The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales

by Francis A. Durivage

As you turn a corner of the road, passing the base of a huge hill of granite all overgrown with ivy and scrub oak, the deacon's house comes full in sight. It is a quaint old edifice of wood, whose architecture proclaims it as belonging to the ante-revolutionary period. Innocent of paint, its dingy shingles and moss-grown roof assimilated with the gray tint of the old stone fences and the granite boulders that rise from the surrounding pasture land. The upper story projects over the lower one, and in the huge double door that gives entrance to the hall there are traces of Indian bullets and tomahawks, reminiscences of that period when it was used as a blockhouse and served as a fortalice to protect the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who fled hither for protection from the vengeful steel and lead of the aborigines. On one side of the mansion is an extensive apple orchard of great antiquity, through which runs a living stream, whose babble in the summer solstice, mingled with the hum of insects, is the most refreshing sound to which the ear can listen. On the other side is one of those old-fashioned wells, whose "old oaken bucket" rises to the action of a "sweep." Two immemorial elm trees, in a green old age, shadow the trim shaven lawn in front. Opposite the house, on the other side of the road, is a vast barn, whose open doors, in the latter part of July, afford a glimpse of a compact mass of English hay, destined for the sustenance of the cattle in the dreary months of winter. We must not forget the huge wood pile, suggestive of a cheerful fireside in the long winter evenings.

But where is the deacon's horse? Last year, and for the past twenty years preceding, you could hardly pass of a summer evening, without noticing an old gray quietly feeding by the roadside, lazily brushing off, with his long switch tail, the hungry flies that fastened on his flanks. The landscape is nothing without the old horse. The deacon reared him on the homestead. When a yearling he used to come regularly to the back door and there receive crusts of bread, crumbs of cake, and other delicacies, the free gifts of the children to their pet. He was the most wonderful colt that ever was—as docile as the house dog. When stray poultry trespassed on the grounds, he would lay his little ears back, and putting his nose close to the ground, curling up his lips and showing his white teeth, drive the marauders from the premises with such a "scare," that they would refrain from their incursions for a week to come. But he was incapable of injuring a living thing.

When old enough for use, he submitted to the discipline of bit and bridle without a single opposing effort. And what a fine figure he made in harness! How smartly he trotted off to church carrying the whole family behind him in a Dearborn wagon! How proud was his carriage when he bore the deacon on his back!

The old man once made a long journey on horseback, to visit a brother who lived in the northern part of New England. A great portion of the way there was only a bridle path to follow through the woods, and this was frequently obstructed by fallen trees. When the impediment was merely a bare trunk, the gallant gray cleared it gayly at a flying leap; when the tree was encumbered with branches, he clambered over it like a wild cat. Once the deacon was obliged to dismount, and crawl on his hands and knees through the dense branches; the sagacious horse imitated his example, and worked his way through like a panther.

But age came upon the good gray. His sight began to fail—his knees to falter. His teeth were entirely worn away.

After a bitter struggle the deacon concluded to replace him by a younger horse. Life had become a burden to the old family servant, of which it was a mercy to relieve him. Yet, even then, the deacon was reluctant to give a positive order for his execution.

One day he called his eldest son to him.

"Abijah," said he, "I'm going over to W., to get that colt I was speaking about. While I am gone I want you to dispose of the poor old gray. I shouldn't like to sell him to any body that would abuse him."

He could say no more—but Abijah understood him. When his father had gone, he went into the meadow, and dug a deep pit, beside which he placed the sods at first removed by the spade. He then carefully loaded his rifle and called to the old gray. The poor animal, who was accustomed to obey the voice of every member of the family, feebly neighed and tottered to the brink of the pit. The young man threw a handkerchief over the horse's eyes, and placing the muzzle of the rifle to his ear, fired. The poor old horse fell, without a groan, into the grave which had been prepared for him. With streaming eyes, Abijah threw the earth over the remains of his playmate, and then carefully replaced the sod.

When the deacon returned with his fine new horse, he manifested no elation at his purchase, nor, though he perceived that the stall was empty, did he trust himself to make any inquiries respecting the old gray. Only the family noticed, that in the course of the afternoon, in wandering through the meadow, he came upon the new-made grave, and though the sods had been carefully replaced, he evidently noticed traces of the spade, and suspected the cause, for he tried the soil with his foot, and was also observed to pass the back of his hand across his eyes. But he never alluded to his old servant.