When Folks 
 
 Was Folks 
 
 By 
 ELIZABETH L. BLUNT 
 
 Cochrane Publishing Company 
 
 Tribune Building 
 
 New York 
 
 1910 
 
 01-
 
 Copyright, 1910, by 
 COCHRANE PUBLISHING Co.
 
 UNIV. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES 
 
 To My Children 
 
 2125600
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS. 
 (An idyl of the 1840's) 
 
 "There comes a voice that wakes my soul, 
 It is the voice of the years that are gone ; 
 They roll before me with their deeds." 
 
 OSSIAN.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I OLD RAVENNA 7 
 
 II UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE HILL . . 17 
 
 III GRANDMOTHER LEE AND AUNT BETSY . . 26 
 
 IV GRANDMOTHER'S PARLOR 37 
 
 V OLD SQUARE BIBBINS ....... 43 
 
 VI THE SABBATH 53 
 
 VII GRANNY GARNSEY 63 
 
 VIII BRIDGET DONOVAN 73 
 
 IX JENNET 76 
 
 X UNCLE BEN 88 
 
 XI OLD SAM 94 
 
 XII THE MITE SOCIETY . . 101 
 
 XIII THE QUILTING .107 
 
 XIV ENOCH'S WIFE 114 
 
 XV THE LOG HOUSE 120 
 
 XVI ELDER PERKINS 132 
 
 XVII THE SINGING-SCHOOL 138 
 
 XVIII (1) GENERAL TRAINING 143 
 
 (2) THE DONATION PARTY .... 146 
 XIX DEACON LEE THE PASSING OF THE 
 
 PURITAN 151 
 
 XX THE CLASH OF THE OLD AND NEW . . 163 
 
 XXI JENNET HAS A BEAU 167 
 
 XXII L'ENVOI 172
 
 When Folks Was Folks 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 OLD RAVENNA. 
 
 IN central New York, where the hills are high and the 
 valleys narrow, and where pebbly stones are a full half 
 of the furrow turned by the plow, there runs a small 
 stream whose waters/ at last pour themselves into the 
 Susquehanna. With a soft fringe of willow it glides 
 through groves of maple, bass and buttonwood, where 
 wild grape-vines climb to ripen their clusters in the early 
 frosts. Butternuts and beeches drop hospitality and cheer 
 for winter hearth and squirrel's nest. And behind, the 
 meadows break suddenly into steep hills with a broad 
 calm sweep of sky-line. 
 
 Here, the best part of a century back, lived a com- 
 munity of farmers. Large houses with comfortable out- 
 buildings, well-stocked dairies, kitchen gardens, poultry 
 yards and smoke-houses ; cellars bursting with potatoes, 
 onions, turnips, parsnips, carrots, squash and pumpkins; 
 nuts and apples from ungrafted orchards, with pasture 
 and wind-fall growing wild berries all bespoke the thrift 
 and ease that come close on the heels of pioneers when 
 decent folk think it no shame to be provincial. 
 
 The second generation was still cutting down forests 
 to secure a wider acreage, and pushing them into pits to 
 be burned to charcoal. Cords of hemlock bark ready 
 stripped for the tannery lined the highways. Strange 
 looking peddlers were wandering over the country roads 
 with huge packs tied up in bed-ticking, equally eager for
 
 8 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 Spanish shillings and a knowledge of the English language. 
 Other hawkers traversed regular routes with horse and 
 wagon, carrying household articles for barter. If these 
 seldom missed a customer, they met their match in the 
 shrewd housewife eager to exchange her salt pork, but- 
 ter, cheese, or wood ashes at a bargain. In train too 
 came the tinker to mend the family tin-ware, to sit by 
 the kitchen fire and dispense neighborhood gossip, or now 
 and then bring a welcome bit of news from remote rela- 
 tive or friend who lived within the circle of his wan- 
 derings. 
 
 Travel was slow and laborious. Merchants went once 
 or twice a year to Albany or New York, and when 
 after fifty miles by stage over rough muddy roads they 
 reached the Erie Canal, the rest of the journey by 
 packet was a luxury indeed. One venturesome young 
 man had gone as far South as New Orleans selling 
 Magnetic Ointment and Mudge's Pills a feat which 
 for distinction ranked him with ex-congressmen and 
 patriots who had gained coveted honors by serving in 
 the State militia. 
 
 The valley already boasted a few industries; a saw- 
 mill, a grist-mill, a cooper-shop, which made sap buckets 
 and butter-tubs for sugar-bush and dairy, a tannery 
 where rawhides were turned to leather to be fashioned 
 again into boots and shoes by the village shoemaker; 
 a carding-machine where huge fleeces became the rolls 
 of wool that the housewife spun and knit into stockings 
 and mittens, and a woollen-mill that wove fulled cloth 
 for men's wear, and stuff for blankets and winter dresses. 
 A few miles to the north the De Lands were making 
 their first rude experiments in pearl-ash, and near-by 
 stood the long curious shed that harbored the rope-walk. 
 These, with a tin-shop, a harness-shop, and a gun-shop, 
 met the simple needs of the community.
 
 Up the valley about midway, where the road lingers 
 a moment under shadow of the long hills, lay Ravenna, 
 the largest and most thriving of its tiny villages. Here 
 was the ''Brick Store," on whose counters everything 
 was current, from calico and candy to hardware and 
 paper. Farm products could be exchanged for coffee, 
 spice, and tools. The post-office was in one corner, and 
 on the next floor above was housed the village lawyer, 
 making his tidy profit off the quarrels of his neighbors. 
 
 Chairs drawn up around the warm stove furnished a 
 general lounging-place after the day's work was done. 
 Here on the long wintry evenings hard-featured, kindly 
 men, with a heavy sense of duty, weighed in a sort of 
 honest shrewdness the advantages and disadvantages of 
 annexation with Texas. Or, 'interspersed with the filling 
 of clay pipes, spitting at a mark, and heaping fresh logs 
 on the fire, the veterans of "eighteen-twelve" would ha- 
 rangue with authority on Clay and Webster, Calhoun and 
 Randolph. And when the mystery of life had them in 
 its grip, as from time to time it gets us all, they would 
 pound out some theory of accidents, prospect on the na- 
 ture of life after death, speculate on the fate of Brigham 
 Young driven from Illinois at point of bayonet, or guess 
 the portent of the fiery comet seen at noon-day./ 
 
 Not far from the Brick Store was a little, low, one- 
 roomed shop that bore the sign N. B. Ives, Tailor. 
 Here I was sent once a year for list to nail on the door- 
 ways against the winter cold. The tailor's goose on the 
 stove, Sniffin sewing on the bench, the smell of pressed 
 woollen, and the sleek master of the shop, made a picture 
 still fresh in my mind this, and the school-children call- 
 ing along the street "Take notice ! Take notice, Ives !" 
 
 The fashion plates in the window were my delight. 
 The men were so handsome and so elegantly dressed 
 far more so than any who walked the streets of our vil-
 
 10 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 lage; they could be matched only by the fair damsels 
 who minced in wonderful toilettes across the page of 
 colored fashions in Godey's Ladies' Book with red and 
 blue and purple gowns, fringed crepe shawls, and pink 
 bonnets tied under the chin, flaring to show their "arti- 
 ficials." 
 
 The tailor was the most dressy man in the village, his 
 clothes at the same time advertising his business, and 
 satisfying an inner craving for the beautiful. In his' 
 idle moments he cultivated an avocation that gained him 
 some distinction. It was in the day before Wickwire 
 had invented screens, and as the business of fly-catching 
 was not yet lucrative, it was: still honorable and might 
 even be classed with the arts. When business was dull, 
 "Take Notice Ives" would sk in his chair at the Brick 
 Store, and, let him but raise his hand, conversation would 
 stop, interest become intense, wagers fly fast ; seldom 
 indeed did it fall without a buzzing prisoner. No other 
 could do the trick more than once in a thousand times. 
 This skill alone made him a noted man, and, in later 
 years, his trade given up, he pursued no other business. 
 
 The man who did the sewing in the shop was called 
 Sniffin, a good name for one who sat cross-legged and 
 silent on the tailor's bench all the week, stitching, stitch- 
 ing as I thought, just doing women's work. No one 
 knew where he had come from, for the heat of argu- 
 ment never drew from him more than a bare "Yes" or 
 "No." 
 
 Sunday he got off his wooden bench, and we found 
 he had only one leg. Often he would hobble away by 
 himself and spend the whole day on the grass in some 
 corner of the rail fence by the roadside. When driving 
 to church, all safely tucked under my father's arm, I 
 found him an object of interest, whittling his stick, or 
 eating an apple, and muttering under his breath.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 11 
 
 But if I were on foot and alone, it was different. Still 
 an object of dread even when silent and grave, if. in a 
 rage, he began thrashing his arms wildly about his head, 
 well, he was sublime. Many a time I have turned and 
 fled, or boldly asserting, "God will take care of me 
 God will take care of me," I have walked by very fast 
 on the other side of the road. Snifnn's eye! I really 
 dared not glance behind for fear he should be looking. 
 He lived to be very old and died quite peacefully in his 
 bed, but not so long ago, and he had paid the penalty of 
 the Evil Eye. 
 
 Across the street was the shop of Jeremiah Dix, on 
 the upper shelves of which stood long rows of silk hats 
 carefully done up in white papers lest, in the long inter- 
 vals between calls for this genteel article, their fair lustre 
 be dimmed with the soil and grime of the everyday 
 world. These hats had come from Albany years before 
 when Jeremiah had returned from serving his appren- 
 ticeship, and were a monument to his craft, for in those 
 days the skill of a hatter lay not so much in the selling, 
 the people's needs regulated that as in the making. 
 Wool hats with their air-tight guarantee were still a new 
 thing. They were made in the back room where, in the 
 air thick from steaming boilers of hot suds and dyes, 
 Conkey sat all day stretching wet wool over wooden 
 blocks. 
 
 Conkey was a great man. This small wiry frame that 
 might be carrying any number of years from youth to 
 age housed a fervid soul. No villager ha'd been so far 
 as he. Born somewhere on the Cornish coast, he had 
 plunged still deeper into mystery by the strange char- 
 acter of his sea voyages, and his adventures in far coun- 
 tries among hitherto unknown peoples. A veritable Sin- 
 bad was Conkey to the boys, who would collect about 
 him on summer evenings as he sat smoking his pipe in
 
 12 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 front of the shop. Poor D. P. C. Conkey! He used 
 often in sentimental mood to translate his numerous 
 initials as, "Damn Poor Cuss Conkey," all which gave 
 him enviable distinction with the rising generation. 
 
 "It's the dimijohn, boys, the dimijohn we uses in the 
 hart o' 'at-manufacture as 'as cut my career in his flow- 
 er," and Conkey would shake his head in warning, for 
 no one in Ravenna had more correct moral ideas than 
 he, poor soul. Yet I doubt if there was a boy there but 
 would gladly have embraced the demijohn, crippled ca- 
 reer, and life among steaming vats, to be the hero of 
 Conkey's yarns. Nor for all his wise saws could you 
 suspect Conkey at bottom of the least dissatisfaction 
 with his lot. 
 
 The refreshing smile of Jeremiah Dix in some measure 
 counteracted the smell of greasy wool and fur, and the 
 shop was a favorite place for talking over local politics, 
 and discussing the latest news from Congress. The good 
 cheer dispensed so freely from behind the counter was 
 a famous antidote for blues. Jeremiah had walked on 
 one foot with the help of a crutch since he was twelve 
 years old, and even now in middle life he sometimes 
 suffered agonies from the rude surgery of eighteen- 
 twenty-five, whose smooth cut had left the cords and 
 muscles to shrink back, causing the most exquisite tor- 
 ture. Yet in spite of the pain, and the second operation, 
 undergone without anaesthetic, the awkward crutch, and 
 humble ' pride, no one in the village so kindly, so un- 
 selfish, so helpful as Uncle Jeremiah. 
 
 "Don't cry, little one," he says to the child in tears 
 because her kitten is lost. "What ! Did kitty run away 
 on four legs? She'll run back on four legs, see if she 
 don't." 
 
 To Wilson, poor and discouraged, laboring in a near- 
 by village over his not yet completed sewing-machine,
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 13 
 
 "What does that long face mean?" he would exclaim. 
 "You're as solemn as the town-clock. Why, you're a 
 young man. Keep your courage up ! you'll be a million- 
 aire yet ! Then you'll look down on us poor country 
 folk. Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 And long after, when Wilson's invention had harvested 
 its million, he sought out the one-legged man and thanked 
 him for his example of pluck and persistence, which beat 
 back untoward circumstances and scattered a kind of 
 bottled sunshine wherever he went. 
 
 Up and down the street from the Brick Store and its 
 humble neighbors stretched a row of white houses with 
 green blinds, each in the center of a grass plot, cool 
 with the shade of elms and maples. Well-worn paths led 
 through daffodils and pinks to side stoops shrouded in 
 lilacs and syringas. From behind came glimpses of neat 
 kitchen gardens bright with occasional hollyhocks and 
 roses. Fresh, clean, sunny, in and out, there was little 
 here to suggest the mystery or romance of decay. 
 
 But in the Lower Village, wrapped in a distinction of 
 flagstone walks, gloomy pines, and fantastic story, was 
 the Red Brick House. Here had lived since long before 
 eighteen-twelve old Aristarchus Edred, who, as tradi- 
 tion went, had wed Abigail Howe in the woods by 
 moonlight. 
 
 Again and again must the grandmothers tell the story 
 of those first days how as yet marriage had raised no 
 question of licensed preacher, and how Aristarchus must 
 go twenty miles away to fetch one from the neighboring 
 county. The wedding day dawned fair thus ran the 
 tale over the hill rode Aristarchus and his prize. With 
 noise, and bustle and shout came the lumbering country 
 wagons packed with guests, and along forest trails gal- 
 loped many a good man stout in his saddle, child in front 
 and good wife on the blanket behind.
 
 14 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 Wraps once bestowed on the spare bed there was a 
 hurried rush to the kitchen, where the great dinner was 
 in preparation. Stores of good things stood ready in 
 the pantries, to which it seemed Grandmother added 
 some new and delectable dainty with every repetition of 
 the tale. Roast venison, chickens, turkeys, pigs, fruit 
 cakes, pound cakes, green currant and dried-apple pies, 
 cookies, crullers, cups of custard flecked with bits of 
 currant jelly, huge decanters of elderberry wine, and 
 ever so much more, Grandmother would assure me. A 
 great kettle of potatoes was hung on the crane, coffee 
 simmered on the hearth, laughing, busy, chattering wo- 
 men flew about setting the table, paring, chopping, slicing, 
 tasting everything. 
 
 Meantime in the front yard the men in coarse home- 
 spun with long woolen stockings stood around or leaned 
 against the rail fence talking of the crisis now Washing- 
 ton was dead, prospecting on another war with England, 
 and wondering to themselves when dinner would be 
 ready. 
 
 At last it was over, the dishes washed, and the wedding 
 supper laid. The ceremony was to be .early, as some of 
 the guests came from a distance. Now book in hand 
 the long black-coated parson stands before the shrinking 
 Abigail, and Aristarchus, faultless in a fresh-starched 
 bosom, black satin stock, wine-colored velvet "wescot," 
 black coat and small clothes, white silk stockings, and 
 silver buckled shoes. 
 
 "H'm !" gasped the minister, closing the book with a 
 snap. 
 
 "What's the matter ? What's the matter ?" 
 
 "Brethren." Then he stopped short. He looked 
 around vaguely as if awakened from a dream. "Re- 
 member His majesty, the mystery of His awful dispen-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 15 
 
 sation," he ran on as if seeking inspiration in words. 
 "Fix your minds rather on the goods of eternity " 
 
 "What's this nonsense?" asked Aristarchus, more hu- 
 man than reverent. 
 
 "Conquer your mind in the Lord, my brother say 
 He giveth, He taketh away blessed be His name forever, 
 amen. But let not this hinder the refreshing the body 
 doth not the Book say there be times for all things?" 
 
 "Why, Elder ! What's wrong ? What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I am moved by a divine warning that I may not law- 
 fully perform this holy rite outside the precincts of my 
 own county." 
 
 Imagine the wail of the ladies, the lofty unconcern of 
 the men, and through it all the ringing voice of Aris- 
 tarchus. 
 
 "Saddle your horses, neighbors, and fetch round your 
 wagons; see to it your lanterns have plenty of oil; I say 
 this wedding is coming off." 
 
 There is a clatter of horses' hoofs, .a rumble of wagons 
 over rough roads, and they are off by the shortest cut 
 to the next county. There, under the green trees of a 
 maple grove, by the light of the moon and some dozen 
 or two hymeneal torches, Aristarchus and Abigail are 
 made man and wife. 
 
 Half a century had vanished, and the lovers as I knew 
 them were old and grey and feeble. Poor Aristarchus! 
 Poor Abigail ! Little enough in the halting step and 
 withered cheek to recall the fire and beauty of that long 
 ago. Yet this bit of poetry rescued from the twilight 
 of two generations was like a magic dew in which the 
 aged couple renewed their youth each morning not a 
 child in the village who tKbught them really old. 
 
 The people of Ravenna were simple folk whose ambi- 
 tion aspired no further than to thrift in business, regular 
 attendance on divinely appointed worship, and the honest
 
 16 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 effort to be good men and women. Neither wealth nor 
 want complicated the social order. They did the best 
 they knew with what they had to make life useful and 
 attractive. Living for the most part happy and contented 
 lives, they accepted with resolute mind what of grief or 
 disappointment came their way, unwracked by the great 
 passions of ambition, jealousy, emulation, or the agony 
 that waits on lost opportunity and failure.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE HILL. 
 
 ABOUT a mile from the Brick Store, on a road winding 
 up from the valley to Union Center, there stood at the 
 time of which I speak a large two-story frame house, a 
 broad hall running through the middle parlors on either 
 side, and kitchen and dairies stretching back into a fra- 
 grant garden. In summer, trees and shrubs nearly 
 screened it from the occasional passer-by a mountain 
 ash crowned with scarlet berries, locusts whence the 
 woodpecker drew his breakfast of soft grubs, a four- 
 trunked balm-of-Gilead with spicy leaves and tasseled 
 flowers, and maples spreading, in the strong north wind 
 of autumn, a rug of brown and yellow and crimson 
 leaves over the fading greensward. 
 
 Through the dooryard wound a gravel path edged with 
 the yellow daffodils of early spring, and the hollyhocks, 
 larkspur, and sweet william of late midsummer. Clumps 
 of bluebells and columbine nodded in every breeze, drop- 
 ping their shiny seeds in autumn for the next year's 
 resurrection. Tall heavy-scented lilacs and wax-apple 
 shrubs stood in odd corners, with here and there bright 
 bunches of peonies, odorous bergamot, and feathery 
 stalks of caraway. 
 
 To the rear was the kitchen garden, full of summer 
 vegetables and sweet-smelling herbs. A well-worn path 
 led to the early apple tree, under which was the row of 
 bee-hives overhung on hot July days by a fretwork of 
 returning insects heavy with the juice and perfume of far- 
 away flowers. Currant and gooseberry bushes lined the 
 fences, not too nice in that day to jostle in friendlywise 
 with nettles, burdock, worm-wood, and horseradish.
 
 18 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 Through the haze of near three quarters of a century 
 steals the picture of a summer afternoon calves feeding 
 in the paddock close by, pigs crowding and pushing the 
 fence in the lazy comfort of a noon-day sleep ; the trickle 
 of the spring falling into the trough from a mass of 
 pussy-willows and ladies' ear-drops ; the lane climbing the 
 hill whence the cows came at nightfall from the pasture 
 high toward the sky-line ; cords of wood ready for the stove 
 piled by the kitchen door, or lying in logs to be chopped 
 and split in odd hours, and chips drying in the sun and 
 wind ; the well-sweep hung from the tall post and its pail 
 of bricks and stones to balance the bucket in the cool 
 depths ; the bench near-by, with the basin and towel and 
 mirror, poles overrun with hop-vines rustling down the 
 roof and sides of the stone smoke-house and its treasures 
 of hams and beef ; across the road the barns, the long line 
 of barn-swallows' nests, the carriage-house, the famous 
 two-seated carriage, the heavy pegs, and the side-saddles. 
 
 The barnyard is almost deserted, the old hen-turkeys 
 have taken their broods to the tall grass, and only the 
 rustle of the gray tops or an occasional cluck-cluck tell 
 their whereabouts. The ducks have waddled off to the 
 river just a patch of gray, green, and blue in the dis- 
 tance. Only the rooster and his dozen hens, each with 
 a flock of chickens scratching their living from the soil, 
 breathe of life. 
 
 And behind it all the bulwark of the valley a hill so 
 high the cows never reach the summit and the path of 
 the wood-choppers is lost half way. When the sun bids 
 the valley good-bye each evening, and leaves the river 
 and its shadows and the branches of the elms dropping 
 their sorry courtesies, the light lingers long on this hill- 
 top as if whispering secrets of a morrow or peeping at 
 the forbidden things of night. Promise, amid gathering 
 chaos, of a glorious dawn, it broods over the valley like
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 19 
 
 that other Light of the World alone in the whirl of 
 change. Friends may die, houses fall to decay, forests 
 fade in a night, and streams bend to human will the 
 hills are everlasting. 
 
 One generation had forced this scene from the wilder- 
 ness. At the opening of the nineteenth century my grand- 
 father, old "Square Lee," had moved with his family and 
 goods from Lyme, at the mouth of the Connecticut River, 
 into the wilds of central New York. They came with two 
 ox-teams following forest trails, camping in the woods at 
 night, braving the dangers of wild beasts and still wilder 
 men. But pioneers are made of tough, unyielding fibre. 
 Stout arms and undaunted courage met every obstacle 
 half way, and through long vistas came glimpses of a 
 horizon glowing with high hopes. 
 
 All this had been a half century past. The old 
 "Square" was dead. The son who had cleared, planted, 
 and reaped, taught school and done surveying, laid out 
 townships in Tennessee, and slept on skins by trappers' 
 fires in far-off Canada, hati now succeeded to his father's 
 duties, managed his farm with care and thrift, was deacon 
 in the church and a man of some importance in the 
 village. He was a tall athletic man with rugged face, 
 dark hair and eyes, and overhanging brows a stern, 
 solemn face belying the warm, kind heart within. 
 
 My mother was a sweet- faced gentle- voiced woman 
 with mild blue eyes, and soft brown hair hanging in two 
 curls on either cheek, the whole framed in a dainty cap 
 of lace and flowers and" ribbon. There was' a fineness 
 about her that made her beautful even in old age. Her 
 exquisite needle-work wrought garments specimens of 
 which are still counted heirlooms. Through long sum- 
 mer afternoons she would sit by the window copying 
 complex patterns of roses and leaves and vines upon lace 
 veils, white dresses, or baby-caps, fastening with every
 
 20 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 thread of floss loving thoughts of the coming baby, or 
 forming plans of how she could add some brightness to 
 a sister's lot that was not so free as hers. 
 
 And not only to her own kin did her sympathy over- 
 flow. She saw through the proud reserve of self-respect- 
 ing friends whose limited purse forbade a visit to dis- 
 tant sister or mother, and her resourceful mind would 
 make the desire a fact. I have been told she got my 
 father out of bed one cold night to carry food and cloth- 
 ing to a poor widow whom she had forgotten in the after- 
 noon. "The poor ye have always with you, and when 
 ye will ye may do them good" might well have served 
 as the motto of her life. "The best woman that ever 
 lived was Deacon Lee's wife," said an old man recalling 
 his early years in Ravenna; "she was a mother to us all, 
 invited us to her house again and again, and did what 
 she could to make us happy and useful." 
 
 My father's house was open to any one who claimed 
 as his object the betterment of man, be he colporteur 
 selling good books, temperance lecturer, anti-slavery ad- 
 vocate, traveling preacher, or ministerial candidate. All 
 gravitated without opposition to Deacon Lee's. There 
 was never an impatient word concerning the stay, though 
 it might lengthen to weeks or months. The team was 
 harnessed for every church meeting, be the farm work 
 never so hurrying. No thought of hardship or burden 
 tarnished the hospitality of this home or marred its offer- 
 ings to religion. 
 
 My father had a very real belief in the practical and 
 pleasant things of this world. His was the first cooking- 
 stove brought into the village, and he was the first man 
 in his part of the county to achieve the luxury and dig- 
 nity of a two-seated covered carriage. This latter was 
 the pride of the place, and brought its owner honor and 
 responsibility in entertaining the few public visitors who
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 21 
 
 came to speak on the Fourth of July, or to address the 
 people on the occasion of an election. 
 
 My mother was a careful manager, orderly and syste- 
 matic. The work of the house and dairy was so arranged 
 that she and those who assisted her could have time to 
 sit down in the afternoon and do the family sewing. 
 That was the key-note of the household there was time 
 for everything. Time for sewing, for reading, for visit- 
 ing the poor and sick, for keeping up a healthy social 
 intercourse with her neighbors, for the closest personal 
 ties and sympathies with those of kin, time for the most 
 unstinted hospitality, time for teaching her numerous 
 younger sisters and nieces the secrets of cooking in her 
 kitchen. An invitation to stay to supper was as sincere 
 and cordial to the humblest visitor as to the occasional 
 wealthy and aristocratic one. It never seemed a bur- 
 den to the purse or to the busy hands that prepared the 
 meals, a few unexpected guests to supper. 
 
 In those days cheese the main product of our dairy 
 was something of a luxury, and no friend called or de- 
 parted but my mother slipped a three-cornered piece 
 into her bag. The younger sisters, Marcia and Adeline, 
 who often made part of the household, thought it simple 
 to be always giving a piece of Indian bread, or cheese, 
 or pat of butter, but when they became providers them- 
 selves, with hungry mouths to fill, and saw their sister 
 coming with an armful of her pantry products, the cus- 
 tom wore a different look. 
 
 Family gatherings were a great thing in those days. 
 Relatives living near-by were visited often, and those 
 farther away at least twice a year. To a child like my- 
 self, whose life held promise of such sure delights as 
 gathering herbs with Aunt Betsy, a lump of maple 
 sugar, or a ride to mill beside my father, but who was 
 not surfeited with complex toys and abnormal pleasures,
 
 22 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 this event of going to see my aunts and uncles twenty 
 and forty miles away was interwoven with delicious 
 expectation. What with the new clothes, the jockey hat, 
 prospect of secrets with some cousins and not with 
 others, the run on the garden wall, I already felt inde- 
 pendent of Aunt Betsy's company and Grandmother's 
 stories. 
 
 On the morning of the departure all would be bustle 
 at the barn. Stephen would give the horses an extra 
 feed of new hay, and a brimming box of oats. While he 
 put on the silver-plated harness, he would shout to Led- 
 yard, "Roll out the carriage and dust the cushions and 
 the top," for the boys took as much pride in the Deacon's 
 equipage as the owner himself. 
 
 In the house my father would be putting on his stiff 
 dickey, high collar, and black satin stock, and brushing 
 his hair up straight. My mother would say, "Adeline, 
 put in a piece of cheese for Deborah," and Grandmother, 
 "Jennet, be a good girl and keep your dress clean," and 
 Aunt Betsy, "I'll be some lonely till you get back, Jen- 
 net," all which would go in one ear and out the other, 
 so anxious was I to get on the front seat and be off. 
 
 At last the carnage would be at the door, the trunk 
 strapped on behind, and the basket of apples and lunch 
 pushed under the back seat. Meantime, too happy to talk, 
 with the goods of this world so within grasp, I would 
 sit quite still in my place, legs dangling, given up for the 
 moment to thought of the candy waiting in the little 
 country store at the cross-roads. 
 
 After many cautions to those standing at the gate to 
 remember this and do that, we would at last be off, 
 mother calling back from the carriage-window, "Be care- 
 ful not to set the house on fire." 
 
 The level valley left behind, we soon began climbing 
 the long hills. Father, Grandmother, and Uncle An-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 23 
 
 drew would tell the stories, and mother and I ask the 
 questions. What joy for this brief space not to be 
 merely seen ! It was a real vacation, where I and my 
 elders listened in turn. 
 
 "See that house," said Uncle Andrew on one occa- 
 sion, pointing to a neat comfortable farm-house bearing 
 the unmistakable stamp of thrift and economy, "that's 
 where Mis r Pike lives." 
 
 "Alone?" asked mother. 
 
 "Dear no," said Uncle Andrew, "she's got a husband 
 and a few sons. But she's the boss, you understand." 
 
 "I know her," broke in Grandmother, "she's so stingy 
 she'd like to take the color out of your cheeks to save 
 buying cochineal." 
 
 "The same. Well, Dayton, that's the second boy, and 
 I used to go to school together, and knew one another 
 pretty well. One day I was driving by and reined up 
 for a talk. 'I got a bushel o' blackberries up in the back 
 lot yesterday,' he said, 'come in and have a piece of pie.' 
 I didn't have to be asked twice, for it had been a long 
 time since breakfast, and I followed him round to the 
 kitchen door. 'We've come for a piece of blackberry 
 pie, mother, one of those you baked this morning.' At 
 that her face withered up like a spring russet. 'Aint din- 
 ner-time/ was all she said. 
 
 ' 'I know, but what d'ye say to it's bein' time for 
 lunch?' 
 
 ' 'I can't cut a hot pie ; you'll have to wait for dinner.' 
 
 "I was sorry for Dayton, he looked mortified to death. 
 'I suppose the law of the cook holds,' was all he said, 
 and we walked back to the team." 
 
 By and by we came to the cross-roads, the little store, 
 the candy, and a great still meeting-house. 
 
 "Do you know Jonas Prindle, that has the saw-mill
 
 24 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 on Rock Run ?" asked Uncle Andrew. "Rather an under- 
 sized man, rather pompous and slow of movement?" 
 
 Everybody knew him but me. 
 
 "Well, he's a member of this church, and one Sunday, 
 just as the preacher was ready to begin his sermon, a 
 strange woman comes in dressed in an extra large hoop. 
 Joe always does the polite thing, you know, so up he 
 gets, not very fast, but just grace ful-like, while the 
 rest are taking it in that the stranger won't have any 
 seat of her own. He shows her up to one of the pews 
 in the side front. She is so late and so afraid of causing 
 disturbance she doesn't take time to get clear in or close 
 the door of the slip. So her hoops and skirts stand out 
 in the aisle a foot or more. As Jonas turns, his heel 
 catches in the mesh. He throws up his hands to get his 
 balance, makes a spring, stumbles, jumps again, and 
 only saves himself by falling into the back seat at the 
 door. Well, you know the Sunday kind of stillness 
 it was just like a toad, his jumpsi they say it was one 
 too many even for the deacons; there was a general 
 smile, and lots of folks had to blow their nose I wonder 
 if Jonas ever thinks of hoops when he sails up the aisle 
 like a ship of a Sunday morning." 
 
 Climbing one of the longest hills, we overtook an old 
 man carrying a heavy bundle, and my father asked him 
 to ride. Conversation began about the weather, the 
 crops of hay and oats, but soon turned to matters in 
 which he took a more lively interest. He knew every 
 person we met on the road, knew them and all their 
 weak points as if they had been his own. 
 
 "There goes Seth Thomas ; I bought three bushels of 
 potatoes of him ten year ago, and when I measured 'em 
 up after he had gone they was a peck short. What do 
 you think 'o that? He's about the meanest man I know, 
 if he is a church member."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 25 
 
 "Neighbor," said my father, "I guess there's some good 
 point in him, now confess; can't you mention one?" 
 
 "Well, stranger, if there is, it would take the devil to 
 find it. But I stop here, good day, and thanks for the 
 lift." 
 
 "Poor soul," said my father, "if he finds a fault, he 
 makes it legion by repetition." 
 
 Much visiting and feasting awaited us at our journey's 
 end. Friends and relatives came in from miles- around, 
 and while we made sad havoc of the roast pig and his ear 
 of green corn, the turkey and chicken-pie, ties of the past 
 were once more renewed, the lost threads were picked 
 up, varied interests became personal, and sympathies 
 were freshened.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 GRANDMOTHER LEE AND AUNT BETSY. 
 
 THE fire on the old-fashioned hearth-stone blazed 
 bright. Some brands on the andirons were dropping 
 coals into the hot ashes below, where potatoes had just 
 been roasting, and there was a delicious odor of ham 
 broiled on the embers. The kettle still sang on the 
 crane, while the tea-pot, drained of its fragrant Hyson, 
 stood empty on the table. 
 
 Grandmother Lee and Aunt Betsy sat in their com- 
 fortable rocking - chairs, splint - bottomed but soft and 
 easy with goose-feather cushions. They had just pushed 
 back from the breakfast-table. A green log added to the 
 fire was sending out its spicy smell with a great sputter, 
 and cackle and hiss. 
 
 "Betsy," said Grandmother, "you're not feeling well. 
 What's the matter?" 
 
 "Oh, what with my aches and pains last night " 
 
 "There it is! You don't go at it right to keep well 
 take cold baths and a rub-down, so the blood gets all in a 
 tingle. Aches. I don't have aches!" 
 
 "Ah, Jennet, you were brought up with the salt-water 
 fish in the Sound, but I come from the back country 
 nigh to Hartford. Besides, rheumatism needs hot things." 
 
 Grandmother Lee straightened up in her chair, and a 
 slight wave of disgust passed over her vigorous face. 
 "Hot things? Hot things! I've kept going these sev- 
 enty years on cold water and cold baths and look at me. 
 I can ride horse-back with anyone yet," and turning to 
 me she said, "Jennet, go tell Stephen to put the side- 
 saddle on old Phillis and bring her round to the hitching
 
 27 
 
 post at one o'clock. I think I'll go and see Mrs. Covert 
 this afternoon." 
 
