train-band marched to the music of drum and fife accompanied by a
procession of urchins. The crowning exercise was the firing of a salute
by the whole company. It made every boy wish to be a soldier as soon as
possible. Then the muskets were stacked under a great elm tree from a
limb of which swung the sign, "E. Thayer, Inn" and we all took a free
drink, in consideration of the dinner which was to follow at a shilling
a head.
The more common observance of the day was of a much milder character,
Sunday-school picnics, in which the churches of towns near each other
united. We went to Mendon, and next year Mendon came to us. These
picnics consisted of a little religion, much lemonade and cake, followed
next day by headache. The day ended with a thunderstorm when the picnic
was in Mendon; such was the common saying. Thunder storms in the night
were the dread of my mother's household, especially on the Fourth of
July when already excited by the day's events. We invariably expected
the end of the world so much prophesied by neighbor White. If the storm
came on in the daytime the whole family went to bed and covered up their
heads. For my part, I longed to be out of doors in the rain, and enjoyed
nothing so much as the drops falling on my bare head, and in splashing
about through the puddles with bare feet. I was exhilarated by the sound
of thunder, but lightning terrified me and seemed to throw me down. It
was in an August thunderstorm that my father lost his life in an attempt
to save his shocks of rye from ruin, which was indeed the end of the
world for his family. It was no wonder that my mother and sisters were
alarmed when the black clouds and sultry air came over the Mendon hills.
I was too young to heed the menace or to be reminded of the domestic
catastrophe and sorrow. Nature, rain or shine, winter or summer, river,
pasture, clouds, woods, flowers, berries, apples, birds, were my
playthings from which I was learning to find the images and equivalents
in myself. Lying on my back and watching the summer clouds race across
the sky gave me my first comparison and attachment of a natural object
to a conscious mental conception. I arrested those clouds in their
flight across the blue, and whether they went sailing on or sank below
the horizon I still saw them, and their images remained firmly fixed in
my mind.
It was a rare chance when I was allowed to spend Fourth of July in
Milford, the little metropolis of our region. There the celebrations
were on a grander scale; the local militia company gathered to itself
others from the border towns, and besides fife and drum, a whole band of
music marched at the head of the companies, and a cannon on the town
common saluted the Fourth of July rising and setting sun and the noon of
the day. There was probably an oration in the church but I had no ear
for speech when my eyes were filled with seeing; for there were shows of
various kinds in booths about the common and in the town hall. How to
make twenty-five cents take me into all was beyond my arithmetic; so I
contented myself with spending ten cents on an exhibition of Albino
children, white-haired, ivory-skinned and pink-eyed. Another ten cents
admitted me to a collection of dwarfs and giants, the dwarfs mounted on
the shoulders or heads of the giants. The remaining five cents let me
into the best show of all, a learned pig that played cards and performed
amusing tricks. For a good while I wished for nothing so much as a
learned pig. But now my money was gone, and I was hungry as only a boy
on a holiday can be. I had walked three miles to the town, and there
were three miles now between me and my mother's cupboard. When I arrived
there I feasted for the remainder of the day and went to bed still
hungry. The next few days were flat and languid. In all my boyhood
pleasures and excitements I suffered intensely from these reactions. I
tormented the family by persistent teasings to go somewhere, or to do
something. "Go play, go read your book, go see what Aunt Chloe is
doing," they would say. How could I fill the void with such trivial
pastimes with a Fourth of July cannon ringing in my ears and the learned
pig's red eyes following me? I wanted all days to be Fourth of July, and
for a while I made them so with a wooden gun, a General Washington paper
chapeau and a tin pan for a brass band. At length the days gradually
fell into their usual tenor and I became reconciled to such amusements
and mischiefs as my two playmates, George Jennison and Harry Thurber,
and myself could invent.
