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 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
STRANGERS AND WAYFARERS 
 
 BY 
 
 SARAH ORNE JEWETT 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 Iftitiertfibe $re#j Cambri&jje 
 
Copyright, 1890, 
 BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
57 
 
 TO 
 
 s. w. 
 
 PAINTER OF NEW ENGLAND MEN AND WOMEN 
 NEW ENGLAND FIELDS AND SHORES 
 
 M697678 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP 1 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION ... 18 -^ 
 
 THE TOWN POOR 36 
 
 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY 60 
 
 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS 79 - 
 
 FAIR DAY 116 <* 
 
 GOING TO SHREWSBURY 138 
 
 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL 157^ 
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT 197 " 
 
 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS 220 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD 257 - 
 
STRANGERS AND WAYFARERS. 
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 THE passenger and mail transportation 
 between the towns of North Kilby and San 
 scrit Pond was carried on by Mr. Jefferson 
 Briley, whose two-seated covered wagon was 
 usually much too large for the demands of 
 business. Both the Sanscrit Pond and 
 North Kilby people were stayers-at-home, 
 and Mr. Briley often made his seven-mile 
 journey in entire solitude, except for the 
 limp leather mail-bag, which he held firmly 
 to the floor of the carriage with his heavily 
 shod left foot. The mail-bag had almost a 
 personality to him, born of long association. 
 Mr. Briley was a meek and timid-looking 
 body, but he held a warlike soul, and en 
 couraged his fancies by reading awful tales 
 of bloodshed and lawlessness in the far 
 West. Mindful of stage robberies and train 
 
2 A WINTER COURTSHII. 
 
 thieves, and of express messengers who died 
 at their posts, he was prepared for anything ; 
 and although he had trusted to his own 
 strength and bravery these many years, he 
 carried a heavy pistol under his front-seat 
 cushion for better defense. This awful 
 weapon was familiar to all his regular pas-= 
 sengers, and was usually shown to strangers 
 by the time two of the seven miles of Mr. 
 Briley s route had been passed. The pistol 
 was not loaded. Nobody (at least not Mr. 
 Briley himself) doubted that the mere sight 
 of such a weapon would turn the boldest ad 
 venturer aside. 
 
 Protected by such a man and such a piece 
 of armament, one gray Friday morning in 
 the edge of winter, Mrs. Fanny Tobin was 
 traveling from Sanscrit Pond to North 
 Kilby. She was an elderly and feeble-look 
 ing woman, but with a shrewd twinkle in 
 her eyes, and she felt very anxious about her 
 numerous pieces of baggage and her own 
 personal safety. She was enveloped in 
 many shawls and smaller wrappings, but 
 they were not securely fastened, and kept 
 getting undone and flying loose, so that the 
 bitter December cold seemed to be picking 
 a lock now and then, and creeping in to steal 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP. 3 
 
 away the little warmth she had. Mr. Briley 
 was cold, too, and could only cheer himself 
 by remembering the valor of those pony- 
 express drivers of the pre-railroad days, who 
 had to cross the Rocky Mountains on the 
 great California route. He spoke at length 
 of their perils to the suffering passenger, 
 who felt none the warmer, and at last gave 
 a groan of weariness. 
 
 " How fur did you say t was now ? " 
 
 " I do know s I said, Mis Tobin," an 
 swered the driver, with a frosty laugh. 
 "You see them big pines, and the side of 
 a barn just this way, with them yellow circus 
 bills ? That s my three-mile mark." 
 
 "Be we got four more to make? Oh, 
 my laws!" mourned Mrs. Tobin. "Urge 
 the beast, can t ye, Jeff son ? I ain t used 
 to bein - out in such bleak weather. Seems 
 if I could n t git my breath. I m all 
 pinched up and wigglin with shivers now. 
 T ain t no use lettin the hoss go step-a-ty- 
 step, this fashion." 
 
 " Landy me ! " exclaimed the affronted 
 driver. " I don t see why folks expects me 
 to race with the cars. Everybody that gits 
 in wants me to run the hoss to death on the 
 road. I make a good everage o time, and 
 
4 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 that s all I can do. Ef you was to go back 
 an forth every day but Sabbath fur eigh 
 teen years, you d want to ease it all you 
 could, and let those thrash the spokes out o 
 their wheels that wanted to. North Kilby, 
 Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays ; San 
 scrit Pond, Tuesdays, Thu sdays, an Satur 
 days. Me an the beast s done it eighteen 
 years together, and the creatur warn t, so to 
 say, young when we begun it, nor I neither. 
 I re lly did n t know s she d hold out till 
 this time. There, git up, will ye, old mar ! " 
 as the beast of burden stopped short in the 
 road. 
 
 There was a story that Jefferson gave this 
 faithful creature a rest three times a mile, 
 and took four hours for the journey by him 
 self, and longer whenever he had a passen 
 ger. But in pleasant weather the road was 
 delightful, and f idl of people who drove their 
 own conveyances, and liked to stop and talk. 
 There were not many farms, and the third 
 growth of white pines made a pleasant shade, 
 though Jefferson liked to say that when he 
 began to carry the mail his way lay through 
 an open country of stumps and sparse under 
 brush, where the white pines nowadays com 
 pletely arched the road. 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP. 5 
 
 They had passed the barn with circus 
 posters, and felt colder than ever when they 
 caught sight of the weather-beaten acrobats 
 in their tights. 
 
 " My gorry ! " exclaimed Widow Tobin, 
 "them pore creatur s looks as cheerless as 
 little birch-trees in snow-time. I hope they 
 dresses em warmer this time o year. Now, 
 there ! look at that one jumpin through the 
 little hoop, will ye ? " 
 
 " He could n t git himself through there 
 with two pair o pants on," answered Mr. 
 Briley. " I expect they must have to keep 
 limber as eels. I used to think, when I was 
 a boy, that t was the only thing I could ever 
 be reconciled to do for a livin . I set out to 
 run away an follow a rovin showman once, 
 but mother needed me to home. There 
 warn t nobody but me an the little gals." 
 
 " You ain t the only one that s be n dis- 
 app inted o their heart s desire," said Mrs. 
 Tobin sadly. " T warn t so that I could be 
 spared from home to learn the dressmaker s 
 trade." 
 
 " T would a come handy later on, I de 
 clare," answered the sympathetic driver, 
 * bein s you went an had such a passel o 
 gals to clothe an feed. There, them that s 
 
6 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 livin is all well off now, but it must ha 
 been some inconvenient for ye when they 
 was small." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Briley, but then I ve had my 
 mercies, too," said the widow somewhat 
 grudgingly. " I take it master hard now, 
 though," havin to give up my own home and 
 live round from place to place, if they be 
 my own child en. There was Ad line and 
 Susan Ellen fussin an bickerin yesterday 
 about who d got to have me next ; and, Lord 
 be thanked, they both wanted me right off 
 but I hated to hear em talkin of it over. 
 I d rather live to home, and do for myself." 
 
 " I ve got consider ble used to boardin ," 
 said Jefferson, " sence ma am died, but it 
 made me ache long at the fust on t, I tell 
 ye. Bein on the road s I be, I could n t do 
 no ways at keepin house. I should want to 
 keep right there and see to things." 
 
 " Course you would," replied Mrs. Tobin, 
 with a sudden inspiration of opportunity 
 which sent a welcome glow all over her. 
 " Course you would, Jeff son," she leaned 
 toward the front seat ; 4 ^that is to say, on- 
 less you had jest the right one to do it for 
 
 ye." 
 
 And Jefferson felt a strange glow also, 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP. 1 
 
 and a sense of unexpected interest and 
 enjoyment. 
 
 " See here, Sister Tobin," he exclaimed 
 with enthusiasm. " Why can t ye take the 
 trouble to shift seats, and come front here 
 long o me ? We could put one buff lo top 
 o the other, they re both wearin thin, 
 and set close, and I do know but we sh d be 
 more protected ag inst the weather." 
 
 " Well, I could n t be no colder if I was 
 froze to death," answered the widow, with an 
 amiable simper. " Don t ye let me delay you, 
 nor put you out, Mr. Briley. I don t know s 
 I d set forth to-day if I d known t was so 
 cold ; but I had all my bundles done up, 
 and I ain t one that puts my hand to the 
 plough an looks back, cordin to Scriptur ." 
 
 " You would n t wanted me to ride all 
 them seven miles alone ? " asked the gallant 
 Briley sentimentally, as he lifted her down, 
 and helped her up again to the front seat. 
 She was a few years older than he, but they 
 had been schoolmates, and Mrs. Tobin s 
 youthful freshness was suddenly revived to 
 his mind s eye. She had a little farm ; there 
 was nobody left at home now but herself, 
 and so she had broken up housekeeping for 
 the winter. Jefferson himself had savings 
 of no mean amount. 
 
8 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 They tucked themselves in, and felt better 
 for the change, but there was a sudden awk 
 wardness between them ; they had not had 
 time to prepare for an unexpected crisis. 
 
 "They say Elder Bickers, over to East 
 Sanscrit, s been and got married again to a 
 gal that s four year younger than his oldest 
 daughter," proclaimed Mrs. Tobin presently. 
 " Seems to me t was fool s business." 
 
 " I view it so," said the stage - driver. 
 " There s goin to be a mild open winter for 
 that fam ly." 
 
 " What a joker you be for a man that s 
 had so much responsibility ! " smiled Mrs. To 
 bin, after they had done laughing. " Ain t 
 you never fraid, carryin mail matter and 
 such valuable stuff, that you 11 be set on an 
 robbed, specially by night ? " 
 
 Jefferson braced his feet against the 
 dasher under the worn buffalo skin. " It is 
 kind o scary, or would be for some folks, 
 but I d like to see anybody get the better 
 o me. I go armed, and I don t care who 
 knows it. Some o them drover men that 
 comes from Canady looks as if they did n t 
 care what they did, but I look em right in 
 the eye every time." 
 
 "Men folks is brave by natur ," said the 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP. 9 
 
 widow admiringly. " You know how Tobin 
 would let his fist right out at anybody that 
 ondertook to sass him. Town-meetin days, 
 if he got disappointed about the way things 
 went, he d lay em out in win rows ; and ef 
 he had n t been a church-member he d been 
 a real fightin character. I was always f raid 
 to have him roused, for all he was so willin 
 and meechin to home, and set round clever 
 as anybody. My Susan Ellen used to boss 
 him same s the kitten, when she was four 
 year old." 
 
 " I ve got a kind of a sideways cant to 
 my nose, that Tobin give me when we was 
 to school. I don t know s you ever noticed 
 it," said Mr. Briley. " We was scufflin , as 
 lads will. I never bore him no kind of a 
 grudge. I pitied ye, when he was taken 
 away. I re lly did, now, Fanny. I liked 
 Tobin first-rate, and I liked you. I used to 
 say you was the han somest girl to school." 
 
 " Lemme see your nose. T is all straight, 
 for what I know," said the widow gently, 
 as with a trace of coyness she gave a hasty 
 glance. " I don t know but what t is 
 warped a little, but nothin to speak of. 
 You ve got real nice features, like your 
 marm s folks." 
 
10 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 It was becoming a sentimental occasion, 
 and Jefferson Briley felt that he was in for 
 something more than he had bargained. 
 He hurried the faltering sorrel horse, and 
 began to talk of the weather. It certainly 
 did look like snow, and he was tired of 
 bumping over the frozen road. 
 
 " I should n t wonder if I hired a hand 
 here another year, and went off out West 
 myself to see the country." 
 
 " Why, how you talk ! " answered the 
 widow. 
 
 "Yes m," pursued Jefferson. " T is 
 tamer here than I like, and I was tellin em 
 yesterday I Ve got to know this road most 
 too well. I d like to go out an ride in the 
 mountains with some o them great clipper 
 coaches, where the driver don t know one 
 minute but he 11 be shot dead the next. 
 They carry an awful sight o gold down 
 from the mines, I expect." 
 
 " I should be scairt to death," said Mrs. 
 Tobin. " What creatur s men folks be to 
 like such things ! Well, I do declare." 
 
 " Yes," explained the mild little man. 
 " There s sights of desp radoes makes a 
 han some livin out o followin them coaches, 
 an stoppin an robbin em clean to the 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP. H 
 
 bone. Your money or your life ! " and he 
 flourished his stub of a whip over the sorrel 
 mare. 
 
 " Landy me ! you make me run all of a 
 cold creep. Do tell somethin heartenin , 
 this cold day. I shall dream bad dreams 
 all night." 
 
 "They put on black crape over their 
 heads," said the driver mysteriously. " No 
 body knows who most on em be, and like 
 as not some o them fellows come o good 
 families. They ve got so they stop the cars, 
 and go right through em bold as brass. I 
 could make your hair stand on end, Mis 
 Tobin, I could so/" 
 
 " I hope none on em 11 git round our 
 way, I m sure," said Fanny Tobin. " I 
 don t want to see none on em in their crape 
 bunnits comin after me." 
 
 " I ain t goin to let nobody touch a hair 
 o your head," and Mr. Briley moved a little 
 nearer, and tucked in the buffaloes again. 
 
 " I feel considerable warm to what I did," 
 observed the widow by way of reward. 
 
 "There, I used to have my fears," Mr. 
 Briley resumed, with an inward feeling that 
 he never would get to North Kilby depot a 
 single man. " But you see I had n t nobody 
 
12 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 but myself to think of. I Ve got cousins, 
 as you know, but nothin nearer, and what 
 I Ve laid up would soon be parted out ; and 
 well, I suppose some folks would think o 
 me if anything was to happen." 
 
 Iri. Tobin was holding her cloud over 
 he~ face, the wind was sharp on that bit 
 of open road, but she gave an encouraging 
 sound, between a groan and a chirp. 
 
 " T would n t be like nothin to me not 
 to see you drivin by," she said, after a 
 minute. " I should n t know the days o* 
 the week. I says to Susan Ellen last week 
 I was sure t was Friday, and she said no, 
 t was Thursday ; but next minute you druv 
 by and headin toward North Kilby, so we 
 found I was right." 
 
 " I Ve got to be a featur of the land 
 scape," said Mr. Briley plaintively. " This 
 kind o weather the old mare and me, we 
 wish we was done with it, and could settle 
 down kind o comfortable. I Ve been lookin 
 this good while, as I drove the road, and 
 I Ve picked me out a piece o land two or 
 three times. But I can t abide the thought 
 o buildin , t would plague me to death ; 
 and both Sister Peak to North Kilby and 
 Mis Deacon Ash to the Pond, they vie with 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP, 13 
 
 one another to do well by me, fear I 11 like 
 the other stoppin -place best." 
 
 " / should n t covet livin long o neither 
 one o them women," responded the passen 
 ger with some spirit. " I see some o Mis 
 Peak s cookin to a farmers supper once, 
 when I was visitin Susan Ellen s folks, an 
 I says 4 Deliver me from sech pale - com 
 plected baked beans as them ! and she give 
 a kind of a quack. She was settin jest at 
 my left hand, and could n t help hearin of 
 me. I would n t have spoken if I had known, 
 but she need n t have let on they was hers 
 an make everything unpleasant. I guess 
 them beans taste just as well as other folks , 
 says she, and she would n t never speak to 
 me afterward." 
 
 " Do know s I blame her," ventured Mr. 
 Briley. " Women folks is dreadful pudjicky 
 about their cookin . I ve always heard you 
 was one o the best o cooks, Mis Tobin. 
 I know them doughnuts an things you ve 
 give me in times past, when I was drivin 
 by. Wish I had some on em now. I never 
 let on, but Mis Ash s cookin s the best by 
 a long chalk. Mis Peak s handy about 
 some things, and looks after mendin of me 
 up." 
 
14 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 " It doos seem as if a man o your years 
 and your quiet make ought to have a home 
 you could call your own," suggested the pas 
 senger. " I kind of hate to think o your 
 bangein here and boardin there, and one 
 old woman mendin , and the other settin ye 
 down to meals that like s not don t agree 
 with ye." 
 
 " Lor , now, Mis Tobin, le s not fuss 
 round no longer," said Mr. Briley impa 
 tiently. " You know you covet me same s 
 I do you." 
 
 "I don t nuther. Don t you go an say 
 fo lish things you can t stand to." 
 
 " I Ve been tryin to git a chance to put 
 in a word with you ever sence Well, I 
 expected you d want to get your feelin s 
 kind o calloused after losin Tobin." 
 
 " There s nobody can fill his place," said 
 the widow. 
 
 " I do know but I can fight for ye town- 
 meetin days, on a pinch," urged Jefferson 
 boldly. 
 
 " I never see the beat o you men fur 
 conceit," and Mrs. Tobin laughed. " I ain t 
 goin to bother with ye, gone half the time 
 as you be, an carryin on with your Mis 
 Peaks and Mis Ashes. I dare say you ve 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP. 15 
 
 promised yourself to both on em twenty 
 times." 
 
 " I hope to gracious if I ever breathed a 
 word to none on em ! " protested the lover. 
 " T ain t for lack o opportunities set afore 
 me, nuther ; " and then Mr. Briley craftily 
 kept silence, as if he had made a fair pro 
 posal, and expected a definite reply. 
 
 The lady of his choice was, as she might 
 have expressed it, much beat about. As she 
 soberly thought, she was getting along in 
 years, and must put up with Jefferson all 
 the rest of the time. It was not likely she 
 would ever have the chance of choosing 
 again, though she was one who liked variety. 
 
 Jefferson was n t much to look at, but 
 he was pleasant and appeared boyish and 
 young-feeling. " I do know s I should do 
 better," she said unconsciously and half 
 aloud. " Well, yes, Jefferson, seein it s you. 
 But we re both on us kind of old to change 
 our situation." Fanny Tobin gave a gentle 
 sigh. 
 
 " Hooray ! " said Jefferson. " I was scairt 
 you meant to keep me sufferin here a half 
 an hour. I declare, I m more pleased than 
 I calc lated on. An I expected till lately 
 to die a single man ! " 
 
16 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 " T would re lly have been a shame ; 
 t ain t natur ," said Mrs. Tobin, with con 
 fidence. " I don t see how you held out so 
 long with bein solitary." 
 
 " I 11 hire a hand to drive for me, and 
 we 11 have a good comfortable winter, me 
 an you an the old sorrel. I ve been proni- 
 isin of her a rest this good while." 
 
 " Better keep her a steppin ," urged 
 thrifty Mrs. Fanny. "She ll stiffen up 
 master, an disapp int ye, come spring." 
 
 " You 11 have me, now, won t ye, sartin ? " 
 pleaded Jefferson, to make sure. "You 
 ain t one o them that plays with a man s 
 feelin s. Say right out you 11 have me." 
 
 " I s pose I shall have to," said Mrs. 
 Tobin somewhat mournfully. " I feel for 
 Mis Peak an Mis Ash, pore creatur s. I 
 expect they 11 be hardshipped. They ve 
 always been hard-worked, an may have kind 
 o looked forward to a little ease. But one 
 on em would be left lamentin , anyhow," 
 and she gave a girlish laugh. An air of 
 victory animated the frame of Mrs. Tobin. 
 She felt but twenty-five years of age. In 
 that moment she made plans for cutting her 
 ^Briley s hair, and making him look smart- 
 ened-up and ambitious. Then she wished 
 
A WINTER COURTSHIP. IT 
 
 that she knew for certain how much money 
 he had in the bank ; not that it would make 
 any difference now. " He need n t bluster 
 none before me," she thought gayly. " He s 
 harmless as a fly." 
 
 " Who d have thought we d done such a 
 piece of engineerin , when we started out ? " 
 inquired the dear one of Mr. Briley s heart, 
 as he tenderly helped her. to alight at Susan 
 Ellen s door. 
 
 "Both on us, jest the least grain," an 
 swered the lover. " Gimme a good smack, 
 now, you clever creatur ; " and so they 
 parted. Mr. Briley had been taken on the 
 road in spite of- his pistol. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM 
 PLANTATION. 
 
 A HIGH wind was blowing from the water 
 into the Beaufort streets, a wind with as 
 much reckless hilarity as March could give 
 to her breezes, but soft and spring-like, al 
 most early-summer-like, in its warmth. 
 
 In the gardens of the old Southern houses 
 that stood along the bay, roses and petispo- 
 rum-trees were blooming, with their deli 
 cious fragrance. It was the time of wistarias 
 and wild white lilies, of the last yellow jas 
 mines and the first Cherokee roses. It was 
 the Saturday before Easter Sunday. 
 
 In the quaint churchyard of old St. 
 Helena s Church, a little way from the bay, 
 young figures were busy among the graves 
 with industrious gardening. At first sight, 
 one might have thought that this pretty 
 service was rendered only from loving sen 
 timents of loyalty to one s ancestors, for 
 under the great live-oaks, the sturdy brick 
 walls about the family bury ing-places and 
 
MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 19 
 
 the gravestones themselves were moss-grown 
 and ancient-looking ; yet here and there the 
 wounded look of the earth appealed to the 
 eye, and betrayed a new-made grave. The 
 old sarcophagi and heavy tablets of the his 
 toric Beaufort families stood side by side 
 with plain wooden crosses. The armorial 
 bearings and long epitaphs of the one and 
 the brief lettering of the other suggested the 
 changes that had come with the war to these 
 families, yet somehow the wooden cross 
 touched one s heart with closer sympathy. 
 The padlocked gates to the small inclosures 
 stood open, while gentle girls passed in and 
 out with their Easter flowers of remem 
 brance. On the high churchyard wall and 
 great gate-posts perched many a mocking 
 bird, and the golden light changed the twi 
 light under the live-oaks to a misty warmth 
 of color. The birds began to sing louder ; 
 the gray moss that hung from the heavy 
 boughs swayed less and less, and gave the 
 place a look of pensive silence. 
 
 In the church itself, most of the palms 
 and rose branches were already in place for 
 the next day s feast, and the old organ fol 
 lowed a fresh young voice that was being 
 trained for the Easter anthem. The five 
 
20 MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 
 
 doors of the church were standing open. 
 On the steps of that eastern door which 
 opened midway up the side aisle, where the 
 morning sun had shone in upon the white 
 faces of a hospital in war-time, in this 
 eastern doorway sat two young women. 
 
 " I was just thinking," one was saying to 
 the other, " that for the first time Mistress 
 Sydenham has forgotten to keep this day. 
 You know that when she has forgotten 
 everything and everybody else, she has 
 known when Easter came, and has brought 
 flowers to her graves." 
 
 " Has she been more feeble lately, do you 
 think ? " asked the younger of the two. 
 "Mamma saw her the other day, and 
 thought that she seemed more like herself ; 
 but she looked very old, too. She told 
 mamma to bring her dolls, and she would 
 give her some bits of silk to make them 
 gowns. Poor mamma ! and she had just 
 been wondering how she could manage to get 
 us ready for summer, this year, Celestine 
 and me," and the speaker smiled wistfully. 
 
 " It is a mercy that the dear old lady did 
 forget all that happened ; " and the friends 
 brushed some last bits of leaves from their 
 skirts, and rose and walked away together 
 through the churchyard. 
 
MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 21 
 
 The ancient church waited through an 
 other Easter Even, with its flowers and long 
 memory of prayer and praise. The great 
 earthquake had touched it lightly, time had 
 colored it softly, and the earthly bodies of 
 its children were gathered near its walls in 
 peaceful sleep. 
 
 From one of the high houses which stood 
 fronting the sea, with their airy balconies 
 and colonnades, had come a small, slender 
 figure, like some shy, dark thing of twilight 
 out into the bright sunshine. The street 
 was empty, for the most part ; before one or 
 two of the cheap German shops a group of 
 men watched the little old lady step proudly 
 by. She was a very stately gentlewoman, for 
 one so small and thin ; she was feeble, too, 
 and bending somewhat with the weight of 
 years, but there was true elegance and dig 
 nity in the way she moved, and those who 
 saw her persons who shuffled when they 
 walked, and boasted loudly of the fallen 
 pride of the South were struck with sud 
 den deference and admiration. Behind the 
 lady walked a gray -headed negro, a man 
 who was troubled in spirit, who sometimes 
 gained a step or two, and offered an anx 
 ious but quite unheeded remonstrance. He 
 
22 MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 
 
 was a poor, tottering old fellow ; he wore a 
 threadbare evening coat that might have be 
 longed to his late master thirty years before. 
 The pair went slowly along the bay street 
 to the end of a row of new shops, and the 
 lady turned decidedly toward the water, and 
 approached the ferry-steps. Her servitor 
 groaned aloud, but waited in respectful help 
 lessness. There was a group of negro chil 
 dren on the steps, employed in the danger 
 ous business of crab - fishing ; at the foot, 
 in his flat-bottomed boat, sat a wondering 
 negro lad, who looked up in apprehension 
 at his passengers. The lady seemed like a 
 ghost. Old Peter, with whose scorn of 
 modern beings and their ways he was par 
 tially familiar, old Peter was making fran 
 tic signs to him to put out from shore. But 
 the lady s calm desire for obedience pre 
 vailed, and presently, out of the knot of 
 idlers that gathered quickly, one, more chiv 
 alrous than the rest, helped the strange 
 adventurers down into the boat. It was the 
 fashion to laugh and joke, in Beaufort, when 
 anything unusual was happening before the 
 eyes of the younger part of the colored pop 
 ulation ; but as the ferryman pushed off from 
 shore, even the crab-fishers kept awe-struck 
 
MISTRESS OF SY DENE AM PLANTATION. 23 
 
 silence, and there were speechless, open 
 mouths and much questioning of eyes that 
 showed their whites in vain. Somehow or 
 other, before the boat was out of hail, long 
 before it had passed the first bank of rac 
 coon oysters, the tide being at the ebb, it was 
 known by fifty people that for the first time 
 in more than twenty years the mistress of 
 the old Sydenham plantation on St. Helena s 
 Island had taken it into her poor daft head 
 to go to look after her estates, her crops, and 
 her people. Everybody knew that her es 
 tates had been confiscated during the war ; 
 that her people owned it themselves now, in 
 three and five and even twenty acre lots ; 
 that her crops of rice and Sea Island cotton 
 were theirs, planted and hoed and harvested 
 on their own account. All these years she 
 had forgotten Sydenham, and the live-oak av 
 enue, and the outlook across the water to the 
 Hunting Islands, where the deer ran wild ; 
 she had forgotten the war ; she had forgotten 
 her children and her husband, except that 
 they had gone away, the graves to which 
 she carried Easter flowers were her mother s 
 and her father s graves, and her life was 
 spent in a strange dream. 
 
 Old Peter sat facing her in the boat ; the 
 
24 MISTRESS OF SY DENE AM PLANTATION. 
 
 ferryman pulled lustily at his oars, and they 
 moved quickly along in the ebbing tide. 
 The ferryman longed to get his freight 
 safely across ; he was in a fret of discomfort 
 whenever he looked at the clear-cut, eager 
 face before him in the stern. How still and 
 straight the old mistress sat ! Where was 
 she going ? He was awed by her presence, 
 and took refuge, as he rowed, in needless 
 talk about the coming of the sandflies and 
 the great drum-fish to Beaufort waters. But 
 Peter had clasped his hands together and 
 bowed his old back, as if he did not dare to 
 look anywhere but at the bottom of the boat. 
 Peter was still groaning softly ; the old lady 
 was looking back over the water to the row 
 of fine houses, the once luxurious summer 
 homes of Rhetts and Barnwells, of many a 
 famous household now scattered and impov 
 erished. The ferryman had heard of more 
 than one bereft lady or gentleman who lived 
 in seclusion in the old houses. He knew that 
 Peter still served a mysterious mistress with 
 exact devotion, while most of the elderly 
 colored men and women who had formed the 
 retinues of the old families were following 
 their own affairs, far and wide. 
 
 " Oh, Lord, ole mis ! what kin I go to 
 
MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 25 
 
 do ? " mumbled Peter, with his head in his 
 hands. " Thar 11 be nothin to see. Po 
 ole mis , I do kno what you say. Trouble, 
 trouble ! " 
 
 But the mistress of Sydenham plantation 
 had a way of speaking but seldom, and of 
 rarely listening to what any one was pleased 
 to say in return. Out of the mistiness of 
 her clouded brain a thought had come with 
 unwonted clearness. She must go to the 
 island : her husband and sons were detained 
 at a distance ; it was the time of year to look 
 after corn and cotton; she must attend to 
 her house and her slaves. The remembrance 
 of that news of battle and of the three deaths 
 that had left her widowed and childless had 
 faded away in the illness it had brought. 
 She never comprehended her loss ; she was 
 like one bewitched into indifference ; she 
 remembered something of her youth, and 
 kept a simple routine of daily life, and that 
 was all. 
 
 "I t ought she done fo git ebryt ing," 
 groaned Peter again. " O Lord, hab mercy 
 on ole mis ! " 
 
 The landing-place on Ladies Island was 
 steep and sandy, and the oarsman watched 
 Peter help the strange passenger up the 
 
26 MISTRESS OF SY DEN HAM PLANTATION. 
 
 ascent with a sense of blessed relief. He 
 pushed off a little way into the stream, for 
 better self-defense. At the top of the bluff 
 was a rough shed, built for shelter, and 
 Peter looked about him eagerly, while his 
 mistress stood, expectant and imperious, in 
 the shade of a pride of India tree, that grew 
 among the live-oaks and pines of a wild 
 thicket. He was wretched with a sense of 
 her discomfort, though she gave no sign of 
 it. He had learned to know by instinct all 
 that was unspoken. In the old times she 
 would have found four oarsmen waiting with 
 a cushioned boat at the ferry; she would 
 have found a saddle-horse or a carriage 
 ready for her on Ladies Island for the five 
 miles journey, but the carriage had not come. 
 The poor gray-headed old man recognized 
 her displeasure. He was her only slave left, 
 if she did but know it. 
 
 "Fo Gord s sake, git me some kin of a 
 cart. Ole mis , she done wake up and mean 
 to go out to Syd n am dis day," urged Peter. 
 " Who dis hoss an kyart in de shed ? Who 
 make dese track wid huffs jus now, like dey 
 done ride by ? Yo go git somebody f o me, 
 or she be right mad, shore." 
 
 The elderly guardian of the shed, who was 
 
MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 27 
 
 also of the old regime, hobbled away quickly, 
 and backed out a steer that was broken to 
 harness, and a rickety two-wheeled cart. 
 Their owner had left them there for some 
 hours, and had crossed the ferry to Beaufort. 
 Old mistress must be obeyed, and they 
 looked toward her beseechingly where she 
 was waiting, deprecating her disapproval of 
 this poor apology for a conveyance. The 
 lady long since had ceased to concern her 
 self with the outward shapes of things ; she 
 accepted this possibility of carrying out her 
 plans, and they lifted her light figure to the 
 chair, in the cart s end, while Peter mounted 
 before her with all a coachman s dignity, 
 he once had his ambitions of being her 
 coachman, and they moved slowly away 
 through the deep sand. 
 
 "My Gord A mighty, look out fo us 
 now," said Peter over and over. " Ole mis , 
 she done fo git, good Lord, she done fo git 
 how de Good Marsa up dere done took f om 
 her ebryt ing ; she spect now she find Sy- 
 d n am all de same like s it was fo de war. 
 She ain t know bout what s been sence day 
 of de gun-shoot on Port Royal and dar-away. 
 O Lord A mighty, yo know how yo stove 
 her po head wid dem gun-shoot ; be easy to 
 ole mis ." 
 
28 MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 
 
 But as Peter pleaded in the love and 
 sorrow of his heart, the lady who sat behind 
 him was unconscious of any cause for grief. 
 Some sweet vagaries in her own mind were 
 matched to the loveliness of the day. All 
 her childhood, spent among the rustic scenes 
 of these fertile Sea Islands, was yielding for 
 her now an undefined pleasantness of asso 
 ciation. The straight-stemmed palmettos 
 stood out with picturesque clearness against 
 the great level fields, with their straight 
 furrows running out of sight. Figures of 
 men and women followed the furrow paths 
 slowly ; here were men and horses bending 
 to the ploughshare, and there women and 
 children sowed with steady hand the rich 
 seed of their crops. There were touches of 
 color in the head kerchiefs ; there were 
 sounds of songs as the people worked, not 
 gay songs of the evening, but some repeated 
 line of a hymn, to steady the patient feet 
 and make the work go faster, the uncon 
 scious music of the blacks, who sing as the 
 beetle drones or the cricket chirps slowly un 
 der the dry grass. It had a look of perma 
 nence, this cotton-planting. It was a thing 
 to paint, to relate itself to the permanence 
 of art, an everlasting duty of mankind; 
 
MJSTHZSS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 29 
 
 terrible if a thing of force and compulsion 
 and for another s gain, but the birthright of 
 the children of Adam, and not unrewarded 
 nor unnatural when one drew by it one s 
 own life from the earth. 
 
 Peter glanced through the hedge -rows 
 furtively, this way and that. What would 
 his mistress say to the cabins that were 
 scattered all about the fields now, and that 
 were no longer put together in the long lines 
 of the quarters ? He looked down a deserted 
 lane, where he well remembered fifty cabins 
 on each side of the way. It was gay there 
 of a summer evening ; the old times had 
 not been without their pleasures, and the 
 poor old man s heart leaped with the vague 
 delight of his memories. He had never 
 been on the block ; he was born and bred at 
 old Sydenham ; he had been trusted in 
 house and field. 
 
 " I done like dem ole times de best," 
 ventures Peter, presently, to his unrespond- 
 ing companion. " Dere was good bout dem 
 times. I say I like de ole times good as 
 any. Young folks may be a change f om 
 me." 
 
 He was growing gray in the face with 
 apprehension; he did not dare to disobey. 
 
30 MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 
 
 The slow-footed beast of burden was carry 
 ing them toward Sydenham step by step, 
 and he dreaded the moment of arrival. He 
 was like a mesmerized creature, who can 
 only obey the force of a directing will ; but 
 under pretense of handling the steer s har 
 ness, he got stiffly to the ground to look at 
 his mistress. He could not turn to face her, 
 as he sat in the cart ; he could not drive any 
 longer and feel her there behind him. The 
 silence was too great. It was a relief to see 
 her placid face, and to see even a more 
 youthful look in its worn lines. She had 
 been a very beautiful woman in her young 
 days. And a solemn awe fell upon Peter s 
 tender heart, lest the veil might be lifting 
 from her hidden past, and there, alone with 
 him on the old plantation, she would die of 
 grief and pain. God only knew what might 
 happen ! The old man mounted to his seat, 
 and again they plodded on. 
 
 " Peter," said the mistress, he was al 
 ways frightened when she spoke, " Peter, 
 we must hurry. I was late in starting. I 
 have a great deal to do. Urge the horses." 
 
 "Yas, mis , yas, mis ," and Peter 
 laughed aloud nervously, and brandished 
 his sassafras switch, while the steer hastened 
 
MISTRESS OF SYDENIIAM PLANTATION. 31 
 
 a little. They had come almost to the 
 gates. 
 
 " Who are these ? " the stately wayfarer 
 asked once, as they met some persons who 
 gazed at them in astonishment. 
 
 " I spect dem de good ladies f om de 
 Norf, what come down to show de cullud 
 folks how to do readin , answered Peter 
 bravely. " It do look kind o comfo ble 
 over here," he added wistfully, half to him 
 self. He could not understand even now 
 how oblivious she was of the great changes 
 on St. Helena s. 
 
 There were curious eyes watching from 
 the fields, and here by the roadside an aged 
 black woman came to her cabin door. 
 
 " Lord ! " exclaimed Peter, " what kin I 
 do now ? An ole Sibyl, she s done crazy 
 too, and dey 11 be mischievous together." 
 
 The steer could not be hurried past, and 
 Sibyl came and leaned against the wheel. 
 " Mornin , mistis," said Sibyl, " an yo too, 
 Peter. How s all ? Day ob judgment s 
 comin in mornin ! Some nice buttermilk ? 
 I done git rich ; t at s my cow," and she 
 pointed to the field and chuckled. Peter 
 felt as if his brain were turning. " Bless 
 de Lord, I no more slave," said old Sibyl, 
 
32 MIS TRE SS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 
 
 looking up with impudent scrutiny at her 
 old mistress s impassive face. " Yo know 
 Mars Middleton, what yo buy me f om ? 
 He my foster-brother ; we push away from 
 same breast. He got trouble, po gen el- 
 man ; he sorry to sell Sibyl ; he give me sil 
 ver dollar dat day, an feel bad. " Neber 
 min , I say. I get good mistis, young mistis 
 at Sydenham. I like her well, I did so. 
 I pick my two hunderd poun all days, an* I 
 ain t whipped. Too bad sold me, po Mars 
 Middleton, but he in trouble. He done 
 come see me last plantiii ," Sibyl went on 
 proudly. " Oh, Gord, he grown ole and 
 poor-lookin . He come in, just in dat do , 
 an he say, Sibyl, I long an long to see 
 you, an now I see you ; an he kiss an kiss 
 me. An dere sone wide ribber o Jordan, 
 an we 11 soon be dere, black an white. I 
 was right glad I see ole Mars Middleton 
 fore I die." 
 
 The old creature poured forth the one 
 story of her great joy and pride ; she had 
 told it a thousand times. It had happened, 
 not the last planting, but many plantings 
 ago. It remained clear when everything 
 else was confused. There was no knowing 
 what she might say next. She began to 
 
MISTRESS OF SYDENHAM PLANTATION. 33 
 
 take the strange steps of a slow dance, and 
 Peter urged his steer forward, while his 
 mistress said suddenly, " Good-by, Sibyl. I 
 am glad you are doing so well," with a 
 strange irrelevancy of graciousness. It was 
 in the old days before the war that Sibyl 
 had fallen insensible, one day, in the cotton- 
 field. Did her mistress think that it was 
 still that year, and Peter s mind could 
 not puzzle out this awful day of anxiety. 
 
 They turned at last into the live-oak ave 
 nue, they had only another half mile to 
 go ; and here, in the place where the lady 
 had closest association, her memory was sud 
 denly revived almost to clearness. She be 
 gan to hurry Peter impatiently; it was a 
 mischance that she had not been met at the 
 ferry. She was going to see to putting the 
 house in order, and the women were all 
 waiting. It was autumn, and they were go 
 ing to move over from Beaufort ; it was 
 spring next moment, and she had to talk 
 with her overseers. The old imperiousness 
 flashed out. Did not Peter know that his 
 master was kept at the front, and the young 
 gentlemen were with him, and their regi 
 ment was going into action? It was a 
 blessing to come over and forget it all, but 
 
34 MISTEESS OF SY DEN II AM PLANTATION. 
 
 Peter must drive, drive. They had taken 
 no care of the avenue ; how the trees were 
 broken in the storm ! The house needed 
 They were going to move the next day but 
 one, and nothing was ready. A party of 
 gentlemen were coining from Charleston in 
 the morning ! 
 
 They passed the turn of the avenue ; 
 they came out to the open lawn, and the 
 steer stopped and began to browse. Peter 
 shook from head to foot. He climbed down 
 by the wheel, and turned his face slowly. 
 " Ole mis ! " he said feebly. " Ole mis ! " 
 
 She was looking off into space. The cart 
 jerked as it moved after the feeding steer. 
 The mistress of Sydenham plantation had 
 sought her home in vain. The crumbled, 
 fallen chimneys of the house were there 
 among the weeds, and that was all. 
 
