CABIN-KEEPING.
“There is probation to decree,
Many and long must the trials be;
Thou shalt victoriously endure,
If that brow is true and those eyes are sure.”—_Browning._
A night’s undisturbed repose restored Rosalie’s exhausted nervous
energy. The young couple arose early in the morning to begin their first
day of house, or rather _cabin_-keeping, for the difference of style
requires a difference of term. They had anticipated toil and privation,
and had thought they were prepared to meet them. But it is one thing to
think in a general way about work and want, and quite another to feel
them in all their irritating and exhausting details; and the first day
of housekeeping in the forest log cabin taught them this difference.
They had no garden, no cow, no poultry, and there was no market where to
procure the necessaries that these should have supplied. Everything that
could be bought at the village shops had been provided; yet their first
breakfast consisted of coffee without cream or milk, and biscuits
without butter. But mutual love, and hope, and trust, sweetened the
meal, and even their little privations furnished matters of jest. And
when breakfast was over, and Mark was preparing to bid his “little
sweetheart,” as he called her, farewell for the day, and promising to
return by four o’clock, she gaily asked him what he would _like_ for
dinner, and he replied by ordering a bill of fare, that _might_ have
been furnished by some famous Eastern or European hotel. Suddenly, in
the midst of their merriment, she thought of the wolves and trembled—yet
restrained the expression of her fears. But the eye of affection read
her thoughts, and Mark hastened to assure her that there was no more to
dread—that the cabin was the last place on earth that the same animals
would seek again—that they would not come within sight of its smoking
chimney. Her trust in his judgment and his truthfulness completely
reassured her doubting heart, and set it at perfect rest. And she let
him go to his business with a gay, glad smile.
She watched him winding up the little narrow path, and disappearing
among the trees, and then she turned into the house, to wash up the
breakfast service and set the room in order. It was a queer day—that
first one that she spent alone in her cabin. After arranging her corner
cupboard and sweeping her room, and making a few little alterations and
improvements in the disposition of her lighter furniture, she unpacked
her sewing materials and sat down in the door to needlework. The
primeval forest all around her, even up to the house, the blue sky
above, and the log cabin, in the door of which she sat, was all that met
the eye; the trilling songs of the wood birds, and the ripple-ripple of
the trickling spring in the deep dell near, was all that met the ear.
And yet she was not lonesome—she loved this solitude—the manifest
presence of God filled it, and heart and mind received the holy, the
elevating, the joyous influence. The day advanced—the sparkling
freshness of the morning mellowed into noon. And then she got up and
took a pitcher and went down to the spring, that seemed to have been
calling her in its merry voice all the morning. A narrow, steep path
down into the dingle led to the spring, and beyond it arose a high hill,
heavily wooded, like all the land about there. She filled her pitcher,
and returned to the house to take her lonely noontide luncheon. And
then, as the meridian sun was pouring its rays in at the door, which you
know faced the south, she removed her needlework to the west window, and
resumed her sewing. Day waned; nor was she conscious of its waning until
the burning sun began to glance in at her through the window where she
sat, and oblige her to take her work to the opposite one—smiling at the
conceit of being chased from place to place by Apollo. She sat at the
cool east window, until the striking of the clock warned her that it was
time to prepare the afternoon meal, which was to comprise “dinner and
supper together.” She arose, and put away her work. But what was there
to be got for dinner, after all? Tea without milk, bread without butter,
and salted beef without vegetables. A poor meal certainly to set before
an epicurean, such as Mr. Sutherland had been, for of _herself_ she
never thought.
Suddenly she recollected having seen some wild plum trees growing on the
hill beyond the spring, and she knew the fruit should now be ripe, and
she thought she would go and get some, to make a pie. No sooner thought
than attempted. She seized her bonnet, caught up a little basket, and
set out. She hastened down the dingle path, crossed the run, and climbed
the hill. She reached its summit, and stopped to breathe, and rest for a
moment. The sudden glory of the extended landscape held her spell-bound.
On one side of the forest—a boundless ocean of waving greenery—spreading
on and on, thousands of miles, for aught she knew, after it was lost
under the horizon. On the other side, the vast prairie, with its dotted
groves, like oases in desert, and in the distance the river, and the
village, and the opposite shore of Missouri Territory. For a few minutes
she stood in enchanted admiration; and then, remembering that she had no
time to lose, addressed herself to the errand upon which she came,
promising herself, after tea, when they should be at leisure, to return
with Mark, and view the landscape over by moonlight. The wild plum trees
furnished a rich harvest. She had only to shake the slight and graceful
shaft, and a shower of ripe fruit fell around her. She quickly filled
her basket; and then, with her girlish love of change, she returned to
the house by another way. By this little route through the thicket, she
observed, late as it was in the season, a profusion of wild raspberries,
of unusual size and richness. She stopped, in pleased surprise, to
gather them, and heaped them up on top of the plums, as many as the
basket would hold.
