Chapter 7

Yet, with all his faith, wisdom, and virtue, he was by no means perfect. Several of the frailties of humanity he had failed to overcome, and a few of its sinful impulses he found the discipline of life no more than competent to rule. He was honest and upright to a nice conviction, and a large and gracious heart lay beating in his breast; but brief moments would now and then take him by surprise, in which he sighed for another and more pretending sphere; and he regretted to feel growing almost imperceptibly upon him, an unwarrantable love of show and praise. Still, perhaps we should regard these and other little errors more as misfortunes than sins, and attribute them measurably to the effect of growing fortune, and the influence of the world with which he had more and more to do.

Nor did such a faith in the Father, nor such an estate of beauty and affluence, render his life a perpetual or unqualified joy. Men would not be men if perfect joy and peace were theirs, and the glowing robes of angels dressed them. He had never prayed to be taken out of the world of trials and griefs; but to be kept from iniquity. Religion had not power to remove all sorrows from his life; but he prayed it might aid him to overcome them; to rise above them stronger and better, for the strength and courage required and employed to quell their stout assaults. That early, and most trying, unaccountable sorrow of his life, the loss of his beloved Clinton, still chastened his joy, and returned at times in all the freshness of its agony: and it was rendered more poignant and lasting by the painful mystery which concealed his fate, and fed suspense, and excited solicitous thoughts and cares.

But faith had a power so to lift and sustain the troubled spirit, and draw it away from communion with its griefs, he enjoyed a preponderance of elevated bliss. He had loved his parents with an affection which could endure the loss of their society only with the hope of having them restored to him hereafter; and many of his pleasures had been sobered, and life itself became more serious, and at times more desolate, since they both had been gathered to the grave. But there was a serene and unsubduable joy of the spirit abiding all the assaults of sorrow, that shone forth like gold from the fire of the refiner, and glowed like cheerful sunshine through the dusky wings of a storm.

His home had still remaining much solid happiness, for Julia lived to participate his fortune, to share his affliction, and strengthen his hopes; and the genial ardors of her youth, with love of Nature, and delight in rural fellowships, though calmed and refined by suffering, were yet her being's light and joy. Her simple home, and its peaceful scenes, and lovely enjoyments, were symbols to her mind, not unprophetic of the home of the soul on high.

It was a simple home, for their new frame house was not then commenced, except in the piles of boards and shingles that were gathering around the barn; but what if there was no embroidered muslin, or garish damask at the windows, and they looked through little narrow panes of blue and blistered glass? Did not their eyes find a recompense in the twinkling wings and warbling songs that flitted and floated in the air around? and in glorious landscapes of fields, and waters, and woods, that a glance could catch and hold through the smallest light! Did not the curtains of verdure beneath and about, and the infinite canopy of splendid sky above, make the bravest of all ambitious ornaments hung by man or woman's hands, look little and coarse as a rag of baize?

One only sorrow remained for Julia to conquer; and how could the triumph be won? She sorrowed still for the loss of her lovely first-born. She could not doubt but God permitted it in love. Perhaps had Clinton been spared, he might have imbibed some sentiment of evil, which would have poisoned his beautiful nature and prompted him away into paths of sin. Young Walter Mowry was a prodigal, and likely to bring down his poor old mother in sorrow to the grave. George Richmond had no idea of the value of the money left him as a father's hard-earned legacy; no self-reliance; and was likely to die miserable and poor. Perhaps, had Clinton lived to enjoy the blessings of such a home, he had been a poor prodigal, or met misfortunes and griefs.

Then she must acknowledge, that while her heart had been afflicted, it had been softened and refined; while her faith had been tried, it had grown strong and buoyant as an eagle's wings. Heaven seemed all about her now, as it had not seemed before her bereavement; the lights of its holy joy came gleaming through the veil; and its pure inhabitants were felt to range around, and sympathize, and bless.