 "Sister Lee! Sister Lee ! Why! Why! Horse-back 
 riding! Stephen could just as well take you in the 
 carriage." 
 
 "L,a! La! Nobody is older than he feels. I'm not 
 going to work when I'm tired nor sew when the fight is 
 poor, but a horse-back riding I'll go so long as my joints 
 keep limber." 
 
 "But lots of folks haven't any horse-blocks." 
 
 Grandmother Lee and Great-aunt Peck, two old ladies 
 just passing the limit of three score years and ten, lived 
 in a wing my father had added to his house for their 
 accommodation. Aunt Betsy, as she was called by the 
 whole valley, from the little one of the household to 
 the doctor who came occasionally astride his horse with 
 pill-bags behind him to give a dose of calomel, was a 
 loving, helpful, gentle woman. Her face was quiet in 
 the extreme perhaps her troubles had worn her expres- 
 sion to the unvarying calm that admitted degrees neither 
 of elation nor depression. Her step was slow and soft 
 as suited the brooding spirit of the family, going about 
 picking up forgotten duties, dispelling friction by her 
 pleasant smile and willing hands. She had learned the 
 limit of suffering from a brutal husband perhaps it was 
 this that had made her the most patient, the most for- 
 giving, the most charitable of women. 
 
 In her spirit lovingkindness was transfigured. Quick 
 to scent trouble and carry her healing balm she was in-. 
 deed the ministering angel of the valley. Where others 
 committed scripture to memory, she put it into practice. 
 With loving thought for others she gathered sweet and 
 bitter herbs in their season, dug the roots of gold thread 
 and sarsaparilla, narrow-leaf dock and Indian turnip. 
 She had no equal for the brewing of old-fashioned reme-
 
 28 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 dies ; her skill as nurse was unrivaled, and if a neighbor 
 was sick or in trouble she would be the first to know and 
 carry her unstinted service. 
 
 She had been brought up in the strictest way by fathers 
 who had narrowly escaped the papist snares and perse- 
 cutions. Her ancestor John Lee had written on his 
 death -bed in 1710 a charge to his descendants to the end 
 of the world, saying, "I charge that you choose death 
 rather than deny Christ in any wise or degree, that you 
 never turn papist nor heretic, but serve God in the way 
 you were brought up, and that you avoid all evil com- 
 panions, lest you be led into a snare and temptation." 
 
 Good old soul that she was and full of charity, she yet 
 thought reckless deviltry housed within the case of a 
 violin and was let loose when the fiddler drew his bow 
 across the catgut. When Stephen came to live with us he 
 brought the fiddle he had made himself, and would while 
 away winter evenings by the kitchen fire playing airs he 
 had heard at some country dance or oftener new melo- 
 dies that sprang from his own heart. At first Aunt 
 Betsy thought it hardly a proper thing to be done in a 
 Deacon's house, but her gentle spirit found it much easier 
 to excuse than to find fault, and she endured in silence. 
 It was not long, quick as she was to discover good in 
 everything, before she saw in it a desirable rival to the 
 attractions of the Lion's Head; for Stephen's violin 
 brought many of the neighborhood boys to spend their 
 quiet evenings in the hospitable kitchen of Deacon Lee. 
 
 Dear Aunt Betsy, so kind to me, the only child in the 
 family. When my world was out of tune, she knew just 
 how to put good-humor and me on terms again. How I 
 watched the time for her to go upstairs and make her bed 
 in the morning, for then the cupboard door would open 
 and down would come a teaspoon of candied honey from 
 the black-flowered bowl. Once we found the glass de-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 29 
 
 canter that had stood on her bureau empty since I could 
 remember, lying in a thousand pieces on the floor, and 
 she told me how in the night she had been suddenly 
 awakened and had heard the decanter go "Ching!" 
 
 "If only it doesn't mean bad news, Jennet," she said 
 as she picked up the pieces. But sure enough, two weeks 
 later a letter from Connecticut brought word that her 
 only sister had died that very night. 
 
 Aunt Betsy's head was full of quaint and picturesque 
 notions. Whatever anyone had cut or injured himself 
 with must, if portable, be brought to the house, greased, 
 wrapped in a flannel, and set in a warm place; this to 
 hasten recovery. Many a rusty nail has she hunted, or 
 broken knife, or sharp ax, that had slipped from un- 
 steady hands, and brought to her hospital behind the 
 kitchen stove. Laughter and jokes never disturbed her 
 equanimity. She would say, "You do all you can, and 
 Aunt Betsy will do all she can." 
 
 My grandmother was a very different person. Had 
 her lot been cast among Quakers, her place in the meet- 
 ing-house would have been at the head of the top seat. 
 Her step was springy and elastic. She sat erect. There 
 was no stoop to her shoulders from the seventy-five or 
 even eighty years that had brought her from the preced- 
 ing century. She worked faithfully at the duties of the 
 household, but when she was tired she stopped and some- 
 one else might finish, usually Aunt Betsy. She took a 
 just pride in her cooking, and her recipes for mother cake 
 and crullers were prized throughout the village. She 
 was always making demands on the boys' time, but the 
 pieces of pie she shoved through the pantry window as 
 they passed to work would disarm the most chronic 
 grumbler. 
 
 In middle life she became deaf and had to use a 
 trumpet, but she enjoyed church, the sewing-society, and
 
 30 . WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 afternoon tea-party with as keen a zest as ever. There 
 was no settling back in the corner until people should 
 come to speak to her. She took the lead herself, never 
 suspecting for a moment that anyone might talk about 
 her or say unpleasant things or make remarks she wasn't 
 to hear. Knowing her intentions were right she approved 
 of herself, and thinking that others understood her as 
 she was, she had nothing to be ashamed of, but enjoyed 
 life and its good things to the full, and gave God thanks. 
 
 Her eyes, undimmed by age, were black and snapping ; 
 few, I venture, saw better what was passing in Ravenna. 
 A black front-piece covered the grey hair outside the 
 soft white frill of her closely fitting muslin cap. The 
 crimp on her ruffles was very fine, and the strings tied 
 under her chin lay always in a smooth square bow. 
 
 She had seen more of the world than most of her 
 neighbors, for her daughter's husband was the minister 
 over one of the largest Baptist churches in Philadelphia, 
 and she had two brothers in New York, who were tea- 
 merchants trading with China. She herself had been born 
 and reared on the shore of Long Island Sound, where 
 vessels coming from Old England brought a more refined 
 manner of living than had as yet drifted to central New 
 York. 
 
 When, as sometimes happened, her critical advice was 
 unrelished in the family, my mother would say : 
 
 "Respect her ideas, my dears, they are smarter and 
 more genteel than ours. She comes from Lyme, Con- 
 necticut, you know." 
 
 Her vigorous health had been nourished by rather un- 
 usual means. Born on the sea-shore, she was an expert 
 swimmer, and if by chance now in her old age she went 
 bathing in the river with the girls, she liked nothing 
 better than ducking them to hear them scream. If a 
 cold or a fever, or a lame back caught her unawares, she
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 31 
 
 would call my father to draw two pails of water from the 
 well, in winter as often as in summer, and pour it over 
 her while she sat on the step of the wood-house and gave 
 herself a vigorous rub, finishing up before the blazing 
 fireplace in her own room. So she kept lithe and lim- 
 ber, no clog on her joints or on her spirits either, for 
 she enjoyed a joke and gave one with the zest of youth. 
 Although her sallies of wit were not always pleasant to 
 those at whom they were directed, her bearing and gen- 
 eral status in the village, even more than her age, pre- 
 vented retorts. 
 
 She held fine clothes in esteem, but perhaps not more 
 so than superiority in any line, yet she didn't despise 
 anyone for plain dress if the pocketbook didn't warrant 
 better. When the girls of the house were ready for a 
 party she would come out of her rooms with a bottle of 
 perfume to scent their handkerchiefs an excuse to find 
 out which one had on the handsomest dress. 
 
 Our family proper was small in number, but as invi- 
 tations were free and welcomes cordial, there was always 
 a troupe of visitors, and cousins innumerable. When we 
 had so-called charity-company, like Old Square Bibbins, 
 or Granny Garnsey, or any other tiresome or common- 
 place person. Grandmother was invisible. But if ever 
 there was a choice guest, some one especially delightful, 
 then she would come with a personal invitation to her 
 own table, sometimes when we were already seated, and 
 no one had ever the temerity to refuse. 
 
 I can see her now, after sixty years have gone, as she 
 came through the gate on Sunday morning. After the 
 family had been waiting some moments her door would 
 open and she would come down the path with the elastic 
 step of a girl, tall and straight in her dress of fine black 
 bombazine, with its full plain skirt, and waist laid in tiny 
 plaits drawn to a sharp point in front. Her dainty mus-
 
 32 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 lin collar and cuffs, her gold chain for years the only 
 one in the village, the gift of her brother in New York, as 
 was also the gold ring she put on when dressing for church 
 or company her white straw bonnet trimmed with lav- 
 ender ribbon, her black silk mitts and velvet bag em- 
 broidered and fringed with steel beads in which lay a 
 very white pocket handkerchief, her gold-bowed specta- 
 cles, and a few lumps of sugar should she feel like 
 coughing during the service everything about her was 
 stamped with the elegance and refinement of the eigh- 
 teenth century belle brought up in the Griswold home at 
 Giant's Neck in Old Lyme. A black silk shawl was drawn 
 tightly about her shoulders or, if her grasp loosened, fell 
 in shiny folds upon her arms, to be gathered up again 
 and put in place. As she came through the door-yard 
 she would stoop to pick a sprig of bergamot and thrust in 
 the bag to give it a sweet odor, or break off a spray of 
 aromatic caraway to eat as we rode along. 
 
 In those days of 1845 the most striking thing to a 
 stranger attending the Presbyterian Church on Sunday 
 morning must have been to see an old lady taking her 
 seat in the pulpit just as the sermon began. She sat 
 always at the minister's left, with trumpet to her ear. 
 Dignified, silent, self-possessed, she sat there. No one 
 smiled, no one turned to his neighbor with a whisper. 
 Perhaps it was the gold chain and silver trumpet. At any 
 rate there she sat while the old preacher lived ; when he 
 died and a young one came to take his place, she went to 
 her slip in the body of the meeting-house, punctual and 
 attentive always. 
 
 Both Aunt Betsy and Grandmother were deeply re- 
 ligious women, but in different ways. Hearing God's 
 word and studying its meaning by meditation and prayer 
 was my grandmother's method. For this certain times 
 were set apart, when she would retire to her own room
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 33 
 
 and on no account was she ever to be disturbed. When 
 neighbors came, the grandchild had early learned to say, 
 "You'll have to wait"; grandmother's in the bed-room 
 a-prayerin'." 
 
 The one was aristocratic by nature, the other demo- 
 cratic; the one critical, the other compassionate; the 
 one handsomely dressed, the other plain ; the one loved 
 a joke, the' other stood ready to administer balm to 
 wounded feelings. 
 
 Aunt Betsy's great object in life was to be a kindly 
 help to her neighbors and friends and to promote the 
 welfare of the Baptist Church. From her small purse 
 flowed drops of comfort for every good cause presented 
 to her notice. The bed-quilt she had pieced during the 
 winter was sure to go into the next box packed for the 
 missionaries in Burmah, notwithstanding the expostula- 
 tion of Grandmother. Sometimes one cow in the dairy 
 belonged to her, or a half-dozen sheep in the farmer's 
 flock, then the yellowest pat of butter, and the first pair 
 of striped blue and white mittens were saved for the 
 minister. 
 
 Aunt Betsy was sitting as usual one morning by the 
 old-fashioned loom from which she had brought many a 
 web of linen for the bed and square of huckaback for 
 towels, clover-blossom patterns for table-cloths, blue and 
 white kersey for men's wear, bright plaid flannel for win- 
 ter dresses and heavy white flannel for bed-blankets. It 
 was in this way she earned the few dollars that made her 
 an independent woman. 
 
 Suddenly she left the loom, went into the pantry, and 
 was moulding a pat of butter into shape, pressing on it 
 the imprint of the rose-stamp, when Grandmother ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Betsy, are you laying out that butter for the minis- 
 ter? And you don't think of giving away the quilt you
 
 34 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 have just finished? I heard they were packing a box in 
 the Baptist parsonage to send to India. How do you 
 think you are going to keep warm this coming winter? 
 They say it's going to be snapping cold. Have you no- 
 ticed the squirrels on that butt'nut tree? Look! they're 
 at it now ! I don't know when I've seen them so busy. 
 Yes, it's sure to be a bad winter and it's my opinion you'll 
 need your quilts yourself." 
 
 A pause for breath and she hurried on : 
 
 "You gave away your new blankets last year, and now 
 I suppose the quilt with pieces of your dead daughter's 
 two dresses goes to the same place. Betsy, you'll rue 
 the day. Take my advice, and keep that album quilt for 
 yourself." 
 
 "The Lord will provide," said Aunt Betsy good-hu- 
 moredly, looking toward her sister Lee, who was two 
 years older than herself, and of such a spirit that defer- 
 ence to her wishes seemed a law of nature. Aunt Betsy's 
 easy way annoyed Grandmother exceedingly. Her eyes 
 took on a darker shade, her head straightened back on her 
 shoulders, and the frill of her closely fitting white cap 
 trembled with her intense interest. 
 
 "There are pieces in that quilt of Elizabeth's and Jen- 
 net's dresses both dead and gone and of that pretty 
 Scotch gingham Maria Williams used to wear before they 
 lost their property and moved to Pennsylvania. Then 
 there's a piece of Mother Boyd's French calico that came 
 from Albany in war-time and cost a dollar a yard ; and 
 Mrs. Covert's camelet cloak, and little Johnnie Bacon's 
 dress he wore the day he was scalded so bad, and 
 George's wife Eliza wrote all those names on the blocks. 
 Why Betsy! your feelings can't let you give that quilt 
 to the heathen !" 
 
 Aunt Betsy's mild blue eyes kept closely to the apple 
 she was paring for dinner. She made no answer ; indeed,
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 35 
 
 she couldn't make her Sister Lee hear unless she left 
 her work and screamed in her ear. So Grandmother 
 went on unchecked. 
 
 "Everybody knows you are so generous you would take 
 the food from your mouth and the dress from your back 
 to give any one who wanted it. I should say if that man 
 had any spirit, and I don't care if he is a minister he 
 would just refuse to take the last pound of butter from 
 a poor widow or let his wife take it either." 
 
 At this Aunt Betsy bestirred herself, laid aside the 
 dish of peelings, and lowered her mouth to the deaf 
 woman's ear: 
 
 "Touch not mine anointed and do my prophets no 
 harm," she cried, and then began setting the table for 
 two. 
 
 Later the pat of butter was put in a small basket be- 
 side a pie-shaped piece of cheese to be carried to Becky 
 Locke, with whom she would stay after Covenant meet- 
 ing until the next day, which was communion Sabbath. 
 
 "Betsy, have you brought in those caps I washed this 
 morning?" 
 
 "Yes, and damped them, and the flat-irons are about 
 heated." 
 
 "Well, you iron and I'll sit down to crimp the ruffles ; 
 they'll be enough to last three weeks at least," and 
 Grandmother, picking out the green-handled thin steel 
 knife, was soon gathering the soft folds of muslin in fine 
 plaits tightly held under thumb and first finger. 
 
 "Betty, what are you going to do with that pat of but- 
 ter on the pantry shelf?" 
 
 "It's Covenant meeting today and I can't afford to miss 
 that the butter is for Becky Locke." 
 
 "What, walk to the Lower Village after all the work 
 you've < 1 one today!" 
 
 "Oh yes, it will rest me, and I'm going to stay over
 
 36 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 night with Becky; her mother is poorly and I'm afraid 
 she'll not last long." 
 
 "Well, I think you're foolish ; you might wait till Sun- 
 day morning and ride as far as the Brick Store, then it 
 wouldn't be such a walk, but if you're bound to go, get 
 a drawing of that best old Hyson tea for dinner. It's 
 a'most gone, but we'll have one good cup anyway, for 
 you've a long way before you. 
 
 "I don't know when John and Lyndes will send another 
 box. I always think it's the last chest we'll get. Young 
 men don't often remember such old women as we are. 
 But they think of the time they spent in Butt'nuts I 
 guess they don't forget Aunt Betsy binding up their sore 
 fingers with green salve, mending torn clothes, and sooth- 
 ing Uncle Jason's wrath when they were found out in 
 some of their pranks. Yes, and I guess they don't forget 
 either the cups of boneset tea for headache, or Aunt 
 Lee's Indian bread and baked beans just out of the 
 oven, when they got home from the Academy, or their, 
 sliding down hill and snow-balling. 
 
 "Brother George's idea was about right that farm 
 chores along with school is good training for city boys. 
 Yes, John and Lyndes are smart business men, as their 
 father was before them, and I guess the four years they 
 spent with us weren't lost on them, either." 
 
 "Betsy, do you remember the wild cat they killed out 
 in the woods, and how smart they felt, and the sign John 
 put on the barn, so everybody driving by would know 
 what a big thing they had done? and how proud he was 
 to write to New York about it? I guess that was about 
 the last wild cat in Otsego County. Dear me! that was 
 as much as thirty years ago. Why, Betty, those boys 
 are between forty and fifty! Well, they have remem- 
 bered us a long time, bless them! they'll alwavs be boys 
 to me."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 GRANDMOTHER'S PARLOR. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER loved distinction not only in things but 
 in persons. It was one of her aims to cultivate acquain- 
 tance with those better conditioned than herself, better 
 educated, more experienced and of wiser mind. She her- 
 self had an exclusive air, as had also her parlor. Not that 
 its individual pieces were different from those of her 
 day, but the room as a whole had a decided personality. 
 It was a company room, and like Sunday clothes, existed 
 only for set times and occasions. 
 
 Its windows were darkened by oil-cloth shades covered 
 with wonderful pictures of impossible landscapes that 
 never were, tall birds and little houses they might have 
 carried under their wings,, and people it would have done 
 Darwin's heart good to see, so strong was the mark of 
 their rise from the monkey. A dish-cupboard built in 
 the wall held the best china tea-set brought from Old 
 Lyme, where all the things happened in the stories she 
 told. Here was the glass decanter with its china label 
 saying "port wine," though since my memory the wine 
 it had held was Grandmother's own, made from currants 
 I had helped gather myself in proof of which was the 
 straggling line of bushes behind fhe bee-hives. Beside 
 the decanter was an old mug, gold-lacquered on the out- 
 side, though most of it had worn off, which had been 
 given to Great - grandfather Lee by a member of his 
 church in Connecticut. And there were the silver spoons 
 marked M. G., a part of her wedding outfit in 1795, the 
 willow-ware plates, and Chinese pot of preserved ginger. 
 The choice tea brought from China stood in a canister 
 beside a britannia tea-pot ready for a brew if Mother
 
 38 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 Boyd and Julia happened in, or any other friend who 
 knew a good cup of tea. 
 
 Pushed against the wall between the two windows was 
 a curley maple table with clover leaves, one of which was 
 always down. Its slender legs with feet encased in brass 
 castors were certainly genteel enough to have come from 
 New York on a visit. The spread was a black merino 
 shawl with a gay border. On the table was a memoir 
 of Ann Haselton Judson, a copy of Young's " Night 
 Thoughts," a New Testament, the Book of Psalms in 
 large print, and a History of the Baptists, in which was 
 due record of the Rev. Jason Lee, born in the same year 
 with Washington, and the second pastor of the church 
 in Lyme. 
 
 The chairs of dark wood were made bright with gilt 
 trimmings, like the settee, whose hard bottom was re- 
 lieved by a feather cushion covered with leather and 
 topped by green baize. It was a slippery seat, and I liked 
 it because I could keep falling to the floor and nobody 
 could scold. 
 
 A bureau with many drawers stood in one corner, and 
 to be allowed to lay over the middle one was a privilege 
 rarely granted and therefore highly prized. In this were 
 Grandmother's ornaments her gold chain lying in soft 
 cotton in a box of many colored straws made by the In- 
 dians, her gold ring with its initials G. G. to J. Lee, her 
 gold-bowed spectacles and silver ear trumpet, used only 
 when she went visiting or to church. But the treasure 
 was the wedding slippers, originally of white corded silk 
 but now yellow with age. They were decorated with 
 spangles long since dimmed, a running vine of silk em- 
 broidery, and a ribbon-rosette on the sharply pointed toe. 
 The high French heels were about as big around as your 
 little finger, so that when I tried them on I fell over at 
 once. But she would slip her feet in them, telling of
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 39 
 
 the Connecticut parties they had been to, and step around 
 like a gleeful girl. 
 
 Brass andirons stood in the fireplace shining with a 
 golden lustre from frequent scourings, and vied in bright- 
 ness with the brass candlesticks on either end of the 
 mantelpiece, sentries to guard the kneeling Samuel, a 
 white plaster figure bought of a peddler in one of his 
 wandering tours through the country. ' Close by stood 
 the ubiquitous snuffers and tray, also of brass. The 
 embers and partially burned stick covered with ashes dur- 
 ing the night were opened up in the morning and became 
 the foundation of the next day's fire. To hasten the 
 flame a tiny pair of bellows was used to blow the half- 
 dead coals to life. This hung at one side of the fireplace, 
 a constant temptation to children whose joy it was to blow 
 the ashes. Many a stern lesson in self-control has 
 Grandmother taught with the aid of the bellows beside 
 that fireplace. 
 
 An odd piece of furniture occupied another corner, its 
 shiny surface throwing into relief the feathery grain of 
 its choice wood. This was the locker full of drawers 
 and cupboards, with carved posts and curved lines. This, 
 too, had come from the old house at Giant's Neck, and 
 had its place in many a thrilling Revolutionary tale of 
 red-coats and lost silver. 
 
 There were a few pictures on the wall; some sil- 
 houettes of Grandmother in high frizzed coiffure, a 
 broad crimped ruff about her neck, with her head in that 
 indescribable poise so characteristic of her prevailing 
 temper ; and of her husband in ruffled shirt bosom and 
 attitude befitting the staid deacon. There was also a 
 profile drawing of her son Woodbridge, done in pencil 
 by a college class-mate. 
 
 Over the mantel hung "The Tired Soldier," in bright 
 colors a little boy armed with a wooden sword, a feather
 
 40 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 in his cap, lying fast asleep while a big dog kept watch. 
 Then there was the certificate of membership in a mis- 
 sionary society. Near the top huddled a crowd of little 
 savages, a white man in the center supposed to be 
 Adoniram Judson reading them a book, and below an 
 inscription recording the gift which had made her a mem- 
 ber and explaining to what it entitled her. 
 
 On the broad unbroken inside wall hung a picture 
 called "The Tree of Life." The tree itself was the most 
 prominent thing in the picture, with its little fruits 
 labeled love, charity, forgiveness, peace, and the like. 
 In the distance were the towers and walls of the "Celes- 
 tial City," with few indeed traveling toward it. The bot- 
 tom of the picture was separated from it by a high wall 
 below which was a great highway leading to the far 
 corner, where clouds of smoke shot through by sulphu- 
 rous flames were bursting up from a black lake in the 
 midst of which queer little devils swam about lashing 
 their tails. Here were the gay women in hooped petti- 
 coats with feathers in their hair, men frolicking, misera- 
 ble or decrepid, each with an apple marked pleasure, dis- 
 cord, envy, deceit, or greed, while busy little humpbacked 
 imps, with extra long tongues, ears, and noses, hung 
 about whispering mischief. On they hastened, appar- 
 ently unconscious of the lake toward which their feet 
 were leading them, while spirits hidden in flame and 
 smoke waited net in hand to catch their souls. 
 
 A company day had come and gone. Grandmother sat 
 in her rocking chair before the open fire ; back log, front 
 log, and top stick had dropped to a mass of glowing em- 
 bers whose light brought the wayfarer of this world and 
 the lurid flames of hell into a sombre foreground. Jen- 
 net crept into her lap, and snuggled down to the warm
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 41 
 
 arms that were always ready to receive her. Each sat 
 silent, gazing at pictures fancy saw in the dying coals. 
 
 Then Jennet said, "And now, Grandmother " 
 
 "Now what?" asked Grandmother, pretending she 
 didn't know. 
 
 "The war song where you tear away your clothes." 
 
 "No, 'not that, tonight, my little lamb." 
 
 "Then a story," and as she glanced at the mantel. "Tell 
 about Samuel." 
 
 "I think you could tell about that yourself." 
 
 "Yes, but I want to hear you." 
 
 Then Grandmother began how Hannah took the little 
 Samuel to Eli the High Priest to wait on him, and min- 
 ister before the Lord; how Eli put on him a white girdle 
 of fine linen when he handled the gold and silver pieces 
 of the tabernacle service in the time of religious festival ; 
 how Hannah made a little coat and brought to him from 
 year to year when she came to offer the annual sacrifice, 
 and how Samuel grew in favor with God and man. 
 
 And one night when Samuel was laid down to sleep 
 the Lord called, "Samuel? Samuel?" and he answered, 
 "Here am I." But when he saw no one he ran to Eli 
 and said, "Here am I, for thou calledst me." And Eli 
 said, "I called not; lie down again," and he went and 
 lay down, and the Lord called again, "Samuel? Samuel?" 
 and he rose and went to Eli again and said, "Here am I, 
 for thou didst call me." 
 
 Here Grandmother paused, the coals on the hearth- 
 stone were growing dim, the shadows bobbing up and 
 down among those strange scenes on the oil cloth shades, 
 and her deep solemn voice calling "Samuel? Samuel?" 
 filled Jennet with awe. She looked behind at the dark 
 corners, the floor gave a crack, she felt a wierd some- 
 thing in the air. The little white Samuel knelt there 
 on the mantelpiece a shiver caught her, and while the
 
 42 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 story went on to the end in the disaster of Eli and his 
 
 sons, she drew Grandmother's dress closer and closer 
 
 about her, saying at last: 
 
 "Grandmother, you sleep with me tonight." 
 
 "I can't leave my bed, my dear, I shouldn't rest." 
 
 "Oh, but you did. You stayed almost a week with Mrs. 
 
 Jsaiah Lord." 
 
 "What's the matter? You're not afraid, are you?" 
 
 "But I don't want to be alone in the dark." 
 
 "God is all through the dark. He takes care of little 
 
 girls." 
 
 "Oh, but that's just it. He isn't, Grandmother." 
 "What do you mean, Jennet? God is everywhere." 
 Then Jennet whispered her secret in Grandmother's 
 
 ear. 
 
 "He was not there! When I was all alone in bed I 
 
 felt everywhere between the sheets and He was not there ! 
 
 and besides. Grandmother, I want somebody that's warm" 
 
 after which Grandmother took her to bed and read her 
 
 to sleep.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 OLD SQUARE BIBBINS. 
 
 "I DECLARE, Achsah! if there isn't old Square Bibbins 
 coming through the gate again for an all day's visit," ex- 
 claimed Adeline none too amiably, looking up from the 
 cheese-cloth she was washing out ready for the morn- 
 ing dairy. "It's only a week ago yesterday he was here 
 for dinner. But probably he brings a bag of news, and 
 that's something." 
 
 Just across the river were a few houses huddled to- 
 gether on four corners going by the name of Bangall. 
 There was the tavern for dispensing rum and lodging 
 strangers whom night overtook, and a blacksmith shop 
 under a precipitous cliff stood ready to repair wagons 
 and horses after a rough journey on the stony roads that 
 led down from the hill farms. During the summer a 
 foot-bridge was thrown across the stream for the con- 
 venience of neighbors on either side. Often it was only 
 a tree felled on one bank tall enough to reach well over, 
 or sometimes two, the second serving as hand-rail to help 
 the unsteady passenger. 
 
 Just beyond this bridge dwelt "Square Bibbins," an 
 old man of medium height, rather portly, with sharp 
 blue eyes, stubby grey hair that showed no sign of fall- 
 ing away, ruddy cheeks, and an irritable temper. He 
 lived in his son's family, and though sons' wives are 
 sometimes more thoughtful than own children, in this 
 case the poor old man's room was better than his com- 
 pany. No doubt he knew it, for he often strolled across 
 the foot-bridge and down to the Deacon's, where he was 
 sure of pleasant words, a kindly spirit, and a good 
 dinner.
 
 44 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 The young folks got tired of seeing the brown woolly 
 clothes colored with butternut shucks and woven at the 
 mill three miles north shuffle in with such regularity on 
 the big square-toed boots and stout cane, but the mis- 
 tress of the house would say: 
 
 "Poor old gentleman! He has little enough to make 
 him happy. If he likes coming, don't turn him away 
 with cold looks." 
 
 On this particular morning he came to the back stoop, 
 where the dairy was in full progress. My mother met 
 him with a smile, saying: 
 
 "How are you, Square, and how are the folks across 
 the river?" With a few more commonplaces she handed 
 him a chair, and laying the weekly newspaper beside him 
 added, "You'll stay to dinner, won't you?" 
 
 To which he readily acquiesced, that in fact being the 
 very thing he had come for. 
 
 "I'm busy now and can't stop to visit, but at dinner 
 Mathew'll be here," and immediately the old man settled 
 down to a comfortable forenoon. 
 
 The making of the cheese now proceeded. A big tub 
 twice the size of an ordinary one, painted red on the 
 outside and white within, held the milk of the evening 
 and morning from sixteen cows. It was now a sweet 
 curcl. Separating the whey and putting in the press fol- 
 lowed. At the last turn of the screw Jennet cried from 
 the hall door: 
 
 "Quick! there's a million cows down the road!" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Oh, quick!" and her mother, Adeline, and Square 
 Bibbins all followed to the front door. 
 
 Sure enough, cows, oxen, heifers, steers, and calves 
 were hooking, jostling, bucking, and lashing their tails, 
 as far as one could see. 
 
 "Do you think it's the resurrection?" asked Jennet.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 45 
 
 "No, only a drove of cattle going to market." 
 
 "Well, did you ever! Achsah, do you see that brown 
 basket down there in the elm? How ever did she get 
 up there?" 
 
 "What do you mean? I don't see anything." 
 
 "There's only one such basket in Ravenna. Can't you 
 make it out yet? It's Granny Garnsey on the rail fence 
 hanging to "the tree for dear life. Well ! I didn't know 
 she had spring enough for that ! When the cattle get 
 by and she can climb down, we'll have more company." 
 
 They all returned to the back stoop, and presently Jen- 
 net, who stood guard when there was nothing else to do, 
 came flying out to announce the new arrival, who almost 
 immediately appeared herself around the corner. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Garnsey. How are they all 
 down street?" 
 
 "Pretty well, with the exception of Ann Maria Collins. 
 Her boy Jotham's going out west and she's all broke up 
 over it, says she'll never see him again. He says he's 
 goin' to leave these tarnel meddlesome folks an' go west 
 an' grow up 'ith the country ; but his mother aint willin'." 
 
 "I suppose he's been reading Horace Greeley. I think 
 maybe it is a good place for young men." 
 
 "That's jes' what I made out to Mis' Collins, but she 
 can't see it." 
 
 "No wonder lying on that bed for five years." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I told Mis' Collins Jotham ought to stay 
 with her, an' if he's a good boy he will, too. I allus say, 
 boys should be good to their mothers. Somebody started 
 the story that Jotham stole that wheat from La'yer 
 Miles's farm, an' he can't get over the disgrace. Says 
 if they was only somebody he could lick an' make 'em 
 swaller their yarn, he'd stay." 
 
 "That would be a poor way to clear it up." 
 
 "Them's my sentiments, too. I told Mis' Collins so,
 
 46 
 
 an' I meant it. I allus did think Jotham a nice boy an' 
 he'll be a great man out west, an' I told his mother so, 
 but she won't be reconciled no way." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Garnsey, why don't you go out west?" 
 asked Adeline. "It's such a fine country." 
 
 "Law, Addie, I couldn't do that. I've allus lived in 
 Ravenna." 
 
 "But it's a great place for women ; there are so many 
 men, there aren't half enough women to go around. 
 You'd be spoke for before you'd been there three 
 months." 
 
 "Law, Addie, how foolish you are !" 
 
 "No, in earnest, Mrs. Garnsey. Any man might be 
 glad to get you." 
 
 "Law, Addie, I'm maybe not so young as you think." 
 
 "A woman that can knit a pair of woollen socks in two 
 days is a prize." 
 
 "Law, Addie, I can't do that day in and day out, but 
 only now and then. I knit pretty fast, yes, just as 
 fast as any other woman, and as smooth. But what do 
 I want of a husband ?" 
 
 "Oh to pile wood, to be sure, and lock the door 
 nights." 
 
 "I jes' can't help it, but I think I'll live an' die in 
 Ravenna. I told Mis' Collins Ravenna was good enough 
 for her an' me, but let the boy go." 
 
 As time passed on and the Square let out no hint of 
 his news, it was suspected to be of more than usual in- 
 terest. The suspicion finally reached Grandmother's 
 ears, we were honored with her company at dinner. 
 When all were seated, and the blessing had been asked, 
 he broke the silence usual to the time of carving with 
 several ahems a sign that he was ready to begin. 
 
 "Deacon, have you heard the news?" 
 
 "What?"
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 47 
 
 "About Leroy Nixon?" 
 
 "No, what's happened?," 
 
 "You know yes'day was a dull day?" 
 
 "So it was," said Grandmother quickly, chafing under 
 prospect of one of the Square's long stories. 
 
