HOW DEACON TUBMAN AND PARSON WHITNEY CELEBRATED NEW YEAR'S.
"Mirandy, I'm going up to see the parson," exclaimed the deacon, when the morning devotions were over, "and see if I can thaw him out a little. I've heard that there used to be a lot in him in his younger days, but he's sort of frozen all up latterly, and I can see that the young folks are afraid of him and the church too, but that won't do—no, it won't do," repeated the good man emphatically, "for the minister ought to be loved by young and old, rich and poor, and everybody; and a church without young folks in it is, why, it is like a family with no children in it. Yes, I'll go up and wish him a Happy New Year anyway. Perhaps I can get him out for a ride to make some calls on the people, and see the young folks at their fun. It'll do him good, and them good, and me good, and everybody good." Saying which, the deacon got inside his warm fur coat, and started toward the barn to harness Jack into the worn, old-fashioned sleigh, which sleigh was built high in the back, and had a curved dasher of monstrous proportions, ornamented with a prancing horse in an impossible attitude, done in bright vermilion on a blue background!
"Happy New Year to you, Parson Whitney! Happy New Year to you," cried the deacon, as he stood in the doorway of the parsonage and shook the parson by the hand enthusiastically, "and may you live to enjoy a hundred."
"Come in, come in," cried Parson Whitney, in response. "I'm glad you've come; I'm glad you've come. I've been wanting to see you all the morning," and in the cordiality of his greeting he literally pulled the little man through the doorway into the hall, and hurried him up the stairway to his study in the chamber overhead.
"Thinking of me! Well, now, I never!" exclaimed the deacon, as, assisted by the parson, he twisted and wriggled himself out of his coat, that he filled, a little too snugly for an easy exit. "Thinking of me, and among all these books too—Bibles, catechisms, tracts, theologies, sermons. Well, well, that is funny. What made you think of me?"
"Deacon Tubman," responded the parson, as he seated himself in his armchair, "I want to talk with you about the church."
"The church!" ejaculated the deacon in response. "Nothing going wrong, I hope?"
"Yes, things are going wrong, deacon," responded the parson. "The congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good, strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I trust."
"Good ones! good ones!" answered the deacon promptly, "never better—never better in the world."
"And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary," rejoined the parson solemnly, "and the young people won't come to the sociables, and the little children seem actually afraid of me. What shall I do, deacon?" and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis.
"You've hit the nail on the head, square as a hatchet, parson," responded the deacon. "The congregation is thinning. The young people don't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you."
"What's the matter, deacon?" cried the parson in return. "What is it?" he repeated earnestly. "Speak it right out; don't try to spare my feelings. I will listen to—I will do anything to win back my people's love," and the strong, old-fashioned Calvinistic preacher said it in a voice that actually trembled.
"You can do it—you can do it in a week!" exclaimed the deacon encouragingly. "Don't worry about it, parson; it'll be all right, it'll be all right. Your books are the trouble."
"Books?" ejaculated the parson. "What have they to do with it?"
"Everything," replied the deacon stoutly. "You pore over them day in and day out; they keep you in this room here when you should be out among the people,—not making pastoral visits,—I don't mean that,—but going around among them, chatting and joking and having a good time. They would like it, and you would like it, and as for the young folks—how old are you, parson?"
"Sixty next month," answered the parson; "sixty next month," he repeated solemnly.
"Thirty! thirty! that's all you are, parson, or all you ought to be," cried the deacon. "Thirty, twenty, sixteen!—let the figures slide down and up, according to circumstances, but never let them go higher than thirty when you are dealing with young folks. I'm sixty myself, counting years; but I'm only sixteen, sixteen this morning, that's all, parson," and he rubbed his little round plump hands together, looked at the parson, and winked.
"Bless my soul, Deacon Tubman, I don't know but that you are right!" answered the parson. "Sixty? I don't know as I am sixty," and he began to rub his own hands, and came within an ace of executing a wink at the deacon, himself.
