before that, an
English--family. Some of the members lived in South Carolina, some in
Virginia, others in Maryland. One of them sat in Washington's first
cabinet. Like my grandfather, they were all slave-owners. Judge Gilbert
Pickering was chairman of Cromwell's committee that cut off King
Charles's head. Grandfather Pickering was a liberal man in many ways. I
have spoken already of his freeing his own slaves. He chose the calling
of an itinerant Methodist preacher, when to do so meant tremendous
financial sacrifice and the loss of social rank. He almost starved at
it, but he stuck to it with great nobleness of mind. It gave him a sort
of religious freedom.
Once he could have been a bishop in the New England branch of Methodism;
but he refused the ambitious title. He did not believe in bishops for
their church. And so, setting aside every offer of preferment, every
opportunity of rising or getting on in the world, he chose to labor at
his simple calling, like a martyr. And he would shortly have found
martyrdom in starvation, had it not been for my lovely grandmother, with
her thrift and care.
The branch of Methodists to which my grandfather belonged was very
liberal. It was so liberal, indeed, that my mother and her five sisters
had all been educated at the Ursuline convent at Charlestown, Mass.,
which was destroyed by the mob in '42. I remember that after the mob
burned this convent to the ground the Methodists wanted to buy the site,
and applied to the Roman Catholic archbishop in Boston, who replied: "We
sometimes purchase, but we never sell."
Another incident of my boyhood may be recalled here, as it illustrates
the stubborn pride that had begun to show itself even then. One day an
elegant carriage drove up to the old house, and a young lady,
beautifully dressed, got out and asked to see George Train. I went up to
her, and she told me who she was.
"You must remember, when you grow up," she said, "that I am Miss Sallie
Rhoades. We are one of the few families of Maryland," she added, with a
pride that was evident even to my boyish eyes, "that have been able to
support their carriages for one hundred and fifty years." She spoke with
the air of a _grande dame_, which stung my own pride keenly.
"While I am very glad to meet my Southern relative," I said, with equal
pride, even if I could not equal her manner, "we have kept our ox-cart
on the old farm for two hundred years." I expected the additional half a
century to stagger her. But it did not seem to reach home; and she drove
away. This was the last I ever saw of "Miss Sallie Rhoades, of
Maryland."
In those days in New England we had to depend very much on ourselves on
the farm, and we made as much of supplies as possible. I became an adept
at making currant wine, cider, maple sugar, molasses candy, and
sausages. I used also to make the candles we burned on the place,
molding them half a dozen at a time in the old candle mold, which was
never absent from a country house of that day. So, in my lifetime, I
have passed from the period of the tallow dip to the electric light.
From four to ten years of age I earned my own living on the old farm. I
believe it is the only instance in the world where a child of four
supported himself in this way. What I mean by earning my own living is,
that while the expense of keeping a little youngster like me was very
small, I earned more than enough to pay my way. I dressed myself. No one
took care of me. I was left pretty much alone, except in the way of
receiving religious admonition. I was always running errands for the men
and women of the place. There was constantly something for me to do.
Moreover, I was very ambitious. I wanted to know everything that was
going on about me. This has ever been my characteristic. I was born
inquisitive. I have never been afraid to ask questions. If I ever saw
anything I did not understand, I asked about it; and the information
stuck in my mind, like a burr. I never forgot. I soon learned everything
there was to be learned on the farm.
The room I slept in was a great wide one, and I slept alone. I was not
afraid; but I remember the great size and depth of that cold New England
room.
Life on the farm was busy enough. I often set the table and did other
things that the hired girl did, and could soon do almost everything just
as well as she--from setting the table to preparing a meal. All this I
learned before I was ten years old. I mention these little details
merely to show the difference between the life I had to lead in old New
England and the life my children and grandchildren have since led.
One blessing and glory was that I had the universal atmosphere. The
woods and fields were mine. I could roam in the forest and over the
fields at will. The great farm was a delight to me. I was never afraid
anywhere. In those days there were no "hoboes" or "hoodlums" roaming
over the country. We kept no locks on our doors, or clasps on the
windows. Everything was open.
On the farm, as about the house, I soon learned everything that I could.