 On Christmas Day and Easter Day, 
 many an old man and woman come into St. 
 Helena s Church who are not seen there the 
 rest of the year. There are not a few re 
 cluses in the parish, who come to listen to 
 their teacher and to the familiar prayers, 
 read with touching earnestness and sim 
 plicity, as one seldom hears the prayers 
 
MISTRESS OF S YD E Nil AM PLANTATION. 35 
 
 read anywhere. This Easter morning 
 dawned clear and bright, as Easter morning 
 should. The fresh-bloomed roses and lilies 
 were put in their places. There was no 
 touch of paid hands anywhere, and the fra 
 grance blew softly about the church. As 
 you sat in your pew, you could look out 
 through the wide-opened doors, and see the 
 drooping branches, and the birds as they sat 
 singing on the gravestones. The sad faces 
 of the old people, the cheerful faces of the 
 young, passed by up the aisle. One figure 
 came to sit alone in one of the pews, to 
 bend its head in prayer after the ancient 
 habit. Peter led her, as usual, to the broad- 
 aisle doorway, and helped her, stumbling 
 himself, up the steps, and many eyes filled 
 with tears as his mistress went to her place. 
 Even the tragic moment of yesterday was 
 lost already in the acquiescence of her mind, 
 as the calm sea shines back to the morning 
 sun when another wreck has gone down. 
 
HE TOWN POOR. 
 
 MRS. WILLIAM TRIMBLE and Miss Re 
 becca Wright were driving along Hampden 
 east road, one afternoon in early spring. 
 Their progress was slow. Mrs. Trimble s 
 sorrel horse was old and stiff, and the wheels 
 were clogged by clay mud. The frost was 
 not yet out of the ground, although the snow 
 was nearly gone, except in a few places on 
 the north side of the woods, or where it had 
 drifted all winter against a length of fence. 
 
 " There must be a good deal o snow to 
 the nor ard of us yet," said weather-wise 
 Mrs. Trimble. " I feel it in the air ; t is 
 more than the ground -damp. We ain t 
 goin to have real nice weather till the up- 
 country snow s all gone." 
 
 "I heard say yesterday that there was 
 good sleddin yet, all up through Parsley," 
 responded Miss Wright. " I should n t like 
 to live in them northern places. My cousin 
 Ellen s husband was a Parsley man, an he 
 was obliged, as you may have heard, to go 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 37 
 
 up north to his father s second wife s fune 
 ral ; got back day before yesterday. T was 
 about twenty-one miles, an they started on 
 wheels ; but when they d gone nine or ten 
 miles, they found t was no sort o use, an 
 left their wagon an took a sleigh. The 
 man that owned it charged em four an six, 
 too. I should n t have thought he would ; 
 they told him they was goin to a funeral ; 
 an they had their own buffaloes an every 
 thing." 
 
 " Well, I expect it s a good deal harder 
 scratching up that way ; they have to git 
 money where they can ; the farms is very 
 poor as you go north," suggested Mrs. 
 Trimble kindly. " T ain t none too rich a 
 country where we be, but I ve always been 
 grateful I wa n t born up to Parsley." 
 
 The old horse plodded along, and the sun, 
 coming out from the heavy spring clouds, 
 sent a sudden shine of light along the muddy 
 road. Sister Wright drew her large veil 
 forward over the high brim of her bonnet. 
 She was not used to driving, or to being 
 much in the open air; but Mrs. Trimble 
 was an active business woman, and looked 
 after her own affairs herself, in all weathers. 
 The late Mr. Trimble had left her a Ood 
 
38 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 farm, but not much ready money, and it was 
 often said that she was better off in the end 
 than if he had lived. She regretted his loss 
 deeply, however ; it was impossible for her 
 to speak of him, even to intimate friends, 
 without emotion, and nobody had ever 
 hinted that this emotion was insincere. She 
 was most warm-hearted and generous, and 
 in her limited way played the part of Lady 
 Bountiful in the town of Hampden. 
 
 " Why, there s where the Bray girls 
 lives, ain t it ? " she exclaimed, as, beyond 
 a thicket of witch-hazel and scrub-oak, they 
 came in sight of a weather-beaten, solitary 
 farmhouse. The barn was too far away for 
 thrift or comfort, and they could see long 
 lines of light between the shrunken boards 
 as they came nearer. The fields looked both 
 stony and sodden. Somehow, even Parsley 
 itself could be hardly more forlorn. 
 
 " Yes m," said Miss Wright, " that s 
 where they live now, poor things. I know 
 the place, though I ain t been up here for 
 years. You don t suppose, Mis Trimble 
 I ain t seen the girls out to meetin all win 
 ter. I ve re lly been covetin : 
 
 " Why, yes, Rebecca, of course we could 
 stop," answered Mrs. Trimble heartily. 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 39 
 
 " The exercises was over earlier n I ex 
 pected, an you re goin to remain over 
 night long o me, you know. There won t 
 be no tea till we git there, so we can t be 
 late. I m in the habit o sendin a basket 
 to the Bray girls when any o our folks is 
 comin this way, but I ain t been to see em 
 since they moved up here. Why, it must 
 be a good deal over a year ago. I know 
 t was in the late winter they had to make the 
 move. T was cruel hard, I must say, an if 
 I had n t been down with my pleurisy fever 
 I d have stirred round an done somethin 
 about it. There was a good deal o sickness 
 at tlip time, an well, t was kind o rushed 
 through, breakin of em up, an lots o folks 
 )lamed the selectmen ; but when t was done, 
 t was done, an nobody took holt to undo 
 it. Ann an Mandy looked same s ever 
 when they come to meetin , long in the sum 
 mer, kind o wishful, perhaps. They Ve 
 always sent me word they was gittin on 
 pretty comfortable." 
 
 " That would be their way," said Rebecca 
 Wright. " They never was any hand to 
 complain, though Mandy s less cheerful 
 than Ann. If Mandy d been spared such 
 poor eyesight, an Ann had n t got her lame 
 
40 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 wrist that wa n t set right, they d kep off 
 the town fast enough. They both shed tears 
 when they talked to me about havin to 
 break up, when I went to see em before I 
 went over to brother Asa s. You see we 
 was brought up neighbors, an* we went to 
 school together, the Brays an 7 me. T was 
 a special Providence brought us home this 
 road, I Ve been so covetin a chance to git 
 to see em. My lameness hampers me." 
 
 " I m glad we come this way, myself," 
 said Mrs. Trimble. 
 
 " I d like to see just how they fare," Miss 
 Rebecca Wright continued. "They give 
 their consent to goin on the town because 
 they knew they d got to be dependent, an 
 so they felt t would come easier for all than 
 for a few to help em. They acted real dig 
 nified an right-minded, contrary to what 
 most do in such cases, but they was dreadful 
 anxious to see who would bid em off, town- 
 meeting day ; they did so hope t would be 
 somebody right in the village. I just sat 
 down an cried good when I found Abel 
 Janes s folks had got hold of em. They 
 always had the name of bein slack an poor- 
 spirited, an they did it just for what they 
 got out o the town. The selectmen this 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 41 
 
 last year ain t what we have had. I hope 
 they ve been considerate about the Bray 
 girls." 
 
 "I should have be n more considerate 
 about fetchiii of you over," apologized Mrs. 
 Trimble. " I Ve got my horse, an you re 
 lame-footed ; t is too far for you to come. 
 But time does slip away with busy folks, an 
 I forgit a good deal I ought to remember." 
 
 " There s nobody more considerate than 
 you be," protested Miss Rebecca Wright. 
 
 Mrs. Trimble made no answer, but took 
 out her whip and gently touched the sorrel 
 horse, who walked considerably faster, but 
 did not think it worth while to trot. It was 
 a long, round-about way to the house, farther 
 down the road and up a lane. 
 
 "I never had any opinion of the Bray 
 girls father, leavin em as he did," said 
 Mrs. Trimble. 
 
 " He was much praised in his time, though 
 there was always some said his early life 
 hadn t been up to the mark," explained 
 her companion. " He was a great favorite 
 of our then preacher, the Reverend Daniel 
 Longbrother. They did a good deal for 
 the parish, but they did it their own way. 
 Deacon Bray was one that did his part 
 
42 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 in the repairs without urging. You know 
 t was in his time the first repairs was made, 
 when they got out the old soundin -board an 
 them handsome square pews. It cost an 
 awful sight o money, too. They had n t 
 done payin up that debt when they set to 
 alter it again an git the walls frescoed. 
 My grandmother was one that always spoke 
 her mind right out, an she was dreadful 
 opposed to breakin up the square pews 
 where she d always set. They was countin 
 up what t would cost in parish meetin , an 
 she riz right up an said t would n t cost 
 nothin to let em stay, an there wa n t a 
 house carpenter left in the parish that could 
 do such nice work, an time would come 
 when the great-grandchildren would give 
 their eye-teeth to have the old meetm -house 
 look just as it did then. But haul the inside 
 to pieces they would and did." 
 
 "There come to be a real fight over it, 
 did n t there ? " agreed Mrs. Trimble sooth 
 ingly. " Well, t wa n t good taste. I re 
 member the old house well. I come here 
 as a child to visit a cousin o mother s, an 
 Mr. Trimble s folks was neighbors, an we 
 was drawed to each other then, young s we 
 was. Mr. Trimble spoke of it many s the 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 43 
 
 time, that first time he ever see me, in a 
 leghorn hat with a feather ; t was one that 
 mother had, an pressed over." 
 
 " When I think of them old sermons that 
 used to be preached in that old meetin -house 
 of all, I m glad it s altered over, so s not 
 to remind folks," said Miss Rebecca Wright, 
 after a suitable pause. " Them old brim 
 stone discourses, you know, Mis Trimble. 
 Preachers is far more reasonable, nowadays. 
 Why, I set an thought, last Sabbath, as 
 I listened, that if old Mr. Longbrother an 
 Deacon Bray could hear the difference they d 
 crack the ground over em like pole beans, an 
 come right up long side their headstones." 
 
 Mrs. Trimble laughed heartily, and shook 
 the reins three or four times by way of em 
 phasis. "There s no gitting round you," 
 she said, much pleased. " I should think 
 Deacon Bray would want to rise, any way, 
 if t was so he could, an knew how his poor 
 girls was farin . A man ought to provide 
 for his folks he s got to leave behind him, 
 specially if they re women. To be sure, 
 they had their little home ; but we ve seen 
 how, with all their industrious ways, they 
 had n t means to keep it. I s pose he 
 thought he d got time enough to lay by, 
 
44 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 when he give so generous in collections ; 
 but he did n t lay by, an there they be. 
 He might have took lessons from the 
 squirrels : even them little wild creatur s 
 makes them their winter hoards, an men- 
 folks ought to know enough if squirrels 
 does. Be just before you are generous : 
 that s what was always set for the B s in 
 the copy-books, when I was to school, and it 
 often runs through my mind." 
 
 " As for man, his days are as grass, 
 that was for A ; the two go well together, * 
 added Miss Rebecca Wright soberly. " My 
 good gracious, ain t this a starved-lookin 
 place? It makes me ache to think them 
 nice Bray girls has to brook it here." 
 
 The sorrel horse, though somewhat puzzled 
 by an unexpected deviation from his home 
 ward way, willingly came to a stand by the 
 gnawed corner of the door-yard fence, which 
 evidently served as hitching-place. Two or 
 three ragged old hens were picking about 
 the yard, and at last a face appeared at the 
 kitchen window, tied up in a handkerchief, 
 as if ii were a case of toothache. By the 
 time our friends reached the side door next 
 this window, Mrs. Janes came disconso 
 lately to open it for them, shutting it again 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 45 
 
 as soon as possible, though the air felt more 
 chilly inside the house. 
 
 " Take seats," said Mrs. Janes briefly. 
 "You 11 have to see me just as I be. I 
 have been suffering these four days with the 
 ague, and everything to do. Mr. Janes is 
 to court, on the jury. T was inconvenient 
 to spare him. I should be pleased to have 
 you lay off your things." 
 
 Comfortable Mrs. Trimble looked about 
 the cheerless kitchen, and could not think 
 of anything to say ; so she smiled blandly 
 and shook her head in answer to the in 
 vitation. " We 11 just set a few minutes 
 with you, to pass the time o day, an then 
 we must go in an have a word with the 
 Miss Brays, bein old acquaintance. It 
 ain t been so we could git to call on em be 
 fore. I don t know s you re acquainted 
 with Miss R becca W right. She s been out 
 of town a good deal." 
 
 " I heard she was stopping over to Plain- 
 fields with her brother s folks," replied Mrs. 
 Janes, rocking herself with irregular motion, 
 as she sat close to the stove. " Got back 
 some time in the fall, I believe ? " 
 
 " Yes in," said Miss Rebecca, with an 
 undue sense of guilt and conviction. 
 
46 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 " We ve been to the installation over to the 
 East Parish, an thought we d stop in ; we 
 took this road home to see if t was any 
 better. How is the Miss Brays gettin on ? " 
 
 " They re well s common," answered 
 Mrs. Janes grudgingly. " 1 was put out 
 with Mr. Janes for fetchin of em here, 
 with all I ve got to do, an I own I was 
 kind o surly to em long to the first of it. 
 He gits the money from the town, an it 
 helps him out ; but he bid em off for five 
 dollars a month, an we can t do much for 
 em at no such price as that. I went an 
 dealt with the selec men, an made em 
 promise to find their firewood an some other 
 things extra. They was glad to get rid o 
 the matter the fourth time I went, an 
 would ha promised most anything. But 
 Mr. Janes don t keep me half the time in 
 oven-wood, He s off so much, an we was 
 cramped o room, any way. I have to store 
 things up garrit a good deal, an that keeps 
 me trampin right through their room. I 
 do the best for em I can, Mis Trimble, 
 but t ain t so easy for me as t is for you, 
 with all your means to do with." 
 
 The poor woman looked pinched and mis 
 erable herself, though it was evident that 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 47 
 
 she had no gift at house or home keeping. 
 Mrs. Trimble s heart was wrung with pain, 
 as she thought of the unwelcome inmates of 
 such a place ; but she held her peace bravely, 
 while Miss Rebecca again gave some brief 
 information in regard to the installation. 
 
 " You go right up them back stairs," the 
 hostess directed at last. " I m glad some 
 o you church folks has seen fit to come an" 
 visit em. There ain t been nobody here 
 this long spell, an they ve aged a sight 
 since they come. They always send down a 
 taste out of your baskets, Mis Trimble, an 
 I relish it, I tell you. I 11 shut the door 
 after you, if you don t object. I feel every 
 draught o cold air." 
 
 " I ve always heard she was a great hand 
 to make a poor mouth. Wa n t she from 
 somewheres up Parsley way ? " whispered 
 Miss Rebecca, as they stumbled in the half- 
 light. 
 
 " Poor meechin body, wherever she come 
 from," replied Mrs. Trimble, as she knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 There was silence for a moment after 
 this unusual sound ; then one of the Bray 
 sisters opened the door. The eager guests 
 stared into a small, low room, brown with 
 
48 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 age, and gray, too, as if former dust and 
 cobwebs could not be made wholly to disap 
 pear. The two elderly women who stood 
 there looked like captives. Their withered 
 faces wore a look of apprehension, and the 
 room itself was more bare and plain than 
 was fitting to their evident refinement of 
 character and self-respect. There was an 
 uncovered small table in the middle of the 
 floor, with some crackers on a plate ; and, 
 for some reason or other, this added a great 
 deal to the general desolation. 
 
 But Miss Ann Bray, the elder sister, who 
 carried her right arm in a sling, with pite- 
 ously drooping fingers, gazed at the visitors 
 with radiant joy. She had not seen them 
 arrive. 
 
 The one window gave only the view at 
 the back of the house, across the fields, and 
 their coming was indeed a surprise. The 
 next minute she was laughing and crying 
 together. " Oh, sister ! " she said, " if here 
 ain t our dear Mis Trimble ! an my 
 heart o goodness, t is Becca Wright, too ! 
 What dear good creatur s you be ! I ve 
 felt all day as if something good was goin 
 to happen, an was just sayin to myself 
 t was most sundown now, but I would n t 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 49 
 
 let on to Mandany I d give up hope quite 
 yet. You see, the scissors stuck in the 
 floor this very mornin an it s always a reli 
 able sign. There, I ve got to kiss ye both 
 again ! " 
 
 " I don t know where we can all set," 
 lamented sister Mandana. " There ain t but 
 the one chair an the bed ; t other chair s 
 too rickety ; an we ve been promised an 
 other these ten days ; but first they ve for 
 got it, an next Mis Janes can t spare it, 
 one excuse an another. I am goin to git 
 a stump o wood an nail a board on to it, 
 when I can git outdoor again," said Man 
 dana, in a plaintive voice. u There, I ain t 
 goin to complain o nothin , now you vc 
 come," she added ; and the guests sat down, 
 Mrs. Trimble, as was proper, in the one 
 chair. 
 
 " We Ve sat on the bed many s the time 
 with you, Becca, an talked over our girl 
 nonsense, ain t we ? You know where t was 
 in the little back bedroom we had when 
 we was girls, an used to peek out at our 
 beaux through the strings o mormn -glo- 
 ries," laughed Ann Bray delightedly, her 
 thin face shining more and more with 
 joy " I brought some o them mornin - 
 
50 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 glory seeds along when we come away, we d 
 raised em so many years ; an we got em 
 started all right, but the hens found em 
 out. I declare I chased them poor hens, 
 foolish as twas; but the mornin -glories 
 I d counted on a sight to remind me o home 
 You see, our debts was so large, after my 
 long sickness an all, that we did n t feel 
 t was right to keep back anything we could 
 help from the auction." 
 
 It was impossible for any one to speak 
 for a moment or two ; the sisters felt their 
 own uprooted condition afresh, and their 
 guests for the first time really compre 
 hended the piteous contrast between that 
 neat little village house, which now seemed 
 a palace of comfort, and this cold, unpainted 
 upper room in the remote Janes farmhouse. 
 It was an unwelcome thought to Mrs. Trim 
 ble that the well-to-do town of Hampden 
 could provide no better for its poor than 
 this, and her round face flushed with resent 
 ment and the shame of personal responsi 
 bility. u The girls shall be well settled in 
 the village before another winter, if I pay 
 their board myself," she made an inward 
 resolution, and took another almost tearful 
 look at the broken stove, the miserable bed, 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 51 
 
 and the sisters one hair-covered trunk, on 
 which Mandaiia was sitting. But the poor 
 place was filled with a golden spirit of hos 
 pitality. 
 
 Rebecca was again discoursing eloquently 
 of the installation ; it was so much easier 
 to speak of general subjects, and the sisters 
 had evidently been longing to hear some 
 news. Since the late summer they had not 
 been to church, and presently Mrs. Trimble 
 asked the reason. 
 
 " Now, don t you go to pouring out our 
 woes, Mandy ! " begged little old Ann, look 
 ing shy and almost girlish, and as if she 
 insisted upon playing that life was still 
 all before them and all pleasure. "Don t 
 you go to spoilin their visit with our com 
 plaints ! They know well s we do that 
 changes must come, an we d been so 
 wonted to our home things that this come 
 hard at first ; but then they felt for us, I 
 know just as well s can be. T will soon be 
 summer again, an t is real pleasant right 
 out in the fields here, when there ain t too 
 hot a spell. I Ve got to know a sight o 
 singin birds since we come." 
 
 " Give me the folks I ve always known," 
 sighed the younger sister, who looked older 
 
52 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 than Miss Ann, and less even-tempered. 
 " You may have your birds, if you want em. 
 I do re lly long to go to meetin an see folks 
 go by up the aisle. Now, I will speak of it, 
 Ann, whatever you say. We need, each of 
 us, a pair o good stout shoes an rubbers, 
 ours are all wore out ; an we ve asked an 
 asked, an they never think to bring em, 
 an " 
 
 Poor old Mandana, on the trunk, covered 
 her face with her arms and sobbed aloud. 
 The elder sister stood over her, and pat 
 ted her on the thin shoulder like a child, 
 and tried to comfort her. It crossed Mrs. 
 Trimble s mind that it was not the first time 
 one had wept and the other had comforted. 
 The sad scene must have been repeated 
 many times in that long, drear winter. 
 She would see them forever after in her 
 mind as fixed as a picture, and her own 
 tears fell fast. 
 
 " You did n t see Mis Janes s cunning 
 little boy, the next one to the baby, did 
 you ? " asked Ann Bray, turning round 
 quickly at last, and going cheerfully on 
 with the conversation. " Now, hush, Man- 
 dy, dear ; they 11 think you re childish ! 
 He s a dear, friendly little creatur , an 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 53 
 
 likes to stay with us a good deal, though we 
 feel s if it t was too cold for him, now we 
 are waitin to get us more wood." 
 
 " When I think of the acres o woodland 
 in this town ! " groaned Rebecca Wright. 
 " I believe I m goin to preach next Sun 
 day, stead o the minister, an I 11 make 
 the sparks fly. I Ve always heard the say 
 ing, What s everybody s business is no 
 body s business, an I Ve come to believe 
 it." 
 
 " Now, don t you, Becca. You ve hap 
 pened on a kind of a poor time with us, but 
 we ve got more belongings than you see 
 here, an a good large cluset, where we can 
 store those things there ain t room to have 
 about. You an Miss Trimble have hap 
 pened on a kind of poor day, you know. 
 Soon s I git me some stout shoes an rub 
 bers, as Mandy says, I can fetch home 
 plenty o little dry boughs o pine ; you re 
 member I was always a great hand to roam in 
 the woods ? If we could only have a front 
 room, so t we could look out on the road an 
 see passin , an was shod for meetiii , I don 
 know s we should complain. Now we re just 
 goin to give you what we ve got, an make 
 out with a good welcome. We make more 
 
54 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 tea n we want in the mornin , an then let 
 the fire go down, since t has been so mild. 
 We ve got a good cluset " (disappearing 
 as she spoke), " an I know this to be good 
 tea, cause it s some o yourn, Mis Trimble. 
 An here s our sprigged chiny cups that 
 R becca knows by sight, if Mis Trimble 
 don t. We kep out four of em, an put 
 the even half dozen with the rest of the auc 
 tion stuff. I ve often wondered who d got 
 em, but I never asked, for fear t would be 
 somebody that would distress us. They was 
 mother s, you know." 
 
 The four cups were poured, and the lit 
 tle table pushed to the bed, where Rebecca 
 Wright still sat, and Mandana, wiping her 
 eyes, came and joined her. Mrs. Trimble 
 sat in her chair at the end, and Ann trotted 
 about the room in pleased content for a while, 
 and in and out of the closet, as if she still 
 had much to do ; then she came and stood 
 opposite Mrs. Trimble. She was very short 
 and small, and there was no painful sense 
 of her being obliged to stand. The four cups 
 were not quite full of cold tea, but there was 
 a clean old tablecloth folded double, and a 
 plate with three pairs of crackers neatly 
 piled, and a small it must be owned, a 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 55 
 
 very small piece of hard white cheese. 
 Then, for a treat, in a glass dish, there was 
 a little preserved peach, the last Miss Re 
 becca knew it instinctively of the house 
 hold stores brought from their old home. It 
 was very sugary, this bit of peach ; and as 
 she helped her guests and sister Mandy, 
 Miss Ann Bray said, half unconsciously, as 
 she often had said with less reason in the 
 old days, " Our preserves ain t so good as 
 usual this year ; this is beginning to candy." 
 Both the guests protested, while Rebecca 
 added that the taste of it carried her back, 
 and made her feel young again. The Brays 
 had always managed to keep one or two 
 peach-trees alive in their corner of a gar 
 den. " I ve been keeping this preserve for a 
 treat," said her friend. " I in glad to have 
 you eat some, Becca. Last summer I often 
 wished you was home an could come an see 
 us, stead o being away off to Plainfields." 
 
 The crackers did not taste too dry. Miss 
 Ann took the last of the peach on her own 
 cracker ; there could not have been quite a 
 small spoonful, after the others were helped, 
 but she asked them first if they would not 
 have some more. Then there was a silence, 
 and in the silence a wave of tender feeling 
 
56 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 rose high in the hearts of the four elderly 
 women. At this moment the setting sun 
 flooded the poor plain room with light ; the 
 unpainted wood was all of a golden-brown, 
 and Ann Bray, with her gray hair and 
 aged face, stood at the head of the table in a 
 kind of aureole. Mrs. Trimble s face was all 
 aquiver as she looked at her ; she thought of 
 the text about two or three being gathered 
 together, and was half afraid. 
 
 " I believe we ought to ve asked Mis 
 Janes if she would n t come up," said Ann. 
 " She s real good feelin , but she s had it 
 very hard, an gits discouraged. I can t find 
 that she s ever had anything real pleasant 
 to look back to, as we have. There, next 
 time we 11 make a good hearten in time for 
 her too." 
 
 The sorrel horse had taken a long nap by 
 the gnawed fence-rail, and the cool air after 
 sundown made him impatient to be gone. 
 The two friends jolted homeward in the 
 gathering darkness, through the stiffening 
 mud, and neither Mrs. Trimble nor Rebecca 
 Wright said a word until they were out of 
 sight as well as out of sound of the Janes 
 house. Time must elapse before they could 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 57 
 
 reach a more familiar part of the road and 
 resume conversation on its natural level. 
 
 " I consider myself to blame," insisted 
 Mrs. Trimble at last. " I have n t no words 
 of accusation for nobody else, an I ain t 
 one to take comfort in calling names to the 
 board o selectmen. I make no reproaches, 
 an I take it all on my own shoulders ; but 
 I m goin to stir about me, I tell you ! I 
 shall begin early to-morrow. They re goin* 
 back to their own house, it s been stand- 
 in empty all winter, an the town s goin 
 to give em the rent an what firewood they 
 need ; it won t come to more than the board s 
 payin out now. An you an me 11 take this 
 same horse an wagon, an ride an go afoot 
 by turns, an git means enough together to 
 buy back their furniture an whatever was 
 sold at that plaguey auction ; an then we 11 
 put it all back, an tell em they ve got to 
 move to a new place, an just carry em right 
 back again where they come from. An 
 don t you never tell, R becca, but here I be 
 a widow woman, layin up what I make from 
 my farm for nobody knows who, an I m 
 goin to do for them Bray girls all I m a 
 mind to. I should be sca t to wake up in 
 heaven, an hear anybody there ask how the 
 
58 THE TOWN POOR. 
 
 Bray girls was. Don t talk to me about the 
 town o Hampden, an don t ever let me hear 
 the name o town poor ! I m ashamed to go 
 home an see what s set out for supper. I 
 wish I d brought em right along." 
 
 " I was goin to ask if we could n t git the 
 new doctor to go up an do somethin for 
 poor Ann s arm," said Mies Rebecca. " They 
 say he s very smart. If she could get so s 
 to braid straw or hook rugs again, she d 
 soon be earnin a little somethin . An may 
 be he could do somethin for Mandy s eyes. 
 They did use to live so neat an ladylike. 
 Somehow I could n t speak to tell em there 
 that t was I bought them six best cups an 
 saucers, time of the auction ; they went very 
 low, as everything else did, an I thought I 
 could save it some other way. They shall 
 have em back an welcome. You re real 
 whole-hearted, Mis Trimble. I expect 
 Ann 11 be sayin that her father s child n 
 wa n t goin to be left desolate, an that all 
 the bread he cast on the water s comin back 
 through you." 
 
 " I don t care what she says, dear crea- 
 tur ! " exclaimed Mrs. Trimble. " I m full 
 o regrets I took time for that installation, 
 an set there seepin in a lot o talk this whole 
 
THE TOWN POOR. 59 
 
 day long, except for its kind of bringin us 
 to the Bray girls. I wish to my heart t was 
 to-morrow mornin a ready, an I a-startin 
 for the selec rae/i." 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 THE trees were bare on meadow and hill, 
 and all about the country one saw the warm 
 brown of lately fallen leaves. There was 
 still a cheerful bravery of green in sheltered 
 places, a fine, live green that flattered 
 the eye with its look of permanence ; the 
 first three quarters of the year seemed to 
 have worked out their slow processes to 
 make this perfect late-autumn day. In such 
 weather I found even the East Wilby rail 
 road station attractive, and waiting three 
 hours for a slow train became a pleasure ; 
 the delight of idleness and even booklessness 
 cannot be properly described. 
 
 The interior of the station was bleak and 
 gravelly, but it would have been possible to 
 find fault with any interior on such an out- 
 of-doors day ; and after the station-master 
 had locked his ticket-office door and tried 
 the handle twice, with a comprehensive look 
 at me, he went slowly away up the road to 
 spend some leisure time with his family. 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 61 
 
 He had ceased to take any interest in the 
 traveling public, and answered my ques 
 tions as briefly as possible. After he had 
 gone some distance he turned to look back, 
 but finding that I still sat on the baggage 
 truck in the sunshine, just where he left me, 
 he smothered his natural apprehensions, and 
 went on. 
 
 One might spend a good half hour in watch 
 ing crows as they go southward resolutely 
 through the clear sky, and then waver and 
 come straggling back as if they had for 
 gotten something ; one might think over all 
 one s immediate affairs, and learn to know 
 the outward aspect of such a place as East 
 Wilby as if born and brought up there. 
 But after a while I lost interest in both past 
 and future ; there was too much landscape 
 before me at the moment, and a lack of fig 
 ures. The weather was not to be enjoyed 
 merely as an end, yet there was no temptation 
 to explore the up-hill road on the left, or the 
 level fields on the right ; I sat still on my 
 baggage truck and waited for something to 
 happen. Sometimes one is so happy that 
 there is nothing left to wish for but to be 
 happier, and just as the remembrance of 
 this truth illuminated my mind, I saw two 
 
62 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 persons approaching from opposite direc 
 tions. The first to arrive was a pleasant- 
 looking elderly countrywoman, well wrapped 
 in a worn winter cloak with a thick plaid 
 shawl over it, and a white worsted cloud tied 
 over her bonnet. She carried a well-pre 
 served bandbox, the outlines were perfect 
 under its checked gingham cover, and had 
 a large bundle beside, securely rolled in a 
 newspaper. From her dress I felt sure that 
 she had made a mistake in dates, and ex 
 pected winter to set in at once. Her face 
 was crimson with undue warmth, and what 
 appeared in the end to have been unneces 
 sary haste. She did not take any notice 
 of the elderly man who reached the platform 
 a minute later, until they were near enough 
 to take each other by the hand and exchange 
 most cordial greetings. 
 
 " Well, this is a treat ! " said the man, 
 who was a small and shivery-looking person. 
 He carried a great umbrella and a thin, 
 enameled-cloth valise, and wore an ancient 
 little silk hat and a nearly new greenish 
 linen duster, as if it were yet summer. " I 
 was full o thinkin o you day before yister- 
 day ; strange, wa n t it ? " he announced 
 impressively, in a plaintive voice. " I was 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 63 
 
 sayin to myself, if there was one livin bein 
 I coveted to encounter over East Wilby 
 way, t was you, Sister Pinkliani." 
 
 " Warm to-day, ain t it ? " responded Sis 
 ter Pinkham. " How s your health, Mr. 
 Teaby ? I guess I d better set right down 
 here on the aidge of the platform ; sha n t 
 we git more air than if we went inside the 
 depot ? It s necessary to git my breath be 
 fore 1 rise the hill." 
 
 "You can t seem to account for them 
 foresights," continued Mr. Teaby, putting 
 down his tall, thin valise and letting the 
 empty top of it fold over. Then he stood 
 his umbrella against the end of my baggage 
 truck, without a glance at me. I was glad 
 that they were not finding me in their way. 
 " Well, if this ain t very sing lar, I never 
 saw iiothin that was," repeated the little 
 man. "Nobody can set forth to explain 
 why the thought of you should have been so 
 borne in upon me day before yisterday, your 
 livin countenance an all, an here we be to 
 day settin side o one another. I ve come 
 to rely on them foresights ; they ve been of 
 consider ble use in my business, too." 
 
 " Trade good as common this fall ? " in 
 quired Sister Pinkham languidly. " You 
 
64 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 don t carry such a thing as a good palm-leaf 
 fan amon st your stuff, I expect? It does 
 appear to me as if I had n t been more het 
 up any day this year." 
 
 " I should ha had the observation to of 
 fer it before," said Mr. Teaby, with pride. 
 " Yes, Sister Pinkham, I ve got an excel 
 lent fan right here, an you shall have it." 
 
 He reached for his bag ; I heard a clink, 
 as if there were bottles within. Presently 
 his companion began to fan herself with that 
 steady sway and lop of the palm-leaf which 
 one sees only in country churches in mid 
 summer weather. Mr. Teaby edged away 
 a little, as if he feared such a steady trade- 
 wind. 
 
 " We might ha picked out a shadier spot, 
 on your account," he suggested. "Can t 
 you unpin your shawl?" 
 
 " Not while I m so het," answered Sister 
 Pinkham coldly. " Is there anything new 
 recommended for rheumatic complaints ? " 
 
 " They re gittin up new compounds right 
 straight along, and sends sights o printed 
 bills urgin of me to buy em. I don t be 
 seech none o my customers to take them 
 strange nostrums that I ain t able to recom 
 mend." 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 65 
 
 " Some is new cotches made o the good 
 old stand-bys, I expect," said Sister Pink- 
 ham, and there was a comfortable silence 
 of some minutes. 
 
 " I m kind of surprised to meet with you 
 to-day, when all s said an done ; it kind 
 of started me when I see twas you, after 
 dwellin* on you so day before yisterday," 
 insisted Mr. Teaby ; and this time Sister 
 Pinkham took heed of the interesting coin 
 cidence. 
 
 " Thinkin o* me, was you ? " and she 
 stopped the fan a moment, and turned to 
 look at him with interest. 
 
 " I was so. Well, I never see nobody 
 that kep her looks as you do, and be n a 
 sufferer too, as one may express it." 
 
 Sister Pinkham sighed heavily, and be 
 gan to ply the fan again. " You was sayin 
 just now that you found them foresight no 
 tions work into your business." 
 
 " Yes m ; I saved a valu ble life this last 
 spring. I was puttin up my vials to start 
 out over Briggsville way, an t was im 
 pressed upon me that I d better carry a por 
 tion o opodildack. I was loaded up heavy, 
 had all I could lug of spring goods ; salts 
 an seny, and them big-bottle spring bitters 
 
66 THE QUtiT OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 o mine tliat folks counts on regular. I 
 could n t git the opodildack out o my mind 
 noway, and I did n t want it for notliin nor 
 nobody, but I had to remove a needed vial 
 o some kind of essence to give it place. 
 "When I was goin down the lane t wards 
 Abel Dean s house, his women folks come 
 flyin out. Child s a-dyin in here, says 
 they ; tumbled down the sullar stairs/ 
 They was like crazy creator s ; I give em 
 the vial right there in the lane, an they 
 run in an I followed em. Last time I was 
 there the child was a-playin out; looked 
 rugged and hearty. They ve never forgot 
 it an never will," said Mr. Teaby impres 
 sively, with a pensive look toward the hori 
 zon. " Want me to stop over night with 
 em any time, or come an take the hoss, or 
 anything. Mis Dean, she buys four times 
 the essences an stuff she wants ; kind o 
 gratified, you see, an did n t want to lose 
 the child, I expect, though she s got a num 
 ber o others. If it hadn t be n for its 
 bein so impressed on my mind, I should 
 have omitted that opodildack. I deem it a 
 winter remedy, chiefly." 
 
 " Perhaps the young one would ha come 
 to without none ; they do survive right 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 67 
 
 through everything, an then again they seem 
 to be taken away right in their tracks." 
 Sister Pinkham grew more talkative as she 
 cooled. "Heard any news as you come 
 along?" 
 
 " Some," vaguely responded Mr. Teaby. 
 " Folks ginerally relates anythin that s oc 
 curred since they see me before. I ain t no 
 great hand for news, an never was." 
 
 " Pity bout you, Uncle Teaby ! There, 
 anybody don t like to have deaths occur an 
 them things, and be unawares of em, an 
 the last to know when folks calls in." Sis 
 ter Pinkham laughed at first, but said her 
 say with spirit. 
 
 " Certain, certain, we ought all of us to 
 show an interest. I did hear it reported 
 that Elder Fry calculates to give up preach- 
 in an go into the creamery business an 
 other spring. You know he s had means 
 left him, and his throat s kind o give out ; 
 trouble with the pipes. I called it brown 
 caters, an explained nigh as I could without 
 hurtin of his pride that he d bawled more n 
 any pipes could stand. I git so wore out 
 settin under him that I feel to go an lay 
 right out in the woods arterwards, where 
 it s still. T won t never do for him to deal 
 
68 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 so with callin of his cows ; they d be so 
 aggravated t would be more n any butter 
 business could bear." 
 
 " You had n t ought to speak so light now ; 
 he s a very feelin man towards any one 
 in trouble," Sister Pinkham rebuked the 
 speaker. " I set considerable by Elder Fry. 
 You sort o divert yourself dallying round 
 the country with your essences and remedies, 
 an you ain t never sagged down with no set 
 tled grievance, as most do. Think o what 
 the Elder s be n through, a-losin o three 
 good wives. I m one o them that ain t 
 found life come none too easy, an 5 Elder 
 Fry s preachin stayed my mind consider - 
 ble." 
 
 " I s pose you re right, if you think you 
 be," acknowledged the little man humbly. 
 "I can t say as I esteem myself so fortu 
 nate as most. I m a lonesome creatur , an 
 always was; you know I be. I did expect 
 somebody d engage my affections before 
 this." 
 
 "There, plenty d be glad to have ye." 
 
 " I expect they would, but I don t seem 
 to be drawed to none on em," replied Mr. 
 Teaby, with a mournful shake of his head. 
 " I ve spoke pretty decided to quite a nun> 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 69 
 
 her in my time, take em all together, but it 
 always appeared best not to follow it up; 
 an so when I d come their way again I d 
 laugh it off or somethin , in case t was re 
 ferred to. I see one now an then that I 
 kind o fancy, but t ain t the real thing." 
 
 " You must n t expect to pick out a hand 
 some gal, at your age," insisted Sister Pink- 
 ham, in a business-like way. " Time s past 
 for all that, an you Ve got the name of a 
 rover. I ve heard some say that you was 
 rich, but that ain t everythin . You must 
 take who you can git, and look you up a 
 good home ; I would. If you was to be 
 taken down with any settled complaint, 
 you d be distressed to be without a place o 
 your own, an I m glad to have this chance 
 to tell ye so. Plenty o folks is glad to take 
 you in for a short spell, an you ve had an 
 excellent chance to look the ground over 
 well. I tell you you re beginnin to git 
 along in years." 
 
 "I know I be," said Mr. Teaby. "I 
 can t travel now as I used to. I have to fa 
 vor my left leg, I do know but I be spoilt 
 for settlin down. This business I never 
 meant to follow stiddy, in the fust place; 
 ? t was a means to an end, as one may say." 
 