As a central bliss of existence, Fanny had grown to early womanhood, while her mother seemed still young to be her companion, and Fanny was blooming as the flowers and trees that had been her communicants, pure as the fountains that mirrored her loveliness, and blithe as the birds that welcomed her rural walks. Fanny stood above a medium height, and though she stooped a little at the wool-wheel, and in a ramble on the hills, she presented a comely figure and interesting mien.

She was too white to please all tastes; her hair was almost a cream-color; yet it was long, abundant and glossy, and was greatly admired by some. Her eyes were the lightest sky-blue, yet they were full and quick, and flashed the fire of a luminous soul; and not glassy and languid, as blue eyes often are. She had a nose, mouth and teeth, like her father's, with her mother's cheeks, all ruddy-red with her mother's maiden blushes. She had hands and feet for a Bloomer, had Bloomers bloomed in her time. She had a round, clear, hilarious voice, that gave the birds lessons in melody, softened and sweetened the gentlest gales, and gladdened the day and the night on the farm. She loved her home and friends; she loved Irving, and Scott, and Goldsmith; she loved Beattie's Minstrel, Milton's Comus, and Campbell's Wyoming; she loved the garden and fields; she loved the woods, and lake, and sky; she loved bee-balm and clover; she loved double-pinks, and double-roses; she tasted the fragrance of peaches and apples, with a purer zest than that which relished their pleasant pulps; and every lovely and tender creature found in her a friend.

In Fanny, her mother found more joy--upon Fanny her mother centered more lavish affection than she could have afforded or realized, had another grown by her tide, to divide the endearments of the household. But, O, the agony she would sometimes feel at the recollection of that year of sorrow! How it would bow her spirit, and run thrilling along the delicate fibres of her heart! That night of woe! That panther scream! That dream of Troffater! That recovered hat, now sacredly treasured to remind her of her idol! That lingering, sad suspense! Those sleepless nights, and comfortless days! How could she forget them, nor shudder in convulsions of anguish, as often as they rolled back like lava-floods on her soul?

And the suspense which still haunted her! The dream and dying words of her mother breathed hope to struggling desire, but reason banished assurance as soon as it rose, and how dreadful the suspense that supported the mystery! Could she have known that he was devoured by a wolf or panther, and suffered no more, what an occasion of joy it had been! what relief to sorrow, what an end to disappointments, compared with this dreary and brooding uncertainty, which preyed upon her nature like a never-dying worm! How precious must have been the faith which could mitigate a sorrow like that, and introduce the suffering heart to seasons of joy and intervals of peace!

XIV.

THE COLD SEASONS.

For a good, long period, fruitful seasons and liberal blessings came on the Lake Country. The last was a year of unusual abundance. Plenty poured her horn at every happy farmer's. Barns looked as if ready to burst with fulness, and stacks of hay and grain studded the pleasant fields. Cribs were piled full of corn, and cellars were stowed with provisions.

But earth would be heaven too soon if all evil and vicissitude were ended. Checks upon our prosperity must fall, and changes tax and interrupt our gains; and he is not most of a man who meets least evil, and loses least of the reward of toil; but he who endures with the manliest courage, the mightiest will to overcome, and most dexterous hand to manage for decided good, all troubles that assail him.

