could walk with our feet on the ceiling like flies, I should not
complain. But this great river, the Delaware, is not crowded with tall
sailing vessels like the Thames. Here we see nothing but pine-trees
already flecked with snow. There is snow in the air and to-morrow all
the roads will be blocked. I pity Joseph, who will have to break through
the snow-drifts with his sled and oxen, and how in all the world shall
we get to Meeting on First Day (Sunday)?"
Elizabeth gently reproved her talkative servant for grumbling, then rose
and put her sewing away. Meanwhile, Hannah fastened the shutters, spread
the cloth, and lighted the lamp. Then she made the tea and placed on the
table a brown loaf and butter fresh from the dairy. As they partook of
their simple meal, Elizabeth said: "Joseph is a long time on his errand.
I sent him to the village with a hamper of food and clothing for the
poor. He is a good lad, always ready and willing."
Hannah smiled with pleasure at her mistress's praise of her fellow
servant, and Elizabeth continued: "This house is a long way from the
village, and we should be lonely if it were not for friends passing by
who sometimes stay the night here."
Hannah, who resembled John Gilpin's famous wife in that she had "a
frugal mind," did not altogether approve of what her generous mistress
said.
"Many people do indeed pay us a visit," she remarked, "and they treat
this house just as if it were an inn, coming and going exactly as they
please."
"All I have is the Lord's, not mine," replied Elizabeth gently. "I am
only left here in trust to distribute His gifts among the poor and those
who devote their lives to His service. It was for this purpose that my
father built this house in the clearing, and, though he did not come
here himself, I came in his stead. So we must not grudge to others the
crumbs that fall from our table."
[Illustration]
A little ashamed of herself, Hannah was silent for a while, and
Elizabeth went on to say in her gentle voice: "Dost thou remember,
Hannah, the great May meeting in London when I was still a child? No
sound was heard in all that great assembly till at length a young man,
named John Estaugh, rose in his place and spoke so powerfully that all
hearts were stirred. I cannot tell why, but to-day there is a strong
feeling within me that I shall see him again."
As she finished speaking, a sound of sleigh-bells came nearer and nearer
and a sleigh drew up at the farm-house gate. Joseph had evidently
returned from his errand but not alone, for the voices of two men were
heard talking together.
[Illustration]
It was very dark in the yard, so Hannah lighted the great tin lantern
and went out to give it to Joseph. Presently she returned, ushering in a
tall and youthful stranger, whose cheeks were aglow from the wintry air.
As he entered, Elizabeth advanced to meet him with outstretched hands,
as if he were an expected guest, and said: "Thou art welcome, John
Estaugh."
"Dost thou remember me, Elizabeth?" replied the stranger. "It seems a
wonderful thing that after so many years have passed I should find thee
again. It was surely the hand of the Lord which conducted me to thy
threshold. As I was on my journey, I saw a wayfarer standing at the
roadside seemingly weary with travel. I greeted the man and offered to
take him to his home. He mounted the sleigh beside me, and on the way he
told me of thee and thy homestead. And, as I remembered thy name and thy
father and mother in England, I have paused on my journey to see thee
and wish thee strength in the good work thou art doing."
At that moment Joseph came in carrying the lantern, which he carefully
extinguished and hung on its nail. Then all sat down to supper together,
for beneath that roof there was no distinction of person--they were one
family, one household.
When supper was over they drew their chairs to the fire-place and
talked, that is, all except Hannah, who busied herself in clearing the
table and making ready the guest-chamber. Then Elizabeth told John
Estaugh how it was that she had come to live on the farm alone, except
for her two faithful servants, secure in the belief that her duty lay
here in the desert.
Thus they talked till bed-time, and at daybreak Joseph cleared a pathway
through the snow-drifts and made ready to conduct the stranger to his
destination. Elizabeth and John bade each other farewell at the gate,
the latter promising to return for the Meeting in May.
