Part 2

Far more suitable would have been the simplicity of the Friend’s costume, which bore a wondrous charm for them, as the dress of their beloved mother. But the sisters had wandered from the fold, each had married “out of meeting” and thereby forfeited her birthright membership; and having renounced the worship of their fathers, they also felt it incumbent to robe themselves somewhat according to the fashion of the world’s people, but the “Stranger” air which marked their devotions before a “hireling ministry” also clung to their garments.

It was a little pitiful, this estrangement from their early religious associations, and perchance it might have been their greatest pleasure to return to the fold when the days of their widowhood came, but the meeting was held in a remote district of the township, and neither of the sisters was robust. For this reason they made a church home in the nearest house of worship, and carried thither so much of their elementary religion as wrought daily miracles of love and patience.

They were charitable to a degree almost beyond praise, and the fine bearing, the impressive presence of the little pair, could have come from nothing else than a realization of noble attributes.

The annals of New York indeed would be incomplete without mention of the exceeding service rendered the State in time of need by a rich Quaker, who steadfastly refused any public recognition, but whose death was everywhere heralded as that of a man combining in his character modesty and rare worth.

Perhaps it was the consciousness of being heir to these virtues that led Honora into a false conception of the inheritance of her husband, but the painful knowledge of her error never lessened her understanding of the motto “Noblesse oblige.”

Everybody forgave the sisters their touch of pride since both its source and outcome were of such purity, but it was almost pathetic to hear their personal disavowal of merit, attributing all things of worth in their admirable womanhood to their ancestry, and when, in the days of her children’s youth, Mrs. Mountain found it necessary to chastise them, the rod was considered far less severe than a reminder that through misdemeanor they were sullying the family record.

It was a matter of deep regret to both Honora and Letitia that they had no sons. The former was childless, and the latter had buried her boys in infancy, but it was a consolation that the marriage of their brother, late in life, had resulted in securing a continuance of the honored line.

Hospitality was one of the inherited virtues. The fruit cake jar was never allowed to become empty, and on such holidays as were not bespoken by their brother, their separate tables were surrounded by the impecunious old and young of their acquaintance.

So long as Mrs. Mountain’s daughters remained unmarried there was an abundance of merrymaking, but after they had gone to homes of their own this youthful element was greatly missed. Mrs. Plum’s stepdaughter was too grim to be social, and gradually the lives of the sisters fell into a routine.

Certain days in the month were devoted to family visits. The rector was entertained by them alternately, at stated periods, and once every fortnight they dressed themselves in stiff silks and real laces, and went through the formality of returning calls. No doubt the conversation was as little varied as the wardrobe, yet it was a pleasing duty, faithfully performed.

They had been educated like the majority of well-to-do women of that period, but this was far from developing a love of study--that progressive intelligence which furnishes the ladies of the present with unfailing entertainment.

Nothing, therefore, was a greater satisfaction to them than the daily visits of an old and respected colonel, living on a large farm just beyond the border of the town.

He rode to the post office every morning on a white horse, quite as stiff in his joints as his master, and it was one of the duties of the postman to respond to the timely cough of the colonel by carrying out the scanty mail, if such there chanced to be. The soldierly salutation repaid him a hundred-fold for this small attention, while the colonel turned his horse toward Mountain Place.

He was so prompt in all his proceedings that the servant prepared herself, at ten o’clock, to answer the summons of the enormous brass knocker, and with as much dignity as if he had come with a message of state, the ruddy man inquired for “the ladies.” Then, as he entered the hall, he graciously relieved any embarrassment by mentioning “Mrs. Mountain’s parlor, if you please,” or “Mrs. Plum’s drawing room,” alternating day by day. Immediately the lady presiding arose and greeted him as though he was recently returned from a foreign mission, and in the next breath spoke to the servant, who had long ago learned to await this direction: “Ask Mrs. Plum if it will be convenient to come down, Colonel Gray is here,” or “My compliments to Mrs. Mountain.”

The newcomer then formally welcomed the second sister, carefully asked after her health, and conversation became general.

