“A sunshiny world, full of laughter and pleasure.”
“Oh, Auntie dear, isn’t this most like Heaven,” breaks out little Bear,
lying by his Auntie’s side, on soft cushions, under the great Elm’s
leafy canopy, drinking in the soft country air, laden with the sweet
perfume it steals from the meadows and woodlands it journeys through,
whilst his blue eyes glisten with delight at the prospect before him.
The softest of blue skies was varied by piled-up masses of fleecy
clouds; fields of young corn waved their shining green leaves in
answer to the balmy zephyr’s greeting, whilst in the distant meadows
hay-makers tossed about their light load to the music of the mower’s
wheels.
At the right stood the quaint old farm-house, with its festoons of
trumpet and honeysuckle vine, and its gay setting of lady-slippers and
marigold, interspersed with the housewifely marjoram and balsam.
Papa, standing on the old porch, waiting for an answer to the huge
lion’s paw, which serves as knocker, sees with pleasure the same old
grindstone he used so proudly to turn in his childhood,--the long
tell-tale array of shining milk-pans hung upon the picket-fence,
looking quite the same, but Juba, the sportive companion of those
boyish days, lies basking in the sun, snapping maliciously at the
teasing flies and eying the visitor with suspicious glance.
“Juba, old fellow, have you forgotten me? Can’t you give an old
playfellow a better welcome than this?”
Was it something in the ring of the manly voice which sounded familiar
to the old dog’s ears, or was it the hospitality and courtesy of a
well-bred old family servant that led Juba, once so frolicsome and
lithe, slowly to rear up his heavy, rheumatic body, and languidly crawl
along to reply to the friendly salutation?
“Juba, poor old fellow,” said papa, kindly patting the dog’s head,
“are you and I indeed so old? Come, good doggie, and see my little
boy. Don’t be afraid, darling, this is the very same Juba that pulled
your papa out of the duck-pond yonder, where he had fallen in, whilst
‘paddling his own canoe.’”
The stiff old doggie responded kindly to Bear’s caresses, and to the
child’s great delight, immediately crouched at his side, whilst papa,
discouraged by his efforts with the old knocker, which never before had
failed to procure for him a warm welcome, sat down by his side.
“Papa, will you please tell me again about the tree?”
“Yes, my son. It is more than a hundred years old, and was planted,
when a little sapling, by one of the old inhabitants who gave to the
farm its name. There is the date, on the old board fastened on the body
of the tree. You see how those grand old branches touch the ground on
all sides?
“This tree casts a shadow of one hundred feet. What stories, Auntie,
it could tell of those who have sported under its shade, now old
men and women! The young lovers of old now bring their children and
grandchildren to feast here on the fruits, which to them have lost
their sweetness. How many times those huge old furniture wagons have
halted here, and deposited their burden of merry boys and girls for
their yearly “school feast of berries and cream!”
“Papa, are there any more such trees in the world so large as this elm?”
“Oh! yes, my son, even very near Providence, in a little village called
Johnston, there is one much larger; indeed, I think it is the largest
in the country. A small house could be placed in the body very easily.
Then, in California, I have seen cedar trees, whose trunks were so
enormous that they were used as dancing halls. Fancy, Harry, how it
must seem to be dancing to merry music in a huge room within a tree!
There is one tree which has a world-wide reputation--the English have
named it Wellingtonia--after your favorite Duke, but we Americans claim
for it the name of Washingtonia. The Californians are justly proud of
this old patriarch, and well they may be. Think of its being high as
Trinity steeple, and a thousand years old!”
“But, Papa, how can anybody tell how old a tree is?--there are no
people a thousand years old to tell when it was planted.”
“No, dear boy, but God tells us in this way. Have you never noticed
in a piece of wood--but here is one just at hand. Do you see those
different rings?”
“Yes, papa.”
“Well, Harry, each of those rings show the growth of the tree during
one year; for each year a new ring or layer of wood and a ring of bark
is formed.”
“But, papa, I only see one bark!”
“Yes, my boy, as the new wood and bark is formed the old bark is pushed
further out to make room for the ring, and soon the old bark sheds its
coat; that is, part of its skin drops off.”
Papa’s tree talk was just then interrupted by a merry shout from the
hay-field, and poor Bear looked up so wistfully, yet patiently, in his
father’s face, that he said,--
“Dear boy, you would so like to join them. It seems cruel to keep you
here.”