Time went on, till at length the cold winter was at an end and balmy
spring came over the land, bringing the song of birds and covering the
earth with flowers. One pleasant morning in May a long procession of men
and women, among them John Estaugh, came riding past on their way to the
Meeting in the neighboring town. On the way they halted at Elizabeth's
farm to rest and partake of the rye bread, currant wine, and honey fresh
from the hives, which were offered to them in generous abundance. Then
Elizabeth, Hannah, and Joseph mounted their horses and prepared to set
out with the others, but when they had started, Elizabeth lingered a
little behind and whispered to John, "Tarry a while, for I have
something to tell thee which must not be lightly spoken in the presence
of others since it concerns me and thee only."
Slowly they rode through the woods together, and the morning was so
bright and fair that it was a pleasure just to be alive. Then Elizabeth
said slowly, as if it were a secret she felt compelled to reveal, though
she would fain have kept it hidden: "I will no longer conceal what is
laid upon me to tell thee; I have received from the Lord a charge to
love thee, John Estaugh."
[Illustration]
Somewhat surprised at the frank words the maiden had spoken, John made
answer: "All thy ways, thy words and meekness of spirit are indeed
pleasant to me, but as yet I have no voice to direct me in this
matter. When the work which the Lord has appointed for me is ended, I
will commune with my own heart and wait for its guidance."
Then Elizabeth said tranquilly: "It is best so. We will not speak
further on the matter, but I had to tell thee this, for to-morrow thou
art going away across the sea and I know not when I shall see thee
again. But, if God wills, thou wilt return again to seek me and will
find me still here." And they rode onward in silence to join the others
and entered the town in their company.
Thus Elizabeth and John met and parted once more like "Ships that pass
in the night, and speak to each other in passing." The quiet life in the
homestead went on just as it had done before. Always thoughtful and kind
to others, Elizabeth lived and worked on her lonely farm, ever patient
and uncomplaining. And Hannah too, urged by her mistress's example, was
never idle; early and late she was always to be found at work, washing,
scouring, or cooking, till her cheeks grew rosy from her exertions.
She amused herself by teasing Joseph and, though at heart she was really
very fond of him, whenever he attempted to make love to her, she would
never listen seriously, but always laugh at him and make fun of his
clumsy devotion. This was quite unlike the way a demure Puritan maiden
should conduct herself, and at times Elizabeth was obliged to chide her
housemaid for her light behavior.
Meanwhile John Estaugh had sailed over the sea bearing in his heart a
precious secret. He pondered over it, till at length it was borne in
upon him that his duty might go hand-in-hand with his inclination, and
that even if he accepted this wondrous gift of a true woman's love, he
could also follow in the way he deemed the right one. So he returned
from his journey, and on the first Sabbath Day after his arrival he rose
in the silent assembly and holding Elizabeth's hand, which trembled a
little in his strong grasp, he promised, in the presence of the whole
congregation, to be true and kind and faithful in all things to his
wife. Such were the simple marriage rites of Elizabeth Haddon and John
Estaugh.
Then honest Joseph, who thus far had not fared over well in his wooing,
ventured to urge Hannah the housemaid to join her lot with his and
follow the example of their master and mistress. But although Hannah
still said "Nay," she added: "Thee may make believe and see what comes
of it, Joseph." So I am inclined to think that she did give in after
all.
_The Monk and the Ass_
Once upon a time, some centuries ago, two weary Franciscan monks were
wending their way, in the hot glare of the noonday sun, to their
convent, whose white walls and spires gleamed like a patch of snow on
the hillside some distance away.
The first of these monks was named Brother Anthony. He was a spare and
silent man, much given to fasting and prayer. His monk's habit hung in
loose folds on his thin body, his hair was thin and gray, and he stooped
wearily as he walked along. A simple soul was the monk Anthony,
accustomed only to listen and obey the commands of others.
Of a very different stamp was his companion, Brother Timothy, large and
robust with rosy cheeks and bristling red hair. He was tall and broad
shouldered and his robe fitted tightly round his portly form. Brother
Timothy had ever a jest on his lips, and the more sober monks were
sometimes scandalized at the noise and uproar he created in the convent
refectory. Moreover, it was useless to exhort Timothy to cease jesting
and study his Mass-book, for the simple reason that the jovial monk had
never learned to read.
