Story type: Literature
I often think of a boy with whom I made friends last summer, during some idle, pleasant days that I spent by the sea. I was almost always out of doors, and I used to watch the boats go out and come in; and I had a hearty liking for the good-natured fishermen, who were lazy and busy by turns, who waited for the wind to change, and waited for the tide to turn, and waited for the fish to bite, and were always ready to gossip about the weather, and the fish, and the wonderful events that had befallen them and their friends.
Georgie was the only boy of whom I ever saw much at the shore. The few young people living there all went to school through the hot summer days at a little weather-beaten schoolhouse a mile or two inland. There were few houses to be seen, at any rate, and Georgie’s house was the only one so close to the water. He looked already nothing but a fisherman; his clothes were covered with an oil-skin suit, which had evidently been awkwardly cut down for him from one of his father’s, of whom he was a curious little likeness. I could hardly believe that he was twelve years old, he was so stunted and small; yet he was a strong little fellow; his hands were horny and hard from handling the clumsy oars, and his face was so brown and dry from the hot sun and chilly spray, that he looked even older when one came close to him. The first time I saw him was one evening just at night fall. I was sitting on the pebbles, and he came down from the fish-house with some lobster-nets, and a bucket with some pieces of fish in it for bait, and put them into the stern of one of the boats which lay just at the edge of the rising tide. He looked at the clouds over the sea, and at the open sky overhead, in an old wise way, and then, as if satisfied with the weather, began to push off his boat. It dragged on the pebbles; it was a heavy thing, and he could not get it far enough out to be floated by the low waves, so I went down to help him. He looked amazed that a girl should have thought of it, and as if he wished to ask me what good I supposed I could do, though I was twice his size. But the boat grated and slid down toward the sand, and I gave her a last push as the boy perched with one knee on her gunwale and let the other foot drag in the water for a minute. He was afloat after all; and he took the oars, and pulled manfully out toward the moorings, where the whale-boats and a sail-boat or two were swaying about in the wind, which was rising a little since the sun had set. He did not say a word to me, or I to him. I watched him go out into the twilight,–such a little fellow, between those two great oars! But the boat could not drift or loiter with his steady stroke, and out he went, until I could only see the boat at last, lifting and sinking on the waves beyond the reef outside the moorings. I asked one of the fishermen whom I knew very well, “Who is that little fellow? Ought he to be out by himself, it is growing dark so fast?”
“Why, that’s Georgie!” said my friend, with his grim smile. “Bless ye! he’s like a duck; ye can’t drown him. He won’t be in until ten o’clock, like’s not. He’ll go way out to the far ledges when the tide covers them too deep where he is now. Lobsters he’s after.”
“Whose boy is he?” said I.
“Why, Andrer’s, up here to the fish-house. She’s dead, and him and the boy get along together somehow or ‘nother. They’ve both got something saved up, and Andrer’s a clever fellow; took it very hard, losing his wife. I was telling of him the other day: ‘Andrer,’ says I, ‘ye ought to look up somebody or ‘nother, and not live this way. There’s plenty o’ smart, stirring women that would mend ye up, and cook for ye, and do well by ye.’–‘No,’ says he; ‘I’ve hed my wife, and I’ve lost her.’–‘Well, now,’ says I, ‘ye’ve shown respect, and there’s the boy a-growin’ up, and if either of you was took sick, why, here ye be.’–‘Yes,’ says he, ‘here I be, sure enough;’ and he drawed a long breath, ‘s if he felt bad; so that’s all I said. But it’s no way for a man to get along, and he ought to think of the boy. He owned a good house about half a mile up the road; but he moved right down here after she died, and his cousin took it, and it burnt up in the winter. Four year ago that was. I was down to the Georges Banks.”
Some other men came down toward the water, and took a boat that was waiting, already fitted out with a trawl coiled in two tubs, and some hand-lines and bait for rock-cod and haddock, and my friend joined them; they were going out for a night’s fishing. I watched them hoist the little sprit-sail, and drift a little until they caught the wind, and then I looked again for Georgie, whose boat was like a black spot on the water.
I knew him better soon after that. I used to go out with him for lobsters, or to catch cunners, and it was strange that he never had any cronies, and would hardly speak to the other children. He was very shy; but he had put all his heart into his work,–a man’s hard work, which he had taken from choice. His father was kind to him; but he had a sorry home, and no mother,–the brave, fearless, steady little soul!
He looked forward to going one day (I hope that day has already dawned) to see the shipyards at a large seaport some twenty miles away. His face lit up when he told me of it, as some other child’s would who had been promised a day in fairy-land. And he confided to me that he thought he should go to the Banks that coming winter. “But it’s so cold!” said I; “should you really like it?”–“Cold!” said Georgie. “Ho! rest of the men never froze.” That was it,–the “rest of the men;” and he would work until he dropped, or tend a line until his fingers froze, for the sake of that likeness,–the grave, slow little man, who has so much business with the sea, and who trusts himself with touching confidence to its treacherous keeping and favour.
