TALES AND RELICS
True to his promise Mr. Stacy called on Priscilla and Martine the second
evening of their stay in Plymouth. He proved even more entertaining as a
story-teller than as a guide.
"What he doesn't know about old-colony life isn't worth knowing,"
Priscilla had said, and Mr. Stacy certainly proved the truth of these
words. Of Bradford and Carver and Winslow and Brewster he spoke as
familiarly as if they were brothers. He made them live again as he
talked, bringing out little facts that he said every schoolgirl and boy
ought to know, though Martine had to admit that if she had ever known
these things, they were now half forgotten. Priscilla modestly concealed
her own store of information, but Martine, remembering how eagerly her
friend had drunk in all that Amy and Balfour had had to tell the summer
before about the English and the Acadians in Nova Scotia, knew that
Priscilla was probably hardly second to Mr. Stacy in her knowledge of
Puritan history.
"Oh, please, Mr. Stacy, tell us one of your witch stories," demanded
Marcus, as they sat around the blazing fire.
"A witch story! Do you wish me to frighten the young lady from Chicago?"
"A witch story!" repeated Martine; "why, I thought the witches were only
in Salem. I supposed people down here were too sensible to believe in
witches."
"Few localities are so sensible as to escape all delusion. A vague
belief in evil spirits and witches existed in all the colonies even
well-through the eighteenth century, although the witchcraft persecution
was of comparatively short duration."
"I don't care for witchcraft stories," said Priscilla, quietly.
"Well, well!" cried Mr. Stacy, smiling; "between two fires, what shall I
do? Mrs. Danforth, you must be umpire."
"Tell them one little unexciting witch story," replied Mrs. Danforth.
"Priscilla is too old to be troubled by bad dreams, at least from so
small a cause."
"It isn't that," protested staid Priscilla, "only witch stories are so
silly."
"Oh, if that's the only thing against them," cried Martine, "please tell
me as many as you can. I love silly things--sometimes. So please tell us
a story, Mr. Stacy."
"Really," rejoined Mr. Stacy, "I should hardly know what to say, if the
rules of hospitality did not provide me with an excuse. It is fair, I
imagine, to regard Miss Martine as a guest of Plymouth in general, as
well as of the Danforth family in particular, therefore, fair lady, I
yield to your demand. But what I am going to tell you is neither very
exciting, nor very silly. It merely shows how recently in this corner of
the globe the plain people retained some of the mediaeval belief in
witches. For I knew a man who in his youth knew a man who believed this
story. On the outskirts of Plymouth once lived an old woman whom people
called a witch, and once when she was calling at a certain house, Jenny,
a girl of twelve, placed the broom with which she was sweeping, under
Aunt Nabby's chair. Aunt Nabby was the reputed witch, and if you know
anything about witches, you must know that to offer one a broomstick can
only be regarded as an insult. So in this case Aunt Nabby, when she
perceived what Jenny had done, rose in anger, and vowed that she would
get even with Jenny and her family."
"Did she?" asked George, who was always over-anxious to hear the
conclusion of a story.
"Wait," replied Mr. Stacy, "you will soon hear. In a day or two Jenny
became very ill, and the old country doctor could not tell what the
matter was. She seemed to be fading away. 'Perhaps Aunt Nabby has
something to do with it,' said poor Mrs. Bonsal, Jenny's mother; and
then the doctor, asking what was meant, heard the story of the
broomstick. 'Go, John Bonsal,' he said to Jenny's father, 'go to Aunt
Nabby's, and find out what she is up to.' When John Bonsal reached Aunt
Nabby's house, there was no one in the kitchen but her big black cat,
whom some people thought her assistant in evil doing. So John Bonsal
went down by the brook, where he found Aunt Nabby so much occupied that
she hardly looked up at his approach."
"What was she doing?" asked George.
"Hush," cried Marcus; "listen, and you will find out."
"Well," continued Mr. Stacy, "Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little
dolls of clay that she moulded into shape with water from the brook.
When she finished these figures or dolls, she stuck a pin or two into
them, and John Bonsal understood at once that by means of these dolls
she was working a charm on poor Jenny that in time would cause her
death, unless he could stop the doll-making. Upon this the angry father
raised the horsewhip that he carried in his hand, and thrashed Nabby
with might and main. As she cried for mercy, he told her that she should
be burned as a witch unless she promised to remove the spell that she
had cast over his daughter. At first she refused, but at last she
promised. 'Your Jenny shall get well,' she cried, 'and I will work no
more charms.' Upon this the big black cat that had followed John Bonsal
from the house gave a great howl, and vanished completely from sight."
[Illustration: "Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay."]