It was a very hot day. The monks' dark robes were covered with dust and
torn by briers, and the two holy men made slow progress owing to the
heavy wallets full of provisions which they were carrying on their
backs. Now, as they passed the outskirts of a lonely wood, to their
surprise they beheld an ass tethered to a tree, and blinking lazily at
the passers-by. This donkey was the property of a certain Farmer
Gilbert, who had come thither to gather faggots. He had wandered deep
into the forest to collect enough wood, leaving his donkey to rest in
the shade.
No sooner did Brother Timothy catch sight of the patient animal than he
cried out: "See, brother, what a piece of good fortune has befallen us!
We will lay our wallets on this creature's back."
This being done, he removed the halter from the ass's neck and proceeded
to tether himself to the same tree where the donkey had been tied.
Brother Anthony looked on at these queer doings in great amazement,
which was not lessened when Brother Timothy broke out into a merry peal
of laughter and cried: "Drive the ass before you with your staff to the
convent, and, when you arrive there, tell the brethren that you were
obliged to leave me at a farm, as I was worn out and ill with fever, and
that the farmer lent you his ass to carry our heavy wallets, which are
filled with provisions for their use."
Brother Anthony knew quite well that it would be fruitless to try and
reason with Brother Timothy when the latter was bent on playing one of
his mad pranks, so he made no reply but obeyed in silence. Driving the
ass before him, he arrived safely with the wallets at the convent and
left his comrade to his fate.
Presently Farmer Gilbert came forth from the wood laden with faggots and
stood aghast to see the ponderous body of the friar fastened to the tree
where he had left his ass. Dropping his load of wood, he stood
open-mouthed and trembling and then hastily crossed himself, for he
thought that this was the work of the Evil One.
"Be not amazed," quoth Brother Timothy, "that where you left an ass you
should find a poor, half-starved Franciscan friar. Set me free and you
shall hear my piteous story."
With shaking fingers the farmer unloosed the rope, and the monk
continued: "Although I wear the garb of a holy friar, I am a sinful man.
You imagine you have owned an ass, but it was myself, transformed into
this shape for the deadly sin of gluttony, and condemned to do penance
by feeding on grass and being beaten and starved by your household.
Think of the miserable life I have endured, the windy shed which was my
home, and the damp and musty straw which formed my bed; my scanty food
was given me grudgingly and I have patiently endured toil and blows. But
to-day my penance is at an end and I begin life as a monk again."
[Illustration]
Simple Farmer Gilbert was conscience-stricken at hearing such words as
these, and, falling on his knees before the friar, implored his pardon.
The deceitful monk, rejoiced to think that his tale had been so readily
believed, generously forgave the farmer for his past conduct, and even
consented to be his guest for the night as it was getting late and he
stood in need of rest.
The farmer led his guest to his humble white-washed cottage, which stood
on a hillside covered with fruitful olive trees. Drawing near, they
found the farmer's wife, comely Dame Cicely, his children, and his old
father waiting the return of the master of the house, and, when the
monk's wonderful tale was told anew, they were no less penitent and
amazed than the farmer himself had been. Deeply they grieved over the
harsh treatment the holy man had endured at their hands, and, poor as
they were, set about forthwith to prepare a grand supper to satisfy
Brother Timothy's hunger after such a long and rigid fast. The good wife
killed her last two fowls, and made them into a salad; then she brought
out her best wine and begged her honored guest to fall to.
Brother Timothy played his part well. He ate and drank as though he had
been starving for a twelve-month, and, all the while, he talked and
laughed without stopping and wagged his red beard, till at length the
farmer grew angry with his guest and ventured to reprove him in good
round terms.
"Good father," said he, "it is easy to see that for some persons
punishment is right and needful. The manner in which you have behaved
to-night after your long penance clearly proves that you have but little
strength against temptation and shows in what peril you stand of
relapsing into your deadly sin of greediness. Take my advice; return to
your convent at sunrise to-morrow and there repent, fast and scourge
yourself, for you are in great danger of becoming an ass again. Be wise
and remain here no longer, or else I may be tempted to use the whip to
you, and I should not deal so lightly with you as you would with
yourself."
[Illustration]
Brother Timothy had the grace to blush deeply at this well-deserved
reproof, but wisely made no reply, and soon the whole household sought
their beds. The next morning they awoke at sunrise, at the hour when the
cock should have crowed, only, as you know, they had eaten him for
supper the previous evening. The monk, who had recovered his good
spirits, rose betimes, and, having breakfasted, set out in haste, for he
heard the distant matin bell ringing from the convent and so made his
leave-taking a very brief one.
