NED AMONG THE GRIFFINS.
IF a boy ever enjoyed himself in this world, Ned Gates did among
the Griffins. Their rough, but kindly, rollicking ways just suited
his sanguine temperament, and he suited them, from the youngest to
the oldest, and got through the crust at once. Indeed, there was
everything a wide-awake boy would naturally like. There was a charm,
in itself, about such a jolly house-full. Ned thought Edmund Griffin
was a splendid man, his wife one of the best of women, and as for the
old grandfather, despite his rough ways, he was a perfect treasure.
Evenings, Ned would nestle to his side, and coax him to tell him
stories about river driving, hunting, wrestling, and the Indian wars,
in which he had taken a prominent part.
Captain Brown had rewarded Jacques Bernoux very handsomely for the
assistance he had rendered Walter, and induced him to come to the
States, paying him seaman’s wages, and Walter brought him home with
him. Three or four more never made any difference at Edmund Griffin’s.
Jacques afforded much amusement by his attempts to speak English.
Being a leisure time of year, and the harvest in, it was hunting,
fishing, going to Elm Island,—Ned and Captain Rhines carried the news
of Mr. Bell’s arrival to Ben and Sally,—going with Edmund Griffin and
Joe up river, and coming down on the raft, breaking colts; and, to fill
his cup of happiness to the brim, Ned shot a moose. The boys caught a
bear in the trap, and Ned had an opportunity to taste of the meat, and
grease his cue with the fat.
There was another older person having a good time, and that was Mr.
Bell. His things having been brought to the house, he drew from the
recesses of an enormous chest the beautiful work-basket, and some
articles of household use, that he had made while in Marseilles, and
which had so excited the admiration of Ned. Mary was delighted—she had
never seen anything half so beautiful.
“You can’t come up to that, Charlie,” said his father.
“No, father, I can’t. I never saw any of your work so beautiful as
this.”
“I never had quite so strong a motive before,” said the old gentleman,
smiling.
The next day Charlie was called from home to run out a piece of land,
and was absent nearly a week. Finding lumber and tools in the shop,
his father made a trough to soak willow, a bench, and having cut some
native willows by the brook for the frame, in order to economize the
osiers, made a chair for the baby, and when Charlie returned, was
busily at work making one high enough for the child to sit at table in.
He was so much occupied with his work as not to notice his son, who
stood in the door watching him.
“Father,” said he, “I should think I had got back to Lincolnshire.”
“This is a better place than the fens, Charles. I’ll tell you what I’ve
been thinking about while at work here.”
“What is it, father?”
“All through my life, at home, I have been accustomed to look up to
the quality, and the country squires who owned lands, with a sort of
awe; and I have been thinking what a pleasant feeling it must be to own
a piece of land that God made, and that I should, before I die, like to
experience the feeling. Now, I have got a few pounds, that I managed to
lay up while in France. Why couldn’t I buy a little piece of land, and
have a little garden, and plant it? It would seem so pleasant to eat
anything that grew on my own land. But perhaps you’ll think I’m getting
childish, and that it’s an old man’s whim.”
“That’s just the way I used to feel at home, father; and when I came to
this country, I couldn’t rest for thinking how I should ever come to
own a piece of land. I would do it. Sam Edwards has a piece right on
the shore he wants to sell. Part of it’s cleared. There’s a small piece
between it and me that belongs to heirs, and is to be sold. I’ll buy
it, and then yours will join mine.”
“And I shall be a freeholder in my old age, after living a tenant all
the best of my life,” said the old gentleman, highly gratified.
“I’ll tell you what you can do, father. Next time the vessel goes to
Marseilles, get Jacques to procure some sallies for you, set them on
your land, and then you can have an osier holt, grow your own rods,
and make all the baskets you like, to pass away the time in the long
winters we have in this country.”
“Do you think they would grow here?”
“Anything will grow here, and there’s a swale on that place will suit
them exactly.”
The marriage of John Rhines and Fannie Williams added to the general
satisfaction. The infare, or second-day wedding, took place at Captain
Rhines’s, upon which occasion half the town were invited.
Uncle Isaac and Joe Griffin met Walter and Ned at the infare, and there
made an agreement to start the next week for the woods. Ned, who had
been kept quite closely at school till he went to sea, and had never in
his life shot anything larger than a pigeon or squirrel till he came
to Pleasant Cove, was perfectly wild with the anticipation, and kept
Walter awake so long talking about it, that he averred, if he didn’t
keep still, he wouldn’t sleep with him.
Charlie lent Ned a splendid gun, and they were busily employed running
balls and making preparations.
While the whole family at Edmund Griffin’s were spending an evening in
playing “blind man’s buff” in the great kitchen, the old grandfather
looking on and enjoying the sport as much as the rest, Joe, his face
bathed in tears, came to announce that Uncle Isaac was dreadfully hurt,
and could not live.
“How did it happen?” inquired the grandfather, the first to recover
from the effect produced by these sad tidings.
“You know what a hand Uncle Isaac always was to work alone. He went
into the woods to haul a large log, laid a skid, one end on the ground,
the other on a stump, calculating to roll the log up with the cattle,
so as to run the wheels under. He’s got a yoke of cattle that will
do anything he tells them to. He stood behind the log, and spoke to
the cattle, calculating to trig the log when it was up; but the chain
broke, and the log came back on him.”