 "Looked kind o' like rain, didn't it Mis' Lee?" Grand- 
 mother nodded and he went on. "The boys couldn't 
 work in the hay-field, so Leroy an' that dwarf Biggs 
 took their guns an' went to the river to see what they 
 could shoot. But they had no business to be wastin' 
 their time jes' killin' no-count animals, says I. When I 
 was a boy they was allus suthin' to do on the farm, rainy 
 days an' all. We had to ile up harness, an' wash the 
 buggy, an' slick up the barn, an' chop fire-wood, an' 
 pile stun, an' mend the rake, an' grind the scythes, an' 
 make spiles for the sugar bush, or do suthin' useful." 
 
 "Hold on!" cried Grandmother, "or the rainy day'll 
 be over and we won't know what happened." 
 
 "If those shif'less boys had been doin' that, the father 
 o' one o' 'm wouldn't be buyin' a coffin today, an' tother 
 in La'yer Miles's seein' how he could get 'im off from 
 goin' to prison." 
 
 "But Square Bibbins, you haven't told. What hap- 
 pened ? Hurry up !" came from all sides. 
 
 "Well, at the foot-bridge, right there where I 
 crossed this mornin' By jinks, Deacon ! Don't seem 
 possible," and the Square mopped his forehead with his 
 red bandanna, "but there was the spots o' blood Yes, 
 yes, women folks is cur'ous well Biggs, he was jes' 
 gettin' through the fence an' his gun went off right into 
 Leroy's side. Mebbe't did an' mebbe't didn't, I don't 
 know. Don't nobody know 't I can see. 'Taint as 'twas 
 in my day what 'ith their canals, an' their railroads 
 an' their new-fangled notions aint nobody hardly good's 
 their word. Used to be folks was jes' folks, now
 
 48 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 highty-tighty !" and the Square's fork, well baited with 
 corn beef, flourished his misanthropy in the very noses 
 of his hearers "Besides, the Biggses are a harum- 
 scarum set anyway." 
 
 Everybody had stopped eating, but no one offered to 
 interrupt the old man again. 
 
 "Leroy, he screamed, an' they both screamed, but 
 Biggs he had to stop an' go an' tell the Colonel. I allus 
 knew that dwarf Biggs 'ud come to it an' ye jes' give 
 him enough rope!" 
 
 "If you don't hurry up and say what happened," cried 
 Grandmother, "we'll think you know more than you're 
 willing to tell." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no. Well, they got Leroy home some- 
 way, an' the doctor said right off he couldn't live, an' 
 so he died this mornin', five o'clock I got the news 
 on my way up." 
 
 "Poor young life to be snuffed out like a candle!" 
 sighed my mother; "and I'm sorry for the Biggs boy, too, 
 I'm sure it was an accident." 
 
 "Mebbe so, mebbe not. He'd ought t' have been home 
 helpin' his father." 
 
 "And how dreadful for Mrs. Nixon ! he was her eldest 
 boy." 
 
 "Yes, but she's got four left, an' they're enough to 
 fill two houses," growled the old man. "In fact by the 
 noise you know I'm jes' next door I sh'd say two's 
 more'n enough." 
 
 "You're hard on the boys. They've got to make fun 
 and a big to-do or they wouldn't be boys." 
 
 "Easy to see you never had any o' your own ; you don't 
 know what a rumpus it is day in an' day out." 
 
 "Ay, that's a sore spot in our lives," said the Deacon; 
 ''ours both died."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 49 
 
 "Well, you can be glad you aint got 'em carousin' 
 round pesterin' your days an' worryin' your nights." 
 
 "Poor Mrs. Nixon!" continued my mother, "I'm sorry 
 for her, she can't help feeling it was so unnecessary. 
 If he had only been in the field working, it wouldn't have 
 happened." 
 
 "That's what I say," added the Square, "if she'd kept 
 'em to work. an' boys need work, it's the business of 
 parents to set 'em at it an' keep 'em at it." 
 
 "I wonder, Square Bibbins," asked my mother, "did 
 you ever hear the story of two little boys whose grand- 
 father died their mother was talking to them about 
 heaven what a beautiful place it was, golden streets, 
 and angels with white wings and long trumpets in their 
 hands ? 'And children, Grandpa is there.' " 
 
 " 'I'd like the white wings,' broke in one boy, 'I'd fly 
 up to the moon.' 
 
 " 'I'd like the trumpet,' cried the other, 'and make a 
 big noise, so's they'd all look round and say, "What's 
 that?'" 
 
 " 'Well, you must be good boys,' said the mother, 'and 
 then you'll go where Grandpa is.' 
 
 " 'I guess we don't want to go there,' said the eldest 
 boy slowly. 
 
 " 'Why ?' asked the astonished mother, 'why don't you 
 want to go to that beautiful place?' 
 
 " 'Grandpa'll be there, and as soon as he sees us he'll 
 say, 'Whew ! Whew ! boys, what you here for ?' " 
 
 Passing the story by without remark, Square Bibbins 
 turne 1 to my father. 
 
 "Deacon, have you ever heard the facts about Father 
 Steele anr! the Bishop over at Bangall?" 
 
 Father Steele was a Methodist living across the river 
 pnl known throughout the valley for his loud prayers, 
 his fervent interjections, and the power that laid him
 
 50 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 prostrate in the aisle during revival seasons. He had 
 purchased a farm that reached almost to the Bangall 
 tavern, noted for its noisy quarrels. He had built a big 
 white house, where with his six sons he began an influence 
 for industry and sobriety and even for quiet except 
 where their devotions were concerned. Indeed, his son 
 Abner praying on one hilltop could be heard across the 
 river on still nights. 
 
 They with others of like turn of mind used to meet 
 and hold service in the school-house, and when this grew 
 too small, it was Father Steele who said, "We'll have a 
 meeting-house of our own." He gave the land himself 
 and most of the money, and at last the building was up 
 and ready to be dedicated. 
 
 "I have heard nothing in particular," said my father in 
 answer to the Square's question, "only most of the men 
 have left sitting in the tavern chairs." 
 
 "Well, Father Steele was about finishing his 
 church " 
 
 "Why do you call it Father Steele's church ? It's to be 
 a Methodist church, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, he's a Methodist, but he gives the land and most 
 of the money, why shouldn't it be his church ?" 
 
 "A church is God's house and is cared for by a board 
 of trustees ; it 
 
 "Ho ! Ho ! that's your church ; it's not the Methodists, 
 no sirree! And there was a row last night in Bangall 
 an' it wan't in the tavern either. It was the Bishop and 
 Father Steele." 
 
 "What? The Bishop and Father Steele quarreling?" 
 
 "Yes, they were, Deacon! and this is the how of it. 
 Last night was the time appointed for dedicating the 
 building. It wan't quite done, but as everything had 
 been paid for they wanted to begin gettin' the use of it ; 
 so the Bishop was called.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 51 
 
 "He came about five o'clock, had supper with Father 
 Steele, and went into the class-room to finish up some 
 kind of legal rigamarole jes' before the hour set for 
 openin' the meetin'. 
 
 "The choir was through their last practice, an' was 
 sittin' quiet in the gallery. The fire in the stoves had 
 been burnin' two hours, an' when half-past seven came 
 the candles were lighted in the new tin candlesticks 
 hangin' from nails in the wall. The teams that came in 
 from the farms had made a reg'lar circle round three 
 sides o' the house, and the slips were pretty nigh filled. 
 
 "Every thin' bein' so new an' nice there was a kind o' 
 awe on everybody, an' they didn't even whisper. 
 
 "They was jes' w'aitin' to see the Bishop come in. 
 Hadn't anybody in Bangall ever seen a Bishop, an' 
 none o' 'em knew what he'd be like. Some said he'd be 
 dressed up like a woman in her night-gown. I take it 
 most folks' came to see that. Half an hour after time 
 for openin' an' folks got kind o' restless in their 
 seats. One man kept pilin' wood into the stove 'cause he 
 hadn't nothin' else to do. It got hot an' women threw 
 off their shawls an' the babies went to sleep an' the men 
 yawned. 
 
 "Half past eight an' no one in the pulpit. Then the 
 choir sung all the verses of a long hymn an' stopped. 
 No Bishop yet. 
 
 "At nine o'clock Father Steele appeared with the look 
 he most gen'lly uses in business. You could 'a heard a 
 pin drop. He jes' said, There won't be any dedication 
 tonight/ an' turned an' went out. 
 
 "Then you can reckon there was a buzz. Everybody 
 wondered an' everybody surmised, but nobody knew. 
 Well, this mornin' early the Bishop he went, an' there 
 hadn't anybody seen hide or hair o' him." 
 
 And the old man rested after his long story.
 
 52 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "Mercy, what you stopping for?" cried Grandmother, 
 her head and silver ear-trumpet bent in direction of the 
 Square. "You've only just begun." 
 
 "It was signin' papers or some such matter had to be 
 done before the religious part. The Bishop that's as 
 I understand it mebbe it's so, mebbe 't aint I won't 
 swear in on it before the law I'm no more 'an mortal, 
 take me at my best, Mis' Lee." But something must 
 have warned him not to trifle with passions once roused, 
 for almost immediately he shuffled on with the narrative : 
 
 "The Bishop he was writin' 'This here prop'ty be- 
 longin' to the Bishop o' New York 
 
 " 'Hold on !' says Father Steele, 'What's that you're 
 sayin' ?' 
 
 " 'It's all right,' says the Bishop 'It's nothin' but 
 form.' 
 
 " 'This here chapel yours ? Not much ! Who gave the 
 land an' furnished the money?' 
 
 " 'The other good people about here helped, didn't 
 they?' 
 
 " 'Oh, they worked when they'd nothin' else to do ; an' 
 farmers brought stun they were glad to get rid of; an' 
 the painter came slack days. They haven't any hold on 
 it to speak of.' 
 
 ' 'But it's the rule of the church, an' its only for law 
 an' order, so to speak.' 
 
 ' 'Well, I won't give it to you anyhow ?' said Father 
 Steele. Folks say he made his family go without enough 
 to eat so's the church could be dedicated without debt. 
 Mebbe so, mebbe not, you can't believe all you hear in 
 these unscrup'lous times. They say he's pretty well fixed. 
 Folks say they both got madder 'an hornets anyhow, 
 the church wan't dedicated. An' it's goin' round now 
 that Father Steele'll turn Wesleyan probably. Mebbe 
 so, mebbe not."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 THE Sabbath was a day set apart. No necessary duty 
 was neglected, the household was astir early no time 
 to lie abed or be lazy on the Day of the Lord never- 
 theless, Sunday had a character all its own. 
 
 To be sure there were family prayers every morning, 
 when Stephen and Ledyard came in from the barn and 
 Polly from the kitchen, Grandmother and Aunt Betsy 
 from their w r ing, and we all sat down with my father 
 and mother and what uncles and aunts and cousins hap- 
 pened with us at the time, in the family sitting-room. 
 The Bibles were passed, the chapter for the day was given 
 out, and each one read his two verses in turn. At first 
 Stephen, Ledyard, and Polly had much trouble piecing 
 out their sentences, but their ambition was fired by being 
 presented each one with his own book, his name written 
 very plainly on the first page, and by dint of much 
 help and patience and repetition and practice on the long 
 words, they became after a time fairly intelligent readers. 
 
 But on Sunday morning a longer time was taken 
 a psalm, or chapter in Proverbs, or the Sermon on the 
 Mount was read over a number of times, and then in 
 concert until after a few weeks it could be repeated by 
 any one. 
 
 Then came prayers, my father first, followed by other 
 members of the family. My Grandmother sat next him, 
 trumpet in hand, and when he was through she began. 
 I well remember her stately words and solemn tone: 
 
 "Ever living, ever blessed Lord our God, and Jesus 
 Christ thy son. who bust the bonds of sin and death on 
 that first day of the week, the holy Sabbath morning."
 
 54 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 The rest of the prayer as well as the beginning was in 
 keeping with the dominant tone of her mind and manner. 
 
 When Stephen first came to our house, my mother 
 asked him to go to church with us on Sunday morning. 
 
 "I'll go along home and see to mother and the old 
 man," he had replied, "chop wood enough to last a week, 
 and, if you please, I'd like five pounds of salt pork to 
 take along." 
 
 So it had been weighed out and a pie-shaped piece of 
 cheese, a loaf of bread, or pat of butter slipped in with 
 it and all put in a bag which he slung over his shoulder, 
 then he had climbed the Tiill back of the house and gone 
 away to his Sunday. 
 
 The meeting began at half past ten in the morning, 
 and each one had to hurry his particular duties, put the 
 house in order, care for the live-stock, do the dairy-work, 
 harness the horses and have the carriage at the door 
 all by a few minutes after ten o'clock. 
 
 The church was in the middle of a grassy square with- 
 out shrub or tree to relieve its bareness. A plank plat- 
 form in front reached from door to door, entrance to 
 the two main aisles. Between the doors and at the 
 opposite end was the pulpit, high above the slips, and 
 reached by a winding stair shut in by doors with wooden 
 buttons. 
 
 The churchyard was early filled with wagons, and a 
 crowd of men, women, children, and hired help. Old 
 ladies came in summer-time with turkey-tail fans of their 
 own make and a bunch of odorous mint, and in winter 
 with foot-stoves full of live coals from the kitchen fire, 
 for though the two little box-stoves near the doors roared 
 away briskly with their beech, maple, and hickory chunks, 
 they failed to modify the reign of frost and cold. 
 
 After the first service came the Sunday-school, when 
 the children could stretch their legs and jiggle comforta-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 55 
 
 bly on the seats while they recited their verses, beginning 
 with the second chapter of Matthew. There were always 
 seven new verses, after which we said all we had learned 
 before until the time was up. 
 
 After Sunday-school there was a short intermission. 
 The men talked with their neighbors,, looked after their 
 horses in the shed back of the church, stood in the sun 
 on cool days and in the shade in front on warm days, 
 exchanging views on crops, the price of butter, or on 
 how much money it was best to put in church repairs. 
 The women chatted in friendly-wise around the stove 
 inside when the weather demanded a fire everywhere 
 that healthy interest in one another's affairs fallen with us 
 under the name of gossip into such disrepute as to run 
 the danger of being lost in egoism. 
 
 Mother Boyd was sitting on a feather cushion in a 
 corner of her square pew one Sunday noon, toasting her 
 feet over a warmer, and finishing a doughnut, when 
 Jennet and her mother came up to inquire about Julia. 
 
 "Yes, she's bad again; the doctor came and with her 
 father's help cupped the whole length of her spine. 
 She hasn't raised her head since." 
 
 "Did you ever think," asked my mother, "that the 
 doctors might yet find something to give so their pa- 
 tients wouldn't feel such dreadful pain? When a man 
 is drunk you know he scarcely feels it if his leg is 
 cut off." 
 
 "If they would only hurry Julia suffers so ! But see 
 here, Jennet, I almost forgot you," and opening her big 
 dinner-basket she took out a fat cookie, saying, "That's 
 done with my new cutter oak leaf Henry brought it 
 from Auburn when he came home from school." 
 
 "There goes the minister!" cried Jennet, and she and 
 her mother hastily retired to their slip in the center of 
 the church.
 
 56 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "Mother," whispered Jennet presently, "if one of those 
 lamps ever break up there on the preacher's desk, would 
 you get me a piece of that rain-bow glass that jiggles 
 so when he pounds his fist?" 
 
 "H'sh!" 
 
 Jennet's glance, roaming listlessly, for she was getting 
 sleepy, over the pews and windows and ceiling, sud- 
 denly came to life. It had fallen on the minister's scalp, 
 which was moving down toward his eyebrows, then 
 swiftly up and down again according to the thought. 
 She tried "one, two, three, ready, go," and was delighted 
 to find it would fit. Then she looked around to catch 
 Joseph's eye, but he had been prudently seated next his 
 Uncle Mathew with his Aunt Achsah and Adeline and 
 Marcia between, and was busily counting the bubbles of 
 paint dried on the seat in front. Keeping time with 
 her rhythmic phrase, which she softly tapped out on 
 the cover of her Bible, her head gradually sank on her 
 mother's shoulder and she fell asleep almost without 
 knowing. 
 
 Opposite the pulpit sat the choir in double rows, bass 
 and tenor, air and second. The leader played the violin, 
 one of Jennet's aunts accompanying on the bass-viol, 
 and beside these there was a flute. The Presbyterians 
 had long left behind that stage of intolerance through 
 which the Baptists were then passing, and music had 
 free way in the service. 
 
 The afternoon meeting was now over, and the people 
 getting home hurried dinner. While the horses were 
 being stalled and fed in the barn the table was spread with 
 pork and beans from the oven or cold meat left over from 
 Saturday's roast with potatoes warmed over, pie, coffee 
 and pickles. The meal was soon ready and appetites 
 sharpened by two sermons, the drive, the late hour, and
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 57 
 
 the prospect of another drive and sermon yet to come, as 
 quickly took it off again. 
 
 Now came the time for reading the "New York Evan- 
 gelist" and "Missionary Herald," the "Female Guardian," 
 or a nap on the lounge. This was a dull time for Jennet 
 if Aunt Betsy was away. The Sunday afternoon fol- 
 lowing the discussion of the album quilt she would stand 
 looking out of the south window or run to swing on the 
 gate, her face always in the one direction until at last 
 she saw something stirring down by the triple-bodied elm. 
 A second glance assured her it was Aunt Betsy, and away 
 she flew, hair, arms, and apron-strings on the breeze. 
 
 "What made you stay so long? I was just lonesome 
 for you. I got the Pictorial Bible the way I always do 
 on Sunday and looked at the pictures, but they aren't 
 nice unless some one tells them to me. Then I combed 
 mother's hair and braided it all over till she said every 
 hair in her head was loose, and now I've looked and 
 looked for you. What made you stay so long?" 
 
 "1 went to meeting this morning, and this afternoon 
 I stayed with Granny Locke so Becky could go. I'm 
 afraid the old lady can't live long." 
 
 "Why don't you make her well, Aunt Betsy?" 
 "I'm only a poor old ignorant woman, Jennet." 
 "But you make us well. You have us drink sage tea 
 and you put goose oil and a woollen cloth on my neck 
 and I get well. Say, I'd rather have the woollen cloth 
 than the cold one mother puts on. I'll tell you what, 
 Aunt Betsy, you be right there with the red woollen be- 
 fore mother comes and she'll never make you take it off. 
 I heard her say to that hydropathy man how she cured 
 me right up with cold water, and now I suppose I'll have 
 it all the time 'cause it's queer; but I don't care, the red 
 woollen's just as good and a lot more comfortable 
 you tell her it's just as good, Aunt Betsy. Oh, I remem-
 
 58 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 her Granny Locke, she gave me six raisins when I was 
 down there with you. You must do something for her." 
 
 "But I haven't any medicine that will make an old 
 woman well when her time comes to die. We all have 
 to go some time." 
 
 "Let's walk down to the river and dig roots and things. 
 We could go right now." 
 
 "I'm too tired, and besides it's Sunday." 
 
 Dear old Aunt Betsy! I fear if the youngsters of 
 today should see you in that poke bonnet of dark blue 
 silk with only a few folds of the same for trimming on 
 the outside and a white silk lining within, though the 
 dear old wrinkled face and faded blue eyes shone with 
 the light of good will and ready self-sacrifice, I'm afraid 
 they would laugh and nudge each other to look at the 
 queer old woman in her alpacca dress with no gore, or 
 plait, or flounce, a round cape of the same coming to 
 the waist, a pair of cotton gloves, and a long black bag 
 drawn up with a string, on her arm, where she carried 
 her silver-bowed spectacles, her handkerchief, and a few 
 raisins or lemon-drops to slip in any small hand that 
 came near hers. 
 
 Sunday evening and the carriage was again brought 
 to the door. This time Jennet and the old ladies stayed 
 at home. What was there in that little mean, square, 
 ugly meeting-house that it could so easily govern the 
 conduct of the community and draw the tithe of their 
 substance, that could hold their tired bodies on hard 
 benches during four long sessions and make them thank- 
 ful for the privilege? It was because, humble and mean 
 though it might be, it was the shrine of an ideal beside 
 which substance, nay even life itself, is but a watch in 
 the night. 
 
 I can still see the rows of square pews running against 
 the walls on three sides. Judge Barak Miles sat just
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 59 
 
 yonder, with his boys, the envy of youthful Ravenna, for 
 in the pantry off his kitchen stood a bowl of copper and 
 silver change, where any one in this favored family might 
 help himself. And such good use did they make of their 
 opportunities that later on there was nothing in the bowl, 
 and no way to get anything in. 
 
 The owner of the next pew was Mr. Richly, an under- 
 sized, deliberate person, important in the village as he 
 made the coffins for the dead, saw to it they were prop- 
 erly placed before the pulpit, opened and shut the lids 
 in the church when the public filed in a long procession 
 to take their last look, and lifted up any child too short 
 to get a good view. Nobody found fault with him but 
 Old Phoebe Wilson, and she was well known to be half 
 crazy. No one ever could make out why she kept saying 
 in her last sickness, "If Sam Richly makes my coffin 
 I'll kick the foot-board out! see if I don't," though no 
 matter was more frequently canvassed at the Mite So- 
 ciety days when Mrs. Richly wasn't there. 
 
 Next sat Old Colonel King, reaching away back of the 
 Declaration of Independence. He was in such demand 
 for Fourth of July celebrations that had he lived in a 
 commercial era he -must have made a fortune. But no 
 thought of exploiting his patriotism for the good of his 
 pocketbook had ever occurred to his simple mind. He 
 had come to Ravenna in the first years of the century, 
 had been, with true Yankee thrift, a farmer by day and 
 a cobbler by night till easy circumstances gave him leisure 
 to expand to his heart's content the theme of the good 
 old days when man thought only of duty, God, and 
 country. 
 
 In one corner was a thin, erect, grey-headed man beside 
 a tiny woman in big round spectacles, both nearly eclipsed 
 in winter by a yellow muff the size of a bushel basket. 
 In spring when they came out from their barricade it
 
 60 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 was always a surprise to find them quite ordinary look- 
 ing. Jennet spoke of their boy to herself of course 
 as "the little son of a muff." It almost seemed to her 
 as if that might be calling names, and she thought of 
 what must happen to the one who should say to his 
 brother, "Thou Fool." She was very careful never to 
 think fool at the same time she was thinking of little 
 Thomas Quivey, though he did say every Sunday to his 
 teacher, "I learned the seven verses but I can't say but 
 four," and then boo-hooed, poor little son of the muff! 
 
 The pew opposite belonged to Uncle Ben Kinsmore; 
 fat, round, rosy, and never at home unless in his shirt 
 sleeves. Though Sunday with its high stock ,and stiff 
 boots was no doubt a trial to Uncle Ben, the thought of 
 shirking never occurred to him. As regularly as Sunday 
 came he could be heard squeaking to his seat, and blowing 
 his nose vigorously from time to time on his white pocket 
 /aandkerchief. 
 
 In Mr. Ives' slip the children ran up like a pair of 
 stairs. Among them was the little Statira, half hidden 
 by a post that supported the gallery, passing the time of 
 a long sermon by pricking the initials of her name on the 
 blank leaf of a hymn book. Once she put the pin in her 
 mouth just as her mother spied the wicked work and 
 gave her a fearful nudge. Down her throat slid the pin. 
 She begged to go outside and cough it up, but "Sit still 
 and behave" was her only answer. Her eyes filled with 
 tears as she thought of her sin. 
 
 "I shall die, mother, I shall die. I know I shall. 
 Please let me go out, I'll come right back." 
 
 "Look at the minister and be still ; you've done mischief 
 enough for one day," said the Puritan mother. 
 
 Poor Statira tried to prepare her mind for meeting the 
 Great Judge, but could think only of the pin slipping 
 down, down wondering when it would reach her heart.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 61 
 
 On one of the Ives steps stood a pair of twins, Jasa- 
 mine and Geraldine, so much alike they couldn't be told 
 apart. They were the only twins in the valley and every- 
 body felt a personal pride in calling strangers' attention 
 to them. They were always together, always dressed 
 alike, and never thought of themselves but as the one or 
 the other little twin. As one stood alone in front of the 
 house one morning a lady passing said : 
 
 "What's the matter? How do you happen to be 
 alone?" 
 
 "Oh, ma'am, I'm the good little twin, out taking a 
 walk, the other is naughty and sits upstairs on a chair." 
 
 The cholera that swept this section with such fearful 
 desolation in 1849 took our twins. They sickened and 
 died one day apart. We buried them in one grave and 
 the whole village mourned. 
 
 Then there was Deacon Boyd, his hands resting on his 
 gold-headed cane, unless the heat or cold demanded a 
 liberal use of his silk pocket handkerchief. But the 
 fairest sight to the children was Mother Boyd and her 
 big dinner-basket full of cakes and cookies, pears and 
 apples for any who came her way. 
 
 My father sat in the center of the house, stern, grave, 
 a very pillar of the church. But the tired body would get 
 the better of the will and his head would nod, nod right 
 toward the minister. Then catching himself he would 
 strain his eyes wide open, looking straight ahead as if 
 nothing had happened. 
 
 Two seats ahead was Mr. Enderley, the young deacon 
 who teetered on his toes whenever he talked or prayed 
 in meeting. He spoke very fast and his voice, rising 
 and falling with his teeter, was like the hum of bees or 
 murmur of a distant waterfall. 
 
 Dear old friends! Gone, all gone, only the youngest 
 of the children left, the grandparents of today. One
 
 62 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 by one you have lain down to sleep the last sleep. The 
 dust of years covers your bones and lays its obscuring 
 mark on your very names. Truly your foibles were few 
 and your virtues many. Ay, the poetry of old age is 
 when I was a child.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 GRANNY GARNSEY. 
 
 ON the outskirts of the village to the north, in what 
 had once been a doctor's office, lived old Granny Garnsey. 
 The hovel without paint, the yard without tree or shrub 
 or vegetable or fence, told well enough her miserable 
 estate. Almost any day the passer-by could see her shape- 
 less form bent double over some little pile of firewood, 
 her scant calico skirt flapping in the wind, a shawl tied 
 over her head, her hands pinched and red with cold. 
 Winter or summer, the business of life with Granny 
 Garnsey lay in arranging and rearranging, here and 
 there about the yard, the piles of fuel which the good 
 people of the place saw to it she should never be without. 
 Perhaps some perverted feminine instinct, seeking back- 
 grounds and pretty vistas, wrought in these piles as, in 
 others, it works in flowers and shrubbery, and living 
 green. 
 
 The expressionless face, sharp nose, pale eyes of quav- 
 ering blue with their shadows of disappointment and 
 grief, the whole set in a mould of stubborn endurance, 
 you could read there the hard sentence life had passed 
 on her husband dead, daughter dead, and sons who had 
 despised and forsaken her. 
 
 One room, barely furnished, served her domestic needs 
 a stove that like its mistress had grown rheumatic from 
 exposure, a high-post bed, a stand with claw feet on 
 which were her Bible, spectacles, and candlestick, a small 
 mirror from whose upper third ladies in high powdered 
 hair, and skirts of brocade hung over tremendous hoops, 
 looked out in gentle surprise at their surroundings, a
 
 64 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 few dishes on the pantry shelf if the door happened to 
 fly open, and in one corner a dark wooden chest. 
 
 No one in the village knew what was in the chest. 
 Once when I had taken her a basket of provisions I ven- 
 tured to say: 
 
 "My Aunt Deborah has a chest just like yours, Mrs. 
 Garnsey." 
 
 "Yes, Jennet, most every house has one." 
 
 "But ours hasn't." 
 
 "Most likely your mother gave it to one of her sisters 
 when she was married Lydia or Marcia they went 
 from your house." 
 
 "My aunt let me see what was in hers. There were 
 pretty quilts she had pieced, and the things she had worn 
 on her wedding day, a high-back tortoise shell comb, her 
 silk long-shawl with fringe on the ends, and her bead" 
 bag." I paused a moment, but she didn't say anything, 
 and I went on: 
 
 "In the till was a bunch of artificial roses and some- 
 times she puts them in her glass candlesticks on the man- 
 tel." Then I waited again, but no artifice tempted her 
 love to talk, and the chest with its mystery was closed to 
 the public for many years. 
 
 In her high-backed wooden rocking-chair she sat by the 
 stove in winter, and by the window in summer, and 
 looked out on the happy families riding by; men hurry- 
 ing to work that was sure to bring reward ; children; din- 
 ner-basket in hand, loitering on the way; ladies dressed 
 in their best passing to the afternoon tea or the merry 
 sewing-circle, or the old couple from the Lower Village 
 in their two-wheeled caleche. She had plenty of time 
 for comparison, she with nothing to have and nothing to 
 do and no one to be glad at her coming. But she never 
 complained of her lot, or wondered why Providence had 
 taken her husband and children and property. She sel-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 65 
 
 (iom referred to her happier days, and then only to dwell 
 on its joyful side, and to take a kind of feeble pride in 
 her husband's family, by which she nourished the self- 
 respect no indigent circumstances could take from her. 
 
 The price received for her hillside acres had paid for 
 the bit of land on which she lived, and left a small sur- 
 plus in the hands of the village merchant. On this she 
 had drawn- for necessities until it was gone, sometimes 
 in comfort, sometimes in well-concealed privation. 
 
 When winter approached, the .men of the church ap- 
 pointed a day for the "wood bee" that should supply her 
 with fuel for the season. Some drew the logs, some 
 chopped these to stove-length, and others split kindling. 
 For the next few days she would be busy making it into 
 numerous little piles against the house or fence, and 
 about the yard. A week later and these piles would all 
 have changed places. This mania was for years a kind 
 of public benefit in Ravenna. When other conversation 
 ran out and the silence threatened to be uncomfortable, 
 "And how about Granny Garnsey?" one would ask. "Is 
 she still piling wood? Do you know, I never could make 
 out what ails that woman, could you?" And then would 
 follow one of Aunt Betsy's remarks : "She's a leetle bit 
 derangey, I take it just a leetle derangey," after which 
 conversation usually got on its legs again. 
 
 There were things went on in the little cottage of 
 Granny Garnsey not approved of by the good house- 
 keepers of Ravenna, and as she had no means of liveli- 
 hood save as kindly disposed persons remembered her 
 with stores of provisions, the neighbors at length de- 
 clared the best place for her was in the county-house, 
 and the poormaster was advised to come for her. 
 
 Every one thought this an arrangement for her com- 
 fort every one except the poor woman herself, who flew 
 into a rage, fought with all the valor of her tongue, dared
 
 66 
 
 the poormaster to show his face inside her door, screamed 
 she would never go she'd die first. 
 
 This outburst on the part of the meek woman whose con- 
 stant refrain in company was, "I think just so," alarmed 
 the good people of Ravenna. "Let her alone," they said, 
 and apples, potatoes, and meat were again dropped at 
 her door, and the "wood bee" called into service. 
 
 And after that if the county-house ever by chance 
 loomed on the horizon of the conversation, a spot of color 
 would rise in her cheek, a wrathful fire kindle in her 
 eye, and her whole body quiver with anger. 
 
 "Thank the Lord," she would say, "I have a place of 
 my own that nobody can set me out of. The poor-house 
 is good enough for folks that haven't any home. I'm 
 not reduced to that." 
 
 There were about half a dozen houses in the village 
 open for her to visit whenever she liked. Here she 
 would go for the day and could be sure of a well-filled 
 basket when she went home. It was a matter of course 
 that she should wipe the dishes after dinner, and pick up 
 the stocking in process of knitting; but the thought still 
 rankled in the minds of a few that the shabby old woman 
 might do for herself she was well and strong or go 
 to the alms-house. The trouble was no one wanted such 
 help as the poor inefficient old woman could give. 
 
 But she had one staunch friend. Mrs. Jeremiah Dix 
 never forgot the time Johnnie died of the cholera how 
 friends shunned the house and sent inquiries only by 
 the doctor how Granny Garnsey had come with her 
 basket as if for one of her periodical visits, and had 
 baked and washed and scrubbed till it was over. Why, 
 I don't doubt the poor soul, shabby, incapable, and even 
 a "lettle bit derangey," had looked to her much like an 
 angel from heaven. And through the long years when 
 they were growing old together there was never a tale
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 67 
 
 of misery, of suffering, or hunger, never a storm, or high 
 wind, but Mrs. Jeremiah Dix would wonder how it was 
 going in Granny Garnsey's cottage, and post some one 
 off with a basket of good things. 
 
 One cold raw night, when the snow was piling high 
 around the doors, filling the paths, and making a chair in 
 the corner by the kitchen fire the most desirable spot on 
 earth, Mrs. Jeremiah, her supper work over, set a pan 
 of apples on the table, put some shelled corn in the 
 popper, took up her knitting, and settled herself for a 
 quiet evening. Just then Henry, a boy of twelve, came 
 blustering in, shaking the snow from his comforter, 
 stamping his feet, grumbling about the cold, and blow- 
 ing on his fingers, which had been almost frozen in spite 
 of the woollen mittens. He pulled the "New York Weekly 
 Tribune" from his pocket, flung it on the table, 
 picked up an apple from the dish, which he held in his 
 teeth while he sat down on the wooden settle behind the 
 stove to draw off his wet boots. 
 
 His mother's fingers flew fast over the yarn and the 
 needles rattled and clicked. The storm was rising, the 
 snow beat hard against the glass, and the wind roared in 
 the chimney. Mrs. Jeremiah sighed. 
 
 "It's a sad night for the poor and homeless, Henry." 
 
 "Now mother. Granny Garnsey's all right! Don't you 
 begin to worry." 
 
 The wind grew stronger and whistled round the cor- 
 ners with the peculiar sound that means a temperature 
 below zero. Sometimes a gust pushing under the win- 
 dow-frame rattled the leaves of the newspaper on the 
 table. 
 
 "Yes, you'd better go, Henry. Think if she should be 
 without food or fire !" 
 
 "I can't, mother,. my boots are off. Tomorrow'll do." 
 