An hour, sometimes two, the colonel’s horse stood in the wind and weather awaiting his agreeable master, but if, as rarely happened, the latter limit was transgressed, a loud neighing brought the gentleman to his feet. “Ladies, I have had a most entertaining morning; duty alone calls me from your side. Allow me to wish you good-day.”

In the afternoon as the sisters sat by the front window knitting socks for the poor, or daintily stitching some fine muslin for a baby’s outfit, they discussed the Colonel’s visit.

“Letitia, I am sorry brother does not like the Colonel.”

They never disagreed, and from a constant desire to emphasize, each the opinion of the other, there had grown a habit of repetition.

“Yes, Honora, I wish brother did incline toward the Colonel.”

“I cannot understand his objection. Colonel Grey is a gentleman, and an excellent provider.”

This term embraced a multitude of small virtues, chiefly that of generosity toward his immediate family, and to Mrs. Mountain and Mrs. Plum, the man who failed in this respect had better not be alluded to.

It was a little strange that they knew the Colonel’s household habits, for he lived alone with an aged housekeeper and her husband, and it was only at long intervals that he opened his doors to his friends, albeit he was justly proud of the frequent honor he enjoyed of “drinking a dish of tea” at the Mountain Place, and on these occasions he never forgot to be strictly impartial in his attentions, and addressed his conversation first to one, then to the other of the sisters.

Like the entire village population, he was well aware that to these ladies everyone looked for advice, and indeed for intelligent nursing. So frequent were the midnight calls for services that one of the servant’s regular duties was the disposition at nightfall of their hoods, cloaks, and lantern conveniently near the front door.

A reference to this formed a staple joke between the friends, and Letitia frequently asserted (and it was repeated by Honora) that in case of illness at “Moss Farm,” they would consider themselves engaged.

Perhaps the good Colonel had more than a jest at heart when he referred to the matter, for the ills of life come surely in train of age, and the summons reached Mountain Place on an early morning of September. It was a shock to the ladies, this forerunner of a parting from one who had been so stanch a friend, and so inconsiderate a visitor, as their brother insisted.

Just as the carryall came in sight of the Colonel’s homestead, the first twitter of awakening birds brought a new sense of life and activity into the world. The dark forest behind the house sent forth a thousand notes of welcome to the day, and the clear spring, where the old horse turned to drink, added its gentle murmur.

Mrs. Mountain was touched, her eyes moistened.

“Alas!” she said, noting the movement of the old gray, “the world never stops for any of us. The birds sing, the horse wants to drink, the sunlight flashes over the farm, just as if the good man that has lived so long to lighten the cares of others, was not passing away.”

“Passing away! Yes, passing away,” and the solemn voice of her sister, seemed like an echo from the hills.

It was the usual trouble, a shock of paralysis, and the faithful doctor gave little encouragement, yet he thought it possible the Colonel’s speech might become clear again, and when the stupor that enthralled the poor man had passed, the pale eye wandered about the room. Words were unnecessary, the watchers understood that he wanted a hand laid in his own, and Letitia gently slid her soft palm beneath the chilled fingers. Honora as promptly took her place at the other side, stroking the withered arm that lay motionless upon the bed.

The doctor opened the window, and as the delicious breath of the pines crept in, the sick man stirred. He moved his head restlessly. But when Mrs. Mountain would have left her place to rearrange his pillows, suddenly his tongue loosed and he spoke, feebly indeed, and with an effort, but the words fell distinctly upon the listeners.

“Years ago, I wanted--I intended she should be my wife if----” He stopped. Presently he gave evidence that the same thought was still in his mind.

“Yes,” he murmured, “but I love her just as well.”

The doctor moistened the dry lips, and the sisters both moved as if to assist, but one lifeless hand pressed heavily, and the poor member with a little vitality motioned Mrs. Mountain not to stir.

So they remained, while hour after hour went by.

The noonday was upon them when again the old face brightened and the quavering voice said slowly:

“Yes, yes, I love her just as well.”

The silence that followed was not broken again, and soon the faithful sisters spread the white sheet over the dear dead.

That night, as they sat together in Mrs. Mountain’s stately parlor, Honora said with a sigh:

“Perhaps, Letitia, it is just as well the Colonel never spoke to you about marriage. His family was not so good as our own, but I thought it strange he could see you so often and not love you.”