“How did they know about it?” asked Edmund.
“He spoke to the cattle, threw chips at them, and started them home
with a part of the chain hanging to them; his wife knew something was
wrong, got some of the neighbors to go, and they brought him home.”
“He’s a very strong man; he may get over it.”
“No, he can’t, father; both legs are broken, and he’s hurt otherways;
the doctor says he can’t, though he may live some time. I must go, for
I’m going to watch with him to-night.”
“Tell ‘em, Joe, to send here, night or day; anything that we can do, it
will be a privilege to do it.”
As is the case when people feel deeply, little was said, and one after
another silently slipped off to bed. As soon as Lion Ben and Sally
heard of it, they came over and stopped at Captain Rhines’s. Ben, his
father, and Joe Griffin gave up everything to take care of and watch
with Uncle Isaac; for although the whole neighborhood offered and
pressed their services, he preferred that they should take care of him.
For some days he suffered intense pain, and was at times delirious;
but as death approached, the pain subsided, his mind became perfectly
clear, and the same hearty, kindly interest in the young that had ever
been a prominent trait of his character, resumed its wonted sway. A
few days before his death, he sent for John Rhines, Charlie, Fred
Williams, Walter, and Ned, preferring, as he was not able to talk with
each one separately, to see them together.
“Boys,” said he, “you have come to see the last of Uncle Isaac. John,
won’t you turn that hour-glass. The sand is run out. We have spent
a great many pleasant hours together; they are all over now; but I
want to tell you that they have been as pleasant to me as to you. It
is a great comfort to me that I have been spared to see my children,
and you, who seem as near to me as my own children, grow up to be
God-fearing, useful men in the world, and settled in life. It would
have been a comfort to me to have seen Isaac once more; but you must
tell him that his Uncle Isaac did not forget him in his last hours.
I have been a strong and a tough man in my time. I never was thrown,
seldom pulled up; very few could lift my load, plan work better, or
bring more to pass with an axe or scythe. I never saw but one man
who could outdo me in trapping game or with a rifle, and that was a
Penobscot Indian, and my foster-brother, John Conesus. I have left my
rifle with the walnut stock to him. I don’t fetch up these things
in any kind of a boasting way, but only to say to you that all these
matters that appeared great to me once, and no doubt do to you, seem
very small now. What I like most to think about ain’t what I’ve done
for myself, but to help others, especially to start young men, and get
‘em canted right, because any good done to the young always seemed to
me to go a great ways. I always did love to set a scion in a young
stock; it ain’t like grafting an old hollow tree, which, if it bears a
little fruit, soon rots down or blows over. If, at your time of life,
you feel and do thus, like as when you caught the fish and gave them to
poor Mrs. Yelf, and when you tried to make a good boy of Fred here—”
“We never should have done either,” said John, “if you hadn’t put it
into our heads.”
“More especially, if you should be owned of the Lord as a means
of grace to some fellow-creetur, you will find they will be the
pleasantest things to look back on, when you come to be where I am;
more so than chopping, wrestling, and getting property, though they
are all good in their place; such thoughts smooth a sick pillow
wonderfully. Not that I put any dependence in them, but in the marcy
of Him who gave me the heart to do them.”
After resting a while, and taking some stimulant, he motioned for
Walter and Ned to come near.
“I hear that Captain Brown gives you a good name, Walter, and that
you came home his first officer. We were about to go into the woods
together when I was hurt. I used to think you loved to go into the
woods with me.”
“O, Uncle Isaac, the happiest hours of my life have been spent in the
woods with you.”
“We never shall go there again; I am going to a better place—to
heaven. Walter, I hope we shall meet there. I haven’t strength to say
more; but you will remember the talks we’ve had at the camp fire. So
this is the little boy we took off the raft; he is not very little now,
though. Don’t cry, my son,” he said, laying his hand upon Ned’s head,
who had buried his face in the bed-clothes, and was sobbing audibly.
“It seems to me I am the best off of the two.”
“How _can_ that be, Uncle Isaac, when you are hurt so dreadfully, while
I am well?”
“Because, my son, I have got about through; I have run all the risk,
while you have just begun, have all the risk to run, and may be
shipwrecked. _I_ know what is before me—a better world; _you_ don’t
know what is before you. _I_ have had all _my_ trials; _yours_ are to
come. Captain Rhines tells me you have a Christian mother.”
“Yes, Uncle Isaac, she’s the best mother that ever was.”
“I had a praying mother; when I was younger than you I was torn from
her, and carried away by the Indians. I never forgot her words; in the
great woods, all alone, they came to mind, and through them I sought
and found the Lord.”
After parting with the boys, he seemed prostrated, fell into a doze,
and passed away without a struggle.
A few days after, Uncle Jonathan Smullen died, from decay of nature—a
very clever man, and kind neighbor; and it was said of him, he never
did anybody any harm; but Uncle Isaac was missed, and mourned by the
whole community. The seed of good principles he had sown in the minds
of young men kept coming up for years after he was in his grave, and
was resown by those who received it from them, a hundred times; nor
will their influence ever cease.