In the autumn of that abundant year, it was predicted that cold seasons were near at hand. The Indians saw their approach in the fur of the foxes, and the masonry of beavers. Farmers were confirmed in the prophecy by the extra stores of the bees, and extra husks on the ears of corn. A cold and snowy winter would certainly come, and they were but too truly assured that a cold spring and summer would follow. Several people heeded the warning, and hauled extra supplies of fire-wood, kept larger stores of provisions, and lived more thoughtfully and saving. Fabens took forethought, and prepared for the winter. He sold but little of his abundance, saying, "If cold seasons were to follow, stores of provisions were better to lay up than money or notes." He talked with his neighbors on the subject, and a number heeded his advice. He proposed making wood bees for several of the poor, and succeeded in seeing ample piles of beech and maple at their doors. He got up a committee to visit the poor throughout the winter, and see that no child of God suffered in so bountiful a world. Some people thought he was taking a great deal of trouble on his hands, without the prospect of any reward; but he assured them that, with every fire of comfort he built on a poor man's hearth, he built a new fire of pleasure in his own cheerful heart; and in the thing itself which they called trouble, he received such full and flowing tides of bliss, as made him think heaven could begin on earth. "It is not the crusty turtle," said he one day to Wilson, "it is not the crusty turtle, that slinks into his selfish shell, and twinkles so coldly his little haughty eye, that receives or communicates most pleasure or delight. No, it is the kindly lamb, that gives you his fleece for a winter garment; it is the sweet-hearted robin, that carries the seeds of abundance over God's plantations, and sings of His love by the poor man's cabin, and feeds and covers the babes in the woods."

There were some who laughed at his superstition for believing things in nature could warn men of the weather a month ahead; and they made no preparation for a change. But he remained confident, and believed God was speaking to him in symbols to set his house in order.

"God must stoop a good 'eal, I reckon, to become an almanic maker," said Colwell.

"God forges the snow-flake, and sprinkles down every drop of rain," said Fabens. "God teaches the squirrels to prepare for winter, and instructs the ant, and beaver, and bee; and why would it be stooping for him to teach as, by signs in nature, to be ready for the changes he may bring? He does his own work, and speaks his own mind on this world every single day; and if we look for his signs we shall be acquainted with his ways."

The prediction began to fulfil. On the last day of October a snow-storm fell, and Gloom cast her shadow on the chilling scene. Fabens called Fanny to the window to gaze at the scudding clouds and driving snow. With wondering eyes and open mouth, she stared and sighed on the dreary, howling winter. "We must train you, my dear," said he, "to court the winter blast, and laugh, and be thankful amid storms. That goodness of our Father which pours in the rain, blooms in the flowers of summer, and smiles in the sweet spring mornings, speaks also in the wind, floats on the clouds, and sifts softly down in the white, white snows of winter."

That is called the cold winter to this day. It was deep, and long, and dreary. Snow that fell in October was not melted away till the last April rains dissolved it. Wild animals died of cold and hunger; sheep and cattle perished in numbers in the warmest pens; tame and wild fowls were killed by the cutting frosts; and several families suffered extremely, notwithstanding the committee kept astir on the busiest labors of love. Fabens' woods were easiest to enter, and by the exertions of many, a road was every week opened to them, and the destitute were furnished free with new supplies. Yet, such was the pinch of one long storm, that Dickey Shymer burned up the bark he designed to sell for grog; and the poor mischief of a Troffater, having not so much as bark, burned his best bedstead, then burned his eel-rack, and was unstocking his musket for a last lonely fagot, when Fabens drove up with a towering load of green maple wood. Grog-dealers were kept from freezing and starving, but they did no business to speak of that winter. Even Tilly, with his desperate bandy legs, could not lead his gang to worry a way often to a tavern. They were forced to live soberly.

The spring at last came on, and by the tenth of May it was quite warm; and many believed the cold season story was told; and some laughed at Fabens and others, for sowing the last fall so many acres of wheat, and putting into the ground now such crops of peas, potatoes, and oats. Some sold off grain they had laid up in store for a famine, and the May sun shone so warmly, they planted considerable corn, expecting speculation.

The corn came up finely, and looked thrifty and dark. The forests were heavy with foliage. Fruit trees and meadows contended for the fairest blossoms. Dairies were diminished, so great was the prospect of summer grain; and Hope smiled sweetly on Summerfield. But clouds came over when the corn was at the first hoeing, and terror and disappointment stormed upon the land. Snow fell three feet deep on a level, and the cold stung all nature with a chill, that seemed blown from the lips of February.