 "Do you remember how it feels to be hungry?"
 
 68 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "My feet are wet now going to the post-office. I never 
 can pull on my boots when they're wet I don't want to 
 
 go." 
 
 "I'll help you get them on," and she went out first to 
 fill the basket. 
 
 "I don't want to go, but if you say so, I suppose I'll 
 have to." 
 
 Mrs. Jeremiah helped him on with his boots and cap 
 and ear-muffs, comforter and mittens, and gave him a 
 kiss to shame him on his reluctant way. 
 
 "There now, keep up courage, you won't be long; see 
 there's wood in her box carry in an armful anyway 
 maybe she can't get out in the morning for the snow. 
 I'll have the corn ready when you get back and maybe 
 some stirred sugar." 
 
 The trench where the path ran was full to the brim, 
 the sharp flakes driven by a fierce wind scratched his 
 cheeks and blinded his eyes, and feeling his way rather 
 by sense than by sight the boy trudged on, nursing his 
 bad feelings till at length he reached his destination. 
 He knocked; no one answered. 
 
 "Mrs. Garnsey," he called. "It's Henry, Mrs. Garn- 
 sey; mother has sent you a basket." 
 
 Reassured by the familiar voice the old woman got 
 out of bed and came to the door. The hinges grated 
 harshly in the cold, the door creaked and snapped where 
 the white frost had tried to bind it fast. At length' she 
 appeared, her candle shaded with one hand, throwing 
 into wierd relief her white nightcap, and the ragged 
 quilt wrapped about her scant shoulders. 
 
 "Oh !" he gasped in dismay, for she seemed more ghost 
 than mortal, but before he could run away, as he had 
 a mind to .do, she had pulled him in and taken charge of 
 the basket. 
 
 "Bless your good mother for thinking of me, and you
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 69 
 
 are a good angel too, coming out this wild night. I am 
 hungry. I had gone to bed to try and forget, but your 
 
 blessed mother " The old woman was, however, quite 
 
 unable to finish her sentence. 
 
 Henry had by this time forgotten his grievance and 
 was filling the wood-box, stirring up the fire, fetching 
 in a pail of water and whistling at the same time. 
 
 "Anything more I can do, Mrs. Garnsey ?" 
 
 "God bless you, my boy ! bless you ! bless you !" fol- 
 lowed him out into the snow and wind and storm. His 
 light heart kept feet and hands and cheeks tingling, and 
 it seemed no time till he was pulling off his wet boots 
 again on the settle behind the kitchen fire. 
 
 Mrs. Garnsey was a faithful attendant at the Meeting- 
 House on Sunday. She sat in the very back seat and 
 gave the strictest attention. Her large poke bonnet was 
 tied closely under her chin and over it hung a veil a 
 yard long with great hand-embroidered flowers across 
 the bottom. When the wind was cold and rough it was 
 drawn over her face, but on reaching the church she 
 folded it carefully back on the top of her bonnet, while 
 its width hung down on either side. A shawl summer and 
 winter served the double purpose of keeping her warm 
 and hiding what was beneath from any too curious 
 eye, and she had always a neatly folded pocket handker- 
 chief that was never shaken out. 
 
 Meantime years had gone by; my parents had re- 
 moved to a distant state, the neighbor opposite where she 
 had so often warmed her feet and eaten her dinner ha'd 
 sold her house and gone to live with children. Other 
 friends had grown old and passe.d away, and when Mrs. 
 Jeremiah Dix died, in the very act of filling the time- 
 honored basket, it seemed as if Granny Garnsey was to 
 outlive all her generation. Again the poormaster went 
 to advise her removal to the county-house. He described
 
 70 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 the new building where she would have a warm, com- 
 fortable room, plenty to eat, and personal care when she 
 needed it. 
 
 "You're older now than the law allows, Mrs. Garnsey. 
 The Bible says three score and ten, and you're over 
 eighty, now, ain't you?" 
 
 "Eighty-six come March." 
 
 "And the old friends are all gone." 
 
 "Ay, ay." 
 
 "Well, you think it over, and I'll come in again to- 
 morrow morning," and he left without waiting for an 
 answer. 
 
 And she did think it over all day she thought and 
 thought, sitting in her wooden rocker. Slowly the truth 
 sunk into her mind. She was old. She must grow more 
 feeble; even now she would rather do without the milk 
 a neighbor offered than go to fetch it. Piling wood was 
 a weariness, her rags were an apology for clothes, and 
 her shawl, its respectability too was gone, while each 
 year the wind found easier access under the decaying 
 clapboards of the little cottage. 
 
 That night witnessed the fight of her life, but not with 
 neighbors or county officials no human eye saw the 
 agony of the conflict. 
 
 "And I said I wouldn't ever go. Cold, and hunger, and 
 loneliness for thirty years, all nothing ! nothing ! And I 
 always intended to die in my own bed, and be buried 
 by my husband and daughter; to be carried to the poor- 
 house to herd with the offscouring of the county! and 
 be hustled into a pauper's grave! 
 
 ' 'Rattle her bones over the stones, 
 For she is a pauper whom nobody owns.' 
 
 that's what the children'll say."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 71 
 
 She couldn't sleep, she couldn't cry, only a dull ache 
 filled her whole body ; then her thoughts turned to that 
 Refuge where she so often had found relief. Surely He 
 would not forsake her in her old age, He who is God to 
 the widow and the fatherless." She crept to her knees 
 and prayed : 
 
 "Make me willing, Father, make me willing to go. I 
 know it is best. I know it is right. I am the last one 
 left the last one left. Thy will be done, Lord; I must 
 be willing I am willing!" Then peace came into her 
 soul and she lay down and slept. 
 
 When daylight came, her mind was made up to go. 
 She busied herself with the last preparations, put her 
 scant wardrobe into a satchel and set it down by the 
 door, so that if the summons came suddenly she might 
 be ready. There was one last thing to take farewell 
 of what was in the chest. She had forced herself to 
 accept pauper's food and pauper's shelter and the lonely 
 aeons in a pauper's grave, away from all she loved, but 
 the chest must not be desecrated, it must be left behind. 
 
 She went over and raised the top ; her heart almost 
 failed, and her head dropped in her hands. Then brush- 
 ing away her tears, "I will be brave," she said to her- 
 self, and sat down to say good-bye to all there was left 
 of what life had once seemed to be. A coat with brass 
 buttons her husband had worn it as a militia officer, 
 the long white plume yellowing with age, and the sword. 
 So he had died. Then her daughter had died. She had 
 never been herself since, she knew it. Then the losses, 
 and her husband's proud cousin who had enticed her 
 boys to the city they never came back the rare letters, 
 and then the silence. She lifted the dress her little girl 
 had last worn and the amber beads she had loved. She 
 went to the high-backed rocker by the stove and sat down 
 to think it out once more. Lovingly she smoothed out
 
 72 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 the folds of the dress and fondled the yellow beads. One 
 yearning cry escaped her: 
 
 "Daughter, daughter, if only you had lived ! Some one 
 to love me, some one to care for me!" 
 
 Her head leaned on the chair back, her hands loosened 
 from their grasp, all was silence. 
 
 At ten o'clock the poormaster knocked. There was no 
 answer. He lifted the latch and stumbled over the 
 satchel. Granny Garnsey sat quite still in her chair, 
 with her treasures in her lap. God had saved her in 
 her need she had escaped the poor-house.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 BRIDGET DONOVAN. 
 
 JUST how Mike Donovan, an Irishman from London- 
 derry, dropped down in our unmixed American Ra- 
 venna, was a mystery. There was no railroad building 
 within fifty miles, no canal being dug, no factories re- 
 quiring hands other than those of the proprietor and 
 his own sons. And when he died, shortly after, his 
 wife was left with nothing but her brogue and two help- 
 less children to attract the interest of a community whose 
 manners and traditions and ideals were quite strange 
 and new to her. But kindness is a language known the 
 world over, and when the merchant of the Brick Store 
 moved off an ell from a house belonging to him, made 
 jt weather-proof, painted it red, and gave it to the widow 
 vdth a bit of land about it, Ravenna seemed to her an- 
 other name for Paradise. 
 
 Behind the house fluttering in the wind was always a 
 line of stockings and shirts, of sheets and pillow-cases. 
 She was the village washer-woman, and eked out her 
 little income by helping in her neighbors' kitchens during 
 sickness or any special emergency. A good faithful in- 
 dependent worker, she- was as useful and necessary as 
 any member of the commonwealth. A healthy self-re- 
 spect had the Widow Donovan, who felt herself no whit 
 beneath her more prosperous neighbors, Their good for- 
 tune she enjoyed as if it had been her own, and their 
 griefs too lay close to her heart. 
 
 Every Sunday morning, rain or shine, clean and 
 dressed in their best, went Widow Donovan and her 
 boys to church. Their beaming faces told what a gala- 
 day it was, this doing nothing but sit still, visit in the
 
 74 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 intermissions, with thought of the good dinner that 
 waited at home. 
 
 And at the sociables and donation parties, though 
 Bridget, it is true, stood in the kitchen washing dishes, 
 she had given her mite and her services, and she too felt 
 a kind of property in the swing of merriment that 
 drifted back through the moving doors. 
 
 "The Lord be praised!" she would shout when word 
 was passed each year that the village bachelor had do- 
 nated ten dollars, or shake her head over the new mil- 
 liner's gift of two lean old hens, muttering, "Who can 
 understand his errors?" 
 
 The years had softened her brogue till few could have 
 told her from a native of Ravenna. Quick, sympathetic, 
 and imitative, she had fitted herself into the new sur- 
 roundings as if she had been born to them. Only once 
 was she known to refer to the unhappy past, which had 
 driven her with so many others into the land of promise. 
 That was when little Frankie Miles turned up his nose 
 because the chicken was boiled instead of being stuffed 
 and roasted. 
 
 "Little man," she said, "do you know there are folks 
 so hungry they can't sleep nights for the pain in their 
 innards? Why, I remember in Ireland when a lot of us 
 turned over dung-hills to see if we couldn't find some- 
 thing to eat. This country, sir, is Paradise ! An' if they 
 aint a hell, they ought be, for such as find fault," and 
 Bridget Donovan went back to her tub, leaving Frankie 
 with eyes wide open and a great fear in his heart. 
 
 There was an old country habit still clinging to Bridget 
 about which she evidently felt some delicacy she 
 smoked a stained clay pipe. How people knew this for 
 sure, I can't say. She was never seen with it, she never 
 spoke about it, and no one ever mentioned it to her. 
 But it was a fact established in the village annals
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 75 
 
 Widow Donovan smoked tobacco therein was she set 
 off, peculiar, and different among the Puritan folk of 
 Ravenna who, accepting the fact with grief, took all the 
 pains to conceal it one takes with a family error. 
 
 She had a personal interest in everybody. When the 
 young man from the west came back to visit relatives, 
 and left a bit of work with her, she was honored. Or 
 when an old resident came home from the Black River 
 country on Lake Ontario and brought her a bundle of 
 fine clothes to do up, dropping a little gift in her hand 
 for the sake of old times, life seemed bright indeed. 
 
 Her garden fence was covered with clematis, wild 
 cucumber, and morning glories. Their bright leaves and 
 gay blossoms hid the homely things that filled her cel- 
 lar with winter cheer. A large evergreen tree stood 
 close beside her door, and under its shade she would 
 sit on summer afternoons in her Boston rocker, sewing 
 and greeting with a cordial nod any acquaintance who 
 chanced to cross the two planks that bridged the grass- 
 covered ditch between her door and the road. The 
 hearty good-will in her voice when she passed the time 
 of day spoke for her blithe temperament, and called out 
 a corresponding mood of hope and courage, so that 
 everyone felt a trifle happier for having seen the Widow 
 Donovan. 
 
 At last she grew old and feeble and dropped down in 
 stature. The line of clothes at the back door swung 
 less often and finally dwindled to little more than the 
 black cord stretching from post to post. Her children 
 had grown up now, and looked after her wants as she 
 had done so many years for theirs. "This is life for 
 a king!" she would say, beaming on them, and, though 
 her muscles were withered and her face seamed, her 
 spirits, blossoming on in hope and thanksgiving, set their 
 stamp on the community.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 JENNET. 
 (1) THE RED STOCKINGS. 
 
 "I DON'T like those red stockings! I don't like 'em!" 
 Jennet's voice was hard and she scowled at her clothes 
 which were lying ready for her on the chair. 
 
 "Why, my dear, those are nice new stockings," said 
 her mother in gentle tones. "I want you to put them on 
 because this afternoon you are going to wear your turkey 
 red dress. They will look so nice with it, and we will 
 go up to see Aunt Lucia." 
 
 "I don't like 'em!" insisted Jennet. "The girls at 
 school all point at 'em and say, 'Look there !' " and Jennet 
 dropped to the floor and buried her face amid a shower 
 of tears. 
 
 In the corner of the kitchen stood the hand-loom, and 
 Aunt Betsy, hearing the beloved child, got off the high 
 bench on which she was sitting, came forward, and 
 stooped low to whisper something in her ear. The cry- 
 ing ceased, the face cleared, and the little brown head 
 with its tangle of curls lifted to the old lady with a 
 tender look in the danc eyes. 
 
 She put on the red stockings and laced her shoes with 
 leather strings so stout they never broke. She ate her 
 breakfast of bread and milk, her hair was combed, she 
 brought in a pan of chips from the near wood-pile and 
 put it under the stove to dry, then a few sticks of wood 
 were dropped in the box behind and her work was done. 
 It was now eleven o'clock and Jennet had gone again and 
 again to the old woman weaving at the loom and whis- 
 pered, "Is it time?"
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 77 
 
 At last Aunt Betsy drew the shuttle out slowly, beat 
 up the yarn with a bang of the lathe, pushed back the 
 bench on which she was sitting, and looked out of the 
 window with her hand shading her eyes to judge the 
 height the sun had gained in the sky. 
 
 "1 think it's nigh eleven o'clock," she remarked, as 
 she took down a sun-bonnet from a nail in the wall. 
 Jennet's was already in her hand. A tin cup and pail 
 were found, and the two started across the fields of 
 newly mown hay. The air was sweet with its fragrance, 
 the robins were chirping a gay song, a lone quail from 
 a safe retreat among the briar bushes was piping a call 
 to its mate who whistled an answer from the hill, and 
 the golden sunlight filled earth and air with life and the 
 joy of being. 
 
 At the foot of a little rise of ground Jennet bent over, 
 pushed back the leaves and cried, "I've found one ! such 
 a big red one ! See the first strawberry this year ! Must 
 I throw it over my shoulder, Aunt Betsy, for luck? 
 Stephen says you must." 
 
 "Sho', that's just one of Stephen's notions." 
 
 Both bent low over the ground, pushing aside the 
 clover blossoms, and the yellow buds of the sheep sorrel, 
 hunting for scattered clumps of berries, and when they 
 lay fair to the sun the scarlet fruit hung large and juicy, 
 each with its crown of green petals, as Aunt Betsy's hand 
 dropped them in the pail. 
 
 Jennet had been dancing around, chattering like a 
 bird at dawn, and now when she saw how few there 
 were in her cup while Aunt Betsy's pail was nearly full, 
 her face dropped and a deep scowl drew a line between 
 her brows. Suddenly a bright thought dawned on her. 
 She would pour her berries into the pail, and then she 
 could say, "See ! Aunt Betsy, and I picked 'em." Happy 
 child, if only when you are a woman you can sight as
 
 78 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 quick a remedy when you see friends in fairer places 
 than your own if when others succeed and you fail, 
 you can yet say, "All things work together for my good 
 I shall see by and by." 
 
 There was a slight embankment running along the 
 bottom of the high hill which had once been a canal 
 carrying water to a distillery on the farm below and to 
 the grist-mill at the village. Here they sat down to rest 
 and talk and hull the berries. 
 
 . "What's this little hill for, Aunt Betsy ? Is it the big 
 one's foot? There's its head up among the trees that 
 stand right against the clouds. Can't we go up there, 
 some day? We could touch the sky and see what it's 
 made of. Has the hill got a name? Aunt Lucia said 
 the hill back of her house was the Old Colonel's Hill, 
 because it once belonged to old Colonel King." 
 
 "This hill used to belong to Bildad Benson, before 
 your father bought it. You could call it Benson's Top." 
 
 "I don't like that," said Jennet. "But we could call 
 it Old Ben, or Uncle Ben, just as if Uncle Ben were a 
 man with candy or an orange. Don't you see, Uncle 
 Ben has kicked out his foot and covered it with straw- 
 berries, and up under his shoulder on that little hill is a 
 patch of blackberries all in blossom now. I like Uncle 
 Ben. And there is the lane that leads from the house 
 up the hill to the pasture where the cows walk so slow, 
 just like you. There's peppermint there and little green 
 cheeses, and sorrel in most every fence corner. They're 
 all good to eat. Did you know that, Aunt Betsy? And 
 on the other side is the big pile of stones ancl two pine 
 stumps turned bottom upwards. Cousin Joseph says 
 they look just like a castle when you're a little way off. 
 There are the towers standing high and the square keep 
 in the middle, like Uncle Tucker said, and little roofs 
 and chimneys sticking out everywhere. I never saw a
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 79 
 
 castle, but I guess Joseph did in Boston. They have 
 
 everything in Boston, Joseph says. And there's a story, 
 
 Aunt Betsy, about Alonzo and Imogene, who lived in a 
 
 castle. Do you know that story?" 
 
 "No, but your mother sings a song about them." 
 "Oh, good ! and does she sing about the worms when 
 
 the knight took off his helm is that what you call it? 
 
 But there's father and the boys going home to dinner. 
 
 Did you hear the dinner-horn? I guess Polly didn't 
 
 blow it hard, don't you?" 
 
 (2) THE PLAID DRESS. 
 
 AUNT BETSY had been busy in the fall making ready 
 a piece of plaid flannel for Jennet's new winter dress. 
 The brown yarn was colored with butternut shucks, 
 madder made the red, and the dye-tub behind the kitchen 
 stove, where she wrung out skeins of yarn each morn- 
 ing and shook them in the wind, gave the indigo blue. 
 
 Jennet had watched the process of spinning, coloring, 
 warping, and weaving, and when the plaids first came 
 to view she didn't like them ; they were not so pretty as 
 the stripes in the dress she was wearing with their colors 
 bright and varied as the rainbow. But she said nothing 
 of her dislike until it came from the woollen mill where 
 it had been sent to be pressed. This gave it a smooth 
 finish that would last a long time, a touch of elegance 
 where the clothes of most children were made up straight 
 from the loom. She looked and looked, and at last 
 cried out: 
 
 "I don't like it! I don't like it!" 
 
 "You ought to be glad to have such a nice warm dress ; 
 there are little girls that have nothing but old clothes," 
 said her mother. 
 
 But this reflection on the uneven distribution of goods 
 failing to make the plaid any prettier in Jennet's eyes,
 
 80 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 her mother continued: "Think how hard Aunt Betsy 
 has worked and so long to spin and weave it. It isn't 
 kind to her not to like it." 
 
 At this Jennet burst into tears. She hated the plaid, 
 but she loved dear old Aunt Betsy and couldn't bear to 
 hurt her feelings. When grief could no longer flow in 
 tears she ran to her grandmother's room. There she 
 was sure of sympathy, and something good to eat as 
 well. 
 
 The old lady had just finished her dinner and was 
 rocking a few minutes in her chair before putting the 
 things away. 
 
 "What's the matter, Jennet? You've been crying." 
 
 "I just hate that new plaid for my dress, I just hate 
 it ! Do you like it, Grandma ?" 
 
 "To tell the truth, I don't. You ought to have some 
 of that pretty delaine they have at the Brick Store. 
 Your father can afford it and you ought to be dressed 
 as well as the best in the town. But cheer up. I have 
 something for you, a nice cup of green tea and a piece 
 of apple pie seasoned with rose butter. Your mother 
 doesn't like you to drink tea, so I'll make it weak, but 
 it'll be good, and there's nothing like tea when one's out 
 of sorts," and handing her the cup she said, "There, 
 drink that while I clear the table and wash the dishes. 
 
 "And now, Jennet, let's see what you know. You've 
 got beyond b, a, ba ; b, i, bi ; b, o, bo ; b, u, bu ; but can 
 you spell baker?" 
 
 "I don't like to spell, anyway, Grandma." 
 
 "That reminds me, I saw you scratch your head last 
 night, Jennet. You go to that district school where all 
 the rag-tag and bob-tail go, and it's no wonder. If I 
 had my way you should go to some nice select school 
 where you would learn manners and be fit to go with 
 me sometime to see your relatives in New York City.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 81 
 
 "Well, we'll see ; you bring the cricket to my chair," 
 and Grandmother Lee took a white cloth from the bu- 
 reau drawer and seated herself in the splint-bottomed 
 rocker with the child on the cricket at her feet. She 
 gently untangled the brown curls, removed the snarls, 
 and, notwithstanding the ohs and ows, held firmly to 
 her work, passed the fine-tooth comb back and forth 
 over hear head, and finally drenching the hair in cam- 
 phor, exclaimed, "There !" 
 
 Then Grandmother tied on a clean apron, put on her 
 silver-bowed spectacles, took her sewing and went out 
 to the family sitting-room. 
 
 "Jennet, I'm thirsty ; will you get me a drink of water?" 
 Jennet went to the well and brought a tumbler of fresh 
 water; then she began stringing some beads. 
 
 "Jennet, you bring me a pillow-case from the press. 
 I'm using black thread and I can't see to get it through 
 the needle without a white cloth." The pillow-case was 
 brought, and again she began on the beads, having trou- 
 bles of her own with knots and holes too small for the 
 needle. 
 
 "Jennet, don't you want to run around to my room and 
 in the little drawer of my bureau at the right hand you'll 
 find a cake of bees'-wax? My thread doesn't act right." 
 
 Jennet wouldn't show reluctance, but her spirit re- 
 belled against the form of asking the favor. She thought 
 her grandmother might say, "Are you willing to go," 
 and not "Don't you want to?" "I don't want to go," she 
 said to herself, "but I will because because it wouldn't 
 be nice not to." 
 
 "Sister Peck," said Grandmother, when Jennet was 
 out of the room, "why in the world didn't you make a 
 prettier checK for Jennet's new flannel? You know she 
 likes bright colors, and that madder! it's only fit for 
 clothes in the poor-house. Why didn't you get cochineal
 
 82 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 for the red?" She scarcely waited for a reply; indeed, 
 didn't expect one. 
 
 Aunt Betsy took off her spectacles and wiped them 
 carefully while Grandmother continued : 
 
 "If srie must wear a home-made cloth dress it should 
 be as pretty as possible. Her gold beads I brought from 
 Philadelphia don't show off well top of a homely dress." 
 
 "Achsah and I talked it over and we thought a golden 
 brown would be nice for the main color." But Grand- 
 mother, full of her subject, could wait for no more. 
 
 "Achsah, a new delaine dress from the Brick Store 
 would look well on Jennet. There is a small flowered 
 pattern that would look especially well. By the way, 
 < : id you see Tommy Tuthill's new wife at the oyster 
 supper? She wore a very handsome Paremetta dress 
 with big red and yellow figures on a brown background, 
 and they said she wore a gold chain around her neck 
 with something on it in a little pocket a watch, I sup- 
 pose. I saw them worn when I was in New York City." 
 
 "Probably a gift from Mr. Tuthill," said Adeline. 
 "But, Achsah, how did you like her?" 
 
 "I think she will be a great help in our society. She's 
 from Massachusetts and no doubt capable." 
 
 "But do you think she'll be good to Hester?" asked 
 Grandmother. 
 
 "Of course she will, Hester's such a nice little girl, 
 and I'm glad she's to have a mother at last." 
 
 "Achsah, are you going to get Jennet a new store 
 ''ress?" pursued Grandmother, not to be shaken from 
 her purpose. "Mathew can afford it, and you ought to 
 dress her decently." 
 
 "I don't want her to be vain and she's dressed as well 
 as the children of our neighbors now. I don't want her 
 to think herself better than her playmates even if her 
 father can afford it."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 83 
 
 "She'll look like Hagar in a dress made from that new 
 flannel ! Yes, like Hagar in the wilderness !" and the 
 old lady gathered up her work and started for her own 
 rooms. The hall-door slammed hard, but as she was 
 deaf, perhaps she didn't know. 
 
 "Tell about the party you went to last night," asked 
 my mother. 
 
 "Oh, it wasn't anything much only those five girls 
 from Greene. They were invited because Jo King is 
 having one of his attacks and it's Sally Jenks from 
 Greene this time. But the funny thing was that every 
 one of them had a piece of black court plaster some- 
 where on her face or neck." 
 
 "Why, dear me, they couldn't all have had a burn or 
 pimple?" 
 
 "Gals, gals," warned Aunt Betsy, "if you would have 
 friends, you must show yourselves friendly." 
 
 "That's all right, Aunt Betsy, they're in fashion and 
 we're out. I suppose they think it makes their com- 
 plexion white by contrast; or else it might be to bring 
 out a dimple. All our girls noticed it and talked about 
 it. Oh, yes, and when they were taking off their things 
 in the spare room they began bragging over their petti- 
 coats. One had on six and another nine starched stiff 
 as anything; I suppose another would have had at least 
 thirteen if supper hadn't been ready just then. The 
 supper was fine, but I came home early, so I can't tell 
 much about it." 
 
 "Alanson not being there, I suppose it was dull. Jen- 
 net, run and see what time it is." 
 
 "Shall I go to the south door-step and look at the 
 noon-mark ?" 
 
 "Bless the child! A noon-mark is for noon. No, go 
 look at thp ^lock it must be nearly time for supper.
 
 84 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 By the way, Adeline, what is that all wrapped up in 
 tissue paper on your bureau ?" 
 
 "I'll let you see," and leaving the room she came back 
 in a few minutes bringing a fan sparkling with a thou- 
 sand silver spangles. The sticks were of carved ivory and 
 the fan itself unfolded a garden scene where gayly 
 dressed ladies were dancing under tall trees lost to 
 everything but love and pleasure it might well have 
 come from the hand of Watteau. 
 
 "Alanson ! Alanson !" cried everybody. "Did it come 
 from New Orleans?" 
 
 The owner's cheeks flushed. 
 
 Grandmother now came back with a skein of yarn for 
 some one to hold. "Here, Jennet, you aren't doing any- 
 thing," and then she spied the fan. 
 
 "Where did that come from? How beautiful! How 
 perfect!" and her voice took on the softened tone it al- 
 ways had when sfie handled exquisite things. She held 
 it, admired it, stroked it softly with a light hand, and 
 said, "When you refused young Merchant's invitation to 
 the Donation party at Platter, I said to Betsy, 'She'll have 
 to look out or she'll go through the woods and take up 
 with a crooked stick at last,' but I see it's all right, and 
 I'm glad of it. Alanson is a fine young man with a 
 good business head, and you'll make him a sensible wife. 
 But see here, Jennet, Time's a headstrong hoss' Where 
 are you, child?" 
 
 Holding the yarn for Aunt Betsy was merely to stand 
 up, stretch out your arms, -and the yarn would run off 
 smooth and easy. But it was different when Grand- 
 mother wound the ball. The threads would catch to- 
 gether, then a quick shake of the skein that would 
 straighten things out for a moment; then a second and 
 third knot with more and more violent jerks until it was 
 all in a snarl. She would pick away at it patiently at
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 85 
 
 first, then pull angrily and snap the skein, all to no pur- 
 pose. And when she put the ball between the threads the 
 mix-up only got worse till the snarl crept into her tem- 
 per. Looking out of the window just then she saw Jo 
 King riding by. 
 
 "What a mean thing he is to be riding in a sulky!" 
 and she gave another vigorous pull. "I must say a young 
 man never looks so well as with a handsome young lady 
 by his side." 
 
 "Don't be hard on him," laughed Adeline, "he'd be 
 glad enough to have Sallie Jenks." 
 
 (3) A VISIT TO AUNTIE DWIGHT's. 
 
 IN the long summer evenings, when the birds were 
 still and the insects, and there was only the croak of 
 the frogs in the marsh beyond the orchard, we used to 
 gather about the front door, sitting on the two stone steps 
 or on chairs under the trees, my father in his shirt 
 sleeves after the hard day. This was the time for talk 
 and jest and neighborhood news. 
 
 Then I would run after fireflies, or hide among tne 
 shrubbery, or scurrying through the billowy tops of the 
 may-weed make believe I was some storm-tossed sailor 
 swimming for my life. My mother's call, "Jennet, come 
 in the house," was the shoal on which my pleasure boat 
 nightly came to grief, for even if some one did read 
 me to sleep it wouldn't be with the Scottish Chiefs or 
 Robinson Crusoe, but something about Madame Guyon, 
 or the Diary of Hester Ann Rogers. 
 
 Occasionally the dread hour was put off. An errand 
 would take my mother to the house next below, and she 
 usually let me go along. I sat very still while they dis- 
 cussed candle-dipping, or the pattern-stripe in a wool 
 carpet Auntie Dwight was going to weave. Then some- 
 times there would be a glass of root beer brewed for a
 
 86 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 summer tonic, or a basket of ripe apples, for hers 
 ripened sooner than ours. But even this conversation, 
 full of interest as it was, couldn't keep my head from 
 falling into my mother's lap, where I was soon fast 
 asleep. 
 
 Then the shaking! and the words, "Wake up! Wake 
 up!" and the dragging of unwilling feet homeward 
 poor Madame Guyon seemed preferable to that. 
 
 Auntie Dwight was a short thin little body in a calico 
 dress, with a cape of the same and a bit of white around 
 her neck. Her grey hair was pulled back tightly under 
 a close fitting cap, and her pale blue eyes were sunk 
 in wrinkles. Her voice was far away, as if it had been 
 beaten about by the wind before reaching you, and her 
 hands were hard and furrowed and ugly with keeping 
 her house, and working day in and day out at the loom 
 weaving rag carpets for the neighbors. 
 
 Sometimes in the afternoon I was allowed to go by 
 myself and stay to supper with her. I carried my blocks 
 of calico to sew over and over, and when I got to work 
 Auntie Dwight would unroll her bundle to show me 
 pieces of 'LowizieV and 'LavinieV dresses they had 
 when they were little, and give me a sample of every- 
 thing to carry home, and there would be doughnuts or 
 cookies in the middle of the afternoon, and a whispered 
 promise of tea later, as if the forbidden thing might be 
 heard in the kitchen at the top of the hill. When prepa- 
 rations for supper began I ran out to play in the running 
 brook at the back door, to make waterfalls, and ponds, 
 or a great canal like the one Grandmother went on by 
 packet from Utica to New York. 
 
 There was a low place at the foot of a sandy hill 
 where the sweet flags grew very thick. When other 
 things failed I tip-toed on the clots of marsh-grass while 
 the cold mud oozed through the laces of my shoes, to
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 87 
 
 pull up the roots and lay them in a little basket to be 
 preserved in sugar when I got home. One day I found 
 a trough leading the water from the brook over to the 
 sand-bank above the swamp. Days passed, the little 
 stream never tired of its work, and finally the hill was 
 half gone and the low place with its sweet flags and 
 marsh-grass was a level meadow. 
 
 Uncle Joseph was big and fat. He had a little rim 
 of hair near his neck, but the rest of his head was bare 
 as a turnip. He was Auntie's husband and was always 
 sitting by the stove in winter. He didn't work any more 
 and spent hour after hour just whittling. Looking out 
 the kitchen window you could see his great dark empty 
 distillery rotting away in silence. 
 
 I was glad when he was not in the house, for it was 
 always 
 
 "Is that little black nigger I saw at your house your 
 brother?" or, "Does your grandmother wash your nose 
 up or down?" and then he would laugh as if it were 
 great sport, when my face reddened or my lips drew 
 together in a pout. 
 
 I always wanted to ask why Auntie should be working 
 all day she was as old as he. But there he sat year 
 after year whittling his stick, or pulling out the stove- 
 hearth to spit. Of course it is nice not to do anything 
 but why must Auntie work so hard? Indeed, I was so 
 full of why's that Uncle George called out whenever 
 he saw me, "Why, why, why, here's little Miss Why- 
 why !" 
 
 When I came to go home, Auntie Dwight would pick 
 a handful of her spicey pinks and red roses that cov- 
 ered the hill behind the distillery. Her red roses running 
 up the slope and nodding in the wind against the blue 
 sky I'm afraid I would have stolen them if I could.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 UNCLE BEN. 
 
 "Now, Jennet," said her mother, one bright after- 
 noon, "your father and grandmother and I are going to 
 a wedding over at Solon, and you will stay with Aunt 
 Betsy, and she'll do something to make you have a good 
 time." 
 
 "Oh, I want to go." 
 
 "It's a long way over to Gen. Northway's, and we'll 
 be late getting home, and beside little girls never go to 
 weddings." 
 
 "Can't I go to Aunt Adeline's if she has one, and it's 
 here?" 
 
 "Of course, child, but that's in the family. Run along 
 now Aunt Betsy knows what you like." 
 
 Jennet stood at the gate and watched them ride away. 
 They grew smaller and smaller, and finally the carriage 
 was gone behind the elm trees that stand by the water- 
 ing-trough at the bend in the road. Then she ran to 
 find her best playmate. 
 
 "They're gone, Aunt Betsy; what can we do?" 
 
 "If it was winter and we had a fire we could sugar 
 off. Let's see shall we go down by the river and gather 
 herbs? I haven't been out yet and it's time for hoar- 
 hound and lobelia and mullein. 
 
 "Oh, good! and there will be flowers too red balm 
 and speckled field-lilies. I'm going to learn to doctor 
 folks too, can't I ?" 
 
