THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
"Meadow Brook Station! Stop five minutes for refreshments!" shouted
the conductor, and alighting from the noisy, crowded cars, I stood
once more in my own native town, gazing with a feeling of delight
upon the sunny hills, dotted over with the old-fashioned gable-roofed
houses, and upon the green, grassy meadow, through which rolled the
blue waters of the Chicopee. I had not stood thus long, when a broad
hand was laid upon my shoulder, and the next instant my arms were
around the neck of my father, who, I thought, had changed much since
last I saw him; for his face was thin and pale, while threads of
silver were scattered through his soft brown hair.
It was the loss of Anna, I fancied; and when we at last were seated
in the buggy, and on our way home, I hastened to speak of her, and to
tell him of the favorable report we heard of Herbert. But naught
which I said seemed to rouse him; and at last I, too, fell into the
same thoughtful mood, in which even old Sorrel shared, for he moved
with his head down, scarcely once leaving the slow, measured walk he
had first assumed. When, at last, we reached the hill-top, from
which could be seen the Homestead, with its maple trees in front, and
long row of apple trees, now in full bloom, in the rear, I started
up, exclaiming, "Home, sweet home! It never looked half so beautiful
to me before."
In a moment, however, I checked myself; for my father groaned aloud,
while his face grew whiter than before.
"What is it, father," I asked; "are they sick or dead?"
"Neither, neither," he replied, at the same time chirruping to old
Sorrel, who pricked up his ears and soon carried us to the door of
our house, where I was warmly greeted by all.
And still there was in what they said and did an air of melancholy
which puzzled me; and when I was alone with Lizzie, I asked her the
cause why they looked so sad? Bursting into tears, she replied,
"This is not our home any longer. We must leave it, and go, we don't
know where--to the _poor-house_, pa sometimes says, when he feels the
worst, and then grandma cries so hard--oh, it's dreadful!"
"And why must we leave it?" I asked; and Lizzie answered, "Pa has
signed notes for Uncle Thomas, who has failed, and now the homestead
must be sold to pay his debts--and they so proud, too!"
It was as Lizzie had said. Uncle Thomas Harding was my mother's
brother, who lived in Providence, in far greater style, it was said,
than he was able to support. Several times had Aunt Harding visited
us, together with her two daughters, Ellen and Theodosia. They were
proud, haughty girls, and evidently looked upon us, their _country
cousins_, with contempt; only tolerating us, because it was pleasant
to have some place in the country where to while away a few weeks,
which, in the heated, dusty city, would otherwise hang heavily upon
their hands. On such occasions, they made themselves perfectly at
home, and somehow or other managed to have my mother feel that she
was really indebted to them for the honor they conferred upon her, by
calling her Aunty, by appropriating to themselves the greater portion
of the house, by skimming the cream from the pans of milk, by eating
up the pie she had saved for us children when we came hungry and
cross from school, and by keeping old Sorrel constantly in the
harness, or under the saddle.
In return for all this, they sometimes gave us an old collar, a silk
apron, a soiled ribbon, or broken parasol--and once, when my parents
visited them, they sent us a trunk full of rubbish, among which was
Fielding's "Tom Jones!" This my grandmother cautiously took from the
trunk with the _tongs_ and threw into the fire, thereby creating in
me so great a desire for a knowledge of its contents, that, on the
first occasion which presented itself, I gratified my curiosity,
feeling when I had done so, that my grandmother was right in
disposing of the volume as she did. Dear old lady! her aversion to
everything savoring of fiction was remarkable, and when not long
since a certain _medium_ informed me that she, my grandmother, was
greatly distressed to learn that I had so far degenerated as to be
_writing a book_, I thought seriously of giving up my project at
once, and should probably have done so, had not another medium of
still greater power than the first received a communication, stating
that, after due reflection, my grandmother had concluded that "I
might continue the story called Meadow Brook, provided I showed off
my Aunt Harding and her two daughters in their true character." So,
as a dutiful child, it becomes me to tell how my father, who was
warmly attached to my Uncle Thomas, lent him money from time to time,
and signed notes to the amount of several thousand dollars, never
once dreaming that in the end he would be ruined, while my uncle,
influenced by his more crafty wife, managed in some unaccountable way
to maintain nearly the same style of living as formerly; and if his
proud daughters ever felt the ills of poverty, it was certainly not
apparent in the rich silks and costly furs which they continued to
sport.
It was a terrible blow to us all, but upon no one did it fall so
heavily as upon my father, crushing him to the earth, and rendering
him nearly as powerless as is the giant oak when torn from its parent
bed by the wrathful storm. The old homestead was endeared to him by
a thousand hallowed associations. It was the home of his boyhood,
and around the cheerful fires, which years ago were kindled on its
spacious hearthstone, he had played with those who long since had
passed from his side, some to mingle in the great drama of life, and
others to that world where they number not by years. There, too, in
his early manhood had he brought his bride, my gentle mother, and on
the rough bark of the towering maples, by the side of his own and his
brother's names, were carved those of his children, all save little
Jamie, who died ere his tiny fingers had learned the use of knife or
hammer. No wonder, then, that his head grew dizzy and his heart sick
as he thought of leaving it forever; and when at last the trying
moment came, when with trembling hand he signed the deed which made
him homeless, who shall deem him weak, if he laid his weary head upon
the lap of his aged mother and wept like a little child?
A small house in the village was hired, and after a few weeks'
preparation, one bright June morning, when the flowers we had watched
over and tended with care were in bloom, when the robins which, year
after year had returned to their nests in the maple tree, were
singing their sweetest songs, and when the blue sky bent gently over
us, we bade adieu to the spot, looking back with wistful eye until
every trace of our home had disappeared. Farewell forever to thee,
dear old homestead, where now other footsteps tread and other
children play than those of "auld lang syne." The lights and shadows
of years have fallen upon thee since that summer morn, and with them
have come changes to thee as well as to us. The maple, whose
branches swept the roof above my window, making oft sad music when
tuned by the autumn wind, has been cut away, and the robins, who
brought to us the first tidings of spring, have died or flown to
other haunts. "The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well" has
been removed; the curb, whose edges were worn by childish hands, is
gone; while in place of the violets and daisies which once blossomed
on the grassy lawn, the thistle and the burdock now are growing, and
the white rose-bush by the door, from whence they plucked the buds
which strewed the coffin-bed of our baby brother, is dead. Weeds
choke the garden walks, and the moss grows green and damp on the old
stone wall. Even the brook which ran so merrily past our door has
been stopped in its course, and its sparkling waters, bereft of
freedom, now turn the wheel of a huge saw-mill, with a low and sullen
roar. All is changed, and though memory still turns fondly to the
spot which gave me birth, I have learned to love another home, for
where my blessed mother dwells, 'tis surely home to me. By her side
there is, I know, a vacant chair, and in her heart a lonely void,
which naught on earth can fill; but while she lives, and I know that
there is in the world for me a mother and a mother's love, can I not
feel that I have indeed a home, though it be not the spot where first
she blessed me as her child?