ANNABEL LEE
It was queer up at West Farms, delightful, too. The house was old, with
a hall through the middle, and a Dutch door just as there was up at
Yonkers. The top part was opened in the morning, sometimes the whole
door. The front room was the parlour, and it had not been refurnished
since Mrs. Odell came there as a bride; so it looked rather antiquated
to modern eyes. The back room was the sleeping chamber; on the other
side, a living room with rag carpet on the floor; then a kitchen and a
great shed-kitchen, one side of which was piled up with wood. There was
a big back stoop that looked on the vegetable garden; there was an
orchard down below, and then cornfields and meadows.
The old house was what was called a story and a half. The pointed roof
had windows in the end, but none in the front. There were two nice big
chambers upstairs, and a garret. Mr. Odell began to talk about building
a new house; and Mrs. Odell said the things--by which she meant the
carpets and furniture--were good enough for the old place, but they'd
have all new by the time the girls grew up, to fit the new house.
Mr. Odell had a peach-orchard and a quince-orchard, and two long rows of
cherry-trees. Then he kept quite a herd of cows, and sold milk. He had a
splendid new barn, with two finished rooms in that, where the hands
slept in summer. The old barn was devoted to the hay and the horses.
There were chickens and ducks and geese, and a pen of pigs. This summer,
they were raising three pretty calves and one little colt, who was
desperately shy. But the calves would come up to be patted, and eat out
of your hand.
Both of the girls were what their mother called regular tomboys. Polly
was a few months older than the little girl, and Janey two years her
senior. They were smart too. They could wash dishes and make beds and
sweep, weed in the garden, look after the poultry; and Janey could iron
almost as well as her mother. But they did love to run and whoop, and
tumble in the hay, and they laughed over almost everything. They were
not great students, though they went to school regularly.
A second or third cousin lived with the Odells, and did a great deal of
the housework. She was not "real bright," and had some queer ways. Her
immediate relatives were dead; and the Odells had taken her from a
feeling of pity, and a fear lest at last she would be sent to the
poor-house. She had an odd way of talking incoherently to herself, and
nodding her head at almost everything; yet she was good-tempered and
always ready to do as she was told. But the worst was her lack of
memory; you had to tell her the same things everyday,--"get her started
in the traces," Mr. Odell said.
Mrs. Odell put a cot in the girls' room for Hanny, since there was
plenty of space. And Polly seemed to find so many funny stories to tell
over that Hanny fell asleep in the midst of them, and woke up in the
morning without a bit of homesick feeling. Then Mr. Odell was going to
the mill, and he took Polly and Hanny along, and they had a rather
amusing time.
Hanny was very much interested in the process, and amazed when she found
how they made the different things out of the same wheat. They used
"middlings" for pancakes at home, when her mother was tired of
buckwheat. Not to have had griddle-cakes for breakfast would have been
one of the hardest trials of life for men and boys through the winter.
It warmed them up of a cold morning, and they seemed to thrive on it.
Mr. Odell was very willing to explain the processes to Hanny. Polly
wanted to know if she thought of going into the milling business, and
suggested that she never would be big enough. Then they ran round to
look at the water-wheel and the little pond where the stream was dammed
so there would be no lack of water in a dry time.
They had a drawing pattern in school just like it, except that it lacked
the broken rustic bridge a little higher up. She would take a new
interest in drawing it now.
It was noon when they reached home, and Hanny felt real hungry, though
Mrs. Odell declared she didn't eat more than a bird. She was glad her
girls were not such delicate little things.
They went out on the shady back stoop afterward. Janey was sewing the
over-seam in a sheet that her mother wanted turned. When she had
finished, and picked out the old sewing, she was free. Then she said
they would go down to the Bristows' and have a good game of hide and
seek. They always had such fun at the Bristows'.
Polly brought out her basket of carpet-rags,--a peach basket nearly
full.
"I just hate to sew carpet-rags!" she declared.
"Couldn't I help you?" asked Hanny.
"Why, to be sure you _could_, if you would, and knew how to sew."
"Of course I know how to sew," said Hanny, rather affronted.
"Oh, I was only in fun! I'll find you a thimble. It's in my work-box
that was given me on Christmas. It's real silver, too. Mother's going to
change it when she goes to New York, only she never remembers. My
fingers are so fat. Oh, Hanny, what a little mite of a hand! It'll never
be good for anything."
"I have made a whole shirt myself, and I have hemstitched, and done
embroidery, and I wipe dishes when I haven't too many lessons,"
interposed the little girl.
"You can't make your own frocks," in a tone of triumph.
"No. Miss Cynthia Blackfan comes and does it. Can you?"
"No, she can't," said Janey, while Polly threw her head back and
laughed, showing her strong white teeth. "And she could no more make a
shirt than she could fly. You're real smart, Hanny. I'm two years older,
and I've never made a whole one. I'm going to try though, and father's
promised me a dollar when I do it all by myself."