We now began to look forward to the time of ice and snow. Meanwhile
Thanksgiving day is near. Little as it meant to me, it was nevertheless
a break in the usual order of the days. I have read many cheerful
accounts of the Thanksgiving home gatherings--the feastings and the
frolic in which the turkey and plum pudding appeared to be treated
almost like divinities. But never did I know, in boyhood, the family
reunion, the turkey or the pudding, so that these gatherings and dinners
are to me pictures and I regard them as I do the feasts of Homer's
heroes, pleasant to read of and to imagine. Some of our neighbors
celebrated the day in the customary manner and no doubt acknowledged the
goodness of the Divine Providence as enjoined by the Governor's
proclamation. But the bounty of the Divine Providence never travelled by
our lonely road, nor left a turkey or pudding at the door of the little
Red House. Saddest of all her sad days I think my mother felt it to be,
seeing the bounties and friends at the tables of others and unable to
make her own worthy of the occasion. She sometimes spared an aged and
unprofitable hen from her scanty flock and made us each a custard in an
earthen cup. For that day she brought out her only silver, six tea
spoons, and spread on her round table her only table cloth, hand-woven
and white as snow. In the evening we parched corn over the hearth fire.
My mother sat at one corner of the fireplace and by her side a tall
light stand, her candle, her Bible and her knitting. At bedtime she read
a chapter aloud, and kneeling, made a low, plaintive prayer, the burden
of which was always thankfulness and trust. I remember not the words,
but the tone still sounds in my ear. Thus returned from year to year my
four holidays until I was old enough to find the road that led from the
town and on which I now love to travel back and indulge a holiday of
memories.
THE AMPUTATION
Aside from the formal and appointed holidays, the events and days that a
country community most enjoyed were not numerous; yet their infrequency
and unexpectedness added a certain amount of zest to its monotonous
annals. A fire, an accident, a death, a raising, an engagement, a fight,
a new minister, even Miss Penniman's new style of gown from Boston were
not unwelcome excitements. They furnished food for talk, for wonder,
discussion and scandal.
Although there was a certain terror connected with the unusual event I
am about to describe, yet this did not deter me from looking forward to
it as a kind of holiday.
For a long time it had been rumored that our neighbor, Amos Partridge,
would have to lose his leg. He had what was called a white swelling on
his knee. Besides his house, Amos Partridge had a large barn and a shop,
where, in winter, he bottomed boots. The bottomer of boots sat on a low
bench and did most of his work on his lap and knee. It was thought that
the primary cause of Amos' trouble arose from a slight blow upon his
knee as he sat at his work, increased by subsequent constant pressure
upon the spot by the strap which held the boot in place. He worked as
long as he was able, and for some time before the operation, he was
obliged to use a crutch in passing from his shop to his house. The
swelling grew steadily in size, and became more and more troublesome
although every remedy then known to New England therapeutics had been
tried, including all the nostrums of the neighborhood, plasters,
poultices, washes and prayers; for Amos was much beloved by his
neighbors, mostly Methodists, to which sect he himself belonged. He was
about thirty-five years old, tall and large-framed, light-haired,
full-bearded and with blue eyes, a pure Saxon type of a man. His
forehead was high and narrow and much work and suffering had ploughed
untimely furrows upon it. His house stood close by the roadside, in a
field between two pieces of woodland. It was small, one-storied, the
only unusual thing about it being that it was painted white, as was also
the neat fence which enclosed a tiny space in front almost touching the
road. This enclosure was in summer a tangle of cinnamon roses, lilacs,
sweet-william, bouncing-Bet and other common flowers which propagate and
harvest themselves. A narrow gravelled walk, upon which the flowers
constantly encroached, led to the front door--a useless door, generally,
as no one ever thought of entering it. There were two rooms on either
side of this door; one, the family sitting room, the other, the sacred
country parlor with the usual hair-cloth covered furniture and home-made
rugs in bright colors and quaint patterns. There was a gilt mirror too,
the upper third of which was opaque, and upon it was painted a
one-masted vessel with impossible sails set straight from stem to stern,
which helps me to recall the room and much of the interior of the house.
