THE MINISTER’S SPINNING-BEE.
The minister’s spinning-bee created a world of wholesome excitement in
Norwich; every household was awake and in action. Men and women who had
half grudgingly laid out a portion of their goods in the beginning, grew
more and more liberal as the general enthusiasm increased, and doubled
their gifts cheerfully when the time for decision came.
Up to the last day, and late at night, spinning-wheels were in full run,
and the buzz of spindles and whirr of flyers, filled the calm stillness
long after the neighborhood was usually in bed.
There was something refreshing and genial in all this stir of
benevolence, which we of the nineteenth century can never know; for that
excitement which springs from good hearts, and looks to heaven for its
fruition, has sunk into a dull leaden sort of duty in these days. Men
would smile were we to speak of them in connection with recreation and
amusement. But in the old times when going out to tea, once a month, was
considered relaxation enough for a respectable family, and a quilting
frolic partook of dissipation, this church-gathering had the zest of a
great festival,—a festival in which all shared as guests, and all
figured as hosts and hostesses.
In a neighborhood where respectable people went to bed, with religious
punctuality, at nine o’clock, and children were invariably housed at
sunset, a festival of this importance must commence in the afternoon;
for it was an unusual approach toward bad habits when the solemn
hilarity extended into the dark hours.
Thus, directly after the general twelve-o’clock dinner, preparations
commenced in each household for the minister’s gathering. Wagons,
wheeled from under their sheds, were filled with splint-bottomed chairs
for the elders, and milking-stools for the little folks. In some
instances plain boards were passed from one side of the conveyance to
the other, forming rude benches, on which whole families were to be
crowded in rows and jolted cosily to town.
In-doors there was a general commotion,—a rushing to and fro for Sunday
clothes. Combs and brushes flew from hand to hand; there was a continual
splash of water in the back porches; while two or three laid claim to
each wash-bowl at once; and every crash towel in the neighborhood made
constant evolutions on their rollers behind the door, as newly-washed
claimants seized upon them. Children forgot to cry when the tangles were
combed out of their elf locks; and pretty girls plumed themselves like
birds before the tiny looking-glasses, garlanded with birds’ eggs, which
hung in the out-room, or best corner of every dwelling.
An hour later, and you could scarcely see a wreath of smoke from any
chimney within sight of Norwich. Ashes were raked over the embers of
every hearth: the latch-string was drawn in at the cabin doors: and the
hush of still life hung around each farm and homestead.
But there was bustle and clatter enough along the roads leading
townward. Cheerful voices, free ringing mirth, and sometimes shouts of
laughter, resounded from wagon to wagon as one passed another, or
struggled to keep up. This innocent riot came from the rear of each
wagon, where the youngsters were located. Sometimes it was sternly
checked by the head of the concern, who could not help being impressed
by this rare holiday as if it had been the Sabbath; but the mirth was
sure to break out again in titters and gurgling bursts of laughter, at
which the grim father would half-smile as it gradually dawned upon him
that merriment, on this occasion, was seemly, and, in due bounds, to be
forgiven.
Thus the bright day was cheerful with rattling wheels, tramping horses,
and human joyousness, as the church-members gathered around their
clergyman. For that one day the minister could hardly be considered as
the master of his own house, but rather as an honored guest, in whom
each member held a certain amount of very precious property. His wife, a
fair and faded woman, who reverenced her husband as a saint, and loved
her children with more of devotion than her strict ideas of worship
should have permitted, for this one day shared his glory without stint.
The throng of active, listening women that filled her house, persisted
in lifting her on the same pedestal with her helpmate, there to be
caressed and waited upon.
For one day that dwelling was in the hands of the Church. The walls of
each room were draped with evergreens and blossoming branches; the white
curtains were garlanded back from the windows; the heavy beams that ran
across each ceiling became massive wreaths glowing with flowers. Back of
the house, a fine apple-orchard covered one of those natural terraces
which make the city of Norwich so beautiful. Here the birds were singing
vigorously, and hopping from limb to limb in a state of melodious
excitement. They seemed to understand that a scene of that kind was not
to be witnessed every day of the year, and resolved to make the most of
it.
Wagon after wagon was unloaded before the minister’s dwelling for an
hour or so after the female committee had taken possession. First, the
women and children descended, or were lifted to the ground; then baskets
were dragged out from under the seats and handed carefully to the
deacons, who muttered deep thanksgiving for each gift as it came. It was
wonderful, the variety of offerings presented at that door: masses of
broadside pork, dripping with the brine from which they had been taken;
sacks of potatoes, pots of butter and fine round cheeses; jars of
preserves, rich with a taste of maple sugar, appeared. Then came
chickens, with their legs tied together and struggling to be free;
sucking pigs shackled in like manner, but taking their thraldom
philosophically, rooting in the bottom of the wagon when let alone, and
only giving out a shrill squeal or two when pressed under the deacon’s
arm, in a state of active transmigration to the minister’s pig-pen.