Andrew West, Georgie’s father, was almost as silent as his son at first, but it was not long before we were very good friends, and I went out with him at four o’clock one morning, to see him set his trawl. I remember there was a thin mist over the sea, and the air was almost chilly: but, as the sun came up, it changed the colour of everything to the most exquisite pink,–the smooth slow waves, and the mist that blew over them as if it were a cloud that had fallen down out of the sky. The world just then was like the hollow of a great pink sea-shell; and we could only hear the noise of it, the dull sound of the waves among the outer ledges.
We had to drift about for an hour or two when the trawl was set; and after a while the fog shut down again gray and close, so we could not see either the sun or the shore. We were a little more than four miles out, and we had put out more than half a mile of lines. It is very interesting to see the different fish that come up on the hooks,–worthless sculpin and dog-fish, and good rock-cod and haddock, and curious stray creatures which often even the fishermen do not know. We had capital good luck that morning, and Georgie and Andrew and I were all pleased. I had a hand-line, and was fishing part of the time, and Georgie thought very well of me when he found I was not afraid of a big fish, and, besides that, I had taken the oars while he tended the sail, though there was hardly wind enough to make it worth his while. It was about eight o’clock when we came in, and there was a horse and wagon standing near the landing; and we saw a woman come out of Andrew’s little house. “There’s your aunt Hannah a’ready,” said he to Georgie; and presently she came down the pebbles to meet the boat, looking at me with much wonder as I jumped ashore.
“I sh’d think you might a’ cleaned up your boat, Andrer, if you was going to take ladies out,” said she graciously. And the fisherman rejoined, that perhaps she would have thought it looked better when it went out than it did then; he never had got a better fare o’ fish unless the trawls had been set over night.
There certainly had been a good haul; and, when Andrew carefully put those I had caught with the hand-line by themselves, I asked his sister to take them, if she liked. “Bless you!” said she, much pleased, “we couldn’t eat one o’ them big rock-cod in a week–I’ll take a little ha’dick if Andrer ‘ll pick me one out.”
She was a tall, large woman, who had a direct, business-like manner,–what the country people would call a master smart woman, or a regular driver,–and I liked her. She said something to her brother about some clothes she had been making for him or for Georgie, and I went off to the house where I was boarding for my breakfast. I was hungry enough, since I had had only a hurried lunch a good while before sunrise. I came back late in the morning, and found that Georgie’s aunt was just going away. I think my friends must have spoken well of me, for she came out to meet me as I nodded in going by, and said, “I suppose ye drive about some? We should be pleased to have ye come up to see us. We live right ‘mongst the woods; it ain’t much of a place to ask anybody to.” And she added that she might have done a good deal better for herself to have staid off. But there! they had the place, and she supposed she and Cynthy had done as well there as anywhere. Cynthy–well, she wasn’t one of your pushing kind; but I should have some flowers, and perhaps it would be a change for me. I thanked her, and said I should be delighted to go. Georgie and I would make her a call together some afternoon when he wasn’t busy; and Georgie actually smiled when I looked at him, and said, “All right,” and then hurried off down the shore. “Ain’t he an odd boy?” said Miss Hannah West, with a shadow of disapproval in her face. “But he’s just like his father and grandfather before him; you wouldn’t think they had no gratitude nor feelin’, but I s’pose they have. They used to say my father never’d forgit a friend, or forgive an enemy. Well, I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure, for taking an interest in the boy.” I said I liked him: I only wished I could do something for him. And then she said good-day, and drove off. I felt as if we were already good friends. “I’m much obliged for the fish,” she turned round to say to me again, as she went away.
One morning, not long afterward, I asked Georgie if he could possibly leave his business that afternoon, and he gravely answered me that he could get away just as well as not, for the tide would not be right for lobsters until after supper.
“I should like to go up and see your aunt,” said I. “You know she asked me to come the other day when she was here.
“I’d like to go,” said Georgie sedately. “Father was going up this week; but the mackerel struck in, and we couldn’t leave. But it’s better’n six miles up there.”
“That’s not far,” said I. “I’m going to have Captain Donnell’s horse and wagon;” and Georgie looked much interested.
I wondered if he would wear his oil-skin suit; but I was much amazed, and my heart was touched, at seeing how hard he had tried to put himself in trim for the visit. He had on his best jacket and trousers (which might have been most boys’ worst), and a clean calico shirt; and he had scrubbed his’ freckled, honest little face and his hard little hands, until they were as clean as possible; and either he or his father had cut his hair. I should think it had been done with a knife, and it looked as if a rat had gnawed it. He had such a holiday air! He really looked very well; but still, if I were to have a picture of George, it should be in the oil-skin fishing-suit. He had gone out to his box, which was anchored a little way out in the cove, and had chosen two fine lobsters which he had tied together with a bit of fish-line. They were lazily moving their claws and feelers; and his father, who had come in with his boat not long before, added from his fare of fish three plump mackerel.