I had never seen so fine a picture; nor had I ever seen a vessel of any
kind. It was wonderful. I never tired of looking at it although I had
seen it many times as the room was opened for prayer meetings, which my
mother attended regularly, taking me with her. How well I recall those
meetings, which sobered me for life. Not that any spoken words impressed
me, for I understood nothing of what was said or sung; but there was a
sadness, a suppression in the air, as of the valley of Jehosaphat. The
stillness too, that intense hush which often occurred between the
remarks and prayers of the brethren and sisters, filled me with a
nameless, shrinking fear. Had I been old enough, conversion would have
been easy as the only means of escape from those terrible silences. My
usual relief was in clinging to my mother's hand which gave me a sense
of protection from I knew not what; or in looking at the vessel in the
mirror and sailing away to other worlds. Under that sail I visited all
the neighboring inland towns whose names and nothing more I
knew--Milford, Medway, Mendon and Hopkinton, the utmost bound of my
little world--beyond Hopkinton, nothing.
At length there came a day when Amos Partridge could work no longer; the
pain in his knee became too excruciating to be endured. The surgeon was
summoned and a date determined for an amputation. The neighborhood was
informed and nothing else was talked or thought of during the preceding
days. The chances of Amos surviving the operation were discussed; for it
was before the days of anaesthetics and the science of surgery had not
then made the removal of a limb the least of its triumphs. Most of the
neighbors, especially the women, took a hopeless view of the result.
Preparations were made much resembling those for a funeral. My mother
told me she was going to the amputation, and as she never left me at
home when she went abroad, I knew I should go too. But this did not
oppress me, not nearly as much as the thought of a prayer meeting. A dim
sensation of something extraordinary about to happen filled me with
excitement. Yet, on the whole, it was an emotion of joy.
The momentous day of the amputation arrived. I could hardly restrain my
impatience. It was a calm, soft afternoon in early spring when my mother
and I set out for the house of Amos Partridge; not however, before my
mother had been to her chamber, and, on her knees, offered a silent
prayer. She appeared very serious and silent on the way. Could she be
ignorant of the pleasure I was anticipating? I danced along by her side;
hardly feeling the earth beneath my feet; I was already at the scene of
expected festivity. I noticed that my mother carried a fan. It was not a
hot day and I wondered much what the fan was for. We arrived at the
house where there was already a considerable assemblage of the neighbors
and friends from a distance. Horses were fastened to trees, fences and
the sides of the barn, just as on Sunday at the meeting-house or at the
annual town-meeting. The small boy was there in numbers, but only a few
girls. Alas, for the small boy! He was not permitted to play near the
house nor to make the least noise. Instead of a holiday, for him, it
turned out a more serious affair than the usual Puritan Sabbath. Bitter
was my disappointment. My mother, as she left me to go into the house,
warned me to keep very still and be a good boy. Accordingly I remained
under the window of the room in which the operation was to be performed.
The windows were wide open, and I could see and hear all that was said
and done. I had a view of my mother and two other women standing by the
bedside of Amos, fanning him. I could see the face of the sufferer,
pale, emaciated and troubled. Presently I heard the voice of the
minister, and looking toward the foot of the bed, I saw opened before
him the great family Bible from which he was reading. From the frequent
recurrence of the words boils and afflictions I think it must have been
some chapter in Job that he had selected as suitable for the occasion.
After the Scriptures the minister made a long prayer.
Then the dreadful preparations began. I saw the bed-clothing pulled back
and the diseased limb exposed; it was twice its natural size. The
surgeon was the once famous Dr. Miller, of Franklin, reputed the seventh
son of a seventh son, some extraordinary gift in surgery being credited
to such a descent. In his day he performed all the surgical operations
in that part of Massachusetts and the bordering towns of Rhode Island.