70 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 "Folks would miss ye, but you could 
 take a good long trip, say spring an fall, 
 an live quiet the rest of the year. What 
 if they do git out o essence o lemon an 
 pep mint ! There s sufficient to the stores ; 
 t ain t as t used to be when you begun." 
 
 " There s Ann Maria Hart, my oldest 
 sister s daughter. I kind of call it home 
 with her by spells and when the travelin s 
 bad." 
 
 " Good King Agrippy ! if that s the best 
 you can do, I feel for you," exclaimed the 
 energetic adviser. " She s a harmless crea- 
 tur and seems to keep ploddin , but slack 
 ain t no description, an runs on talkin 
 about nothin till it strikes right in an 
 numbs ye. She s pressed for house room, 
 too. Hart ought to put on an addition long 
 ago, but he s too stingy to live. Folks was 
 tellin me that somebody observed to him how 
 he d got a real good, stiddy man to work 
 with him this summer. He s called a 
 very pious man, too, great hand in meetin s, 
 Mr. Hart, says they ; an says he, I d have 
 you rec lect he s a-prayin out o my time ! 
 Said it hasty, too, as if he meant it." 
 
 "Well, I can put up with Hart; he s 
 near, but he uses me well, an I try to do 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 71 
 
 the same by him. I (don t bange on em ; I 
 pay my way, an I feel as if everything was 
 temp rary. I did plan to go way over North 
 Dexter way, where I ve never be n, an see 
 if there wa n t somebody, but the weather 
 ain t be n settled as I could wish. I m al 
 ways expectin to find her, I be so," at 
 which I observed Sister Pinkham s frame 
 shake. 
 
 I felt a slight reproach of conscience at 
 listening so intently to these entirely private 
 affairs, and at this point reluctantly left my 
 place and walked along the platform, to re 
 mind Sister Pinkham and confiding Mr. 
 Teaby of my neighborhood. They gave no 
 sign that there was any objection to the 
 presence of a stranger, and so I came back 
 gladly to the baggage truck, and we all kept 
 silence for a little while. A fine flavor of 
 extracts was wafted from the valise to where 
 I sat. I pictured to myself the solitary and 
 hopeful wanderings of Mr. Teaby. There 
 was an air about him of some distinction ; 
 he might have been a decayed member of 
 the medical profession. I observed that his 
 hands were unhardened by any sort of rural 
 work, and he sat there a meek and appeal 
 ing figure, with his antique hat and linen 
 
72 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 duster, beside the well-wadded round shoul 
 ders of friendly Sister Pinkham. The ex 
 pression of their backs was most interesting. 
 
 " You might express it that I ve got quite 
 a number o good homes ; I ve got me sorted 
 out a few regular places where I mostly 
 stop," Mr. Teaby explained presently. " I 
 like to visit with the old folks an speak o 
 the past together ; an the boys an gals, 
 they always have some kind o fun goin on 
 when I git along. They always have to git 
 me out to the barn an tell me, if they re 
 a-courtin , and I fetch an carry for em in 
 that case, an help out all I can. I ve made 
 peace when they got into some o their mis- 
 understandin s, an them times they set a 
 good deal by Uncle Teaby ; but they ain t 
 all got along as well as they expected, and 
 that s be n one thing that s made me de 
 sirous not to git fooled myself. But I do 
 know as folks would be reconciled to my 
 settlin down in one place. I ve gathered a 
 good many extry receipts for things, an folks 
 all calls me some thin of a doctor ; you know 
 my grand ther was one, on my mother s 
 side." 
 
 " Well, you ve had my counsel for what 
 t is wuth," said the woman, not unkindly. 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 73 
 
 " Trouble is, you want better bread than s 
 made o wheat." 
 
 " I m most ashamed to ask ye again if 
 t would be any use to lay the matter before 
 Hannah Jane Pinkham ? " This was spoken 
 lower, but I could hear the gentle sugges 
 tion. 
 
 " I m obleeged to you" said the lady of 
 Mr. Teaby s choice, " but I ain t the right 
 one. Don t you go to settin your mind on 
 me : t ain t wuth while. I m older than 
 you be, an apt to break down with my 
 rheumatic complaints. You don t want no 
 body on your hands. I d git a younger 
 woman, I would so." 
 
 " I ve be n a-lookin for the right one a 
 sight o years, Hannah Jane. I ve had a 
 kind o notion I should know her right off 
 when I fust see her, but I m af eared it 
 ain t goin to be that way. I ve seen a 
 sight o nice, smart women, but when the 
 thought o you was so impressed on my mind 
 day before yisterday " 
 
 " I m sorry to disobleege you, but if I 
 have anybody, I m kind o half promised 
 to Elder Fry," announced Sister Pinkham 
 bravely. " I consider it more on the off side 
 than I did at first. If he d continued preach- 
 
74 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 in I d favor it more, but I dread bavin to 
 tend to a growin butter business an to 
 sense them new macbines. T ain t as if he d 
 stablished it. I ve just begun to have 
 things easy ; but there, I feel as if I had a 
 lot o work left in me, an I don t know s 
 tis right to let it go to waste. I expect 
 the Elder would preach some, by spells, an 
 we could ride about an see folks ; an he d 
 always be called to funerals, an have some 
 variety one way an another. I urge him 
 not to quit preachin ." 
 
 " I d rather he ondertook most any thin 
 else," said Mr. Teaby, rising and trying to 
 find the buttons of his linen duster." 
 
 I could see a bitter shade of jealousy 
 cloud his amiable face ; but Sister Pinkham 
 looked up at him and laughed. " Set down, 
 set down," she said. " We ain t in no great 
 hurry ; " and Uncle Teaby relented, and lin 
 gered. " I m all out o rose-water for the 
 eyes," she told him, " an if you ve got a 
 vial o lemon left that you 11 part with rea 
 sonable, I do know but I 11 take that. I d 
 rather have caught you when you was out 
 ward bound ; your bag looks kind o slim." 
 
 "Everythin s fresh-made just before I 
 started, cept the ginger, an that I buy, but 
 it ? s called the best there is." 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 75 
 
 The two sat down and drove a succession 
 of sharp bargains, but finally parted the best 
 of friends. Mr. Teaby kindly recognized 
 my presence from a business point of view, 
 and offered me a choice of his wares at rea 
 sonable prices. I asked about a delightful 
 jumping-jack which made its appearance, 
 and wished very much to become the owner, 
 for it was curiously whittled out and fitted 
 together by Mr. Teaby s own hands. He 
 exhibited the toy to Sister Pinkliam and me, 
 to our great pleasure, but scorned to sell such 
 a trifle, it being worth nothing ; and beside, 
 he had made it for a little girl who lived two 
 miles farther along the road he was follow 
 ing. I could see that she was a favorite of 
 the old man s, and said no more about the 
 matter, but provided myself, as recom 
 mended, with an ample package of court- 
 plaster, " in case of accident before I got to 
 where I was going," and a small bottle of 
 smelling-salts, described as reviving to the 
 faculties. 
 
 Then we watched Mr. Teaby plod away, 
 a quaint figure, with his large valise nearly 
 touching the ground as it hung slack from 
 his right hand. The greenish-brown duster 
 looked bleak and unseasonable as a cloud 
 
76 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 went over the sun ; it appeared to symbol 
 ize the youthful and spring-like hopes of the 
 wearer, decking the autumn days of life. 
 
 " Poor creatur ! " said Sister Pinkham. 
 " There, he doos need somebody to look af 
 ter him." 
 
 She turned to me frankly, and I asked 
 how far he was going. 
 
 u Oh, he ll put up at that little gal s 
 house an git his dinner, and give her the 
 jumpin -jack an trade a little ; an then he 11 
 work along the road, callin from place to 
 place. He s got a good deal o system, an 
 was a smart boy, so that folks expected he 
 was goin to make a doctor, but he kind o 
 petered out. He s long-winded an harpin , 
 an some folks prays him by if they can ; 
 but there, most likes him, an there s no 
 body would be more missed. He don t make 
 no trouble for em ; he "11 take right holt an 
 help, and there ain t nobody more gentle 
 with the sick. Always has some o his non 
 sense over to me." 
 
 This was added with sudden consciousness 
 that I must have heard the recent conversa 
 tion, but we only smiled at each other, and 
 good Sister Pinkham did not seem displeased. 
 We both turned to look again at the small 
 
THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 77 
 
 figure of Mr. Teaby, as lie went away, with 
 his queer, tripping gait, along the level road. 
 
 " Pretty day, if t wa n t quite so warm," 
 said Sister Pinkham, as she rose and reached 
 for her bandbox and bundle, to resume her 
 own journey. " There, if here ain t Uncle 
 Teaby s umbrilla ! He forgits everything 
 that belongs to him but that old valise. 
 Folks would n t know him if he left that. 
 You may as well just hand it to Asa Briggs, 
 the depot-master, when he gits back. Like s 
 not the old gentleman 11 think to call for it 
 as he comes back along. Here s his fan, too, 
 but he won t be likely to want that this 
 winter." 
 
 She looked at the large umbrella; there 
 was a great deal of good material in it, but 
 it was considerably out of repair. 
 
 " I don t know but I 11 stop an mend it 
 up for him, poor old creatur ," she said 
 slowly, with an apologetic look at me. Then 
 she sat down again, pulled a large rolled-up 
 needlebook from her deep and accessible 
 pocket, and sewed busily for some time with 
 strong stitches. 
 
 I sat by and watched her, and was glad to 
 be of use in chasing her large spool of linen 
 thread, which repeatedly rolled away along 
 
78 THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY. 
 
 the platform. Sister Pinkham s affectionate 
 thoughts were evidently following her old 
 friend. 
 
 " I Ve a great mind to walk back with the 
 umbrilla ; he may need it, an t ain t a great 
 ways," she said to me, and then looked up 
 quickly, blushing like a girl. I wished she 
 would, for my part, but it did not seem best 
 for a stranger to give advice in such serious 
 business. " I 11 tell you what I will do," 
 she told me innocently, a moment after 
 wards. " I 11 take the umbrilla along with 
 me, and leave word with Asa Briggs I Ve 
 got .it. I go right by his house, so you 
 need n t charge your mind nothin about it." 
 
 By the time she had taken off her gold- 
 bowed spectacles and put them carefully 
 away and was ready to make another start, 
 she had learned where I came from and 
 where I was going and what my name was, 
 all this being but poor return for what I 
 had gleaned of the history of herself and 
 Mr. Teaby. I watched Sister Pinkham 
 until she disappeared, umbrella in hand, over 
 the crest of a hill far along the road to the 
 eastward. 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 I. 
 
 THE old beggar women of Bantry streets 
 had seldom showered their blessings upon 
 a departing group of emigrants with such 
 hearty good will as they did upon Mike Bo- 
 gan and his little household one May morn 
 ing. 
 
 Peggy Muldoon, she of the game leg and 
 green - patched eye and limber tongue, 
 steadied herself well back against the bat 
 tered wall at the street corner and gave her 
 whole energy to a torrent of speech unusual 
 to even her noble powers. She would not 
 let Mike Bogan go to America unsaluted 
 and unblessed ; she meant to do full honor 
 to this second cousin, once removed, on the 
 mother s side. 
 
 " Yirra, Mike Bogan, is it yerself thin, 
 goyn away bey ant the says?" she began 
 with true dramatic fervor. " Let poor owld 
 Peg take her last look on your laughing face 
 
80 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 me darlin . She 11 be under the ground 
 this time next year, God give her grace, and 
 you far away lavin to strange spades the 
 worruk of hapin the sods of her grave. 
 Give me one last look at me darlin lad wid 
 his swate Biddy an the shild. Oh that I 
 live to see this day ! " 
 
 Peg s companions, old Marget Dunn and 
 Biddy O Hern and no-legged Tom Whinn, 
 the fragment of a once active sailor who 
 propelled himself by a low truckle cart and 
 two short sticks ; these interesting members 
 of society heard the shrill note of their 
 leader s eloquence and suddenly appeared 
 like beetles out of unsuspected crevices near 
 by. The side car, upon which Mike Bogan 
 and his wife and child were riding from 
 their little farm outside the town to the 
 place of departure, was stopped at the side 
 of the narrow street. A lank yellow-haired 
 lad, with eyes red from weeping sat swing 
 ing his long legs from the car side, another 
 car followed, heavily laden with Mike s sis 
 ter s family, and a mourning yet envious 
 group of acquaintances footed it in the rear. 
 It was an excited, picturesque little proces 
 sion ; the town was quickly aware of its pres 
 ence, and windows went up from house to 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 81 
 
 house, and heads came out of the second 
 and third stories and even in the top attics 
 all along the street. The air was thick with 
 blessings, the quiet of Bantry was perma 
 nently broken. 
 
 " Lard bliss us and save us ! " cried Peggy, 
 her shrill voice piercing the chatter and 
 triumphantly lifting itself in audible relief 
 above the din, " Lard bliss us an save 
 us for the flower o Bantry is lavin us this 
 day. Break my heart wid yer goyn will ye 
 Micky Bogan and make it black night to 
 the one eye that s left in me gray head this 
 fine mornin o spring. I that hushed the 
 mother of you and the father of you babies 
 in me arms, and that was a wake old woman 
 followin and crapin to see yerself chris 
 tened. Oh may the saints be good to you 
 Micky Bogan and Biddy Flaherty the wife, 
 and forgive you the sin an shame of turn 
 ing yer proud backs on ould Ireland. 
 Ain t there pigs and praties enough for ye 
 in poor Bantry town that her crabbedest 
 childer must lave her. Oh wish a wisha, I 11 
 see your face no more, may the luck o the 
 Bogans follow you, that failed none o the 
 Bogans yet. May the sun shine upon you 
 and grow two heads of cabbage in the same 
 
82 THE LUCK OF THE BOGAbS. 
 
 sprout, may the little b y live long and get 
 him a good wife, and if she ain t good to 
 him may she die from him. May every 
 hair on both your heads turn into a blessed 
 candle to light your ways to heaven, but not 
 yit me darlin s not yit ! 
 
 The jaunting car had been surrounded by 
 this time and Mike and his wife were shaking 
 hands and trying to respond impartially to 
 the friendly farewells and blessings of their 
 friends. There never had been such a 
 leave-taking in Bantry. Peggy Muldoon 
 felt that her eloquence was in danger of be 
 ing ignored and made a final shrill appeal. 
 " Who 11 bury me now ? " she screamed 
 with a long wail which silenced the whole 
 group ; " who 11 lay me in the grave, Micky 
 bein gone from me that always gave me the 
 kind word and the pinny or trippence ivery 
 market day, and the wife of him Biddy 
 Flaherty the rose of Glengariff ; many s the 
 fine meal she s put before old Peggy Mul 
 doon that is old and blind." 
 
 " Awh, give the ould sowl a pinny now," 
 said a sympathetic voice, " t will bring you 
 luck, more power to you." And Mike Bo- 
 gan, the tears streaming down his honest 
 cheeks, plunged deep into his pocket and 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 88 
 
 threw the old beggar a broad five-shilling 
 piece. It was a monstrous fortune to 
 Peggy- Her one eye glared with joy, the 
 jaunting car moved away while she fell flat 
 on the ground in apparent excess of emo 
 tion. The farewells were louder for a min 
 ute then they were stopped ; the excita 
 ble neighborhood returned to its business 
 or idleness and the street was still. Peggy 
 rose rubbing an elbow, and said with the 
 air of a queen to her retinue, " Coom away 
 now poor crathurs, so we 11 drink long 1 life 
 to him." And Marget Dunn and Biddy 
 O Hern and no-legged Tom Whinn with 
 his truckle cart disappeared into an alley. 
 
 " What s all this whillalu ? " asked a so 
 ber-looking, clerical gentleman who came 
 riding by. 
 
 " T is the Bogans going to Ameriky, yer 
 reverence," responded Jim Kalehan, the 
 shoemaker, from his low window. "The 
 folks gived them their wake whilst they 
 were here to enjoy it and them was the 
 keeners that was goin hippety with lame 
 legs and fine joy down the convanient alley 
 for beer, God bless the poor souls ! " 
 
 Mike Bogan and Biddy his wife looked 
 behind them again and again. Mike 
 
84 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 blessed himself fervently as he caught a 
 last glimpse of the old church on the hill 
 where he was christened and married, 
 where his father and his grandfather had 
 been christened and married and buried. 
 He remembered the day when he had first 
 seen his wife, who was there from Glen- 
 gariff to stay with her old aunt, and com 
 ing to early mass, had looked to him like a 
 strange sweet flower abloom on the gray 
 stone pavement where she knelt. The old 
 church had long stood on the steep height 
 at the head of Bantry street and watched 
 and waited for her children. He would 
 never again come in from his little farm in 
 the early morning he never again would 
 be one of the Bantry men. The golden 
 stories of life in America turned to paltry 
 tinsel, and a love and pride of the old coun 
 try, never forgotten by her sons and daugh 
 ters, burned with fierce flame on the inmost 
 altar of his heart. It had all been very 
 easy to dream fine dreams of wealth and 
 landownership, but in that moment the 
 least of the pink daisies that were just 
 opening on the roadside was dearer to the 
 simple-hearted emigrant than all the world 
 beside. 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 85 
 
 * 4 Lave me down for a bit of sod," he 
 commanded the wondering young driver, 
 who would have liked above all things to sail 
 for the new world. The square of turf from 
 the hedge foot, sparkling with dew and green 
 with shamrock and gay with tiny flowers, 
 was carefully wrapped in Mike s best Sun 
 day handkerchief as they went their way. 
 Biddy had covered her head with her shawl 
 it was she who had made the plan of 
 going to America, it was she who was eager 
 to join some successful members of her 
 family who had always complained at home 
 of their unjust rent and the difficulties of 
 the crops. Everybody said that the times 
 were going to be harder than ever that sum 
 mer, and she was quick to catch at the in 
 flammable speeches of some lawless towns 
 folk who were never satisfied with anything. 
 As for Mike, the times always seemed alike, 
 he did not grudge hard work and he never 
 found fault with the good Irish weather. 
 His nature was not resentful, he only 
 laughed when Biddy assured him that the 
 gorse would soon grow in the thatch of his 
 head as it did on their cabin chimney. It 
 was only when she said that, in America 
 they could make a gentleman of baby Dan, 
 
86 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 that the father s blue eyes glistened and a 
 look of determination came into his face. 
 
 " God grant we 11 come back to it some 
 day," said Mike softly. " I didn t know, 
 faix indeed, how sorry I d be for lavin the 
 owld place. Awh Biddy girl t is many the 
 weary day we 11 think of the home we ve 
 left," and Biddy removed the shawl one in 
 stant from her face only to cover it again 
 and burst into a new shower of tears. The 
 next day but one they were sailing away 
 out of Queenstown harbor to the high seas. 
 Old Ireland was blurring its green and pur 
 ple coasts moment by moment ; Kinsale 
 lay low, and they had lost sight of the 
 white cabins on the hillsides and the pas 
 tures golden with furze. Hours before the 
 old women on the wharves had turned 
 away from them shaking their great cap 
 borders. Hours before their own feet had 
 trodden the soil of Ireland for the last time. 
 Mike Bogan and Biddy had left home, they 
 were well on their way to America. Luck 
 ily nobody had been with them at last to 
 say good-by they had taken a more or 
 less active part in the piteous general leave- 
 taking at Queenstown, but those were not 
 the faces of their own mothers or brothers 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 87 
 
 to which they looked back as the ship slid 
 away through the green water. 
 
 " Well, sure, we re gone now," said Mike 
 setting his face westward and tramping the 
 steerage deck. " I like the say too, I be- 
 lave, me own grandfather was a sailor, an 
 t is a fine life for a man. Here s little Dan 
 goin to Ameriky and niver mistrustin . 
 We 11 be sindin the gossoon back again, 
 rich and fine, to the owld place by and by, 
 tis thrue for us, Biddy." 
 
 But Biddy, like many another woman, 
 had set great changes in motion and then 
 longed to escape from their consequences. 
 She was much discomposed by the ship s 
 unsteadiness. She accused patient Mike of 
 having dragged her away from home and 
 friends. She grew very white in the face, 
 and was helped to her hard steerage berth 
 where she had plenty of time for reflection 
 upon the vicissitudes of seafaring. As for 
 Mike, he grew more and more enthusiastic 
 day by day over their prospects as he sat 
 in the shelter of the bulkhead and tended 
 little Dan and talked with his companions 
 as they sailed westward. 
 
 Who of us have made enough kindly al 
 lowance for the homesick quick-witted am- 
 
88 THE LUCK OF THE EOGANS. 
 
 bitious Irish men and women, who have 
 landed every year with such high hopes on 
 our shores. There are some of a worse sort, 
 of whom their native country might think 
 itself well rid but what thrifty New Eng 
 land housekeeper who takes into her home 
 one of the pleasant-faced little captive maids, 
 from Southern Ireland, has half understood 
 the change of surroundings. That was a 
 life in the open air under falling showers 
 and warm sunshine, a life of wit and humor, 
 of lavishness and lack of provision for more 
 than the passing day of constant com 
 panionship with one s neighbors, and a 
 cheerful serenity and lack of nervous an 
 ticipation born of the vicinity of the Gulf 
 Stream. The climate makes the character 
 istics of Cork and Kerry ; the fierce energy 
 of the Celtic race in America is forced and 
 stimulated by our own keen air. The 
 beauty of Ireland is little hinted at by an 
 average orderly New England town many 
 a young girl and many a blundering sturdy 
 fellow is heartsick with the homesickness 
 and restraint of his first year in this golden 
 country of hard work. To so many of them 
 a house has been but a shelter for the night 
 a sleeping-place: if you remember that, 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 89 
 
 you do not wonder at fumbling fingers or 
 impatience with our houses full of trinkets. 
 Our needless tangle of furnishing bewilders 
 those who still think the flowers that grow 
 of themselves in the Irish thatch more beau 
 tiful than anything under the cover of our 
 prosaic shingled roofs. 
 
 " Faix, a fellow on deck was telling me a 
 nate story the day," said Mike to Biddy Bo- 
 gan, by way of kindly amusement. " Says 
 he to me, Mike, says he, did ye ever hear 
 of wan Pathrick O Brien that heard some 
 bla guard tell how in Ameriky you picked 
 up money in the streets ? 4 No, says I. 
 4 He wint ashore in a place, says he, and 
 he walked along and he come to a sign on 
 a wall. Silver Street was on it. " I ont 
 stap here," says he, " it ain t wort my while 
 at all, at all. I 11 go on to Gold Street," 
 says he, but he walked ever since and he 
 ain t got there yet. 
 
 Biddy opened her eyes and laughed fee 
 bly. Mike looked so bronzed and ruddy 
 and above all so happy, that she took heart. 
 " We re sound and young, thanks be to 
 God, and we 11 earn an honest living," said 
 Mike, proudly. " T is the childher I m 
 
90 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 thinkin of all the time, an how they 11 get 
 a chance the best of us niver had at home. 
 God bless old Bantry forever in spite of it. 
 An there s a smart rid-headed man that has 
 every bother to me why ont I go with him 
 and keep a tidy bar. He s been in the 
 same business this four year gone since he 
 come out, and twenty pince in his pocket 
 when he landed, and this year he took a 
 month off and went over to see the ould 
 folks and build em a dacint house intirely, 
 and hire a man to farm wid em now the 
 old ones is old. He says will I put in my 
 money wid him, an he 11 give me a great 
 start I would n t have in three years else." 
 
 " Did you have the fool s head on you 
 then and let out to him what manes you 
 had ? " whispered Biddy, fiercely and lift 
 ing herself to look at him. 
 
 " I did then ; t was no harm," answered 
 the unsuspecting Mike. 
 
 " T was a black-hearted rascal won the 
 truth from you ! " and Biddy roused her 
 waning forces and that very afternoon ap 
 peared on deck. The red-headed man knew 
 that he had lost the day when he caught her 
 first scornful glance. 
 
 " God pity the old folks of him an their 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 91 
 
 house," muttered the sharp-witted wife to 
 Mike, as she looked at the low-lived schem 
 ing fellow whom she suspected of treachery. 
 " He said thim was old clothes he was 
 wearin on the sea," apologized Mike for his 
 friend, looking down somewhat consciously 
 at his own comfortable corduroys. He and 
 Biddy had been well to do on their little farm, 
 and on good terms with their landlord the 
 old squire. Poor old gentleman, it had been 
 a sorrow to him to let the young people go. 
 He was a generous, kindly old man, but he 
 suffered from the evil repute of some short 
 sighted neighbors. " If I gave up all I had 
 in the world and went to the almshouse my 
 self, they would still damn me for a land 
 lord," he said, desperately one day. " But I 
 never thought Mike Bogan would throw up 
 his good chances. I suppose some worthless 
 fellow called him stick-in-the-mud and off he 
 must go." 
 
 There was some unhappiness at first for 
 the young people in America. They went 
 about the streets of their chosen town for a 
 day or two, heavy-hearted with disappoint 
 ment. Their old neighbors were not housed 
 in palaces after all, as the letters home had 
 
92 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 suggested, and after a few evenings of visit 
 ing and giving of messages, and a few days 
 of aimless straying about, Mike and Biddy 
 hired two rooms at a large rent up three 
 flights of stairs, and went to housekeeping. 
 Litte Dan rolled down one flight the first 
 day; no more tumbling on the green turf 
 among the daisies for him, poor baby boy. 
 His father got work at the forge of a car 
 riage shop, having served a few months with 
 a smith at home, and so taking rank almost 
 as a skilled laborer. He was a great favorite 
 speedily, his pay was good, at least it would 
 have been good if he had lived on the old 
 place among the fields, but he and Biddy did 
 not know how to make the most of it here, 
 and Dan had a baby sister presently to keep 
 him company, and then another and another, 
 and there they lived up-stairs in the heat, in 
 the cold, in daisy time and snow time, and 
 Dan was put to school and came home with 
 a knowledge of sums in arithmetic which set 
 his father s eyes dancing with delight, but 
 with a knowledge besides of foul language 
 and a brutal way of treating his little sisters 
 when nobody was looking on. 
 
 Mike Bogan was young and strong when 
 he came to America, and his good red blood 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 93 
 
 lasted well, but it was against his nature to 
 work in a hot half-lighted shop, and in a 
 very few years he began to look pale about 
 the mouth and shaky in the shoulders, and 
 then the enthusiastic promises of the red 
 headed man on the ship, borne out, we must 
 allow, by Mike s own observation, inclined 
 him and his hard earned capital to the pur 
 chase of a tidy looking drinking shop on a 
 side street of the town. The owner had died 
 and his widow wished to go West to live with 
 her son. She knew the Bogans and was a 
 respectable soul in her way. She and her 
 husband had kept a quiet place, everybody 
 acknowledged, and everybody was thankful 
 that since drinking shops must be kept, so 
 decent a man as Mike Bogan was taking up 
 the business. 
 
 II. 
 
 The luck of the Bogans proved to be 
 holding true in this generation. Their pro 
 verbial good fortune seemed to come rather 
 from an absence of bad fortune than any 
 special distinction granted the generation or 
 two before Mike s time. The good fellow 
 sometimes reminded himself gratefully of 
 Peggy Muldoon s blessing, and once sent her 
 
94 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 a pound to keep Christmas upon. If he had 
 only known it, that unworthy woman be 
 stowed curses enough upon him because he 
 did not repeat it the next year, to cancel any 
 favors that might have been anticipated. 
 Good news flew back to Bantry of his pros 
 perity, and his comfortable home above the 
 store was a place of reception and generous 
 assistance to all the westward straying chil 
 dren of Bantry. There was a bit of garden 
 that belonged to the estate, the fences were 
 trig and neat, and neither Mike nor Biddy 
 were persons to let things look shabby while 
 they had plenty of money to keep them clean 
 and whole. It was Mike who walked behind 
 the priest on Sundays when the collection 
 was taken. It was Mike whom good Father 
 Miles trusted more than any other member 
 of his flock, whom he confided in and con 
 sulted, whom perhaps his reverence loved 
 best of all the parish because they were both 
 Bantry men, born and bred. And nobody 
 but Father Miles and Biddy and Mike 
 Bogan knew the full extent of the father s 
 and mother s pride and hope in the clever 
 ness and beauty of their only son. Nothing 
 was too great, and no success seemed im 
 possible when they tried to picture the glo 
 rious career of little Dan. 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 95 
 
 Mike was a kind father to his little 
 daughters, but all his hope was for Dan. 
 It was for Dan that he was pleased when 
 people called him Mr. Bogan in respectful 
 tones, and when he was given a minor place 
 of trust at town elections, he thought with 
 humble gladness that Dan would have less 
 cause to be ashamed of him by and by when 
 he took his own place as gentleman and 
 scholar. For there was something different 
 about Dan from the rest of them, plain Irish 
 folk that they were. Dan was his father s 
 idea of a young lord ; he would have liked to 
 show the boy to the old squire, and see his 
 look of surprise. Money came in at the 
 shop door in a steady stream, there was 
 plenty of it put away in the bank and Dan 
 must wear well-made clothes and look like 
 the best fellows at the school. He was 
 handsomer than any of them, he was the 
 best and quickest scholar of his class. The 
 president of the great carriage company had 
 said that he was a very promising boy more 
 than once, and had put his hand on Mike s 
 shoulder as he spoke. Mike and Biddy, 
 dressed in their best, went to the school ex 
 aminations year after year and heard their 
 son do better than the rest, and saw him 
 
96 THE LUCK OF THE BO CANS. 
 
 noticed and admired. For Dan s sake no 
 noisy men were allowed to stay about the 
 shop. Dan himself was forbidden to linger 
 there, and so far the boy had clear honest 
 eyes, and an affectionate way with his father 
 that almost broke that honest heart with 
 joy. They talked together when they went 
 to walk on Sundays, and there was a plan, 
 increasingly interesting to both, of going to 
 old Baiitry some summer just for a treat. 
 Oh happy days ! They must end as summer 
 days do, in winter weather. 
 
 There was an outside stair to the two up 
 per stories where the Bogans lived above 
 their place of business, and late one evening, 
 when the shop shutters were being clasped 
 together below, Biddy Bogan heard a famil 
 iar heavy step and hastened to hold her 
 brightest lamp in the doorway. 
 
 "God save you," said his reverence Fa 
 ther Miles, who was coming up slowly, and 
 Biddy dropped a decent courtesy and de 
 vout blessing in return. His reverence 
 looked pale and tired, and seated himself 
 wearily in a chair by the window while 
 Biddy coasted round by a bedroom door to 
 "whist" at two wakeful daughters who 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 97 
 
 were teasing each other and chattering in 
 bed. 
 
 " T is long since we saw you here, sir," 
 she said, respectfully. " Tis warm weather 
 indade for you to be about the town, and 
 folks sick an dyin and needing your help, 
 sir. Mike 11 be up now, your reverence. 
 I hear him below." 
 
 Biddy had grown into a stout mother of 
 a family, red-faced and bustling ; there was 
 little likeness left to the rose of Glengariff 
 with whom Mike had fallen in love at early 
 mass in Bantry church. But the change 
 had been so gradual that Mike himself had 
 never become conscious of any damaging 
 difference. She took a fresh loaf of bread 
 and cut some generous slices and put a piece 
 of cheese and a knife on the table within 
 reach of Father Miles s hand. " I suppose 
 t is waste of time to give you more, so it is," 
 she said to him. " Bread an cheese and no 
 better will you ate I suppose, sir," and she 
 folded her arms across her breast and stood 
 looking at him. 
 
 " How is the luck of the Bogans to-day ? " 
 asked the kind old man. " The head of the 
 school I make no doubt ? " and at this mo 
 ment Mike came up the stairs and greeted 
 his priest with reverent affection. 
 
98 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 " You re looking faint, sir," he urged. 
 " Biddy get a glass now, we re quite by our 
 selves sir and I ve something for sickness 
 that s very soft and fine entirely." 
 
 "Well, well, this once then," answered 
 Father Miles, doubtfully. " I ve had a hard 
 day." 
 
 He held the glass in his hand for a mo 
 ment and then pushed it away from him 
 on the table. " Indeed it s not wrong in 
 itself," said the good priest looking up pres 
 ently, as if he had made something clear to 
 his mind. " The wrong is in ourselves to 
 make beasts of ourselves with taking too 
 much of it. I don t shame me with this 
 glass of the best that you ve poured for me. 
 My own sin is in the coffee-pot. It wilds 
 my head when I ve got most use for it, and 
 I m sure of an aching pate God forgive 
 me for indulgence ; but I must have it for 
 my breakfast now and then. Give me a bit 
 of bread and cheese ; yes, that s what I 
 want Bridget," and he pushed the glass still 
 farther away. 
 
 " I ve been at a sorry place this night," 
 he went on a moment later, " the smell of 
 the stuff can t but remind me. T is a com 
 fort to come here and find your house so 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOG AN S. 99 
 
 clean and decent, and botli of you looking 
 me in the face. God save all poor sinners ! " 
 and Mike and his wife murmured assent. 
 
 " I wish to God you were out of this busi 
 ness and every honest man with you," said 
 the priest, suddenly dropping his fatherly, 
 Bantry good fellowship and making his host 
 conscious of the solemnity of the church al 
 tar. " ? T is a decent shop you keep, Mike, 
 my lad, I know. I know no harm of it, but 
 there are weak souls that can t master them 
 selves, and the drink drags them down. 
 There s little use in doing away with the 
 shops though. We Ve got to make young 
 men strong enough to let drink alone. The 
 drink will always be in the world. Here s 
 your bright young son ; what are they teach 
 ing him at his school, do ye know ? Has 
 his characther grown, do ye think Mike Bo- 
 gan, and is he going to be a man for good, 
 and to help decent things get a start and 
 bad things to keep their place ? I don t 
 care how he does his sums, so I don t, if he 
 has no characther, and they may fight about 
 beer and fight about temperance and carry 
 their Father Matthew flags flying high, so 
 they may, and it s all no good, lessen we 
 can raise the young folks up above the place 
 
100 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 where drink and shame can touch them. 
 God grant us help," he whispered, dropping 
 his head on his breast. " I m getting to be 
 an old man myself, and I ve never known 
 the temptation that s like a hounding devil 
 to many men. I can let drink alone, God 
 pity those who can t. Keep the young lads 
 out from it Mike. You re a good fellow, 
 you re careful, but poor human souls are 
 weak, God knows ! " 
 
 " T is thrue for you indade sir ! " re 
 sponded Biddy. Her eyes were full of tears 
 at Father Miles s tone and earnestness, but 
 she could not have made clear to herself 
 what he had said. 
 
 u Will I put a dhrap more of wather in 
 it, your riverence ? " she suggested, but the 
 priest shook his head gently, and, taking a 
 handful of parish papers out of his pocket, 
 proceeded to hold conference with the mas 
 ter of the house. Biddy waited a while and 
 at last ventured to clear away the good 
 priest s frugal supper. She left the glass, 
 but he went away without touching it, and 
 in the very afterglow of his parting blessing 
 she announced that she had the makings 
 of a pain within, and took the cordial with 
 apparent approval. 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 101 
 
 Mike did not make any comment ; he was 
 tired and it was late, and long past their 
 bedtime. 
 
 Biddy was wide awake and talkative from 
 her tonic, and soon pursued the subject of 
 conversation. 
 
 " What set the father out wid talking I 
 do know ? " she inquired a little ill-hu 
 moredly. " T was thrue for him that we 
 kape a dacint shop anyhow, an how will it 
 be in the way of poor Danny when it s find 
 ing the manes to put him where he is ? " 
 
 " T wa n t that he mint at all," answered 
 Mike from his pillow. " Did n t ye hear 
 what he said ? " after endeavoring fruitlessly 
 to repeat it in his own words " He s right, 
 sure, about a b y s getting thim books and 
 having no characther. He thinks well of 
 Danny, and he knows no harm of him. 
 Wisha ! what 11 we do wid that b y, Biddy, 
 I do know ! Fadther, says he to me to 
 day, why could n t ye wait an bring me 
 into the wurruld on American soil, says he 
 and maybe I d been prisident, says he, 
 and t was the thruth for him." 
 
 " I d rather for him to be a priest meself," 
 replied the mother. 
 
 " That s what Father Miles said himself 
 
102 THE LUCK OF THE BO CANS. 
 
 the other day," announced Mike wide awake 
 now. " I wish he d the makings of a good 
 priest, said he. There 11 soon be need of 
 good men and hard picking for em too, 
 said he, and he let a great sigh. T is 
 money they want and place they want, most 
 o them bla guard b ys in the siminary. 
 T is the old fashioned min like mesilf that 
 think however will they get souls through 
 this life and through heaven s gate at last, 
 wid clane names and God-fearin , dacint 
 names left after them. Thim was his own 
 words indade." 
 
 " Idication was his cry always," said Brid 
 get, blessing herself in the dark. " T was 
 only last confission he took no note of me 
 own sins while he redded himself in the 
 face with why don t I kape Mary Ellen to 
 the school, and myself not an hour in the 
 day to rest my poor bones. I have to kape 
 her in, to mind the shmall childer, says I, 
 an twas thrue for me, so it was." She 
 gave a jerk under the blankets, which rep 
 resented the courtesy of the occasion. She 
 had a great respect and some awe for Fa 
 ther Miles, but she considered herself to 
 have held her ground in that discussion. 
 
 " We 11 do our best by them all, sure," an- 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 103 
 
 swered Mike. " T is tribbling me money I 
 am ivery day," he added, gayly. " The lord- 
 liftinant himsilf is no surer of a good bury- 
 in than you an me. What if we made a 
 priest of Dan intirely ? " with a great out 
 burst of proper pride. " A son of your own 
 at the alther saying mass for you, Biddy 
 Flaherty from Glengariff! " 
 
 " He s no mind for it, more s the grief," 
 answered the mother, unexpectedly, shak 
 ing her head gloomily on the pillow, " but 
 marruk me wuds now, he 11 ride in his car 
 riage when I m under the sods, give me 
 grace and you too Mike Bogan ! Look at 
 the airs of him and the toss of his head. 
 4 Mother, says he to me, I m goin to be a 
 big man ! says he, 4 whin I grow up. D ye 
 think anybody 11 take me f er an Irish 
 man? " 
 
 " Bad cess to the bla guard fer that then ! " 
 said Mike. " It s spoilin him you are. T is 
 me own pride of heart to come from old 
 Bantry, an he lied to me yesterday gone, 
 saying would I take him to see the old 
 place. Wisha ! he s got too much tongue, 
 and he s spindin me money for me." 
 
 But Biddy pretended to be falling asleep. 
 This was not the first time that the honest 
 
104 THE LUCK OF THE EOGANS. 
 
 pair had felt anxiety creeping into their pride 
 about Dan. He frightened them sometimes ; 
 he was cleverer than they, and the mother 
 had already stormed at the boy for his mis 
 demeanors, in her garrulous fashion, but cov 
 ered them from his father notwithstanding. 
 She felt an assurance of the merely tempo 
 rary damage of wild oats ; she believed it 
 was just as well for a boy to have his free 
 dom and his fling. She even treated his 
 known lies as if they were truth. An easy 
 going comfortable soul was Biddy, who with 
 much shrewdness and only a trace of shrew 
 ishness got through this evil world as best 
 she might. 
 