It was a balmy summer morning, filled with the song of birds and the
subdued lowing of cattle; the beautiful Italian countryside looked its
loveliest, but Brother Timothy cared naught for all this. His thoughts
were concerned only with his own affairs, and it was not till the
convent walls appeared before him that he quickened his steps and began
to take an interest in what was going on.
As he entered the convent gate, he saw the ass standing patiently there
just as he had found him in the wood. Brother Timothy at once hastened
to the Abbot and, after telling him a plausible tale of sickness and
weariness which had prevented him from returning to the convent on the
previous day, he went on to explain that the ass had been sent as a
present to the Brotherhood; the owner, who was a wealthy man, had
bestowed it on the convent, so that it might ease the poor monks from
always carrying such heavy burdens on their journeys to the neighboring
village.
Now this was a matter which required careful consideration, and for some
days the Abbot thought over in his mind the difficult question of how he
should dispose of the gift. On the one hand, it would be pleasant for
the monks to be spared so much toil, but, on the other, it would make
them lazy and self-indulgent, and the world would find reason for
scandal and reproof. So finally he determined to sell the ass, in order
to save the expense of his keep, and to put by the money which its sale
would fetch. He would save himself from any annoyance and, in addition,
gain a substantial sum of money for the Brotherhood.
The ass was forthwith dispatched to the neighboring fair, whither it
happened by chance that Farmer Gilbert had come. He soon caught sight of
the ass and, coming up, he whispered in its ear: "Alas, good father, I
see that my warnings were useless, and that your gluttony has changed
you into an ass again." The ass, feeling something tickling its ear,
turned round and shook its head as if to contradict what he had just
heard.
"I know you well," continued Gilbert, in a loud voice. "You cannot deny
that you are the Franciscan friar named Timothy," But the ass still
shook its head, and Gilbert continued to argue with the animal till a
crowd gathered round them and began to mock and jeer.
[Illustration]
"If this ass is Brother Timothy," they cried, "you ought to buy him and
feed him on the tenderest grass. It would surely be an act of charity to
show some kindness to a poor unfortunate who has been transformed into
an ass."
The simple farmer took their advice, bought his own ass and led him
homeward over hill and dale and, as they went, he exhorted the animal to
behave well and be content. The children ran to meet their father and,
when they saw what he was leading, they shouted for joy, for they could
not understand that this creature was a holy friar, and not their own
lost donkey.
"Oh, Brother Timothy," they cried, "we are so glad you have come back to
us; we were afraid that you were dead and that we would never see you
any more!"
Then they wove green garlands for his neck, patted him and kissed his
head, and led him back to his stable. Henceforward, the donkey, who was
always known as Brother Timothy, led a life of luxury; he had little
work given him to do and so much hay and corn to eat, that he grew
ungrateful and vicious. At length Farmer Gilbert lost his patience and
said to the ass: "As our kindness is not repaid by good behavior, I
shall have to see what a sound thrashing will do."
It would be difficult to tell you of all the vices that this spoiled
animal had fallen into; among others was a habit of flinging up his
heels, breaking his halter, and running away through woods and over
meadows, defying the efforts of everyone to catch him. But his gravest
offense was breaking out of his shed at night and ravaging the cabbage
patch. This was too much for even the long-suffering farmer to endure,
and he determined to take strong measures to curb the donkey's
wickedness, whether the animal were a holy friar or not. So Brother
Timothy was sent back again to his old life of toil. He was beaten
without mercy, and instead of luxuries and caresses he had to work
harder than he had ever done before. And this was not the worst, for as
his work grew more his food grew less, till at last the poor creature
could only take his revenge on his hard taskmaster by dying.
Great was the lamentation which then uprose, and sad was Farmer Gilbert
to think that the unfortunate monk had died without repenting of his
sins. Dame Cicely and the children cried for a week, and Farmer Gilbert
recounted all the virtues of the deceased and added solemnly: "May
Heaven pardon Brother Timothy and keep us from the deadly sin of
greed!"