 "Yes, when you're bigger. It's a good thing to know 
 that sumach buds are best for sore throat, wintergreen 
 for rheumatism, and lobelia for a 'puke' in case of 
 poison."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 89 
 
 "You'll teach me, won't you? and when people are 
 sick I'll give them catnip tea so hot it'll bite, and tell 
 'em to drink it right down. And boneset they must 
 swallow that and not spit it out the way Joseph does." 
 
 By this time the two were well on their way, and soon 
 found themselves in the cool shade on the river bank. 
 Everywhere was the faint odor of ferns, mandrakes, and 
 berries, and the rustle of leaves in the trees. Jennet 
 threw back her yellow sunbonnet and Aunt Betsy dropped 
 the knife and basket while they listened to the ceaseless 
 flow of the stream and the hum of contented insects, 
 and admired the glittering gold on the butterfly's wing. 
 The old lady fell into a revery was she thinking of the 
 past and its failures? The placid face was unruffled. 
 
 Jennet, who was never still long at a time, was soon 
 running toward the fence, where the choke-cherries were 
 turning from green to red. 
 
 "Be careful, be careful ! there's poison-ivy growing 
 there," and Aunt Betsy turned to the present again with- 
 out a sigh. 
 
 "I don't want to get that. My, didn't Joseph look 
 awful? His face was just like the moon, only much 
 redder, and his eyes nothing but slits." 
 
 "Come on and help me pick the catnip. It's for ba- 
 bies; makes them feel easy and go to sleep." 
 
 "How did it get such a funny name, Aunt Betsy?" 
 
 "Because cats like it, I guess. Why, I don't believe 
 a cat's half so pleased with a mouse as with catnip." 
 
 "Then the angels called it that so we'd know, didn't 
 they? And oh, Aunt Betsy, wasn't it dreadful that all 
 five of Aunt Mary Jane's kittens died at once?" and Jen- 
 net's face puckered at the memory. 
 
 "See here," called Aunt Betsy, pushing away the dirt 
 from some fine thread-like roots yellow as gold, which 
 she laid carefully in the basket, "that's gold-thread and
 
 90 
 
 a baby medicine too. And that clump of elder is all 
 in a blow; break off those big heads, and what is left 
 will grow into berries good for chills and fever and 
 erysipelas." 
 
 "I can't reach them they're too high. How pretty 
 and white they are!" 
 
 "I dry these blossoms," said Aunt Betsy, getting her 
 arms full, "and make them into tea to cure the baby's 
 cold. And there," pointing a little distance away, "is a 
 bunch of hoarhound. Pick that." 
 
 "Is that for hoarhound candy? That's the medicine I 
 like !" 
 
 "There, you've had a long lesson. In spring we can 
 gather canker root, bathblows, and Indian turnip. Your 
 father will bring in the cherry bark and sassafras. Sar- 
 saparilla and narrow-leaf dock grow in another place, 
 and we can get peppermint and spearmint in the lane 
 where the cows go to pasture." 
 
 "Let's sit down and look at Uncle Ben. I think he 
 must be a mountain, don't you? Stephen laughed at me 
 when I said so to him, but I wish I could go to the top 
 the way Uncle Tucker did, and it spit fire and stones 
 do you remember, Aunt Betsy? And there was a hole in 
 the top and he went down it three hundred feet! My! 
 I don't suppose there's a hole in the top of Uncle Ben, 
 do you, Aunt Betsy? See the clouds all rolled up in a 
 bunch behind it. They're so soft and easy, would it be 
 like silk or the wool on my lamb's back? I'd like to 
 stick my fingers in them." 
 
 "The sky would be just as far away up there as it is 
 down here." 
 
 "Stephen told me a riddle, I guess it's about that tree 
 on the tiptop of the hill. Now listen ; this is it :
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 91 
 
 " 'Riddle come, riddle come right, 
 Where was I last Friday night? 
 The winds did blow, 
 The cocks did crow, 
 The boughs did shake, 
 And I saw the hole the Fox did make.' 
 
 He said Fox was the man's name, and they told Peter 
 to meet them under the tree at ten o'clock at night, but 
 Peter went at eight o'clock and got up in the tree. By 
 and by the Foxes came, and while they dug a big hole 
 they talked how they were going to put Peter in it. And 
 they waited and waited, and never found Peter in the 
 tree. And after the Foxes went home Peter went too. 
 I think that's the tree on top of the hill. I guess I don't 
 want to go there. Maybe the Foxes are there now." 
 
 "Sho! Sho!" said Aunt Betsy, "there's no truth in 
 that story." But Jennet told every child that came to 
 see her how the Foxes were under the tree on the hill. 
 They were quite close to the house now, and forgetting 
 for the moment Uncle Ben and his lonely grave, Jennet 
 rattled on : 
 
 "I went up the hill as far as the pasture with Joseph 
 last night to drive the cows home, and there were mounds 
 up there, Aunt Betsy. I didn't step on them- father 
 says they're just where the trees have blown over, but 
 Joseph says they're Indian graves, and I guess they are. 
 He said a man stood by one grave and stamped his foot 
 hard and called out three times : "What killed you, poor 
 Indian?" and the Indian said, "Nothing at all." Now, 
 don't you think they're Indian graves? 
 
 "And Aunt Betsy, Uncle Ben is not all good either." 
 
 "Why, child, why?" and the faded blue eyes seemed to 
 marvel, for her first thought was to find good in every- 
 thing. 
 
 "Don't you remember," said Jennet, "last summer
 
 92 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 when I was picking blackberries there under his shoulder 
 and something bit my foot and it swelled all up and you 
 called Auntie Dwight to come over and see it and she 
 put smart-weed leaves on it and you thought it was a 
 snake bite? Uncle Ben shouldn't have snakes. I hate 
 'em." 
 
 "Snakes," said Aunt Betsy, "do a powerful lot of 
 harm, but they're God's creatures and must be some good, 
 even if we can't see it." 
 
 "I never knew before that you liked snakes. I think 
 they're horrid wiggly, wriggly things. If I had seen 
 the one that bit me, I'd have killed him, yes, killed him 
 before I hollered!" 
 
 "We shouldn't criticise the works of God, Jennet, 
 when we know so little about them. We know He's 
 good even if we can't understand, and we shouldn't say 
 anything He does or makes is bad." 
 
 "Well, what's the use of having the word 'bad' then?" 
 
 "I think some things are better and more pleasant than 
 others, and it's the difference that makes what we call 
 bad. Maybe if Adam and Eve had not disobeyed God 
 in the Garden of Eden all things would have been good." 
 
 "And no snakes, Aunt Betsy?" queried Jennet. 
 
 "No snakes," said Aunt Betsy. 
 
 "But the serpent was there," said Jennet, "and he is 
 a kind of king snake, isn't he?" 
 
 "It's true he tempted Eve, and she told Adam no 
 harm would come, and so they disobeyed God and that 
 was sin. Sin is a fearful thing and always brings pun- 
 ishment. So the serpent was made to go on his belly 
 ever after and be hated of men." 
 
 "And why did the snake bite me? Did I sin?" 
 
 "Dear little one, we can't explain all the ugly things 
 that happen, but we do know that God is good and our 
 business is to be good, too. Then by and by He will
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 93 
 
 take us to His heavenly home, and there will be no 
 snakes there nor any bad. We'll forget all that." 
 
 Jennet had asked all the questions she could think of 
 for the moment, and was satisfied. The two walked on 
 in silence until Aunt Betsy, looking behind, said: "See, 
 the sun is setting toward the west hill ; it must be pretty 
 well on to six o'clock." 
 
 Just then Polly from the kitchen came across the roau 
 calling: "Aunt Betsy, come quick! Stephen's stepped on 
 a rusty nail!" 
 
 So they hurried to the house and with clean rags and 
 salt pork Aunt Betsy did up the wound. Meantime she 
 found out where the nail was, and while Stephen was 
 giving particulars to an admiring audience she slipped 
 away to the barn, hunted till she found the offending 
 nail in an old board on a rubbish heap, outside the barn 
 door. Needless to say, she brought it to the house, 
 greased it with care, wrapped it in flannel, and laid it 
 behind the kitchen stove out of harm's way. 
 
 "What are you doing?" asked Polly. 
 
 "Just taking care of the nail, so it won't do any more 
 mischief." 
 
 "Well, what next?" laughed Polly. 
 
 "I make sure Stephen's foot gets well and no lock-jaw 
 set in." 
 
 "That's all bosh," said Stephen, "the nail did the harm 
 when it went in I don't see what more it can do." 
 
 Aunt Betsy made no reply, but she took particular 
 care of the enemy and only threw it out when the foot 
 was quite well. Everybody laughed at her superstition, 
 but her good humor was unruffled, and in her heart of 
 hearts she knew what had worked the cure.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 OLD SAM. 
 
 OLD SAM was a neighbor of ours, broad-shouldered, 
 with coarse hands, face browned in the wind, shaggy 
 beard, small piercing eyes, rough-mannered, and given 
 to drink, but shrewd. 
 
 One Saturday early in August he and Giles, a slight 
 boy with bronzed hair and complexion, were mowing 
 grass in the ten-acre lot when Uncle George drove by. 
 
 "Come over and help tomorrow, George." 
 
 "Can't Sabbath." 
 
 "I'll give good wages better'n the rule." 
 
 "P'rhaps you can get Afriky Thompson," suggested 
 Giles. 
 
 "Afriky Thompson! Not much! Stutters worse'n, 
 makes more noise'n a squealin' pig tacked on to a guinea 
 hen! I could mow a whole field while I was makin' up 
 my mind to one o' his remarks." 
 
 Uncle George drove on, and Old Sam stood looking 
 after him. "Can't move 'em out'n their dumbfounded 
 pious tracks, an' me needin' help the worst way." 
 
 The next morning he was early in the fiel'd. About 
 ten o'clock he looked up from his mowing, resting his 
 scythe on the ground, and raised himself erect tall as 
 a pine, straight, and well grounded. A carriage was 
 just disappearing down the road in direction of the 
 church. 
 
 "There go those Lee folks again ! They work awful 
 hard to keep a day o' rest settin' on those hard benches 
 mornin', noon, an' night. Good 'nough man if he didn't 
 tag to meetin' all the time. His grass needs cuttin' bad's 
 mine an' I'll get the biggest part o' the medder in today
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 95 
 
 if 'tis Sunday, an' we'll see whose hay holds out longest 
 in the spring." 
 
 "The Deacon'll do," ventured Giles. "If he don't 
 drink, he's never loud or silly, an' he's ready 'nough to 
 < T o the right thing. You aint forgot, hev you, the day 
 he stopped plowin' to go over to those mis'ble good-for- 
 nothing Roodys' an' move 'em to Podunk, where they 
 lied relations to look out fer 'em?" 
 
 "Thet's you, Giles, allus standin' up fer the off hoss. 
 But he's one o' them Washin'tonian fellers that's signed 
 the pledge, darn 'em! I'd like to see old Bildad Benson 
 back on thet farm. We'd see doin's ! My ! wan't he 
 jolly! take a glass any time o' day. I never could see 
 'twas so much agin him as folks make out, kickin' down 
 a door or two. They was his own doors, wan't they?" 
 
 "It aint the same farm 'twas in Old Bildad's day, an' 
 1 for one am jes' as well satisfied not to hev his cattle 
 chasin' round in our crops 'cause he can't keep his fences 
 up fer trailin' to the Lion's Head." 
 
 "Go 'long 'ith your silly talk ! You never did like 
 Bildad. But we'll see, we'll see. They say he's goin' to 
 hev a barn raisin' 'fore long, an' I'd like to know how 
 he kin do thet 'thout a social glass. He can't. The men 
 won't stand sech cussed mean ways, you see if they do." 
 
 The time of the barn-raising came. Preparations 
 were on foot early the day before. Ledyard hauled in 
 the logs, split them fine, piled the brick oven full, and 
 started the fire. When all was burned to coals, they 
 were carefully swept out, and bread, pie, mother cake, 
 and training gingerbread pushed in. The door was shut, 
 and when it was opened again, an hour of two later, 
 everything was done to a turn. 
 
 In the midst of these preparations came Uncle Jo, 
 the distiller.
 
 96 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "Ye have a raisin' tomorrow, don't ye, Deacon ? How 
 much whiskey ye goin' to need? I've an extry fine lot 
 I can let ye hev cheap, seein' it's you an' ye don't 
 patronize very often." 
 
 "I don't drink whiskey myself, Uncle Jo, for what I 
 think are good reasons, and I'll not furnish it to anyone 
 else." 
 
 "But the men are expectin' it. Things may not be so 
 pleasant if ye disappint 'em. I'd go kind o' slow if I 
 was you." 
 
 "I'll not have it, Uncle Jo, if the barn is never raised," 
 and Uncle Jo understood. 
 
 They gathered in early from the hills, men and boys 
 too, half-savage, envious of danger, besieging the sun- 
 r'ial, heart in mouth if ever the kitchen door was opened. 
 The sides were already nailed together. A loud 'he-ho-he' 
 from the master-carpenter, each man bends his back 
 to the lift and strains his utmost. Little by little, waver- 
 ing and uncertain, the beams and joists mount in the 
 air till the frame is upright; then a man to scale the 
 dizzy top and spike together the four sides. A breathless 
 moment some one overtops the crowd the carpenter 
 crawling up the timbers, unsteady, shaken by the wind 
 lost if once his nerve should falter a pause the firm 
 even stroke of the hammer a loud hurrah. 
 
 Meantime in the house, hurry and scurry. Gallons of 
 coffee, women here, women there. It is "Run along, 
 Jennet," "Run along, Jennet," wherever she turns. 
 Women spreading bread, women frosting cake, women 
 cutting pies, women skimming cream, women piling plat- 
 ters with cold chicken, women everywhere. 
 
 The men wash their sweaty faces at the bench by 
 the well and 'sit around under the trees or on piles of 
 lumber ready for lunch. Then the kitchen door opens 
 and the procession begins steaming coffee, biscuits,
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 97 
 
 meat, gingerbread, cake, cheese, pie, pickles the house 
 seems bursting with good things. 
 
 "Stingy cuss!" whispers Sam Dillenbeck, "all this 
 sweatin' an' he aint goin' to give us nothin' to drink." 
 
 "Yes, yes," squeaks old Johnnie Peele in his high- 
 pitched voice, "he's what I call a proper mean man." 
 
 Sly jokes pass from ear to ear brains distend along 
 with stomachs. 
 
 "Good 'nough lunch," drawls Uncle Jo, "but it's mean 
 principles to make a milk-sop o' everyone else 'cause 
 you're one yourself. It's agin the sperit o' this yer gov- 
 ment, which same agrees to let every man be born free 
 an' ekal an' get his livin' out'n the rest. Now you tell 
 me what I'm gettin' out'n this yer Deacon." 
 
 "I call this good eatin', aint none o' you used to bet- 
 ter," spoke up Gershom Bates, "an' they'll be no broken 
 heads after it neither. I say it's a good sensible lunch, 
 an' as fer gettin' a livin' if they aint any demand fer yer 
 stuff, Uncle Jo, you'll hev to get to work diggin' same's 
 the rest o' us." 
 
 "Oh, I aint goin' to the poor - house yet," growled 
 Uncle Jo. 
 
 Old Sam was not always so crusty. He was very 
 fond of boys, and liked nothing better than drawing 
 them into an argument. On his way home from the barn- 
 raising he saw two boys sitting on a log comparing 
 jack-knives. 
 
 "Heigho ! What you fellers doin' ? Don't you hev to 
 go home an' fetch in the cows?" 
 
 "Yes, but if we aint there, mother'll have to send 
 Annice." 
 
 "Oh, I see ; you're shirks." 
 
 "If we go every night, why shouldn't Annice just 
 once ?"
 
 98 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "You seem to know pretty well what'll be done if 
 you aint there. Strikes me ye must've done it before. 
 A shirk, h'm ! Let's have a look at ye. I see, it's cause 
 ye've been at the Deacon's all day. He's a shirk, aint 
 he? Got a nice big house an' lots o' barns. Don't work 
 a bit on Sundays, jes gets up his hosses an' his nice new 
 double carriage, an' rides away to meetin 5 an' sits there 
 all day doin' nothin' that's what I call a shirk." 
 
 "Oh, but that's not shirking. You mustn't work on 
 Sunday. That's for Sunday-school, an' standin' round 
 talkin' in the church-yard, an' wearin' your best clothes. 
 Why don't you go to church?" 
 
 "Wall, I'll see; when silver dollars get rollin' up 
 hill. An' how does Annice like your bein' shirks?" 
 
 "She don't do anything all afternoon but sit out in 
 the cool shade and knit an' patch, and it won't hurt her 
 to get the cows one night." 
 
 "And who did ye say she was knittin' fer?" 
 
 The boys looked at each other, but said nothing. 
 
 "Was it your father taught you to be shirks? I sup- 
 pose he sits in the cool shade of a tree while you boys 
 hoe the corn or he sets you to pickin' stun off the east 
 lot. He goes to the Brick Store an' sets round in a 
 chair or holds down the cover to a cracker-bar'l till you 
 get the job done, eh?" 
 
 "No, he don't. He works faster'n any man on the 
 north road." 
 
 "Well, I don't see how you got the habit then. But 
 you're bright boys, smarter'n any o' Tom Roody's. All 
 seven o' them goes to the poor-house winters an' comes 
 back to their shanty summers. When you get to runnin- 
 things you'll stay at the county-house all the time to git 
 red o' goin' fer the cows an' milkin', won't ye? Let's 
 see, ef ye've started out to be shirks ye'll need a little 
 help that's what shirks are allus wantin'," and pulling
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 99 
 
 out his wallet, he handed each of the boys a Spanish 
 two-shilling piece. "Now, you kin grow dollars out'n 
 these here shillin's ef ye plant 'em right, an' not drive 
 the cows neither, provided ye get Annice to do yer 
 work." 
 
 "I don't believe it," said Tom, turning his shilling 
 over to read the date 1835. 
 
 "Well, I'll be off. Next time I see you boys let me 
 know how yer father an' mother an' Annice like yer 
 bein' shirks." 
 
 Two shillings was a large gift in the eyes of the. 
 boys, but they hadn't really relished what the old man 
 said. 
 
 The winter that followed the barn-raising was slow, 
 and the hay-mows grew bare long before the grass came. 
 Old Sam fed sparingly, and his cattle showed lean sides 
 and bare bones. At last he saw he must buy hay, and he 
 thought of that Sunday morning in summer when he 
 had seen the Deacon driving by to church, for the Deacon 
 was the only one who had hay to sell. 
 
 "Giles," he said, just thinking aloud, "I guess those 
 Lees are pretty nigh right about workin' on Sundays." 
 
 That was the winter his wife died, and all the tender- 
 ness that rested under the rough exterior was stirred to 
 its depths. Nothing more he could do she was gone. 
 How desolate the house was ! Into the loneliness of his 
 grief stole the thought of one last best service the 
 world should acknowledge her worth long after he was 
 dead and forgotten. Evening after evening, pencil in 
 hand, he studied over a bit of paper. At last the epi- 
 taph was ready, and the tallest, whitest stone in the 
 cemetery at Ravenna bears to this day the inscription 
 which still, when almost a century has passed, draws more 
 visitors to her grave than to any other in the county.
 
 100 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "Ann Dillenbeck was her name, 
 America was her nation, 
 Ravenna was her dwelling-place, 
 And Jesus Christ was her salvation. 
 
 Now she's dead and in her grave, 
 And all her bones are rotten. 
 When this you see 
 Let her remembered be 
 And never be forgotten. 
 
 The rose is red, the grass is green, 
 And days are past which she has seen. 
 In the days to come we'll all remember 
 Jesus Christ her Great Redeemer."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 THE MITE SOCIETY. 
 
 THE Mite Society was meeting with Mrs. Cephas King. 
 The sewing and knitting dealt out and all busy, the 
 president rose to go through the usual form. 
 "What is to come before the society today?" 
 "I went to Maj. Berry's of an errand last week," 
 spoke up Amelia Ayr, "and his wife sat before the fire 
 without a cap. She looked so strange I couldn't help 
 asking if she'd forgotten to put it on. 'No,' she said, 
 'but I've only got one, and if I put that on here I 
 haven't anything for when I go out. I'm afraid of tak- 
 ing cold, but I'm getting so I really don't know how 
 to make one.' I thought we ought to look after that; 
 she hasn't any children." 
 
 "I'll give the muslin and lace for two," said Grand- 
 mother Lee. 
 
 "And who'll c!o the work?" asked the president. 
 "I will, unless some one else wants to," said Mary 
 Tolman, the village milliner. 
 
 "My husband went only yesterday to Maj. Berry's 
 shop," said Mrs. Deacon Lee, "to get Jennet's foot 
 measured for a pair of horsehide shoes. You know he 
 makes fine shoes better than any one else. Jennet had 
 her foot on the paper and he had marked the size of her 
 sole with the pencil, when he fell back suddenly and 
 almost tumbled from the bench. Yes, we'll have to 
 help them, for they can't help themselves much longer." 
 "Did he get over it ?" asked Mrs. Tewanty. 
 "Yes, he took a little wine and was soon himself 
 again, but he said he'd felt strange for two days. When
 
 102 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 he came to, he picked up his awl and said, holding it 
 out : 'This awl has been all-in-all to me for ten years. 
 It has paid my rent, bought our food, kept us warm, 
 paid our tithes, and it's good to do it's work for ten 
 years more, but it's the hand that holds it fails.' He'll 
 be dropping off suddenly some of these days." 
 
 "Just think he was all through the war of eighteen- 
 twelve." 
 
 "Why doesn't he get a pension, I'd like to know?" 
 
 "Oh, he's been able to earn a living, such as it was, at 
 the shoemaker's bench." 
 
 "I believe the Major says he didn't go to the war for 
 a pension, but to save his country," commented Grand- 
 mother. 
 
 "The country owes him a pension, anyway, and 
 Judge Miles is the one to see about it. Mrs. Miles, you 
 speak to your husband about it. The idea of letting 
 such a man come to charity !" 
 
 "Suppose at the next meeting we each bring eatables 
 and fill a big basket or a barrel, and send it up with 
 the caps," suggested the president, whereupon was a 
 general cry of "Good ! Good !" 
 
 "We have plenty of yarn on hand," she went on, 
 "taken in dues. We can't get any money out of it unless 
 it's knit into socks. Who's willing to do some of that 
 work at home?" 
 
 "You ought to take half a dozen, Amelia Ayr," said 
 Julia Titus ; "everyone says you knit a sock in one even- 
 ing. How do you do it?" 
 
 "That's stretching it. I have done it, but it was a long 
 evening, and it was under pressure." 
 
 "I heard Mother Boyd went to Albany last week," 
 said Polly Bush, "to see about her eyes. Have you 
 heard, was it so?" 
 
 "Yes, and we had a letter last week, and the doctor
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 103 
 
 thinks nothing can be done to help her. She'll be blind 
 the rest of her life." 
 
 "Then she won't be driving to the village any more 
 with Julia ! How does she bear up under it ?" 
 
 "Is it cataracts or inflammation?" 
 
 "She didn't write particulars, but it's bad enough any- 
 way. They'll not be home for three weeks. Her hus- 
 band has bought a double-seated carriage, and they'll 
 drive home in it." 
 
 "Now Mis' Deacon Lee'll not be the only aristocrat in 
 town," whispered Julia Titus to Amelia Ayr. 
 
 "Have any of you heard how Dick Robbins got hurt? 
 His back is broke, they say," and Aunt Polly took off 
 her spectacles, wiping them as you instinctively do when 
 you have a piece of news every one will want to hear. 
 
 "Hurt? Dick Robbins? What is it? I haven't heard. 
 Hurry up ! Where'd it happen ? Back broken ? When 
 was it?" questions from all sides, to which Aunt Polly 
 nods a slow assent. 
 
 When all was quiet and eager and she had folded her 
 work neatly and straightened her apron, she began: 
 
 "Give me time, give me time, an' I'll tell." 
 
 "Time !" cried Julia Titus "looks's if you was taking 
 it." 
 
 "Sunday, perhaps you remember 'twas a pleasant 
 day?" She paused for remarks or objections, but as there 
 were none she went on. "Well, Dick an' a lot o' other 
 boys went butternuttin' on a Sunday, if 'twas Sunday, 
 an' climbed clear to the top. Seem's if these boys never 
 mind what risk they take, do they?" and again she looked 
 around for answer. 
 
 "Dear me, what happened?" gasped Grandmother. 
 
 "The branch broke an' well, he fell ; that's what hap- 
 pened. He fell so's his back hit a stone an' he couldn't 
 get up. An' they carried him home to his mother. The
 
 104 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 doctor says he'll never walk again or even sit up 
 straight." 
 
 "Oh, dear; why must he go on Sunday?" 
 
 "Those Robbinses never go to church," said Julia 
 Titus. 
 
 "Si Robbins's always at the Lion's Head, they say, 
 an' you can't expect children to know more'n their 
 parents, can you?" . 
 
 "Well, I hope it'll be a lesson," said Aunt Car'line. 
 "How're your neighbors, Mis' Tewanty?" 
 
 "Who d'ye mean?" 
 
 "The Hickses, of course. Somebody's always ailin' 
 in that family." 
 
 "An' pray why shouldn't they be?" spoke up Julia 
 Titus. "Did you ever go there when they wan't smellin' 
 o' opodeldoc, fetty, an' onion poultice enough to knock 
 you down?" 
 
 "I just wonder why it is that house should be so af- 
 flicted," exclaimed Mrs. Titus. "The Hickses are good 
 honest people." 
 
 "It's plain enough to me," answered Emily Potts. "I 
 went there to call last week and was taken in to see 
 Rhoda. I could scarcely get my breath. Shawls and 
 quilts hung at the windows to keep out the sunlight and 
 prevent a breath of fresh air from reaching her. I don't 
 believe that room had been aired for a month, certainly 
 not since Rhoda's been sick. Her mother told me that 
 air and water are the worst things a sick person can 
 have." 
 
 "Doesn't Rhoda ever want a drink?" 
 
 "Yes, but Mrs. Hicks says that's just a symptom of 
 her disease." 
 
 "And Rhoda isn't well," broke in Julia, "till Mrs. 
 Hicks has Hi done up in pork and liniment. Mr. Hicks 
 is the only one that keeps well. I suppose that's because
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 105 
 
 he's in the shop all day and sitting behind the stove 
 at the Brick Store all evening." 
 
 "I wish you'd stop talking behind their backs, Julia," 
 said Aunt Car'line, "I want to hear Mrs. Tewanty tell 
 how they are." 
 
 "Every word I said is the truth anyway," insisted 
 Julia. 
 
 Mrs. Tewanty folded her hands over her work and 
 looked up smiling, the little curls on either side of her 
 face shaking like leaves in the wind. "I think the 
 matter has been discussed and settled already," she 
 said; "however, I asked the 'prentice boy when he came 
 for milk this morning, and he said Rhoda was able to 
 sit up half an hour." 
 
 "Have you been over an' offered to set up with her, 
 Mrs. Tewanty?" asked Aunt Car'line. 
 
 "Do you take me for a public nurse? I guess if I did 
 that I'd have a steady job! If you remember I've got 
 a husband that takes as much waiting on as Rhoda, any 
 day. Maybe you don't know what it means to have a 
 nervous person in the family. He won't let the chil- 
 dren peep at the table, and after supper they're not to 
 get off their chair till they go to bed, and in the middle 
 of the night if he hears the clock tick, I have to get 
 up and stop it, or take it down cellar. I don't think I'm 
 likely to go around offerin' to set up with anybody else." 
 
 "Aunt Car'line," broke in Julia, "I saw you buying 
 plain red and green calico. Are you piecing a quilt and 
 have you got a new pattern?" 
 
 "Yes, I've got two. Mis' Ezra gave me one, and my 
 cousin in Smyrna sent me the other. One is the Blazing 
 Star, and the other is the Rose and Lily. You make 
 'em both by hemming the bright colors on white cloth. 
 They are lots handsomer than Ann Eliza Tuthill's. Say,
 
 106 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 Mis' Jeremiah Dix, how'd you say your husband's sister 
 was this fall?" 
 
 "Whew !" exclaimed Polly Bush, looking out of the 
 window and seeing Jeremiah Dix and his little boy ride 
 by, "There's that boy in his gingham aprons again ! 
 When do you suppose, Julia, that Mis' Dix is goin' to 
 leave gingham aprons off that growin' boy?" 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Dix, who had caught part of the 
 remark and guessed the rest, "I like to have him clean, 
 and I put a fresh apron on him every time he comes 
 into the house." 
 
 "It'll be time to skim the milk now before I get home," 
 said Mrs. Titus, who had been showing signs of uneasi- 
 ness for the last five minutes. "I guess it's time for me 
 to be getting on my things." 
 
 "If I don't get home and have the supper on the table 
 at the usual minute," said Mrs. Tewanty, rising also, 
 "my husband'll have a nervous chill and all the family'll 
 want to be joining the circus or anything else that'll 
 take 'em away from home." 
 
 It was not long till the president was left alone to pick 
 up the work. She examined 'the apron Emily Potts 
 had been sewing on the hem was uneven, the seams 
 not overcast, and the button-hole a pig's eye. 
 
 "Oh, dear," she sighed, "and I'm responsible for it 
 all ! Catch me being president next year !"
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 THE QUILTING. 
 
 THE North American Slender-hand, as Stephen and 
 Ledyard called him, came to the Deacon's more and 
 more frequently, usually before tea, and then he and 
 my Aunt Adeline would go off to ride, or wander into 
 the parlor, and I noticed that my mother didn't follow 
 as she did when the preacher stayed to supper. I liked 
 it quite as well, for if we were by ourselves I could get 
 some one to tell me a story, and if we were in the parlor 
 I shouldn't expect to ask. 
 
 "Have you got that white cloth ready for the quilt?" 
 asked my mother one summer morning, when there had 
 already been three quilts and two comfortables taken 
 from the frames. I was beginning to be mystified. But 
 more cloth was sewed on, the cotton laid over it, the 
 cover placed and marked with a border of vines and 
 roses, and the center filled with a fine shell pattern. 
 Again they sat at the frame for days stuffing out roses 
 with cotton, shading leaves with lines of fairy stitching, 
 but the task grew long and tedious for two. 
 
 "Now," said my mother at last, "shall we have a quilt- 
 ing or finish it ourselves ?" 
 
 "I'm not going to have my quilt spoiled. It's for my 
 spare room and will last a life-time. If I can ask just 
 the good quilters I'd like the quilting, it would be more 
 fun. But there are always a lot of know-nothings that 
 expect to be asked." 
 
 However, the quilting was decided on, Aunt Adeline 
 asked just those she wanted, and when the day came I 
 made many errands to the pantry to look at the cold 
 chickens, jellies, cakes, custards, and currant preserves;
 
 108 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 biscuits were rising on the back of the stove and the 
 oven was still full of things at which I vainly tried to 
 get a peep. 
 
 Mrs. Ives, Julia Titus, and Aunt Lucia came early, 
 declaring they wanted to make a record on the wedding 
 quilt. When the places had been assigned, and every 
 one had found thimbles and threaded their needles, the 
 buzz began. 
 
 "Who's the new doctor that's hung out his sign on the 
 Sloan House ?" asked Aunt Lucia. 
 
 "Calls himself homeopathist !" said Mrs. Ives in dis- 
 gust. "Pity he couldn't have found some Christian name. 
 Who knows what it means, anyway ?" 
 
 "What it means is plain enough," said Julia Titus, 
 "it's a path to a home. But he can't well be a path to 
 more than one home unless he's a Mormon." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw !" and Aunt Lucia gave such a jerk to her 
 thread that it broke right in the middle of a bud. "It 
 has something to do with allopath more'n likely. Dr. 
 Edred is an allopath doctor, isn't he? well, this is just 
 some new kind." 
 
 "Where's Adeline ? She's been at the Albany Normal, 
 she ought to know." 
 
 "Homeopathist?" cried Aunt Adeline from the center 
 of the late arrivals, "he's the doctor of small doses. He 
 puts a pill into a pail of water, dissolves thoroughly, and 
 the patient takes a teaspoonful once in twenty-four hours. 
 He gets well just the same as if he took ten of Dr. 
 Edred's pills." ' 
 
 "I don't believe it," said Mrs. Ives. "He'll not get 
 me to dose that way. When I'm sick I want to know 
 I'm taking something." 
 
 "It might be good for Ann Maria Collins," said Aunt 
 Lucia. "Perhaps one thing's as good as another for 
 hysterics."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 109 
 
 "He's getting practice anyway. Hannah Mudge says 
 she sees him going in to Jerry Brown's." 
 
 "La ! that comes of his new wife. I think it's scand'- 
 lous throwing over Dr. Edred that's cured Jerry an' the 
 children for the last fifty years. I think he could be 
 churched for doing that," said Mrs. Ives indignantly. 
 
 "Come, who are you going to church ? Jerry, the doc- 
 tor, or the new wife?" 
 
 "When I was in Albany," said Adeline, "the apothe- 
 caries came up to the Legislature to get a law against 
 homeopathy because they compound their own medicine 
 the drug business seems likely to go begging." 
 
 "Good for the homeops" cried Aunt Car'line. "Let 
 the apothecaries 'tend to themselves. I want a drug 
 store not tacked on to any doctor, so when I feel sort 
 o' mean 1 can get fetty pills without saying ah, yes, or 
 no to anybody. Fetty pills are awful good for nervous 
 folks." 
 
 "A man said," remarked Adeline, " 'Similia similibus 
 curantur.' " 
 
 "Don't talk Injun, Adeline." 
 
 "It isn't, it's Latin, and means 'If anything hurts you, 
 take a little more/ " 
 
 "I thought it was some such foolishness." 
 