“They’re always glad to get new fish,” said he. “The girls can’t abide a fish that’s corned, and I haven’t had a chance to send ’em up any mackerel before. Ye see, they live on a cross-road, and the fish-carts don’t go by.” And I told him I was very glad to carry them, or any thing else he would like to send. “Mind your manners, now, Georgie,” said he, “and don’t be forrard. You might split up some kindlin’s for y’r aunts, and do whatever they want of ye. Boys ain’t made just to look at, so ye be handy, will ye?” And Georgie nodded solemnly. They seemed very fond of each other, and I looked back some time afterward to see the fisherman still standing there to watch his boy. He was used to his being out at sea alone for hours; but this might be a great risk to let him go off inland to stay all the afternoon.
The road crossed the salt-marshes for the first mile, and, when we had struck the higher land, we soon entered the pine-woods, which cover a great part of that country. It had been raining in the morning for a little while; and the trunks of the trees were still damp, and the underbrush was shining wet, and sent out a sweet, fresh smell. I spoke of it, and Georgie told me that sometimes this fragrance blew far out to sea, and then you knew the wind was north-west.
“There’s the big pine you sight Minister’s Ledge by,” said he, “when that comes in range over the white schoolhouse, about two miles out.”
The lobsters were clashing their pegged claws together in the back of the wagon, and Georgie sometimes looked over at them to be sure they were all right. Of course I had given him the reins when we first started, and he was delighted because we saw some squirrels, and even a rabbit, which scurried across the road as if I had been a fiery dragon, and Georgie something worse.
We presently came in sight of a house close by the road,–an old-looking place, with a ledgy, forlorn field stretching out behind it toward some low woods. There were high white-birch poles holding up thick tangles of hop-vines, and at the side there were sunflowers straggling about as if they had come up from seed scattered by the wind. Some of them were close together, as if they were whispering to each other; and their big, yellow faces were all turned toward the front of the house, where people were already collected as if there was a funeral.
“It’s the auction,” said Georgie with great satisfaction. “I heard ’em talking about it down at the shore this morning. There’s Lisha Downs now. He started off just before we did. That’s his fish-cart over by the well.”
“What is going to be sold?” said I.
“All the stuff,” said Georgie, as if he were much pleased. “She’s going off up to Boston with her son.”
“I think we had better stop,” said I, for I saw Mrs. ‘Lisha Downs, who was one of my acquaintances at the shore, and I wished to see what was going on, besides giving Georgie a chance at the festivities. So we tied the horse, and went toward the house, and I found several people whom I knew a little. Mrs. Downs shook hands with me as formally as if we had not talked for some time as I went by her house to the shore, just after my breakfast. She presented me to several of her friends with whom she had been talking as I came up. “Let me make you acquainted,” she said: and every time I bowed she bowed too, unconsciously, and seemed a little ill at ease and embarrassed, but luckily the ceremony was soon over. “I thought I would stop for a few minutes,” said I by way of apology. “I didn’t know why the people were here until Georgie told me.”
“She’s going to move up to Boston ‘long of her son,” said one of the women, who looked very pleasant and very tired. “I think myself it is a bad plan to pull old folks up by the roots. There’s a niece of hers that would have been glad to stop with her, and do for the old lady. But John, he’s very high-handed, and wants it his way, and he says his mother sha’n’t live in any such place as this. He makes a sight o’ money. He’s got out a patent, and they say he’s just bought a new house that cost him eleven thousand dollars. But old Mis’ Wallis, she’s wonted here; and she was telling of me yesterday she was only going to please John. He says he wants her up there, where she’ll be more comfortable, and see something.”
“He means well,” said another woman whom I did not know; “but folks about here never thought no great of his judgment. He’s put up some splendid stones in the burying-lot to his father and his sister Miranda that died. I used to go to school ‘long of Miranda. She’d have been pleased to go to Boston; she was that kind. But there! mother was saying last night, what if his business took a turn, and he lost every thing! Mother’s took it dreadfully to heart; she and Mis’ Wallis were always mates as long ago as they can recollect.”
It was evident that the old widow was both pitied and envied by her friends on account of her bettered fortunes, and they came up to speak to her with more or less seriousness, as befitted the occasion. She looked at me with great curiosity, but Mrs. Down told her who I was, and I had a sudden instinct to say how sorry I was for her, but I was afraid it might appear intrusive on so short an acquaintance. She was a thin old soul who looked as if she had had a good deal of trouble in her day, and as if she had been very poor and very anxious. “Yes,” said she to some one who had come from a distance, “it does come hard to go off. Home is home, and I seem to hate to sell off my things; but I suppose they would look queer up to Boston. John says I won’t have no idea of the house until I see it:” and she looked proud and important for a minute, but, as some one brought an old chair out at the door, her face fell again. “Oh, dear!” said she, “I should like to keep that! it belonged to my mother. It’s most wore out anyway. I guess I’ll let somebody keep it for me;” and she hurried off despairingly to find her son, while we went into the house.