And Letitia startled Mrs. Plum by contradicting her.

“Child alive, Honora! I always knew the Colonel loved the ground you trod on.”

OUR LITTLE NEIGHBORS.

A first of April story.

Jerry came in one spring morning wearing a very triumphant air. He caught the baby from the floor and tossed him as he said:

“Well, Kittie, I have taken the house.”

“Have you, dear? Now do just tell me all about it. Is it ‘The Cottage by the Sea’ or a ‘cobble-stone front’ at Riverdale? Have you plenty of neighbors, and a garden spot, and what rent? Pray don’t keep me in suspense!”

An amused smile passed over his face as he seated himself.

“Let me see, question No. 1. Is it the ‘Cottage by the Sea?’ Yes, if you choose, for the ocean is only three miles away; just a lovely drive or even walk through delicious pine wood. A ‘cobble-stone front?’ No, thank you. A small plain wooden box, of a dull gray color, well suited to its neighbors, for there is quite a community of Quakers in the vicinity. Neighbors near? Yes, decidedly, as our share is only half the box, after all. It was built for a summer home for two brothers, the Allens, next door to us, you know. Caleb cannot leave town this year, so we can occupy his quarters. Garden spot? Oh, yes; abundantly large, but all in one inclosure. The house is regularly divided, but the grounds are not. Don’t look worried, little wife; you and I and the baby are not likely to be troublesome, and I am sure Joseph Allen’s staid household will behave itself.”

And so on the “First of April” we moved. My costume was considerably demoralized when we reached our summer home. The baby had quite destroyed all the beauty my hat ever had, and my small nephew, who had insisted upon going to visit us the first day, was so timid in crossing the river that he clung to my draperies with too much fervor, and I presume that I was an object of pity to the few ladies in the cabin. Certain it is that I felt decidedly shabby, tired, and perhaps a trifle out of humor as I entered the cottage door and dropped my heavy boy on the clean, but carpetless floor. Bridget soon made her appearance with a list of the casualties, and as Jerry had not yet arrived, I was growing very gloomy when a light tap at the side entrance caused me to spring to my feet.

What a picture of simplicity and purity stood before me! I blushed at the contrast which my disordered finery presented! Here on my doorstep were two little wrens (I could call them nothing else, although they were certainly girls), one just a trifle taller and larger than the other; both with soft pink cheeks and brown hair cut close on the neck and parted smoothly and evenly, without a suggestion of crimp or curl. Their dresses were of a drab color, just visible below long white aprons, on which there was not even a superfluous button! Their linen sunbonnets boasted of no ruffles, and the colored stockings, which peeped from beneath their rather long dresses, were of the same shade. Little gray birds, with just such shy little ways!

The elder one looked up timidly and held toward me a basket, saying:

“Mother sent thee this lunch.”

“And don’t forget, Sallie,” whispered the younger, “don’t forget about the baby.”

“Thee can ask that, Debby.”

The only worldly looking feature between them was Debby’s blue eyes, and they sparkled and ran riot in spite of her, but her mouth was very serious as she asked:

“Would it not relieve thee if Sally and I were to ’tend the baby?” then glancing at my company, “the children, I mean, while thee lies down on mother’s bed.”

My eyes filled with tears at the thoughtfulness of these strangers. I had never known anything about “Quakers” before.

The baby was ready enough to exchange Bridget’s charms for the dainty little ladies’, and I clasped each of his small hands in Debby’s, but instantly she transferred one-half her treasure to sister Sally, who turned demurely, and said:

“Thank thee. We will watch over him, and presently, if thee thinks best, I can give him some milk.”

They had not quite reached the garden when Johnny burst forth. In great wrath he was indeed.

“Do they fink I am a baby!” he roared out. “Get my cap, I want to go on the boat again!”

“On the boat, Johnny!”

He colored, and remembering his terror, revenged himself upon me by saying:

“I s’pose the reason they calls me chillen is ’cause they’s such ole womans demselves;” and having flung his parting shot he walked off with great dignity.

A moment later he was lunching superbly from cold chicken and apple tart out of the “’ole womans’” basket! Such is mortal man!