Before sunset the minister was indeed blessed “in his basket and his
store.” His cellar was teeming with provisions; quantities of yarn lay
heaped in the garret; strange hens cackled around the house, calling for
mates that remained in the distant barn-yards; a roll of new rag carpet
stood in the passage. Indeed, the kind generosity of his brethren was
visible everywhere.
Among the last that drove up that day was Leonard and his family. Two
milk-pails, covered with homespun napkins white as snow, were lifted
from the wagon; then came a little bundle of yarn, such as the delicate
fingers of Amy alone could spin; and at last appeared from under the
front seat a bright, new milk-pan, from which the contents rounded up
like an Indian mound, but could only be guessed at from under the glossy
linen pinned smoothly over it.
When all these valuables were lifted to the ground, Mrs. Leonard shook
out the skirt of her chintz dress, and cast a look of righteous defiance
around as she followed her husband into the house. She had seen the
pails carried in, and stood waiting till the milk-pan was circled by his
arms: then she took her line of march into the room in which the
supper-table was laid out.
The women, who composed the committee of arrangements, were busy about
the table, arranging the various dishes and scattering glassesfull of
flowers among them. There was a slight bustle when Mrs. Leonard came in,
with her face in a glow, and her vigilant eyes searching the glances
that invariably recoiled from hers.
“Here,” she said, unpinning the napkin, and lifting it between her thumb
and finger, while an enormous chicken-pie was revealed swelling up from
the pan,—“here is a little of something for the table, sisters. Perhaps
I expected that some of you might have given me an idea of what would be
wanted most. You may have a dozen nicer pies than this; but it ain’t my
fault, anyhow.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Leonard gave a triumphant glance over the table. Two
or three pies were certainly there, but none with that faultless curve
of crust, or the delicate bordering of keywork on the edge. In their
flat foundations they looked mean and common-place by the side of her
portly offering.
“It isn’t any thing to boast of, I own that,” she said, glowing all over
with her triumph; “but perhaps they’ll manage to worry it down if they
get right hungry. Then you’ll find some doughnuts and what not in the
pails; but that’s of no consequence,” she added, giving her plump hand a
magnificent wave towards the milk-pails. “When one isn’t consulted about
things it’s difficult knowing what to fix up. When we had a bee in this
house before, I reckon folks knew what was wanted without being left to
guess at it.”
The sisters of the committee looked askance at the mammoth pie and at
each other. There was evidently something wrong about Mrs. Leonard or
her contribution, which they did not feel quite capable of managing. Her
own self-praise took them by surprise.
Finally, a gentle-voiced woman came forward and removed the pie to the
head of the table, where the minister was to preside. Then, with a quiet
glance at the sisters, she gathered up the glasses and broken mugs
filled with flowers and placed them around it, forming a pavilion of
flowers under which the mammoth pastry swelled up with luscious
richness.
This took Mrs. Leonard by surprise; the color mounted to her forehead,
and her plump lips began to quiver.
“Amy has a little present, too,” she said, striving to hide the
hysterical emotion that was sending tears to her eyes. “There may be
finer yarn than she has spun for the minister brought in; but I can’t
quite believe it without seeing. You’ll find the bundle marked A. L. in
the entry-way. But, Amy, daughter Amy, jest bring the diaper in here.
Won’t you, Amy?”
She waited a little with her eyes on the door; but it was some minutes
before Amy Leonard came in, with a parcel in her hand.
“Here,” said Mrs. Leonard; “here is something that I defy anybody to say
isn’t worth while. If I was on the committee, as I was years and years
before this, my opinion’d be worth something, maybe; but as it is, I
reckon you’ll find it tough work to match this ere piece of diaper in
all Norwich, to say nothing of the hull State of Connecticut.
Look-a-here now, if you please, every inch of it spun, and wove, and
hetcheled, and carded by Amy’s own hands. There!”
Mrs. Leonard had broken off now and then, to bite at the string which
held the parcel that she took eagerly from her daughter, and began to
unfold. When the last emphatic word left her lips, a square of pure
linen fluttered out from her two hands and fell over the back of a
chair, white and glossy as crusted snow.