Spread out on a small table at his right hand were his instruments,
whose names I did not know, but they interested me immensely. What would
I not have given for one of those dainty polished saws or keen knives
with handsome handles! The room was partly filled with neighbors, mostly
women, ready to lend their aid to the surgeon and to comfort the
patient, whose family sat weeping in an adjoining room. Amos' eyes were
now closed and his mouth set firm. As the tourniquet was twisted tighter
and tighter the lines in his brow grew deeper. He breathed hard and a
moan, the only one, escaped him as the knife went through the outer
skin. It was not long before the sound of the saw came through the open
window. The operation was over and the leg had taken its last step with
its fellow. It was carried away into the barn for dissection; we heard
with awe that Amos felt a faint sensation of pain when the knives and
probes were searching for the hidden disease, as if the severed limb
still remembered its possessor.
Subsequently the remains of the leg were buried in Amos' garden, which
gave rise to some questionings in this pious and scrupulous community as
to whether it ought not to have been placed in the graveyard. But Amos
said that he did not own a lot yet, and when he died, he should not need
his old leg to welcome him to his grave.
The operation proved successful. In a short time Amos was up with the
empty pantaloon fastened back and the stump of the leg encased in a
thick leather protector. As he had used crutches for some time before
the amputation he soon learned to accommodate himself to their new use.
He could not now walk long distances, so the weekly prayer meetings were
generally appointed at his house. He became what was called among
Methodists a class-leader; he took the leading part in all the private
religious gatherings and never failed in his opening prayer to thank the
Lord for bringing him safely through his peril. "It was Thy hand that
held the knife", he would exclaim, "yea, it was"; and all the brethren
said, amen.
There was, in the little community of which Amos Partridge was the
central and pathetic figure, a sincere belief in the nearness and
activity of Heaven in its every day affairs. It rendered them serious,
careful and slightly superstitious. It was also true, however, that
these tendencies sometimes seemed to create antagonism and a rebellious
spirit in the young men. We children, from the same causes, were timid,
afraid of the dark, afraid of everything; or, it may be, these very,
nameless terrors of the night, of wild beasts and the forests, together
with reactions from fancied escapes were the best stimulants and rustic
guardians of the imagination--the primitive Muses of the Bellingham boy.
COUNTRY FUNERALS
If a surgical operation brought with it a country lad's holiday, a
funeral may also be reckoned among the events which varied his life, if
not with gaiety, at least with pleasing diversion. As a very young child
I was present at two funerals which for special reasons have impressed
themselves upon my memory. I had heard much of a widowed sister of my
father, supposed to be rich; this proved to be a fable. Her husband had
left the bulk of his estate to foreign missions, and only a bare support
to his wife. As he had acquired his property by selling liquor it was
but natural he should wish to make a restitution in the land of the
heathen. The widow, my aunt, lived to an advanced age. When she died I
accompanied my family to her obsequies. There I met her other young
nephews and nieces besides the children of the neighborhood. We had a
merry time together all day except for the hour of the services. There
was a general feast served for everybody. The children were served at a
second table, but there was a plentiful supply of goodies reserved for
us and no tears to check our appetites. At the table we were told that
our aunt had left us each fifty dollars. I had never heard of, least of
all, seen such a sum of money and I conjectured it was enough to last
the remainder of our lives.
A great deal takes place at a country funeral characteristic of the
kindly as well as the weaker side of rustic men and women. There is much
bustle and subdued cheerfulness mingled with awe; conversation is
carried on in whispers. The chief mourners are permitted to be as
helpless as they please; everything is done for them; they are treated
as automatons. They are arranged in ranks next to the corpse according
to consanguinity. Then come the neighbors and those persons who love to
attend funerals. Children bring up the rear and in the hall and doorway
lean a few men who seem to have no particular relation to the occasion.