"Not a day over twenty, if I am any judge of age," responded the deacon deliberately, as he looked the white-headed old minister over with a most comic imitation of seriousness. "Not a day over twenty, on my honor," and the deacon leaned forward toward the parson, and gave him a punch with his thumb, as one boy might deliver a punch at another, and then he lay back in his chair and laughed so heartily that the parson caught the infectious mirth and roared away as heartily as himself.
Yes, it was impossible to sit hobnobbing with the little, jolly deacon on that bright New Year's morning and not be affected by the happiness of his mood, for he was actually bubbling over with fun, and as full of frolic as if the finger on the dial had, in truth, gone back forty-odd years, and he was "only sixteen. Only sixteen, parson, on my honor."
"But what can I do?" queried the good man, sobering down. "I make my pastoral visits."
"Pastoral visits!" responded Deacon Tubman. "Oh, yes, and they are all well enough for the old folks, but they ar'n't the kind of biscuit the young folks like—too heavy in the centre, and over-hard in the crust for young teeth, eh, parson?"
"But what shall I do? what shall I do?" reiterated the parson, somewhat despondently.
"Oh! put on your hat, and gloves, and warmest coat, and come along with me. We will see what the young folks are doing, and will make a day of it. Come! come! let the old books, and catechisms, and sermons, and tracts have a respite for once, and we'll spend the day out-of-doors, with the boys and girls and the people."
"I'll do it!" exclaimed the parson. "Deacon Tubman, you are right. I do keep to my study too closely. I don't see enough of the world and what's going on in it. I was reading the Testament this morning, and I was impressed with the Master's manner of living and teaching. It is not certain that he ever preached more than twice in a church during all his ministry on the earth. And the children! how much he loved the children, and how the little ones loved him! And why shouldn't they love me, too? Why shouldn't they? I'll make them do it! yes, I'll make them do it! The lambs of my flock shall love me." And with these brave words Parson Whitney bundled himself up in his warmest garments, and followed the deacon downstairs.
"Tell the folks that you won't be back till night," called the deacon from the sleigh; "for this is New Year, and we're going to make a day of it," and he laughed away as heartily as might be—so heartily that the parson joined in the laughter himself as he came shuffling down the icy path toward him. "Bless me! how much younger I feel already!" said the good man as he stood up in the sleigh, and with a long, strong breath breathed the cool, pure air into his lungs. "Bless me! how much younger I feel already!" he repeated, as he settled down into the roomy seat of the old sleigh. "Only sixteen to-day,—eh, deacon?" and he nudged him with his elbow.
"That's all, that's all, parson," answered the deacon gayly, as he nudged him vigorously back; "that's all we are, either of us," and, laughing as merrily as two boys, the two glided away in the sleigh.
Well, perhaps they didn't have fun that day, these two old boys that had started out with the feeling that they were "only sixteen," and bound to make "a day of it!" And they did make a day of it, in fact, and such a day as neither had had for forty years; for, first, they went to Bartlett's Hill, where the boys and girls were coasting, and coasted with them for a full hour,—and then it was discovered by the younger portion of his flock that the parson was not an old, stiff, solemn, surly poke, as they had thought, but a pleasant, good-natured, kindly soul, who could take and give a joke, and steer a sled as well as the smartest boy in the crowd; and when it came to snow-balling, he could send a ball further than Bill Sykes himself, who could out-throw any boy in town, and roll up a bigger block to the new snow fort they were building than any three boys among them. And how the parson enjoyed being a boy again! How exhilarating the slide down the steep hill; how invigorating the pure, cool air; how pleasant the noise of the chatting and joking going on around him; how bright and sweet the boys and girls looked, with their rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes; and how the old parson's heart thrilled as they crowded around him when he would go, and urged him to stay,—and little Alice Dorchester begged him, with her little arms around his neck, to "jes' stay and gib me one more slide, please!"
"You never made such a pastoral call as that, parson," said the deacon, as they drove away amid the cheers of the boys and the "good-bys" of the girls, while the former fired off a volley of snow-balls in his honor, and the latter waved their muffs and handkerchiefs after them.
"God bless them! God bless them!" said the parson. "They have lifted a load from my heart, and taught me the sweetness of life, of youth, and the wisdom of Him who took the little ones in His arms, and blessed them. Ah, deacon," he added, "I've been a great fool, but I'll be so, thank God! no more."
