CHAPTER X
BEN’S STORY
“I haven’t much of anything to tell,” Ben answered slowly. “You see, I always lived in the country, and in just one place till father and mother died four years ago. But, oh, it was so pleasant there! Back of the house was the orchard, and beyond that a long hill where we went coasting in the winter, Theodore and I—he’s my brother three years older. At the foot of the hill was a little creek where we used to go fishing in spring. The fish were mostly suckers. I suppose some folks wouldn’t have cooked ’em; but then mothers will do ’most anything for boys; at any rate, such a mother as ours would, and my, but they did taste good! We used to skate on the creek, too, in the winter. But you’ve never been in the country in the winter; you don’t know what fun it is: sliding down hill, sleighriding, and snowballing, all such fun,” and Ben’s eyes sparkled as he named them.
“The house, too, was so cozy. A red house with a trumpet-vine growing over it, and a long porch in front. I always like to see a red house because it makes me think of home. And out in the orchard there were strawberry apples, and seek-no-furthers, and nonesuches. A big grapevine ran all along the woodhouse. There was a black-walnut tree in the back yard, some chestnut trees in the pasture, beside hickory trees in the north woods. And didn’t we go nutting in the fall, just didn’t we! Whole bags of nuts to crack in the winter evenings and eat with apples, though the getting ’em is better than the eating, after all.
“On the edge of the creek was the sugar bush, and in the spring we used to help father gather the maple sap from the trees and boil it down in the old sugar house. It was hard work, but there was fun with it—the sugaring off, and making wax on the snow, and stirring the warm sugar. I tell you I feel awful sorry for boys who have never lived in the country and had any of the good times. Of course we went to school, not quite a mile over the hill, and Sundays we went three miles to church.
“And best of all were father and mother! I couldn’t begin to tell you how good they were. Mother used to tell us stories, and help us make balls and kites; and father would take us with him, and let us follow him about the farm, when I suppose we hindered a good deal more than we helped. He was always ready to answer our questions, too, and to help us with a hard lesson, and he used to give us calves and lambs for our very own. I don’t believe there ever was a father and mother did more to make two boys happy,” and Ben drew a tremulous sigh.
“Mother was always delicate,” he went on after a moment’s pause, “and father and we boys used to do all we could to help her. But one fall she took a hard cold—none of us once thought of it being anything more than a cold. All winter she coughed so hard, and nothing the doctor gave her did any good. Theodore and I used to say to each other, ‘When it comes spring then mother will be well again,’ and we were so glad of the warm days, for they would make mother better. She didn’t get better, though; she kept growing weaker and weaker, and the children at school began to ask me did I know my mother was going to die? It made me so angry to have them say such things; and sometimes I would wake up in the night and find Theodore crying, for he is older, you know, and realized more what was coming. Then I would put my arms around his neck and say, ‘Don’t cry, Theodore; of course mother will get well. Why, we can’t live without her!’
“So it went on till September, and by that time she could only walk around the house a little, and had to lie on the sitting-room lounge most of the time; but so sweet and patient, there was never any one like her, I’m sure. Father used to come in from his work every little while and sit beside her, and when he went out I would see the tears in his eyes, for I suppose it was hardest of all for him. In September the men came with the thrashing-machine to thrash the wheat and oats. It was a chilly day for that time of the year, with one of those raw, sharp winds that cuts right through you. The dust of the thrashing always made father about sick, and with that and the weather he took a sudden cold that settled on his lungs. That night he was so sick Theodore had to go for the doctor, and, Posey, he only lived three days.
“I couldn’t believe it. He had always been so strong and well that I had never thought of his dying. I knew the doctor thought he was very sick, and we were all frightened, but I didn’t once think he was going to die. And when he called us to him to bid us good-by, and told us to do all we could for mother, and to be good boys and good men, and live so that we should be ready for God’s call when it came for us—I didn’t believe it even then—I didn’t believe it till he was—gone.”
Ben’s voice had grown husky, and he stopped for a little before he could go on. “For about two weeks after that mother kept about as she had been, and what with the shock and excitement even seemed a little stronger. But one night we had to help her into her room and the next morning she said she felt so weak she wouldn’t try to get up. And she never left her room again. She failed so fast it seemed as though we could just see her slipping away from us; and she was so happy to go, except as she was sorry to leave us boys. She told us how we had better manage, and what she wanted us to do and be; and I don’t believe either Theodore or I will ever forget what she said to us or the promises we made to her.
“When father died it was hard enough, though there was mother left. But when she went, only three weeks after him, I tell you it was awful. I never shall forget as long as I live the evening after mother’s funeral. You see, father had only one brother, Uncle Ben, out in Nebraska, so of course he couldn’t come. Uncle John, mother’s only brother, lived fifty miles away, and George, his boy, was sick with a fever, so he had to go right back; that left us all alone with Matty, the girl. And after we had looked after the chores and went in and sat down everything was so strange and empty and lonesome, I never shall forget it.