The important personage, not excepting the minister, is the volunteer
undertaker, who for some unknown reason, has become the man usually
called upon to officiate at the exercises. He knows his business, and
for an hour feels himself a man of consequence. He is impartial in his
attentions; be the dead old or young, saint or sinner, he is equally
anxious that the ceremonies shall be conducted with proper decency and
order. The rich give him a little more care, as they, perhaps, have
rendered unto their dead a handsomer outfit for their last appearance
and farewell journey; such I think may have been the case when our
distinguished neighbors, the Scammels and Pennimans passed away. When
the minister has concluded his remarks and his prayer, generally in the
most lugubrious words and scriptural phrases he can muster, the man in
charge of the funeral, (for country people knew no such professional
name as undertaker), comes briskly forward, and, with much ceremony,
lifts the lid of the coffin, rearranges some portion of the dress about
the face of the dead, gives a searching glance over the coffin and then
announces: "The friends and all those who desire, may now view the
'remains'". This is the most affecting moment in the ceremony; the last
parting look which wrings the heart of the stoutest, when the women
break down and are led away blinded by their tears. It is then that the
most indifferent spectator pays that beautiful tribute of weeping for
those he may not have loved, nay, hated or despised. All the ill is
forgotten, the good alone remembered. A hearse was hardly known in the
old days. The coffin was placed on a bier of home construction and
carried to the graveyard on the shoulders of four men. The sad funeral
procession followed behind, the mourners walking two and two and the
rear made up of a straggling company of men, women and children. The
minister offered a farewell prayer at the grave, and in summer time, an
appropriate hymn was sung, its appropriateness consisting mostly in its
dismal words and tune. Then the terrible moment arrived, the lowering of
the coffin and the sound of the first earth upon it; for, formerly the
company awaited this last act. This was not the formal dust to dust, a
verbal and figurative act, but some shovelfuls of real earth that for a
few moments rattled and pounded the top of the coffin with a
heart-rending sound. The minister shook hands with the chief mourners,
every one took his way home, the bier was placed under a tree and left
to the elements and to be the plaything of boys until the feet of them,
that await at the door to carry out the dead, are heard again.
The next funeral of which I have a recollection came into my own home.
My father was dead, dead in the prime of his life, his labors and his
hopes. Of this event I recall only two things, being taken from my
playthings under an apple tree to the grave, and the hard pressure of my
hand by my sister as the coffin was lowered. This became in after years
my most pathetic memory as I grew to realize what it meant. In that
grave all our hopes were buried; that I was unconscious of it must have
made the grief of my family only the more poignant. At the same time I
became the object of their greater solicitude and affection, and it was
a miracle that, in a family of women only, I was not spoilt by too much
indulgence. But while my sisters petted and pampered me, my mother's
graver manners and prayers doubtless saved me from being too selfish and
effeminate. Boys, however, owe chiefly to each other their escape from
the apron string and the softness of nursery manners.
How empty now seemed the house whence the dear father had gone forever.
The problems of life offered themselves to my mother and sisters with a
terrible and crushing reality. My sisters were old enough and had
sufficient education to teach the summer terms of district schools. My
mother boarded the winter schoolmaster and planted and cared for her
garden with her own hands. There was a pig in the pen and a flock of
hens in the sod house. Most of my father's tools were sold at public
vendue, which brought in a little ready money. There was straw to be
braided at one and a half, sometimes two cents per yard; in summer
huckleberries were picked and sold for three and four cents a quart.
There was a peddler who made his rounds monthly and always put up for
the night at my mother's house, paying his score with a liberal barter
of such articles as he carried, dry goods, women's shoes and small
wares. Dresses were made over and over, were darned and patched as long
as the cloth would hold the stitches. My father's clothes were cut down
for me and I wore the last of them in my sixteenth year. My straw hats
and winter caps were home-made. Every year a cousin in business in
Woonsocket Falls presented me with a pair of new boots. There was no
want in the household because wants were few and had been reduced to the
last limit. I am sure I never went cold or hungry although I never had a
boughten plaything or any of those delicacies which are more necessary
to children than necessities.