Now, old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character, and had a great history; but of this none in that section, save the little deacon, knew a word. Dick Tubman, the deacon's youngest, wildest, and, we might add, favorite son, had purchased him of an impecunious jockey, at the close of a disastrous campaign, that cleaned him completely out, and left him in a strange city a thousand miles from home, with nothing but the horse, harness, and sulky, and a list of unpaid bills that must be met before he could leave the scene of his disastrous fortunes. Under such circumstances it was that Dick Tubman ran across the horse, and partly out of pity for its owner, and partly out of admiration of the horse, whose failure to win at the races was due more to his lack of condition and the bad management of his jockey than lack of speed, bought him off-hand, and, having no use for him himself, shipped him as a present to the deacon, with whom he had now been four years, with no harder work than ploughing out the good old man's corn in the summer, and jogging along the country roads on the deacon's errands. Having said thus much of the horse, perhaps we should more particularly describe him.
He was, in sooth, an animal of most unique and extraordinary appearance; for, in the first place, he was quite seventeen hands in height, and long in proportion. He was also the reverse of shapely in the fashion of his build: for his head was long and bony, and his hip bones sharp and protuberant; his tail was what is known among horsemen as a rat-tail, being but scantily covered with hair, and his neck was even more scantily supplied with a mane, while in color he could easily have taken any premium put up for homeliness, being an ashen roan, mottled with flecks and patches of divers hues; but his legs were flat and corded like a racer's, his neck long and thin as a thoroughbred's, his nostrils large, his ears sharply pointed and lively, while the white rings around his eyes hinted at a cross, somewhere in his pedigree, with Arabian blood. A huge, bony, homely-looking horse he was, who drew the deacon and Miranda into the village on market days and Sundays, with a loose, shambling gait, making altogether an appearance so homely and peculiar that the smart village chaps riding along in their jaunty turn-outs used to chaff the good deacon on the character of his steed, and satirically challenge him to a brush. The deacon always took their badinage in good part, although he inwardly said more than once, "If I ever get a good chance, when there ar'n't too many around, I'll go up to the turn of the road beyond the church, and let Jack out on them;" for Dick had given him a hint of the horse's history, and told him "he could knock the spots out of thirty," and wickedly urged the deacon to take the starch out of them airy chaps some of these days. Such was the horse, then, that the deacon had ahead of him, and the old-fashioned sleigh, when, with the parson alongside, he struck into the principal street of the village.
Now, New Year's Day is a lively day in many country villages, and on this bright one especially, as the sleighing was perfect, everybody was out. Indeed, it had got noised abroad that certain trotters of local fame were to be on the street that afternoon, and, as the boys worded it, "there would be heaps of fun going on." And so it happened that everybody in town, and many who lived out of it, were on this particular street, and just at the hour, too, when the deacon came to the foot of it, so that the walk on either side was lined darkly with lookers-on, and the smooth snow-path between the two lines looked like a veritable homestretch on a race-day.
Now, when the deacon had reached the corner of the main street and turned into it, it was at that point where the course terminated and the "brushes" were ended, and at the precise moment when the dozen or twenty horses that had just come flying down were being pulled up preparatory to returning at a slow gait to the customary starting-point at the head of the street, a half-mile away, so that the old-fashioned sleigh was surrounded by the light, fancy cutters of the rival racers, and old Jack was shambling awkwardly along in the midst of the high-spirited and smoking nags that had just come flying down the stretch.
"Hellow, deacon," shouted one of the boys, who was driving a trim-looking bay, and who had crossed the line at the ending of the course second only to a pacer that could "speed like a streak of lightning," as the boys said,—"Hellow, deacon; ain't you going to shake out old shamble-heels, and show us fellows what speed is to-day?" And the merry-hearted chap, son of the principal lawyer of the place, laughed heartily at his challenge, while the other drivers looked at the great angular horse that, without any check, was walking carelessly along, with his head held down, ahead of the old sleigh and its churchly occupants.