There is so little to interest the people who live on those quiet, secluded farms, that an event of this kind gives great pleasure. I know they have not done talking yet about the sale, of the bargains that were made, or the goods that brought more than they were worth. And then the women had the chance of going all about the house, and committing every detail of its furnishings to their tenacious memories. It is a curiosity one grows more and more willing to pardon, for there is so little to amuse them in everyday life. I wonder if any one has not often been struck, as I have, by the sadness and hopelessness which seems to overshadow many of the people who live on the lonely farms in the outskirts of small New-England villages. It is most noticeable among the elderly women. Their talk is very cheerless, and they have a morbid interest in sicknesses and deaths; they tell each other long stories about such things; they are very forlorn; they dwell persistently upon any troubles which they have; and their petty disputes with each other have a tragic hold upon their thoughts, sometimes being handed down from one generation to the next. Is it because their world is so small, and life affords so little amusement and pleasure, and is at best such a dreary round of the dullest housekeeping? There is a lack of real merriment, and the fun is an odd, rough way of joking: it is a stupid, heavy sort of fun, though there is much of a certain quaint humour, and once in a while a flash of wit.
I came upon a short, stout old sister in one room, making all the effort she possibly could to see what was on the upper shelves of a closet. We were the only persons there, and she looked longingly at a convenient chair, and I know she wished I would go away. But my heart suddenly went out toward an old dark-green Delft bowl which I saw, and I asked her if she would be kind enough to let me take it, as if I thought she were there for a purpose. “I’ll bring you a chair,” said I; and she said, “Certain, dear.” And I helped her up, and I’m sure she had the good look she had coveted while I took the bowl to the window. It was badly cracked, and had been mended with putty; but the rich, dull colour of it was exquisite. One often comes across a beautiful old stray bit of china in such a place as this, and I imagined it filled with apple-blossoms or wild roses. Mrs. Wallis wished to give it to me, she said it wasn’t good for any thing; and, finding she did not care for it, I bought it; and now it is perched high in my room, with the cracks discreetly turned to the wall. “Seems to me she never had thrown away nothing,” said my friend, whom I found still standing on the chair when I came back. “Here’s some pieces of a pitcher: I wonder when she broke it! I’ve heard her say it was one her grandmother gave her, though. The old lady bought it at a vandoo down at old Mis’ Walton Peters’s after she died, so Mis’ Wallis said. I guess I’ll speak to her, and see if she wants every thing sold that’s here.”
There was a very great pathos to me about this old home. It must have been a hard place to get a living in, both for men and women, with its wretched farming-land, and the house itself so cold and thin and worn out. I could understand that the son was in a hurry to get his mother away from it. I was sure that the boyhood he had spent there must have been uncomfortable, and that he did not look back to it with much pleasure. There is an immense contrast between even a moderately comfortable city house and such a place as this. No wonder that he remembered the bitter cold mornings, the frost and chill, and the dark, and the hard work, and wished his mother to leave them all behind, as he had done! He did not care for the few plain bits of furniture: why should he? and he had been away so long, that he had lost his interest in the neighbours. Perhaps this might come back to him again as he grew older; but now he moved about among them, in his handsome but somewhat flashy clothes, with a look that told me he felt conscious of his superior station in life. I did not altogether like his looks, though somebody said admiringly, as he went by, “They say he’s worth as much as thirty thousand dollars a’ready. He’s smart as a whip.”
But, while I did not wonder at the son’s wishing his mother to go away, I also did not wonder at her being unwilling to leave the dull little house where she had spent so much of her life. I was afraid no other house in the world would ever seem like home to her: she was a part of the old place: she had worn the doors smooth by the touch of her hands, and she had scrubbed the floors, and walked over them, until the knots stood up high in the pine boards. The old clock had been unscrewed from the wall, and stood on a table; and when I heard its loud and anxious tick, my first thought was one of pity for the poor thing, for fear it might be homesick, like its mistress. When I went out again, I was very sorry for old Mrs. Wallis; she looked so worried and excited, and as if this new turn of affairs in her life was too strange and unnatural; it bewildered her, and she could not understand it; she only knew every thing was going to be different.
Georgie was by himself, as usual, looking grave and intent. He had gone aloft on the wheel of a clumsy great ox-cart in which some of the men had come to the auction, and he was looking over people’s heads, and seeing every thing that was sold. I saw he was not ready to come away, so I was not in a hurry. I heard Mrs. Wallis say to one of her friends, “You just go in and take that rug with the flowers on’t, and go and put it in your wagon. It’s right beside my chest that’s packed ready to go. John told me to give away any thing I had a mind to. He don’t care nothing about the money. I hooked that rug four year ago; it’s most new; the red of the roses was made out of a dress of Miranda’s. I kept it a good while after she died; but it’s no us to let it lay. I’ve given a good deal to my sister Stiles: she was over here helping me yesterday. There! it’s all come upon me so sudden; I s’pose I shall wish, after I get away, that I had done things different; but, after I knew the farm was goin’ to be sold, I didn’t seem to realize I was goin’ to break up, until John came, day before yesterday.”