 The months flew by. Mike Bogan was a 
 middle-aged man, and he and his wife looked 
 somewhat elderly as they went to their pew in 
 the broad aisle on Sunday morning. Danny 
 usually came too, and the girls, but Dan 
 looked contemptuous as he sat next his 
 father and said his prayers perfunctorily. 
 Sometimes he was not there at all, and Mike 
 had a heavy heart under his stiff best coat. 
 He was richer than any other member of 
 Father Miles s parish, and he was known 
 and respected everywhere as a good citizen. 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 105 
 
 Even the most ardent believers in the tem 
 perance cause were known to say that little 
 mischief would be done if all the rumsellers 
 were such men as Mr. Bogan. He was gen 
 erous and in his limited way public spirited. 
 He did his duty to his neighbor as he saw it. 
 Every one used liquor more or less, somebody 
 must sell it, but a low groggery was as much 
 a thing of shame to him as to any man. He 
 never sold to boys, or to men who had had too 
 much already. His shop was clean and whole 
 some, and in the evening when a dozen or 
 more of his respectable acquaintances gath 
 ered after work for a social hour or two and 
 a glass of whiskey to rest and cheer them 
 after exposure, there was not a little good 
 talk about affairs from their point of view, 
 and plenty of honest fun. In their own 
 houses very likely the rooms were close and 
 hot, and the chairs hard and unrestful. The 
 wife had taken her bit of recreation by day 
 light and visited her friends. This was their 
 comfortable club-room, Mike Bogan s shop, 
 and Mike himself the leader of the assem 
 bly. There was a sober-mindedness in the 
 man ; his companions were contented though 
 he only looked on tolerantly at their fun, for 
 the most part, without taking any active 
 share himself. 
 
106 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 One cool October evening the company 
 was well gathered in, there was even a glow 
 of wood fire in the stove, and two of the old 
 men were sitting close beside it. Corny Sul 
 livan had been a soldier in the British army 
 for many years, he had been wounded at 
 last at Sebastopol, and yet here he was, full 
 of military lore and glory, and propped by a 
 wooden leg. Corny was usually addressed 
 as Timber-toes by his familiars ; he was an 
 irascible old fellow to deal with, but as clean 
 as a whistle from long habit and even stately 
 to look at in his arm-chair. He had a 
 nephew with whom he made his home, who 
 would give him an arm presently and get him 
 home to bed. His mate was an old sailor 
 much bent in the back by rheumatism, Jerry 
 Bogan ; who, though no relation, was ten 
 derly treated by Mike, being old and poor. 
 His score was never kept, but he seldom 
 wanted for his evening grog. Jerry Bogan 
 was a cheerful soul ; the wit of the Celts and 
 their pathetic wistfulness were delightful in 
 him. The priest liked him, the doctor half 
 loved him, this old-fashioned Irishman who 
 had a graceful compliment or a thrust of 
 wit for whoever came in his way. What a 
 treasury of old Irish lore and legend was 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 107 
 
 this old sailor ! What broadness and good 
 cheer and charity had been fostered in his 
 sailor heart ! The delight of little children 
 with his clever tales and mysterious perform 
 ances with bits of soft pine and a sharp 
 jackknife, a very Baron Munchausen of ad- 
 venture, and here he sat, round backed and 
 head pushed forward like an old turtle, 
 by the fire. The other men sat or stood 
 about the low- walled room. Mike was ser 
 ving his friends ; there was a clink of glass 
 and a stirring and shaking, a pungent odor 
 of tobacco, and much laughter. 
 
 " Soombody, whoiver it was, thrun a cat 
 down in Tom Auley s well las night," an 
 nounced Corny Sullivan with more than 
 usual gravity. 
 
 " They 11 have no luck thin," says Jerry. 
 " Anybody that meddles wid wather ill have 
 no luck while they live, faix they ont thin." 
 " Tom Auley s been up watchin this three 
 nights now," confides the other old gossip. 
 " Thim dirty b y s troublin his pigs in the 
 sthy, and having every stramash about the 
 place, all for revinge upon him for gettin 
 the police afther thim when they sthole his 
 hins. T was as well for him too, they re 
 dirty bligards, the whole box and dice of 
 them." 
 
108 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 " Whishper now ! " and Jerry pokes his 
 great head closer to his friend. " The divil 
 of em all is young Dan Bogan, Mike s son. 
 Sorra a bit o good is all his schoolin , and 
 Mike s heart 11 be soon broke from him. I 
 see him goin about wid his nose in the air 
 He s a pritty boy, but the divil is in him an 
 t is he ought to have been a praste wid his 
 chances and Father Miles himself tarkin and 
 tarkin wid him tryin to make him a crown 
 of pride to his people after all they did for 
 him. There was niver a spade in his hand 
 to touch the ground yet. Look at his poor 
 father now ! Look at Mike, that s grown 
 old and gray since winther time." And they 
 turned their eyes to the bar to refresh their 
 memories with the sight of the disappointed 
 face behind it. 
 
 There was a rattling at the door-latch just 
 then and loud voices outside, and as the old 
 men looked, young Dan Bogan came stum 
 bling into the shop. Behind him were two 
 low fellows, the worst in the town, they had 
 all been drinking more than was good for 
 them, and for the first time Mike Bogan saw 
 his only son s boyish face reddened and 
 stupid with whiskey. It had been an un 
 broken law that Dan should keep out of the 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 109 
 
 shop with his comrades ; now he strode for 
 ward with an absurd travesty of manliness, 
 and demanded liquor for himself and his 
 friends at his father s hands. 
 
 Mike staggered, his eyes glared with 
 anger. His fatherly pride made him long 
 to uphold the poor boy before so many wit 
 nesses. He reached for a glass, then he 
 pushed it away and with quick step 
 reached Dan s side, caught him by the col 
 lar, and held him. One or two of the spec 
 tators chuckled with weak excitement, but 
 the rest pitied Mike Bogan as he would have 
 pitied them. 
 
 The angry father pointed his son s com 
 panions to the door, and after a moment s 
 hesitation they went skulking out, and father 
 and son disappeared up the stairway. Dan 
 was a coward, he was glad to be thrust into 
 his own bedroom upstairs, his head was 
 dizzy, and he muttered only a feeble oath. 
 Several of Mike Bogan s customers had 
 kindly disappeared when he returned trying 
 to look the same as ever, but one after 
 another the great tears rolled down his 
 cheeks. He never had faced despair till 
 now ; he turned his back to the men, and 
 fumbled aimlessly among the bottles on the 
 
110 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 shelf. Some one came, in unconscious of the 
 pitiful scene, and impatiently repeated his 
 order to the shopkeeper. 
 
 " God help me, boys, I can t sell more 
 this night ! " he said brokenly. " Go home 
 now and lave me to myself." 
 
 They were glad to go, though it cut the 
 evening short. Jerry Bogan bundled his 
 way last with his two canes. " Sind the b y 
 to say," he advised in a gruff whisper. 
 " Sind him out wid a good captain now, 
 Mike, t will make a man of him yet." 
 
 A man of him yet ! alas, alas for the 
 hopes that had been growing so many years. 
 Alas for the pride of a simple heart, alas 
 for the day Mike Bogan came away from 
 sunshiny old Bantry with his baby son in 
 his arms for the sake of making that son a 
 gentleman. 
 
 III. 
 
 Winter had fairly set in, but the snow 
 had not come, and the street was bleak and 
 cold. The wind was stinging men s faces 
 and piercing the wooden houses. A hard 
 night for sailors coming on the coast a 
 bitter night for poor people everywhere. 
 
 From one house and another the lights 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. Ill 
 
 went out in the street where the Bogans 
 lived ; at last there was 110 other lamp than 
 theirs, in a window that lighted the outer 
 stairs. Sometimes a woman s shadow passed 
 across the curtain and waited there, draw 
 ing it away from the panes a moment as if 
 to listen the better for a footstep that did 
 not come. Poor Biddy had waited many a 
 night before this. Her husband was far 
 from well, the doctor said that his heart 
 was not working right, and that he must be 
 very careful, but the truth was that Mike s 
 heart was almost broken by grief. Dan 
 was going the downhill road, he had been 
 drinking harder and harder, and spending a 
 great deal of money. He had smashed more 
 than one carriage and lamed more than one 
 horse from the livery stables, and he had 
 kept the lowest company in vilest dens. Now 
 he threatened to go to New York, and it had 
 come at last to being the only possible joy 
 that he should come home at any time of 
 night rather than disappear no one knew 
 where. He had laughed in Father Miles s 
 face when the good old man, after pleading 
 with him, had tried to threaten him. 
 
 Biddy was in an agony of suspense as the 
 night wore on. She dozed a little only to 
 
112 THE LUCK OF THE BOG AN S. 
 
 wake with a start, and listen for some wel 
 come sound out in the cold night. Was 
 her boy freezing to death somewhere ? 
 Other mothers only scolded if their sons 
 were wild, but this was killing her and 
 Mike, they had set their hopes so high. 
 Mike was groaning dreadfully in his sleep 
 to-night the fire was burning low, and 
 she did not dare to stir it. She took her 
 worn rosary again and tried to tell its beads. 
 " Mother of Pity, pray for us ! " she said, 
 wearily dropping the beads in her lap. 
 
 There was a sound in the street at last, 
 but it was not of one man s stumbling feet, 
 but of many. She was stiff with cold, she 
 had slept long, and it was almost day. She 
 rushed with strange apprehension to the 
 doorway and stood with the flaring lamp 
 in her hand at the top of the stairs. The 
 voices were suddenly hushed. " Go for 
 Father Miles ! " said somebody in a hoarse 
 voice, and she heard the words. They were 
 carrying a burden, they brought it up to 
 the mother who waited. In their arms lay 
 her son stone dead ; he had been stabbed in 
 a fight, he had struck a man down who had 
 sprung back at him like a tiger. Dan, lit- 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 113 
 
 tie Dan, was dead, the luck of the Bogans, 
 the end was here, and a wail that pierced 
 the night, and chilled the hearts that heard 
 it, was the first message of sorrow to the 
 poor father in his uneasy sleep. 
 
 The group of men stood by some of 
 them had been drinking, but they were all 
 awed and shocked. You would have be 
 lieved every one of them to be on the side 
 of law and order. Mike Bogan knew that 
 the worst had happened. Biddy had rushed 
 to him and fallen across the bed ; for one 
 minute her aggravating shrieks had stopped ; 
 he began to dress himself, but he was shak 
 ing too much ; he stepped out to the kitchen 
 and faced the frightened crowd. 
 
 " Is my son dead, then ? " asked Mike 
 Bogan of Bantry, with a piteous quiver of 
 the lip, and nobody spoke. There was 
 something glistening and awful about his 
 pleasant Irish face. He tottered where he 
 stood, he caught at a chair to steady him 
 self. " The luck o the Bogans is it ? " and 
 he smiled strangely, then a fierce hardness 
 came across his face and changed it utterly. 
 " Come down, come down ! " he shouted, 
 and snatching the key of the shop went 
 down the stairs himself with great sure- 
 
114 THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 
 
 footed leaps. What was in Mike ? was he 
 crazy with grief ? They stood out of his 
 way and saw him fling out bottle after bot 
 tle and shatter them against the wall. 
 They saw him roll one cask after another to 
 the doorway, and out into the street in the 
 gray light of morning, and break through 
 the staves with a heavy axe. Nobody dared 
 to restrain his fury there was a devil in 
 him, they were afraid of the man in his 
 blinded rage The odor of whiskey and 
 gin filled the cold air some of them would 
 have stolen the wasted liquor if they could, 
 but no man there dared to move or speak, 
 and it was not until the tall figure of Father 
 Miles came along the street, and the patient 
 eyes that seemed always to keep vigil, and 
 the calm voice with its flavor of Bantry 
 brogue, came to Mike Bogan s help, that he 
 let himself be taken out of the wrecked shop 
 and away from the spilt liquors to the shel 
 ter of his home. 
 
 A week later he was only a shadow of his 
 sturdy self, he was lying on his bed dream 
 ing of Bantry Bay and the road to Glen- 
 gariff the hedge roses were in bloom, and 
 he was trudging along the road to see 
 
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS. 115 
 
 Biddy. He was working on the old farm 
 at home and could not put the seed potatoes 
 in their trench, for little Dan kept falling in 
 and getting in his way. " Dan s not going 
 to be plagued with the bad craps," he mut 
 tered to Father Miles who sat beside the bed. 
 " Dan will be a fine squire in Ameriky," 
 but the priest only stroked his hand as it 
 twitched and lifted on the coverlet. What 
 was Biddy doing, crying and putting the 
 candles about him ? Then Mike s poor 
 brain grew steady. 
 
 " Oh, my God, if we were back in Ban- 
 try ! I saw the gorse bloomin in the 
 t atch d ye know. Oh wisha wisha the poor 
 ould home an the green praties that day 
 we come from it with our luck smilin us 
 in the face." 
 
 " Whist darlin : kape aisy darliii ! " 
 mourned Biddy, with a great sob. Father 
 Miles sat straight and stern in his chair 
 by the pillow he had said the prayers for 
 the dying, and the holy oil was already 
 shining on Mike Bogan s forehead. The 
 keeners were swaying themselves to and fro, 
 there where they waited in the next room. 
 
FAIR DAY. 
 
 WIDOW MERCY BASCOM came back alone 
 into the empty kitchen and seated herself in 
 her favorite splint-bottomed chair by the 
 window, with a dreary look on her face. 
 
 " I s pose I be an old woman, an past 
 goin to cattle shows an junketings, but 
 folks need n t take it so for granted. I m 
 sure I don t want to be on my feet all day, 
 trapesin fair grounds an swallowin every 
 body s dust ; not but what I m as able as 
 most, though I be seventy-three year old." 
 
 She folded her hands in her lap and 
 looked out across the deserted yard. There 
 was not even a hen in sight ; she was left 
 alone for the day. " Tobias s folks," as she 
 called the son s family with whom she made 
 her home Tobias s folks had just started 
 for a day s pleasuring at the county fair, ten 
 miles distant. She had not thought of going 
 with them, nor expected any invitation ; she 
 had even helped them off with her famous 
 energy ; but there was an unexpected reluc- 
 
FAIR DAY. 
 
 tance at being left behind, a sad little feeling 
 that would rise suddenly in her throat as she 
 stood in the door and saw them drive away 
 in the shiny, two-seated wagon. Johnny, 
 the youngest and favorite of her grandchil 
 dren, had shouted back in his piping voice, 
 44 1 wish you was goin , Grandma." 
 
 "The only one on em that thought of 
 me," said Mercy Bascom to herself, and then 
 not being a meditative person by nature, she 
 went to work industriously and proceeded to 
 the repairing of Tobias s work-day coat. It 
 was sharp weather now in the early morning, 
 and he would soon need the warmth of it. 
 Tobias s placid wife never anticipated and 
 always lived in a state of trying to catch up 
 with her work. It never had been the elder 
 woman s way, and Mercy reviewed her own 
 active career with no mean pride. She had 
 been left a widow at twenty-eight, with four 
 children and a stony New Hampshire farm, 
 but had bravely won her way, paid her 
 debts, and provided the three girls and their 
 brother Tobias with the best available 
 schooling. 
 
 For a woman of such good judgment and 
 high purpose in life, Mrs. Bascom had made 
 a very unwise choice in marrying Tobias 
 
118 FAIR DAY. 
 
 Bascom the elder. He was not even the 
 owner of a good name, and led her a terrible 
 life with his drunken shiftlessness, and hin 
 drance of all her own better aims. Even 
 while the children were babies, however, and 
 life was at its busiest and most demanding 
 stages, the determined soul would not be 
 baffled by such damaging partnership. She 
 showed the plainer of what stuff she was 
 made, and simply worked the harder and 
 went her ways more fiercely. If it were some 
 times whispered that she was unamiable, her 
 wiser neighbors understood the power of will 
 that was needed to cope with circumstances 
 that would have crushed a weaker woman. 
 As for her children, they were very fond of 
 her in the undemonstrative New England 
 fashion. Only the two eldest could remem 
 ber their father at all, and after he was re 
 moved from this world Tobias Bascom left 
 but slight proofs of having ever existed at 
 all, except in the stern lines and premature 
 aging of his wife s face. 
 
 The years that followed were years of 
 hard work on the little farm, but diligence 
 and perseverance had their reward. When 
 the three daughters came to womanhood 
 they were already skilled farmhouse keep- 
 
FAIR DAY. 119 
 
 ers, and were dispatched for their own homes 
 well equipped with feather-beds and home 
 spun linen and woolen. Mercy Bascom was 
 glad to have them well settled, if the truth 
 were known. She did not like to have her 
 own will and law questioned or opposed, and 
 when she sat down to supper alone with her 
 son Tobias, after the last daughter s wed 
 ding, she had a glorious feeling of peace and 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " There s a sight o work left yet in the 
 old ma am," she said to Tobias, in an un- 
 wonteclly affectionate tone. " I guess we 
 shall keep house together as comfortable as 
 most folks." But Tobias grew very red in 
 the face and bent over his plate. 
 
 " I don know s I want the girls to get 
 ahead of me," he said sheepishly. " I ain t 
 meanin to put you out with another wedding 
 right away, but I ve been a-lookin round, 
 an I guess I ve found somebody to suit 
 me." 
 
 Mercy Bascom turned cold with misery 
 and disappointment. " Why T bias," she 
 said, anxiously, " folks always said that you 
 was cut out for an old bachelor till I come 
 to believe it, an I ve been lottin on " 
 
 " Course nobody s goin to wrench me an 
 
120 FAIR DAY. 
 
 you apart," said Tobias gallantly. " I made 
 up my mind long ago you an me was yoke 
 mates, mother. An I had it in my mind to 
 fetch you somebody that would ease you o 
 quite so much work now Liza s gone oil." 
 
 " I don t want nobody," said the grieved 
 woman, and she could eat no more supper ; 
 that festive supper for which she had cooked 
 her very best. Tobias was sorry for her, 
 but he had his rights, and now simply felt 
 light-hearted because he had freed his mind 
 of this unwelcome declaration. Tobias was 
 slow and stolid to behold, but he was a man 
 of sound ideas and great talent for farming. 
 He had found it difficult to choose between 
 his favorites among the marriageable girls, 
 a bright young creature who was really too 
 good for him, but penniless, and a weaker 
 damsel who was heiress to the best farm in 
 town. The farm won the day at last ; and 
 Mrs. Bascom felt a thrill of pride at her son s 
 worldly success; then she asked to know 
 her son s plans, and was wholly disappointed. 
 Tobias meant to sell the old place ; he had 
 no idea of leaving her alone as she wistfully 
 complained ; he meant to have her make a 
 new home at the Bassett place with him and 
 his bride. 
 
FAIR DAY. 121 
 
 That she would never do : the old place 
 which had given them a living never should 
 be left or sold to strangers. Tobias was not 
 prepared for her fierce outburst of reproach 
 at the mere suggestion. She would live alone 
 and pay her way as she always had done, 
 and so it was, for a few years of difficulties. 
 Tobias was never ready to plough or plant 
 when she needed him ; his own great farm 
 was more than he could serve properly. It 
 grew more and more difficult to hire work 
 men, and they were seldom worth their 
 wages. At last Tobias s wife, who was a 
 kindly soul, persuaded her reluctant mother- 
 in-law to come and spend a winter ; the old 
 woman was tired and for once disheartened ; 
 she found herself deeply in love with her 
 grandchildren, and so next spring she let 
 the little hill farm on the halves to an impe 
 cunious but hard-working young couple. 
 
 To everybody s surprise the two women 
 lived together harmoniously. Tobias s wife 
 did everything to please her mother-in-law 
 except to be other than a Bassett. And 
 Mercy, for the most part, ignored this mis 
 fortune, and rarely was provoked into call 
 ing it a fault. Now that the necessity for 
 hard work and anxiety was past, she ap- 
 
122 FAIR DAY. 
 
 peared to have come to an Indian summer 
 shining-out of her natural amiability and tol 
 erance. She was sometimes indirectly re 
 proachful of her daughter s easy-going ways, 
 and set an indignant example now and then 
 by a famous onslaught of unnecessary work, 
 and always dressed and behaved herself in 
 plainest farm fashion, while Mrs. Tobias was 
 given to undue worldliness and style. But 
 they worked well together in the main, for, to 
 use Mercy s own words, she " had seen enough 
 of life not to want to go into other folks 
 houses and make trouble." 
 
 As people grow older their interests are 
 apt to become fewer, and one of the thoughts 
 that came oftenest to Mercy Bascom in her 
 old age was a time-honored quarrel with one 
 of her husband s sisters, who had been her 
 neighbor many years before, and then moved 
 to greater prosperity at the other side of the 
 county. It is not worth while to tell the long 
 story of accusations and misunderstandings, 
 but while the two women did not meet for 
 almost half a lifetime the grievance was as 
 fresh as if it were yesterday s. Wrongs of 
 defrauded sums of money and contested 
 rights in unproductive acres of land, wrongs 
 of slighting remarks and contempt of equal 
 
FAIR DAY. 123 
 
 claims; the remembrance of all these was 
 treasured as a miser fingers his gold. Mercy 
 Bascom freed herself from the wearisome 
 detail of every-day life whenever she could 
 find a patient listener to whom to tell the 
 long story. She found it as interesting as a 
 story of the Arabian Nights, or an exciting 
 play at the theatre. She would have you 
 believe that she was faultless in the matter, 
 and would not acknowledge that her sister- 
 in-law Ruth Bascom, now Mrs. Parlet, was 
 also a hard-working woman with dependent 
 little children at the time of the great fray. 
 Of late years her son had suspected that 
 his mother regretted the alienation, but he 
 knew better than to suggest a peace-making. 
 " Let them work let them work ! " he told 
 his wife, when she proposed one night to 
 bring the warring sisters-in-law unexpect 
 edly together. It may have been that old 
 Mercy began to feel a little lonely and would 
 be glad to have somebody of her own age 
 with whom to talk over old times. She never 
 had known the people much in this Bassett 
 region, and there were few but young folks 
 left at any rate. 
 
 As the pleasure-makers hastened toward 
 
124 FAIR DAY. 
 
 the fair that bright October morning Mercy 
 sat by the table sewing at a sufficient patch 
 in the old coat. There was little else to do 
 all day but to get herself a luncheon at noon 
 and have supper ready when the family 
 came home cold and tired at night. The 
 two cats came purring about her chair ; one 
 persuaded her to open the cellar door, and 
 the other leaped to the top of the kitchen ta 
 ble unrebuked, and blinked herself to sleep 
 there in the sun. This was a favored kitten 
 brought from the old home, and seemed like 
 a link between the old days and these. Her 
 mistress noticed with surprise that pussy was 
 beginning to look old, and she could not re 
 sist a little sigh. " Land ! the next world 
 may seem dreadful new too, and I ve got to 
 get u$ed to that," she thought with a grim 
 smile of foreboding. " How do folks live 
 that wants always to be on the go ? There 
 was Ruth Parlet, that must be always a vis- 
 itin and goin well, I won t say that there 
 was n t a time when I wished for the chance." 
 Justice always won the day in such minor 
 questions as this. 
 
 Ruth Parlet s name started the usual 
 thoughts, but somehow or other Mercy could 
 not find it in her heart to be as harsh as 
 
FAIR DAY. 125 
 
 usual. She remembered one thing after an 
 other about their girlhood together. They 
 had been great friends then, and the animos 
 ity may have had its root in the fact that 
 Kuth helped forward her brother s marriage. 
 But there were years before that of friendly 
 foregathering and girlish alliances and rival 
 ries ; spinning and herb gathering and quilt 
 ing. It seemed, as Mercy thought about it, 
 that Ruth was good company after all. But 
 what did make her act so, and turn right 
 round later on ? 
 
 The morning grew warm, and at last Mrs. 
 Bascom had to open the window to let out 
 the buzzing flies and an imprisoned wild 
 bee. The patch was finished and the elbow 
 would serve Tobias as good as new. She 
 laid the coat over a chair and put her bent 
 brass thimble into the paper-collar box that 
 served as work-basket. She used to have a 
 queer splint basket at the old place, but it 
 had been broken under something heavier 
 when her household goods were moved. 
 Some of the family had long been tired of 
 hearing that basket regretted, and another 
 had never been found worthy to take its 
 place. The thimble, the smooth mill bobbin 
 on which was wound black linen thread, the 
 
12G 
 
 dingy lump of boos wax, and a smart leather 
 needle-book, which Johnny had given her the 
 Christmas before, all looked ready for use, 
 but Mrs. Bascom pushed them farther hack 
 on the table and quickly rose to her feet,. 
 " T ain t nine o clock yet," she said, exul 
 tantly. " I 11 just take a couple <> crackers 
 in my pocket and step over to the old place. 
 I 11 take my time and be back soon enough 
 to make em that pan o my hot gingerbread 
 they 11 be counting on for supper." 
 
 Half an hour later one might have seen a 
 bent figure lock the side; door of the large 
 farmhouse carefully, trying the latch again 
 and again to see if it were fast, putting the 
 key into a safe hiding-place by the door, and 
 then stepping away up the road with eager 
 determination. " I ain t felt so like a jaunt 
 this five year," said Mercy to herself, "an 
 if Tobias was here an Ann, they d take all 
 the fun out fussin and talkin , an bein 
 afeard I d tire myself, or wantin me to ride 
 over. I do like to be my own master once 
 in a while." 
 
 The autumn day was glorious, with a fine 
 flavor of fruit and ripeness in the air. The 
 sun was warm, there was a eool hree/e irom 
 the great hills, and far off across the wide 
 
AM I If l> I ) PJ7 
 
 valley the old woman could see her little 
 gray house on its pleasant eastern slope ; 
 she could even trace (he outline of the two 
 small fields ami large pasture. kk I done well 
 with it, if I wasn t nothin hut a woman 
 with four depend nT on me an no means," 
 said Mercy proudly as she came in full sight 
 of the old place. It was a long drive I rom 
 one fiinn to the other by roundabout high 
 ways, but there was a fool path known to the 
 wayfarer which took a good piece off the dis 
 tance. " Now, ain t this a sight better than 
 them hustlin fairs?" Mercy asked gleefully 
 as she felt herself free and alone in the wide 
 meadow-land. She had long been promising 
 little Johnny to take him over to (iran ma s 
 house, as she loved to call it still. She could 
 not help thinking longingly how much he 
 would enjoy this escapade. "Why, I m 
 running away just like a young-one, that s 
 what I be," she exclaimed, and then laughed 
 aloud for very pleasure. 
 
 The weather-beaten farmhouse was de 
 serted that day, as its former owner sus 
 pected. She boldly gathered some of her 
 valued spice-apples, with an assuring sense 
 of proprietorship as she crossed the last nar- 
 
128 FAIR DAT. 
 
 row field. The Browns, man and wife and 
 little boy and baby, had hied them early to 
 the fair with nearly the whole population of 
 the countryside. The house and yard and 
 out-buildings never had worn such an aspect 
 of appealing pleasantness as when Mercy 
 Bascom came near. She felt as if she were 
 going to cry for a minute, and then hurried 
 to get inside the gate. She saw the outgo 
 ing track of horses feet with delight, but 
 went discreetly to the door and knocked, to 
 make herself perfectly sure that there was 
 no one left at home. Out of breath and 
 tired as she was, she turned to look off at the 
 view. Yes. there was Tobias s place, pros 
 perous and white-painted ; she could just get 
 a glimpse of the upper roofs and gables. It 
 was always a sorrow and complaint that a 
 low hill kept her from looking up at this 
 farm from any of the windows, but now that 
 she was at the farm itself she found herself 
 regarding Tobias s home with a good deal of 
 affection. She looked sharply with an ap 
 prehension of fire, but there was no whiff of 
 alarming smoke against the clear sky. 
 
 " Now I must git me a drink o that water 
 first of anything," and she hastened to the 
 creaking well-sweep and lowered the bucket. 
 
FAIR DAY. 129 
 
 There was the same rusty, handleless tin dip 
 per that she had left years before, standing 
 on the shelf inside the well-curb. She was 
 proud to find that the bucket was no heavier 
 than ever, and was heartily thankful for the 
 clear water. There never was such a well 
 as that, and it seemed as if she had not 
 been away a day. " What an old gal I be," 
 said Mercy, with plaintive merriment. 
 " Well, they ain t made no great changes 
 since I was here last spring," and then she 
 went over and held her face close against 
 one of the kitchen windows, and took a hun 
 gry look at the familiar room. The bed 
 room door was open and a new sense of at 
 tachment to the place filled her heart. " It 
 seems as if I was locked out o my own 
 home," she whispered as she looked in. 
 
 There were the same old spruce and pine 
 boards that she had scrubbed so many 
 times and trodden thin as she hurried to 
 and fro about her work. It was very 
 strange to see an unfamiliar chair or two, 
 but the furnishings of a farm kitchen were 
 much the same, and there was no great 
 change. Even the cradle was like that cra 
 dle in which her own children had been 
 rocked. She gazed and gazed, poor old 
 
130 FAIR DAY. 
 
 Mother Bascom, and forgot the present as 
 her early life came back in vivid memories. 
 At last she turned away from the window 
 with a sigh. 
 
 The flowers that she had planted herself 
 long ago had bloomed all summer in the 
 garden ; there were still some ragged 
 sailors and the snowberries and phlox and 
 her favorite white mallows, of which she 
 picked herself a posy. " I m glad the old 
 place is so well took care of," she thought, 
 gratefully. " An they ve new-silled the old 
 barn I do declare, and battened the cracks 
 to keep the dumb creatures warm. T was 
 a sham-built barn anyways, but t was the 
 best I could do when the child n needed 
 something every handturn o the day. It 
 put me to some expense every year, tinker 
 ing of it up where the poor lumber warped 
 and split. There, I enjoyed try n to cope 
 with things and gettin the better of my dis 
 advantages ! The ground s too rich for me 
 over there to Tobias s ; I don t want things 
 too easy, for my part. I feel most as young 
 as ever I did, and I ain t agoin to play 
 helpless, not for nobody. 
 
 u I declare for t, I mean to come up here 
 by an by a spell an stop with the young 
 
FAIR DAY. 131 
 
 folks, an give em a good lift with their 
 work. I ain t needed all the time to To 
 bias s now, and they can hire help, while 
 these can t. I ve been favoring myself till 
 I m as soft as an old hoss that s right out 
 of pasture an can t pull two wheels without 
 wheezin ." 
 
 There was a sense of companionship in 
 the very weather. The bees were abroad as 
 if it were summer, and a flock of little birds 
 came fluttering down close to Mrs. Bascom 
 as she sat on the doorstep. She remem 
 bered the biscuits in her pocket and ate 
 them with a hunger she had seldom known 
 of late, but she threw the crumbs gen 
 erously to her feathered neighbors. The 
 soft air, the brilliant or fading colors of the 
 wide landscape, the comfortable feeling of 
 relationship to her surroundings all served 
 to put good old Mercy into a most peaceful 
 state. There was only one thought that 
 would not let her be quite happy. She 
 could not get her sister-in-law Ruth Parlet 
 out of her mind. And strangely enough 
 the old grudge did not present itself with 
 the usual power of aggravation ; it was of 
 their early friendship and Ruth s good fel 
 lowship that memories would come. 
 
132 FAIR 
 
 " I declare for t, I would n t own np to 
 the folks, but I should like to have a good 
 visit with Ruth if so be that we could set 
 aside the past," she said, resolutely at last. 
 " I never thought I should come to it, but 
 if she offered to make peace I would n t do 
 nothin to hinder it. Not to say but what I 
 should have to free my mind on one or two 
 points before we could start fair. I Ve 
 waited forty year to make one remark to 
 Ruthy Parlet. But there ! we re gettin* 
 to be old folks." Mercy rebuked herself 
 gravely. " I don t want to go off with hard 
 feelins to nobody." Whether this was the 
 culmination of a long, slow process of rec 
 onciliation, or whether Mrs. Bascom s 
 placid satisfaction helped to hasten it by 
 many stages, nobody could say. As she sat 
 there she thought of many things ; her life 
 spread itself out like a picture ; perhaps 
 never before had she been able to detach 
 herself from her immediate occupation in 
 this way. She never had been aware of 
 her own character and exploits to such a 
 degree, and the minutes sped by as she 
 thought with deep interest along the course 
 of her own history. "There was nothing she 
 was ashamed of to an uncomfortable degree 
 
FAIR DAT. 133 
 
 but the long animosity between herself and 
 the children s aunt. How harsh she had 
 been sometimes ; she had even tried to pre 
 judice everybody who listened to these tales 
 of an offender. " I wa n t more n half 
 right, now I come to look myself full in the 
 face," said Mercy Bascom, " and I never 
 owned it till this day." 
 
 The sun was already past noon, and the 
 good woman dutifully rose and with instant 
 consciousness of resource glanced in at the 
 kitchen window to tell the time by a fa 
 miliar mark on the floor. " I need n t start 
 just yet," she muttered. " Oh my ! how I 
 do wish I could git in and poke round into 
 every corner ! T would make this day just 
 perfect." 
 
 " There now ! " she continued, " p raps 
 they leave the key just where our folks 
 used to." And in another minute the key 
 lay in Mercy s worn old hand. She gave 
 a shrewd look along the road, opened the 
 door, which creaked what may have been a 
 hearty welcome, and stood inside the dear 
 old kitchen. She had not been in the house 
 alone since she left it, but now she was 
 nobody s guest. It was like some shell-fish 
 finding its own old shell again and settling 
 
134 FAIR DAY. 
 
 comfortably into the convolutions. Even we 
 must not follow Mother Bascom about from 
 the dark cellar to the hot little attic. She 
 was not curious about the Browns worldly 
 goods ; indeed, she was nearly unconscious 
 of anything but the comfort of going up 
 and down the short flight of stairs and look 
 ing out of her own windows with nobody to 
 watch. 
 
 " There s the place where Tobias scratched 
 the cupboard door with a nail. Did n t I 
 thrash him for it good?" she said once 
 with a proud remembrance of the time when 
 she was a lawgiver and proprietor and he 
 dependent. 
 
 At length a creeping fear stole over her 
 lest the family might return. She stopped 
 one moment to look back into the little bed 
 room. " How good I did use to sleep here," 
 she said. " I worked as stout as I could 
 the day through, and there wa n t no wakin 
 up by two o clock in the morning, and 
 smellin for fire and harkin for thieves like 
 I have to nowadays." 
 
 Mercy stepped away down the long slo 
 ping field like a young woman. It was a 
 long walk back to Tobias s, even if one fol- 
 
FAIR DAY. 135 
 
 lowed the pleasant footpaths across country. 
 She was heavy-footed, but entirely light- 
 hearted when she came safely in at the gate 
 of the Bassett place. " I ve done extra for 
 me," she said as she put away her old shawl 
 and bonnet ; " but I m goin to git the best 
 supper Tobias s folks have eat for a year," 
 and so she did. 
 
 " I ve be n over to the old place to-day," 
 she announced bravely to her son, who had 
 finished his work and his supper and was 
 now tipped back in his wooden arm-chair 
 against the wall. 
 
 " You ain t, mother ! " responded Tobias, 
 with instant excitement. " Next fall, then, 
 I won t take no for an answer but what 
 you ll go to the fair and see what s goin . 
 You ain t footed it way over there ? " 
 
 Mother Bascom nodded. " I have," she 
 answered solemnly, a minute later, as if the 
 nod were not enough. u T bias, son," she 
 added, lowering her voice, " I ain t one to 
 give in my rights, but I was thinkin it all 
 over about y r Aunt Ruth Parlet " 
 
 " Now if that ain t curi s ! " exclaimed 
 Tobias, bringing his chair down hastily upon 
 all four legs. " I did n t know just how 
 you d take it, mother, but I see Aunt Ruth 
 
136 FAIR DAY. 
 
 to-day to the fair, and she made everything 
 o me and wanted to know how you was, and 
 she got me off from the rest, an says she : 
 4 1 declare I should like to see your marm 
 again. I wonder if she won t agree to let 
 bygones be bygones. 
 
 " My sakes ! " said Mercy, who was star 
 tled by this news. " T is the hand o Provi 
 dence ! How did she look, son ? " 
 
 " A sight older n you look, but kind of 
 natural too. One o her sons wives that 
 she s made her home with, has led her a 
 dance, folks say." 
 
 " Poor old creatur ! we 11 have her over 
 here, if your folks don t find fault. I ve 
 had her in my mind " 
 
 Tobias s folks, in the shape of his wife 
 and little Johnny, appeared from the outer 
 kitchen. " I have n t had such a supper I 
 don t know when," repeated the younger 
 woman for at least the fifth time. "You 
 must have been keepin busy all day, 
 Mother Bascom." 
 
 But Mother Bascom and Tobias looked at 
 each other and laughed. 
 
 "I ain t had such a good time I don t 
 know when, but my feet are all of a fidget 
 now, and I ve got to git to bed. I ve 
 
FATR DAY. 137 
 
 be n ruimin away since you ve be n gone, 
 Ann ! " said the pleased old soul, and then 
 went away, still laughing, to her own room. 
 She was strangely excited and satisfied, as 
 if she had at last paid a long-standing debt. 
 She could trudge across pastures as well as 
 anybody, and the old grudge was done with. 
 Mercy hardly noticed how her fingers trem 
 bled as she unhooked the old gray gown. 
 The odor of sweet fern shook out fresh and 
 strong as she smoothed and laid it carefully 
 over a chair. There was a little rent in the 
 skirt, but she could mend it by daylight. 
 
 The great harvest moon was shining high 
 in the sky, and she needed no other light in 
 the bedroom. " I Ve be n a smart woman 
 to work in my day, and I ve airnt a little 
 pleasurin , said Mother Bascom sleepily to 
 herself. " Poor Ruthy ! so she looks old, 
 does she ? I m goin to tell her right out, 
 t was I that spoke first to Tobias." 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 THE train stopped at a way station with 
 apparent unwillingness, and there was barely 
 time for one elderly passenger to be hurried 
 on board before a sudden jerk threw her al 
 most off her unsteady old feet and we moved 
 on. At my first glance I saw only a per 
 turbed old countrywoman, laden with a large 
 basket and a heavy bundle tied up in an 
 old-fashioned bundle - handkerchief ; then I 
 discovered that she was a friend of mine, 
 Mrs. Peet, who lived on a small farm, sev 
 eral miles from the village. She used to be 
 renowned for good butter and fresh eggs 
 and the earliest cowslip greens ; in fact, she 
 always made the most of her farm s slender 
 resources ; but it was some time since I had 
 seen her drive by from market in her ancient 
 thorough-braced wagon. 
 
 The brakemaii followed her into the 
 crowded car, also carrying a number of pack 
 ages. I leaned forward and asked Mrs. Peet 
 to sit by me ; it was a great pleasure to see 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 139 
 
 her again. The brakeman seemed relieved, 
 and smiled as he tried to put part of his bur 
 den into the rack overhead; but even the 
 flowered carpet-bag was much too large, and 
 he explained that he would take care of 
 everything at the end of the car. Mrs. Peet 
 was not large herself, but with the big bas 
 ket, and the bundle-handkerchief, and some 
 possessions of my own we had very little 
 spare room. 
 