Delighted with these woodland treasures—such a delicious addition to her
frugal board—she returned to the cabin, and began to prepare their
evening meal. Rosalie had not superintended her uncle’s Virginia
farm-house for two years, to no purpose. She was a skilful little cook.
It was not much to prepare a meal twice a day, for two persons; besides,
her “good will was to it.” And I doubt if, in all the elegance and
luxury of her Southern home, she was ever gayer, gladder, _happier_,
than when preparing, with her own hands, this first little supper in her
log cabin. The meal was soon ready. The damask table linen and the
delicate china that adorned the table, and the fair girl that hovered
around it, I was about to say, were somewhat out of keeping with the
house. But that would not have been true; for there was nothing mean,
poor, or squalid, in the surroundings of the log cabin. It had a wild,
woodland air—there was as yet nothing to offend the most æsthetic taste.
The arrangement of the table was complete—the last things set upon it
being the delicate pastry and the cut-glass bowl of raspberries,
powdered with sugar. But, there was no cream or butter; and this was
Rosalie’s sole regret, as she gave a pleased glance at the whole effect,
and then went to each window, and put aside the muslin curtains to let
in the evening breeze, and the green woodland prospect. As she turned
from the window, she was startled by a thump upon the floor, and the
exclamation of—
“_There!_ she sent you _these_! And I wonder why you couldn’t o’ comed
arter them yourself!”
And with astonishment Rosalie saw standing in the room a large,
fair-complexioned, middle-aged man, clothed in coarse blue linen jacket
and trousers, with a waiter’s white apron tied before him. He had just
thumped on the floor a large basket filled with vegetables. He still
held in his hand a tin pail, with a tin pan covered upon the top of it.
“Who are you?” inquired she.
“_Billy._ Here’s the butter. Where am I to pour the milk?” said the man,
lifting the little pan that contained a pound print, and displaying half
a gallon of milk in the pail.
“Who sent these?” asked Rose, in surprise.
“_She!_ Can’t you empty the milk? I’ve got to carry the bucket back.”
“I am afraid there is some mistake,” said Rose, hesitating. “Who did you
say sent you?”
“_Her_, I tell you. I can’t stand here gablin’ all day.”
“But, my good friend, there is some error—these things were not sent to
me,” persisted Rosalie, looking longingly at the hard, sweet-smelling
butter, with the dew rising on it.
With no more ado, “Billy” marched up to the corner cupboard, seized a
knife, passed it under the print of butter, and deftly turned the print
out of the pan into a plate; next, he took up the pail and poured the
milk into a pitcher; finally, he went back and seized his basket, and
seeing nothing, to receive the vegetables, just turned it upside down
and shook them out upon the floor—and potatoes, cucumbers, onions,
tomatoes, &c., rolled in every direction. And “Billy” caught up his
empty pan and pail and pitched them into the basket, and hitched the
latter, with a jerk, upon his arm, and marched out of the door,
exclaiming—
“Now, for the futur’, mind, you must come arter ’em every day,
yourself—if they’re worth havin’ they’re worth comin’ for, an’ I’ve got
’nough to do for _her_, ’out trudgin’ over here every day for _you_. An’
I told her I wan’t agoin’ to do it, nuther,” &c., &c., &c.
For long after Billy was out of sight in the woods, Rosalie heard the
retreating sound of his grumbling. Full of wonder, she set about to
collect the fugitive potatoes, tomatoes, &c. She put them under the
lower shelf of her cupboard, and drew the short white curtain before
them; then she set the pitcher of rich milk and the plate of fresh
butter upon the table, much pleased with the unexpected luxury, but more
pleased to anticipate the surprise and pleasure of Mark. And all being
ready, she took her sewing, and sat in the door to watch for his coming.
She heard his footstep before she saw his form; and she closed the door
and ran up the woodland path to meet him. And soon their merry voices
and silvery laughter echoed through the forest, as they approached the
cabin. Rosalie had said nothing of her new luxuries; and when they
entered the cabin, and he threw a glance around, and dropped his eyes
upon the table, first of all he caught and kissed Rose again for her
affectionate care, and then, by his exclamations and questions,
exhibited all the surprise and satisfaction that the most exacting
little Rose could have desired. While they supped, Rosalie explained the
mystery of the plums and raspberries, and, after relating the visit of
Billy, requested an explanation of the other mystery, of the butter,
milk, and vegetables, and expressed her fears that, after all, she had
no right to them—that they were intended for some one else. Mark
reassured her by giving his opinion that they were intended for herself,
and no other; and that she would find out, the next day, probably, the
kind neighbour who had sent them.
After supper was over and cleared away, and the young pair had rested
awhile, and the moon had risen, they crossed the rill and went up the
hill to enjoy the fine air and the extended view.
And thus closed their first day at the log cabin.
And the next morning Rosalie found out her kind neighbours.