Polly had found the thimble. It wasn't any prettier than Hanny's, though
Polly begged her "to be real careful and not lose it."
"Now you can just sew hit or miss; and then you can put in a long strip
of black, 'cause there's more black than anything else. Oh, dear, I do
hate to sew rags!"
"What kind of sewing do you like?" asked Janey, in a tone that would
have been sarcastic in an older person.
"I just don't like any kind. Hanny, do _you_ know that some one has
invented a sewing-machine?" and Polly looked up with the triumph of
superior wisdom.
"Oh, yes, I saw it at the Institute Fair. And there's a place on
Broadway where a woman sits in the window and sews. It's very queer; but
we think it doesn't sew real nice."
Polly was for the moment nonplussed. Hanny _did_ seem to know almost
everything. Then curiosity overcame her.
"Does it do really and truly sewing?"
"Why, yes. When you come down, I'll ask Joe to take us over to see it."
"Carpet-rags?"
"Well--I don't know. Long straight seams, and hems and stitching."
"Well, I'm going to have one when I'm married. I wonder if they cost
very much!"
"There'll be lots of things for you to do before you are married. And
some girls don't have any chance. You'll want to know how to keep
house--"
"I like housekeeping. You just go from one thing to another. I'll have
some one to cook and peel potatoes and all that. And we'll keep a horse
and waggon, and I shall go to ride every day."
Janey laughed. "Just now, you had better sew carpet-rags."
"And I'll never have any rag carpets. I will give away all the old
clothes."
"I'm afraid you'll never have much of anything, nor a husband either,
Polly Odell," said her mother. "You talk, and leave the rags for Hanny
to sew."
Polly turned scarlet, and sewed very industriously.
"I'd like to see a sewing-machine," began Janey, presently. "How does it
go?"
"There is a strap around a wheel that is fast to a frame. You put your
feet on, so, and just make them go up and down after you have started
the wheel with your hand. The needle goes through, and something catches
the thread, then it goes through again, and that makes the stitch. It is
very curious."
"You know a good many things, don't you, Hanny?" said Janey, admiringly.
Hanny coloured.
"I can beat her all out running, I know; and I'll bet a penny she can't
jump over the creek."
"And don't you dare her to, Polly. Remember how you fell in. Oh, Hanny,
she was a sight to behold!"
"Well--it had been raining, and the ground was soft, so I slipped a
little on the start. But I've done it time and again."
"And you're a regular tomboy. Girls don't train around that way in the
city."
Janey had begun to rip out the old seam. She sighed a little, and wished
she was sewing carpet-rags. That was such easy work.
"Hanny sews a great deal faster than you," she said to Polly. "See what
a pile she has. I will wind them up."
It made quite a ball, and was a little rest from the ripping, that
sounded so easy and yet was tedious. But Janey persevered, and finally,
after turning about a time or two, came to the middle with a sigh of
relief. Polly had been working like a steam-engine for ten minutes, and
picked out a good many long pieces, so she had a ball as large as
Hanny's.
Then they put on their sun-bonnets, and ran down to the Bristows', which
was in the turn of the road. There were three girls,--one of nine who
was almost as big as Hanny, and the one of eleven, much taller.
They all had a good drink of buttermilk: Mrs. Bristow had just been
churning. Then they went out to the barn and played "hide-and-seek," and
had a noisy, jolly time. They sat down and fanned themselves with their
aprons, and presently started out for some blackberries.
"There's a German settlement down below, and the children are up here
every day picking berries. You can't have anything now, unless it is
planted in your own garden. We have some lovely big blackberries, when
they get ripe."
Then the girls ran a race. Hanny was out of breath presently, and
stopped, so did little Kitty Bristow. But Julie Bristow beat in the
race. Polly wanted to run again; but the others were tired.
Mrs. Bristow gave Janey a beautiful, big pot-cheese to take home; and it
was just delicious.
One of the cousins from Fordham had been down. The children were all to
come up and spend the day to-morrow, and Mrs. Odell was invited to
supper.
Hanny felt a little lonely. If she could just see her father and Joe,
and her mother and the boys. But she slept very soundly; and truly she
wasn't homesick when they all came to breakfast in the morning. Janey
hurried around and did her work, and they were soon ready to be off. A
day meant all day, then.
It was a pretty country walk, with here and there a house, and one
little nest of Irish emigrants. Some of the women had their wash-tubs
out of doors, and were working and gossiping. Then there was St. John's
College, with its pretty, shady grounds, and on the other side a hotel
where the trains stopped as they went up and down. After that, you
climbed a long hill that wound a little, and on one side there was a row
of beautiful, stately cherry-trees that were a sight to behold in their
early bloom and in the rich harvest of fruiting.