“Yes, ladies, look: it’ll bear examining; the pattern is ‘doors and
winders;’ the linen,—but then you have eyes and can see what that is for
yourselves. The flax was raised in our home-lot at the back-door. When
it was all in bloom, Amy used to look out and watch it a-bending under
the wind, while the blue flowers went twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, in the
sunshine, and the long, green stalks bent altogether in waves just as
the water sweeps over a mill-dam. You never did see such flax! some of
it was a full yard and a-quarter long; and _so_ thick. Well, that sort
of put the idea in my head; the blue flowers always brought up Amy’s
eyes when she said her prayers at my knee; they looked up to heaven in
the same innocent way. The poor girl has been a good deal out of sorts
since then. I took an idea that she should weave some of that flax for
the sarvice of the Lord; she shirked up when I mentioned it; and when
Leonard got in the flax, the choice handfuls were laid aside for Amy. I
raly think the child hasn’t smiled right heartily since last fall,
except when she was doing this work. And now, that it’s all spread out
afore you, ain’t this a cloth that will set out the table on communion
days with edification to the members?”
Mrs. Leonard had capped the climax of her triumph here, and stood
holding up a corner of the cloth daintily between her thumb and finger,
challenging the whole society with her eyes to produce any thing like
that. Amy had shrunk back, blushing painfully as the ladies of the
committee turned their eyes from her mother to her, uncertain how to act
or what to say. But at last the housewifely love of good linen overcame
all other feelings. They gathered around the table-cloth, examined its
texture, its whiteness, and its fringed edges, headed with triple rows
of hemstitch, which made it the most perfect specimen of “home-made”
that they had ever seen.
“It’s a lovely piece of work, Mrs. Leonard, no wonder you are proud of
it,” said the gentle sister, who had taken such generous charge of the
pie.
“Proud! me, proud! Oh, nothing like it!” cried Mrs. Leonard, smoothing
down her dress, as if it had been plumage on which too much sunshine was
falling. “It’s only a humble offering, with good wishes wove in like a
pattern, and whitened with dew, which, as the minister said, ‘falls like
charity, and works, you can’t see how, but like a blessing in the end.’
When that ’ere cloth is spread out on the communion-table, sisters, and
the unleavened bread is set out on it, with pure wine in the silver
tankard, then, sisters, perhaps you’ll be called on to remember one as
has stood amongst you breast to breast, and worked hand to hand in every
committee till this, when she’s forgotten and left out; not knowing why,
and—and——”
Here the good woman broke down, for her eyes and voice were so full of
tears that she could not utter another word.
The women who were examining the communion-cloth looked at each other
perplexed, and a little conscience-stricken; while Amy drew close to her
mother, and stood with one hand slightly grasping the skirt of her dress
as if wishing to draw her away. Without looking directly at her, the
women knew that she was pale, and that her hand trembled like a leaf in
its hold on the dress.
“Mother, oh, mother!” whispered the poor girl.
“Never mind,” cried Mrs. Leonard, winking the tears away with a quick
motion of the eyelids, and lifting her head with a prompt resumption of
dignity,—“never mind, daughter, it isn’t no shame to have
feelings,—quite the contrary; but those as hasn’t any to be troubled
with mayn’t understand ’em: so you’re right. Perhaps the committee will
tell us if your humble present’ll be acceptable?”
The women laid down the table cloth at this, and looked at one another
without speaking a word.
Then the same gentle Christian who had twice before shed her grace upon
the scene, came forward, and, taking the cloth, began to fold it.
“It is a free gift to the Lord,” she said, looking upon her sisters with
sweet gravity: “pure and beautiful, as sister Leonard says. It reminds
us of old ties, and that all our acts should be done mercifully and in
charity to each other. Amy Leonard, we thank you for this proof that you
have not forsaken the society.”
“I!” gasped Amy, “I! No, no.”
She was so white, and the look in her eyes so appealing, that a
sentiment of womanly compassion arose in the hearts of the committee.
Then they murmured the thanks that had been withheld so long for what
was certainly the most beautiful gift brought to the gathering that day.
Amy heard them with a crimson cheek and drooping eyes; while Mrs.
Leonard, ashamed of that outbreak of tears which had revealed the
mortification at her heart, turned away, and went in search of some one
whom she knew outside of the committee, whose demeanor was, on second
thought, both strange and unsatisfactory to her frank nature. The looks
they had cast at rather than upon, Amy; the sort of compassionate way in
which her gifts had been received, had a meaning which she could not
fathom. She felt like an alien in the society of which she had been a
leading member for years.
Amy followed her mother in silence. Not a vestige of color was left on
her face; and she looked drearily around upon her old playmates and
friends, as if afraid of them.