"Where did he go?" asked George.
"Down to the centre of the earth, probably," replied Mr. Stacy,
solemnly. "But it's more to the point that Jenny recovered, and Aunt
Nabby was never again known to carry on any of her witcheries."
"Thank you, thank you," cried all the circle, except Priscilla, who
still looked as if she thought stories of this kind rather silly.
"Mamma," cried Lucy, after a moment's pause, as if she, too, shared
Priscilla's feeling, "let us have something more sensible than witch
stories."
"Let us have a charade--you said you had found one in an old book that
you would give us."
Mrs. Danforth looked at the clock. "There is just time for one before
you go to bed," she said, "and so I will give you the old one you speak
of."
George and Lucy clapped their hands with delight. They were fond of
guessing-games, particularly when their mother played with them.
"I must tell you," said Mrs. Danforth, picking up a book from the table,
"that this is a very short one and must be guessed within five minutes
after I have read it." Whereupon she read slowly:
"'Just where the heavens grew blue and high,
My first that was so pure and bright,
Ere it could rise into the sky,
Passed in my second out of sight;
Before it vanished from the earth
My whole rose through it at their birth.'"
"Only five minutes!" complained George; "I don't think that's long
enough. I didn't understand what the first was."
Patiently Mrs. Danforth read the first two lines, then the second, and
finally, at Lucy's request, the last.
"I have it," cried Marcus, before three minutes had passed.
"Can't we have five minutes more? I know I could guess it, if we had
time enough."
"You never guess anything, George, no matter how much time there is,"
exclaimed Marcus.
"Neither does Priscilla," rejoined George; "but if we had more time--"
"Six minutes have passed; you see I have given more than the allotted
time," called Mrs. Danforth at last.
"What did you make it, Marcus?"
"Snowballs!" cried Marcus, triumphantly.
"Oh, no!" protested Lucy; "how could it be 'snowballs?' What is yours,
Miss Martine?"
Martine handed a slip of paper to Lucy on which she had written a word.
"Yes, yes, that is it. Snowdrops, that is right, isn't it, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear; it is almost too simple a charade to set before our
guest. It would have been harder to guess if we had tried to act it.
Perhaps to-morrow we can act charades."
When the younger children had gone to bed, Martine enjoyed the quiet
hour with Priscilla and Mrs. Danforth and Mr. Stacy.
"I had no idea Plymouth could be so interesting," she said. "I feel that
my two or three more days will not be enough for all that I wish to
see."
Nevertheless, Martine spent less time in actual sight-seeing than at
first she had planned. The second day of her stay was so warm and
springlike, that all voted for a mayflower picnic in the beautiful
Plymouth woods. The next day was rainy--a genuine southerly storm, and
no one cared to venture out.
"In town neither of us would think of staying in simply on account of a
storm," protested Martine.
"I know it," responded Priscilla, lazily curling herself up in a corner
of the big settle before the open fire. "But this is vacation, and
home," she concluded, "and we can't behave just as we would in the
city."
Finally, on the fourth day of their stay, under the guidance of Mr.
Stacy, the two went up to Burial Hill.
"You won't care if I do not pretend to be awfully interested in the
epitaphs," said Martine, frankly. "I wish that Amy were here. She loves
old graveyards and inscriptions and everything that has a scrap of
history. Now I am fond of funny epitaphs, and I love--oh, what a
beautiful view!"
"I am glad that Burial Hill has something of interest to offer you. Even
in Plymouth we call this a fine view. Generally, we try to be modest
about our possessions, but this really is worth praising."
"It is wonderful!" and Martine gazed in admiration at the expanse of
blue water that stretched far, far to the East, with only the tiny
Clark's Island to break its continuity.
"It looks almost like a toy town," she added, gazing down at the houses
and spires of the old town seeming to nestle at the foot of the hill.
"Those woods toward the West are where the Indians used to lurk, and you
can see how wise our forefathers were in placing their fort here near
the summit of the hill. You remember, probably, that it was a wooden
building made of sawed planks, but the six cannon mounted for its
defence made it really formidable to the Indians. From this point the
defenders of the town could quickly discover the approach of the enemy.
For a time, too, the fort was used as a church."
"That is why they used the hill as a burying-place, I suppose."
"Well, oddly enough, the founders of Plymouth were not buried here.
Undoubtedly, the first settlers buried their dead near their dwellings.
No stones mark the resting-place of most of the Mayflower passengers.
There are memorials to many of them put up in later generations here on
Burial Hill by their descendants, and two or three who lived to an
advanced age, like John Howland, are buried here. But the earliest
gravestone on the hill is that of Edward Gray, who died in 1681."