Although I felt inclined to decline my little neighbor’s invitation to “lie down on mother’s bed,” it was a great help to me to have the baby so well cared for, and Bridget’s stout arms ready to stretch and nail carpets. Down they went rapidly, and was it the fresh breeze from the ocean, wafted through the pine trees, or was it the glass of rich Jersey milk that toned me up to such a cheery condition that, when Jerry’s step sounded on the gravel, I rushed to meet him, singing “Home, Sweet Home”?

The good man was delighted with my progress, and especially with my report of the lovely little neighbors, which I lingered over.

“And where are they now, Kittie?”

“Let us go quietly out to the garden and see, for I am sure I do not intend to impose on good nature by giving over baby entirely to them.”

The tall drooping willow tree in the grass plot sheltered a lovely group. Baby mine, sound asleep in the big clothes basket, was snugly tucked up and protected by the little ladies, attended by that fickle youth, Master Johnny. His squeaky voice was plainly heard explaining the mysteries of Cat’s Cradle and Wood Sawyer. But in a moment more he called wildly:

“Ain’t that a big snake on the baby?” His companions sprang forward hurriedly, but the vicious boy only replied, “April Fool.” The two girls hung their heads and colored. I held my breath. I could not believe they did not understand the joke. It was only an instant, and then Sally, laying her soft hand on stupid little Johnny’s head, said in the silvery voice, so low and clear:

“Dear, could thee not just as well say ‘Fourth Month Dunce’?”

PAMELIA TEWKSBURY’S COURTSHIP.

In a certain section of Central New York the contour of the hills forms a remarkable resemblance to a huge _pitcher_, and by this name the region has long been known.

A few years since my husband and I, with a young son, took a delightful outing through that locality. Having our own horses and carriage, we made a very leisurely journey, aiming always for a comfortable resting place at night, and bearing away with us each morning a hamper containing luncheon for ourselves and a bag of oats for the ponies. Thus equipped, we traversed the distance to our next lodging according to our daily whim; picnicking at noon, in true gypsy fashion, beneath some pine trees, or beside a rippling stream; turning from coffee and sandwiches to a delicious course of “Humorous Sketches,” or a siesta upon pine boughs.

Many comical adventures had we. It was difficult to convince the country people, who often stopped to chat with us, that this was recreation. They invariably demanded a legitimate reason for such unusual proceedings, and more than one inquiring visitor searched the light vehicle for some wares that he had “made sure” we were peddling.

Genuine offers of hospitality were not wanting, and many a pedestrian found a seat in the comfortable little carriage.

It so happened one morning that my husband was somewhat bewildered by the conjunction of several roads, and seeing in advance of us a sturdy figure moving forward at a good pace we hurried to overtake it. At the sound of approaching wheels, and the words “My friend, can thee tell me just where _Pitcher_ lies?” a genial countenance was turned toward us.

“Wal, I reckon, this here,” indicating the abrupt hills just before us, “is the handle. What part be ye looking fer?”

He had a ruddy face, very grizzly as to beard, and when he removed his weather-worn hat his smooth, bald crown, with a fringe of white curls, seemed an unfit accompaniment for the twinkling eyes of deep blue--such eyes as one sometimes sees in babies, wholly undimmed by care or tears.

“Why, I really don’t know,” laughed my husband; “I was directed to Hosmer’s Inn.”

“Oh, ho! that’s atwixt the nose and the swell. Now ye are smiling, and well ye may; but just step out here and ye can see that God A’mighty shaped a perfecter pitcher out of them hills than most men can turn on a wheel--no, ye can’t drive nigh to this stump, and that’s whar yer woman wants to stand.”

He helped us all to alight, gave me his hand as I climbed to the top of the stump, and pointed with his thumb to a rise of ground far in the rear.

“That thar’s the rim, being what the pitcher ought to rest on if the Lord had sot it on end.” There was no possible irreverence in his tone. “Hereabouts,” a rolling section nearer us, “is the swell. Just across Bub’s left shoulder lies the nose, and here right for’ard is the beginning of the handle. Foller it--see it curves jest so.”