 " So this ere is what you call ridin in the 
 cars ! Well, I do declare ! " said my friend, 
 as soon as she had recovered herself a little. 
 She looked pale and as if she had been in 
 tears, but there was the familiar gleam of 
 good humor in her tired old eyes. 
 
 " Where in the world are you going, Mrs. 
 Peet ? " I asked. 
 
 " Can t be you ain t heared about me, 
 dear ? " said she. " Well, the world s big 
 ger than I used to think t was. I ve broke 
 up, t was the only thing to do, and I m 
 a-movin to Shrewsbury." 
 
 " To Shrewsbury ? Have you sold the 
 farm?" I exclaimed, with sorrow and sur 
 prise. Mrs. Peet was too old and too char 
 acteristic to be suddenly transplanted from 
 her native soil,. 
 
140 GOING TO SHREWSBURY 
 
 " T wa n t mine, the place wa n t." Her 
 pleasant face hardened slightly. " He was 
 coaxed an over-persuaded into signin off 
 before he was taken away. Is iah, son of 
 his sister that married old Josh Peet, come 
 it over him about his bein past work and 
 how he d do for him like an own son, an 
 we owed him a little somethin . I d paid 
 off everythin but that, an was fool enough 
 to leave it till the last, on account o Is iah s 
 bein a relation and not needin his pay much 
 as some others did. It s hurt me to have 
 the place fall into other hands. Some 
 wanted me to go right to law ; but t would n t 
 be no use. Is iah s smarter n I be about 
 them matters. You see he s got my name 
 on the paper, too ; he said t was somethin 
 bout bein responsible for the taxes. We 
 was scant o money, an I was wore out with 
 watchin an being broke o my rest. After 
 my tryin hard for risin forty-five year to 
 provide for bein past work, here I be, dear, 
 here I be ! I used to drive things smart, you 
 remember. But we was fools enough in 72 
 to put about everythin we had safe in the 
 bank into that spool factory that come to 
 nothin . But I tell ye I could ha kept my 
 self long s I lived, if I could ha held the 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 141 
 
 place. I d parted with most o the wood 
 land, if Is iah d coveted it. He was welcome 
 to that, cept what might keep me in oven- 
 wood. I ve always desired to travel an see 
 somethin o the world, but I ve got the 
 chance now when I don t value it no great." 
 
 " Shrewsbury is a busy, pleasant place," 
 I ventured to say by way of comfort, though 
 my heart was filled with rage at the trickery 
 of Isaiah Peet, who had always looked like 
 a fox and behaved like one. 
 
 " Shrewsbury s be n held up con sid able 
 for me to smile at," said the poor old soul, 
 " but I tell ye, dear, it s hard to go an live 
 twenty-two miles from where you ve always 
 had your home and friends. It may divert 
 me, but it won t be home. You might as 
 well set out one o my old apple-trees on the 
 beach, so t could see the waves come in, 
 there would n t be no please to it." 
 
 " Where are you going to live in Shrews 
 bury ? " I asked presently. 
 
 " I don t expect to stop long, dear creatur . 
 I m most seventy-six year old," and Mrs. 
 Peet turned to look at me with pathetic 
 amusement in her honest wrinkled face. " I 
 said right out to Is iah, before a roomful o 
 the neighbors, that I expected it of him to 
 
142 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 git me home an bury me when my time 
 come, and do it respectable ; but I wanted 
 to airn my livin , if t was so I could, till 
 then. He d made sly talk, you see, about 
 my electin to leave the farm and go long 
 some o my own folks ; but " and she 
 whispered this carefully " he did n t give 
 me no chance to stay there without hurtin 
 my pride and depend in on him. I ain t said 
 that to many folks, but all must have sus 
 pected. A good sight on em s had money 
 of Is iah, though, and they don t like to do 
 nothin but take his part an be pretty soft 
 spoken, fear it 11 git to his ears. Well, 
 well, dear, we 11 let it be bygones, and not 
 think of it no more ; " but I saw the great 
 tears roll slowly down her cheeks, and she 
 pulled her bonnet forward impatiently, and 
 looked the other way. 
 
 " There looks to be plenty o good farmin 
 land in this part o the country," she said, a 
 minute later. " Where be we now? See 
 them handsome farm buildin s ; he must be 
 a well-off man." But I had to tell my com 
 panion that we were still within the borders 
 of the old town where we had both been 
 born. Mrs. Peet gave a pleased little laugh, 
 like a girl. " I m expectin Shrewsbury to 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 143 
 
 pop up any minute. I m feared to be ker- 
 ried right by. I wa n t never aboard of the 
 cars before, but I ve so often thought about 
 em I don t know but it seems natural. 
 Ain t it jest like flyin through the air? I 
 can t catcli holt to see nothin . Land ! and 
 here s my old cat goin too, and never mis- 
 trustin . I ain t told you that I d fetched 
 her." 
 
 " Is she in that basket ? " I inquired with 
 interest. 
 
 "Yis, dear. Truth was, I calc lated to 
 have her put out o the misery o movin , an 
 spoke to one o the Barnes boys, an he 
 promised me all fair ; but he wa n t there 
 in season, an I kind o made excuse to my 
 self to fetch her along. She s an old crea- 
 tur , like me, an I can make shift to keep 
 her some way or nuther ; there s probably 
 mice where we re goin , an she s a proper 
 mouser that can about keep herself if there s 
 any sort o chance. T will be somethin o 
 home to see her goin an comin , but I ex 
 pect we re both on us goin to miss our old 
 haunts. I d love to know what kind o 
 inousin there s goin to be for me." 
 
 " You must n t worry," I answered, with 
 all the bravery and assurance that I could 
 
144 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 muster. " Your niece will be thankful to 
 have you with her. Is she one of Mrs. 
 Winn s daughters ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, they ain t able ; it s Sister 
 Wayland s darter Isabella, that married the 
 overseer of the gre t carriage-shop. I ain t 
 seen her since just after she was married ; 
 but I turned to her first because I knew she 
 was best able to have me, and then I can see 
 just how the other girls is situated and make 
 me some kind of a plot. I wrote to Isabella, 
 though she is ambitious, and said t was so 
 I d got to ask to come an make her a visit, 
 an she wrote back she would be glad to have 
 me ; but she did n t write right off, and her 
 letter was scented up dreadful strong with 
 some sort o essence, and I don t feel heart 
 ened about no great of a welcome. But 
 there, I ve got eyes, an I can see how t is 
 when I git where t is. Sister Winn s gals 
 ain t married, an they ve always boarded, 
 an worked in the shop on trimmin s. Isa 
 bella s well off ; she had some means from 
 her father s sister. , I thought it all over by 
 night an day, an I recalled that our folks 
 kept Sister Wayland s folks all one winter, 
 when he d failed up and got into trouble. 
 I m reckonin on sendin over to-night an 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 145 
 
 gittin the Winn gals to come and see me 
 and advise. Perhaps some on em may 
 know of somebody that 11 take me for what 
 help I can give about house, or some clever 
 folks that have been lookin for a smart cat, 
 any ways : no, I don t know s I could let 
 her go to strangers." 
 
 "There was two or three o the folks 
 round home that acted real warm-hearted 
 towards me, an urged me to come an winter 
 with em," continued the exile; "an this 
 mornin I wished I d agreed to, t was so 
 hard to break away. But now it s done I 
 feel more n ever it s best. I could n t bear 
 to live right in sight o the old place, and 
 come spring I should n t prove of nothing 
 Is iah ondertakes to do with the land. Oh, 
 dear sakes ! now it comes hard with me not 
 to have had no child n. When I was young 
 an workin hard and into everything, I felt 
 kind of free an superior to them that was 
 so blessed, an their houses cluttered up from 
 mornin till night, but I tell ye it comes 
 home to me now. I d be most willin to 
 own to even Is iah, mean s he is ; but I tell 
 ye I d took it out of him fore he was a 
 grown man, if there d be n any virtue in 
 cow-hidin of him. Folks don t look like 
 
146 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 wild creatur s for nothin . Is iah s got fox 
 blood in him, an p r haps t is his misfor 
 tune. His own mother always favored the 
 looks of an old fox, true s the world ; she 
 was a poor tool, a poor tool ! Id kiiow s 
 we ought to blame him same s we do. 
 
 " I ve always been a master proud wo 
 man, if I was riz among the pastures," Mrs. 
 Peet added, half to herself. There was no 
 use in saying much to her ; she was con 
 scious of little beside her own thoughts and 
 the smouldering excitement caused by this 
 great crisis in her simple existence. Yet the 
 atmosphere of her loneliness, uncertainty, 
 and sorrow was so touching that after scold 
 ing again at her nephew s treachery, and 
 finding the tears come fast to my eyes as she 
 talked, I looked intently out of the car win 
 dow, and tried to think what could be done 
 for the poor soul. She was one of the old- 
 time people, and I hated to have her go away ; 
 but even if she could keep her home she 
 would soon be too feeble to live there alone, 
 and some definite plan must be made for her 
 comfort. Farms in that neighborhood were 
 not valuable. Perhaps through the agency 
 of the law and quite in secret, Isaiah Peet 
 could be forced to give up his unrighteous 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 147 
 
 claim. Perhaps, too, the Winn girls, who 
 were really no longer young, might have 
 saved something, and would come home 
 again. But it was easy to make such pic 
 tures in one s mind, and I must do what I 
 could through other people, for I was just 
 leaving home for a long time. I wondered 
 sadly about Mrs. Feet s future, and the am 
 bitious Isabella, and the favorite Sister 
 Wimi s daughters, to whom, with all their 
 kindliness of heart, the care of so old and 
 perhaps so dependent an aunt might seem 
 impossible. The truth about life in Shrews 
 bury would soon be known ; more than half 
 the short journey was already past. 
 
 To my great pleasure, my fellow-traveler 
 now began to forget her own troubles in look 
 ing about her. She was an alert, quickly 
 interested old soul, and this was a bit of neu 
 tral ground between the farm and Shrews 
 bury, where she was unattached ^and irre 
 sponsible. She had lived through the last 
 tragic moments of her old life, and felt a 
 certain relief, and Shrewsbury might be as 
 far away as the other side of the Rocky 
 Mountains for all the consciousness she had 
 of its real existence. She was simply a trav 
 eler for the time being, and began to com- 
 
148 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 ment, with delicious phrases and shrewd 
 understanding of human nature, on two or 
 three persons near us who attracted her 
 attention. 
 
 " Where do you s pose they be all goin ? " 
 she asked contemptuously. "There ain t 
 none on em but what looks kind o respect 
 able. I 11 warrant they ve left work to 
 home they d ought to be doin . I knowed, 
 if ever I stopped to think, that cars was 
 hived full o folks, an wa n t run to an fro 
 for nothin ; but these can t be quite up to 
 the average, be they ? Some on em s real 
 thrif less ? guess they ve be n shoved out o 
 the last place, an goin to try the next one, 
 like me, I suppose you 11 want to say ! 
 Jest see that flauntin old creatur that looks 
 like a stopped clock. There ! everybody 
 can t be o one goodness, even preachers." 
 
 I was glad to have Mrs. Peet amused, and 
 we were as cheerful as we could be for a few 
 minutes. She said earnestly that she hoped 
 to be forgiven for such talk, but there were 
 some kinds of folks in the cars that she 
 never had seen before. But when the con 
 ductor came to take her ticket she relapsed 
 into her first state of mind, and was at a 
 loss. 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 149 
 
 " You 11 have to look after me, dear, when 
 we get to Shrewsbury," she said, after we 
 had spent some distracted moments in hunt 
 ing for the ticket, and the cat had almost 
 escaped from the basket, and the bundle- 
 handkerohief had become untied and all its 
 miscellaneous contents scattered about our 
 laps and the floor. It was a touching collec 
 tion of the last odds and ends of Mrs. Feet s 
 housekeeping : some battered books, and 
 singed holders for flatirons, and the faded 
 little shoulder shawl that I had seen her 
 wear many a day about her bent shoulders. 
 There were her old tin match-box spilling 
 all its matches, and a goose-wing for brush 
 ing up ashes, and her much-thumbed Leav- 
 itt s Almanac. It was most pathetic to see 
 these poor trifles out of their places. At 
 last the ticket was found in her left-hand 
 woolen glove, where her stiff, work-worn 
 hand had grown used to the feeling of it. 
 
 " I should n t wonder, now, if I come to 
 like living over to Shrewsbury first-rate," 
 she insisted, turning to me with a hopeful, 
 eager look to see if I differed. " You see 
 t won t be so tough for me as if I had n t 
 always felt it lurking within me to go off 
 some day or nother an see how other folks 
 
150 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 did things. I do know but what the Winn 
 gals have laid up somethin sufficient for us 
 to take a house, with the little mite I ve got 
 by me. I might keep house for us all, stead 
 o boardin round in other folks houses. 
 That I ain t never been demeaned to, but I 
 dare say I should find it pleasant in some 
 ways. Town folks has got the upper hand 
 o country folks, but with all their work an 
 pride they can t make a dandelion. I do 
 know the times when I Ve set out to wash 
 Monday mornin s, an tied out the line be 
 twixt the old pucker-pear tree and the corner 
 o the barn, an thought, 4 Here I be with the 
 same kind o week s work right over again. 
 I d wonder kind o f erce if I could n t git 
 out of it noways ; an now here I be out of it, 
 and an uprooteder creatur never stood on 
 the airth. Just as I got to feel I had some- 
 thin ahead come that spool-factory business. 
 There ! you know he never was a forehanded 
 man ; his health was slim, and he got dis 
 couraged pretty nigh before ever he begun. 
 I hope he don t know I m turned out o the 
 old place. Is iah s well off ; he 11 do the 
 right thing by ye, says he. But my! I 
 turned hot all over when I found out what 
 I d put my name to, me that had always 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 151 
 
 be n counted a smart woman ! I did under 
 take to read it over, but I could n t sense it. 
 I ve told all the folks so when they laid it 
 off on to me some : but hand-writin is awful 
 tedious readin and my head felt that day as 
 if the works was gone." 
 
 " I ain t goin to sag on to nobody," she 
 assured me eagerly, as the train rushed 
 along. " I ve got more work in me now 
 than folks expects at my age. I may be con- 
 sid able use to Isabella. She s got a family, 
 an I 11 take right holt in the kitchen or 
 with the little gals. She had four on em, 
 last I heared. Isabella was never one that 
 liked house-work. Little gals ! I do know 
 now but what they must be about grown, 
 time doos slip away so. I expect I shall 
 look outlandish to em. But there ! every 
 body knows me to home, an nobody knows 
 me to Shrewsbury ; t won t make a mite o 
 difference, if I take holt willin ." 
 
 I hoped, as I looked at Mrs. Peet, that 
 she would never be persuaded to cast off the 
 gathered brown silk bonnet and the plain 
 shawl that she had worn so many years ; 
 but Isabella might think it best to insist 
 upon more modern fashions. Mrs. Peet sug 
 gested, as if it were a matter of little conse- 
 
152 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 quence, that she had kept it in mind to buy 
 some mourning ; but there were other things 
 to be thought of first, and so she had let it 
 go until winter, any way, or until she should 
 be fairly settled in Shrewsbury. 
 
 " Are your nieces expecting you by this 
 train ? " I was moved to ask, though with 
 all the good soul s ready talk and appealing 
 manner I could hardly believe that she was 
 going to Shrewsbury for more than a visit ; 
 it seemed as if she must return to the worn 
 old farmhouse over by the sheep-lands. 
 She answered that one of the Barnes boys 
 had written a letter for her the day before, 
 and there was evidently little uneasiness 
 about her first reception. 
 
 We drew near the junction where I must 
 leave her within a mile of the town. The 
 cat was clawing indignantly at the basket, 
 and her mistress grew as impatient of the 
 car. She began to look very old and pale, 
 my poor fellow-traveler, and said that she 
 felt dizzy, going so fast. Presently the 
 friendly red -cheeked young brakeman came 
 along, bringing the carpet-bag and other 
 possessions, and insisted upon taking the 
 alarmed cat beside, in spite of an aggressive 
 paw that had worked its way through the 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 153 
 
 wicker prison. Mrs. Peet watched her 
 goods disappear with suspicious eyes, and 
 clutched her bundle-handkerchief as if it 
 might be all that she could save. Then she 
 anxiously got to her feet, much too soon, 
 and when I said good-by to her at the car 
 door she was ready to cry. I pointed to the 
 car which she was to take next on the 
 branch line of railway, and I assured her 
 that it was only a few minutes ride to 
 Shrewsbury, and that I felt certain she 
 would find somebody waiting. The sight of 
 that worn, thin figure adventuring alone 
 across the platform gave my heart a sharp 
 pang as the train carried me away. 
 
 Some of the passengers who sat near 
 asked me about my old friend with great 
 sympathy, after she had gone. There was a 
 look of tragedy about her, and indeed it 
 had been impossible not to get a good deal 
 of her history, as she talked straight on in 
 the same tone, when we stopped at a station, 
 as if the train were going at full speed, 
 and some of her remarks caused pity and 
 amusements by turns. At the last minute 
 she said, with deep self-reproach, " Why, I 
 have n t asked a word about your folks 
 but you d ought to excuse such an old stray 
 hen as I be." 
 
154 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 In the spring I was driving by on what 
 the old people of my native town call the 
 sheep-lands road, and the sight of Mrs. 
 Peet s former home brought our former 
 journey freshly to my mind. I had last 
 heard from her just after she got to Shrews 
 bury, when she had sent me a message. 
 
 " Have you ever heard how she got on ? " 
 I eagerly asked my companion. 
 
 "Didn t I tell you that I met her in 
 Shrewsbury High Street one day ? " I was 
 answered. " She seemed perfectly de 
 lighted with everything. Her nieces have 
 laid up a good bit of money, and are soon 
 to leave the mill, and most thankful to have 
 old Mrs. Peet with them. Somebody told 
 me that they wished to buy the farm here, 
 and come back to live, but she would n t 
 hear of it, and thought they would miss too 
 many privileges. She has been going to 
 concerts and lectures this winter, and insists 
 that Isaiah did her a good turn." 
 
 We both laughed. My own heart was filled 
 with joy, for the uncertain, lonely face of 
 this homeless old woman had often haunted 
 me. The rain - blackened little house did 
 certainly look dreary, and a whole lifetime 
 of patient toil had left few traces. The 
 
GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 155 
 
 pucker-pear tree was in full bloom, however, 
 and gave a welcome gayety to the deserted 
 door-yard. 
 
 A little way beyond we met Isaiah Peet, 
 the prosperous money - lender, who had 
 cheated the old woman of her own. I fan 
 cied that he looked somewhat ashamed, as 
 he recognized us. To my surprise, he 
 stopped his horse in most social fashion. 
 
 " Old Aunt Peet s passed away," he in 
 formed me briskly. " She had a shock, 
 and went right off sudden yisterday fore 
 noon. I m about now tendin to the fu 
 neral rangements. She s be n extry smart, 
 they say, all winter, out to meetin last 
 Sabbath ; never enjoyed herself so complete 
 as she has this past month. She d be n a 
 very hard-workin woman. Her folks was 
 glad to have her there, and give her every 
 attention. The place here never was good 
 for nothin . The old gen leman, uncle, 
 you know, he wore hisself out tryin to 
 make a livin off from it." 
 
 There was an ostentatious sympathy and 
 half-suppressed excitement from bad news 
 which were quite lost upon us, and we did 
 not linger to hear much more. It seemed 
 to me as if I had known Mrs. Peet better 
 
156 GOING TO SHREWSBURY. 
 
 than any one else had known her. I had 
 counted upon seeing her again, and hearing 
 her own account of Shrewsbury life, its 
 pleasures and its limitations. I wondered 
 what had become of the cat and the con 
 tents of the faded bundle-handkerchief. 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALK 
 I. 
 
 THERE was a natural disinclination to the 
 cares of housekeeping in the mind of Captain 
 Ball, and he would have left the sea much 
 earlier in life if he had not liked much bet 
 ter to live on board ship. A man was his 
 own master there, and meddlesome neigh 
 bors and parsons and tearful women-folks 
 could be made to keep their distance. But 
 as years went on, and the extremes of 
 weather produced much affliction in the 
 shape of rheumatism, this, and the decline 
 of the merchant service, and the degeneracy 
 of common seamen, forced Captain Ball to 
 come ashore for good. He regretted that 
 he could no longer follow the sea, and, in 
 spite of many alleviations, grumbled at his 
 hard fate. He might have been condemned 
 to an inland town, but in reality his house 
 was within sight of tide-water, and he found 
 plenty of companionship in the decayed sea- 
 
158 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 port where he had been born and bred. 
 There were several retired shipmasters who 
 closely approached his own rank and dig 
 nity. They all gave other excuses than 
 that of old age and infirmity for being out 
 of business, took a sober satisfaction in 
 their eleven o clock bitters, and discussed 
 the shipping list of the morning paper with 
 far more interest than the political or gen 
 eral news of the other columns. 
 
 While Captain Asaph Ball was away on his 
 long voyages he had left his house in charge 
 of an elder sister, who was joint owner. 
 She was a grim old person, very stern in 
 matters of sectarian opinion, and the cap 
 tain recognized in his heart of hearts that 
 she alone was his superior officer. He en 
 deavored to placate her with generous offer 
 ings of tea and camel s-hair scarfs and East 
 Indian sweetmeats, not to speak of unneces 
 sary and sometimes very beautiful china for 
 the parties that she never gave, and hand 
 some dress patterns with which she scorned 
 to decorate her sinful shape of clay. She 
 pinched herself to the verge of want in or 
 der to send large sums of money to the 
 missionaries, but she saved the captain s 
 money for him against the time when his 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 159 
 
 willful lavishness and improvidence might 
 find him a poor man. She was always look 
 ing forward to the days when he would be 
 aged and forlorn, that burly seafaring 
 brother of hers. She loved to remind him 
 of his latter end, and in writing her long 
 letters that were to reach him in foreign 
 ports, she told little of the neighborhood 
 news and results of voyages, but bewailed, 
 in page after page, his sad condition of im 
 penitence and the shortness of time. The 
 captain would rather have faced a muti 
 nous crew any day than his sister s solemn 
 statements of this sort, but he loyally read 
 them through with heavy sighs, and worked 
 himself into his best broadcloth suit, at 
 least once while he lay in port, to go to 
 church on Sunday, out of good New Eng 
 land habit and respect to her opinions. It 
 was not his sister s principles but her 
 phrases that the captain failed to com 
 prehend. Sometimes when he returned to 
 his ship he took pains to write a letter to 
 dear sister Ann, and to casually mention 
 the fact of his attendance upon public 
 worship, and even to recall the text and 
 purport of the sermon. He was apt to fall 
 asleep in his humble place at the very back 
 
160 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 of the church, and his report of the services 
 would have puzzled a far less keen theolo 
 gian than Miss Ann Ball. In fact these 
 poor makeshifts of religious interest did 
 not deceive her, and the captain had an un 
 easy consciousness that, to use his own ex 
 pression, the thicker he laid on the words, 
 the quicker she saw through them. And 
 somehow or other that manly straightfor 
 wardness and honesty of his, that free 
 handed generosity, that true unselfishness 
 which made him stick by his ship when the 
 crew had run away from a poor black cook 
 who was taken down with the yellow-fever, 
 which made him nurse the frightened beg 
 gar as tenderly as a woman, and bring him 
 back to life, and send him packing after 
 ward with plenty of money in his pocket 
 all these fine traits that made Captain 
 Ball respected in every port where his loud 
 voice and clumsy figure and bronzed face 
 were known, seemed to count for nothing 
 with the stern sister. At least her younger 
 brother thought so. But when, a few years 
 after he came ashore for good, she died and 
 left him alone in the neat old white house, 
 which his instinctive good taste and his 
 father s before him had made a museum of 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 161 
 
 East Indian treasures, he found all his let 
 ters stored away with loving care after they 
 had been read and reread into tatters, and 
 among her papers such touching expressions 
 of love and pride and longing for his soul s 
 good, that poor Captain Asaph broke down 
 altogether and cried like a school-boy. 
 She had saved every line of newspaper 
 which even mentioned his ships names. 
 She had loved him deeply in the repressed 
 New England fashion, that under a gray 
 and forbidding crust of manner, like a 
 chilled lava bed, hides glowing fires of loy 
 alty and devotion. 
 
 Sister Ann was a princess among house 
 keepers, and for some time after her death 
 the captain was a piteous mourner indeed. 
 No growing school-boy could be more shy 
 and miserable in the presence of women 
 than he, though nobody had a readier friend 
 liness or more off-hand sailor ways among 
 men. The few intimate family friends who 
 came to his assistance at the time of his sis 
 ter s illness and death added untold misery 
 to the gloomy situation. Yet he received 
 the minister with outspoken gratitude in 
 spite of that worthy man s trepidation. 
 Everybody said that poor Captain Ball 
 
162 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 looked as if his heart was broken. " I tell 
 ye I feel as if I was tied in a bag of fleas," 
 said the distressed mariner, and his pastor 
 turned away to cough, hoping to hide the 
 smile that would come. " Widders an old 
 maids, they re busier than the divil in a 
 gale o wind," grumbled the captain. " Poor 
 Ann, she was worth every one of em lashed 
 together, and here you find me with a head 
 wind every way I try to steer." The min 
 ister was a man at any rate ; his very pres 
 ence was a protection. 
 
 Some wretched days went by while Cap 
 tain Ball tried to keep his lonely house 
 with the assistance of one Silas Jenkins, 
 who had made several voyages with him as 
 cook, but they soon proved that the best of 
 sailors may make the worst of housekeepers. 
 Life looked darker and darker, and when, 
 one morning, Silas inadvertently overheated 
 and warped the new cooking stove, which 
 had been the pride of Miss Ball s heart, the 
 breakfastless captain dismissed him in a fit 
 of blind rage. The captain was first cross 
 and then abject when he went hungry, and 
 in this latter stage was ready to abase him 
 self enough to recall Widow Sparks, his 
 sister s lieutenant, who lived close by in 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 163 
 
 Ropewalk Lane, forgetting that lie had 
 driven her into calling him an old hog two 
 days after the funeral. He groaned aloud 
 as he thought of her, but reached for his 
 hat and cane, when there came a gentle 
 feminine rap at the door. 
 
 " Let em knock ! " grumbled the cap- 
 tain, angrily, but after a moment s reflection, 
 he scowled and went and lifted the latch. 
 
 There stood upon the doorstep a middle- 
 aged woman, with a pleasant though deter 
 mined face. The captain scowled again, 
 but involuntarily opened his fore-door a 
 little wider. 
 
 " Capt in Asaph Ball, I presume ? " 
 " The same," answered the captain. 
 " I ve been told, sir, that you need a 
 housekeeper, owing to recent affliction." 
 
 There was a squally moment of resistance 
 in the old sailor s breast, but circumstances 
 seemed to be wrecking him on a lee shore. 
 Down came his flag on the run. 
 
 " I can t say but what I do, ma am," and 
 with lofty courtesy, such as an admiral 
 should use to his foe of equal rank, the mas 
 ter of the house signified that his guest 
 might enter. When they were seated oppo 
 site each other in the desolate sitting-room 
 
164 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 he felt himself the weaker human being of 
 the two. Five years earlier, and he would 
 have put to sea before the week s end, if 
 only to gain the poor freedom of a coastwise 
 lime schooner. 
 
 " Well, speak up, can t ye ? " he said, 
 trying to laugh. " Tell me what s the tax, 
 and how much you can take hold and do, 
 without coming to me for orders every 
 hand s turn o the day. I Ve had Silas Jin- 
 kins here, one o my old ship s cooks ; he 
 served well at sea, and I thought he had 
 some head ; but we ve been beat, I tell ye, 
 and you 11 find some work to put things 
 ship-shape. He s gitting in years, that s 
 the trouble ; I ought n t to have called on 
 him," said Captain Ball, anxious to maintain 
 even so poorly the dignity of his sex. 
 
 " I like your looks ; you seem a good 
 steady hand, with no nonsense about ye." 
 He cast a shy glance at his companion, and 
 would not have believed that any woman 
 could have come to the house a stranger, and 
 have given him such an immediate feeling of 
 confidence and relief. 
 
 " 1 11 tell ye what s about the worst of 
 the matter," and the captain pulled a letter 
 out of his deep coat pocket. His feelings 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 165 
 
 had been pent up too long. At the sight 
 of the pretty handwriting and aggravatingly 
 soft-spoken sentences, Asaph Ball was forced 
 to inconsiderate speech. The would-be 
 housekeeper pushed back her rocking-chair 
 as he began, and tucked her feet under, be 
 side settling her bonnet a little, as if she 
 were close-reefed and anchored to ride out 
 the gale. 
 
 " I m in most need of an able person," 
 he roared, " 011 account of this letter s settin 
 me adrift about knowing what to do. T is 
 from a gal that wants to come and make 
 her home here. Land sakes alive, puts her 
 self right f orrard ! I don t want her, an 9 I 
 won t have her. She may be a great-niece ; 
 I don t say she ain t ; but what should I do 
 with one o them jiggetin gals about ? In 
 the name o reason, why should I be set out 
 o my course ? I m left at the mercy o you 
 women-folks," and the captain got stiffly to 
 his feet. " If you ve had experience, an 
 think you can do for me, why, stop an try, 
 an I 11 be much obleeged to ye. You 11 
 find me a good provider, and we 11 let one 
 another alone, and get along some way or 
 nother." 
 
 The captain s voice fairly broke ; he had 
 
166 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 been speaking as if to a brother man; he 
 was tired out and perplexed. His sister 
 Ann had saved him so many petty trials, 
 and now she was gone. The poor man had 
 watched her suffer and seen her die, and he 
 was as tender-hearted and as lonely as a 
 child, however he might bluster. Even 
 such infrequent matters as family letters 
 had been left to his busy sister. It hap 
 pened that they had inherited a feud with 
 an elder half-brother s family in the West, 
 though the captain was well aware of the 
 existence of this forth-putting great -niece, 
 who had been craftily named for Miss Ann 
 Ball, and so gained a precarious hold on her 
 affections ; but to harbor one of the race was 
 to consent to the whole. Captain Ball was 
 not a man to bring down upon himself an 
 army of interferers and plunderers, and he 
 now threw down the poor girl s well-meant 
 letter with an outrageous expression of his 
 feelings. Then he felt a silly weakness, and 
 hastened to wipe his eyes with his pocket- 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " I ve been beat, I tell ye," he said bro 
 kenly. 
 
 There was a look of apparent sympathy, 
 mingled with victory, on the housekeeper s 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 167 
 
 face. Perhaps she had known some other 
 old sailor of the same make, for she rose 
 and turned her face aside to look out of the 
 window until the captain s long upper lip 
 had time to draw itself straight and stern 
 again. Plainly she was a woman of experi 
 ence and discretion. 
 
 " I 11 take my shawl and bunnit right off, 
 sir," she said, in a considerate little voice. 
 " I see a-plenty to do ; there 11 be time 
 enough after I get you your dinner to see to 
 havin my trunk here ; but it need n t stay a 
 day longer than you give the word." 
 
 " That s clever," said the captain. " I 11 
 step right down street and get us a good 
 fish, an you can fry it or make us a chow 
 der, just which you see fit. It now wants 
 a little of eleven " and an air of pleased 
 anticipation lighted his face "I must be 
 on my way." 
 
 "If it s all the same to you, I guess we 
 don t want no company till we get to rights 
 a little. You re kind of tired out, sir," 
 said the housekeeper, feelingly. " By-and- 
 by you can have the young girl come an 
 make you a visit, and either let her go or 
 keep her, cordin as seems fit. I may not 
 turn out to suit." 
 
168 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 " What may I call you, ma am ? " in 
 quired Captain Ball. "Mis French? Not 
 one o them Fleet Street Frenches ? " (sus 
 piciously). " Oh, come from Massachu 
 setts way ! " (with relief). 
 
 " I was stopping with some friends that 
 had a letter from some o the minister s folks 
 here, and they told how bad off you was," 
 said Mrs. French, modestly. " I was out of 
 employment, an I said to myself that I 
 should feel real happy to go and do for that 
 Captain Ball. He knows what he wants, 
 and I know what I want, and no flummery." 
 
 " You know somethin o life, I do de 
 clare," and the captain fairly beamed. " I 
 never was called a hard man at sea, but I 
 like to give my orders, and have folks foller 
 em. If it was women-folks that wrote, they 
 may have set me forth more n ordinary. I 
 had every widder and single woman in town 
 here while Ann lay dead, and my natural 
 feelin s were all worked up. I see em 
 dressed up and smirkin and settin their 
 nets to ketch me when I was in an extremity. 
 I would n t give a kentle o sp iled fish for 
 the whole on em. I ain t a marryin man, 
 there s once for all for ye," and the old 
 sailor stepped toward the door with some 
 temper. 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 169 
 
 " Ef you 11 write to the young woman, 
 sir, just to put off comin for a couple or 
 three weeks," suggested Mrs. French. 
 
 " This afternoon, ma am," said the cap 
 tain, as if it were the ay, ay, sir, of an able 
 seaman who sprang to his duty of reefing 
 the main-topsail. 
 
 Captain Ball walked down to the fish shop 
 with stately steps and measured taps of his 
 heavy cane. He stopped on the way, a little 
 belated, and assured two or three retired 
 ship-masters that he had manned the old 
 brig complete at last ; he even gave a hand 
 some wink of his left eye over the edge of a 
 glass, and pronounced his morning grog to 
 be A No. 1, prime. 
 
 Mrs. French picked up her gown at each 
 side with thumb and finger, and swept the 
 captain a low courtesy behind his back as he 
 went away; then she turned up the afore 
 said gown and sought for one of the lamented 
 Miss Ann Ball s calico aprons, and if ever a 
 New England woman did a morning s work 
 in an hour, it was this same Mrs. French. 
 
 " T ain t every one knows how to make 
 what / call a chowder," said the captain, 
 pleased and replete, as he leaned back in his 
 chair after dinner. " Mis French, you shall 
 
170 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 have everything to do with, an I ain t no 
 kitchen colonel myself to bother ye." 
 
 There was a new subject for gossip in that 
 seaport town. More than one woman had 
 felt herself to be a fitting helpmate for the 
 captain, and was confident that if time had 
 been allowed, she could have made sure of 
 even such wary game as he. When a stran 
 ger stepped in and occupied the ground at 
 once, it gave nobody a fair chance, and Mrs. 
 French was recognized as a presuming ad 
 venturess by all disappointed aspirants for 
 the captain s hand. The captain was afraid 
 at times that Mrs. French carried almost too 
 many guns, but she made him so comfortable 
 that she kept the upper hand, and at last he 
 was conscious of little objection to whatever 
 this able housekeeper proposed. Her only 
 intimate friends were the minister and his 
 wife, and the captain himself was so won 
 over to familiarity by the kindness of his 
 pastor in the time of affliction, that when 
 after some weeks Mrs. French invited the 
 good people to tea, Captain Ball sat man 
 fully at the foot of his table, and listened 
 with no small pleasure to the delighted ex 
 clamations of the parson s wife over his store 
 of china and glass. There was a little feel- 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 171 
 
 ing of guilt when lie remembered how many 
 times in his sister s day he had evaded such 
 pleasant social occasions by complaint of in 
 ward malady, or by staying boldly among 
 the wharves until long past supper-time, and 
 forcing good Miss Ann to as many anxious 
 excuses as if her brother s cranky ways were 
 not as well known to the guests as to her 
 self. 
 
 II. 
 
 Mrs. Captain Topliff and Miss Miranda 
 Hull were sitting together one late summer 
 afternoon in Mrs. ToplifFs south chamber. 
 They were at work upon a black dress which 
 was to be made over, and each sat by a front 
 window with the blinds carefully set ajar. 
 
 " This is a real handy room to sew in," 
 said Miranda, who had come early after din 
 ner for a good long afternoon. " You git 
 the light as long as there is any ; and I do 
 like a straw carpet ; I don t feel s if I made 
 so much work scatterin pieces." 
 
 "Don t you have no concern about pieces," 
 answered Mrs. Topliff, amiably. " I was 
 precious glad to get you right 011 the sudden 
 so. You see, I counted on my other dress 
 lasting me till winter, and sort of put this 
 
172 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 by to do at a leisure time. I knew t wa n t 
 fit to wear as t was. Anyway, I ve done 
 dealin with Stover ; he told me, lookin me 
 right in the eye, that it was as good a wear- 
 in piece o goods as he had in the store. 
 T was a real cheat ; you can put your finger 
 right through it." 
 
 " You ve got some wear out of it," ven 
 tured Miranda, meekly, bending over her 
 work. " I made it up quite a spell ago, I 
 know. Six or seven years, ain t it, Mis 
 Topliff?" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure," replied Mrs. Topliff, 
 with suppressed indignation ; " but this we re 
 to work on I had before the Centennial. I 
 know I would n t take it to Philadelphy 
 because t was too good. An the first two 
 or three years of a dress don t count. You 
 know how t is ; you just wear em to meetin 
 a pleasant Sunday, or to a funeral, p r aps, 
 an keep em in a safe cluset meanwhiles." 
 
 " Goods don t wear as t used to," agreed 
 Miranda ; " but t is all the better for my 
 trade. Land ! there s some dresses in this 
 town I m sick o bein called on to make 
 good s new. Now I call you reasonable 
 about such things, but there s some I could 
 name " Miss Hull at this point put sev- 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 173 
 
 eral pins into her mouth, as if to guard a 
 secret. 
 
 Mrs. Topliff looked up with interest. c I 
 always thought Ann Ball was the meanest 
 woman about such expense. She always 
 looked respectable too, and I s pose she d 
 said the heathen was gittin the good o 
 what she saved.^ She must have given away 
 hundreds o dollars in that direction." 
 
 " She left plenty too, and I s pose Cap n 
 Asaph s Mis French will get the good of 
 it now," said Miranda through the pins. 
 " Seems to me he s gittin caught in spite 
 of himself. Old vain creatur , he seemed 
 to think all the women-folks in town was in 
 love with him." 
 
 " Some was," answered Mrs. Topliff. " I 
 think any woman that needed a home would 
 naturally think t was a good chance." She 
 thought that Miranda had indulged high 
 hopes, but wished to ignore them now. 
 
 " Some that had a home seemed inclined 
 to bestow their affections, I observed," re 
 torted the dressmaker, who had lost her lit 
 tle property by unfortunate investment, but 
 would not be called homeless by Mrs. Top 
 liff. Everybody knew that the widow had 
 set herself down valiantly to besiege the 
 
174 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 enemy ; but after this passage at arms be 
 tween the friends they went on amiably with 
 their conversation. 
 
 " Seems to me the minister and Mis Cal- 
 vinn are dreadful intimate at the Cap n s. 
 I wonder if the Cap n s goin to give as 
 much to the heathen as his sister did ? " said 
 Mrs. Topliff, presently. 
 