Just at the brow of the hill stood a rather quaint house, with the end
to the street. It was built against the side of the hill. You ascended a
row of stone steps, and reached the lower floor, which was a dining-room
with a wide stone-paved area, then you went up several more steps to a
cheerful sunny room, and this was the kitchen. When you went upstairs
again, one side of the house was just even with the ground, and the
other up a whole story. Here was a parlour, a sitting-room, several
sleeping chambers; but what the little girl came to love most of all was
a great piazza built over the area downstairs, with a row of wide steps.
When you were up there, you were two stories above the street, and you
could look down the long hill and all about. It was a beautiful
prospect. Afterward, the little girl found some chalets in Switzerland
that made her think of this odd house that had been added to since the
first cottage was built.
There was always a host of people in the old house. Hospitality must
have been written on its very gates, for relatives, unto the third and
fourth generation, were continually made welcome: a sweet, placid
grandmother who had seen her daughter, the housemother, laid away to her
silent resting-place, and who had tried to supply her place to the
children; the father; the aunt who took part of the care; the sons and
daughters, some of whom had grown up and married, and whose children
made glad the old home.
There was a houseful of them now; but there was a wide out-of-doors for
them to play in. A few hundred feet farther up, where the road turned
and ran off to Kingsbridge, as well as to the Harlem River, stood the
village smithy; and the Major, who had been in the War of 1812, had
relegated the business mostly to his sons. He enjoyed the coming and
going, the bright young faces, and had a hearty welcome for the
children, though he sometimes pretended to scold them.
A queer tract of land it was, with a great rift of rock running through
it where the children played house, and had parties, and occasionally
took their dinner out to eat in picnic fashion. Just beyond the strata
of rock, on the good ground, stood two splendid apple-trees called
"Jersey Sweetings," and for nearly two summer months their bounty was
the delight of the children. Farther down, the ground sloped abruptly
and settled into a pleasant orchard; then another sudden decline, and
here a pretty stream came purling through, making a tiny cascade as it
tumbled over the rocks.
The little girl was deeply touched by beauty; and as they ran around she
stopped now and then to drink in the shady vistas and wild nooks that
seemed fairy-haunted. She had been reading a little mythology, and she
could believe in a great many things. There were places where she looked
to see Pan piping on his reed, and dryads and nymphs coming out of the
groves.
How they did run and play! The air was merry with shouts and laughter.
Some of them took off their shoes and stockings, and waded in the brook.
And one of the big boys proposed that on Saturday afternoon they should
go down to the Harlem River and get some crabs and clams.
There were enough children for a second table, and that was laid in the
upper kitchen. Auntie thought they must be starved; but instead they had
been stuffed with sweet apples. Still most of them did justice to the
bountiful dinner.
"This little girl looks tired out," said grandmother. "I think she had
better stay in and rest a while."
Hanny was very glad to do this. While grandmother took her nap, she went
upstairs where the grown-up people were talking and sewing. She wished
she had brought her crocheting; but Polly had laughed her out of it.
Then she took up a book, and was soon lost in that. It was an English
novel, as most of our novels were then, "Time the Avenger."
"That is a rather sad book for a little girl," said Cousin Jennie. "I'll
see if I can't find you something better. You look as if you were fond
of reading. You are Vermilye Underbill's little girl. And your brother
George has gone to California. I know him quite well, and the Yonkers
family. I suppose he hasn't found his nugget of gold yet?"
The little girl smiled, and said she did not think he had yet. His
letters had been full of the wonderful country; and it took so long to
get a letter.
"Here are some magazines with pictures and verses. Are you fond of
poetry? Maybe you are a poet. You have a delicate, ethereal look."
"Do poets have that?" asked Hanny. "I know a girl who writes verses and
stories; but she isn't at all ethereal. I'm quite sure I couldn't write
verses or anything," and she gave a soft laugh.
"Well, I think geniuses look quite like other people. I've seen a number
of them lately. We have a genius living up the road, and ever so many
people come to see him. Some quite famous ladies."
Hanny opened her eyes very wide.
"Let me see--I think I can find one of his poems." She took a pile of
magazines from the top of the high old-fashioned bureau. "Oh,
yes,--though, like 'Time the Avenger,' I think it's too old for you. I
'm not very fond of poetry. Here is 'Annabel Lee.'"
Then Cousin Jennie was called into the other room, where some one wanted
to talk about the best way to ruffle a lawn skirt. Should the ruffles be
on the straight or bias?
Hanny read the verses over and over, and saw the city by the sea where
dwelt beautiful Annabel Lee, and how her high-born kinsman, who came in
great state in a chariot, carried her away from the one who loved her so
dearly. But when, later on, she came to know and understand the poem,
and the high-born kinsman had come for some of those she held most dear,
she could always go back to the vague mysterious awe that filled and
thrilled her then. She sat as if in a trance until grandmother, who had
taken her nap, came and took the arm-chair beside the open window.