“Oh! no, Papa, I don’t so much mind. It’s so sweet and beautiful here,
and the wind blows so soft on my forehead, it seems as if it was God’s
breath. No, I really don’t mind much, and sister Daisy will tell me all
about it. Oh, Papa, you don’t know about Daisy! Every night, after I
go to bed, she comes and sits by my side till I am asleep, so I won’t
miss Mamma, and she smooths my hair and says softly in my ear, ‘Daisy’s
own little comfort,’ and then, somehow, my back doesn’t seem to ache,
and I go straight to sleep, and just to think of it, she hasn’t said ‘I
told you so,’ not one single time! Oh, Papa! our Daisy is so kindly
affectioned one to another. Why, there’s Hugh hurrying back from the
field. What can the matter be?”
“Mr. John, can I speak a moment alone with you?”
“Certainly, Hugh.”
“Well, sir, Nan is going on like she was mad, to have Master Harry down
yon in the hay-field with the children. Cried like a baby she did, one
spell, to think the poor little fellow was missing such fun, and that
set the children off, and they’ve give me no peace till I said ‘I’d see
what could be done,’ and then Farmer Brown came along and says he--
“‘Did you say, Hugh Crummell, those youngsters belonged to Mr. Havens?
You can’t mean our master, John Havens?’
“‘The very same,’ says I. ‘Came on last Saturday from New York.’
“‘Now I want to know,’ says he. ‘I can’t leave my team, and my folk
have gone to town for a few notions ’gainst the Fourth, but they’ll be
along shortly; now if you’ll just go to the further barn you’ll find
Old Meg, the lightest steppin’, gentlest old mare ever you laid eyes
on. We set great store by our old Meg, we do, wife and me. Do you mind,
Hugh, now him that’s gone, and Meg, was like colts together. Ah! ah!
ah! Well, just take the old creeter, and put the little sick youngling
on the saddle, and I give you my word for it, old Meg has that sense
she’ll steer clear off from every stone to spare jolting the bairnie,
and if you’d just say to Master John as I ain’t able to leave my team,
but if he wouldn’t mind stepping across here, I’d gin him the heartiest
grip these old horny hands could wring out, and show him as pretty a
piece of meadow-land as he’ll see this side of York State; and Hugh,’
he called out, ‘bear my manners to Miss Emma, and tell her our folks
will never forgive, if I don’t prevail on her to stay and take a dish
of tea with us, and say I should admire to have her look at us down
here.’”
“That’s a capital idea of good Farmer Brown’s, Hugh, so trot out old
Meg, and my patient little boy shall ride off in fine style, and visit
all the old farm’s nooks and corners.”
Little Bear could scarcely believe his own eyes when Hugh appeared,
leading with great delight the dapple-flanked, mild-eyed old Meg, the
farmer’s pride; and when he learned that on the gentle horse’s back,
with Papa and Hugh on either side, he was to make the tour of the old
Brown Farm, and visit his sisters and brothers in the hay-field, his
cup of happiness was brimming. Dear little fellow! Big tears of joy
stood in his eyes and rolled down his thin cheeks, now flushed with
pleasure, as proudly gathering up the reins he bent over and whispered
to his father,--
“Oh, if only dear Mamma could see me now! But you’ll write it all to
her, Papa, won’t you?”
Papa assented, and off started the party; and very difficult would it
have been to have told which of the three was the happiest.
Meg’s careful pace was directed first to the hay-field, where the
little cavalier was met with a glad, noisy welcome from the young
haymakers, and Meg’s smooth sides patted gently for her kind office,
then the sport began; and little Bear almost tumbled off his steed’s
back with laughter, to see the Monkeys slowly rising from under the
huge pile of hay Artie and Charlie had thrown upon them. Like young
porcupines they looked, with the straws sticking upon them in all
directions, and such heads of hair! Poor, poor Charlotte, what work for
you in the next toilette!
Then Papa headed the procession and introduced them, one by one, to old
Farmer Brown, and the old man wrung Master John’s hand, and laughed
till the tears _would_ come, and then the old red-stained handkerchief
_must_.
The orchards next must be visited, the old Rhode Island greening, from
whose branches Papa fell and broke his arm, when climbing up to count
the eggs in a Bluebird’s nest; the old russet where his initials were
plainly to be seen; the pear-trees laden with fruit, which as young
saplings he had planted.
Then came the very same old duck-pond, but those ducks had gone
“Where all good ducks go,”
and a most ill-bred set of fowls had taken possession, who quacked and
shook their wet feathers in the children’s faces, in a most offensive
manner, and fairly drove them away.