It was very plain, and we all expressed our complete understanding of the “lay of the land.”

“There is jest four p’ints where you can see the whole figger to onct. Here, by this hick’ry stump; yander, north of the nose; south of them pines ye see, and kinder back of the rim. Them’s all, but it’s worth a journey--and I take it ye are travelers--to see how darned perfect the thing is. Looked to right, it couldn’t be beat; and I reckon, somehow, it’s about so with the most of God A’mighty’s doin’s--ef we look to ’em _right_ they’re about perfect, that’s all there is of it.”

My husband thanked the old man cordially and invited him to ride with us if his route lay that way.

“Wal, now, I don’t care ef I do, squire. Ye hev the speech of the Quakers and them’s mighty good folk, and it haint often nowadays that I get behind two such spankin’ roans as them be. Nor,” as he clambered into the front seat, “nor nigh so sensible a looking woman--yer wife, maybe?”

“Yes; this is my wife and son.”

“It’s a darned good thing to hev yer wife with ye, along in life. I haint never had one yit,” he added evasively.

We all smiled, but the old man didn’t notice it. My husband spoke of the crops, of the fine air and good water. Our visitor answered in monosyllables. At last, pointing to a white gleam in the distance, he said, almost gleefully:

“Now, thar’s a woman livin’ in that house, that I cal’late to call my wife one o’ these days; but time an’t come yet.”

“How so?” asked I, rather hastily, I fear, for I scented a romance.

“Wal, it’s a long story, but ef ye an’t amiss I’d jest as lief tell it. We’re mor’n six miles from Hosmer’s.” And with this little introduction the story proceeded.

“It was in 1846 that I first come to the nose. Our farm lay afar off to the rim--a little mite further. But our deestric wa’n’t a-goin’ to keep no school that winter; so I up and asked father ef I dassent go off somewheres and get a job o’ chores fer my board, and so git one more term of schoolin’. He hadn’t no objections, and kinder thought it over, and spoke about Deacon Hinman at the nose being laid up with _teesick_ and reckoned how he might want me. So I packed my big red han’kercher full o’ traps and socks and shirts, and away I come. I can see myself now a-bobbin’ up and down this very lane. It wa’n’t worked by team then, and it was full o’ yaller-rod and spikenet, for it had been an awful pretty fall. So I, like a boy--and I love to pick ’em yit--hung a posy bed around my neck, and clean forgot it when I knocked at the deacon’s side door. And what do ye think? The durndest prettiest gal up and opened it. I never was so took back. I allers knowed Deacon Hinman hadn’t no darters; and there she stood and me a-meachin’, till all at once she said:

“‘A-peddlin’ posies?’

“Then my feelin’ came back, and I answered her quick: ‘Do you like ’em?’

“And she took ’em, and was a-turnin’ away as red as a piny herself when I recollected the deacon’s teesick. So I stepped in the room and sot down on the settee, and says I: ‘How’s the deacon?’

“‘He’s abed,’ says she.

“‘Got a man around?’

“‘Ef we haint it’s none o’ your business. I’m man enough to tell ye that, and if ye haint got nothin’ better to do than to sass folks and string posies ’round yer neck, I’d thank ye to git up and go.’

“I do not know as I ever heard Pamely Tewksbury say so much to onct in all my days since, fer she a’nt no talker; but, land’s sake, didn’t she skeer me, and didn’t she look purty! I kinder shook all over, so I scarce got tongue to tell her who I was and what fetched me. She was ashamed enough then; I see it in her eyes, but she didn’t never tell me. No, sir. That a’nt her way.

“The deacon’s wife came in jest then, half a-cryin’, for the cow had kicked her, and it didn’t take long afore we struck a bargain, and in the evenin’s she told me all about the deacon’s teesick and her rheumatiz; but the only thing I could remember was that the gal was the deacon’s niece come to live with them, and her name was Pamely.

“My! how that winter flew by. I don’t reckon I l’arned a great deal to school, but I knew jest how many sticks of wood het the stove up right to bake, and how to plan to git time fer the churning Saturdays, and to turn out the wash-water Monday nights fer a gal who never said tire--but I couldn’t a-bear to see them little arms a-liftin’ so.