EVANGELINE
In the land of Acadia, within a fruitful and secluded valley, lay the
little village of Grand-Pré. Its inhabitants were a sturdy race of
French farmers, hard-working, kind, and generous. The land was
exceedingly fruitful, and so freely did these simple farmers give to
others that poverty was almost unknown in the village. The pleasant
farmhouses had neither locks to the doors nor bars to the windows, but
stood open like the hearts of their owners.
At a short distance from the village dwelt the wealthy farmer, Benedict
Bellefontaine, an upright and stately man, in spite of his seventy
years. With him lived his only daughter, Evangeline, a lovely maiden of
seventeen summers, and the pride and joy of his old age. Her black eyes
gleamed brightly from beneath the shade of her brown tresses and when,
on Sunday mornings she walked down the village street to church,
wearing her Norman cap, blue kirtle and earrings, all eyes turned to
look at her with admiration, for she was without doubt the most
beautiful girl in the whole village.
Of suitors she had many, but none found favor in her eyes save young
Gabriel, the son of Basil the blacksmith. Basil and Benedict were old
friends, and their children had grown up together almost as brother and
sister, learning the same lessons and sharing the same sports and
pastimes. As they grew up, their childish love deepened and
strengthened, and now, with the warm approval of their respective
fathers, their marriage was soon to take place.
One evening, Benedict was sitting by his fireside, and near him
Evangeline was busy spinning, for in those days it was the duty of an
industrious housewife to make all the linen which would be required for
her future home. Presently the latch was lifted and in came the stalwart
blacksmith with his son. The two elders took their usual seats near the
hearth and smoked their pipes, while the young couple stood apart by the
window and talked of their future life.
Said Basil: "I do not like the look of things just now. English ships
with cannon pointed against us are at anchor in our harbor. We do not
yet know whether their intention be good or ill, but we are all
summoned to appear in the church to-morrow and hear his Majesty's
command, which is to be made the law of the land."
[Illustration]
"Nonsense," replied Benedict, "you look on present circumstances too
gloomily. After all, since this land now belongs to the English, it is
only natural that we should have to obey fresh laws. We are an honest
and law-abiding people and they cannot intend to harm us."
"The English have not forgotten that we helped our kinsmen, the French,
against them," replied the blacksmith. "Many of the villagers fear they
mean to harm us, and have already fled to the forest, taking with them
all the weapons they could lay hands on."
"Fear no evil, my friend," said the jovial farmer. "To-night, at any
rate, let no shadow of sorrow fall on this house, for we are assembled
here to draw up our children's marriage contract. Their house is built,
the barns filled with hay, and all is in readiness for them."
As he spoke a knock was heard at the door and the worthy notary, Père
Leblanc, came in. The disquieting news in the village was discussed
anew, and the notary said: "Man is unjust, but God is just, and justice
finally triumphs. When I was taken captive and lay imprisoned in a
French fort I was often consoled by an old story which ran thus: 'Once
in an ancient city, whose name I cannot recall, poised on a column,
stood a brazen statue of Justice. In her right hand she held a sword,
and in her left a pair of scales. The birds of the air had no fear of
the sword which flashed and glittered in the sunshine, and some of the
boldest among them even built their nests in the scales. Now it chanced
that a necklace of pearls was lost in a nobleman's palace and suspicion
fell on a young maid-servant. Although her guilt could not be proved,
she was condemned to death, and her execution took place at the foot of
the statue of Justice. But as her innocent spirit rose to heaven, lo! a
terrible storm swept over the city and struck the statue with such force
that the scales of the balance were hurled down on to the pavement. When
they were picked up, in the hollow was found a magpie's nest, into the
clay sides of which the pearl necklace was interwoven.'"
[Illustration]
The blacksmith was silent, though not convinced by the notary's tale,
but he said nothing further on the subject. The notary produced his
papers and ink-horn and drew out in due form the marriage contract
between Gabriel and Evangeline; then, pocketing the substantial fee
which the farmer offered him, he drank the young couple's health and
withdrew. The old men settled down to their customary game of draughts,
and the lovers sat in the window-seat watching the moon rise and the
stars come out one by one. At nine the village curfew rang, and the
guests rose up and departed.