The house being small, most of the minister’s guests made their way into
the orchard, where a carpet of the freshest grass lay invitingly beneath
the tent-like trees. It was a lovely sight, the thick, green foliage,
through which glimpses of the sky broke in gleams of azure and sunshine;
the fruit, just out of blossom, studding the leaves; and the riot of
bird-songs trembling up through the branches made it enchanting. Through
all this the guests wandered pleasantly, carrying their innocent
enjoyment everywhere, as the sons of Adam might have thronged Eden had
no sin driven them forth to work and suffer. Here and there whole
families were grouped beneath the branches: the women, in their scarlet
short cloaks and gorgeous dresses, forming pictures all unconsciously
from the natural positions into which they fell, and from a strong
contrast of colors: the men filling up each idea with their picturesque
strength.
As Mrs. Leonard and her daughter descended into the orchard, they saw
nothing but old friends and neighbors passing them, or grouped under the
trees; yet no one came near them; and, instead of the eager gestures by
which others were invited to join this party or another, they were
permitted to walk down the footpath to its termination without being
addressed by more than a distant inquiry after their health.
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Leonard, leaning against the rail-fence as they
reached the foot of the orchard,—“I wonder where Mrs. Arnold can be?
Have you seen Hannah anywhere about, Amy?”
“No, mother,” answered Amy, in a very low voice.
“Nor any of the Arnolds? That’s strange. I wish we could find some of
the old friends. Oh, here comes Hagar!”
Amy lifted her heavy eyes and saw Hagar in the next field, coming toward
the orchard, with a heavy basket on her arm. She saw Mrs. Leonard and
Amy by the fence, and made toward them.
“So heah you is, Miss Leonard, ’joying yerself like de rest on ’em.
Sakes alive! what a heap of people! Well, how do ye do to hum?”
Hagar made these inquiries while she lifted a basket, which she had
carried on her arm, to the fence, where she balanced it before
attempting to mount the rails.
“Now,” she said, descending on the other side, and setting her basket on
the grass, “I’m just tired out a-worrying along with this basket all the
way from hum. If it hadn’t been for the credit of the family I wouldn’t
a come, nohow.”
“But isn’t Miss Arnold a-coming?” questioned Mrs. Leonard.
Hagar drew close to her, and answered, in a low, confidential voice:
“I know you’re a friend to de family, Miss Leonard, and so I can speak
out, for once. Miss Arnold, nor Hannah, nor de old man, nor nobody, is
comin’ here ’cept myself; and I got away supersticiously. Dar dey are,
working ’way for dear life, just as if nothin’ was goin’ on. Don’t say a
word ’bout it, Miss Leonard, but de goin’s-on at de farm is enough to
break yer heart, and nobody seems ter mind it but me. Not a hank of yarn
nor a yard of cloth went out of dat house for de minister’s bee. No
butter, no nothin’. Gracious knows what hab come over de folks.
Everyting sold dat can be raked and scraped. Scrimping here, scrimping
dar, and all comin’ on at once. It’s no use. I can’t understand it.”
“Then Mrs. Arnold isn’t coming, Hagar?”
“No. She’s settin’ thar in de house, meek as Moses, allowin’ de hull
family to be disgraced, as it would be but for me; but all ’long I’ve
kinder ’spected what ed come, and took steps agin it. So when the eggs
came in from de barn, and de butter was put ’way to sell, I’ve kinder
took a little and hid away for dis ’casion.
“Last night I sot up and had a bakin’ all to myself, and de cullered
pusson as tinks it a pribilege to help me ’stain the character of de
family. So here’s a few biscuit and a crock of butter, wid a dozen eggs,
and a little jar of peach preserves, which de committee will just take
in and sabe us from ’tarnal disgrace. I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout it to
Miss Arnold, only axed to come ober and see how tings went on. But she
’spected, I reckon; for sez she, ‘Yes, Hagar; and gib de minister’s
family my best lub, and tell ’em dat our hearts are wid de society if we
ain’t dere in pusson.’ Den Hannah, she run up-stairs, and come down wid
some yarn socks as she’d been a-knitting, wid dese ere piller-cases, and
tow’ls, and sez she, ‘Hagar,’ sez she, ‘dese is mine, and dere can’t be
no harm in gibin’ ’em to de minister: it seems hard not to send any
ting.’ Den I jest lifted de kiver from dis ’ere basket and gib her a
peep, at which she shook her head, blushing up; and, sez she, ‘Oh,
Hagar!’ and says I, ‘Trust one pusson to take care of de repertation of
dis old homestead. It ain’t a-goin’ to sink no lower now, I tell yer.’”