Priscilla, browsing among the stones, returned to Martine with a shade
of disappointment on her face.
"I am really sorry, but I cannot find a single absurd stone. Some are
rather quaint, but there are no amusing epitaphs, at least, of the kind
you like, Martine. Often as I've been here, I have never looked for that
special kind of thing before, but now that I have made you a true
report, we might as well turn down toward Memorial Hall."
"Thank you, Priscilla, I hope Mr. Stacy will not think that I care only
for entertaining things that make one laugh. I have been more impressed
by this old burying-ground than by any other I have ever visited. There
is certainly something in the atmosphere that carries one back to the
past. If there were anything here to laugh at I couldn't laugh." And
silently and reverently Martine followed her friends down the hill into
the quiet streets of the little town.
"Now for Pilgrim Hall," said Mr. Stacy, as they walked along the Main
Street.
"And what shall we see there?" asked Martine.
"Oh, relics of all kinds--driftwood of the past--some things that will
move you to tears, and others that may make you smile."
"Old furniture, I suppose. There are several shiploads of Mayflower
furniture scattered through the country, and naturally I would look for
a little of it here in Plymouth."
"It would almost seem as if you had been reading my favorite Holmes,"
rejoined Mr. Stacy. "You perhaps recall his verses about the old
punch-bowl that--
"'--Left the Dutchman's shore
With those that in the Mayflower came--a hundred souls and more
Along with all the furniture to fill their new abodes--
To judge by what is still on hand--at least a hundred loads.'"
"I am not sure," replied Martine, "whether I have heard those particular
lines, though the poet's sentiments are mine. Sometimes I wonder if the
Pilgrims brought any furniture with them. Or if the things they brought
could have lasted through the centuries."
"You will soon be able to judge for yourself. I think you can safely
believe in most of the specimens that you see here. At any rate, we
people of Plymouth have believed in them so long that they have acquired
a certain sanctity."
When they were at last within the dignified hall, Priscilla and Martine
flitted about from object to object, the latter asking questions, the
former answering them, while Mr. Stacy in one or two instances had to
act as umpire.
A chair once owned by Governor Carver, and another brought by William
Brewster in the Mayflower, were accepted by Martine without question,
and she was equally interested in a cabinet also brought over in the
Mayflower by the father of Peregrine White.
"Priscilla," she cried, "your ancestor, John Alden, was particularly
generous in his bequests. Here's his Bible, and an autograph of his that
must be genuine because it is so hard to read. It seems to me that the
Aldens and the Winslows have done well by this exhibition. Isn't this an
odd ring, and do you really imagine it was once worn by Governor Edward
Winslow?"
"Why, yes," replied Priscilla, "I believe it, if that is what the
placard says." And she drew nearer to read the card that was placed
beside the ring.
"The sword of Myles Standish! What a story it could tell! Really,
Priscilla, these things have a wonderful power of calling up the
past--and this little piece of embroidery, just look at the date. It is
more than three hundred and fifty years old, and some of the silk
threads have kept their colors."
"Please read the verse in the corner," urged Priscilla. "Even when I was
a very small girl I used to stand here, and call up pictures of the
little Lorena."
As Priscilla finished her sentence, Martine began to repeat the lines
embroidered in the old sampler--for such the bit of work must have been.
"'Lorena Standish is my name,
Lord, guide my heart that I may do Thy will,
Also fill my hands with such convenient skill
As will conduce to virtue devoid of shame,
And I will give the glory to Thy name.'
"It is touching," said Martine.
"A true Puritan maiden," commented Mr. Stacy, approaching the girls.
"But come, you cannot linger too long over any one thing, however
interesting. I will not blame you if you pass quickly by the Florida
bones, and the Indian relics, and other so-called curiosities that
hardly belong in Pilgrim Hall. But there are a number of autographs and
old books that I wish to explain to you, and you must study carefully
Weir's beautiful painting, 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' and
Charles Lucy's magnificent 'Departure of the Pilgrims.'"
The pictures held Martine's attention for a long time, and when at last
she left the hall, she had a new and tenderer feeling for Plymouth.
"If ever I have time," she murmured in a laughing aside to Mr. Stacy, "I
will try to hunt up some Mayflower ancestors, for I can't let Priscilla
continue to be so superior to me in this respect."
"Indeed, I don't feel superior," said Priscilla, "but I can't tell you
how pleased I am, Martine, that you have stopped making fun of Plymouth
and the Pilgrims."
"Dear Prissie, you should not take things so seriously. My fun was only
fun, and you were too ready to take it in as earnest."