 " I understood he told the minister that 
 none o the heathen was wuth it that ever 
 he see," replied Miranda in a pinless voice 
 at last. " Mr. Calvinn on]y laughed ; he 
 knows the Cap n s ways. But I should n t 
 thought Asaph Ball would have let his hired 
 help set out and ask company to tea just 
 four weeks from the day his only sister was 
 laid away. T wa n t feelin ." 
 
 " That Mis French wanted to get the 
 minister s folks to back her up, don t you 
 understand ? " was Mrs. Topliff s comment. 
 " I should think the Calvinns would n t want 
 to be so free and easy with a woman from 
 nobody knows where. She runs in and out 
 o the parsonage any time o day, as Ann 
 Ball never took it upon her to do. Ann 
 liked Mis Calvinn, but she always had to 
 go through with just so much, and be formal 
 with everybody." 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 175 
 
 " I 11 tell you something that exasperated 
 me," confided the disappointed Miranda. 
 " That night they was there to tea, Mis 
 Calvinn was praising up a handsome flow 
 ered china bowl that was on the table, with 
 some new kind of a fancy jelly in it, and 
 the Cap n told her to take it along when she 
 went home, if she wanted to, speakin right 
 out thoughtless, as men do ; and that Mis 
 French chirped up, Yes, I m glad ; you 
 ought to have somethin to remember the 
 cap n s sister by, says she. Can t you hear 
 just how up an comin it was ? " 
 
 " I can so," said Mrs. Topliff. " I see 
 that bowl myself on Miss Calvinn s card- 
 table, when I was makin a call there day be 
 fore yesterday. I wondered how she come 
 by it. Tis an elegant bowl. Ann must 
 have set the world by it, poor thing. Won 
 der if he ain t goin to give remembrances 
 to those that knew his sister ever since they 
 can remember? Mirandy Hull, that Mis 
 French is a fox ! " 
 
 " T was Widow Sparks gave me the par 
 ticulars," continued Mrs. Topliff. " She 
 declared at first that never would she step 
 foot inside his doors again, but I always 
 thought the cap n put up with a good deaL 
 
176 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 Her husband s havin been killed in one o 
 his ships by a fall when he was full o liquor, 
 and her bein there so much to help Ann, 
 and their havin provided for her all these 
 years one way an another, did n t give her 
 the right to undertake the housekeepin and 
 direction o everything soon as Ann died. 
 She dressed up as if t was for meetin , and 
 tended the front door, and saw the folks 
 that came. You d thought she was ma am 
 of everything; and to hear her talk up to 
 the cap n ! I thought I should die o laugh 
 ing when he blowed out at her. You know 
 how he gives them great whoos when he s 
 put about. * Go below, can t ye, till your 
 watch s called, says he, same s t was 
 aboard ship ; but there ! everybody knew he 
 was all broke down, and everything tried 
 him. But to see her flounce out o that 
 back door ! " 
 
 " T was the evenin after the funeral," 
 Miranda said, presently. " I was there, too, 
 you may rec lect, seeing what I could do. 
 The cap n thought I was the proper one to 
 look after her things, and guard against 
 moths. He said there wa n t no haste, but 
 I knew better, an told him I d brought 
 some camphire right with me. Well, 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 177 
 
 did you git anything further out o Mis 
 Sparks?" 
 
 " That French woman made all up with 
 her, and Mis Sparks swallowed her resent 
 ment. She s a good-feelin , ignorant kind 
 o woman, an she needed the money bad," 
 answered Mrs. Topliff. " If you 11 never 
 repeat, I 11 tell you somethin that 11 make 
 your eyes stick out, Miranda." 
 
 Miranda promised, and filled her mouth 
 with pins preparatory to proper silence. 
 
 " You know the Balls had a half-brother 
 that went off out West somewhere in New 
 York State years ago. I don t remember 
 him, but he brought up a family, and some 
 of em came here an made visits. Ann used 
 to get letters from em sometimes, she s told 
 me, and I dare say used to do for em. Well, 
 Mis Sparks says that there was a smart 
 young Miss Ball, niece, or great-niece o the 
 cap n, wrote on and wanted to come an live 
 with him for the sake o the home his own 
 blood and kin, you see, and very needy 
 and Mis Sparks heard em talk about her, 
 and that wicked, low, offscourin has got 
 round Asaph Ball till he s consented to put 
 the pore girl off. You see, she wants to 
 contrive time to make him marry her, and 
 
178 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 then she 11 do as she pleases about his folks. 
 Now ain t it a shame ? When I see her pa 
 rade up the broad aisle, I want to stick out 
 my tongue at her I do so, right in meetin . 
 If the cap n s goin to have a shock within a 
 year, I could wish it might be soon, to dis 
 appoint such a woman. Who is she, any 
 way ? She makes me think o some carr on 
 bird pouncin down on us right out o the 
 air." Mrs. Topliff sniffed and jerked about 
 in her chair, having worked herself into a 
 fine fit of temper. 
 
 " There ain t no up nor down to this ma 
 terial, is there ? " inquired Miranda, meekly. 
 She was thinking that if she were as well off 
 as Mrs. Topliff, and toward seventy years of 
 age, she would never show a matrimonial 
 disappointment in this open way. It was 
 ridiculous for a woman who had any respect 
 for herself and for the opinion of society. 
 Miranda had much more dignity, and tried 
 to cool off Mrs. Topliff s warmth by discus 
 sion of the black gown. 
 
 " T ain t pleasant to have such a character 
 among us. Do you think it is, Mirandy ? " 
 asked Mrs. Topliff, after a few minutes of 
 silence. " She s a good-looking person, but 
 with something sly about her. I don t mean 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 179 
 
 to call on her again until she accounts for 
 herself. Livin nearer than any of Ann s 
 friends, I thought there would be a good 
 many ways I could oblige the cap n if he d 
 grant the opportunity, but t ain t so to be. 
 Now Mr. Topliff was such an eas3^-goin , 
 pleasant-tempered man, that I take time to 
 remember others is made different." 
 
 Miranda smiled. Her companion had suf 
 fered many things from a most trying hus 
 band ; it was difficult to see why she was 
 willing to risk her peace of mind again. 
 
 " Cap n Asaph looks now as meek as 
 Moses," she suggested, as she pared a newly 
 basted seam with her creaking scissors. 
 " Mis French, whoever she may be, has got 
 him right under her thumb. I, for one, be 
 lieve she 11 never get him, for all her pains. 
 He s as sharp as she is any day, when it 
 comes to that ; but he s made comfortable, 
 and she starches his shirt bosoms so s you 
 can hear em creak way across the meeting 
 house. I was in there the other night 
 she wanted to see me about some work 
 and t was neat as wax, and an awful good 
 scent o somethin they d had for supper." 
 
 " That kind s always smart enough," 
 granted the widow Topliff. " I want to 
 
180 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 know if she cooks him a hot supper every 
 night ? Well, she 11 catch him if anybody 
 can. Why don t you get a look into some 
 o the clusets, if you go there to work ? Ann 
 was so formal I never spoke up as I wanted 
 to about seeing her things. They must have 
 an awful sight of china, and as for the linen 
 and so on that the cap n and his father be 
 fore him fetched home from sea, you could n t 
 find no end to it. Ann never made way 
 with much. I hope the mice ain t hivin 
 into it and makin their nests. Ann was 
 very particular, but I dare say it wore her 
 out tryin to take care o such a houseful." 
 
 " I m going there Wednesday," said Mi 
 randa. " I 11 spy round all I can, but I 
 don t like to carry news from one house to 
 another. I never was one to make trouble ; 
 t would make my business more difficult 
 than t is a ready." 
 
 " I d trust you," responded Mrs. Topliff, 
 emphatically. " But there, Mirandy, you 
 know you can trust me too, and anything 
 you say goes no further." 
 
 " Yes m," returned Miranda, somewhat 
 absently. " To cut this the way you want 
 it is going to give the folds a ter ble skimpy 
 look." 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 181 
 
 " I thought it would from the first," was 
 Mrs. ToplifFs obliging answer. . 
 
 III. 
 
 The captain could not believe that two 
 months had passed since his sister s death, 
 but Mrs. French assured him one evening 
 that it was so. He had troubled himself 
 very little about public opinion, though hints 
 of his housekeeper s suspicious character 
 and abominable intentions had reached his 
 ears through more than one disinterested 
 tale-bearer. Indeed, the minister and his 
 wife were the only persons among the old 
 family friends who kept up any sort of in 
 tercourse with Mrs. French. The ladies of 
 the parish themselves had not dared to 
 asperse her character to the gruff captain, 
 but were contented with ignoring her exist 
 ence and setting their husbands to the fray. 
 " Why don t you tell him what folks think? " 
 was a frequent question ; but after a first 
 venture even the most intimate and valiant 
 friends were sure to mind their own busi 
 ness, as the indignant captain bade them. 
 Two of them had been partially won over to 
 Mrs. French s side by a taste of her good 
 cooking. In fact, these were Captain Dunn 
 
182 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 and Captain Allister, who, at the eleven 
 o clock rendezvous, reported their wives as 
 absent at the County Conference, and were 
 promptly bidden to a chowder dinner by the 
 independent Captain Ball, who gloried in 
 the fact that neither of his companions would 
 dare to ask a friend home unexpectedly. 
 Our hero promised his guests that what they 
 did not find in eatables they should make up 
 in drinkables, and actually produced a glis 
 tening decanter of Madeira that had made 
 several voyages in his father s ships while 
 he himself was a boy. There were several 
 casks and long rows of cobwebby bottles in 
 the cellar, which had been provided against 
 possible use in case of illness, but the cap 
 tain rarely touched them, though he went 
 regularly every morning for a social glass of 
 what he frankly persisted in calling his grog. 
 The dinner party proved to be a noble oc 
 casion, and Mrs. French won the esteem of 
 the three elderly seamen by her discreet be 
 havior, as well as by the flavor of the chow 
 der. 
 
 They walked out into the old garden when 
 the feast was over, and continued their some 
 what excited discussion of the decline of 
 shipping, on the seats of the ancient latticed 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 183 
 
 summer-house. There Mrs. French sur 
 prised them by bringing out a tray of coffee, 
 served in the handsome old cups which the 
 captain s father had brought home from 
 France. She was certainly a good-looking 
 woman, and stepped modestly and soberly 
 along the walk between the mallows and 
 marigolds. Her feminine rivals insisted that 
 she looked both bold and sly, but she minded 
 her work like a steam-tug, as the captain 
 whispered admiringly to his friends. 
 
 " Ain t never ascertained where she came 
 from last, have ye ? 1? inquired Captain Alis- 
 ter, emboldened by the best Madeira and 
 the good-fellowship of the occasion. 
 
 " I m acquainted with all I need to know," 
 answered Captain Ball, shortly ; but his face 
 darkened, and when his guests finished their 
 coffee they thought it was high time to go 
 away. 
 
 Everybody was sorry that a jarring note 
 had been struck on so delightful an occasion, 
 but it could not be undone. On the whole, 
 the dinner was an uncommon pleasure, and 
 the host walked back into the house to com 
 pliment his housekeeper, though the sting 
 of his friend s untimely question expressed 
 itself by a remark that they had made most 
 
184 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 too much of an every-clay matter by having 
 the coffee in those best cups. 
 
 Mrs. French laughed. " T will give em 
 something to talk about ; t was excellent 
 good coffee, this last you got, anyway," and 
 Captain Asaph walked away, restored to a 
 pleased and cheerful frame of mind. When 
 he waked up after a solid after-dinner nap, 
 Mrs. French, in her decent afternoon gown, 
 as calm as if there had been no company 
 to dinner, was just coming down the front 
 stairs. 
 
 She seated herself by the window, and 
 pretended to look into the street. The cap 
 tain shook his newspaper at an invading 
 fly. It was early September and flies were 
 cruelly persistent. Somehow his nap had 
 not entirely refreshed him, and he watched 
 his housekeeper with something like disap 
 proval. 
 
 " I want to talk with you about something, 
 sir," said Mrs. French. 
 
 " She s going to raise her pay," the cap 
 tain grumbled to himself. " Well, speak 
 out, can t ye ma am ? " he said. 
 
 w You know I Ve been sayin all along 
 that you ought to get your niece " 
 
 " She s my great-niece," blew the captain, 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 185 
 
 "an I don t know as I want her." The 
 awful certainty came upon him that those 
 hints were well-founded about Mrs. French s 
 determination to marry him, and his stormy 
 nature rose in wild revolt. "Can t you 
 keep your place, ma am ? " and he gave a 
 great whoo ! as if he were letting off super 
 abundant steam. She might prove to carry 
 too many guns for him, and he grew very 
 red in the face. It was a much worse mo 
 ment than when a vessel comes driving at 
 you amidships out of the fog. 
 
 " Why, yes, sir, I should be glad to keep 
 my place," said Mrs. French, taking the less 
 grave meaning of his remark by instinct, if 
 not by preference ; " only it seems your duty 
 to let your great-niece come some time or 
 other, and I can go off. Perhaps it is an 
 untimely season to speak about it, but, you 
 see, I have had it in mind, and now I ve 
 got through with the preserves, and there s 
 a space between now and house-cleaning, I 
 guess you d better let the young woman 
 come. Folks have got wind about your re 
 fusing her earlier, and think hard of me: 
 my position is n t altogether pleasant," and 
 she changed color a little, and looked him 
 full in the face. 
 
186 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 The captain s eyes fell. He did owe her 
 something. He never had been so comfort 
 able in his life, on shore, as she had made 
 him. She had heard some cursed ill-natured 
 speeches, and he very well knew that a more 
 self-respecting woman never lived. But now 
 her moment of self-assertion seemed to have 
 come, and, to use his own words, she had him 
 fast. Stop ! there was a way of escape. 
 
 " Then I will send for the gal. Perhaps 
 you re right, ma am. I ve slept myself into 
 the doldrums. Whoo ! whoo ! " he said, 
 loudly anything to gain a little time. 
 " Anything you say, ma am," he protested. 
 " I ve got to step down-town on some busk 
 ness," and the captain fled with ponderous 
 footsteps out through the dining-room to the 
 little side entry where he hung his hat ; then 
 a moment later he went away, clicking his 
 cane along the narrow sidewalk. 
 
 He had escaped that time, and wrote th* 
 brief note to his great-niece, Ann Ball^_ 
 how familiar the name looked ! with 
 sense of victory. He dreaded the next in 
 terview with his housekeeper, but she was 
 business-like and self-possessed, and seemed 
 to be giving him plenty of time. Then the 
 captain regretted his letter, and felt as if 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 187 
 
 he were going to be broken up once more in 
 his home comfort. He spoke only when it 
 was absolutely necessary, and simply nodded 
 his head when Mrs. French said that she 
 was ready to start as soon as she showed 
 the young woman about the house. But 
 what favorite dishes were served the cap 
 tain in those intervening (Jays ! and there 
 was one cool evening beside, when the house 
 keeper had the social assistance of a fire in 
 the Franklin stove. The captain thought 
 that his only safety lay in sleep, and promptly 
 took that means of saving himself from a 
 dangerous conversation. He even went to 
 a panorama on Friday night, a diversion 
 that would usually be quite beneath his 
 dignity. It was difficult to avoid asking 
 Mrs. French to accompany him, she helped 
 him on with his coat so pleasantly, but 
 " she d git her claws on me comin home 
 perhaps," mused the self-distrustful mariner, 
 and stoutly went his way to the panorama 
 alone. It was a very dull show indeed, and 
 he bravely confessed it, and then was angry 
 at a twinkle in Mrs. French s eyes. Yet he 
 should miss the good creature, and for the 
 life of him he could not think lightly of her. 
 " She well knows how able she is to do for 
 
188 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 me. Women-folks is cap ns ashore," sighed 
 the captain as he went upstairs to bed. 
 
 " Women-folks is cap ns ashore," he re 
 peated, in solemn confidence to one of his 
 intimate friends, as they stood next day on 
 one of the deserted wharves, looking out 
 across the empty harbor roads. There was 
 nothing coming in. How they had watched 
 the deep-laden ships enter between the outer 
 capes and drop their great sails in home 
 waters! How they had ruled those ships, 
 and been the ablest ship -masters of their 
 day, with nobody to question their decisions ! 
 There is no such absolute monarchy as a sea- 
 captain s. He is a petty king, indeed, as he 
 sails the high seas from port to port. 
 
 There was a fine easterly breeze and a 
 bright sun that day, but Captain Ball came 
 toiling up the cobble-stoned street toward his 
 house as if he were vexed by a headwind. He 
 carried a post-card between his thumb and 
 finger, and grumbled aloud as he stumped 
 along. " Mis French ! " he called, loudly, 
 as he opened the door, and that worthy wo 
 man appeared with a floured apron, and a 
 mind divided between her employer s special 
 business and her own affairs of pie-making. 
 
 " She s coming this same day," roared the 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 189 
 
 captain. "Might have given some notice, 
 I m sure. 4 Be with you Saturday after 
 noon, and signed her name. That s all she s 
 written. Whoo ! whoo ! tis a dreadful close 
 day," and the poor old fellow fumbled for 
 his big silk handkerchief. "I don t know 
 what train she 11 take. I ain t going to hang 
 round up at the depot; my rheumatism 
 troubles me." 
 
 " I would n t, if I was you," answered Mrs. 
 French, shortly, and turned from him with a 
 pettish movement to open the oven door. 
 
 The captain passed into the sitting-room, 
 and sat down heavily in his large chair. On 
 the wall facing him was a picture of his old 
 ship the Ocean Rover leaving the harbor of 
 Bristol. It was not valuable as a marine 
 painting, but the sea was blue in that pic 
 ture, and the white canvas all spread to the 
 very sky-scrapers ; it was an emblem of that 
 freedom which Captain Asaph Ball had once 
 enjoyed. Dinner that day was a melancholy 
 meal, and after it was cleared away the mas 
 ter of the house forlornly watched Mrs. 
 French gather an armful of her own belong 
 ings, and mount the stairs as if she were go 
 ing to pack her box that very afternoon. It 
 did not seem possible that she meant to leave 
 
190 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 before Monday, but the captain could not 
 bring himself to ask any questions. He was 
 at the mercy of womankind. " A jiggeting 
 girl. I don t know how to act with her. She 
 sha n t rule me," he muttered to himself. 
 " She and Mis French may think they ve 
 got things right to their hands, but I 11 
 stand my ground I 11 stand my ground," 
 and the captain gently slid into the calmer 
 waters of his afternoon nap. 
 
 When he waked the house was still, and 
 with sudden consciousness of approaching 
 danger, and a fear lest Mrs. French might 
 have some last words to say if she found him 
 awake, he stole out of his house as softly as 
 possible and went down-town, hiding his se 
 cret woes and joining in the long seafaring 
 reminiscences with which he and his friends 
 usually diverted themselves. As he came up 
 the street again toward supper-time, he saw 
 that the blinds were thrown open in the par 
 lor windows, and his heart began to beat 
 loudly. He could hear women s voices, and 
 he went in by a side gate and sought the 
 quiet garden. It had suffered from a touch 
 of frost ; so had the captain. 
 
 Mrs. French heard the gate creak, and 
 presently she came to the garden door at the 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 191 
 
 end of the front entry. " Come in, won t ye, 
 cap n ? " she called, persuasively, and with a 
 mighty sea oath the captain rose and obeyed. 
 
 The house was still. He strode along the 
 entry like a brave man : there was nothing 
 of the coward about Asaph Ball when he 
 made up his mind to a thing. There was 
 nobody in the best parlor, and he turned 
 toward the sitting-room, but there sat smil 
 ing Mrs. French. 
 
 " Where is the gal? " blew the captain. 
 
 " Here I be, sir," said Mrs. French, with 
 a flushed and beaming face. " I thought 
 t was full time to put you out of your 
 misery." 
 
 " What s all this mean ? Whoo ! whoo ! " 
 
 " Here I be ; take me or leave me, uncle," 
 answered the housekeeper : she began to be 
 anxious, the captain looked so bewildered 
 and irate. " Folks seemed to think that you 
 was peculiar, and I was impressed that it 
 would be better to just come first without a 
 word s bein said, and find out how you an 
 me got on; then, if we didn t make out, 
 nobody d be bound. I m sure I did n t 
 want to be." 
 
 " Who was that I heard talking with ye 
 as I come by ? " blew the captain very loud. 
 
192 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 "That was Mis Cap n Topliff ; an an 
 old cat she is," calmly replied Mrs. French. 
 " She has n t been near me before this three 
 months, but plenty of stories she s set goin 
 about us, and plenty of spyin she s done. I 
 thought I d tell you who I was within a week 
 after I come, but I found out how things was 
 goin , and I had to spite em well before I 
 got through. I expected that something 
 would turn up, an the whole story get out. 
 But we ve been middlin comfortable, have 
 n t we, sir ? an I thought t was bout time 
 to give you a little surprise. Mis Calvinn 
 and the minister knows the whole story," 
 she concluded : "I would n t have kep it 
 from them. Mis Calvinn said all along 
 t would be a good lesson " 
 
 " Who wrote that card from the post-of 
 fice ? " demanded the captain, apparently but 
 half persuaded. 
 
 " I did," said Mrs. French. 
 
 " Good Hector, you women-folks ! " but 
 Captain Ball ventured to cross the room and 
 establish himself in his chair. Then, being 
 a man of humor, he saw that he had a round 
 turn on those who had spitefully sought to 
 question him. 
 
 "You needn t let on, that you haven t 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 193 
 
 known me all along," suggested Mrs. French. 
 " I should be pleased if you would call me 
 by my Christian name, sir. I was married 
 to Mr. French only a short time ; he was 
 taken away very sudden. The letter that 
 came after aunt s death was directed to my 
 maiden name, but aunt knew all about me. 
 1 ve got some means, an I ain t distressed 
 but what I can earn my living." 
 
 " They don t call me such an old Turk, 
 I hope ! " exclaimed the excited captain, 
 deprecating the underrated estimate of him 
 self which was suddenly presented. " I 
 ain t a hard man at sea, now I tell ye," and 
 he turned away, much moved at the injus 
 tice of society. " I ve got no head for ge- 
 neology. Ann usually set in to give me the 
 family particulars when I was logy with 
 sleep a Sunday night. I thought you was 
 a French from Massachusetts way." 
 
 " I had to say somethin ," responded the 
 housekeeper, promptly. 
 
 " Well, well ! " and a suppressed laugh 
 shook the captain like an earthquake. He 
 was suddenly set free from his enemies, 
 while an hour before he had been hemmed 
 in on every side. 
 
 They had a cheerful supper, and Ann 
 
194 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 French cut a pie, and said, as she passed 
 him more than a quarter part of it, that she 
 thought she should give up when she was 
 baking that morning, and saw the look on 
 his face as he handed her the post-card. 
 
 " You re fit to be captain of a privateer," 
 acknowledged Captain Asaph Ball, hand 
 somely. The complications of shore life 
 were very astonishing to this seafaring man 
 of the old school. 
 
 Early on Monday morning he had a de 
 lightful sense of triumph. Captain Allister, 
 who was the chief gossip of the waterside 
 club, took it upon himself a cheap thing 
 to do, as everybody said afterwards to 
 ask many questions about those unvalued 
 relatives of the Balls, who had settled long 
 ago in New York State. Were there any 
 children left of the captain s half-brother s 
 family ? 
 
 " I ve got a niece living a great-niece 
 she is," answered Captain Ball, with a broad 
 smile " makes me feel old. You see, my 
 half-brother was a grown man when I was 
 born. I never saw him scarcely ; there was 
 some misunderstanding an he always lived 
 with his own mother s folks ; and father, he 
 
THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 195 
 
 married again, and had me and Ann thirty 
 year after. Why, my half-brother d been 
 most a hundred ; I don t know but more." 
 
 Captain Ball spoke in a cheerful tone ; 
 the audience meditated, and Captain Allister 
 mentioned meekly that time did slip away. 
 
 "Ever see any of em?" he inquired. 
 In some way public interest was aroused in 
 the niece. 
 
 " Ever see any of em ? " repeated the 
 captain, in a loud tone. " You fool, Allister, 
 who s keepin my house this minute ? Why, 
 Ann French ; Ann Ball that was, and a 
 smart, likely woman she is. I ain t a mar- 
 ryin man : there s been plenty o fools to 
 try me. I Ve been picked over well by you 
 and others, and I thought if t pleased you, 
 you could take your own time." 
 
 The honest captain for once lent himself 
 to deception. One would have thought 
 that he had planned the siege himself. He 
 took his stick from where it leaned against 
 a decaying piece of ship-timber and went 
 clicking away. The explanation of his 
 housekeeping arrangements was not long in 
 flying about the town, and Mrs. Captain 
 Topliff made an . early call to say that she 
 had always suspected it from the first, from 
 the family likeness. 
 
196 THE TAKING OF CAPTAIN BALL. 
 
 From this time Captain Ball submitted 
 to the rule of Mrs. French, and under her 
 sensible and fearless sway became, as every 
 body said, more like other people than ever 
 before. As he grew older it was more and 
 more convenient to have a superior officer 
 to save him from petty responsibilities. 
 But now and then, after the first relief at 
 finding that Mrs. French was not seeking 
 his hand in marriage, and that the jigget- 
 ing girl was a mere fabrication, Captain 
 Ball was both surprised and a little ashamed 
 to discover that something in his heart had 
 suffered disappointment in the matter of the 
 great-niece. Those who knew him well 
 would have as soon expected to see a flower 
 grow out of a cobble-stone as that Captain 
 Asaph Ball should hide such a sentiment in 
 his honest breast. He had fancied her a 
 pretty girl in a pink dress, who would make 
 some life in the quiet house, and sit and 
 sing at her sewing by the front window, in 
 all her foolish furbelows, as he came up 
 the street. 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 ON the coast of Maine, where many green 
 islands and salt inlets fringe the deep-cut 
 shore line ; where balsam firs and bayberry 
 bushes send their fragrance far seaward, and 
 song-sparrows sing all day, and the tide runs 
 plashing in and out among the weedy ledges ; 
 where cowbells tinkle on the hills and her 
 ons stand in the shady coves, on the 
 lonely coast of Maine stood a small gray 
 house facing the morning light. All the 
 weather-beaten houses of that region face 
 the sea apprehensively, like the women who 
 live in them. 
 
 This home of four people was as bleached 
 and gray with wind and rain as one of the 
 pasture rocks close by. There were some 
 cinnamon rose bushes under the window at 
 one side of the door, and a stunted lilac at 
 the other side. It was so early in the cool 
 morning that nobody was astir but some shy 
 birds, that had come in the stillness of 
 dawn to pick and flutter in the short grass. 
 
198 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 They flew away together as some one softly 
 opened the unlocked door and stepped out. 
 This was a bent old man, who shaded his 
 eyes with his hand, and looked at the west 
 and the east and overhead, and then took a 
 few lame and feeble steps farther out to see 
 a wooden vane on the barn. Then he sat 
 down on the doorstep, clasped his hands to 
 gether between his knees, and looked stead 
 ily out to sea, scanning the horizon where 
 some schooners had held on their course all 
 night, with a light westerly breeze. Pie 
 seemed to be satisfied at sight of the weather, 
 as if he had been anxious, as he lay unas 
 sured in his north bedroom, vexed with the 
 sleeplessness of age and excited by thoughts 
 of the coming day. The old seaman dozed 
 as he sat on the doorstep, while dawn came 
 up and the world grew bright ; and the little 
 birds returned, fearfully at first, to finish 
 their breakfast, and at last made bold to hop 
 close to his feet. 
 
 After a time some one else came and stood 
 in the open door behind him. 
 
 " Why, father ! seems to me you ve got 
 an early start ; t ain t but four o clock. I 
 thought I was foolish to get up so soon, but , 
 t wa n t so I could sleep." 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 199 
 
 " No, darter." The old man smiled as he 
 turned to look at her, wide awake on the in 
 stant. " T ain t so soon as I git out some 
 o these arly mornin s. The birds wake me 
 up singin , and it s plenty light, you know. 
 I wanted to make sure Lisha would have a 
 fair day to go." 
 
 " I expect he d have to go if the weather 
 wa n t good," said the woman. 
 
 " Yes, yes, but t is useful to have fair 
 weather, an a good sign some says it is. 
 This is a great event for the boy, ain t it ? " 
 
 " I can t face the thought o losin on him, 
 father." The woman came forward a step 
 or two and sat down on the doorstep. She 
 was a hard-worked, anxious creature, whose 
 face had lost all look of youth. She was 
 apt, in the general course of things, to hurry 
 the old man and to spare little time for talk 
 ing, and he was pleased by this acknow 
 ledged unity of their interests. He moved 
 aside a little to give her more room, and 
 glanced at her with a smile, as if to beg her 
 to speak freely. They were both undemon 
 strative, taciturn New Englanders ; their 
 hearts were warm with pent-up feeling, that 
 summer morning, yet it was easier to under 
 stand one another through silence than 
 through speech. 
 
200 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 " No, I could n t git much sleep," repeated 
 the daughter at last. " Some things I 
 thought of that ain t come to mind before 
 for years, things I don t relish the f eelin 
 of, all over again." 
 
 " T was just such a mornin as this, pore 
 little Lisha s father went off on that last 
 v y ge o his," answered the old sailor, with 
 instant comprehension. " Yes, you ve had 
 it master hard, pore gal, ain t you ? I ad 
 vised him against goin off on that old ves 
 sel with a crew that wa ri t capable." 
 
 " Such a mornin as this, when I come 
 out at sun-up, I always seem to see her top- 
 s ils over there beyond the p int, where she 
 was to anchor. Well, I thank Heaven 
 Lisha was averse to goin to sea," declared 
 the mother. 
 
 " There s dangers ashore, Lucy Ann," 
 said the grandfather, solemnly ; but there 
 was no answer, and they sat there in silence 
 until the old man grew drowsy again. 
 
 " Yisterday was the first time it fell onto 
 my heart that Lisha was goin off," the mo 
 ther began again, after a time had passed. 
 " P r aps folks was right about our needing 
 of him. I ve been workin every way I 
 could to further him and git him a real good 
 
BY THE MORN TNG BOAT. 201 
 
 chance up to Boston, and now that we ve 
 got to part with him I don t see how to put 
 up with it." 
 
 " All nateral," insisted the old man. " My 
 mother wept the night through before I was 
 goin to sail on my first v y ge ; she was kind 
 of satisfied, though, when I come home next 
 summer, grown a full man, with my savin s 
 in my pocket, an I had a master pretty 
 little figured shawl I d bought for her to 
 Bristol." 
 
 " I don t want no shawls. Partin is part- 
 in to me," said the woman. 
 
 " T ain t everybody can stand in her fore- 
 door an see the chimbleys o three child n s 
 houses without a glass," he tried eagerly to 
 console her. " All ready an willin to do 
 their part for you, so as you could let Lisha 
 go off and have his chance." 
 
 " I don t know how it is," she answered, 
 " but none on em never give me the rooted 
 home feelin that Lisha has. They was 
 more varyin and kind o fast growin and 
 scatterin ; but Lisha was always Lisha 
 when he was a babe, and I settled on him 
 for the one to keep with me." 
 
 " Then he s just the kind to send off, one 
 you ain t got to worry about. They re all 
 
202 BY THE MORNING BOAT: 
 
 good child n," said the man. " We ve rea 
 son to be thankful none on em s been like 
 some young sprigs, more grief n glory to 
 their folks. An I ain t regrettin Lisha s 
 goin one mite ; I believe you d rather go 
 on doin for him an cossetin . I think t was 
 high time to shove him out o the nest." 
 
 " You ain t his mother," said Lucy Ann. 
 
 " What be you goin to give him for his 
 breakfast ? " asked the stern grandfather, in 
 a softened, less business-like voice. 
 
 " I don t know s I d thought about it, 
 special, sir. I did lay aside that piece o 
 apple pie we had left yisterday from dinner," 
 she confessed. 
 
 " Fry him out a nice little crisp piece o 
 pork, Lucy Ann, an t will relish with his 
 baked potatoes. He 11 think o his break 
 fast more times n you expect. I know a 
 lad s feelin s when home s put behind him." 
 
 The sun was up clear and bright over the 
 broad sea inlet to the eastward, but the shin 
 ing water struck the eye by its look of va 
 cancy. It was broad daylight, and still so 
 early that no sails came stealing out from the 
 farmhouse landings, or even from the gray 
 groups of battered fish-houses that overhung, 
 here and there, a sheltered cove. Some 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 203 
 
 crows and gulls were busy in the air ; it was 
 the time of day when the world belongs more 
 to birds than to men. 
 
 " Poor Lisha ! " the mother went on com 
 passionately. " I expect it has been a long 
 night to him. He seemed to take it in, as 
 he was goin to bed, how t was his last night 
 to home. I heard him thrashin about kind 
 o restless, sometimes." 
 
 " Come, Lucy Ann, the boy ought to be 
 stirrin ! " exclaimed the old sailor, without 
 the least show of sympathy. " He s got to 
 be ready when John Sykes comes, an he 
 ain t so quick as some lads." 
 
 The mother rose with a sigh, and went 
 into the house. After her own sleepless 
 night, she dreaded to face the regretful, 
 sleepless eyes of her son ; but as she opened 
 the door of his little bedroom, there lay 
 Elisha sound asleep and comfortable to be 
 hold. She stood watching him with gloomy 
 tenderness until he stirred uneasily, his con 
 sciousness roused by the intentness of her 
 thought, and the mysterious current that 
 flowed from her wistful, eager eyes. 
 
 But when the lad waked, it was to a joy 
 ful sense of manliness and responsibility ; 
 for him the change of surroundings was com- 
 
204 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 ing through natural processes of growth, not 
 through the uprooting which gave his mo 
 ther such an aching heart. 
 
 A little later Elisha came out to the 
 breakfast-table, arrayed in his best sandy- 
 brown clothes set off with a bright blue satin 
 cravat, which had been the pride and delight 
 of pleasant Sundays and rare holidays. He 
 already felt unrelated to the familiar scene 
 of things, and was impatient to be gone. 
 For one thing, it was strange to sit down to 
 breakfast in Sunday splendor, while his mo 
 ther and grandfather and little sister Lydia 
 were in their humble every-day attire. They 
 ate in silence and haste, as they always did, 
 but with a new constraint and awkwardness 
 that forbade their looking at one another. 
 At last the head of the household broke the 
 silence with simple straightforwardness. 
 
 " You ve got an excellent good day, 
 Lisha. I like to have a fair start myself. 
 T ain t goin to be too hot ; the wind s 
 working into the north a little." 
 
 " Yes, sir," responded Elisha. 
 
 " The great p int about gittin on in life 
 is bein able to cope with your headwinds," 
 continued the old man earnestly, pushing 
 away his plate. " Any fool can run before 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 205 
 
 a fair breeze, but I tell ye a good seaman is 
 one that gits the best out o his disadvan 
 tages. You won t be treated so pretty as 
 you expect in the store, and you 11 git 
 plenty o blows to your pride ; but you keep 
 right ahead, and if you can t run before the 
 wind you can always beat. I ain t no hand 
 to preach, but preachin ain t goin to sarve 
 ye now. We ve gone an fetched ye up the 
 best we could, your mother an me, an you 
 can t never say but you ve started amongst 
 honest folks. If a vessel s built out o sound 
 timber an has got good lines for sailin , why 
 then she s seaworthy ; but if she ain t, she 
 ain t ; an a mess o preachin ain t goin to 
 alter her over. Now you re standin out to 
 sea, my boy, an you can bear your home in 
 mind and work your way, same s plenty of 
 others has done." 
 
 It was a solemn moment ; the speaker s 
 voice faltered, and little Lydia dried her 
 tearful blue eyes with her gingham apron. 
 Elisha hung his head, and patted the old 
 spotted cat which came to rub herself against 
 his trowsers-leg. The -mother rose hastily, 
 and hurried into the pantry close by. She 
 was always an appealing figure, with her 
 thin shoulders and faded calico gowns ; it 
 
206 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 was difficult to believe that she had once 
 been the prettiest girl in that neighborhood. 
 But her son loved her in his sober, undemon 
 strative way, and was full of plans for com 
 ing home, rich and generous enough to make 
 her proud and happy. He was half pleased 
 and half annoyed because his leave-taking 
 was of such deep concern to the household. 
 
 " Come, Lyddy, don t you take on," he 
 said, with rough kindliness. " Let s go out, 
 and I 11 show you how to feed the pig and 
 tend to the chickens. You 11 have to be 
 chief clerk when I ra gone." 
 
 They went out to the yard, hand in hand. 
 Elisha stopped to stroke the old cat again, 
 as she ran by his side and mewed. " I wish 
 I was off and done with it ; this morning 
 does seem awful long," said the boy. 
 
 " Ain t you afraid you 11 be homesick 
 an want to come back?" asked the little 
 sister timidly; but Elisha scorned so poor 
 a thought. 
 
 " You 11 have to see if grandpa has tended 
 to these things, the pig an the chickens," he 
 advised her gravely. " He forgets em some 
 times when I m away, but he would be cast 
 down if you told him so, and you just keep 
 an eye open, Lyddy. Mother s got enough 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 207 
 
 to do inside the house. But grandsir 11 
 keep her in kindlin s ; he likes to set and 
 chop in the shed rainy days, an he 11 do a 
 sight more if you 11 set with him, an let 
 him get goin on his old seafarin times." 
 
 Lydia nodded discreetly. 
 
 " An , Lyddy, don t you loiter comin 
 home from school, an don t play out late, an 
 get em fussy, when it comes cold weather. 
 And you tell Susy Draper," - the boy s 
 voice sounded unconcerned, but Lydia 
 glanced at him quickly, " you tell Susy 
 Draper that I was awful sorry she was over 
 to her aunt s, so I could n t say good-by." 
 
 Lydia s heart was the heart of a wo 
 man, and she comprehended. Lydia nodded 
 again, more sagely than before. 
 
 " See here," said the boy suddenly. " I m 
 goin to let my old woodchuck out." 
 
 Lydia s face was blank with surprise. " I 
 thought you promised to sell him to big Jim 
 Hooper." 
 
 " I did, but I don t care for big Jim 
 Hooper ; you just tell him I let my wood- 
 chuck go." 
 
 The brother and sister went to their fa 
 vorite playground between the ledges, not 
 far from the small old barn. Here was a 
 
208 BY THE MORNING BOAT, 
 
 clumsy box with wire gratings, behind which 
 an untamed little wild beast sat up and chit- 
 tered at his harmless foes. " He s a whop 
 ping old fellow," said Elisha admiringly. 
 " Big Jim Hooper shaVt have him ! " and 
 as he opened the trap, Lydia had hardly time 
 to perch herself high on the ledge, before 
 the woodchuck tumbled and scuttled along 
 the short green turf, and was lost among the 
 clumps of juniper and bay berry just beyond. 
 
 " I feel just like him," said the boy. " I 
 want to get up to Boston just as bad as that. 
 See here, now ! " and he flung a gallant cart 
 wheel of himself in the same direction, and 
 then stood on his head and waved his legs 
 furiously in the air. " I feel just like that." 
 