“But what is it all about?” inquired Mrs. Leonard, surprised by this
insight into the management of her neighbor’s household. “What has
happened? Mr. Arnold is well to do in the world. Why shouldn’t he——”
“Oh, don’t ax nothin’ of me!” cried Hagar, breaking in with a wave of
the hand. “My ‘pinyun is, dat when you choke off one wickedness,
somepin’ mean and sneakin’ is sartin to creep inter its place. I say
nothin’; but if a man must drink or scrimp, let him drink,—let him
drink.”
“But you have done pretty well, Hagar,” said Amy, putting in her gentle
voice, and lifting her sweet eyes to the face of her old friend. “Nobody
can complain that you have not brought enough, especially with dear
Hannah’s linen.”
“Yes, young missus, dar it is. But why should dat chile be ‘bliged to
gib up dem beautiful piller-cases as was sot aside for her settin’ out,
only ’cause every ting is sold out of de house afore it comes in? Miss
Arnold was raally cut up ’bout it, and sez she, ‘Hannah, dat linen has
been in de family so long, hadn’t you better tink it over a little?’ I
raally felt sorry for de missus when she said dis, she seemed so
down-hearted; but, Hannah, she blushed like a rosy, and sez she,
“‘Never mind, mudder, it won’t be of much consekence, you know. Any
settin’ out I can hab isn’t likely to count wid him.’
“I ‘clare, Miss Leonard, you neber seen a face so red as hers was when
she gib her mudder dis answer; a hollyhock’s nothin’ to it.”
“But who did she mean, Hagar? Who could she mean by he?” cried Mrs.
Leonard, eagerly, plunging with all her soul into the gossip with which
the slave was ripe.
“Who! why goodness gracious! Who but he dat is ridin’ along de road
yonder as independent as a wood-sawyer. Did you eber! Speak ob de
debble, and he’s sartin to come,—dat’s a Scripter sayin’, and de truf,
if truf eber was preached. Yes, dar he turns up de road to de
homestead,—yes, yes; he’s ’ginning to canter now, in a mighty hurry to
get dar; and she wid nothin’ but her ruffled short-gown and blue
petticoat on. Oh, massy, what a fuss dar will be!”
As Mrs. Leonard and Amy turned their eyes down the road where a horseman
was riding, full gallop, towards the Arnold farm, Hagar gathered up her
basket and marched off towards the house, muttering,
“What a fix dey will be in! nothin’ ready, and Hagar gone. Well, I’ll
just ’deem de character ob de family as I ’longs to, and go hum. Sure
’nuff, she looks purty as a pink in dat white short-gown; and mebby
she’ll see him a-comin’ time enough to slick up in her best: but when
dis chile is ’way from hum, dar’s no calkerlating what may turn up.”
“Who is it?” inquired Mrs. Leonard, looking after the horseman. “Who can
it be? Not Benedict!”
A scream almost broke from Amy’s lips. She clung to the fence, holding
herself up by both hands, and searching the road with her great, wild
eyes.
“No!” she said, dropping down to the grass again with a sigh that was
half a moan. “It—it is the French gentleman.”
“Now,” exclaimed Mrs. Leonard, glowing proudly with a new
discovery,—“now I’ll bet two cookies, that I understand the whole thing.
The Frenchman is arter Hannah Arnold, and that’s what kept him and his
sister so long at the farm last winter. I knew from the fust there was
nothing between him and the gal, or her feathers. What fools we have
been not to think of this long ago!”
“Do you think so, mother?” said Amy, with a wild light in her eyes.
“Do I think so! Why, isn’t it as clear as crystal? The Frenchman is rich
as all out-doors, and that would be enough for Ben, who loves money
better than his life. Besides, that accounts for all the pinching and
saving that Hagar tells about. The Arnolds want to give their only
daughter a setting-out worth while, and I like ’em for it. These French
people shouldn’t have all the glory on their side.”
“Mother, this man will have seen Benedict. He—he can tell us something,”
said Amy, grasping nervously at her mother’s dress. “We shall hear,—we
shall be sure to hear.”
“Yes, yes; we’ll ride round that way and have a chat with the Arnolds.”
“You and father,—yes, that will be best. But I will walk towards home.”
“No. What would be the use? You that can’t walk a rod without getting
out of breath.”
“But, mother, I cannot go to the farm!”
“Well, well, your father will manage it in the morning for us. There’s
no hurry.”
Amy gasped for breath, evidently unable to utter the wishes that
struggled in her bosom.
“Come, come. Don’t look so down-hearted,” said the mother, cheerfully.
“Perhaps we’ll all go over to tea while he’s here.”
A low moan broke from Amy’s lips, but she did not speak again; and her
mother moved on quite unconscious of the agitation that shook that young
frame and blanched her face till it was sad to look upon.