She was very friendly with me, when I said I should think she would be sorry to go away: but she seemed glad to find I had been in Boston a great deal, and that I was not at all unhappy there. “But I suppose you have folks there,” said she, “though I never supposed they was so sociable as they be here, and I ain’t one that’s easy to make acquaintance. It’s different with young folks; and then in a case o’ sickness I should hate to have strange folks round me. It seems as if I never set so much by the old place as I do now I’m goin’ away. I used to wish ‘he’ would sell, and move over to the Port, it was such hard work getting along when the child’n was small. And there’s one of my boys that run away to sea, and never was heard from. I’ve always thought he might come back, though everybody gave him up years ago. I can’t help thinking what if he should come back, and find I wa’n’t here! There; I’m glad to please John: he sets everything by me, and I s’pose he thinks he’s going to make a spry young woman of me. Well, it’s natural. Every thing looks fair to him, and he thinks he can have the world just as he wants it; but I know it’s a world o’ change,–a world o’ change and loss. And you see, I shall have to go to a strange meetin’ up there. Why, Mis’ Sands! I am pleased to see you. How did you get word?” And then Mrs. Wallis made another careful apology for moving away. She seemed to be so afraid some one would think she had not been satisfied with the neighbourhood.
The auctioneer was a disagreeable-looking man, with a most unpleasant voice, which gave me a sense of discomfort, the little old house and its surroundings seemed so grave and silent and lonely. It was like having all the noise and confusion on a Sunday. The house was so shut in by the trees, that the only outlook to the world beyond was a narrow gap in the pines, through which one could see the sea, bright, blue and warm with sunshine, that summer day.
There was something wistful about the place, as there must have been about the people who had lived there; yet, hungry and unsatisfied as her life might have been in many ways, the poor old woman dreaded the change.
The thought flashed through my mind that we all have more or less of this same feeling about leaving this world for a better one. We have the certainty that we shall be a great deal happier in heaven; but we cling despairingly to the familiar things of this life. God pity the people who find it so hard to believe what he says, and who are afraid to die, and are afraid of the things they do not understand! I kept thinking over and over of what Mrs. Wallis had said: ‘A world of change and loss!’ What should we do if we did not have God’s love to make up for it, and if we did not know something of heaven already?
It seemed very doleful that everybody should look on the dark side of the Widow Wallis’s flitting, and I tried to suggest to her some of the pleasures and advantages of it, once when I had a chance. And indeed she was proud enough to be going away with her rich son; it was not like selling her goods because she was too poor to keep the old home any longer. I hoped the son would always be prosperous, and that the son’s wife would always be kind, and not ashamed of her, or think she was in the way. But I am afraid it may be a somewhat uneasy idleness, and that there will not be much beside her knitting-work to remind her of the old routine. She will even miss going back and forward from the old well in storm and sunshine; she will miss looking after the chickens, and her slow walks about the little place, or out to a neighbour’s for a bit of gossip, with the old brown checked handkerchief over her head; and, when the few homely, faithful old flowers come up next year by the door-step, there will be nobody to care any thing about them.
I said good-by, and got into the wagon, and Georgie clambered in after me with a look of great importance, and we drove away. He was very talkative: the unusual excitement of the day was not without its effect. He had a good deal to tell me about the people I had seen, though I had to ask a good many questions.
“Who was the thin old fellow, with the black coat, faded yellow-green on the shoulders, who was talking to Skipper Down about the dog-fish?”
“That’s old Cap’n Abiah Lane,” said Georgie; “lives over toward Little Beach,–him that was cast away in a fog in a dory down to the Banks once; like to have starved to death before he got picked up. I’ve heard him tell all about it. Don’t look as if he’d ever had enough to eat since!” said the boy grimly. “He used to come over a good deal last winter, and go out after cod ‘long o’ father and me. His boats all went adrift in a big storm in November, and he never heard nothing about ’em; guess they got stove against the rocks.”
We had still more than three miles to drive over a lonely part of the road, where there was scarcely a house, and where the woods had been cut off more or less, so there was nothing to be seen but the uneven ground, which was not fit for even a pasture yet. But it was not without a beauty of its own; for the little hills and hollows were covered thick with brakes and ferns and bushes, and in the swamps the cat-tails and all the rushes were growing in stiff and stately ranks, so green and tall; while the birds flew up, or skimmed across them as we went by. It was like a town of birds, there were so many. It is strange how one is always coming upon families and neighbourhoods of wild creatures in the unsettled country places; it is so much like one’s going on longer journeys about the world, and finding town after town with its own interests, each so sufficient for itself.
We struck the edge of the farming-land again, after a while, and I saw three great pines that had been born to good luck in this world, since they had sprouted in good soil, and had been left to grow as fast as they pleased. They lifted their heads proudly against the blue sky, these rich trees, and I admired them as much as they could have expected. They must have been a landmark for many miles to the westward, for they grew on high land, and they could pity, from a distance, any number of their poor relations who were just able to keep body and soul together, and had grown up thin and hungry in crowded woods. But, though their lower branches might snap and crackle at a touch, their tops were brave and green, and they kept up appearances, at any rate; these poorer pines.