Martine from the first had no trouble in winning the affection of all
the Danforths. George and Marcus struggled for the first place in her
affections, and Lucy admitted that she loved her next to her mother and
Priscilla. Martine made other friends in Plymouth besides the members of
the Danforth family. A number of Mrs. Danforth's special friends called
on her, and at an informal tea-party she met all the young people whom
Priscilla cared for especially.
"Every one seems to have heard of me, I am awfully pleased that you
should have talked to people about me, but why am I called a 'heroine'?
Three people have said to me, 'We are so pleased to meet the young
heroine we have heard so much about.' What do they mean?"
"It's the fire," cried Lucy. "Priscilla told us not to say too much to
you about it, because you were so modest, but everybody knows how brave
you were to pull Priscilla out of the burning house."
"The burning house? Oh, at Windsor; but I didn't pull her out. There
wasn't the least danger, and I only tapped at the door. Why, I had
almost forgotten about it. It was nothing at all, so far as I was
concerned."
But Lucy only shook her head, as she repeated shyly, "But we think you a
heroine all the same." Nor could any words of Martine's have made her
change her mind. Had she not always been taught that the truly great
were modest? Martine's very denials were a strong evidence that she was
truly great.
There was nothing, therefore, for Martine to do but accept the place on
the pedestal where they put her.
In spite of this idealizing, however, Priscilla's younger friends were
not afraid of Martine. If they had felt any awe before they saw her it
immediately passed away when they had looked into her frank brown eyes,
and had heard the clear notes of her ringing laugh.
Pleasanter even than the tea-party to Martine was the second evening
that Mr. Stacy spent with her and Priscilla.
"Everything that you haven't told me before about Plymouth and its early
days you must tell me now," Martine had said. "When I go back to Boston
I wish to astonish my brother by my display of historical knowledge. I
am sure that he doesn't know the difference between a Puritan and a
Pilgrim, which you have so carefully explained to me, Mr. Stacy; and
there are fifty other things that I shall spring on him, and mortify him
to death, for Lucian thinks that he knows a lot of history, but as far
as I can make out he hasn't got far beyond Charlemagne in his two years
at Harvard."
"Yet he went to school first?" asked Mr. Stacy, quizzically.
"Yes, but everyone knows that boys in the fitting schools remember as
little as they can of American history--although," with an afterthought,
"I will admit that Lucian did take an interest last summer in the
English and Acadian history of Nova Scotia."
This mention of Acadia suggested various questions to Mr. Stacy, and
soon Martine had plunged into a vivid account of their experiences of
the preceding summer.
"I have heard part of this before from the lips of Priscilla," said Mr.
Stacy, "and her description of the various protegees gathered in by your
party interested me greatly. I know that she has not forgotten Eunice,
and, indeed, we all expect to see the little Annapolis girl in Plymouth
before many summers have passed. But what about Yvonne and Pierre, who
on the whole interest me rather more than Eunice--as much, perhaps,
because of their infirmities as on account of their foreign blood?"
"As to Pierre," responded Martine, "Amy hears from him regularly, and he
is very happy this winter in his work. A little money that was given him
last autumn (Martine did not mention that this was her father's generous
gift) has enabled him to have regular drawing lessons from a good
teacher to whom he goes twice a week at Yarmouth. He insisted in using
part of the money for his mother, and, like all Acadians, she seems to
have spent it very thriftily."
"But what of Yvonne? she, I believe, is your especial pet."
"Oh, Yvonne, too, has had a little money to spend, and so the Babets
have let her board with friends at Annapolis. Her eyes have had some
attention from a good doctor, and she has been taking music lessons. I
was hoping to arrange to have Alexander Babet bring Yvonne to Boston for
treatment by a specialist, but for the present I have to wait."
Here Martine sighed a deep sigh. This allusion to Yvonne reminded her of
her father and his caution about economy. "I wonder if we shall always
have to economize and give up the things we wish to do. Mother talked
about economy when I spoke of inviting Priscilla to go to New York. I
wonder--" and then a question from Mr. Stacy recalled Martine's
wandering thoughts.
"You scold me sometimes for being absent-minded," said Priscilla, "but
we spoke to you three times before you heard."
"I was only thinking, Prissie," responded Martine; "and I can't do two
things at the same time--listen and think."
Martine at last said good-bye to Plymouth with genuine regret--for
Plymouth people at least, and for the Danforth family in particular.
"New York wouldn't have been half as much fun," she said as the train
steamed out of the station, "because I know it so well."
Priscilla, who had not heard of Martine's New York plan, did not
understand her friend's allusion; and as Martine made no further
explanation, she had no opportunity for discontent--if the loss of a
trip to New York would have made her discontented.