Folly as It Flies; Hit at by Fanny Fern

by Fanny Fern

OU should have lived there to understand the delight with which I linger about an old farm-house, to see if the old familiar objects were all there. The clump of tall, nodding hollyhocks, many-hued, and gorgeous in the sunlight; the lovely, evanescent morning-glories, always reminding me of the clear eyes and silken locks of childhood; the big tree, the pride of the homestead, under which it nestles, elm, locust, maple or willow, it matters not; the hen, with her busy brood; the old dog, of any breed Providence wills, lying with his nose between his paws, lazily winking at the sun; the row of shining milk-pans turned up against the wooden fence; the creaking well-sweep; the old tub under the eaves; the neatly arranged wood-pile; the honest, homely sun-flowers at the back door, and the scarlet bean-blossoms; oh, how I love them all!

Let us go in; any excuse—a glass of water—will serve. They are not ashamed to be caught working.

Bless you, no! One person is as good as another in New England, and better, too. Observe how stainless are the steps, threshold and entry; see the little mats, laid wherever a heedless foot might possibly mar their purity. How white are the curtains and table-covers, and the napkins pinned upon the backs of the chairs; see how nicely that patch has been placed over the stain upon the wall-paper; look at that book shelf hung in the corner. Surely some hand not devoid of daintiness, arranged those pretty touches of color, in the scarlet cord and tassels that support it, and the pretty little blue vase upon its top shelf. Then there are picture-frames made of pine cones, quite as pretty as any Broadway dealer could show; and the chairs, with their flowered-chintz coverings, and now you look to see some sweet maiden trip in, with pure eyes, and soft, smooth hair, and her name shall be Mary. Nor are you disappointed; and as you look at her, as the softened light comes in through the vine-leaves at the window, you see how it is that flowers of beauty are wreathed round the rugged trunk of New England asceticism. You see how no home, without a foundation of thrift, can be anything like a home to this New England girl. You can see how, in her married far-off abode, when reverses come, she is not the woman to fold her hands and sit down and cry about it. You see how she can make bread one minute, and ten to one, write a poem the next; how she can trim a bonnet or row a boat; how she can cut and make her own and her children's dresses, and keep her kitchen in a state of polish, to make the haunter of Intelligence Offices stare with wonder.

I adore it all! I know that wheresoever fortune, in its vagaries, tosses a New Englander, male or female, that individual will always come up like a cat, on its feet. Meantime, they can bear your gibes at their time-honored dishes of "pork and beans," and "apple-dowdy," and "fish-balls" and "brown-bread." You can no more see "anything in them" with all your tasting, than you could imitate the moral courage of their makers in finding out what a thing will cost before they order it home; and you will always manifest the same astonishment that you do now, that these same economical, careful New Englanders are always ready with open hearts and purses, whenever a fire lays waste a city, when stormy winds send shipwrecked families upon their coasts, or when any great philanthropic object challenges their pity or assistance.

You can't understand it—how should you? You who think it "mean" and "unlady-like" to inquire the price of a thing before you buy it, or to decline buying it, not because you do not like it, but for the honest and sensible reason that it is beyond your means. You can never solve the problem how a just economy, and a generous liberality, can go hand in hand, or how one legitimately follows the other and makes it possible.

Then perhaps you smile when you see what a prominent place has Watts' Psalms and Hymns, and the Bible upon the table yonder. Oh, if you could hear the Sunday night singing in that little "keeping-room!"

"Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,
Stand dressed in living green."

You remember that hymn? You who had its lullaby sung to you, countless starry nights by your own mother; you, who repeated it to her in broken accents when she was dying—"Watts' Psalms and Hymns" is to you as sacred as her memory. And the Bible? You don't think, more than myself, that mankind have furnished us anything better, as yet, in the way either of morality or literature. You know that it is not a mere lesson-book to that soft-eyed girl with the brown hair.