 Lydia, who had been tearful all the morn 
 ing, looked at him in vague dismay. Only a 
 short time ago she had never been made to 
 feel that her brother was so much older than 
 herself. They had been constant playmates ; 
 but now he was like a grown man, and cared 
 no longer for their old pleasures. There 
 was all possible difference between them 
 that there can be between fifteen years and 
 twelve, and Lydia was nothing but a child. 
 
 " Come, come, where be ye ? " shouted the 
 old grandfather, and they both started guilt- 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 209 
 
 ily. Elisha rubbed some dry grass out of 
 his short-cropped hair, and the little sister 
 came down from her ledge. At that mo 
 ment the real pang of parting shot through 
 her heart ; her brother belonged irrevocably 
 to a wider world. 
 
 " Ma am Stover has sent for ye to come 
 over ; she wants to say good-by to ye ! " 
 shouted the grandfather, leaning on his two 
 canes at the end of the barn. " Come, step 
 lively, an remember you ain t got none too 
 much time, an the boat ain t goin to wait a 
 minute for nobody." 
 
 " Ma am Stover ? " repeated the boy, with 
 a frown. He and his sister knew only too 
 well the pasture path between the two houses. 
 Ma am Stover was a bedridden woman-, who 
 had seen much trouble, a town charge in 
 her old age. Her neighbors gave to her 
 generously out of their own slender stores. 
 Yet with all this poverty and dependence, 
 she held firm sway over the customs and 
 opinions of her acquaintance, from the un 
 easy bed where she lay year in and year out, 
 watching the far sea line beyond a pasture 
 slope. 
 
 The young people walked fast, sometimes 
 running a little way, light-footed, the boy 
 
210 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 going ahead, and burst into their neighbor s 
 room out of breath. 
 
 She was calm and critical, and their ex 
 citement had a sudden chill. 
 
 " So the great day s come at last, Li- 
 sha ? " she asked ; at which Lisha was con 
 scious of unnecessary aggravation. 
 
 " I don t know s it s much of a day to 
 anybody but me," he added, discovering a 
 twinkle in her black eyes that was more 
 sympathetic than usual. " I expected to 
 stop an see you last night ; but I had to go 
 round and see all our folks, and when I got 
 back t was late and the tide was down, an 
 I knew that grandsir could n t git the boat 
 up all alone to our lower landin ." 
 
 " Well, I did n t forgit you, but I thought 
 p r aps you might forgit me, an I m goin 
 to give ye somethin . T is for your folks 
 sake ; I want ye to tell em so. I don t 
 want ye never to part with it, even if it fails 
 to work and you git proud an want a new 
 one. It s been a sight o company to me." 
 She reached up, with a flush on her wrinkled 
 cheeks and tears in her eyes, and took a 
 worn old silver watch from its nail, and 
 handed it, with a last look at its white face 
 and large gold hands, to the startled boy. 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 211 
 
 "Oh, I can t take it f rom . ye, Ma am 
 Stover. I m just as much obliged to you," 
 he faltered. 
 
 "There, go now, dear, go right along," 
 said the old woman, turning quickly away. 
 " Be a good boy for your folks sake. If so 
 be that I m here when you come home, you 
 can let me see how well you ve kep it." 
 
 The boy and girl went softly out, leaving 
 the -door wide open, as Ma am Stover liked 
 to have it in summer weather, her windows 
 being small and few. There were neighbors 
 near enough to come and shut it, if a heavy 
 shower blew up. Sometimes the song spar 
 rows and whippoorwills came hopping in 
 about the little bare room. 
 
 " I felt kind of shamed to carry off her 
 watch," protested Elisha, with a radiant face 
 that belied his honest words. 
 
 " Put it on," said proud little Lydia, trot 
 ting alongside ; and he hooked the bright 
 steel chain into his buttonhole, and looked 
 down to see how it shone across his waist 
 coat. None of his friends had so fine a 
 watch ; even his grandfather s was so poor 
 a timekeeper that it was rarely worn except 
 as a decoration on Sundays or at a funeral. 
 They hurried home. Ma am Stover, lying 
 
212 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 in her bed, could see the two slight figures 
 nearly all the way on the pasture path ; flit 
 ting along in their joyful haste. 
 
 It was disappointing that the mother and 
 grandfather had so little to say about the 
 watch. In fact, Elisha s grandfather only 
 said " Pore creatur " once or twice, and 
 turned away, rubbing his eyes with the back 
 of his hand. If Ma am Stover had chosen 
 to give so rich a gift, to know the joy of 
 such generosity, nobody had a right to pro 
 test. Yet nobody knew how much the poor 
 wakeful soul would miss the only one of 
 her meagre possessions that seemed alive 
 and companionable in lonely hours. Some 
 body had said once that there were chairs 
 that went about on wheels, made on purpose 
 for crippled persons like Ma am Stover ; 
 and Elisha s heart was instantly filled with 
 delight at the remembrance. Perhaps be 
 fore long, if he could save some money and 
 get ahead, he would buy one of those chairs 
 and send it down from Boston ; and a new 
 sense of power filled his honest heart. He 
 had dreamed a great many dreams already 
 of what he meant to do with all his money, 
 when he came home rich and a person of 
 consequence, in summer vacations. 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 213 
 
 The large leather valise was soon packed, 
 and its owner carried it out to the roadside, 
 and put his last winter s overcoat and a great 
 new umbrella beside it, so as to be ready 
 when John Sykes came with the wagon. He 
 was more and more anxious to be gone, and 
 felt no sense of his old identification with 
 the home interests. His mother said sadly 
 that he would be gone full soon enough, 
 when he joined his grandfather in accusing 
 Mr. Sykes of keeping them waiting forever 
 and making him miss the boat. There were 
 three rough roundabout miles to be traveled 
 to the steamer landing, and the Sykes horses 
 were known to be slow. But at last the 
 team came nodding in sight over a steep 
 hill in the road. 
 
 Then the moment of parting had come, 
 the moment toward which all the long late 
 winter and early summer had looked. The 
 boy was leaving his plain little home for the 
 great adventure of his life s fortunes. Until 
 then he had been the charge and anxiety of 
 his elders, and under their rule and advice. 
 Now he was free to choose ; his was the 
 power of direction, his the responsibility; 
 for in the world one must be ranked by his 
 own character and ability, and doomed by 
 
214 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 his own failures. The boy lifted his burden 
 lightly, and turned with an eager smile to 
 say farewell. But the old people and little 
 Lydia were speechless with grief; they could 
 not bear to part with the pride and hope and 
 boyish strength, that were all their slender 
 joy. The worn-out old man, the anxious 
 woman who had been beaten and buffeted 
 by the waves of poverty and sorrow, the 
 little sister with her dreaming heart, stood 
 at the bars and hungrily watched him go 
 away. They feared success for him almost 
 as much as failure. The world was befor 
 him now, with its treasures and pleasures, 
 but with those inevitable disappointments 
 and losses which old people know and fear ; 
 those sorrows of incapacity and lack of 
 judgment which young hearts go out to meet 
 without foreboding. It was a world of love 
 and favor to which little Lydia s brother had 
 gone ; but who would know her fairy prince, 
 in that disguise of a country boy s bashful- 
 ness and humble raiment from the cheap 
 counter of a country store ? The household 
 stood rapt and silent until the farm wagon 
 had made its last rise on the hilly road and 
 disappeared. 
 
 u Well, he s left us now," said the sor- 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 215 
 
 rowful, hopeful old grandfather. " I expect 
 I ve got to turn to an be a boy again my 
 self. I feel to hope Lisha 11 do as well as 
 we covet for him. I seem to take it in, all 
 my father felt when he let me go off to sea 
 He stood where I m standin now, an I was 
 just as triflin as pore Lisha, and felt full as 
 big as a man. But Lord ! how I give up 
 when it come night, an I took it in I was 
 gone from home ! " 
 
 "There, don t ye, father," said the pale 
 mother gently. She was, after all, the 
 stronger of the two. " Lisha s good an 
 honest-hearted. You 11 feel real proud a 
 year from now, when he gits back. I m so 
 glad he s got his watch to carry, he did 
 feel so grand. I expect them poor hens is 
 sufferin ; nobody s thought on em this 
 livin mornin . You d better step an feed 
 em right away, sir." She could hardly 
 speak for sorrow and excitement, but the 
 old man was diverted at once, and hobbled 
 away with cheerful importance on his two 
 canes. Then she looked round at the poor, 
 stony little farm almost angrily. " He d no 
 natural turn for the sea, Lisha had n t ; but 
 I might have kept him with me if the land 
 was good for anything." 
 
216 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 Elislia felt as if he were in a dream, now 
 that his great adventure was begun. He 
 answered John Sykes s questions mechani 
 cally, and his head was a little dull and 
 dazed. Then he began to fear that the slow 
 plodding of the farm horses would make him 
 too late for the stearaboat, and with sudden 
 satisfaction pulled out the great watch to see 
 if there were still time enough to get to the 
 landing. Pie was filled with remorse be 
 cause it was impossible to remember whether 
 he had thanked Ma am Stover for her gift. 
 It seemed like a thing of life and conscious 
 ness as he pushed it back into his tight 
 pocket. John Sykes looked at him curiously. 
 " Why, that s old Ma am Stover s timepiece, 
 ain t it ? Lend it to ye, did she ? " 
 
 " Gave it to me," answered Elisha proudly. 
 
 " You be careful of that watch," said the 
 driver soberly ; and Elisha nodded. 
 
 " Well, good-day to ye ; be a stiddy lad," 
 advised John Sykes, a few minutes afterward. 
 " Don t start in too smart an scare m up to 
 Boston. Pride an ambition was the down 
 fall o old Cole s dog. There, sonny, the 
 bo t ain t nowheres in sight, for all your 
 fidgetin ! " 
 
 They both smiled broadly at the humor- 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 217 
 
 ous warning, and as the old wagon rattled 
 away, Elisha stood a moment looking after 
 it ; then he went down to the wharf by 
 winding ways among piles of decayed tim 
 ber and disused lobster-pots, A small group 
 of travelers and spectators had already as 
 sembled, and they stared at him in a way 
 that made him feel separated from his kind, 
 though some of them had come to see him de 
 part. One unenlightened acquaintance in 
 quired if Elisha were expecting friends by 
 that morning s boat ; and when he explained 
 that he was going away himself, asked 
 kindly whether it was to be as far as Bath. 
 Elisha mentioned the word " Boston " with 
 scorn and compassion, but he did not feel 
 like discussing his brilliant prospects now, 
 as he had been more than ready to do the 
 week before. Just then a deaf old woman 
 asked for the time of day. She sat next 
 him on the battered bench. 
 
 " Be you going up to Bath, dear ? " she 
 demanded suddenly ; and he said yes. 
 " Guess I 11 stick to you, then, fur s you 
 go ; t is kind o blind in them big places." 
 Elisha faintly nodded a meek but grudging 
 assent ; then, after a few moments, he boldly 
 rose, tall umbrella in hand, and joined the 
 
218 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 talkative company of old and young men at 
 the other side of the wharf. They proceeded 
 to make very light of a person s going to 
 Boston to enter upon his business career ; 
 but, after all, their thoughts were those of 
 mingled respect and envy. Most of them 
 had seen Boston, but no one save Elisha 
 was going there that day to stay for a whole 
 year. It made him feel like a city man. 
 
 The steamer whistled loud and hoarse be 
 fore she came in sight, but presently the 
 gay flags showed close by above the pointed 
 spruces. Then she came jarring against the 
 wharf, and the instant bustle and hurry, the 
 strange faces of the passengers, and the loud 
 rattle of freight going on board, were as con 
 fusing and exciting as if a small piece of 
 Boston itself had been dropped into that 
 quiet cove. 
 
 The people on the wharf shouted cheerful 
 good-byes, to which the young traveler re 
 sponded ; then he seated himself well astern 
 to enjoy the views, and felt as if he had 
 made a thousand journeys. He bought a 
 newspaper, and began to read it with much 
 pride and a beating heart. The little old 
 woman came and sat beside him, and talked 
 straight on whether he listened or not, until 
 
BY THE MORNING BOAT. 219 
 
 he was afraid of what the other passengers 
 might think, but nobody looked that way, 
 and he could not find anything in the paper 
 that he cared to read. Alone, but unfettered 
 and aflame with courage ; to himself he was 
 not the boy who went away, but the proud 
 man who one day would be coming home. 
 
 " Goin to Boston, be ye ? " asked the old 
 lady for the third time ; and it was still a 
 pleasure to say yes, when the boat swung 
 round, and there, far away on its gray and 
 green pasture slope, with the dark ever 
 greens standing back, were the low gray 
 house, and the little square barn, and the 
 lines of fence that shut in his home. He 
 strained his eyes to see if any one were 
 watching from the door. He had almost 
 forgotten that they could see him still. He 
 sprang to the boat s side : yes, his mother 
 remembered; there was something white 
 waving from the doorway. The whole land 
 scape faded from his eyes except that far 
 away gray house ; his heart leaped back 
 with love and longing ; he gazed and gazed, 
 until a height of green forest came between 
 and shut the picture out. Then the coun 
 try boy went on alone to make his way in 
 the wide world. 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 THE last of the neighbors was going 
 home ; officious Mrs. Peter Downs had lin 
 gered late and sought for additional house 
 work with which to prolong her stay. She 
 had talked incessantly, and buzzed like a 
 busy bee as she helped to put away the best 
 crockery after the funeral supper, while the 
 sisters Betsey and Hannah Knowles grew 
 every moment more forbidding and unwill 
 ing to speak. They lighted a solitary small 
 oil lamp at last, as if for Sunday evening 
 idleness, and put it on the side table in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " We ain t intending to make a late even 
 ing of it," announced Betsey, the elder, 
 standing before Mrs. Downs in an expec 
 tant, final way, making an irresistible oppor 
 tunity for saying good - night. " I m sure 
 we re more than obleeged to ye, ain t we, 
 Hannah ? but I don t feel s if we ought 
 
IN DARK NE W ENGLAND DA YS. 221 
 
 to keep ye longer. We ain t going to do no 
 more to-night, but set down a spell and kind 
 of collect ourselves, and then make for bed." 
 
 Susan Downs offered one more plea. " I d 
 stop all night with ye an welcome ; t is get- 
 tin late an dark," she added plaintively; 
 but the sisters shook their heads quickly, 
 while Hannah said that they might as well 
 get used to staying alone, since they would 
 have to do it first or last. In spite of her 
 self Mrs. Downs was obliged to put on her 
 funeral best bonnet and shawl and start on 
 her homeward way. 
 
 " Closed-mouthed old maids ! " she grum 
 bled as the door shut behind her all too soon 
 and denied her the light of the lamp along the 
 footpath.. Suddenly there was a bright ray 
 from the window, as if some one had pushed 
 back the curtain and stood with the lamp 
 close to the sash. " That s Hannah," said 
 the retreating guest. " She d told me some- 
 thin about things, I know, if it had n t a 
 been for Betsey. Catch me workin myself to 
 pieces again for em." But, however grudg 
 ingly this was said, Mrs. Downs s conscience 
 told her that the industry of the past two 
 days had been somewhat selfish on her part ; 
 she had hoped that in the excitement of this 
 
222 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 unexpected funeral season she might for 
 once be taken into the sisters confidence. 
 More than this, she knew that they were 
 certain of her motive, and had deliberately 
 refused the expected satisfaction. " T ain t 
 as if I was one o them curious busy-bodies 
 anyway," she said to herself pityingly ; " they 
 might a neighbored with somebody for once, 
 I do believe." Everybody would have a 
 question ready for her the next day, for it 
 was known that she had been slaving her 
 self devotedly since the news had come of 
 old Captain Knowles s sudden death in his 
 bed from a stroke, the last of three which 
 had in the course of a year or two changed 
 him from a strong old man to a feeble, 
 chair-bound cripple. 
 
 Mrs. Downs stepped bravely along the 
 dark country road ; she could see a light in 
 her own kitchen window half a mile away, 
 and did not stop to notice either the pene 
 trating dampness, or the shadowy woods at 
 her right. It was a cloudy night, but there 
 was a dim light over the open fields. She 
 had a disposition of mind towards the exci 
 ting circumstances of death and burial, and 
 was in request at such times among her 
 neighbors ; in this she was like a city person 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 223 
 
 who prefers tragedy to comedy, but not 
 having the semblance within her reach, she 
 made the most of looking on at real griefs 
 and departures. 
 
 Some one was walking towards her in the 
 road ; suddenly she heard footsteps. The 
 figure stopped, then it came forward again. 
 
 " Oh, t is you, ain t it ? " with a tone of 
 disappointment. " I cal lated you d stop all 
 night, t had got to be so late, an I was just 
 going over to the Knowles gals ; well, to 
 kind o ask how they be, an " Mr. Peter 
 Downs was evidently counting on his visit. 
 
 " They never passed me the compliment," 
 replied the wife. " I declare I did n t covet 
 the walk home ; I m most beat out, bein 
 on foot so much. I was most put out with 
 em for letten of me see quite so plain 
 that my room was better than my company. 
 But I don t know s I blame em ; they want 
 to look an see what they ve got, an kind 
 of git by theirselves, I expect. T was nat 
 ural." 
 
 Mrs. Downs knew that her husband 
 would resent her first statements, being a 
 sensitive and grumbling man. She had 
 formed a pacific habit of suiting her re 
 marks to his point of view, to save an out- 
 
224 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 burst. He contented himself with calling 
 
 o 
 
 the Knowles girls hoggish, and put a direct 
 question as to whether they had let fall any 
 words about their situation, but Martha 
 Downs was obliged to answer in the nega- 
 ative. 
 
 " Was Enoch Holt there after the folks 
 come back from the grave ? " 
 
 " He wa n t ; they never give him no en 
 couragement neither." 
 
 "He appeared well, I must say," con 
 tinued Peter Downs. " He took his place 
 next but one behind us in the procession, 
 long of Melinda Dutch, an walked to an 
 from with her, give her his arm, and then 
 I never see him after we got back ; but I 
 thought he might be somewhere in the house, 
 an I was out about the barn an so on." 
 
 " They was civil to him. I was by when 
 he come, just steppin out of the bedroom 
 after we d finished layin tho old Cap n into 
 his coffin. Hannah looked real pleased 
 when she see Enoch, as if she had n t really 
 expected him, but Betsey stuck out her 
 hand s if t was an eend o board, an drawed 
 her face solemner n ever. There, they had 
 natural feelin s. He was their own father 
 when all was said, the Cap n was, an I don t 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 225 
 
 know but he was clever to em in his way, 
 ceptin when he disappointed Hannah about 
 her marryin Jake Good in. She 1 arned to 
 respect the old Cap n s foresight, too." 
 
 " Sakes alive, Marthy, how you do knock 
 folks down with one hand an set em up 
 with t other," chuckled Mr. Downs. They 
 next discussed the Captain s appearance as 
 he lay in state in the front room, a subject 
 which, with its endless ramifications, would 
 keep the whole neighborhood interested for 
 weeks to come. 
 
 An hour later the twinkling light in the 
 Downs house suddenly disappeared. As 
 Martha Downs took a last look out of doors 
 through her bedroom window she could see 
 
 O 
 
 no other light ; the neighbors had all gone 
 to bed. It was a little past nine, and the 
 night was damp and still. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Captain Knowles place was east 
 ward from the Downs s, and a short turn in 
 the road and the piece of hard-wood growth 
 hid one house from the other. At this un- 
 wontedly late hour the elderly sisters were 
 still sitting in their warm kitchen ; there 
 were bright coals under the singing tea-ket- 
 
226 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 tie which hung from the crane by three or 
 four long pothooks. Betsey Knowles ob 
 jected when her sister offered to put on 
 more wood. 
 
 " Father never liked to leave no great of a 
 fire, even though he slept right here in the 
 bedroom. He said this floor was one that 
 would light an catch easy, you r member." 
 
 " Another winter we can move down 
 and take the bedroom ourselves t will be 
 warmer for us," suggested Hannah; but 
 Betsey shook her head doubtfully. The 
 thought of their old father s grave, un- 
 watched and undefended in the outermost 
 dark field, filled their hearts with a strange 
 tenderness. They had been his dutiful, pa 
 tient slaves, and it seemed like disloyalty 
 to have abandoned the poor shape ; to be sit 
 ting there disregarding the thousand require 
 ments and services of the past. More than 
 all, they were facing a free future ; they 
 were their own mistresses at last, though 
 past sixty years of age. Hannah was still 
 a child at heart. She chased away a dread 
 suspicion, when* Betsey forbade the wood, 
 lest this elder sister, who favored their fa 
 ther s looks, might take his place as stern 
 ruler of the household. 
 
7.V DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 227 
 
 " Betsey," said the younger sister sud 
 denly, " we 11 have us a cook stove, won t 
 we, next winter ? I expect we re going to 
 have something to do with ? " 
 
 Betsey did not answer ; it was impossible 
 to say whether she truly felt grief or only 
 assumed it. She had been sober and silent 
 for the most part since she routed neighbor 
 Downs, though she answered her sister s 
 prattling questions with patience and sym 
 pathy. Now, she rose from her chair and 
 went to one of the windows, and, pushing 
 back the sash curtain, pulled the wooden 
 shutter across and hasped it. 
 
 "I ain t going to bed just yet," she ex 
 plained. " I ve been a-waiting to make sure 
 nobody was coming in. I don t know s 
 there 11 be any better time to look in the 
 chest and see what we ve got to depend on. 
 We never 11 get no chance to do it by day." 
 
 Hannah looked frightened for a moment, 
 then nodded, and turned to the opposite win 
 dow and pulled that shutter with much diffi 
 culty ; it had always caught and hitched and 
 been provoking a warped piece of red oak, 
 when even-grained white pine would have 
 saved strength and patience to three genera 
 tions of the Knowles race. Then the sisters 
 
228 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 crossed the kitchen and opened the bedroom 
 door. Hannah shivered a little as the colder 
 air struck her, and her heart beat loudly. 
 Perhaps it was the same with Betsey. 
 
 The bedroom was clean and orderly for the 
 funeral guests. Instead of the blue homespun 
 there was a beautifully quilted white coverlet 
 which had been part of their mother s wed 
 ding furnishing, and this made the bedstead 
 with its four low posts look unfamiliar and 
 awesome. The lamplight shone through the 
 kitchen door behind them, not very bright 
 at best, but Betsey reached under the bed, 
 and with all the strength she could muster 
 pulled out the end of a great sea chest. The 
 sisters tugged together and pushed, and made 
 the most of their strength before they finally 
 brought it through the narrow door into the 
 kitchen. The solemnity of the deed made 
 them both whisper as they talked, and Han 
 nah did not dare to say what was in her timid 
 heart that she would rather brave discov 
 ery by daylight than such a feeling of being 
 disapprovingly watched now, in the dead of 
 night. There came a slight sound outside 
 the house which made her look anxiously at 
 Betsey, but Betsey remained tranquil. 
 
 " It *s nothing but a stick falling down the 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 229 
 
 woodpile," she answered in a contemptuous 
 whisper, and the younger woman was reas 
 sured. 
 
 Betsey reached deep into her pocket and 
 found a great key which was worn smooth 
 and bright like silver, and never had been 
 trusted willingly into even her own careful 
 hands. Hannah held the lamp, and the two 
 thin figures bent eagerly over the lid as it 
 opened. Their shadows were waving about 
 the low walls, and looked like strange shapes 
 bowing and dancing behind them. 
 
 The chest was stoutly timbered, as if it 
 were built in some ship - yard, and there 
 were heavy wrought-iron hinges and a large 
 escutcheon for the keyhole that the ship s 
 blacksmith might have hammered out. On 
 the top somebody had scratched deeply the 
 crossed lines for a game of fox and geese, 
 which had a trivial, irreverent look, and 
 might have been the unforgiven fault of some 
 idle ship s boy. The sisters had hardly dared 
 look at the chest or to signify their knowl 
 edge of its existence, at unwary times. They 
 had swept carefully about it year after year, 
 and wondered if it were indeed full of gold 
 as the neighbors used to hint ; but no matter 
 how much found a way in, little had found 
 
230 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 the way out. They had been hampered all 
 their lives for money, and in consequence 
 had developed a wonderful facility for spin 
 ning and weaving, mending and making. 
 Their small farm was an early example of 
 intensive farming ; they were allowed to use 
 its products in a niggardly way, but the 
 money that was paid for wool, for hay, for 
 wood, and for summer crops had all gone 
 into the chest. The old captain was a hard 
 master; he rarely commended and often 
 blamed. Hannah trembled before him, but 
 Betsey faced him sturdily, being amazingly 
 like him, with a feminine difference ; as like 
 as a ruled person can be to a ruler, for the 
 discipline of life had taught the man to ag 
 gress, the woman only to defend. In the 
 chest was a fabled sum of prize-money, be 
 sides these slender earnings of many years ; 
 all the sisters hard work and self-sacrifice 
 were there in money and a mysterious largess 
 besides. All their lives they had been look 
 ing forward to this hour of ownership. 
 
 There was a solemn hush in the house ; 
 the two sisters were safe from their neigh 
 bors, and there was no fear of interruption 
 at such an hour in that hard-working com 
 munity, tired with a day s work that had 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 231 
 
 been early begun. If any one came knock 
 ing at the door, both door and windows were 
 securely fastened. 
 
 The eager sisters bent above the chest, 
 they held their breath and talked in softest 
 whispers. With stealthy tread a man came 
 out of the woods near by. 
 
 He stopped to listen, came nearer, stopped 
 again, and then crept close to the old house. 
 He stepped upon the banking, next the win 
 dow with the warped shutter ; there was a 
 knothole in it high above the women s heads, 
 towards the top. As they leaned over the 
 chest, an eager eye watched them. If they 
 had turned that way suspiciously, the eye 
 might have caught the flicker of the lamp 
 and betrayed itself. No, they were too busy : 
 the eye at the shutter watched and watched. 
 
 There was a certain feeling of relief in the 
 sisters minds because the contents of the 
 chest were so commonplace at first sight. 
 There were some old belongings dating back 
 to their father s early days of seafaring. 
 They unfolded a waistcoat pattern or two of 
 figured stuff which they had seen him fold 
 and put away again and again. Once he had 
 given Betsey a gay China silk handkerchief, 
 and here were two more like it. They had 
 
232 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 not known what a store of treasures might 
 be waiting for them, but the reality so far was 
 disappointing ; there was much spare room 
 to begin with, and the wares within looked 
 pinched and few. There were bundles of 
 papers, old receipts, some letteus in two not 
 very thick bundles, some old account books 
 with worn edges, and a blackened silver can 
 which looked very small in comparison with 
 their anticipation, being an heirloom and 
 jealously hoarded and secreted by the old 
 man. The women began to feel as if his lean 
 angry figure were bending with them over 
 the sea chest. 
 
 They opened a package wrapped in many 
 layers of old soft paper a worked piece of 
 Indian muslin, and an embroidered red scarf 
 which they had never seen before. " He 
 must have brought them home to mother," 
 said Betsey with a great outburst of feel 
 ing. " He never was the same man again ; 
 he never would let nobody else have them 
 when he found she was dead, poor old fa 
 ther!" 
 
 Hannah looked wistfully at the treasures. 
 She rebuked herself for selfishness, but she 
 thought of her pinched girlhood and the de 
 light these things would have been. Ah yes ! 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 233 
 
 it was too late now for many things besides 
 the sprigged muslin. " If I was young as I 
 was once there s lots o things I d like to do 
 now I m free," said Hannah with a gentle 
 sigh ; but her sister checked her anxiously 
 it was fitting that they should preserve a 
 semblance of mourning even to themselves. 
 
 The lamp stood in a kitchen chair at the 
 chest s end and shone full across their faces. 
 Betsey looked intent and sober as she turned 
 over the old man s treasures. Under the In 
 dia mull was an antique pair of buff trousers, 
 a waistcoat of strange old-fashioned foreign 
 stuff, and a blue coat with brass buttons, 
 broitght home from over seas, as the women 
 knew, for their father s wedding clothes. 
 They had seen him carry them out at long 
 intervals to hang them in the spring sun 
 shine ; he had been very feeble the last time, 
 and Hannah remembered that she had longed 
 to take them from his shaking hands. 
 
 " I declare for t I wish t we had laid him 
 out in em, stead o the robe," she whis 
 pered ; but Betsey made no answer. She 
 was kneeling still, but held herself upright 
 and looked away. It was evident that she 
 was lost in her own thoughts. 
 
 " I can t find nothing else by eyesight," 
 
234 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 she muttered. " This chest never d be so 
 heavy with them old clothes. Stop ! Hold 
 that light down, Hannah; there s a place 
 underneath here. Them papers in the till 
 takes a shallow part. Oh, my gracious ! See 
 here, will ye? Hold the light, hold the 
 light!" 
 
 There was a hidden drawer in the chest s 
 side a long, deep place, and it was full of 
 gold pieces. Hannah had seated herself in 
 the chair to be out of her sister s way. She 
 held the lamp with one hand and gathered 
 her apron on her lap with the other, while 
 Betsey, exultant and hawk-eyed, took out 
 handful after handful of heavy coins, letting 
 them jingle and chink, letting them shine 
 in the lamp s rays, letting them roll across 
 the floor guineas, dollars, doubloons, old 
 French and Spanish and English gold ! 
 
 Now, now I Look ! The eye at the win 
 dow ! 
 
 At last they have found it all ; the bag of 
 silver, the great roll of bank bills, and the 
 heavy weight of gold the prize-money that 
 had been like Robinson Crusoe s in the cave. 
 They were rich women that night ; their 
 faces grew young again as they sat side by 
 side and exulted while the old kitchen grew 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 235 
 
 cold. There was nothing they might not do 
 within the range of their timid ambitions ; 
 they were women of fortune now and their 
 own mistresses. They were beginning at last 
 to live. 
 
 The watcher outside was cramped and 
 chilled. He let himself down softly from the 
 high step of the winter banking, and crept 
 toward the barn, where he might bury him 
 self in the hay and think. His ringers were 
 quick to find the peg that opened the little 
 barn door ; the beasts within were startled 
 and stumbled to their feet, then went back 
 to their slumbers. The night wore on ; the 
 light spring rain began to fall, and the sound 
 of it on the house roof close down upon the 
 sisters bed lulled them quickly to sleep. 
 Twelve, one, two o clock passed by. 
 
 They had put back the money and the 
 clothes and the minor goods and treasures 
 and pulled the chest back into the bedroom 
 so that it was out of sight from the kitchen ; 
 the bedroom door was always shut by day. 
 The younger sister wished to carry the 
 money to their own room, but Betsey dis 
 dained such precaution. The money had 
 always been safe in the old chest, and there 
 it should stay. The next week they would 
 
236 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 go to Riverport and put it into the bank ; 
 it was no use to lose the interest any longer. 
 Because their father had lost some invested 
 money in his early youth, it did not follow 
 that every bank was faithless. Betsey s self- 
 assertion was amazing, but they still whis 
 pered to each other as they got ready for 
 bed. With strange forgetfulness Betsey 
 had laid the chest key on the white cover 
 let in the bedroom and left it there. 
 
 III. 
 
 In August of that year the whole country 
 side turned out to go to court. 
 
 The sisters had been rich for one night ; 
 in the morning they waked to find them 
 selves poor with a bitter pang of poverty of 
 which they had never dreamed. They had 
 said little, but they grew suddenly pinched 
 and old. They could not tell how much 
 money they had lost, except that Hannah s 
 lap was full of gold, a weight she could not 
 lift nor carry. After a few days of stolid 
 misery they had gone to the chief lawyer of 
 their neighborhood to accuse Enoch Holt of 
 the robbery. They dressed in their best and 
 walked solemnly side by side across the fields 
 and along the road, the shortest way to the 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 237 
 
 man of law. Enoch Holt s daughter saw 
 them go as she stood in her doorway, and 
 felt a cold shiver run through her frame as 
 if in foreboding. Her father was not at 
 home ; he had left for Boston late on the 
 afternoon of Captain Knowles s funeral. 
 He had had notice the day before of the 
 coming in of a ship in which he owned a 
 thirty-second ; there was talk of selling the 
 ship, and the owners agent had summoned 
 him. He had taken pains to go to the 
 funeral, because he and the old captain had 
 been on bad terms ever since they had 
 bought a piece of woodland together, and 
 the captain declared himself wronged at the 
 settling of accounts. He was growing feeble 
 even then, and had left the business to the 
 younger man. Enoch Holt was not a trusted 
 man, yet he had never before been openly 
 accused of dishonesty. He was not a pro 
 fessor of religion, but foremost on the secu 
 lar side of church matters. Most of the 
 men in that region were hard men ; it was 
 difficult to get money, and there was little 
 real comfort in a community where the 
 sterner, stingier, forbidding side of New 
 England life was well exemplified. 
 
 The proper steps had been taken by the 
 
238 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 officers of the law, and in answer to the writ 
 Enoch Holt appeared, much shocked and 
 very indignant, and was released on bail 
 which covered the sum his shipping interest 
 had brought him. The weeks had dragged 
 by ; June and July were long in passing, and 
 here was court day at last, and all the towns 
 folk hastening by high-roads and by-roads 
 to the court-house. The Knowles girls them 
 selves had risen at break of day and walked 
 the distance steadfastly, like two of the three 
 Fates : who would make the third, to cut 
 the thread for their enemy s disaster ? Pub 
 lic opinion was divided. There were many 
 voices ready to speak on the accused man s 
 side ; a sharp-looking acquaintance left his 
 business in Boston to swear that Holt was 
 in his office before noon on the day follow 
 ing the robbery, and that he had spent most 
 of the night in Boston, as proved by several 
 minor details of their interview. As for 
 Holt s young married daughter, she was a 
 favorite with the townsfolk, and her hus 
 band was away at sea overdue these last 
 few weeks. She sat on one of the hard court 
 benches with a young child in her arms, born 
 since its father sailed ; they had been more 
 or less unlucky, the Holt family, though 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 239 
 
 Enoch himself was a man of brag and 
 bluster. 
 
 All the hot August morning, until the 
 noon recess, and all the hot August after 
 noon, fly-teased and wretched with the heavy 
 air, the crowd of neighbors listened to the 
 trial. There was not much evidence 
 brought ; everybody knew that Enoch Holt 
 left the funeral procession hurriedly, and 
 went away on horseback towards Boston. 
 His daughter knew no more than this. The 
 Boston man gave his testimony impatiently, 
 and one or two persons insisted that they 
 saw the accused on his way at nightfall, sev 
 eral miles from home. 
 
 As the testimony came out, it all tended 
 to prove his innocence, though public opinion 
 was to the contrary. The Knowles sisters 
 looked more stern and gray hour by hour ; 
 their vengeance was not to be satisfied ; their 
 accusation had been listened to and found 
 wanting, but their instinctive knowledge of 
 the matter counted for nothing. They must 
 have been watched through the knot-hole of 
 the shutter ; nobody had noticed it until, 
 some years before, Enoch Holt himself had 
 spoken of the light s shining through on a 
 winter s night as he came towards the house. 
 
240 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 The chief proof was that nobody else could 
 have done the deed. But why linger over 
 pros and cons ? The jury returned directly 
 with a verdict of " not proven," and the 
 tired audience left the court-house. 
 
 But not until Hannah Knowles with 
 angry eyes had risen to her feet. 
 
 The sterner elder sister tried to pull her 
 back ; every one said that they should have 
 looked to Betsey to say the awful words that 
 followed, not to her gentler companion. It 
 was Hannah, broken and disappointed, who 
 cried in a strange high voice as Enoch Holt 
 was passing by without a look : 
 
 " You stole it, you thief ! You know it 
 in your heart ! " 
 
 The startled man faltered, then he faced 
 the women. The people who stood near 
 seemed made of eyes as they stared to see 
 what he would say. 
 
 " I swear by my right hand I never 
 touched it." 
 
 " Curse your right hand, then ! " cried 
 Hannah Knowles, growing tall and thin like 
 a white flame drawing upward. " Curse 
 your right hand, yours and all your folks 
 that follow you I May I live to see the 
 day ! " 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 241 
 
 The people drew back, while for a mo 
 ment accused and accuser stood face to face. 
 Then Holt s flushed face turned white, and 
 he shrank from the fire in those wild eyes, 
 and walked away clumsily down the court 
 room. Nobody followed him, nobody shook 
 hands with him, or told the acquitted man 
 that they were glad of his release. Half 
 an hour later, Betsey and Hannah Knowles 
 took their homeward way, to begin their hard 
 round of work again. The horizon that had 
 widened with such glory for one night, had 
 closed round them again like an iron wall. 
 
 Betsey was alarmed and excited by her 
 sister s uncharacteristic behavior, and she 
 looked at her anxiously from time to time. 
 Hannah had become the harder-faced of the 
 two. Her disappointment was the keener, 
 for she had kept more of the unsatisfied de 
 sires of her girlhood until that dreary morn 
 ing when they found the sea-chest rifled and 
 the treasure gone. 
 
 Betsey said inconsequently that it was a 
 pity she did not have that black silk gown 
 that would stand alone. They had planned 
 for it over the open chest, and Hannah s was 
 to be a handsome green. They might have 
 worn them to court. But even the pathetic 
 
242 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 facetiousness of her elder sister did not bring 
 a smile to Hannah Knowles s face, and the 
 next day one was at the loom and the other 
 at the wheel again. The neighbors talked 
 about the curse with horror ; in their minds 
 a fabric of sad fate was spun from the bitter 
 words. 
 
 The Knowles sisters never had worn silk 
 gowns and they never would. Sometimes 
 Hannah or Betsey would stealthily look over 
 the chest in one or the other s absence. One 
 day when Betsey was very old and her mind 
 had grown feeble, she tied her own India 
 silk handkerchief about her neck, but they 
 never used the other two. They aired the 
 wedding suit once every spring as long as 
 they lived. They were both too old and for 
 lorn to make up the India mull. Nobody 
 knows how many times they took everything 
 out of the heavy old clamped box, and 
 peered into every nook and corner to see if 
 there was not a single gold piece left. They 
 never answered any one who made bold to 
 speak of their misfortune. 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 243 
 IV. 
 
 Enoch Holt had been a seafaring man in 
 his early days, and there was news that the 
 owners of a Salem ship in which he held a 
 small interest wished him to go out as super 
 cargo. He was brisk and well in health, 
 and his son-in-law, an honest but an unlucky 
 fellow, had done less well than usual, so that 
 nobody was surprised when Enoch made 
 ready for his voyage. It was nearly a year 
 after the theft, and nothing had come so 
 near to restoring him to public favor as his 
 apparent lack of ready money. He openly 
 said that he put great hope in his adventure 
 to the Spice Islands, and when he said fare 
 well one Sunday to some members of the 
 dispersing congregation, more than one per 
 son wished him heartily a pleasant voyage 
 and safe return. He had an insinuating 
 tone of voice and an imploring look that 
 day, and this fact, with his probable long- 
 absence and the dangers of the deep, won 
 him much sympathy. It is a shameful thing 
 to accuse a man wrongfully, and Enoch Holt 
 had behaved well since the trial ; and, what 
 is more, had shown no accession to his means 
 of living. So away he went, with a fair 
 
244 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 amount of good wishes, though one or two 
 persons assured remonstrating listeners that 
 they thought it likely Enoch would make a 
 good voyage, better than common, and show 
 himself forwarded when he came to port. 
 Soon after his departure, Mrs. Peter Downs 
 and an intimate acquaintance discussed the 
 ever-exciting subject of the Knowles robbery 
 over a friendly cup of tea. 
 