The sun again shone, and the snow went off; but the corn drooped, and the leaves of the trees withered, as if a fire had scorched them. And the season proved a cold and frosty one; and many there were that wished they had sown winter grain, and oats, and peas; ploughed up less green sward, and kept larger dairies. Another cold winter and summer followed, and drearier days were never seen in the Lake Country. A few speculators thrived, and the forehanded had chances to make much money; but the poor, and those who had laid up small supplies before, and lived sparingly, were overtaken as by a wild storm on a moor, and suffered greatly.

Mr. and Mrs. Fabens made every exertion in their power to mitigate the griefs of the neighborhood; and they influenced several to join them in missions and labors of relief and love. Agreements were made, that they would sell all they could spare at the lowest possible prices, be lenient about pay, inculcate and practise the sternest economy, and regard speculators, in that time, as foes and oppressors of the people.

More forethought was exercised, and the last of the cold seasons was met with preparations that mitigated and cheered the grievous glooms. Dairies were enlarged, corn was abandoned, and the hardier grains supplied; and though suffering and anxiety abounded, the people were enabled to escape a famine; and with hearts poured out in thanks, they welcomed the return of seasons warm and fruitful.

There were many good people staggered by that stern and afflictive vicissitude. They could not conceive why it came. They could not reconcile it with the goodness of God. They saw not why, if He was good, there should be winter and storms at all; and not perpetual sunshine and summer. They questioned Fabens on the subject. Mr. Nimblet questioned him, and Colwell asked him to "clear up the character of his God." Mr. Nimblet had heard Fabens express a hope that God would overrule evil for good, questioned him on that hope, and adduced the cold seasons as illustrations.

"And how can you explain these things in accordance with such a hope, Squire Fabens?" asked he. "And why are there so many sufferings in which we can see no good?"

"Because with our blind eyes we cannot see the result of all that happens," said Fabens, "does it follow that we never shall behold them issuing in good?"

"O no; but why should we have winter at all, when continual summer would be so much more pleasant?"

"To me perpetual summer would not be more pleasant. We are so constituted that diversity of air, weather and prospects, is indispensable to our enjoyment, and progress. Would you appreciate the beauty and blessing of spring, summer and autumn, you must experience in their unfailing turn, the gloomy rigors of winter."

"But why have these last been colder than others, causing so much suffering and need?"

"I cannot see all the Divine design, but I can see a lesson of good in the cold seasons. We learn wisdom, and get strength and breadth of life by suffering. These last winters have taught many of us wisdom and forethought; made us prudent; showed us how dependent we are, and yet learned us self-dependence. After this I'll warrant, the people of Summerfield will do and save more in the summer, to lay up comforts for the winter; and provide for unseen needs. And I feel in my heart a warmer sympathy for suffering, and know a little of the satisfaction one enjoys assisting his neighbors; while I see our neighborhood bound together in stronger bonds of love, by the concern which those bitter cold storms forced us to take of one another. What would become of charity if there were no wants to relieve? or hope, if we could not keep looking for pleasanter springs and more fruitful summers?"

"But, cold summers came, and the corn was all cut off, giving nobody good for the labor of ploughing and planting."

"Good was done to our lands, neighbor Nimblet, good was certainly done to our lands. We had run our corn lands too hard; fruitful seasons tempted us to imprudence, and we were running them all out. They have had a long rest now and will be more productive. Beside, we have found out that there are many honest ways to get a living, and have learned how to shift from right hand to left. A knack like that is well worth learning."

"From lessons of evil?"

"Yes, from lessons of evil. Would the maples stand the storms as they do, and grow all the more; would the oaks get so great, if they sprung from a city hot-house?"

"Are you as happy as you would be, Squire, if you could remember no affliction?"