I learned to sow and reap, to plant various crops, to plow, hoe, mow,
harvest. And I had a special garden of my own, where I raised a little
of everything--onions, lettuce, cucumbers, parsnips, and other
vegetables. I knew their seasons, the time to plant them, and when to
gather them. I was an observer from the cradle. Little escaped my eyes.
And I have made it a practise all through my life to master everything
as I came to it.
Of books I saw little in those days. The only ones we had on the farm
place, in what was termed by courtesy the "library," were the Waverley
Novels, Jane Porter's Scottish Chiefs, Watts's Hymns, and the Bible.
There was, of course, Zion's Herald, the religious weekly paper from
Boston I have already mentioned. These were our literature. I read
everything I could get hold of, and soon exhausted the small resources
of the farm library.
We were so far from the village and the more frequented roads that the
only persons who came to our house were peddlers, who sold us kitchen
utensils, such as tin pans and buckets, and the lone fisherman, who
would always sound his horn a mile away to warn us of his approach.
The old house had the usual New England parlor or drawing-room, the room
of ceremony, never aired until some guest came to occupy it, or there
was a funeral or baptism in it. I have never found farmers, anywhere in
the world, who had any idea of ventilation. They slept in closed rooms,
without any regard to health or cleanliness--for nothing is so cleansing
as fresh, pure air. There was the old fireplace, with the great andirons
that could sustain the weight of a forest tree, and often did.
Everything was a century old, and just that much behind the day; but
that was then the case everywhere in New England rural sections.
And what fires we used to have in that cavernous chimney! We would place
a tremendous log on the andirons, and build a fire about it. Soon it
would give out a terrific heat, but it was not sufficient to warm up the
great room, into which the cold air swept through a thousand cracks and
chinks. Our faces, bending over the blazing log, would be fairly
blistered, while our backs would be chilled with cold. The farther end
of the room would be icy cold, for drafts had free play. The house was
poorly built, so far as comfort was concerned, although it was stout
enough to last a couple of centuries. Not only the winds but the snow
found easy entrance. If it snowed during the night, I would find a
streak of snow lying athwart the room the next morning, often putting my
bare feet in it as I got up in the darkness.
The ignorance of the Puritan farmers of New England was the densest
ignorance that I have ever seen, even among farmers. They knew nothing,
and seemed to care nothing, about the laws of health or economy. They
were content to live exactly in the way their ancestors had lived for
generations. They learned nothing, and forgot nothing--like the
Bourbons.
This suggests to me the fact that the climate of New England has changed
tremendously since I was a boy. Most old people say something like this.
When I was a boy there was snow every winter and all winter. Now there
is comparatively little snow. Then it used to begin in November, and we
were practically shut in on our farms, often even in our houses, for the
winter. For six months the snow covered the earth. When we wanted to
get out, we had to break our way out with an ox-sled. The old climate of
New England has gone.
When I was ten years old I began taking "truck" to the old Quincy market
in Boston. It was ten miles away, but I soon got accustomed to going
there alone and selling out the farm produce and vegetables. I had to
get up at four o'clock in the mornings, in order to look after the horse
and to harness him. He was called "Old Tom," and was a faithful,
trustworthy animal.
I would arrive at the market before dawn, and would back the wagon up
against the market-house and wait for the light. I fed the horse, and
now and then, if the weather was particularly bad, I would put him in a
stable for a few hours, at a cost of fifty cents, and feed him on oats.
After closing out the "truck," I would drive to Cambridgeport, where I
bought the groceries and other supplies for the farm. My grandmother
trusted all this to me. After this I got a luncheon, which cost me a
"shilling cut," as it was called then--twelve and a half cents. Then I
would drive home, and could give to grandmother a full and itemized
account of everything, without having set down a word or a figure on
paper. This went on for two or three years.
For amusement, as I have said, I had the universal atmosphere, and I had
the great old farm, and the forest and the fields. I had them all to
myself. I roamed over them, and through them, at will. I used to set
box-traps for rabbits and snares for partridges. I had a little gun,
also, and a little dog, with which I would hunt rabbits or squirrels.
The dog I have always regarded with wonder. He could see a gray squirrel
at the top of a tree half a mile away. Some persons think he smelled the
squirrel, but I am certain he saw it. And he was only a mongrel, at
that. He would lead me to a tree, and I would shoot the squirrel. The
little dog--a sort of fox terrier--was the only real friend I ever had.