Georgie pointed out his aunt’s house to me, after a while. It was not half so forlorn-looking as the others, for there were so many flowers in bloom about it of the gayest kind, and a little yellow-and-white dog came down the road to bark at us; but his manner was such that it seemed like an unusually cordial welcome rather than an indignant repulse. I noticed four jolly old apple-trees near by, which looked as if they might be the last of a once flourishing orchard. They were standing in a row, in exactly the same position, with their heads thrown gayly back, as if they were dancing in an old-fashioned reel; and, after the forward and back, one might expect them to turn partners gallantly. I laughed aloud when I caught sight of them: there was something very funny in their looks, so jovial and whole-hearted, with a sober, cheerful pleasure, as if they gave their whole minds to it. It was like some old gentlemen and ladies who catch the spirit of the thing, and dance with the rest at a Christmas party.
Miss Hannah West first looked out of the window, and then came to meet us, looking as if she were glad to see us. Georgie had nothing whatever to say; but, after I had followed his aunt into the house, he began to work like a beaver at once, as if it were any thing but a friendly visit that could be given up to such trifles as conversation, or as if he were any thing but a boy. He brought the fish and lobsters into the outer kitchen, though I was afraid our loitering at the auction must have cost them their first freshness; and then he carried the axe to the wood-pile, and began to chop up the small white-pine sticks and brush which form the summer fire-wood at the farm-houses,–crow-sticks and underbrush, a good deal of it,–but it makes a hot little blaze while it lasts.
I had not seen Miss Cynthia West, the younger sister, before, and I found the two women very unlike. Miss Hannah was evidently the capable business-member of the household, and she had a loud voice, and went about as if she were in a hurry. Poor Cynthia! I saw at first that she was one of the faded-looking country-women who have a hard time, and who, if they had grown up in the midst of a more luxurious way of living, would have been frail and delicate and refined, and entirely lady-like. But, as it was, she was somewhat in the shadow of her sister, and felt as if she were not of very much use or consequence in the world, I have no doubt. She showed me some pretty picture-frames she had made out of pine-cones and hemlock-cones and alder-burs; but her chief glory and pride was a silly little model of a house, in perforated card-board, which she had cut and worked after a pattern that came in a magazine. It must have cost her a great deal of work; but it partly satisfied her great longing for pretty things, and for the daintiness and art that she had an instinct toward, and never had known. It stood on the best-room table, with a few books, which I suppose she had read over and over again; and in the room, beside, were green paper curtains with a landscape on the outside, and some chairs ranged stiffly against the walls, some shells, and an ostrich’s egg, with a ship drawn on it, on the mantel-shelf, and ever so many rugs on the floor, of most ambitious designs, which they had made in winter. I know the making of them had been a great pleasure to Miss Cynthia, and I was sure it was she who had taken care of the garden, and was always at much pains to get seeds and slips in the spring.
She told me how much they had wished that Georgie had come to live with them after his mother died. It would have been very handy for them to have him in winter too; but it was no use trying to get him away from his father; and neither of them were contented if they were out of sight of the sea. “He’s a dreadful odd boy, and so old for his years. Hannah, she says he’s older now than I be,” and she blushed a little as she looked up at me; while for a moment the tears came into my eyes, as I thought of this poor, plain woman, who had such a capacity for enjoyment, and whose life had been so dull, and far apart from the pleasures and satisfactions which had made so much of my own life. It seemed to me as if I had had a great deal more than I deserved, while this poor soul was almost beggared. I seemed to know all about her life in a flash, and pitied her from the bottom of my heart. Yet I suppose she would not have changed places with me for any thing, or with anybody else, for that matter.
Miss Cynthia had a good deal to say about her mother, who had been a schoolmate of Mrs. Wallis’s–I had just been telling them what I could about the auction. She told me that she had died the spring before, and said how much they missed her; and Hannah broke in upon her regrets in her brusque, downright way: “I should have liked to kep’ her if she’d lived to be a hundred, but I don’t wish her back. She’d had considerable many strokes, and she couldn’t help herself much if any. She’d got to be rising eighty, and her mind was a good deal broke,” she added conclusively, after a short silence; while Cynthia looked sorrowfully out of the window, and we heard the sound of Georgie’s axe at the other side of the house, and the wild sweet whistle of a bird that flew overhead. I suppose one of the sisters was just as sorry as the other in reality.
“Now I want you and Georgie to stop and have some tea. I’ll get it good and early,” said Hannah, starting suddenly from her chair, and beginning to bustle about again, after she had asked me about some people at home whom she knew; “Cynthy! Perhaps she’d like to walk round out doors a spell. It’s breezing up, and it’ll be cooler than it is in the house.–No: you needn’t think I shall be put out by your stopping; but you’ll have to take us just as we be. Georgie always calculates to stop when he comes up. I guess he’s made off for the woods. I see him go across the lot a few minutes ago.”