 "Well, anyway, he began by taking his own medicine 
 to see how it would act that's what I call the 'milk o' 
 human kindness' for a doctor to experiment on him- 
 self." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad to know if that's what it is," broke 
 in Julia Titus; "the neighbors hear all kinds of groans 
 from the Sloan House. We didn't know what to think, 
 but if he's experimenting on himself there's no call for 
 interference." 
 
 "Have you heard the homeopathic recipe for chicken 
 broth ?" asked Mrs. Miles. "Kill your chicken, and hang
 
 110 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 it in the sunlight so its shadow'll fall on a kettle of 
 water for one hour. Salt and strain and it's ready for 
 use." 
 
 "By the way, Mrs. Lee, do you believe in cold water 
 as much as you did?" 
 
 "I think, just as I always have, that it's good for 
 sore throat." 
 
 "Well, I don't believe in water cure," said Julia Titus. 
 "This freezing a sore throat and breaking the ice for 
 a bath, and being wrapped up in a wet sheet and giving 
 up every thing you like to eat it's not sensible." 
 
 "Do I understand that that hydropathy doctor claims 
 to cure everybody?" asked Mrs. Ives indignantly. "That 
 means water is good for everything, and we all know 
 it's the very worst thing a person can have for a fever. 
 I shall take no notice of him, and if every one else does 
 her duty he'll soon be frozen out and Dr. Edred get all 
 his practice back again." 
 
 "It's my opinion," said Aunt Lucia, "if anyone takes 
 up with hydropathy or homeopathy, it shows a tendency 
 toward superstition. What do you say, Aunt Betsy?" 
 
 "Well, Lucia, water's good for lots o' things or God 
 wouldn't have given us so much of it. Sister Lee says 
 cold water's been the saving o' her." 
 
 "Where is Grandmother Lee?" asked Mrs. Miles. 
 
 "She's away on a visit to New York," cried Jennet, 
 "and she says maybe she'll bring me a china doll, and 
 we're having the party while she's gone 'cause we don't 
 want her to know Aunt Adeline's having SQ many quilts, 
 and if Aunt Adeline should get married, which of course 
 we don't know, you never can tell what'll turn up, but 
 if she does I'm to " 
 
 "There, Jennet, that's enough; you go out doors and 
 play with Bessie," and Jennet had to leave the room in 
 disgrace, "and miss all the things they'll say," she re-.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 111 
 
 fleeted. "But mother can't make me miss my supper, 
 'cause what I said was every word true. I heard Aunt 
 Adeline say those very words to Stephen when he joked 
 her 'bout 'Lanson I don't care, it wasn't a lie, anyway." 
 
 "What are we coming to," sighed Aunt Lucia, "all 
 these new kinds o' doctors starting up one can't tell 
 what to believe." 
 
 "There aren't any more kinds o' doctors than there 
 are new sects o' religion settin' up," said Julia Titus, 
 "and it's a plaguey sight harder to tell who's right there, 
 and a thousand times more important." 
 
 "It's my opinion," said my mother, "that whoever 
 takes the Bible as his guide and lives up to its precepts 
 will voyage safely to the heavenly haven, so let's not 
 worry or judge our neighbors." 
 
 "They're all quacks," said Aunt Lucia, "to come here 
 interfering with Dr. Edred, who's been good 'nough for 
 Ravenna for fifty years and more. I consider they're 
 only one degree better'n spirit-rappers. Down in Bing- 
 hampton, folks consider spirit-rappings mere supersti- 
 tion. I heard the Sloan House had rappings in it, and 
 no wonder; a great unfinished house, unfurnished, just 
 the place for uneasy spirits to come haunting." 
 
 "Yes," added Mrs. Ives, "they say there are strange 
 noises over there o' nights ; groans, and raps, and a bell 
 aringing the neighbors think it's spooks, but it may be 
 spirit-rappings for aught we know. Have you been 
 reading about the Fox Sisters?" 
 
 "I have," said Aunt Lucia, "and it makes me feel 
 spooks behind my back every time I'm alone. Not so 
 long ago I went up to the garret after dark, and the 
 stair creaked, and the old door groaned, and then the 
 wind blew out my candle I ran back to the kitchen 
 quick as ever I could, and told Jeremiah he'd have to
 
 112 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 go without his boneset tea that night, for I'd never go 
 up there again in the dark." 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Dix," said Julia Titus, "I never thought 
 you'd be superstitious. But oh, Aunt Car'line, what is 
 that I hear about you and spirit knockings?" 
 
 "Do tell! and who's got it now?" came from all 
 sides. 
 
 "Aunt Car'line always gets the news first o' anybody." 
 
 "The Judge, as it happened," began Aunt Car'line, 
 "was going to attend court at the county-seat last week, 
 so I thought I'd go 'long and stop for a visit with Mrs. 
 Ezra Wilcox. I'd hardly taken off my bonnet and shawl 
 when she began tellin' 'bout raps an' right there while 
 we was talkin' kind o' solemn an' quiet, an' I wonderin' 
 what spirit rappin's was, there it came, slow an' reg'lar. 
 behind my chair. I was dretful scared, but Mis' Wilcox 
 was used to it, an' I made up my mind I could stan' 
 it if she could. We spelled out the words and finally 
 it gave a message from Elder Dyer. But all he said 
 was "Damn !" an' then I knew it was a lie. No such 
 word as that ever passed his godly lips when he was 
 alive then we got up an' made a big noise, an' Mrs. 
 Ezra began gettin' dinner, an' I was that nervous I was 
 all of a tremble." 
 
 "Why didn't you hold on to yourselves," asked Mrs. 
 Ives, "an' get something worth hearing? Ask the popu- 
 lation o' hell " 
 
 "Aren't you ashamed o' yourself, Amelia Ives ! The 
 idea of talking so of that good old Elder Dyer only 
 three months dead! I should think you'd be afraid of 
 a judgment. Talk of churching Jerry Brown !" 
 
 "Was that all you heard?" asked Julia, in a disap- 
 pointed voice. 
 
 "All for that day," replied Aunt Car'line. 
 
 "Why, have you heard raps since? I don't suppose
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 113 
 
 the rest of you care about any more of this. Come into 
 the hall, Aunt Car 'line, I'm going to know all there is 
 to be found out, and the rest of you can keep right on 
 with your quilting and cake recipes." 
 
 "No ! No ! We want to hear too ! We believe Aunt 
 Car'line." 
 
 "Sit still Julia, and I'll tell. The next week, as I was 
 spinning on my little wheel at home, and thinking all 
 the time of what I'd heard about the rappings, by and 
 by there came one. It wasn't very loud. I thought at 
 first it was a neighbor, but no one was at the door and 
 the knocks came right along louder, and directly out of 
 the chimney. I was scared almost to death, bein' alone 
 and I stopped spinning and stood right up an' said, 'In 
 the name o' Jesus Christ, I command you, whoever you 
 are, to depart and never come here again,' and I've never 
 heard another rap." 
 
 "Fd've found out who it was anyway, and what he 
 wanted," said Julia, much put out that her curiosity was 
 not to be better satisfied. 
 
 "You did just right, Car'line," said my mother. "It is 
 cultivating curiosity, if not superstition, and one never 
 knows whether it's a good spirit or a bad one." 
 
 "We're almost through the border," said Mrs. Ives, 
 "and there's only a little of the shell-work. Now be 
 generous, girls, and let Adeline take the last stitch or 
 you'll upset some pretty plans." 
 
 "See here now," said Julia, "don't you think we have 
 plans as well as Adeline? She's all settled anyway, and 
 I don't see why some of the rest of us can't make sure, 
 too." 
 
 "If Adeline doesn't care, I'm sure I don't," laughed 
 Mrs. Ives. 
 
 And as the last stitch was taken, they responded to 
 Jennet's eager call by trooping into the dining-room.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 ENOCH'S WIFE. 
 
 THERE was one woman came to see us whom I never 
 heard called anything but Enoch's Wife. I never even 
 wondered whether she had another name or not. I 
 loved to see the big black mules, with their long ears 
 and ropy tails, driving up to our door. She was dif- 
 ferent from everybody else; her head trembled all the 
 time as if she were saying, "No, No!" Her hair and 
 face and eyes were nearly all of the same soft gray color. 
 She wore a black dress and did not always have on a 
 cap. Then you could see her hair drawn tight to the 
 back of her head in a bunch like a walnut. When she 
 did wear a cap it was of black lace trimmed with nar- 
 row brown ribbon, and the little strings hung flying in 
 the wind front and back of her shoulders. 
 
 Mother said she talked through her nose, but she took 
 so much snuff I for my part didn't see how the sound 
 could get through. Mother said it made her tired to 
 visit with Enoch's Wife, because her head, hands, or 
 some other part of her was always going. But I thought 
 the talk was lively, and I heard a lot of -things that other 
 people wouldn't tell me, while she was following my 
 mother round getting dinner on the table. 
 
 She never brought her knitting but sat all the after- 
 noon in the rocking-chair with her snuff-box in one 
 hand and a pinch in the other, just swaying back and 
 forth. I was on hand whenever I thought she was going 
 to open the box, hoping she would offer it to me. It was 
 such fun to sneeze, sneeze, sneeze, when I couldn't help 
 it and everyone knew I couldn't. Grandmother would 
 look cross and tell me to stop, but I would go right on
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 115 
 
 I had to. I took a big pindi the first time, for I knew 
 they wouldn't let me have another. I often wondered 
 why my Grandmother didn't carry a snuff-box she al- 
 ways had everything anyone else did. But Grandmother 
 was very elegant. However, Enoch's Wife seemed to 
 get great comfort out of it, as a man does out of his 
 pipe. 
 
 Enoch and his wife lived way back in the hills, miles 
 back. Long years and hard work had cleared the forest 
 and coaxed the rough soil into a tolerable farm. The 
 house sat on a little plot leveled out of the side-hill, 
 which sloped gently away to a wooded stream at its 
 foot. Nasturtiums and bachelors' buttons grew along 
 the south side as far as the kitchen door. There were 
 large barns, well filled when winter came, with cows, 
 sheep, and oxen, and everything to feed them on. Enoch 
 himself looked an old old man, for rheumatism had got 
 hold of his feet and chained them to short steps. His 
 face was weather - beaten and worn. His teeth were 
 nearly gone and his voice seemed to come from some 
 far-away upper chamber. But his heart was sweet and 
 fresh as a spring morning, untouched by avarice or the 
 bitterness that so often follows on physical discomfort. 
 
 I could clap my hands when I heard my father and 
 mother talk about going up to Enoch's. When we got 
 there we went round to the kitchen door. This was 
 where the family and most of the visitors came. The 
 kitchen was a large airy room and the very heart of 
 the home-life. The meals were prepared and the dairy 
 work done on one side of the stove, on the other a rag 
 carpet covered the floor, and in a warm corner were a 
 rocker and a splint-bottomed arm-chair. On a stand in 
 front of the window lay the family Bible, the weekly 
 newspaper, and a great work-basket with the roll of 
 pieces for making good the daily wear and tear. Here
 
 116 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 the company sat until a fire, ready laid in the dining- 
 room stove, could be kindled. 
 
 The garden, with its beds edged in sweet alyssum and 
 its trim little paths, was a picture. There were tomatoes 
 still rare enough to attract curious visitors, quantities 
 of smelly herbs, bitters for the "puke" or fever, horse- 
 radish roots to goad on a reluctant appetite, and leaves 
 for soothing a blister. Bunches of lavender and rose- 
 mary for the piles of linen, and "old man" and "live- 
 for-ever," "old hen and chickens," dear knows what for. 
 
 In the middle of the afternoon, if it was spring, 
 Enoch's Wife would put on the maple syrup to sugar 
 off. It would boil away and she would stand and stir 
 and stir and now and then drop a little off the end of 
 her spoon into my cup of water, and then it would be 
 done. I would have some to stir into a grain or stiffen 
 to wax on snow, and Enoch's Wife would fill my saucer 
 again and again till mother would look up and say, 
 "There, that will do, Jennet," and that was the end of 
 that. Then Enoch's Wife would say : "Run down to the 
 pasture, child, and help Fido bring up the cows you 
 won't have any appetite if you don't." 
 
 Then came the dash down hill with Fido, penning the 
 cows in the yard, and dancing round to watch Enoch 
 milk. And such meat, and potatoes, and biscuits, and 
 pickles as we found on the table when we went in for 
 supper ! 
 
 The square bed up at Enoch's had a teeter over the 
 top from which pink chintz curtains hung down to the 
 floor. The pattern on the chintz spread and hangings 
 was a harvest scene ; girls in shepherdess hats, tied under 
 the chin, were raking the grass while the water- jug and 
 dinner basket stood at the foot of an apple tree. Far 
 handsomer than the white dimity curtains Grandmother 
 had I thought.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 117 
 
 "Achsah," Enoch's Wife said one day, "Have you 
 heard the young student preach up at Simms' corners?" 
 
 "Yes, once." 
 
 "Well, what do you think of him?" 
 
 "He's inexperienced ; has a great deal to learn yet, I 
 should say." 
 
 "Have you heard about his courting up at Eben's?" 
 
 "I should think Eben would put a stop to that; Lois 
 is as good as engaged to Amos Towne." 
 
 "Oh, but he does look smart in his silk hat, and kid 
 gloves, and store-clothes." 
 
 "Virtue is the greatest ornament and good sense the 
 best equipage," my mother would say. 
 
 "But then he has only to stand up in the pulpit and 
 talk that makes the difference." 
 
 "Talk doesn't make a pastor any more than dress. 
 It takes knowledge of spiritual things, and I think a 
 little of the homely virtue of making two ends meet, 
 too." 
 
 "They do say he preaches good sermons." 
 
 "They say a good part of the sermon he preached 
 Sunday about beauty in apple blossoms and moral 
 grandeur in common lives, was taken straight from 
 Beecher," broke in Polly. 
 
 "I don't know how that may be, I'm sure," said my 
 mother, "but 1 don't believe in accusing any one with- 
 out positive proof. However, I don't fancy his marry- 
 ing Lois. I was over at Eben's for the day not long 
 ago. and about three o'clock in the afternoon a span 
 of fine horses and a new covered carriage drove into 
 the lane. Lois went out to see who it was, and pretty 
 soon she came back with the young minister. Mary Jane 
 had to go out and hitch the horses in the stall." 
 
 "What was the matter? Couldn't he do it himself?" 
 
 "It would seem not."
 
 118 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "How did he happen to be driving?" 
 
 "Those that know nothing you know 
 
 "I suppose he wanted to take Lois out must 'a' been 
 Deacon Quivey's new carriage he. sets a store by Lois, 
 they say." 
 
 "He came in and was introduced he was a picture 
 in his long-tailed coat and white tie, tall hat, and laven- 
 der gloves with the tips of the fingers all neatly pulled 
 out a woman couldn't have done it better. He took 
 off his hat and set it on his knees, but he sat all after- 
 noon in his gloves. 
 
 " 'Mr. Le Fevre, do lay aside your gloves and stay 
 awhile,' Eben's wife would say. 
 
 " 'My dear Mrs. Osgood, it is impossible at this present 
 time to announce the exact moment of my departure. 
 But however limited my call, be assured of my un- 
 bounded gratitude for your hospitality.' 
 
 "Of course Eben's wife asked him to stay to tea, but 
 he didn't take the gloves off till we went out to supper. 
 What do you think of that for a little place like Simms's 
 Corners ?" 
 
 "I think he'd better stay in the city where he belongs," 
 said Polly. "He was at a party last night and his 
 broadcloth suit smelled of the tailor's shop, his hair 
 was slick with pomade or bear's grease, I couldn't tell 
 which, and really he was so fine I couldn't think of any- 
 thing smart enough to say to him ; but Mary Ives was 
 there and she and him was real chipper. I suppose she's 
 so familiar with those pictures in her father's shop win- 
 dows she felt quite at home." 
 
 "Polly ! Polly !" said my mother, "perhaps if you went 
 to the city you would be just as awkward as he." 
 
 "Yes, Polly," said her mother, "you shouldn't talk 
 about clothes. If your skirt hiked up in front and down
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 119 
 
 behind it would be one of the seven mortal sins among 
 genteel folks." 
 
 "Have you never heard, Polly, how apt we are to 
 judge the defects of goodness harshly and sometimes 
 make the most of the redeeming qualities of vice?" 
 
 "I've heard," said Enoch's Wife, who was by no means 
 done with the subject, "that down Boston-way they raise 
 parsons like onions, in a bed, and probably he was one 
 of the weak ones that didn't get on well when they are 
 set too close together." 
 
 "He should have been pulled up by the roots and cast 
 out before he ever got to Simms's Corners," said Polly, 
 who had of late grown unaccountably bitter on the sub- 
 ject of the new minister. 
 
 "Poor soul !" sighed my mother, "when I think of 
 what the future holds for him, my heart aches. Even 
 if he marries a rich wife, things won't always run 
 smooth for the man who can't rub a spot off his own 
 coat, and who needs someone always at his heels to fetch 
 and carry." 
 
 "Still," persisted Enoch's Wife, "they say he's going 
 to marry Lois." 
 
 "Well, I pity her, but it would be the smartest thing 
 he ever did." 
 
 "He intends to be a bishop, so he tells Lois." 
 
 "A bishop ! Why, he isn't even ordained yet !" 
 
 "Yes, he told Lois when he got to be bishop he'd have 
 two thousand a year and you know Lois likes fine 
 clothes. Or maybe he'd be a professor, he said, if she 
 liked that better." 
 
 "Maybees are swarming rather lively for this time of 
 year."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 THE LOG HOUSE. 
 
 "JENNET, you've not knit your stent this morning," 
 said my mother. "Go now, six times round on your 
 stocking." 
 
 "But mother, you heard father say if it was a dull 
 day we might drive over to Union Center and visit 
 Uncle Jason's. And it is cloudy and I'll not have to 
 knit, will I ?" 
 
 "He hasn't come in yet, so knit your stent and then 
 you'll be ready. We don't know that you're going, for 
 sure." 
 
 "Can I sit in the butternut tree in the garden? I can 
 work better out there." 
 
 Once in the tree the wind said, "Rock-a-by baby in the 
 tree-top." 
 
 "I can't rock, I have to knit, knit, knit." 
 
 Then the bees hummed outside the hive and said, 
 "We're swarming, we're swarming; if you don't believe 
 it, come and see." 
 
 "I can't, I can't oh dear !" 
 
 
 
 And the birds twittered and sung and flew back and 
 forth over the tree, and their song was: 
 
 "Oh, come away, from labor now reposing, 
 From busy care 
 Awhile forbear, 
 Oh come, come away." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I want to, but there! that's three times. 
 It will never get done! I wish Old Granny Garnsey 
 would come for a visit, she knits so fast you can just
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 121 
 
 see the stocking grow. I guess I'll go in the house, 
 anyway; I'm half done. Maybe Aunt Betsy'll help me." 
 
 A day came, not long after, when Jennet and her 
 father in the little democrat wagon behind Old Skip 
 drove through Bangall and up and down steep slopes 
 till they turned off on a road that wound diagonally 
 across Kye's Hill. On one side was a strip of maple 
 trees lying fair to the south. Their owner could depend 
 on a run of sap before any neighboring bush had even 
 heard the call of spring, or the farmer had washed the 
 spiles and buckets, or repaired the arch and boiling pan 
 for the sugar-making. 
 
 The hill was steep, and frequent runs were placed 
 across the road to hold the wagon wheels while the 
 horse rested or stopped to drink from the watering- 
 trough. The zigzag rail fences were lined with elder 
 bushes, and tall ferns almost hid the wandering brook. 
 
 The top of the hill having been reached, there was a 
 stretch of level ground on either hand, each with its 
 distant fringe of woodland. A field of wheat was in the 
 shock, timothy and orchard-grass were ready for the 
 scythe, potatoes and patches of beans and peas were 
 already turning yellow and gave promise of an abundant 
 harvest. A sharp turn in the road brought them in sight 
 of the log house where Uncle Jason lived. Two small 
 cousins were gathering wild berries in the fence corners, 
 beside old stumps, and along the edge of the wood. Sud- 
 denly Edward spied them. 
 
 "Jennet Lee and her father ! Jennet Lee's come ! 
 Jennet Lee's come!" 
 
 The house stood in the shade of a tall elm whose 
 drooping branches checkered the bars of sunlight falling 
 through the small-paned windows. A few marigold 
 blossoms were growing on one side of the door and 
 hedged a bed of bachelor buttons in blue and violet and
 
 122 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 pale lavender. Farther back toward the spring sun- 
 flowers were nodding in uncertain fashion along the 
 path. The broom and mop leaned against the crooked 
 trunk of a beech tree at the corner. Near the doorway 
 was a bench with a water-pail and wash-basin, and above 
 hung the dipper and towel. Between the house and 
 barn, alongside the vegetable garden, were beds of fen- 
 nel, sage, and dill for spicy flavors in cooking. 
 
 The house had only four windows, one on each of 
 three sides and one in the loft above, whose only ap- 
 proach was by a straight ladder from the kitchen below. 
 The first floor was in one room, but there were grades 
 carefully distinguished. In the corner beyond and be- 
 hind the door was Aunt Mary's four-poster, and pushed 
 underneath was the trundle-bed for the younger chil- 
 dren. In the corner opposite the company-bed was piled 
 high with fresh, sweet-smelling straw mattresses and 
 feather-ticks, comforters, blankets, quilts, and pillows, 
 for though the house was small and the family purse 
 lean, there was always a hospitable welcome here. 
 
 The space between the beds was the "best room." A 
 strip of rag carpet lay on the floor and softened the 
 noise of little feet. One of the windows was between 
 the beds, and. just underneath was a stand with two 
 drawers, and on this lay the family treasures. The big 
 Bible used each morning at family prayers, Bunyan's 
 Pilgrim's Progress, a hymn-book, a box that held a few 
 bright ribbons, a candy rooster belonging to Edward, a 
 small Bible Ann had won as a prize in spelling, and a 
 glass-covered box holding a few shells with some black 
 and red beans from the tropics called black-eyed Nancys. 
 These were not to be handled often, nor were dirty hands 
 to touch them ever. 
 
 At the foot of the bed was Aunt Mary's rocking-chair 
 and the low board cradle that held the sleeping baby.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 123 
 
 At the other end of the room were the stove and the 
 pantry, set off by a slender board partition. The table 
 found which they gathered three times a day was 
 pushed to the wall, and between the two ends was a 
 wide-open space for the coming and going, the stand- 
 ing and sitting of the five children. 
 
 The morning work was done, the floor clean, and the 
 younger children out gathering berries. Aunt Mary sat 
 holding the baby and singing a hymn, the last line of 
 which she repeated over and over. "The Lord my shep- 
 herd is, I shall not want, I shall not want." Her life 
 was full of duties to keep the house clean and neat 
 and restful, and infinitely cheery and pleasant to all her 
 little brood, to wash and dress and sew for five children 
 and make them presentable with little or no outlay, to 
 train them all for the Lord, to bring them up good, 
 honest, God-fearing men and women, as their fathers 
 before them, and to make ends meet with the few hard- 
 wrung dollars that came in from the farm for this she 
 had need of the promises made in all times to the faith- 
 ful. From her quiet hour she was now roused by the 
 cry, "Jennet Lee's come ! Jennet Lee's come !" 
 
 Jane and Edward at once seized Jennet and bore her 
 away to the orchard. 
 
 "My! aren't these apples good? Are they Scrivin 
 Sweets? Father says Scrivin Sweets are the best." 
 
 "Oh, Jennet, I found a hen's nest this morning, a big 
 one. It had as many as a bushel of eggs in it!" 
 
 "It's no such thing, Edward. Tell the truth or I'll 
 tell ma. There wasn't more'n a panful." 
 
 "Jennet, there was there was a bushel," insisted 
 Edward. 
 
 "What a pretty apron you have, Jennet; I wish ma 
 would make me a pink one instead of all those blue-and- 
 white checks."
 
 124 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "Don't you have a dress-up one for when you go a- 
 visiting?" asked Jennet. 
 
 "We don't go a-visiting more'n once a year, down to 
 your house." 
 
 "Ma takes the baby when she goes and Ann to help 
 her take care of him, and the rest of us have to stay 
 home with Eunice," explained Edward. 
 
 "Eunice goes a-visiting though, or somewhere, when 
 the man school-teacher comes." 
 
 "She combs her hair down slick, and ties a red rib- 
 bon round her neck and puts on her Sunday bonnet and 
 gets into the buggy and away they go. I wish I was 
 growed up. Jennet, I'd take you. We'd have Old Tim 
 and the light wagon, with the long whip, and" with a 
 wave of the hand toward his sister "you'd wish you 
 could go, but we wouldn't stop, no siree." 
 
 "Children, come to dinner," was the call from the 
 house, and each one ran as fast as the small legs would 
 carry them. 
 
 "And how's Aunt Betsy, Deacon?" asked Aunt Mary 
 when they were seated at~the table. "Weaving rag car- 
 pets and serving the Lord, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes, only she puts serving the Lord first. Ah, here's 
 Jason." 
 
 "Glad to see you, Deacon ; got your haying all done 
 so you can go a-visiting?" 
 
 "Not exactly, the visit is thrown in to bring Jennet. 
 I'm going on to Solon to do a job of surveying." 
 
 After dinner Jennet's father went to his appointment, 
 Aunt Mary and Ann to their work, and the children 
 again fled to the orchard. It wasn't long before thirsty 
 throats led them to the spring. The tin cup was handed 
 Jennet first because she was company, and she, to be 
 very smart with something she had learned of Nancy
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 125 
 
 Edred just the day before, passed the cup on to Jane 
 saying, "If you love me, drink." 
 
 ,Then there was a dispute as to which ought to drink 
 first. This was no sooner settled than Jennet cried, 
 ''Jane, you drink more than Edward, don't you?" 
 
 "No, she doesn't, and I want another cup anyway." 
 
 "I guess I'll take another too," and Jane filled the 
 cup again. 
 
 "Don't catch a girl getting ahead of me," and Edward 
 drained the cup again. 
 
 "You can drink another, Jane," cried Jennet, "see if 
 you can't." 
 
 "I guess I can, but I'm pretty near full." 
 
 "Oh, but that's a sweet girl, do." 
 
 "You needn't think, Jennet, that you are going to make 
 Jane win. I can beat her any day," and Edward drank 
 on. 
 
 "Just one more, Jane, and beat him," pleaded Jennet. 
 
 "Oh Jennet, I can't, I'm full clear up to my chin." 
 
 "If she drinks another, I will too." 
 
 "I would if I could," and she lifts the cup to her lips, 
 but shakes her head at last with a tear in her eye. 
 
 "There ! I told you so. I beat !" 
 
 "A snake ! A snake !" cried Jennet suddenly, pointing 
 to a quiver in the grass. "Kill him, Edward ! Kill him !" 
 
 "Every one of you get a stone," said Edward, "and 
 throw it at him and I'll throw the last one and that will 
 kill him." 
 
 "I killed the snake !" cried Edward when it was cer- 
 tain the enemy was no more. "I killed the snake!" 
 
 "No, sir; I killed the snake," pouted Jennet, "for my 
 stone was the biggest." 
 
 "No you didn't," cried Jane, "for I hit him first." 
 
 "Don't you remember," said Edward, "I said I'd hit 
 him last and that would kill him."
 
 126 WHEN FOLKS. WAS FOLKS 
 
 "For shame, Edward!" said Eunice, who had come to 
 the spring for a pail of water, "J ennet ' s your company, 
 of course she killed him." 
 
 "Let's bury him, anyway," said Edward, and he dug 
 a hole in the soft mud with a shingle and Jane pushed 
 him in with a long stick. 
 
 "Take off your hat, Edward," said Jennet, "and we'll 
 say, 'Now I lay me.' There, he's buried all right now 
 but I forgot wouldn't the friends like to come forward 
 and take a last look? Fall in line, there, I'll lead dear 
 me! the sand's fallen in, you can't see anything but the 
 tail, but I guess that'll do there are lots o' things we 
 ought to do and say, only he's an enemy -but say, did 
 you never hear that dead snakes come to life again if 
 another snake bites 'em?" 
 
 "No, but let's see if it's true." 
 
 "But we've said, 'Now I lay me,' "he's buried when 
 you bury folks you can't dig 'em up to look at 'em 
 they can't come out till the last trump sounds." 
 
 "That's because they have souls, and maybe it would 
 take their souls away from heaven," said Jane. 
 
 "But snakes don't have souls," said Edward, "they 
 just die and that's the end of it." 
 
 "Then we can dig him up to see if it's true." 
 
 "Let's dig him up now and find a snake-hole and bury 
 him close to it, so the live snakes'll be sure to find him, 
 and tomorrow morning we'll come and see, and if we 
 can't find him then he was bit by another snake and 
 come to life." 
 
 "Do you know," asks Jennet, when the second burial 
 has been accomplished, "that snakes grow out of horse- 
 hairs? Tail-hairs, you know, and they must lie in water 
 a long time." 
 
 Both the other children opened their eyes wide and
 
 127 
 
 waited breathless to hear the details of this transforma- 
 tion. 
 
 "Yes, my cousin Joseph from Boston was at our 
 house last summer, and he said you put them in the 
 watering-trough or somewhere, and by-and-by when you 
 have forgotten all about it live snakes will be there." 
 
 "Let's try," cried Edward ; "shall I go pull some hairs 
 out of Old Tim's tail?" 
 
 "No, you cannot," said Jane, "I won't have hairs pulled 
 out of Old Tim's tail, it would hurt." 
 
 "Let's go to the house," suggested Jennet, "maybe the 
 baby '11 be awake." 
 
 "No, I don't want to," said Jane; "I'd have to tend 
 him." 
 
 "But I want to hold him." 
 
 "Oh pshaw ! you'd get tired of it soon enough if you 
 had it to do regular." 
 
 However, they went to the house, but the baby wasn't 
 awake, so they wandered round by the crooked beech 
 tree eating apples. 
 
 "Do you know how to have good luck all the year 
 round?" asked Jennet. 
 
 " 'Break the first brake 
 And kill the first snake, 
 And you'll have good luck all the year.' " 
 
 "We've killed the first snake and I know where the 
 ferns grow," said Edward "come on." 
 
 "Oh pshaw !" said Jane, "wish-bones are lots easier. 
 I'm not going way out to the woods. I don't see it makes 
 much difference 'bout tending baby whether I have good 
 luck or poor luck," and Jane leaned over the big rain- 
 water barrel that stood at the corner of the house. 
 "Hello! I see a face in the barrel." 
 
 "I see two faces," said Edward, leaning over too.
 
 128 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "Of course, yours and mine," and Jane gave him a slap 
 on the seat of his trousers that sent him headlong into the 
 water. 
 
 "Edward is drowned ! Mother, come quick, Edward's 
 in the rain-barrel ! He'll die! He'll die!" 
 
 Aunt Mary came running and pulled Edward out drip- 
 ping from head to foot. Dry clothes restored his self- 
 assertion, and coming round to where the girls were, he 
 said to Jane: 
 
 "You look out, I'll pay you back !" whereupon the girls 
 laughed. "I'll pay you double, double, double " 
 
 A voice from the house now called them to come in, 
 and Jennet found her father waiting for her. As Old 
 Skip was starting out on his jog-trot Jennet turned for 
 a last word : 
 
 "Edward, be sure and tell me about the snake. Re- 
 member now, and don't forget!" 
 
 Once when Edward was about ten years old, his cousin 
 Alfred came and stayed two days. The minute the first 
 hellos were said they started for the barn. 
 
 "See here, boys," called Aunt Mary, "you must grow 
 up to be good men like your fathers, and to do that you 
 must know the Law of the Lord. So before you go out 
 to play you learn a chapter from the Bible, for that is 
 the Law of the Lord; and, Edward, you fill the wood- 
 box for the kitchen stove." 
 
 "You get the wood," whispered Alfred, "and I'll hunt 
 the shortest chapter in the Bible." 
 
 Alfred found the psalm of two verses, the wood-box 
 was filled, and it wasn't long before they were off to 
 the calves and colts, running the fanning-mill when no 
 one was looking, flinging the flail, jumping on the hay, 
 and poking the colt to see him throw up his hind heels. 
 
 After supper arrangements began to be made for going 
 to prayer meeting.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 129 
 
 "Eunice and Jane," said Aunt Mary, "you will stay 
 home and take care of the house. The baby I shall put 
 to sleep before I go. Edward and Alfred and Ann can 
 go with us to the House of the Lord. Alfred, you know 
 you must honor the Lord by going to His house for 
 prayer and praise," and she pressed her lips together 
 and gave the little shake to her head she always did when 
 she wanted to emphasize what she was saying. 
 
 "The Word says, 'Honor the Lord with all thy sub- 
 stance and the first fruits of all thine increase' ; so boys, 
 you fill this basket with the best apples you can get from 
 the early sweets and take some of the pears we gathered 
 yesterday, and we'll leave them at the minister's." 
 
 "Aunt Mary," said Alfred, "you didn't say all that 
 verse 'so shall thy barns be filled with plenty and thy 
 presses burst out with new wine.' Do you give apples 
 to the minister so you'll get big crops next year?" 
 
 "Ah, Alfred, I give because the Word of the Lord 
 tells me to. I want to be an obedient servant in the 
 service of our Lord and Master, and He will send what 
 He sees fit." 
 
 "Well but, Aunt Mary, about that other part 'thy 
 presses shall burst out with new wine.' I thought you 
 didn't believe in drinking wine. Why is that in the 
 Bible?" 
 