He was my constant companion, whenever I could get to him or he to me.
In the winter I used him as a warming-pan. The old farmhouse was
cold--very cold. We had no means of heating it. At night I would find
the sheets of my bed as cold as an ice-floe. Then I would send my little
dog down under the covering, and he would stay there until he had warmed
up the bed.
Then there was pigeon-netting. This is an old sport that has, I suppose,
died out in New England. In my boyhood, however, great flocks of wild
pigeons used to come to the New England woods and forests. The device
for catching large numbers of them by netting was quite primitive, but
effective.
My uncle Francis (for whom I was named), whom I used to help net
pigeons, was quite a sportsman. He was fond of fishing, and he was a
great hand at the nets. We had two places for spreading the nets, one in
the "vineyard" and the other in a "burnt-hill" in the forest. All the
foliage was stripped from several trees that were close together. Then
we would arrange the net so it could be drawn together at the right
time, spread it over the ground, and bait it. Then we would plant our
stool-pigeons. As soon as we saw a flock of pigeons approaching we would
stir the stool-pigeons by pulling on a string to which they were
attached. They would move about, as if they were really alive. The
pigeons would circle about the spot, attracted by the fluttering
stool-pigeons, and then they would catch sight of the grain and come
down. When the net was filled with them, we would draw the strings, and
sometimes we caught as many as a hundred at a time. They were then
killed and sold.
By such work as this I was earning my own support. This is a sample of
my life on the farm from four to ten years. I wore one suit of clothes a
year, and the suit cost originally not more than $10, and was made at
home. I had some little pocket-money occasionally. I was permitted to
sell the rabbits and partridges, the spoil of my traps and gun. These
small resources usually enabled me to keep a few cents--sometimes a few
dollars--in my pockets.
There is nothing more extravagant and truly wasteful than a boy with a
few dollars in his pockets. He can throw away his slender fortune with
magnificent bravado. One summer I had accumulated $17, and, naturally, I
was itching to spend it. The hired man was going up to Concord to help
celebrate "Cornwallis Day" (October 19), and I got consent to accompany
him. There was to be a fair, and I took my money with me--very stupidly.
The memory of it was soon all that remained.
My first step in extravagance was the purchase of a bunch of
firecrackers. It cost me, apparently, ten cents; but actually it was my
financial undoing, and cost me $17. I began to pop the crackers, and
soon had a crowd of boys around me. They were envious of me. They didn't
have money to buy crackers. I popped away with great nonchalance, but
husbanding my ammunition and popping only a single cracker at a time.
This was strategy of a high order; but I could not keep it up. I didn't
know the resourcefulness of boy-nature. Presently, I heard a boy whisper
just behind me, to one of his companions: "Just wait a minute, and you
will see him touch off the whole pack!"
This was irresistible. My blood was fired with ambition. I fired the
whole bunch at once! The hurrahs and yells were tremendous, and set me
wild. I went and bought another bunch, and set it all off at one time,
as if firecrackers were no new thing to me. But my recklessness was not
to stop there. I had been carried off my feet by the hurrah, as many an
older person has been before.
Our hired man came to me and said that a very pretty thing was going on
near by. I went with him, and saw a man playing a game with three
thimbles, a pea, and a green cushion. The game was to guess under which
of the thimbles the pea was concealed. The hired man thought he knew and
insisted that he knew, and the gamester wanted to bet him that he
didn't. After a while another man came up and tried his hand at
guessing. He also missed. The loss of his money made him indignant, and
he took up another of the thimbles. The pea was not there.
The thing then seemed so easy to our hired man that he asked to try a
dollar on the game. Then the irate man who had lost his money took up
the other thimble and brushed the pea off the cushion. Our hired man,
who let nothing that was going on about the green cushion escape his
sight, saw the pea swept away, and eagerly bet the dealer that there was
no pea there at all. The dealer took him up, and lifted the thimble, and
lo! there was the pea. This did not satisfy the hired man, who kept on
betting, and losing until he had no money left. Thus our savings went up
in powder smoke and in guesses at the whereabouts of a fleeting pea. I
did not gamble then, nor have I gambled since.
But the firecracker day had its lessons for me. It taught me some things
about money and its power, and it got me interested in Cornwallis. I
began to read American history.