So Cynthia put on a discouraged-looking gingham sun-bonnet, which drooped over her face, and gave her a more appealing look than ever, and we went over to the pine-woods, which were beautiful that day. She showed me a little waterfall made by a brook that came over a high ledge of rock covered with moss, and here and there tufts of fresh green ferns. It grew late in the afternoon, and it was pleasant there in the shade, with the noise of the brook and the wind in the pines, that sounded like the sea. The wood-thrushes began to sing,–and who could have better music?
Miss Cynthia told me that it always made her think of once when she was a little girl to hear the thrushes. She had run away, and fallen into the marsh; and her mother had sent her to bed quick as she got home, though it was only four o’clock. And she was so ashamed, because there was company there,–some of her father’s folks from over to Eliot; and then she heard the thrushes begin to call after a while, and she thought they were talking about her, and they knew she had been whipped and sent to bed. “I’d been gone all day since morning. I had a great way of straying off in the woods,” said she. “I suppose mother was put to it when she see me coming in, all bog-mud, right before the company.”
We came by my friends, the apple-trees, on our return, and I saw a row of old-fashioned square bee-hives near them, which I had not noticed before. Miss Cynthia told me that the bee money was always hers; but she lost a good many swarms on account of the woods being so near, and they had a trick of swarming Sundays, after she’d gone to meeting; and, besides, the miller-bugs spoilt ’em; and some years they didn’t make enough honey to live on, so she didn’t get any at all. I saw some bits of black cloth fluttering over the little doors where the bees went in and out, and the sight touched me strangely. I did not know that the old custom still lingered of putting the hives in mourning, and telling the bees when there had been a death in the family, so they would not fly away. I said, half to myself, a line or two from Whittier’s poem, which I always thought one of the loveliest in the world, and this seemed almost the realization of it. Miss Cynthia asked me wistfully, “Is that in a book?” I told her yes, and that she should have it next time I came up, or had a chance of sending it. “I’ve seen a good many pieces of poetry that Mr. Whittier wrote,” said she. “I’ve got some that I cut out of the paper a good while ago. I think everything of ’em.”
“I put the black on the hives myself,” said she. “It was for mother, you know. She did it when father died. But when my brother was lost, we didn’t, because we never knew just when it was; the schooner was missing, and it was a good while before they give her up.”
“I wish we had some neighbours in sight,” said she once. “I’d like to see a light when I look out after dark. Now, at my aunt’s, over to Eliot, the house stands high, and when it’s coming dark you can see all the folks lighting up. It seems real sociable.”
We lingered a little while under the apple-trees, and watched the wise little bees go and come; and Miss Cynthia told me how much Georgie was like his grandfather, who was so steady and quiet, and always right after his business. “He never was ugly to us, as I know of,” said she; “but I was always sort of ‘fraid of father. Hannah, she used to talk to him free’s she would to me; and he thought, ‘s long’s Hannah did any thing, it was all right. I always held by my mother the most; and when father was took sick,–that was in the winter,–I sent right off for Hannah to come home. I used to be scared to death, when he’d want any thing done, for fear I shouldn’t do it right. Mother, she’d had a fall, and couldn’t get about very well. Hannah had good advantages. She went off keeping school when she wasn’t but seventeen, and she saved up some money, and boarded over to the Port after a while, and learned the tailoress trade. She was always called very smart,–you see she’s got ways different from me; and she was over to the Port several winters. She never said a word about it, but there was a young man over there that wanted to keep company with her. He was going out first mate of a new ship that was building. But, when she got word from me about father, she come right home, and that was the end of it. It seemed to be a pity. I used to think perhaps he’d come and see her some time, between voyages, and that he’d get to be cap’n, and they’d go off and take me with ’em. I always wanted to see something of the world. I never have been but dreadful little ways from home. I used to wish I could keep school; and once my uncle was agent for his district, and he said I could have a chance; but the folks laughed to think o’ me keeping school, and I never said any thing more about it. But you see it might ‘a’ led to something. I always wished I could go to Boston. I suppose you’ve been there? There! I couldn’t live out o’ sight o’ the woods, I don’t believe.”
“I can understand that,” said I, and half with a wish to show her I had some troubles, though I had so many pleasures that she had not, I told her that the woods I loved best had all been cut down the winter before. I had played under the great pines when I was a child, and I had spent many a long afternoon under them since. There never will be such trees for me any more in the world. I knew where the flowers grew under them, and where the ferns were greenest, and it was as much home to me as my own house. They grew on the side of a hill, and the sun always shone through the tops of the trees as it went down, while below it was all in shadow–and I had been there with so many dear friends who have died, or who are very far away. I told Miss Cynthia, what I never had told anybody else, that I loved those trees so much that I went over the hill on the frozen snow to see them one sunny winter afternoon, to say good-by, as if I were sure they could hear me, and looked back again and again, as I came away, to be sure I should remember how they looked. And it seemed as if they knew as well as I that it was the last time, and they were going to be cut down. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was all alone, and the farewell was a reality and a sad thing to me. It was saying good-by to a great deal besides the pines themselves.