 "It's true, wine is good and useful in its place, but 
 men nowadays, if they drink at all, drink too much and 
 it takes away their will, it takes away their money that 
 should be used for other things, makes them unfit for 
 work, and they cease to honor God; so the safe way is 
 not to drink at all, my boys." 
 
 "Mary, are the candles ready?" calls Uncle Jason. ' 
 
 "Don't you remember the new tin candlesticks they've 
 ntit on the wall? each holding two. and the Mite Society 
 is going to furnish those."
 
 130 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "That's so, and we won't need the stone ink-bottles 
 then either. And Mary, don't let me forget to give 
 Elder Barlow notice of that 'bee' for getting in wood 
 on Friday. There isn't more'n enough for next Sunday." 
 
 "Boys," said Aunt Mary, "there will be a chance for 
 every one at the prayer meeting to say something in 
 praise of the Lord. You are not too young and you 
 might repeat a verse from the Psalm you learned this 
 morning, for whoso offereth praise glorifieth God." 
 
 "Yes," said Alfred, "the verses will go around, won't 
 they ?" winking at Edward. 
 
 And so Aunt Mary had God in all her thoughts. 
 
 "Well, out with it boy; what is it?" asked Uncle Jason 
 the next morning of Alfred, whom he found wriggling 
 on a stiff chair in the company end of the room, talking 
 to Aunt Mary. 
 
 "Please I want to go home," he whispered confiden- 
 tially to Uncle Jason. 
 
 "Pshaw now, can't you tell your old uncle?" Uncle 
 Jason sat down and drew Alfred into convenient rela- 
 tion with his ear. 
 
 "Please, I've got to holler and the baby'll wake up." 
 
 "Of course you have it's a good place out on the 
 gate-post. See here where's Edward ? What! in 
 mother's cookies? I declare you boys are hollow! Run 
 along now, out to the front gate Alfred's got a secret 
 for you" and out the boys ran, hopping, skipping, jump- 
 ing, leap-frogging; each wildly eager to get to his- post, 
 each delayed by the necessity for getting there in a 
 highly artistic and admirable manner. 
 
 "Hurrah for Clay! Hurrah for Harry Clay! Harry 
 Clay! Harry Clay!" first one post, then the other- for 
 a full half hour politics ran high in the gate while Uncle 
 Jason and Aunt Mary smiled inside, and the baby never 
 stirred in the cradle.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 131 
 
 In the years that followed, fortune smiled on the 
 log-house family. The children grew like mushrooms 
 after a warm rain. They left the hill-farm and lived 
 in the valley, their house increased in size and comforts. 
 It had a real parlor and plenty of bedrooms, there was 
 a cabinet organ in the sitting-room, and all, from the 
 ohiest to the latest baby, could sing. Music was their 
 recreation and entertainment, a solace, an aid and in- 
 spiration in family worship. Their singing was a kind 
 of public benefit fund, levied on for funerals, merry- 
 makings, school exhibitions, Fourth of July celebrations, 
 as well as for regular service in the choir. 
 
 No call was unheeded by Uncle Jason, whether for 
 voice or hand, and such good cheer and jolly company 
 and funny stories ! But time with his burden laid heavy 
 hands on the old man, and finally he passed over the 
 threshold of his home not to return. Alfred, a successful 
 lawyer, at that time a legislator in the midst of men and 
 affairs, hearing of Uincle Jason's death, exclaimed, "I 
 shall always think of him as not belonging to the ordi- 
 nary class of men. He seemed to me like some noble 
 old Roman ; honest, brave, king-like, true to his friends. 
 The earth is brighter for his living here, Heaven will be 
 more welcome to many a weary heart at the thought of 
 meeting him there."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 ELDER PERKINS. 
 
 "JENNET, now you sit down and be still while we talk," 
 said my mother one summer afternoon when Aunt Lucia 
 had brought her sewing just to have a bit of a visit be- 
 fore it was time to get supper. 
 
 "May I have the little trunk with ribbons in it?" 
 
 "Yes, and be quiet." 
 
 So the little wooden trunk a foot and a half long, cov- 
 ered with dog-skin, hair-side out, and fastened with 
 brass-headed nails, was brought along, with its treasure 
 of bright ribbons and cast-off finery. 
 
 "What do these letters on top mean, mother? S. R. D., 
 made from brass nails." 
 
 "Sartoff Ridell Davis, my child ; he made the trunk 
 one rainy day when he couldn't work out of doors, and 
 gave it to your father." 
 
 "Queer name Sartoff " said Aunt Lucia. "It 
 sounds Russian." 
 
 "Perhaps he was. He was an emigrant boy anyway; 
 came along when we were first married - - in need of 
 everything from hat to shoes, and Mathew kept him. We 
 burned his whole outfit, I couldn't harbor that in the 
 house. The boy was almost more than I could stand, 
 but we made him clean, gave him new clothes and set 
 him to work. He turned out to be a good boy and 
 stayed with us four years. Mathew gave him his last 
 name we couldn't twist our tongues to what he said." 
 
 "I should call your house pretty much of a training- 
 school. How many poor ignorant boys have you taken 
 from worse than nothing and trained to honesty and
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 133 
 
 the habit of hard work? Whatever became of that Jor- 
 dan boy?" 
 
 "Yes, poor in everything but high hopes and persistent 
 grit, wasn.'t he? He's a lawyer in Rochester now." 
 
 "Oh mother, here's the tiniest needle-book all wrapped 
 up in silk paper, and the cover's embroidery and the 
 leaves are all red flannel! Can't I have it for mine?" 
 
 "Yes, Birdie, it is yours. Julia sent it to you when 
 you were just one day old, and said she hoped the little 
 fingers would one day weave as beautiful things as her 
 mother's had. Wasn't that nice of her, Lucia?" 
 
 "And mother, what's this little green-covered book with 
 hair all tied up in round rings in it?" 
 
 "Sh'l Sh'! a memento book your Aunt Adeline's 
 made when she was at school a curl from each of her 
 friends." 
 
 ''I'm going to make one and I'll put in some of Bes- 
 sie's wool, and a lock of Fido's and Old Skip's and Aunt 
 Mary Jane's if only the kittens hadn't all died ! Never 
 mind, she'll have some more, I told her I wanted 'em, 
 and Mother, why can't kittens go to heaven?" 
 
 "Jennet, Aunt Lucia and I are talking" ; and Jennet 
 soon forgot her questions in handling the bright ribbons, 
 bits of hand-made lace, old-fashioned collars 1 exquisitely 
 embroidered, baby caps of muslin and lace worked in 
 fairy wreaths and vines and flowers, and finally a piece 
 of Grandmother's wedding dress, rose and gold change- 
 able silk with overshot dots of white. 
 
 "How handsome Grandmother must have looked in her 
 long train and little boy to hold it out of the dust, and 
 her white corded silk slippers she keeps wrapped up 
 in her middle drawer!" Then Jennet picked up a sam- 
 pler; it was yellow, and the big letters looked so strange 
 she could hardly tell what they were. But in the corner
 
 134 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 she found "Achsah Halbert, done in the ninth year of 
 her age, 1810." 
 
 "Mother, was that you? How long ago you lived. 
 It's 1846 now. But whose stockings were these, white 
 silk, and legs long enough for Giant Despair?" 
 
 "Ah, my dear, those were your father's wedding stock- 
 ings; and that bit of straw-colored satin with black dots 
 was a piece of his vest. Lucia, do you remember how 
 he looked that night in his ruffled shirt and wrist-bands, 
 his small-clothes and silver knee-buckles, and his hand- 
 some coat and waistcoat?" 
 
 "Standing straight as a pine in his six feet. Ah, Jen- 
 net, you'll never know how fine your father looked 
 then." 
 
 "He just looks nice now. There's no man so good as 
 my father." 
 
 Aunt Lucia now went on with the interesting news 
 she was telling, how their nephew De Forest was going 
 to see Angelina Littlesmile every week. "He puts up 
 at the hotel and then walks back and forth on the long 
 piazza in full view of the Littlesmile house until Ange- 
 lina puts out her hand from the window of the Square 
 Room and fastens back the blind. That being observed 
 he walks over in his proud haughty way, his tall shiny 
 hat he bought of Jeremiah not above let's see, just 
 six weeks ago tomorrow no doubt he had his mind 
 set on Angelina at the time he's sly, is De Forest but 
 where was I?" 
 
 "His silk hat " 
 
 "Oh, yes it's very becoming just the thing for a 
 clerk in the big store at Casnovia. He goes every Sat- 
 urday afternoon at five o'clock, and nobody knows when 
 he goes home. They do say Aunt Philomela is dread- 
 fully set up over it," and Aunt Lucia, filled with the 
 pride of being aunt to so elegant and desirable a young
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 135 
 
 man, added "She better look out and not be too sure 
 of her chickens, such a smart young fellow as De Forest 
 may look higher than the little town of Platter for a 
 wife, and such advantages as he has being in Casnovia 
 and knowing Mr. Grosvenor, the owner of .that big store. 
 They say he takes lots of interest in De Forest." 
 
 "Poor dear Melissa," sighed my mother, "so proud and 
 so ambitious ! If she could only see her sons now. Well, 
 these boys come rightly by their grand ways from her, 
 and they've got their father's good sense in business 
 too." 
 
 "Didn't I see De Forest sitting with your mother Lee 
 last Sunday?" 
 
 "Yes, she's given up sitting in the pulpit now Elder 
 Ball's dead, and has gone back to her slip in the center 
 of the church. She's asked De Forest to sit with her on 
 Sundays." 
 
 "Do tell, now !" - 
 
 "Yes, they've put a red cushion on the seat and foot- 
 stools and a carpet on the floor." 
 
 "Well, well, well !" exclaimed Aunt Lucia greatly ex- 
 cited, "while she praises God for His goodness to her 
 and to the children of men, she'll enjoy De Forest's young 
 face and smart clothes and deferential manner." 
 
 Meantime, the sky had been getting dark and a sharp 
 peal of thunder rattled the windows. 
 
 "Jennet, run and pull down the windows upstairs." 
 
 "Shall I go in Parson Perkins' room?" 
 
 "No, he'll look after them." 
 
 "How long is the parson going to visit you anyway, 
 Achsah? He's been here two months now." 
 
 "Oh, well, there doesn't seem to be any other place for 
 him. I don't know how long the church expects to hire 
 him. He's only a temporary supply, you know. There
 
 136 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 he is coming downstairs now. He always comes if there 
 is a thunder-storm." 
 
 "Is he afraid ?" 
 
 "I suppose misery " here the door opened, and the 
 
 Rev. Perkins, tall, lean, slightly stoop-shouldered, with a 
 squint in his eyes, walked in rubbing his hands. 
 
 "A heavy storm," he says, drawing a rocking-chair 
 from the corner. Another flash and a loud clap of thun- 
 der. He gets up and shakes the feather cushion and 
 sits down on it, remarking: 
 
 "You are aware that feathers are a non-conductor of 
 electricity, and .so make a safe as well as comfortable 
 place to sit?" 
 
 With the next peal and zigzag flash he takes out a silk 
 pocket-handkerchief, folds it square, and puts it on the 
 top of his head. 
 
 "You take good care to protect yourself against the 
 lightning, Elder," remarks Aunt Lucia.* 
 
 "Yes, I take all the precautions in my power. The 
 ways of the Lord are past finding out, so I take advan- 
 tage of our moiety of secular wisdom, though it amounts 
 to very little, Mrs. Dix, to very little indeed." 
 
 "Mr. Perrin is very sick, did you know that?" asked 
 Aunt Lucia. 
 
 : "What! the new merchant? No, I hadn't heard." 
 
 "He was over in the next county where they're hav- 
 ing an epidemic something like cholera; they're taken 
 quite suddenly and die almost before they know it." 
 
 " 'The New York Evangelist' tells about a disease in 
 the city something like that," said Elder Perkins. 
 
 "He was so scared he couldn't talk about anything 
 else after he got home. His wife says she knew he'd 
 have it and die too. I don't know why she should feel 
 so sure, it's almost wicked to be so set on a thing you 
 don't want, it certainly flies in the face of the Gospel.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 137 
 
 But however that may be, he came down day before yes- 
 terday with all the symptoms and this morning they 
 thought he couldn't live. Hark ! there's the church bell 
 now ! Some one's dead. I don't know any one else 
 that's sick. Listen ! Count the years." 
 
 Slowly the bell tolled forty-two and stopped, then 
 struck one. to let the villagers know it was a man. 
 
 "It must be Mr. Perrin, he was just about that old. 
 But dear me ! look at the time, and it's cleared off too. 
 I must be going," and Aunt Lucia folded up her work. 
 
 "I think I'll just go along too," said Elder Perkins, 
 "and give Mrs. Perrin a little of that great comfort we 
 have in the Lord. What a blessed thing it is, sisters, to 
 escape this world of sin and trouble ! Oh, welcome 
 Death !"
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 THE SINGING-SCHOOL. 
 
 AMOS pushed back from the table after supper one 
 cold night near the first of December, and called out 
 to Mary Ann: 
 
 "Remember, it's Monday night, and we're going to 
 start for the Singing-school in just half an hour." 
 
 "Oh, Amos, I can't wash the dishes and be ready 
 quick as that." 
 
 "Yes, you can, and we've got to stop along the way 
 and pick up the boys and girls. Likely enough some 
 o' them'll be slow." 
 
 "Yes, and you'd be willing to wait half an hour for 
 Deborah and be sweet as honey when she came." 
 
 "Just so, just so, and now hurry your dishes. I'm 
 off to the barn." 
 
 With much rattle and clatter and bustle the long 
 sleigh and Mary Ann were ready on the minute ; 
 Amos cracked the whip, and bells jingled, and the 
 horses jumped ahead over the smooth icy road. 
 
 At the first house John, Hannah Jane and Deborah 
 came out. 
 
 "How d'ye get along with the subscription paper, 
 John?" asked Amos. 
 
 "Pretty well; a few men gave three dollars, and 
 every one I asked gave at least a dollar. If Jim 
 Thompson does as well, the school can run till the 
 first of March." 
 
 "That's long enough. The sleighing'll be poor by 
 that time. What's the fun over in your end of the bob, 
 Deborah? You're selfish."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 139 
 
 "Get something going yourself, why don't you?" 
 
 Reuben, Tom and Elizabeth got on at the next stop. 
 
 "Say, Tom," cried Amos as soon as they were well 
 started again, "I hope you haven't forgotten your 
 candle, Mary Ann didn't bring any tonight." 
 
 "Be still, Amos Towne," cried Mary Ann, "I guess 
 I know whose candle I shall sit by tonight without 
 asking you." 
 
 By the time they arrived at the school-house the 
 bob was packed snug as peas in a pod, all laughing, 
 giggling, screaming, whispering. Sleighs from all 
 directions had soon emptied their loads into the room % 
 The fire had only just been started in the stove and 
 was making a great sputter to get ahead of the cold. 
 Amid the slapping of hands and stamping of feet in 
 the gay endeavor to stir up the circulation, remarks 
 on the weather, beaux, and new dresses passed along 
 from ear to ear, till the solid hard wood logs sent out 
 a heat that drove the merrymakers to benches in an- 
 other part of the room, while late arrivals with red 
 noses and cold hands took their places. 
 
 "Amos, hold over here so I can light my candle," 
 commanded Deborah, and Amos nothing loth reached 
 his candle across the aisle. 
 
 "Hold still, or I'll be grown up before " 
 
 "Hello, there's Mr. Stillman now," and there was 
 a call to order as a tall slim youth with soft gray eyes, 
 and a lock of fair hair hanging stubbornly over his 
 forehead, raised his violin to his chin. He drew his 
 well-rosined bow across one string with many quav- 
 ers and slides to attract attention. A few words of 
 general instruction, the page announced, and the les- 
 son had begun with a violent jerk of his right arm 
 to mark the time and silence his pupils who seemed 
 to have gathered quite as much for social purposes
 
 140 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 as for love of art. A long sound followed to start 
 everybody on the right tone, then a peculiar swing of 
 his head to show when the singers were to begin. 
 The volume of sound was immense, but a various 
 shading of tone. A second trial brought better suc- 
 cess. The voices attuned themselves to the instru- 
 ment and the time lagged but little while they sang 
 out "do, re, me," their first lesson being to raise and 
 fall the eight notes. 
 
 They sang the scale over and over again till even 
 the dullest head had comprehended the intervals. 
 While the master was explaining clef and staff and 
 lines and spaces, Hannah Jane leaned over to Eliza- 
 beth and whispered, "Jim Thompson says Isaac Still- 
 man thumps his melodeon till the keys are all worn 
 out. What do you think of that for thrift? No one'll 
 want to marry him ' 
 
 Here the teacher looked very solemn at Hannah 
 Jane, who began at once to study her book. 
 
 At the earliest opportunity Elizabeth picked up the 
 broken thread of gossip: "You ought to be ashamed 
 to call Mr. Stillman Isaac." 
 
 "Indeed I'm not; he should be thankful I don't call 
 him Ike everybody outside the Singing-school calls 
 him Ike Stillman or Ikey." 
 
 "Give the skips do, me, sol, do, and back again, do, 
 sol, me, do" commanded the teacher. 
 
 All made the skip with sufficient readiness but 
 didn't land at the same port. "Try again, this way, 
 see? Do, me, sol, do do, sol, me, do." 
 
 The hardest were the sharps and flats. Some said 
 they wouldn't do it and some they couldn't do it, and 
 a jargon like the confusion at Babel, when at length 
 they tried to do it.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 141 
 
 To help the dull along in finding "do" in the dif- 
 ferent keys he gave this formula for sharps: "Good 
 dogs all eat bad food ;" and this for flats : "Fannie 
 Baker eats apple dumplings good." The uncertain 
 grammar and lack of pertinence were stumbling- 
 blocks far easier to surmount than the purely abstract 
 relation of keys. 
 
 At last recess came and the evening was half gone 
 ten minutes for visiting and eating apples. There 
 was a great hubbub amid a general changing of seats. 
 Hannah Jane and the teacher, whom she now ad- 
 dressed demurely as Mr. Stillman, were whispering 
 in the corner, quite unconscious of the pairs of jealous 
 eyes turned in their direction. 
 
 After recess a long singing-book called "The Shaum" 
 was passed, from which they learned hymns. There 
 were only half enough to go around a sudden snatch- 
 ing of candles, shuffling of feet, to the gay accompani- 
 ment of laughter, John was sitting by the fair Amelia, 
 Amos with Deborah, and Tom with Mary Ann. Soon 
 every one had a book, indeed one or two had been 
 slyly tucked out of sight not to interfere with the 
 pairing off they had been counting on all evening. 
 
 Everybody sang there was no talk in that day of 
 "having no voice" for singing, or "no ear" for music. 
 
 "Miss Mary Ann and Miss Lucy, please come for- 
 ward," called the master, "and Mr, Burley and Mr. 
 Towne," and the quartet, proud and a little uncom- 
 fortable, walked to the platform amid a momentary 
 pang of envy. 
 
 After a time the singing teacher took out his great 
 silver watch and discovered it was nine o'clock. 
 "School's dismissed," he called out, and a rush for 
 the closets follows amid wild cries of "Where's my 
 hood?" "Those are my mittens, Mary Ann Towne!"
 
 142 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "Who's got my comforter?" "Catch him; he's got 
 my muff!" Everybody was crowding or being 
 crowded. Elizabeth found her shawl but her tippet 
 was gone, Hannah Jane's things were on the floor, 
 Deborah hunted the shelf in vain for her hood. But 
 at last all were ready, the candles were put out, the 
 fires banked, and the doors locked. 
 
 A shake of bells, a cry of "All aboard for the river- 
 road, at the door, the boys hustle the girls into the 
 long sleigh and wrap them warm in robes and 
 blankets, and so the crowd faces homeward. In the 
 confusion no one knows how Deborah got on the high 
 front seat with Amos, or how each boy happened to 
 slide into just he place he would have chosen of all 
 the world. The shrill sound of the runners vibrates 
 in the frosty air and there is an occasional jarring 
 and scaping as they rub over some rough spot or 
 obtruding boulder. Jokes fly fast and the soul of 
 many a youth is lifted out of itself by a gentle hand- 
 clasp quite out of sight.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 (1) GENERAL TRAINING. 
 
 EARLY in November, when the year's work had been 
 brought to a finish by the harvest and there was 
 breathing time, came General Training Day, when all 
 went to the muster to avoid the fine. It was an insti- 
 tution that following the War of 1812. Once a year 
 every man capable of bearing arms met at an ap- 
 pointed place for drill and instruction in military 
 matters. Those who had this training in hand fur- 
 nished most of the captains, colonels, majors, and 
 generals, of which we had such a generous sprinkling. 
 The standing army was small and Training Day was 
 designed to supply the country with capable recruits 
 in case of war. With this hard-working people of few 
 holidays or pleasures, it was a festive time, a time to 
 meet, and gossip, and eat, and wear one's best clothes 
 an opportunity for jest and laughter and love-mak- 
 ing. No fathers or brothers or lovers going off to 
 danger and death, but to look handsome in fine clothes, 
 to show off on beautiful horses, and look brave with 
 guns and swords. 
 
 The farms were astir before daybreak. Grandfather 
 was in the garret hunting his old 1812 uniform, flint- 
 lock rifle, and powder-horn. The small boys were put- 
 ting the last touch to the wooden sword or gun that 
 had occupied their time for weeks. The women were 
 filling dinner-baskets and the big farm wagons were 
 loading with the whole family going to the General 
 Training. A two-seated basket chair was for mother
 
 144 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 and "grandpap," boards across the wagon-box were 
 good enough for the rest. 
 
 The regular business of the day was at a standstill 
 with the women as well as with the men. The merry 
 shuttles lay idle in the loom, the tailoress dropped her 
 coat and the goose grew cold on the stove, the school- 
 master regretfully laid down his ferrule, and the house- 
 wife hung her strings of apple and pumpkin to dry in 
 the sun. From every direction the gay crowds gath- 
 ered to hear the martial music of drum and fife. Old 
 men were seeking former comrades, youngsters with 
 hollyhock or pink in buttonhole were running here 
 and there casting sheep's eyes at the girls huddled by 
 the roadside, boys piping up "Yankee Doodle" were 
 picking purple clover and feeding to horses adorned 
 with plumes or ribbons. 
 
 Officers in blue coats with epaulets on their should- 
 ers and buttons of gold or shining brass, with waving 
 plumes and clanking swords pranced on young horses 
 scarcely broken to the bridle, while fife and drum rent 
 the air with "Hail Columbia !" Gay-hearted heroes 
 were they, each conscious of some fair worshiper 
 across the way. Up and down the line dashed the or- 
 derly, a pack of boys breathless at his heels, his red sash 
 fluttering in the wind. 
 
 The privates, supposed to be in uniform and armed 
 with rifles, carried more often than not the rusty flint- 
 lock of some Revolutionary forbear, or occasionally, 
 nothing better offering, a broom-stick, would proudly 
 "Present arms! Shoulder arms! Ground arms!" 
 With such a motley crew, looking on the whole rather 
 as a frolic than as serious business, the officers had 
 their troubles. On one occasion a captain unable to 
 keep his men from leaning on their guns or sticks 
 ahead or behind the line after he had straightened
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 145 
 
 them with his sword, "Gentlemen," he cried, throw- 
 ing off his cocked hat, feather, red sash, coat and 
 sword, and kicking them aside in a heap on the ground, 
 "form the line and keep it or I'll thrash the whole com- 
 pany !" Instantly the line was straight as an arrow, 
 and the captain, still shaking with ire, buckled on his 
 sword and settled his hat. 
 
 In such manner did the great-grandfathers of the 
 rising generation grow familiar with military terms 
 and gain crude acquaintance with army discipline. As 
 for taking aim and hitting the mark, they had been 
 brought up on that. 
 
 The supply wagons stood near the camping grounds 
 with rations of training gingerbread, and cheese, bis- 
 cuits and honey; apple-carts and peddlers' wagons 
 selling candy, cakes, and drinks. The soldiers ate at a 
 long board table, and the families gathered by groups, 
 uncovered their baskets of baked chicken, roast pork, 
 bread and butter, cakes and cookies, and spread the 
 contents on a table improvised by laying boards across 
 the wagon-box. Here the neighbors ate and gossiped, 
 exulted and dilated and expanded in the congenial at- 
 mosphere of talk. 
 
 When it was Training Day at Ravenna the men 
 drilled in the plain east of the road between the upper 
 and lower villages. From the hill arising abruptly be- 
 hind, the women and children looked on the evolutions 
 that were to transform farmers, clerks, merchants, 
 traders, doctors, lawyers and preachers into soldiers 
 worthy of the wise Government under which they lived. 
 
 The day passed quickly, night drew on, men looked 
 at the sun, lifting a hand to shade their eyes, for few 
 pockets held even a silver watch to tick the hours, say- 
 ing: 
 
 "It's e'en a'most milkin' time now."
 
 146 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 Then the gala-crowds and would-be soldiers would 
 disperse in vanishing lines over the hills and down 
 the valleys, back to another year of ploughing and 
 sowing and reaping, of milking, and eating and sleep- 
 ing, of church-going and wood-cutting and the great 
 Donation Party. Not so the officers, however. These 
 stopped to drink each other's health in many a brim- 
 ming glass of rum and toddy, dwelling with great relish 
 on their own exploits and expounding with more or 
 less friction the whole philosophy of success in war, 
 with much gesticulation and retailing of hearsays 
 come down with unquestioned authenticity from the 
 War of 1812. 
 
 (2) THE DONATION PARTY. 
 
 When the crops were all gathered in the autumn and 
 the weather had settled down to a steady cold and 
 the snow was well beaten in the roads, then the Dona- 
 tion Party for the minister was in order. Here the 
 regular church members came in touch with those 
 occasional attendants from miles away among the hills 
 who seldom met the villagers in a social way at any 
 other time. 
 
 The fathers and mothers came in the afternoon with 
 gifts of money, farm products, and whatever else might 
 be useful to an ordinary family, beside baskets of food 
 for the supper. They had their social chat somewhat 
 interfered with by the fact that the good people had 
 dressed up for the occasion in clothes they were not 
 used to. But they made the best of the restraint and 
 awkwardness and dragging conversation, and no one 
 grudged the sacrifice made to civilization and advancing 
 manners, though even politics and theology could at first 
 scarcely stir them from their decent lethargy. 
 
 The younger women bustled about the kitchen mak-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 147 
 
 ing the coffee, warming up chicken-pie, pushing tables 
 together, and by the time supper was ready every one 
 was at his ease. The pastor sat at the head of the 
 board, which fairly creaked under its load of good 
 things, and no one dreamed of blushing for an honest 
 appetite. The glory of the feast was the pyramid loaf 
 of fruit cake, white with frosting and surmounted with 
 a tiny evergreen tree, whose branches glistened in the 
 candle-light like the white fields outside in the moon. 
 This was not cut in the afternoon, for the old folks 
 had chicken-pie instead, but it stood on the table to 
 be admired and talked about and guessed upon who 
 had made it, how many pounds of fruit had gone in 
 how heavy it was did it weigh as much as the one 
 last year and so on. In the evening the top layers 
 were dealt out to the young people, while the big 
 lower layers were to remain for the minister's family. 
 The donation party has been made a fruitful subject 
 for ridicule, but "Laughing," says a sage, "comes from 
 misapprehension ; rightly looked at there is no laugh- 
 able thing under the sun." And when I remember 
 such gatherings at Parson Ball's house, the sweet- 
 faced, gentle-mannered women bringing their tithe of 
 good things from stores not abundant, more than gen- 
 erous according to their means, it is still beautiful to 
 me spite of the libraries written to the contrary. A re- 
 poseful kindness lighted up their faces indicating how 
 congenial was the exchange of good offices. After 
 supper they sat in the parlor, drifting to some quiet 
 corner where they talked of home affairs and village 
 news. Each woman had on a black silk apron, a little 
 cape of the same material as her dress, and a newly 
 laundered cap. It is a picture on which those who 
 have known it love to linger the homely wrinkled 
 faces of those great-aunts and grandmothers, shining
 
 148 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 with the light of warm hearts and gentle loving 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Mother Carpeg, have you heard how much butter 
 Patty Ann Silas sold from her one cow last year?" 
 asked Mrs. Buttonwood. 
 
 "No, but I suppose she has beat everybody else or 
 she'd not be talking." 
 
 "One hundred and sixty-one pounds, beside what 
 she and John used." 
 
 "Don't talk about the butter Patty Ann Silas uses! 
 If we ate bacon gravy on our bread all the time, well, 
 I never skimp our folks for the sake of a big story." 
 
 "All I've to say is that when Ella Jane and I dropped 
 in there of an afternoon two weeks ago she had as nice 
 a supper as I ever want to taste." 
 
 "She's a prime housekeeper, I don't gainsay you 
 there, but awful neat." 
 
 "John says she takes the shine off the plates scrap- 
 ing 'em before she puts 'em in the dish-water." 
 
 "She mops her kitchen floor every morning and 
 scours it till it's white as snow. Then after dinner 
 she wipes up the tracks John makes when he comes 
 in at noon." 
 
 "Tracks John makes ! Why he spends five minutes 
 cleaning up his boots every time he comes in the house, 
 and they say they're clean enough to walk on any- 
 body's parlor carpet." 
 
 "John says a fly would slip up on her windows." 
 
 "They say slie hangs out the biggest wash of the 
 neighborhood." 
 
 "How's that? Only she and John 
 
 "Tildy Ann says she looks out and sees what the 
 others have on the line and if she hasn't as much she 
 goes to the bureau drawer, takes out some sheets, 
 rinses 'em in the blue water and hangs 'em up."
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 149 
 
 Just then Ella Jane Dix passed by to the other room, 
 and Mrs. Buttonwood whispered: 
 
 "You ought to see her fingers, they are that pricked 
 and worn binding hats for her brother Jeremiah, as if 
 they had been drawn across a hetchel; oh, and say, 
 she's had a letter from Maria Williams saying Mrs. 
 Miles is sick enough of that Black River country, just 
 as we all said she'd be no well short of half a mile, 
 no trees, no nothing like we have in Ravenna, and she 
 wishes she'd never left." 
 
 The donations having by this time been duly re- 
 corded opposite the name of the giver, they were ready 
 to go home, all but a few women who stayed to clear 
 up and put things in order for the young people who 
 were to come in the evening. 
 
 To the boys and girls the joy of the evening lay in 
 the games that went on in the spare room upstairs. 
 Youths a trifle older sought a certain pair of bright 
 eyes and an obscure corner where no one should hear 
 what they were saying and above all, what they were 
 not saying; others were telling fortunes from the cor- 
 ners of a pocket handkerchief, while the lively joking 
 kind ate philopenas and exchanged favors; meantime 
 the silent and bashful filled all the passageways and 
 blocked the doors until getting through was like run- 
 ning into a tangle of blackberry briars. 
 
 The small children had their part in the donation 
 party on the afternoon of the second day. Everybody 
 took something Billy Bates once took a panful of 
 turnovers and was greeted with screams of delight. 
 The children, whose share was always the second table, 
 found it no hardship, and played and fought and sang 
 and ate quite as if their world was not overshadowed 
 by elders.
 
 150 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 Some money, a store of varied articles, and a house 
 torn up from garret to cellar was what the pastor's 
 family looked upon when it was all over. This, and a 
 fund of good will, kindly feeling, and spirit of mutual 
 helpfulness such as could not but oil the wheels of the 
 new year kept everything good natured for another 
 twelvemonth at least.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 DEACON LEE THE PASSING OF THE PURITAN. 
 
 MY father, beloved name ! gentle, gracious, kind. If 
 he was sometimes positive and stern, it was because the 
 Right was in clanger, as I thought any one should see. 
 When I was eager about something and he shook his 
 head, "Not today, my child," I never doubted his hon- 
 esty and good-will. I was once more in touch with 
 that mystic Being in which all Ravenna was but a tale 
 that is told and a watch in the night. I felt that in some 
 inexplicable way my wish might have upset that vague 
 balance, to maintain which we had been born into the 
 world. However intangible this something that guides 
 us for our good along strangely thorny paths, however 
 shadowy my feeling of our human limits, what I knew 
 clearly was that my father and I were alike helpless, and 
 that although he knew so much more than I that he had 
 found it to be in the end good and true and even beau- 
 tiful, yet our disappointments were all equally his and 
 mine, and this was almost next to having no disappoint- 
 ments at all. 
 
 His chances at education had been scant some winters 
 at the district school, some months under a government 
 surveyor, but there had been no lack of moral training. 
 Parents used to hold their children as treasures lent 
 from the Lord, for whom they must render account on 
 the last day, and their zeal in the office was like a 
 Divine fire touching with points of magic light what had 
 otherwise been mean and common in their lot. Natives 
 of an ideal world where we today feel restless and ill 
 at ease, they walked and talked unconscious. In that
 
 152 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 world God waits on man and not a word or act is slight, 
 or trivial, or insignificant. 
 
 Side by side with the thirst for God was the thirst 
 for knowledge. But while religion is without money and 
 without price, education is a luxury. Only one in the 
 family could be sent to college. Tradition determined 
 that this should be the eldest son, who was thus elected 
 to enter the ministry. So while my uncle was fitted for 
 Hamilton and entered definitely on a career of thought 
 and study, my father began his four-year apprenticeship 
 in the neighboring woollen-mill. 
 
