CHAPTER II.

–––––– THE FATHERLESS CHILD.

All the saints had not appeared on earth till the birth of Chloe Angeline Stickney on All Saints’ Day, 1830. At least, if she is not one of the All Saints she is one of the Hall Saints. No doubt the associations connected with her birthday helped the growing girl toward a realization of her ideals; for in after life, in the sweet confidence of motherhood, she used to tell her sons that her birthday fell on All Saints’ Day.

But it appears that all the saints were not present at the baby’s birth. Else the child’s father might have been rescued from the demon of strong drink—the child herself might have been blessed with a strong body as a fit abode for her spirit—and she might have been protected from the silly women who named her!

Chloe Angeline! Think of it! The name Angeline alone might do. Chloe might do; for, altho’ unheard of in the Cook and Stickney families, it belonged to the good woman who nursed the child’s mother. But Chloe Angeline!—the second name borrowed from a cheap novel current in those days! What’s in a name? In this case this much: Proof that the father’s standing in his own family was lost. His eldest daughter was named Charlotte, the third one Mary—the same sensible names as were borne by two of his sisters in New Hampshire. Apparently the defenceless babe was a fatherless child from the day of birth.

Rough and crude was the civilization into which she was born. Bears still haunted the woods and gathered blackberries in the more remote fields. In a deep ravine Angeline’s sister Elmina encountered a wild-cat. Matches were not yet in use. Spinning-wheel and household loom supplied the farmer’s homespun clothing. For salt Grandfather Cook drove sixty miles to Syracuse. Bigoted religion was rampant, with forenoon and afternoon services, and a five-mile drive in Grandfather’s wagon. Aunt Clary Downs, one of Elisha Cook’s daughters, kept a dream-book; and his mother in her old age used to protect parties of young people from witches. Singing schools flourished. Elmina Stickney, herself a good singer, was won by David, not the sweet singer of Israel, but David Cooley, sweet singer of Rodman. Education was dispensed in the brutal, old-fashioned way. For example, a teacher in those parts invented the fiendish punishment of piercing the lip of an offending pupil with a needle. Elisha, a weak-minded boy who lived at Angeline’s, was flogged within an inch of his life for cutting up and hiding the school-mistress’s cowhide. Two school supervisors were present at this flogging. The schoolmistress would ply her punishment until exhausted; then rest, and go at it again. Small wonder that Elisha survived the beating only a year or two.

Angeline’s oldest sister, Charlotte, married young. There were no brothers or father, so that the mother and four young daughters were thrown upon their own resources. Grandfather Cook, who lived half a mile up the road, was their kindly protector. But from the beginning the sisters learned to look out for themselves and one another. It must have been a quiet household, saddened by the thought of the absent father, and much too feminine. For one thing I am very grateful: the mother did not whip the obedient, sensitive little Angeline.

Angeline was a very solemn little girl, happy at times, with a sort of saintly happiness, but never merry. Perhaps too many of the saints had watched over her nativity. Had some little red devil been present he might have saved the situation. Had her cousin Orville Gilman, son of the renegade Daniel, only appeared upon the scene to inform the company that Elisha Cook’s hens, of New England ancestry, were stalking about crying, “Cut-cut-cut-Connecticut”!

At three years of age Angeline began to attend district school. At five she was spinning flax. As a little girl, watching her mother at work, she wondered at the chemistry of cooking. At nine she had read a church history through. At twelve she was an excellent housekeeper, big enough to be sent for to help her sister Charlotte keep tavern. So from her earliest years she was a student and worker. She had some playmates, her life-long friends, and she enjoyed some sober pleasures. But the healthy enjoyment of healthy, vigorous childhood she missed—was frightened nearly out of her wits listening to the fearful stories told about the fireside—and broke her leg sliding down hill when she was eight years old. The victim of a weak stomach, coarse fare did not agree with her; and again and again she vomited up the salt pork some well-meaning friend had coaxed her to eat. But she accepted her lot patiently and reverently; and after the cold dreary winters one blade of green grass would make her happy all day long.

She really did enjoy life intensely, in her quiet way, and no doubt felt very rich sometimes. There were the wild strawberries down in the meadow and by the roadside, raspberries and blackberries in abundance, and in the woods bunch-berries, pigeon-berries, and wintergreen. The flowers of wood and field were a pure delight, spontaneous and genuine; and to the end of her days wild rose and liverwort sent a thrill of joy to her heart. She and her sister Ruth, three years younger, were inseparable companions. Near the house was the mouth of a deep ravine—or gulf, as it is called in Rodman—and here the little sisters played beside the brook and hunted the first spring flowers. Still nearer was a field filled with round bowlders, a delightful place to play house. Across the road was a piece of woods where the cows were pastured, and whither the sisters would go to gather hemlock knots for their mother.

The house stood upon a knoll commanding a pleasant landscape; and from high ground near by the blue waters of Lake Ontario could be seen. The skies of Jefferson County are as clear as those of Italy, and in the summer Angeline lived out of doors in God’s temple, the blue vault above, and all around the incense of trees and grasses. Little she cared if her mother’s house was small; for from the doorstep, or from the roof of the woodhouse, where she used to sit, she beheld beauty and grandeur hidden from eyes less clear. Nor was she content simply to dream her childhood’s dream. The glory of her little world was an inspiration. Ambition was born in her, and she used to say, quaintly enough, “You may hear of me through the papers yet.”