Then came the poultry-yards, where the country geese hissed at the city
goslings, and the turkey-cocks gobbled out their doubtful welcome, and
the hens clucked the impolite notice that it was time for younglings to
go to roost.
The barnyard was lively enough, for it was nearly six, and the
milkmaids, with their shining buckets, are drawing streams of milk
from the patient, mild-eyed cows. Sorry am I to say that a sad thing
occurred here, for Artie was tempted to tickle, with a long straw,
the quivering nostrils of Brindle, who, supposing the milkpail had
something to do with the affront, gave a sudden kick, which threw over
milkmaid, stool, and half-filled bucket. Artie turned whiter than the
milk itself, when he saw the mischief he had done, and flushed again as
he met Papa’s serious gaze. How different the Brown Farm looked through
the misty eyes as Papa began:
“I am ashamed of you, my son. Instantly pick up that pail and apologize
for your unpardonable mischief. I repeat that I am ashamed of you.”
It was rather hard for the Keeper to ask the milkmaid’s pardon before
Charlie Leonard and his young brothers and sisters, but Papa’s will was
law, and besides, the boy was already heartily ashamed of himself, and
distressed at the trouble he had caused, so he made his apology in so
earnest a manner that the tender heart of the milkmaid was touched, and
she heartily forgave him, and assured him, with Irish warmth,--
“That he was a rale little jintleman, and ’twas Brindle as ought to ax
the pardon, as had been tached kicking was not genteel for his likes.”
Aunt Emma remained sitting under the “Elm,” for she had caught a
glimpse of the old Brown carryall coming up the road, and wanted to
prepare Mrs. Brown for the surprise which awaited her.
The carryall stopped at the side-door of the carriage, and Mrs. Brown
and Norah, her “help,” descended, and proceeded to unpack their city
purchases; then, as Norah led off the horse to the barn, the good
farmer’s wife, for the first time, discovered Aunt Emma coming to meet
her.
The kindly round face, with its crown of silver locks, grew radiant
with delight, as, with both hands extended, she hasted to greet her
guest.
“Well, now, I want to know! However did you get here, Miss Emma, and
not a living soul to meet you and say a word of welcome? Please just
step into my cool parlor, and I’ll have a cup of tea and a bit of
somewhat to refresh you.”
“Certainly I will go in; but, my good Mrs. Brown, you must hear my
story first. My nephew and his four children are with me for a week,
and John’s heart was set on showing his young folk ‘the old Brown Farm’
and his good friends, and I thought it would be a novelty to those
city children to have an out-of-door tea under these trees. Now, stop,
Mrs. Brown, I know what you want to say, but you must only give us a
pitcher of your rich milk and a pot of tea, for Celia has packed a
basket. I have brought the two women who will wait on us, so you and
your husband must take tea with us. Here come Nan and Charlotte to set
the table.”
“Well, really Miss Emma, I shall admire to join you, and so will
father, but you must let me bring out a pan of my molasses cake that
Master John was so fond of, dear boy! I can see him now. He’d never
ask for a thing, not he, but when he put his head of a Saturday in at
my kitchen door, I could seem to read ‘molasses cake’ in the twinkle
of his eyes, and it was our joke,--his and mine,--I would say ‘Johnnie
boy, could you worry down a bit of my molasses cake?’
“‘I’ll try, Ma’am,’ he would answer so dutiful like, ‘and if I can’t,
I’ll hide it where no human eye can see it.’
“My poor Father, him that’s sleepin’ now in yonder buryin’ ground, he’d
be a sittin’ behind the door, for fear of the draught, and he’d be took
with such a fit of coughin’. Don’t you see, Miss Emma, he was one of
them good Puritans, and it’s part of their religion, bless their dear
souls, not to laugh at jokes, and so they take to coughin’? But I’ll
just stop my gossip and put on my best sewin’ meetin’ cap with bright
ribands. These gray old locks, mayhap, might give Mr. John a sort of
far-away feelin’, for you know, Miss Emma, before my great sorrow came,
years agone, there was ne’er a white hair on my head. He’d a been just
two years older than Mr. John, and maybe his own bairnies would have
been sportin’ round the farm cheerin’ the old folks’ hearts. Ah!
well-a-day! We’ve had our cup of joys, and now ’tis fittin’ we should
be helpin’ put the cup brimmin’ to the young folks’ lips. I won’t be
gone a second, Ma’am.”