"I don't know but what I will," answered the deacon, good-naturedly; "don't know but what I will, if the parson don't object, and you won't start off too quick to begin with; for this is New Year's, and a little extra fun won't hurt any of us, I reckon."
The Deacon and Parson.
"Do it, do it; we'll hold up for you," answered a dozen merry voices. "Do it, deacon: it'll do old shamble-heels good to go a ten-mile-an-hour gait for once in his life, and the parson needn't fear of being scandalized by any speed you'll get out of him, either;" and the merry chaps haw-hawed as men and boys will, when every one is jolly and fun flows fast.
And so, with any amount of good-natured chaffing from the drivers of the "fast 'uns," and from many that lined the road too,—for the day gave greater liberty than usual to bantering speech,—the speedy ones paced slowly up to the head of the street, with old Jack shambling demurely in the midst of them.
But the horse was a knowing old fellow, and had "scored" at too many races not to know that the "return" was to be leisurely taken, and, indeed, he was a horse of independence, and of too even, perhaps of too sluggish, a temperament, to waste himself in needless action; but he had the right stuff in him, and hadn't forgotten his early training either, for when he came to the "turn," his head and tail came up, his eye brightened, and, with a playful movement of his huge body, and without the least hint from the deacon, he swung himself and the cumbrous old sleigh into line, and began to straighten himself for the coming brush.
Now, Jack was, as we have said, a horse of huge proportions, and needed "steadying" at the start, but the good deacon had no experience with the "ribbons," and was therefore utterly unskilled in the matter of driving; and so it came about that old Jack was so confused at the start that he made a most awkward and wretched appearance in his effort to get off, being all "mixed up," as the saying is,—so much so that the crowd roared at his ungainly efforts, and his flying rivals were twenty rods away before he even got started. But at last he got his huge body in a straight line, and, leaving his miserable shuffle, squared away to his work, and, with head and tail up, went off at so slashing a gait that it fairly took the deacon's breath away, and caused the crowd that had been hooting him to roar their applause, while the parson grabbed the edge of the old sleigh with one hand and the rim of his tall black hat with the other.
What a pity, Mr. Longface, that God made horses as they are, and gave them such grandeur of appearance when in action, and put such an eagle-like spirit between their ribs, so that, quitting the plodding motions of the ox, they can fly like that noble bird, and come sweeping down the course as on wings of the wind!
It was not my fault, nor the deacon's, nor the parson's either, please remember, then, that awkward, shuffling, homely-looking old Jack was thus suddenly transformed, by the royalty of blood, of pride, and of speed given him by his Creator, from what he ordinarily was, into a magnificent spectacle of energetic velocity.
With muzzle lifted well up, tail erect, the few hairs in it streaming straight behind, one ear pricked forward and the other turned sharply back, the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidly bringing him even with the rear line of the flying group. And yet so little was the pace to him that he fairly gambolled in playfulness as he went slashing along, until the deacon verily began to fear that the honest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and send his heels antically through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, the spectacle that the huge horse presented was so magnificent, his action so free, spirited, and playful, as he came sweeping onward, that cheers and exclamations, such as, "Good heavens! see the deacon's old horse!" "Look at him! look at him!" "What a stride!" etc., ran ahead of him, and old Bill Sykes, a trainer in his day, but now a hanger-on at the village tavern, or that section of it known as the bar, wiped his watery eyes with his tremulous fist, as he saw Jack come swinging down, and, as he swept past with his open gait, powerful stroke, and stiffles playing well out, brought his hand with a mighty slap against his thigh, and said, "I'll be blowed if he isn't a regular old timer!"
It was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise and cheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead, or there would surely have been more than one collision, for the old sleigh was of such size and strength, the good deacon so unskilled at the reins, and Jack, who was adding to his momentum with every stride, was going at so determined a pace, that, had he struck the rear line, with no gap for him to go through, something serious would surely have happened. But, as it was, the drivers saw the huge horse, with the cumbrous old sleigh behind him, bearing down on them at such a gait as made their own speed, sharp as it was, seem slow, and "pulled out" in time to save themselves; and so without any mishap the big horse and heavy sleigh swept through the rear row of racers like an autumn gust through a cluster of leaves.