 They were in the Downs kitchen, and 
 quite by themselves. Peter Downs himself 
 had been drawn as a juror, and had been 
 for two days at the county town. Mrs. 
 Downs was giving herself to social interests 
 in his absence, and Mrs. Forder, an asthmatic 
 but very companionable person, had arrived 
 by two o clock that afternoon with her knit 
 ting work, sure of being welcome. The two 
 old friends had first talked over varied sub 
 jects of immediate concern, but when supper 
 was nearly finished, they fell back upon the 
 lost Knowles gold, as has been already said. 
 
 " They got a dreadful blow, poor gals," 
 wheezed Mrs. Forder, with compassion. 
 " T was harder for them than for most 
 folks ; they d had a long stent with the ol 
 gentleman ; very arbitrary, very arbitrary." 
 
 "Yes, 7 answered Mrs. Downs, pushing 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 245 
 
 back her tea-cup, then lifting it again to see 
 if it was quite empty. "Yes, it took holt 
 o Hannah, the most. I should a said Bet 
 sey was a good deal the most set in her 
 ways an would a been most tore up, but 
 t wa n t so." 
 
 " Lucky that Holt s folks sets on the other 
 aisle in the meetin -house, I do consider, so t 
 they need n t face each other sure as Sab 
 bath comes round." 
 
 " I see Hannah aiv him come face to face 
 two Sabbaths afore Enoch left. So hap 
 pened he dallied to have a word long o 
 Deacon Good in, an him an Hannah stepped 
 front of each other fore they knowed what 
 they s about. I sh d thought her eyes d 
 looked right through him. No one of em 
 took the word ; Enoch he slinked off pretty 
 quick." 
 
 " I see em too," said Mrs. Forder ; " made 
 my blood run cold." 
 
 " Nothin ain t come of the curse yit," 
 Mrs. Downs lowered the tone of her voice, 
 " least, folks says so. It kind o worries 
 pore Phoebe Holt Mis Dow, I would say. 
 She was narved all up at the time o the 
 trial, an when her next baby come into the 
 world, first thin she made out t ask me was 
 
246 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 whether it seemed likely, an she gived me a 
 pleadin look as if I d got to tell her what 
 she had n t heart to ask. Yes, dear, 
 says I, put up his little hands to me kind 
 of wonted ; an she turned a look on me 
 like another creatur , so pleased an con 
 tented." 
 
 " I s pose you don t see no great of the 
 Knowles gals?" inquired Mrs. Forder, who 
 lived two miles away in the other direction. 
 
 " They stepped to the door yisterday when 
 I was passin by, an I went in an set a spell 
 long of em," replied the hostess. " They d 
 got pestered with that oF loom o theirn. 
 Tore I thought, says I, T is all worn out, 
 Betsey, says I. Why on airth don t ye 
 git somebody to git some o your own wood 
 an season it well so t won t warp, same s 
 mine done, an build ye a new one ? But 
 Betsey muttered an twitched away ; t wa n t 
 like her, but they re dis p inted at every 
 turn, I s pose, an feel poor where they ve 
 got the same s ever to do with. Hannah s 
 a-coughin this spring s if somethin ailed 
 her. I asked her if she had bad feelin s in 
 her pipes, an she said yis, she had, but not 
 to speak of t before Betsey. I m goin to 
 fix her up some hoarhound an elecampane 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 247 
 
 quick s the ground s nice an warm an 
 roots livens up a grain more. They re limp 
 an wizened long to the fust of the spring. 
 Them would be service ble, simmered away 
 to a syrup long o molasses ; now don t you 
 think so, Mis Forder ? " 
 
 " Excellent," replied the wheezing dame. 
 " I covet a portion myself, now you speak. 
 Nothin cures my complaint, but a new rem 
 edy takes holt clever sometimes, an eases 
 me for a spell." And she gave a plaintive 
 sigh, and began to knit again. 
 
 Mrs. Downs rose and pushed the supper- 
 table to the wall and drew her chair nearer 
 to the stove. The April nights were chilly. 
 
 " The folks is late comin after me," said 
 Mrs. Forder, ostentatiously. " I may s well 
 confess that I told em if they was late 
 with the work they might let go o fetchin 
 o roe an I d walk home in the mornin ; 
 take it easy when I was fresh. Course I 
 mean ef t would n t put you out : I knowed 
 you was all alone, an I kind o wanted a 
 change." 
 
 " Them words was in my mind to utter 
 while we was to table," avowed Mrs. Downs, 
 hospitably. " I ain t reelly af eared, but t is 
 sort o creepy fastenin up an goin to bed 
 
248 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 alone. Nobody can t help hearkin , an* 
 every common noise starts you. I never 
 used to give nothin a thought till the 
 Knowleses was robbed, though." 
 
 " T was mysterious, I do maintain," ac 
 knowledged Mrs. Forder. " Comes over me 
 sometimes p raps t was n t Enoch ; he d a* 
 branched out more in course o time. I m 
 waitin to see if he does extry well to sea 
 fore I let my mind come to bear on his 
 bein clean handed." 
 
 " Plenty thought t was the ole Cap n 
 come back for it an sperited it away. 
 Enough said that t was n t no honest gains ; 
 most on t was prize-money o slave ships, 
 an all kinds o devil s gold was mixed in. I 
 s pose you ve heard that said ? " 
 
 " Time an again," responded Mrs. Forder ; 
 " an the worst on t was simple old Pappy 
 Flanders went an told the Knowles gals 
 themselves that folks thought the ole Cap n 
 come back an got it, and Hannah done 
 wrong to cuss Enoch Holt an his ginerations 
 after him the way she done." 
 
 " I think it took holt on her ter ble after 
 all she d gone through," said Mrs. Downs, 
 compassionately. " He ain t near so simple 
 as he is ugly, Pappy Flanders ain t. I ve 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 249 
 
 seen him set here an read the paper sober s 
 anybody when I ve been goin about my 
 mornin s work in the shed-room, an when 
 I d come in to look about he d twist it with 
 his hands an roll his eyes an begin to git 
 off some o his gable. I think them wander- 
 in cheap-wits likes the fun on t an scapes 
 stiddy work, an gits the rovin habit so fixed, 
 it sp iles em." 
 
 " My gran ther was to the South Seas in 
 his young days," related Mrs. Forder, im 
 pressively, " an he said cussin was common 
 there. I mean sober spitin with a cuss. 
 He seen one o them black folks git a gredge 
 against another an go an set down an look 
 stiddy at him in his hut an cuss him. in his 
 mind an set there an watch, watch, until the 
 other kind o took sick an died, all in a fort 
 night, I believe he said ; t would make your 
 blood run cold to hear gran ther describe it, 
 t would so. He never done nothin but set 
 an look, an folks would give him somethin 
 to eat now an then, as if they thought t was 
 all right, an the other one d try to go an 
 come, an at last he hived away altogether 
 an died. I don t know what you d call it 
 that ailed him. There s suthin in cussin 
 that s bad for folks, now I tell ye, Mis 
 Downs." 
 
250 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 " Hannah s eyes always makes me creepy 
 now," Mrs. Downs confessed uneasily. 
 " They don t look pleadin an childish same 
 s they used to. Seems to me as if she d 
 had the worst on t." 
 
 " We ain t seen the end on t yit," said 
 Mrs. Forder, impressively. " I feel it within 
 me, Marthy Downs, an it s a terrible thing 
 to have happened right amon st us in 
 Christian times. If we live long enough 
 we re goin to have plenty to talk over in 
 our old age that s come o that cuss. Some 
 seed s shy o sproutin till a spring when the 
 s ile s jest right to breed it." 
 
 "There s lobeely now," agreed Mrs. 
 Downs, pleased to descend to prosaic and 
 familiar levels. " They ain t a good crop 
 one year in six, and then you find it in a 
 place where you never observed none to grow 
 afore, like s not ; ain t it so, reelly ? " And 
 she rose to clear the table, pleased with the 
 certainty of a guest that night. Their con 
 versation was not reassuring to the heart of 
 a timid woman, alone in an isolated farm 
 house on a dark spring evening, especially 
 so near the anniversary of old Captain 
 Knowles s death. 
 
7^ DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 251 
 
 V. 
 
 Later in these rural lives by many years 
 two aged women were crossing a wide field 
 together, following a footpath such as one 
 often finds between widely separated homes 
 of the New England country. Along these 
 lightly traced thoroughfares, the children go 
 to play, and lovers to plead, and older people 
 to companion one another in work and pleas 
 ure, in sickness and sorrow ; generation after 
 generation comes and goes again by these 
 country by-ways. 
 
 The footpath led from Mrs. Forder s to 
 another farmhouse half a mile beyond, 
 where there had been a wedding. Mrs. 
 Downs was there, and in the June weather 
 she had been easily persuaded to go home 
 to tea with Mrs. Forder with the promise 
 of being driven home later in the evening. 
 Mrs. Downs s husband had been dead three 
 years, and her friend s large family was scat 
 tered from the old nest ; they were lonely at 
 times in their later years, these old friends, 
 and found it very pleasant now to have a 
 walk together. Thin little Mrs. Forder, 
 with all her wheezing, was the stronger and 
 more active of the two ; Mrs. Downs had 
 
252 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 grown heavier and weaker with advancing 
 years. 
 
 They paced along the footpath slowly, Mrs. 
 Downs rolling in her gait like a sailor, and 
 availing herself of every pretext to stop and 
 look at herbs in the pasture ground they 
 crossed, and at the growing grass in the mow 
 ing fields. They discussed the wedding mi 
 nutely, a,nd then where the way grew wider 
 they walked side by side instead of follow 
 ing each other, and their voices sank to the 
 low tone that betokens confidence. 
 
 " You don t say that you really put faith 
 in all them old stories ? " 
 
 " It ain t accident altogether, noways you 
 can fix it in your mind," maintained Mrs. 
 Downs. " Need n t tell me that cussin don t 
 do neither good nor harm. I should n t want 
 to marry amon st the Holts if I was young 
 ag in! I r member when this young man 
 was born that s married to-day, an the fust 
 thing his poor mother wanted to know was 
 about his hands bein right. I said yes they 
 was, but las year he was twenty year old and 
 come home from the frontier with one o them 
 hands his right one shot off in a fight. 
 They say t happened to sights o other fel 
 lows, an their laigs gone too, but I count 
 
7.V DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 253 
 
 em over on my fingers, them Holts, an he s 
 the third. May say that t was all an acci 
 dent his mother s gittin throwed out o her 
 waggin comin home from ineetin , an her 
 wrist not bein set good, an she, bein run 
 down at the time, most lost it altogether, 
 but thar it is, stiffened up an no good to her. 
 There was the second. An Enoch Holt his- 
 self come home from the Chiny seas, made 
 a good passage an a sight o money in the 
 pepper trade, jest s we expected, an goin 
 to build him a new house, an the frame gives 
 a kind o lurch when they was raisin of it 
 an surges over on to him an nips him under. 
 4 Which arm ? says everybody along the 
 road when they was comin an goin with the 
 doctor. Right one got to lose it, says the 
 doctor to em, an next time Enoch Holt got 
 out to meetin he stood up in the house o 
 God with the hymn-book in his left hand, an 
 no right hand to turn his leaf with. He 
 knowed what w r e was all a-thinkin ." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Forder, very short- 
 breathed with climbing the long slope of the 
 pasture hill, " I don t know but I d as soon 
 be them as the Knowles gals. Hannah never 
 knowed no peace again after she spoke them 
 words in the co t-house. They come back 
 
254 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 
 
 an harnted her, an you know, Miss Downs, 
 better n I do, being door-neighbors as one 
 may say, how they lived their lives out like 
 wild beasts into a lair." 
 
 " They used to go out some by night to git 
 the air," pursued Mrs. Downs with interest. 
 " I used to open the door an step right in, 
 an I used to take their yarn an stuff long 
 o mine an sell em, an do for the poor stray 
 creatur s long s they d let me. They d be 
 grateful for a mess o early pease or potatoes 
 as ever you see, an Peter he allays favored 
 em with pork, fresh an salt, when we slaugh 
 tered. The old Cap n kept em child n long 
 as he lived, an then they was too old to I aru 
 different. I allays liked Hannah the best till 
 that change struck her. Betsey she held out 
 to the last jest about the same. I don t know, 
 now I come to think of it, but what she felt 
 it the most o the two." 
 
 " They d never let me s much as git a look 
 at em," complained Mrs. Forder. " Folks 
 got awful stories a-goin one time. I ve heard 
 it said, an it allays creeped me cold all over, 
 that there was somethin come an lived with 
 em a kind o black shadder, a cobweb 
 kind o a man-shape that followed etn about 
 the house an made a third to them; but 
 
IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DAYS. 255 
 
 they got hardened to it theirselves, only they 
 was afraid t would follow if they went any 
 wheres from home. You don t believe no 
 such piece o nonsense? But there, I ve 
 asked ye times enough before." 
 
 " They d got shadders enough, poor crea- 
 tur s," said Mrs. Downs with reserve. " Was 
 n t no kind o need to make em up no spooks, 
 as I know on. Well, here s these young 
 folks a-startin ; I wish em well, I m sure. 
 She likes him with his one hand better than 
 most gals likes them as has a good sound 
 pair. They looked prime happy ; I hope no 
 curse won t f oiler em." 
 
 The friends stopped again poor, short- 
 winded bodies on the crest of the low hill 
 and turned to look at the wide landscape, be 
 wildered by the marvelous beauty and the 
 sudden flood of golden sunset light that 
 poured out of the western sky. They could 
 not remember that they had ever observed 
 the wide view before ; it was like a revela 
 tion or an outlook towards the celestial coun 
 try, the sight of their own green farms and 
 the countryside that bounded them. It was 
 a pleasant country indeed, their own New 
 England : their petty thoughts and vain im 
 aginings seemed futile and unrelated to so 
 
256 IN DARK NEW ENGLAND DATS. 
 
 fair a scene of things. But the figure of a 
 man who was crossing the meadow below 
 looked like a malicious black insect. It was 
 an old man, it was Enoch Holt ; time had 
 worn and bent him enough to have satisfied 
 his bitterest foe. The women could see his 
 empty coat-sleeve flutter as he walked slowly 
 and unexpectantly in that glorious evening 
 light. 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 BEING a New Englander, it is natural 
 that I should first speak about the weather. 
 Only the middle of June, the green fields, 
 and blue sky, and bright sun, with a touch 
 of northern mountain wind blowing straight 
 toward the sea, could make such a day, and 
 that is all one can say about it. We were 
 driving seaward through a part of the coun 
 try which has been least changed in the last 
 thirty years, among farms which have 
 been won from swampy lowland, and rocky, 
 stump-buttressed hillsides : where the for 
 ests wall in the fields, and send their out 
 posts year by year farther into the pastures. 
 There is a year or two in the history of these 
 pastures before they have arrived at the 
 dignity of being called woodland, and yet 
 are too much shaded and overgrown by 
 young trees to give proper pasturage, when 
 they made delightful harbors for the small 
 wild creatures . which yet remain, and for 
 wild flowers and berries. Here you send an 
 
258 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 astonished rabbit scurrying to his burrow, 
 and there you startle yourself with a part 
 ridge, who seems to get the best of the en 
 counter. Sometimes you see a hen partridge 
 and her brood of chickens crossing your path 
 with an air of comfortable door-yard secur 
 ity. As you drive along the narrow, grassy 
 road, you see many charming sights and de 
 lightful nooks on either hand, where the 
 young trees spring out of a close-cropped 
 turf that carpets the ground like velvet. 
 Toward the east and the quaint fishing vil 
 lage of Ogunquit, I find the most delightful 
 woodland roads. There is little left of the 
 large timber which once filled the region, 
 but much young growth, and there are hun 
 dreds of acres of cleared land and pasture- 
 ground where the forests are springing fast 
 and covering the country once more, as if 
 they had no idea of losing in their war with 
 civilization and the intruding white settler. 
 The pine woods and the Indians seem to be 
 next of kin, and the former owners of this 
 corner of New England are the only proper 
 figures to paint into such landscapes. The 
 twilight under tall pines seems to be unten- 
 anted and to lack something, at first sight, 
 as if one opened the door of an empty house. 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 259 
 
 A farmer passing through with his axe is 
 but an intruder, and children straying home 
 from school give one a feeling of solicitude 
 at their unprotectedness. The pine woods 
 are the red man s house, and it may be haz 
 ardous even yet for the gray farmhouses to 
 stand so near the eaves of the forest. I 
 have noticed a distrust of the deep woods, 
 among elderly people, which was something 
 more than a fear of losing their way. It 
 was a feeling of defenselessness against some 
 unrecognized but malicious influence. 
 
 Driving through the long woodland way, 
 shaded and chilly when you are out of the 
 sun ; across the Great Works River and its 
 pretty elm-grown intervale ; across the short 
 bridges of brown brooks ; delayed now and 
 then by the sight of ripe strawberries in 
 sunny spots by the roadside, one comes to a 
 higher open country, where farm joins farm, 
 and the cleared fields lie all along the high 
 way, while the woods are pushed back a 
 good distance on either hand. The wooded 
 hills, bleak here and there with granite 
 ledges, rise beyond. The houses are beside 
 the road, with green door-yards and large 
 barns, almost empty now, and with wide 
 doors standing open, as if they were already 
 
260 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 expecting the hay crop to be brought in. 
 The tall green grass is waving in the fields 
 as the wind goes over, and there is a fra 
 grance of whiteweed and ripe strawberries 
 and clover blowing through the sunshiny 
 barns, with their lean sides and their fes 
 toons of brown, dusty cobwebs ; dull, com 
 fortable creatures they appear to imagina 
 tive eyes, waiting hungrily for their yearly 
 meal. The eave-s wallows are teasing their 
 sleepy shapes, like the birds which flit about 
 great beasts ; gay, movable, irreverent, al 
 most derisive, those barn swallows fly to 
 and fro in the still, clear air. 
 
 The noise of our wheels brings fewer faces 
 to the windows than usual, and we lose the 
 pleasure of seeing some of our friends who 
 are apt to be looking out, and to whom we 
 like to say good-day. Some funeral must 
 be taking place, or perhaps the women may 
 have gone out into the fields. It is hoeing- 
 time and strawberry-time, and already we 
 have seen some of the younger women at 
 work among the corn and potatoes. One 
 sight will be charming to remember. On a 
 green hillside sloping to the west, near one 
 of the houses, a thin little girl was working 
 away lustily with a big hoe on a patch of 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 261 
 
 land perhaps fifty feet by twenty. There 
 were all sorts of things growing there, as if 
 a child s fancy had made the choice, 
 straight rows of turnips and carrots and 
 beets, a little of everything, one might say ; 
 but the only touch of color was from a long 
 border of useful sage in full bloom of dull 
 blue, on the upper side. I am sure this was 
 called iCaty s or Becky s piece by the elder 
 members of the family. One can imagine 
 how the young creature had planned it in 
 the spring, and persuaded the men to plough 
 and harrow it, and since then had stoutly 
 done all the work herself, and meant to send 
 the harvest of the piece to market, and pocket 
 her honest gains, as they came in, for some 
 great end. She was as thin as a grasshopper, 
 this busy little gardener, and hardly turned 
 to give us a glance, as we drove slowly up 
 the hill close by. The sun will brown and 
 dry her like a spear of grass on that hot 
 slope, but a spark of fine spirit is in the 
 small body, and I wish her a famous crop. 
 I hate to say that the piece looked backward, 
 all except the sage, and that it was a heavy 
 bit of land for the clumsy hoe to pick at. 
 The only puzzle is, what she proposes to do 
 with so long a row of sage. Yet there may 
 
262 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 be a large family with a downfall of measles 
 yet ahead, and she does not mean to be 
 caught without sage-tea. 
 
 Along this road every one of the old farm 
 houses has at least one tall bush of white 
 roses by the door, a most lovely sight, 
 with buds and blossoms, and unvexed green 
 leaves. I wish that I knew the history of 
 them, and whence the first bush was brought. 
 Perhaps from England itself, like a red rose 
 that I know in Kittery, and the new shoots 
 from the root were given to one neighbor 
 after another all through the district. The 
 bushes are slender, but they grow tall with 
 out climbing against the wall, and sway to 
 and fro in the wind with a grace of youth 
 and an inexpressible charm of beauty. How 
 many lovers must have picked them on Sun 
 day evenings, in all the bygone years, and 
 carried them along the roads or by the pas 
 ture footpaths, hiding them clumsily under 
 their Sunday coats if they caught sight of 
 any one coming. Here, too, where the sea 
 wind nips many a young life before its prime, 
 how often the white roses have been put into 
 paler hands, and withered there ! 
 
 In spite of the serene and placid look of 
 the old houses, one who has always known 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 263 
 
 them cannot help thinking of the sorrows of 
 these farms and their almost undiverted toil. 
 Near the little gardener s plot, we turned 
 from the main road and drove through lately 
 cleared woodland up to an old farmhouse, 
 high on a ledgy hill, whence there is a fine 
 view of the country seaward and mountain- 
 ward. There were few of the once large 
 household left there : only the old farmer, 
 who was crippled by war wounds, active, 
 cheerful man that he was once, and two 
 young orphan children. There has been 
 much hard work spent on the place. Every 
 generation has toiled from youth to age 
 without being able to make much beyond a 
 living. The dollars that can be saved are 
 but few, and sickness and death have often 
 brought their bitter cost. The mistress of 
 the farm was helpless for many years ; 
 through all the summers and winters she sat 
 in her pillowed rocking-chair in the plain 
 room. She could watch the seldom- visited 
 lane, and beyond it, a little way across the 
 fields, were the woods ; besides these, only 
 the clouds in the sky. She could not lift 
 her food to her mouth ; she could not be her 
 husband s working partner. She never went 
 into another woman s house to see her works 
 
264 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 and ways, but sat there, aching and tired, 
 vexed by flies and by heat, and isolated in 
 long storms. Yet the whole countryside 
 neighbored her with true affection. Her 
 spirit grew stronger as her body grew weaker, 
 and the doctors, who grieved because they 
 could do so little with their skill, were never 
 confronted by that malady of the spirit, a 
 desire for ease and laziness, which makes the 
 soundest of bodies useless and complaining. 
 The thought of her blooms in one s mind 
 like the whitest of flowers ; it makes one 
 braver and more thankful to remember the 
 simple faith and patience with which she 
 bore her pain and trouble. How often she 
 must have said, " I wish I could do some 
 thing for you in return," when she was do 
 ing a thousand times more than if, like her 
 neighbors, she followed the simple round of 
 daily life I She was doing constant kindness 
 by her example ; but nobody can tell the 
 woe of her long days and nights, the solitude 
 of her spirit, as she was being lifted by such 
 hard ways to the knowledge of higher truth 
 and experience. Think of her pain when, 
 one after another, her children fell ill and 
 died, and she could not tend them ! And 
 now, in the same worn chair where she lived 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 265 
 
 and slept sat her husband, helpless too, 
 thinking of her, and missing her more than 
 if she had been sometimes away from home, 
 like other women. Even a stranger would 
 miss her in the house. 
 
 There sat the old farmer looking down the 
 lane in his turn, bearing his afflictions with 
 a patient sterness that may have been born 
 of watching his wife s serenity. There was 
 a half-withered rose lying within his reach. 
 Some days nobody came up the lane, and the 
 wild birds that ventured near the house and 
 the clouds that blew over were his only en 
 tertainment. He had a fine face, of the 
 older New England type, clean-shaven and 
 strong-featured, a type that is fast pass 
 ing away. He might have been a Cum 
 berland dalesman, such were his dignity, 
 and self-possession, and English soberness 
 of manner. His large frame was built for 
 hard work, for lifting great weights and 
 pushing his plough through new-cleared 
 land. We felt at home together, and each 
 knew many things that the other did of ear 
 lier days, and of losses that had come with 
 time. I remembered coming to the old 
 house often in my childhood ; it was in this 
 very farm lane that I first saw anemones, 
 
266 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 and learned what to call them. After we 
 drove away, this crippled man must have 
 thought a long time about my elders and bet 
 ters, as if he were reading their story out of 
 a book. I suppose he has hauled many a 
 stick of timber pine down for ship-yards, 
 and gone through the village so early in the 
 winter morning that I, waking in my warm 
 bed, only heard the sleds creak through the 
 frozen snow as the slow oxen plodded by. 
 
 Near the house a trout brook conies 
 plashing over the ledges. At one place 
 there is a most exquisite waterfall, to which 
 neither painter s brush nor writer s pen can 
 do justice. The sunlight falls through flick 
 ering leaves into the deep glen, and makes 
 the foam whiter and the brook more golden- 
 brown. You can hear the merry noise of it 
 all night, all day, in the house. A little way 
 above the farmstead it comes through marshy 
 ground, which I fear has been the cause of 
 much illness and sorrow to the poor, troubled 
 family. I had a thrill of pain, as it seemed 
 to me that the brook was mocking at all 
 that trouble with all its wild carelessness 
 and loud laughter, as it hurried away down 
 the glen. 
 
 When we had said good-by and were turn- 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 267 
 
 ing the horses away, there suddenly appeared 
 in a footpath that led down from one of the 
 green hills the young grandchild, just coming 
 home from school. She was as quick as a 
 bird, and as shy in her little pink gown, and 
 balanced herself on one foot, like a flower. 
 The brother was the elder of the two or 
 phans ; he was the old man s delight and 
 dependence by day, while his hired man was 
 afield. The sober country boy had learned 
 to wait and tend, and the young people were 
 indeed a joy in that lonely household. 
 There was no sign that they ever played 
 like other children, no truckle-cart in the 
 yard, no doll, no bits of broken crockery in 
 order on a rock. They had learned a fash 
 ion of life from their elders, and already 
 could lift and carry their share of the bur 
 dens of life. 
 
 It was a country of wild flowers ; the last 
 of the columbines were clinging to the hill 
 sides ; down in the small, fenced meadows 
 belonging to the farm were meadow rue just 
 coming in flower, and red and white clover ; 
 the golden buttercups were thicker than the 
 grass, while many mulleins were standing 
 straight and slender among the pine stumps, 
 with their first blossoms atop. Rudbeckias 
 
268 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 had found their way in, and appeared more 
 than ever like bold foreigners. Their names 
 should be translated into country speech, and 
 the children ought to call them "rude- 
 beckies," by way of relating them to boun 
 cing-bets and sweet-williams. The pasture 
 grass was green and thick after the plenti 
 ful rains, and the busy cattle took little no 
 tice of us as they browsed steadily and 
 tinkled their pleasant bells. Looking off, 
 the smooth, round back of Great Hill caught 
 the sunlight with its fields of young grain, 
 and all the long, wooded slopes and valleys 
 were fresh and fair in the June weather, 
 away toward the blue New Hampshire hills 
 on the northern horizon. Seaward stood 
 Agamenticus, dark with its pitch pines, and 
 the far sea itself, blue and calm, ruled the 
 uneven country with its unchangeable line. 
 
 Out on the white rose road again, we saw 
 more of the rose-trees than ever, and now 
 and then a carefully tended flower garden, 
 always delightful to see and think about. 
 These are not made by merely looking 
 through a florist s catalogue, and ordering 
 this or that new seedling and a proper selec 
 tion of bulbs or shrubs ; everything in a 
 country garden has its history and personal 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 269 
 
 association. The old bushes, the perennials, 
 are apt to have most tender relationship 
 with the hands that planted them long ago. 
 There is a constant exchange of such trea 
 sures between the neighbors, and in the 
 spring, slips and cuttings may be seen root 
 ing on the window ledges, while the house 
 plants give endless work all winter long, 
 since they need careful protection against 
 frost in long nights of the severe weather. 
 A flower-loving woman brings back from 
 every one of her infrequent journeys some 
 treasure of flower-seeds or a huge miscella 
 neous nosegay. Time to work in the little 
 plot of pleasure-ground is hardly won by the 
 busy mistress of the farmhouse. The most 
 appealing collection of flowering plants and 
 vines that I ever saw was in Virginia, once, 
 above the exquisite valley spanned by the 
 Natural Bridge, a valley far too little known 
 or praised. I had noticed an old log house, 
 as I learned to know the outlook from the 
 picturesque hotel, and was sure that it must 
 give a charming view from its perch on the 
 summit of a hill. 
 
 One day I went there, one April day, 
 when the whole landscape was full of color 
 from the budding trees, and before I 
 
270 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 could look at the view, I caught sight of 
 some rare vines, already in leaf, about the 
 dilapidated walls of the cabin. Then across 
 the low paling I saw the brilliant colors of 
 tulips and daffodils. There were many rose 
 bushes ; in fact, the whole top of the hill 
 was a flower garden, once well cared for and 
 carefully ordered. It was all the work of an 
 old woman of Scotch-Irish descent, who had 
 been busy with the cares of life, and a very 
 hard worker ; yet I was told that to gratify 
 her love for flowers she would often go afoot 
 many miles over those rough Virginia roads, 
 with a root or cutting from her own garden, 
 to barter for a new rose or a brighter blos 
 som of some sort, with which she would re 
 turn in triumph. I fancied that sometimes 
 she had to go by night on these charming 
 quests. I could see her business-like, small 
 figure setting forth down the steep path, 
 when she had a good conscience toward her 
 housekeeping and the children were in order 
 to be left. I am sure that her friends thought 
 of her when they were away from home and 
 could bring her an offering of something 
 rare. Alas, she had grown too old and fee 
 ble to care for her dear blossoms any longer, 
 and had been forced to go to live with a 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 271 
 
 married son. I dare say that she was think 
 ing of her garden that very day, and wonder 
 ing if this plant or that were not in bloom, 
 and perhaps had a heartache at the thought 
 that her tenants, the careless colored children, 
 might tread the young shoots of peony and 
 rose, and make havoc in the herb-bed. It 
 was an uncommon collection, made by years 
 of patient toil and self-sacrifice. 
 
 I thought of that deserted Southern gar 
 den as I followed my own New England 
 road. The flower-plots were in gay bloom 
 all along the way ; almost every house had 
 some flowers before it, sometimes carefully 
 fenced about by stakes and barrel staves 
 from the miscreant hens and chickens which 
 lurked everywhere, and liked a good scratch 
 and fluffing in soft earth this year as well as 
 any other. The world seemed full of young 
 life. There were calves tethered in pleasant 
 shady spots, and puppies and kittens ad 
 venturing from the door-ways. The trees 
 were full of birds : bobolinks, and cat-birds, 
 and yellow-hammers, and golden robins, and 
 sometimes a thrush, for the afternoon was 
 wearing late. We passed the spring which 
 once marked the boundary where three 
 towns met, Berwick, York, and Wells, 
 
272 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 a famous spot in the early settlement of the 
 country, but many of its old traditions are 
 now forgotten. One of the omnipresent 
 regicides of Charles the First is believed to 
 have hidden himself for a long time under 
 a great rock close by. The story runs that 
 he made his miserable home in this den for 
 several years, but I believe that there is no 
 record that more than three of the regicides 
 escaped to this country, and their wander 
 ings are otherwise accounted for. There is 
 a firm belief that one of them came to York, 
 and was the ancestor of many persons now 
 living there, but I do not know whether he 
 can have been the hero of the Baker s Spring 
 hermitage beside. We stopped to drink 
 some of the delicious water, which never 
 fails to flow cold and clear under the shade 
 of a great oak, and were amused with the 
 sight of a flock of gay little country children 
 who passed by in deep conversation. What 
 could such atoms of humanity be talking 
 about ? " Old times," said John, the master 
 of horse, with instant decision. 
 
 We met now and then a man or woman, 
 who stopped to give us hospitable greeting ; 
 but there was no staying for visits, lest the 
 daylight might fail us. It was delightful to 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 273 
 
 find this old-established neighborhood so 
 thriving and populous, for a few days before 
 I had driven over three miles of road, and 
 passed only one house that was tenanted, 
 and six cellars or crumbling chimneys where 
 good farmhouses had been, the lilacs bloom 
 ing in solitude, and the fields, cleared with 
 so much difficulty a century or two ago, all 
 going back to the original woodland from 
 which they were won. What would the old 
 farmers say to see the fate of their worthy 
 bequest to the younger generation ? They 
 would wag their heads sorrowfully, with sad 
 foreboding. 
 
 After we had passed more woodland and 
 a well-known quarry, where, for a wonder, 
 the derrick was not creaking and not a sin 
 gle hammer was clinking at the stone wedges, 
 we did not see any one hoeing in the fields, 
 as we had seen so many on the white rose 
 road, the other side of the hills. Presently 
 we met two or three people walking sedately, 
 clad in their best clothes. There was a sub 
 dued air of public excitement and concern, 
 and one of us remembered that there had 
 been a death in the neighborhood; this was 
 the day of the funeral. The man had been 
 known to us in former years. We had an 
 
274 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 instinct to hide our unsympathetic pleasur 
 ing, but there was nothing to be done except 
 to follow our homeward road straight by the 
 house. 
 
 The occasion was nearly ended by this 
 time: the borrowed chairs were being set 
 out in the yard in little groups ; even the 
 funeral supper had been eaten, and the 
 brothers and sisters and near relatives of the 
 departed man were just going home. The 
 new grave showed plainly out in the green 
 field near by. He had belonged to one of 
 the ancient families of the region, long set 
 tled on this old farm by the narrow river ; 
 they had given their name to a bridge, and 
 the bridge had christened the meeting-house 
 which stood close by. We were much struck 
 by the solemn figure of the mother, a very 
 old woman, as she walked toward her old 
 home with some of her remaining children. 
 I had not thought to see her again, knowing 
 her great age and infirmity. She was like a 
 presence out of the last century, tall and still 
 erect, dark-eyed and of striking features, 
 and a firm look not modern, but as if her 
 mind were still set upon an earlier and sim 
 pler scheme of life. An air of dominion 
 cloaked her finely. She had long been 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 275 
 
 queen of her surroundings and law-giver to 
 her great family. Royalty is a quality, one 
 of Nature s gifts, and there one might behold 
 it as truly as if Victoria Regina Imperatrix 
 had passed by. The natural instincts com 
 mon to humanity were there undisguised, 
 unconcealed, simply accepted. We had seen 
 a royal progress ; she was the central figure 
 of that rural society ; as you looked at the 
 little group, you could see her only. Now 
 that she came abroad so rarely, her presence 
 was not without deep significance, and so she 
 took her homeward way with a primitive 
 kind of majesty. 
 
 It was evident that the neighborhood was 
 in great excitement and quite thrown out of 
 its usual placidity. An acquaintance came 
 from a small house farther down the road, 
 and we stopped for a word with him. We 
 spoke of the funeral, and were told something 
 of the man who had died. "Yes, and 
 there s a man layin very sick here," said 
 our friend in an excited whisper. "He 
 won t last but a day or two. There s an 
 other man buried yesterday that was struck 
 by lightnin , comin acrost a field when that 
 great shower begun. The lightnin stove 
 through his hat and run down all over him, 
 
276 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 and ploughed a spot in the ground." There 
 was a knot of people about the door; the 
 minister of that scattered parish stood among 
 them, and they all looked at us eagerly, as 
 if we too might be carrying news of a fresh 
 disaster through the countryside. 
 
 Somehow the melancholy tales did not 
 touch our sympathies as they ought, and we 
 could not see the pathetic side of them as at 
 another time, the day was so full of cheer 
 and the sky and earth so glorious. The 
 very fields looked busy with their early sum 
 mer growth, the horses began to think of 
 the clack of the oat-bin cover, and we were 
 hurried along between the silvery willows 
 and the rustling alders, taking time to gather 
 a handful of stray-away conserve roses by 
 the roadside ; and where the highway made 
 a long bend eastward among the farms, two 
 of us left the carriage, and followed a foot 
 path along the green river bank and through 
 the pastures, coming out to the road again 
 only a minute later than the horses. I be 
 lieve that it is an old Indian trail followed 
 from the salmon falls farther down the river, 
 where the up-country Indians came to dry 
 the plentiful fish for their winter supplies. 
 I have traced the greater part of this deep- 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 277 
 
 worn footpath, which goes straight as an 
 arrow across the country, the first day s trail 
 being from the falls (where Mason s settlers 
 came in 1627, and built their Great Works 
 of a saw-mill with a gang of saws, and pres 
 ently a grist mill beside) to Emery s Bridge. 
 I should like to follow the old footpath still 
 farther. I found part of it by accident a 
 long time ago. Once, as you came close to 
 the river, you were sure to find fishermen 
 scattered along, sometimes I myself have 
 been discovered ; but it is not much use to 
 go fishing any more. If some public-spirited 
 person would kindly be the Frank Buckland 
 of New England, and try to have the laws 
 enforced that protect the inland fisheries, he 
 would do his country great service. Years 
 ago, there were so many salmon that, as an en 
 thusiastic old friend once assured me, " you 
 could walk across on them below the falls ; " 
 but now they are unknown, simply because 
 certain substances which would enrich the 
 farms are thrown from factories and tan 
 neries into our clear New England streams. 
 Good river fish are growing very scarce. 
 The smelts, and bass, and shad have all left 
 this upper branch of the Piscataqua, as the 
 salmon left it long ago, and the supply of 
 
278 THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 
 
 one necessary sort of good cheap food is lost 
 to a growing community, for the lack of a 
 little thought and care in the factory compa 
 nies and saw-mills, and the building in some 
 cases of fish-ways over the dams. I think 
 that the need of preaching against this bad 
 economy is very great. The sight of a proud 
 lad with a string of undersized trout will 
 scatter half the idlers in town into the pas 
 tures next day, but everybody patiently ac 
 cepts the depopidation of a fine clear river, 
 where the tide comes fresh from the sea 
 to be tainted by the spoiled stream, which 
 started from its mountain sources as pure as 
 heart could wish. Man has done his best 
 to ruin the world he lives in, one is tempted 
 to say at impulsive first thought ; but after 
 all, as I mounted the last hill before reach 
 ing the village, the houses took on a new 
 look of comfort and pleasantness ; the fields 
 that I knew so well were a fresher green 
 than before, the sun was down, and the pro 
 vocations of the day seemed very slight com 
 pared to the satisfaction. I believed that 
 with a little more time we should grow wiser 
 about our fish and other things beside. 
 
 It will be good to remember the white 
 rose road and its quietness in many a busy 
 
THE WHITE ROSE ROAD. 279 
 
 town day to come. As I think of these 
 slight sketches, I wonder if they will have 
 to others a tinge of sadness ; but I have sel 
 dom spent an afternoon so full of pleasure 
 and fresh and delighted consciousness of the 
 possibilities of rural life. 
 
FOURTEEN DAY USE 
 
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