 But blood tells in spite of untoward conditions. In it 
 flow the hopes and convictions of our ancestors, and the 
 Revolutionary colonels, the provincial governors, and 
 especially the dissenting ministers and clergymen of the 
 past were not to be silenced by smells of grease and 
 steaming wool. My father's will was bent on having 
 some share in the broader outlook that comes with read- 
 ing and contact with great minds. Year by year he and 
 my mother, who had been well educated for her day, 
 followed the acts of Congress, read the speeches of John 
 Quincy Adams, of Clay, Webster and Calhoun, the fiery 
 arguments of Garrison and Wendell Phillips; together 
 they studied the Bible with the help of histories, dic- 
 tionaries, and commentaries, and, with an occasional book 
 on travel, or on some great political, moral, or industrial 
 issue in our own country or in England, he became in the 
 end a well-read man for his station in life. 
 
 I think no hungry ambition for wealth or fame ever 
 tortured his soul. With a clear conscience he was able 
 to provide good things for wife and family according to 
 the accepted standard, and life seemed satisfactory. 
 Death had come only to the aged of his kin, who had 
 passed the gates by the sure light of faith, and were
 
 now waiting for him in the blessed beyond; then why 
 should they be mourned? 
 
 He was now forty-five years old, his farm of a hun- 
 dred acres was paid for, he was laying aside a small sur- 
 plus each year, and had the joy peculiar to farmers of 
 seeing his land steadily improve in value under his care- 
 ful management. When in October the dairy buyer 
 came airily along in his sulky flourishing his long steel 
 tryer, testing the quality of butter or cheese and offering 
 a fair price, he always sold, never waiting for a possible 
 higher market, and so was never caught, like some of 
 his neighbors, with the season's output on his hands. 
 
 He was not only a farmer but a surveyor as well, 
 and his services were often sought in settling disputes 
 on boundaries, or on waterways and mill-rights, and al- 
 though he was never a real "Square" like his father, he 
 enjoyed about the same prestige among his neighbors. 
 
 He had always been temperate, as indeed a man who 
 takes God for his constant companion must be, but wine 
 had been passed at his own wedding in 1821 in the fine 
 chased glass loving-cup which stood for so many years 
 on the mantel over the fire-place in the parlor with a full 
 decanter by its side ready to be offered to the minister 
 or doctor or friend who might -drop in. The cup held 
 a quart, which was quite enough for a large company, 
 as each guest would lift it to his mouth by the two han- 
 dles, take only a sip, and pass it on to his next neighbor. 
 
 But all this became a thing of the past when the wave 
 of enthusiasm for total abstinence was swept through 
 the country by the Washingtonian societies in the years 
 1836-1840. He was set against all that corrupts, en- 
 slaves, or brutalizes men, and judged that a custom so 
 largely social in its nature takes away the support to- 
 ward a healthy life which society owes to its weaker 
 members. He felt his responsibility like Paul "If meat
 
 154 
 
 make my brother to offend, I will eat no meat while the 
 world standeth." The suffering and oppressed cried in 
 his soul day and night demanding his championship in 
 word and deed. 
 
 Of course the stand he took brought him many a 
 curse, but even the tavern-keeper and his patrons who 
 hated him and his views had absolute faith in his word, 
 and though they would not follow his advice, would 
 send post-haste for Deacon Lee when real trouble came. 
 He eased the death-bed of not a few such by pointing 
 the way into that other world that had so little con- 
 cerned them until then. 
 
 This was the time when the anti-slavery question was 
 at burning heat. It drew him like another self into its 
 maelstrom of moral and political tumult, and he became 
 an abolitionist when it cost him the good opinion of 
 neighbors, the rebuke of political allies, and the gibes 
 and taunts of "Northern men with southern principles." 
 "You throw away your vote when you cast it for John 
 P. Hale," they said, but as it was a question of four 
 million votes his own seemed a trivial matter. 
 
 Runaway slaves coming up from the South by the 
 underground railroad often stopped at our house, where 
 they were kept over night and then helped on to reach 
 Garret Smith in the next county north. I didn't enjoy 
 these visits, whether on account of Uncle Joseph's insinu- 
 ations that they might be brothers and sisters or from 
 sharing my Grandmother's sentiments, who never in 
 her life felt that all men were really equal. She could 
 think calmly of the negro and his wrongs only if he 
 stayed in the South, where he belonged, miles away 
 from her, but when he intruded his shiny black face and 
 soft dark eyes on her own province she was roused to 
 personal revolt that could take no account of general 
 issues. During the exciting times of the Kansas-Ne-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 155 
 
 braska Bill she took great relish in nicknaming our little 
 black kitten (and she hated all cats) Little Nebraska 
 Bill, which she ordinarily shortened to Nebrax. 
 
 My father's passion for equal opportunity to every 
 man, whatever his race or color or sect, was second only 
 to his passionate acceptance of the one God and the per- 
 fect pattern set for human life by Jesus of Nazareth. 
 Under his air of quiet reserve always smouldered a fer- 
 vid jealousy for God and the Right. I still remember, 
 not without an unpleasant thrill, one occasion on which 
 I saw this inner fire burst forth. There were revival 
 meetings in the Methodist Church, and my Aunt Ade- 
 line had planned to go early. She came into the room, 
 bonnet and shawl on, to say good-bye. 
 
 "Adeline," said my father, "are you going to this 
 meeting to seek your soul's salvation?" 
 
 Adeline had great respect for her brother-in-law, who 
 was old enough to be her father, but his rough solemn 
 way tied her tongue ; she couldn't answer in the spirit 
 and temper in which the question was put, she would 
 not be irreverent, so she stood by the window and looked 
 out, seeing nothing, saying nothing. 
 
 "Adeline, what is the chief business of life? Just an- 
 swer that question." 
 
 It seemed to me, a child of six or seven, that she stood 
 hours by the window. There was a tense uncomfortable 
 atmosphere in the room. I wondered why someone didn't 
 speak and let things be as usual. I was almost ready 
 to say something myself, but I kept to my book. 
 
 There she stood by the window, silent. She wouldn't 
 disregard him by going without an answer, and so she 
 kept standing there looking out of the window. My 
 mother came through the room, glanced in a plaintive 
 way at both, and passed out. Still the grip never let 
 up. The sun was fast slipping behind the hills, she must
 
 156 
 
 say something. All he had done for her rose up like 
 an accusation; she was a Christian, she had always been 
 one so far as she knew ; why couldn't she say so ? 
 
 At last there came faintly, with the effort of a drown- 
 ing man : 
 
 "I know it is; and I do want I take Him Jesus, I 
 mean to be my Saviour." 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say that, Adeline, and I hope 
 the decision is made once for all." 
 
 He believed in having set times and seasons for per- 
 forming his duties, not only those of planting, sowing 
 and reaping, but for cultivating the inner vision, and for 
 pondering the invisible things of the spirit. I can even 
 now see him sitting in some retired corner, his Bible or 
 Finney's sermons in his hand, oblivious to passing things. 
 He would read a little, then raising his eyes as his mind 
 filled with the great thoughts, a far-away look would 
 creep over his face he was walking with God in some 
 distant Eden. 
 
 He was a man of genuine and sometimes terrible earn- 
 estness. At intervals I thought his moral sense bordered 
 on the tyrannous conscience, and indeed, born in the 
 eighteenth century, he lived not far removed from the 
 rugged Puritan ideals. Family traditions which are now 
 strange and unaccountable were living facts to him. His 
 grandfather whom he well remembered a stern old 
 minister in Lyme on learning that his daughter Eunice, 
 the only giddy girl in generations, had gone to a tavern- 
 ball, went straight to the place with his wife Abiah, 
 kneeled down in the midst of the astonished throng and 
 prayed for the souls of the whole hell-bound company. 
 When he got up some were already slinking off, the more 
 impressionable were in tears, and the party quite broke 
 lip. Every one was concerned for his soul's salvation,
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 157 
 
 and the episode was followed by a revival which threat- 
 ened to bring all Lyme into the fold of the regenerate. 
 
 His grandmother Abiah, a woman of great dignity 
 and of firm conviction, used often to arise in her seat 
 when her husband had finished his sermon and with sol- 
 emn tone and impressive mien, utter some maxim ta 
 clinch his argument. Once it was, "What I say unto 
 you, I say unto all, watch ! Watch against sin and 
 guard the door of duty." Again, being weighed down in 
 spirit with a sense of the guilt 61 unbelief, she arose 
 and solemnly pronounced, "Unbelief ! Unbelief ! O that 
 cursed unbelief!" and sat down. 
 
 Feeling keenly his own lack of education, my father 
 was glad to help his wife's numerous brothers and sisters 
 to the advantages of select schools, and to make possible 
 for the younger ones at least a training at some higher 
 institution. Wherever they went they carried with them 
 the motto that had governed his own life, "There is no 
 swerving from the line of right that may not lead eter- 
 nally astray." So often indeed was this adage dinned 
 in the ears of those under his charge that in later life 
 the one was sure to suggest the other. 
 
 When the call came for money to establish Oberlin 
 College with its liberal provision for the education of 
 both sexes and for persons of every race and color, he 
 gave generously, taking in return scholarships which he 
 later restored to the institution. One of these scholar- 
 ships he offered to my cousin a hot-headed young aris- 
 tocrat whose father and mother were dead, and who 
 had recently come to make his home with us. Joseph, 
 though positively hungry for an education, scorned to 
 get it among negroes, and my father, shocked at such 
 notions and equally stubborn, refused to give him one 
 cent to go elsewhere. Later he left our house and drifted 
 south to a brother in Memphis. It is interesting to note
 
 158 
 
 that in the end he became a clergyman in Mississippi, 
 where he devoted the best part of his life to reclaiming 
 convicts, the inmates of prisons, and the lowest of the 
 negroes and poor whites. 
 
 My father set a high value on the practical side of 
 Christianity. An old man verging on the nineties re- 
 cently remarked, "I never saw any one take the poor and 
 desolate, clean them up, teach them industrious habits, 
 and instill self-respect equal to Deacon Lee's folks. 
 Many an unpromising chore-boy who received in their 
 kitchen his only instruction in religion and morals, in 
 reading and public affairs, in table manners and polite- 
 ness, has since become a man of note a valuable citi- 
 zen in his community. 
 
 My parents took great interest in the church, where in 
 that day all benevolence, intellectual growth, and reform 
 had its beginning. They visited all the members, even 
 those that lived miles away, invited them to their house, 
 showed them a comfortable home and a better way of 
 doing things than they were perhaps acquainted with, 
 took an interest in their plans for their children, sug- 
 gested further education, and a way of providing the 
 means to get it. 
 
 It was where moral questions were concerned that my 
 father was chiefly dogmatic. He could scarcely allow 
 an opposite opinion for fear Truth be distorted. Some- 
 times this habit asserted itself in purely secular matters. 
 For instance, when my cousin advanced the idea that 
 steam would yet serve the farmer's needs, the old man 
 who had trudged behind his plow for forty years, had 
 mown the grass;, and raked and pitched the hay by hand, 
 resented the preposterous notion, and brought his great 
 fi$t thundering on the table in proof that it could not be 
 done. Both were chips from the same stubborn block, 
 the youth and the greybeard, and each held to his view
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 159 
 
 with tenacity and some rancor. But my father lived to 
 see stranger things, lived to see the flail and the fanning- 
 mill become a memory, and the threshing - machine a 
 household word. 
 
 His life was not without its great and even tragic 
 disappointments. The first savings he had laid away 
 after paying for his farm he had invested in timber land 
 in a neighboring State, with prospect of large returns. 
 Mr. Banning, a prominent business man of Ravenna, had 
 told him of the opportunity and the two had become 
 partners. Roads were poor and rough and Mixton sev- 
 enty-five miles distant, remote indeed when stage-coach 
 and horseback were the only means of travel through 
 a district for the most part wild and unsettled. Rumors 
 drifted along after a time that all was not going well at 
 the lumber camp; then certain word that not only was 
 his property there in danger, but his farm as well. Care 
 drove sleep from his eyes, a family council decided he 
 should be on the ground before his partner should get 
 wind of what he was up to. It was midnight when this 
 decision was reached. A lunch was got ready as quickly 
 as possible, Stephen was called to feed and curry the 
 General the best saddle-horse in the stable and at one 
 o'clock my father was on the road. 
 
 There was little rest in the house that night, and morn- 
 ing brought Uncle Adams with the bad news that Mr. 
 Banning had been seen leaving the village early the even- 
 ing before in an open buggy accompanied by the lawyer. 
 There could be no doubt that he too had heard the rumors 
 and feared his partner might forestall him and spoil his 
 little game. There were two possibilities pointed out by 
 Uncle Adams that gave us a glimmer of hope. The 
 General had great endurance, his load was relatively 
 light, and bad roads are never such an obstacle to a 
 horse as to a carriage. The second hope lay in the fact
 
 160 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 that having left town on the night before they wouldn't 
 know that my father was so close behind and they might 
 spend unnecessary time in eating and sleeping. 
 
 The week passed slowly; we couldn't hope for news 
 until the traveler should return. At last, on the seventh 
 day, in the middle of the afternoon, my father rode up. 
 
 The General's fire was all gone, he was splashed with 
 mud, his gallop was little more than a spiritless walk, 
 and he swayed as if uncertain of his footing. The rider 
 dismounted, gave the horse to Stephen who came eagerly 
 running in from a near-by field, then he came in to us. 
 
 "It's better than we feared," he said to my mother, 
 as he sank in a chair, muddy, and thin, and old. While 
 Aunt Adeline got ready some coffee and a bit of a lunch, 
 he washed and changed his clothes, and when he had 
 eaten something we were all ready for the story. 
 
 "Yes, I passed 'em," and a twinkle shot for a moment 
 into his eye duffed with anxiety and lack of sleep. "It 
 was the second night on the road.' I was going through 
 Lennox about midnight and stopped at the tavern for a 
 bite to eat and something for the General. I saw the 
 buggy in the yard and asked whose it was. We were out 
 of there in ten minutes. I suppose they were all beat 
 out for a little sleep; the man said he was to call them 
 by three in the morning. The General and I didn't waste 
 much time eating or sleeping from there to Mixton, and 
 I got to the camp just five hours ahead. I got a lawyer 
 and the business was all done when the others arrived. 
 I've saved the farm anyway." 
 
 On investigation, the lawyer had found evidence of 
 intended fraud that brought Mr. Banning in danger of 
 the law. "Deacon," he said, "we can put your partner 
 where the dogs won't bite." But retaliation, even when 
 it was a matter of strict justice, was no part of my 
 father's creed. He thought of the sorrow and mortifi-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 161 
 
 cation that would come to a respected and innocent 
 family, of the tainted name to a man who had hitherto 
 stood well in the community. It was settled quietly, the 
 timber land was lost, but the farm remained free of 
 mortgage. 
 
 Again the savings put away for the rainy day disap- 
 peared in western town bonds. A clever citizen of Ot- 
 tawa, Illinois, having got to the State Legislature dis- 
 covered there was no record of the second reading of the 
 bill to bond the town, so that the city, if it wished, could 
 in law disclaim its responsibilities, and make all the de- 
 sired improvements out of these ill-gotten gains without 
 its costing the citizens a cent. And in this wholesale 
 manner did the town of Ottawa, Illinois, set up in its 
 midst the god of graft. I have often wondered whether 
 taxes were still as low as the morals in the town of 
 Ottawa. 
 
 Later still, when a citizen of Ravenna invented a lock 
 that promised well, my father, wishing to foster home in- 
 dustry, put a considerable amount into a factory. When 
 this had swallowed practically all the savings the town 
 afforded, it died, and contrary to all philosophy, carried 
 its goods along with it. 
 
 But none of these misfortunes were in the end a real 
 or lasting grief. That was reserved for his old age, 
 when the young minister of his church brought in new 
 ideas concerning Christian faith and doctrine that 
 seemed to him subversive of the true foundation. The 
 latter was popular wijh the young, and his coming had 
 opened up a whole undreamed world of thought to many 
 of them. My father's ideas and those of his generation 
 were scholastic, centuries apart from this modern divine 
 with his pleasing personality, his city-bred wife, sweet, 
 gentle, with fine sensibilities, an intimate knowledge of 
 birds and flowers, a love of dumb animals, and his chil-
 
 162 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 dren with their pretty manners, fine clothes, and lace 
 collars. He helped to place books and magazines in the 
 families of his congregation, talked of the scientific point 
 of view, and gave free and remote interpretations of the 
 Bible. 
 
 Beliefs clashed; and when the test came, a little over 
 half of the church members voted for him to stay. Grad- 
 ually the old part of the congregation drifted to other 
 places of worship. My father felt himself no longer at 
 home in the church which he, more than any living mem- 
 ber, had helped to build and maintain for thirty years. 
 When he left at last it was with the consciousness of per- 
 forming a duty, of living up to what he conceived to be 
 the eternal plan of salvation. 
 
 His last days were pleasant and full of quiet honor 
 among a strange people in a distant State. Among them 
 he was known as "Father Lee." He died at the age of 
 seventy-seven, departing like a traveler to his home-land. 
 His last words were to my mother; "I am ready to go; 
 I have no wish to live longer, but to wait on you when 
 you are feeble." 
 
 I have much to thank God for in the memory of my 
 parents, the constant inspiration of their unselfish char- 
 acter. It was not what they said, but what I knew them 
 to be that gave them their power to mould my life and 
 the many lives beside.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 THE CLASH OF THE OLD AND NEW. 
 
 "ACHSAH, are you going to teach Jennet to spin?" 
 asked Grandmother one day. "She's twelve, and'll never 
 get to be a housekeeper if she doesn't begin pretty soon. 
 What ever will become of her and hers for stockings 
 and blankets if she doesn't know how to card and spin? 
 She'll be nothing more nor less than a slut and a slat- 
 tern ; and why don't you get her some pretty new dresses, 
 and send her to a school where she'll learn genteel 
 manners ?" 
 
 "Why mother, things aren't as black as that, are they? 
 Jennet has learned to knit and has already six pairs of 
 stockings of her own make laid away in her drawer. 
 She has one bed-quilt done and another ready for the 
 frames. She can hem-stitch and sew a beautiful over- 
 and-over seam. In these days it isn't necessary for a 
 girl to spin and weave as it was when you were young. 
 The factories make such good cloth, really much better 
 than we can, and the cotton thread we buy, you must o\vn 
 it is smoother than our linen." 
 
 "I can double and twist yarn on the big wheel now, 
 Grandmother," urged Jennet, feeling somehow as if she 
 were on trial and must produce testimony; "I helped 
 Aunt Betsy warp a piece for blankets last fall ; yes, and 
 I filled nearly all her spools and quills for the yarn car- 
 pet she made . for Mrs. Covert. I know more than you 
 think I do." ; 
 
 Grandmother nodded approvingly, but didn't yield her 
 point. 
 
 "To be a clever girl, Jennet, you must learn all your
 
 164 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 mother and Grandmother know, and as much more as 
 possible." 
 
 "But you must remember, mother, she is learning a 
 great deal more than we ever had to. She's taking les- 
 sons on the melodeon, and has to . practice her hour 
 every day." 
 
 "Yes, and I suppose she'll soon be piping up for some 
 jack-in-the-box to dance a nice thing for a deacon's 
 daughter !" 
 
 "I can play Bonaparte crossing the Rhine, Grand- 
 mother, and the Spanish Patriots' March, and sing and 
 play Nellie Ely and Ben Bolt and The Blind Girl." 
 
 "And she's going to a select school," continued my 
 mother, anxious to defend her plans, "where beside the 
 three R's she studies physiology and English composition, 
 and has lessons in wool embroidery you never had that." 
 
 "No, thank my stars! but I could spin the finest yarn 
 in Old Lyme, and no one in Connecticut could make 
 crullers, mince pie or bread to beat mine. I see plainly, 
 with her music, embroidery, and phy-si-ol-o-gy she'll be 
 a know-nothing, and have no blankets, coverlets, or linen 
 sheets, no bed-ticks, no towels, no nothing to set up 
 housekeeping. I pity the man who will ever be her 
 husband !" 
 
 "I hope it will be many a long year before she leaves 
 this house," said my mother gently.. 
 
 "If you weren't always giving to those sisters of yours, 
 we could begin filling Jennet's chest now, and be pro- 
 vided against the day of her wedding." 
 
 "Her father is able to buy her things, mother, when the 
 day comes, and I hope it is a long way off." 
 
 "Oh well, if you won't hear reason, you won't, ^nd 
 I guess I'd better go," and Grandmother sailed loftily 
 out of the room.
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 165 
 
 But she had by no means given up, and when she saw 
 my father the next day, she said, "Mathew, if you'll give 
 me some wool to make Dutch blankets, I'll teach Jennet 
 to spin. She shall not bring disgrace on the name if I 
 can help it." 
 
 Jennet had no objections. She had watched Grand- 
 mother at the big wheel as she ran back and forth from 
 the spindle, the roll of wool in her hand, pulling and 
 twisting it into a smooth thread, and it looked quite at- 
 tractive to the restless mind with its restless little hands 
 and body. 
 
 "When I turn the big wheel as much as I like," she 
 said to herself, "and the reel snaps every forty rounds 
 to make the knot why I shall make a skein with twenty 
 knots" it seemed nearly finished already. 
 
 When the rolls came from the woollen mill the old 
 lady of eighty began teaching the childish hands the 
 mystery of pulling them into thread with one hand and 
 turning the wheel with the other, twisting all into stout 
 yarn. 
 
 Jennet was glad when the spindle was full and the 
 reel set down in front, for when forty threads were 
 on the reel the snapper buzzed so for a knot. 
 
 After the most painstaking instruction in the several 
 steps of spinning, Grandmother left and went off to the 
 next room. Jennet took the roll in one hand, giving 
 the wheel a swift turn with the other, but forgetting to 
 walk backwards in the meantime, the wool twisted into 
 a thick rope and wouldn't pull into a thread at all. She 
 broke it off and tried again with no better success. 
 
 "Grandma, come quick," she called. "There's some- 
 thing got into the yarn, and it won't pull out." 
 
 "Child, you must go carefully. Turn the wheel and 
 pull on the roll at the same time, and step backwards. 
 You must learn to think of two things at once."
 
 166 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 "I can't! Oh, I can't! and besides it isn't two things, 
 it's three. I wish I could make the thing go whiz ! whiz ! 
 the way you do, and the yarn come smooth and the 
 spindle grow fat right away." 
 
 "Patience, Jennet, Rome wasn't built in a day." 
 
 But the process was long and tiresome. She would 
 have skipped out to see the boys grind the scythes, she 
 would even have offered to turn the grindstone, hard as 
 it was, rather than go back to the wheel, but Grand- 
 mother, once her mind was set, never let go, and Jennet 
 had to stick to it till her stent was done. Sometimes 
 when she was very tired she would suggest, "Perhaps 
 they forgot to feed the chickens this morning," or 
 "Mother says she hasn't eggs enough to make the pound- 
 cake, shall I go hunt some?" 
 
 "Dear me! sit still, child, some one else can do that; 
 you are learning to spin," Grandmother would reply. 
 
 Grandmother spun the warp herself, Jennet the filling, 
 and Aunt Betsy wove the cloth. The blankets were fin- 
 ished and pressed at the mill and laid away with fennel 
 between for Jennet's own, but this was the beginning 
 and end of her spinning days. The last of the nineteenth 
 century had little use for homemade yarn or cloth.
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 JENNET HAS A BEAU. 
 
 WHEN Billy Bates sold his tavern to Mr. Thornton 
 and it was turned into temperance house, the good peo- 
 ple of Ravenna couldn't do enough to show their appre- 
 ciation. Among other things an oyster-supper was occa- 
 sionally held in the ball-room as a benefit for the worthy 
 man. All but the harum-scarum from Bangall and up 
 among the hills attended with their wives, and it was 
 a very important social occasion. Jennet had often gone 
 with her parents to these parties, and her part had been 
 to keep quiet and listen to what her elders were saying. 
 
 But now she was fourteen, seen oftenest in a crimson 
 merino frock, trimmed with black velvet, her much- 
 prized ornaments a gold lead-pencil and heart-shaped 
 slide won as a philopena present at a recent donation 
 party. Her chestnut hair hung in long thick braids such 
 as belong only to the vigor and luxuriance of youth. 
 
 When Harry Van Dechten invited her to go with him 
 to one of these oyster-suppers it never occurred to her 
 to say anything but yes, just as she had always done 
 when it was- a question of sliding down hill or going 
 on an errand to the Brick Store. Indeed when she 
 thought it over she was a little flattered someway it 
 felt so like being grown up. She never thought about 
 her parents at all, that they might miss her or be lonely 
 without her, she just had a feeling of terrible depression 
 once in a great while when a suspicion struck her heart 
 of what "they" might possibly say or think. 
 
 When the time came she stood by the window breath- 
 ing pictures into the frosty pane. First the silhouette of 
 a house with two flanking chimneys it was the ready
 
 168 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 skill of long habit, her mind was elsewhere. "I wish 
 he wouldn't come Oh, dear! What if Uncle Jeremiah 
 should see me! What if he should say something" it 
 was a pig now, first the head, then the snout then the 
 legs and tail "out loud before the others but maybe 
 he won't be there maybe his leg up in the graveyard'll 
 be aching so he'll have to tend to getting it turned 
 round maybe but I wouldn't want to go with father 
 and mother now not but what I'd a great deal rather 
 go with them but" there was the jingle of bells out- 
 side, her cheek flushed, there were steps, the door burst 
 open no more time for self -inspection; she must get 
 on her things and receive advice. 
 
 Harry had a fine horse and new cutter. He flourished 
 his whip, the bells rang out merrily, and away they flew 
 over the glistening snow in the light of a full moon. 
 Everything seemed quite natural so far; there was lots 
 of talk and laughing, for they were schoolmates, and had 
 almost every interest in common, and when they got to 
 the room where the crowd was already gathered the 
 happy consciousness still lingered. The door into the 
 hall was choked with people, and they had to wait their 
 turn to get through. Suddenly Jennet heard a whisper : 
 
 "Jennet Lee's got a beau! Well, what d'ye think of 
 that!" 
 
 To complete her misery, Jeremiah Dix was sitting at 
 the table immediately in front of her talking with her 
 Uncle Andrew. His back was toward her; there were 
 seats just across the room if only she could get there 
 safely she thought she could feel like herself. She 
 tried to move in the shadow of Harry in the shadow 
 of Harry ! poor Harry was at least half a head shorter 
 than she. 
 
 "Hello!" cried Uncle Jeremiah, whirling suddenly 
 around, "There's a team ! It ought to draw well in har-
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 169 
 
 ness the Baptist deacon's son and the Presbyterian 
 deacon's daughter. What do you say, eh?" and he looked 
 around at the crowd chuckling, while Jennet prayed God 
 silently to keep her on her feet till she could get to a 
 chair. 
 
 "Likely to be blue blazes when they get to discussing 
 baptism," said Uncle Andrew. 
 
 "There comes Elder Stark," said Aunt Lucia, ready 
 to turn attention from Jennet's flaming cheeks. 
 
 "H'm ! bad for our appetites," remarked Uncle Jere- 
 miah. 
 
 "How's that?" asked Uncle Andrew. 
 
 "If they ask him to say grace before meat, we may go 
 hungry. He makes the longest prayer of anyone in the 
 county." 
 
 As they were taking their seats Jennet heard a loud 
 whisper : 
 
 "That red merino dress of Jennet's wasn't made to go 
 to meeting in, all trimmed up with black velvet." 
 
 And the answer "She's getting old enough to go out 
 in company. Now she's begun having beaux, I suppose 
 we won't see any more home-spun woollens and turkey- 
 red calicoes." 
 
 The long table stretched quite across the ball-room. 
 Jennet and Harry sat at one end, with her father and 
 mother away at the other. They looked very strange 
 without her. I think a kind of aching pain was in their 
 hearts, as if some one had stepped between them and 
 their treasure a first foreboding of the future. Mean- 
 time, Jennet for the first time in her life was under the 
 necessity of making conversation. She had often heard 
 it made. She had always thought her mother could 
 make it the best of anyone. She tried to remember what 
 she did, but the dreadful pauses frightened her so that 
 she couldn't think. What an odd mess she was making
 
 170 
 
 of it ! Words stuck in her throat when the school- 
 examiner and his wife opposite tried to help her out. 
 Her mind was skipping about hither and yon, nowhere 
 long enough to capture an idea. She couldn't think what 
 the matter was she never guessed herself prey to a 
 disease that most virulent of all social diseases What 
 will they say? 
 
 Supper over, the company scattered into little con- 
 genial groups and she began to feel less awkward. 
 
 Just ahead of her and to one side, sat Miss Nora, 
 the village teacher. Some ill-humored persons were al- 
 ready beginning to whisper "old maid," and shake their 
 heads, but to her the romance of life was just budding. 
 At her side was the Baptist minister from Platter, a 
 widower of some years' standing. He had already 
 brought her to the supper on two occasions, so that now 
 as they sat lost in conversation, knowing nods and smiles 
 were passed about the room. Just then two boys slid 
 into the seat behind them, evidently with a purpose. 
 The dominie was discoursing sermon - like, and Miss 
 Nora paying rapt attention. Every few moments she 
 put up her hand to brush off something from her neck, 
 then in another minute he would do the same. Mean- 
 time, the boys were doubled over with silent laughter. 
 Gradually the conversation in the room dropped to a 
 hum as curiosity drew all eyes to the one spot. Then 
 they saw each boy had a straw which he now and then 
 touched lightly to the necks in front. Suddenly Miss 
 Nora put up her handkerchief and brushed and brushed, 
 still hanging to the preacher's every word, and with a 
 final vehement thrust exclaimed in her clear high-pitched 
 voice : 
 
 "Dear me ! how annoying these flies are !" 
 
 "Flies, Miss Nora, possess also the 'one touch of na- 
 ture' they too pursue the sweets but I can't see what
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 171 
 
 they're buzzing around me for," and the minister began 
 vigorously shooing. 
 
 It was the pin-prick that burst the bubble of pent-up 
 laughter. The boys broke into a roar in which everybody 
 joined. Miss Nora and the widower took the joke good- 
 humoredly; no doubt they were too happy just then to 
 be disconcerted at anything, for there was a wedding 
 soon and a honeymoon in the parsonage.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 L'ENvoi. 
 
 JENNET was now past fourteen. She had been to the 
 district school, had learned to read in Sander's First, had 
 been taught in the Second the prudence of being obedient 
 by seeing how Caroline playing too long with her tea 
 had lost her ride in the carriage. In the Third she was 
 exhorted to beware the voice of flattery by the tale of the 
 Spider and the Fly. She had conquered fractions, Eng- 
 lish money, and square root, but in English grammar had 
 mostly failed. The select school had introduced her to 
 physiology, American history, and the dramatic part of 
 school exhibitions. She had committed Matthew, Mark 
 and Luke, had learned the Shorter Catechism and recited 
 it before the minister, receiving therefor a Bible with 
 gilt clasps and the donor's name inside. 
 
 The games of hide and seek, one old cat, and making 
 pencils from soft rocks in the brook had lost their charm. 
 For chewing gum in school-time she had "been stood" 
 on the floor in front of everybody, and for idleness had 
 had to sit between two boys whose misery was at least 
 as great as hers. She had picked up chips from the 
 wood-pile, washed milk-pans, and piled them pyramid 
 fashion to scald in the sun. She had sewed long seams 
 over an 1 over, hem-stitched pillow-cases and put her 
 initial in the corner with the cross-stitch. 
 
 She had at last climbed to the top of the hill, had 
 pricked her fingers and torn her clothes on the sharp 
 thorns of the blackberry bushes deep in the pitfalls of 
 the wood-lot. She had been to Fourth of July celebra- 
 tions, had ridden eighteen miles to attend the County 
 Fair, had heard P. T. Barnum tell of his cherry-colored
 
 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 173 
 
 cat, seen ladies ride horseback for a purse, and had lux- 
 uriated in the possession of half a dozen peaches. 
 
 She had learned geography from a specialist by dron- 
 ing rhymes "On the south of Maine is Passamaquoda 
 i>ay Passamaquoda Bay." The flourishes of the Spen- 
 cerian system she got from a writing teacher with very 
 slick hair who wore store-clothes. The art of singing 
 was acquired winter evenings in the old school-house 
 where she sang Do-re-me to time beaten out by some 
 youth earning money to go to college, and she had eaten 
 philopenas with the boys during intermission. She had, 
 read the exciting stories of Mrs. E. D. N. Southworth, 
 and "Uncle Tom's Cabin" as serials in the "National 
 Era," and was saturated with romantic ideas from the 
 "Scottish Chiefs." 
 
 Her curls had been straightened into long braids, her 
 dresses lengthened till the pantalets no longer showed 
 their white lace edge, and the dress-up silk apron had 
 disappeared. 
 
 So far every necessary want had been supplied with- 
 out her thought. Things broken or torn had been 
 mended, those lost replaced without scolding. All com- 
 mon things had come along as a matter of course. Her 
 mother's smile, her mother's arms, her thoughtful loving 
 care, her father's affection and daily provisions were 
 everyday matters for which she felt no special thank- 
 fulness. 
 
 She had had her first stir of longing for the vague 
 future and all it promised of things different from what 
 she had and was. Already her desire would wring from 
 it more than she could express more than she knew. 
 No wonder that later on, with a little more experience, 
 she was tortured by the thought that she had not loved, 
 had not appreciated her parents as they deserved.
 
 174 WHEN FOLKS WAS FOLKS 
 
 It was 1854 when the family council was. called to con- 
 sider the question of sending Jennet away from home 
 for ;urther education. An academy lately reorganized 
 and just the.i celebrating its fiftieth anniversary, in the 
 neighboring town of Oxford, was decided on as having 
 the fewest drawbacks. The plan was pleasing it might 
 prove the fulfillment of all the things she so vaguely de- 
 sired. Thus the child was no more, and with her first 
 adieu to home we take leave of Jennet, peering anxious 
 but not dismayed into the impenetrable future. 
 
 THE END.

 
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