By this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed, for Jack was going nigh to a thirty clip,—a frightful pace for an inexperienced man to ride,—and began to put a good strong pressure upon the bit, not doubting that old Jack—ordinarily the easiest horse in the world to manage—would take the hint and immediately slow up. But though the huge horse took the hint, it was exactly in the opposite manner that the deacon intended he should, for he interpreted the little man's steady pull as an intimation that his inexperienced driver was getting over his flurry and beginning to treat him as a big horse ought to be treated in a race, and that he could now, having got settled to his work, go ahead. And go ahead he did. The more the deacon pulled, the more the great horse felt himself steadied and assisted. And so, the harder the good man tugged at the reins, the more powerfully the machinery of the big animal ahead of him worked, until the deacon got alarmed, and began to call upon the horse to stop, crying, "Whoa, Jack! whoa, old boy, I say! Whoa, will you now, that's a good fellow!" and many other coaxing calls, while he pulled away steadily at the reins.
But the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls, as he had his pressure on the reins, for the crowd on either side were now yelling, and hooting, and swinging their caps, so that the deacon's voice came indistinctly to his ears at the best, and he interpreted his calls for him to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for him to go ahead; and so, with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood, the crowd cheering him to the echo, the steadying pull and encouraging cries of his driver in his ears, and his only rival, the pacer, whirling along only a few rods ahead of him, the monstrous animal, with a desperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the snow, let out another link, and, with such a burst of speed as was never seen in the village before, tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that, within the distance of a dozen lengths, he lay lapped upon him, and the two were going it nose and nose.
What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with man or animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity when engaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do we enter so spiritedly into the contest, and lose ourselves in the excitement of the moment? Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage? Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us, that loves nothing so much as victory, and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, no sooner was old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urging him along with reins and voice alike, and the contest seemed doubtful, than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deacon and the parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of the race, they fairly forgot themselves, and entered as wildly into the contest as two ungodly jockeys.
The Race.
"Deacon Tubman!" said the parson, as he clutched the rim of his tall hat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips were pelting in showers, more stoutly, "Deacon Tubman! do you think the pacer will beat us?"
"Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon in reply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he instinctively lifted Jack to another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shouted encouragingly. "Go along with you, I say!" and the parson, also carried away by the whirl of the moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go along with you, I say!"
This was the very thing, and the only thing, that huge horse, whose blood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort; and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he gathered himself together for another burst of speed, and put forth his collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of movement that the little deacon, who had risen, and was standing erect in the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great horse rushed over the line a winner by a clear length, amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before.
Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark—we may say favoring remark—than the parson, who suddenly found himself the centre of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcely be expected as participants of such a scene, but who, thawed out of their iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited over Jack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in the crowd.
So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a Happy New Year, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many happy returns; and everybody praised old Jack, and rallied the deacon on his driving; and then everybody went home good-natured and happy, laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the change that had come over Parson Whitney.
And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twenty years from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go home and eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage; and he did. And at the table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day, and joked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told some reminiscences of his college days, and the scrapes he got into, and a riot between town and gown, when he carried the "Bully's Club;" and the deacon responded by narrating his experiences with a certain Deacon Jones's watermelon patch when he was a boy, and over their tales and their mulled cider they laughed till they cried, and roared so lustily at the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonage rang, the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of the theological volumes actually gaped with horror.
But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, and the laughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-by, and jogged happily homeward; but more than once he laughed to himself, and said, "Bless my soul! I didn't know the parson had so much fun in him." And long the parson sat by the glowing grate after the deacon had left him, musing of other days, and the happy, pleasant things that were in them; and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at some remembered folly, for he said, "What a wild boy I was, and yet I meant no wrong; and the dear old days were very happy."
Ay, ay! Parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only to thee, but to all of us, who, following our sun, have fared westward so long that the light of the morning shows dull through the dim haze of memory. But happier than even the old days will be the young ones, I ween, when, following still westward, we suddenly come to the gates of the new east and the morning once more; and there, in the dawn of a day which is cloudless and endless, we find our lost youth and its loves, to lose them and it no more forever, thank God!