We stopped a while in the little garden, where Miss Cynthia gave me some magnificent big marigolds to put away for seed, and was much pleased because I was so delighted with her flowers. It was a gorgeous little garden to look at, with its red poppies, and blue larkspur, and yellow marigolds, and old-fashioned sweet, stray things,–all growing together in a tangle of which my friend seemed ashamed. She told me that it looked as orderly as could be, until the things begun to grow so fast she couldn’t do any thing with ’em. She was very proud of one little pink-and-white verbena which somebody had given her. It was not growing very well; but it had not disappointed her about blooming.
Georgie had come back from his ramble some time before. He had cracked the lobster which Miss Hannah had promptly put on to boil, and I saw the old gray cat having a capital lunch off the shells; while the horse looked meeker than ever, with his headstall thrown back on his shoulders, eating his supper of hay by the fence; for Miss Hannah was a hospitable soul. She was tramping about in the house, getting supper, and we went in to find the table already pulled out into the floor. So Miss Cynthia hastened to set it. I could see she was very much ashamed of having been gone so long. Neither of us knew it was so late. But Miss Hannah said it didn’t make a mite o’ difference, there was next to nothing to do, and looked at me with a little smile, which said, “You see how it is. I’m the one who has faculty, and I favour her.”
I was very hungry; and, though it was not yet six, it seemed a whole day since dinner-time. Miss Hannah made many apologies; and said, if I had only set a day, she would have had things as they ought to be. But it was a very good supper and she knew it! She didn’t know but I was tired o’ lobsters. And when I had eaten two of the biscuits, and had begun an attack on the hot gingerbread, she said humbly that she didn’t know when she had had such bad luck, though Georgie and I were both satisfied. He did not speak more than once or twice during the meal. I do not think he was afraid of me, for we had had many a lunch together when he had taken me out fishing; but this was an occasion, and there was at first the least possible restraint over all the company, though I’m glad to say it soon vanished. We had two kinds of preserves, and some honey besides, and there was a pie with a pale, smooth crust, and three cuts in the top. It looked like a very good pie of its kind; but one can’t eat every thing, though one does one’s best. And we had big cups of tea; and, though Miss Hannah supposed I had never eaten with any thing but silver forks before, it happened luckily that I had, and we were very merry indeed. Miss Hannah told us several stories of the time she kept school, and gave us some reminiscences of her life at the Port; and Miss Cynthia looked at me as if she had heard them before, and wished to say, “I know she’s having a good time.” I think Miss Cynthia felt, after we were out in the woods, as if I were her company, and she was responsible for me.
I thanked them heartily when I came away, for I had had such a pleasant time. Miss Cynthia picked me a huge nosegay of her flowers, and whispered that she hoped I wouldn’t forget about lending her the book. Poor woman! she was so young,–only a girl yet, in spite of her having lived more than fifty years in that plain, dull home of hers, in spite of her faded face and her grayish hair. We came away in the rattling wagon. Georgie sat up in his place with a steady hand on the reins, and keeping a careful lookout ahead, as if he were steering a boat through a rough sea.
We passed the house were the auction had been, and it was all shut up. The cat sat on the doorstep waiting patiently, and I felt very sorry for her; but Georgie said there were neighbours not far off, and she was a master hand for squirrels. I was glad to get sight of the sea again, and to smell the first stray whiff of salt air that blew in to meet us as we crossed the marshes. I think the life in me must be next of kin to the life of the sea, for it is drawn toward it strangely, as a little drop of quicksilver grows uneasy just out of reach of a greater one.
“Good-night, Georgie!” said I; and he nodded his head a little as he drove away to take the horse home. “Much obliged to you for my ride,” said he, and I knew in a minute that his father or one of the aunts had cautioned him not to forget to make his acknowledgments. He had told me on the way down that he had baited his nets all ready to set that evening. I knew he was in a hurry to go out, and it was not long before I saw his boat pushing off. It was after eight o’clock, and the moon was coming up pale and white out of the sea, while the west was still bright after the clear sunset.
I have a little model of a fishing dory that Georgie made for me, with its sprit-sail and killick and painter and oars and gaff all cleverly cut with the clumsiest of jackknives. I care a great deal for the little boat; and I gave him a better knife before I came away, to remember me by; but I am afraid its shininess and trig shape may have seemed a trifle unmanly to him. His father’s had been sharpened on the beach-stones to clean many a fish, and it was notched and dingy; but this would cut; there was no doubt about that. I hope Georgie was sorry when we said good-by. I’m sure I was.
A solemn, careful, contented young life, with none of the playfulness or childishness that belong to it,–this is my little fisherman, whose memory already fades of whatever tenderness his dead mother may have given him. But he is lucky in this, that he has found his work and likes it; and so I say, “May the sea prove kind to him! and may he find the Friend those other fishermen found, who were mending their nets on the shores of Galilee! and may he make the harbour of heaven by and by after a stormy voyage or a quiet one, whichever pleases God!”