"Well, are you rested?" said grandmother, cheerfully. "I should think
Janey and Polly would wear you out. It isn't a good thing for little
girls to run too much. But everything has changed since my day. Although
I think they ran and played then; but they had to help work, there was
so much out-of-doors work. Everything is easier now. There are so many
improvements. And, oh, how much there is to read! I'm not sure that is
so good for them."
"But it is very delightful," returned the little girl.
"If it only made people wiser!"
"But they are growing curiously wise," said Hanny. "There is the
telegraph. It seemed so queer that you could make a bit of wire talk,
that at first people didn't believe it. Uncle Faid did not when he saw
it at the Fair."
"And people laughed about the steamboat, I remember, and the idea of
railroad trains drawn by an engine. Yes, there are a good many strange
things. And steamships crossing the ocean. There used to be
sailing-vessels, and it took such a long while."
Hanny told grandmother about her friend who had gone abroad; and
grandmother, in return, told her about some Welsh ancestors who had to
fly for their lives on account of being mixed up with some insurrection
about a young prince, and the stormy time they had coming over,--how
they were driven up and down the coast, and their voyage consumed two
months. They were almost out of provisions, and suffered many hardships.
So the wisdom of the world had amounted to something.
The children came in. They were going up the road, and didn't Hanny want
to join them? Mrs. Odell said they must not stay very long, she was
going home before supper.
There was a protest about this; but Mrs. Odell said there were people
and children enough without them, and she had told her husband they
would be home to supper.
"Do we go by the poet's house?" Hanny asked as they passed the
cross-road.
"The poet?" Two or three of the children stared blankly.
"Oh, Hanny means that Mr. Poe. Why, yes; it's the old Cromwell house. It
isn't much to see. There, that little cottage."
No, it was not much to see,--a very bird's nest house with a great tree
shading it, and a little porch at the side. A rather thin elderly woman
sat sewing in a rocking-chair. She did not even look up at the children.
They were full of fun and nonsense, and presently were joined by two
neighbouring girls. They went up by the old church, and then they
wandered to the graveyard. It was a rather neglected place, as country
graveyards were wont to be at that time. Some red clovers were in bloom,
and a few belated buttercups. The trees were rather straggling, a few
magnificent in their age. There were long-armed rose-trees that had done
their best in the earlier season, a few wild roses, pale from growing in
the shade, and the long slender blades of grass fell about in very
weakness. There were some curious inscriptions; there were places where
relatives of several of the children were buried.
"Oh, Hanny, come here," said Cousin Ann. "That Mr. Poe's wife is buried
here. It's the Valentine plot. They're going to take her away sometime.
They're all very poor, you know. She died in the winter. People said she
was beautiful; but,"--Ann lowered her voice,--"they were awful poor, and
it is said she didn't have comfortable things. I should hate to be so
poor; shouldn't you?"
Hanny shuddered. She was glad to get out in the sunshine again with her
few wild flowers in her hand.
Bessie Valentine made them come in and have a chunk of cake, and it was
a chunk indeed. Those who liked had a glass of buttermilk.
Cousin Jennie had gone up to the corner to look for them. Hanny espied
her, and ran forward.
"Oh," she cried, "I've seen the house where Mr. Poe lives. And we went
in the graveyard. Who was the other lady sitting on the porch?"
"That was Mrs. Clemm. I go up there to borrow books; and I like Mr. Poe,
only--well, he is rather unfortunate."
"Was she so beautiful?" asked the child, irrelevantly.
"Mrs. Poe? Yes; I think she must have been. She looked like a small
white wraith--do you know what a wraith is?" smilingly.
"A kind of ghost. And were they very poor?"
"It's a sad story. I think they were proud as well, for any one would
have come in and done any needed thing. They had friends in the city who
used to visit them. Mrs. Clemm was Mrs. Poe's mother and the poet's
aunt; and it is said Annabel Lee means his wife. It's a wild, musical
thing. Every story or poem of his has a curious ghostly sound."
"But--the high-born kinsman--"
The little girl's eyes were vague and puzzled.
"You can't understand it. Poets say queer things. I'm not fond of
poetry, only here and there. And the stories make you shiver. You
wouldn't like them. He has all sorts of books, and he is very generous
with them. We've planned that you are to come up and stay a week with
us. Some of the folks are going away, and there will be plenty of room."
Hanny squeezed her hand. The throng of children ran over the grassy path
from the shop; and they all began to clamour that Polly and Janey
should come up Saturday and go crabbing with them.
Mrs. Odell said she'd see, if they could get their work done in time.
There was a hubbub of good-byes, and the small cavalcade started down
the road.