"I enjoy happiness of a higher, sweeter and solider kind, I assure you, as I think of all past sorrows. Who can have so sweet an enjoyment of health, as one that has recovered from sickness, and walks out in the animating air and light? Yes, some of my best joys come and cheer me and strengthen me, after I have suffered. From anguish and bereavement the brightest views of God have shone on my soul, as you have seen rainbows shine brightest in the darkest skies."

"I cannot see everything as you do," said Mr. Nimblet, and went his way, while Fabens was preparing to speak of several more blessings, that would follow the cold seasons.

XV.

A WAR OF EXTERMINATION.

The people of Summerfield were never so thankful or happy as in the beautiful year that followed the Cold-Seasons. Plenty returned to abide there, and Prosperity re-appeared, leading Hope, Comfort, Peace, and Joy in her jocund train. Still that continued a land of the earth, bearing the thorn as well as the rose, having briers as well as berries.

The people were greatly offended. Wolves and foxes still infested the woods, and many of their lambs and fowls were killed and eaten by the animals. They were hated with increased hatred. Not because they were any worse than they ever had been before; but the people grew impatient of annoyance, and found it more and more difficult to see why wolves and foxes were made; and why they were suffered to live, and prowl about the abodes of men.

The birds too were very troublesome. Woodpeckers pecked the trees, and robins plucked the first ripe cherries. Hawks pounced upon the chickens, and crows and blackbirds pulled the corn. What were they all made for, and poised upon wings, with an omnipresence to annoy our race? Robins were good to eat, and they were more harmless, than others; but why were blackbirds let loose on earth? and for what did crows and hawks take flight in our air? Why were the brutal beasts and troublesome fowls, saved out of the things that were drowned in Noah's flood?

Fabens confessed he could not see for what good purpose wolves and foxes were made; farther than the vagabond sort of happiness they might enjoy, and the discipline they gave to man in griefs and vexations. The predatory birds he thought were made equally in vain. He was tired all out with their felon ravages. He judged at last that wolves and foxes, and the blackbirds, and birds of prey, ought to be exterminated. Nothing now could so benefit the town, as a war of extermination, He could not raise a perfect crop of corn; he could not enjoy his ox-heart cherries; he could not raise a full brood of chickens, nor keep what were raised; he could not trust his geese from his door, nor turn his sheep and lambs into his fresh woods pasture, without suffering depredations; and something must be done to destroy the evil beasts and birds.

"We told you the first winter you was here, Fabens, that you would have to come to that," said Colwell. "It is high time a town meeting was called, and a general plan hit on to kill off the critters. I have my plan about it, and I have told it to a good many who fall in with me."

"What is your plan? The woods are alive with foxes, and there are a great many wolves yet away back in the swamps and hills, while the air is black with crows and blackbirds. How can we lessen their numbers much?"

"Club together and buy at the apothecaries a hundred dollars worth of pison; fix it in scraps of meat, and scatter it through and through the woods; and if it don't make the animals scarce, I'll quit a guessin'. Then git up a hunt for the birds--a univarsal hunt, and have judges and give premiums to them that count the most game; continue the hunt a week or fortnight for two or three years runnin', and the birds won't pester us much after that."

"The plan is a good one, and I'll do my part to carry it into execution. I am all out of patience with the creatures. If we do not kill more of them, they will get to be worse than Egypt's plagues."

A town meeting was called, and Colwell's plan was adopted. A large sum was contributed to procure poison; and bird hunts were arranged. The poison was scattered abroad, and hundreds of foxes and wolves lay dead all over the woods and swamps; while the money was returned with interest to the people, by the sale of furs gathered from their bodies. The bird hunts came off with equal success, and there followed a marked cessation of annoyance.

Only now and then a robin molested a fruit tree; and the tap of the woodpecker was seldom heard. Hawks and crows that were left, looked so wistful and lonely they were not begrudged the little they ventured at times to take. Blackbirds troubled the corn but little, and were more reserved of their mannerless clack. The fowls could repose at night without fear of foxes; and lambs might wander in the wide woods pasture, and lie down unharmed by wolves.