CHAPTER XVIII.
Very welcome was the first view we gained of the old red farm-house upon our return, and still more welcome was the cheerful and mild countenance of Grandma Adams who, as soon as Uncle Nathan set out to meet the train, had taken her place at the front door to watch for our arrival. It was many years since she had been so long separated from her daughter, and the six weeks which had passed seemed to her more like six years. For so long had my aunt toiled on at the old homestead, "year in and year out" without scarcely bestowing a thought upon the world beyond, that the kindly spirit of sociality had nearly died out within her; but this visit with its many scenes of enjoyment, as well as the kind attentions of her friends, had again called into action that spirit of friendly intercourse with others without the exercise of which the warmest heart is prone to become cold and selfish. She seemed hardly like the same one who left home six weeks ago, as she presided at the supper table with such a cheerful, even lively, manner on this first evening of our return. The Widow Green insisted that my aunt should take no part in the household cares that evening, but advising her to sit idle when there was work to do, was throwing words away, and she was soon busy clearing away the supper table, and, as she said, "setting" things to rights generally. The lamps were soon lighted, and, though it was only the middle of September, a wood fire blazed in the fire place, and shed a ruddy glow upon the brown ceiling and whitewashed walls of the large clean kitchen which when there was no company, answered the purpose of sitting room as well. Uncle Nathan said he thought they should treat Aunt Lucinda as company for that one evening and occupy the parlor, to which kind offer she replied by begging of him "to try and be sensible for one evening at any rate." "Well" said Uncle Nathan, "remember when I go off and visit about for six weeks, as you have done, I shall expect you to have the parlor warmed and lighted on the first evening of my return, for I am sure I could not settle down to every day life all at once." "Well," said Aunt Lucinda, as she seated herself by the lamp, and took up the knitting-work which was ever at hand, to fill up the "odd spells" which she called a few minutes of leisure, "I have made up my mind that in the future I will sometimes enjoy myself a little, and visit my friends, instead of staying at home till I forget there is any other place in the world but this farm, with its dingy old red house and weather beaten barn." "I am very happy to find," replied my uncle, "that you have finally come to the conclusion that we have but one life to live, for by the way you have worked and drove ahead for the last fifteen or twenty years, one would think you had half a dozen ordinary life-times before you and if you have come to the conclusion that you have but one, and a good share of that gone already, perhaps there will be some peace in the house for the time to come." My aunt always complained that her brother had one very serious fault, he was prodigal of time, and took too little thought for the future, and on this ground she replied in rather a snappish voice: "Well, at any rate, if every one was as slack and careless as you, they would hardly survive for one life time; and I can tell you one thing Nathan Adams, this old house has got to be painted, and that right away, for it is a disgrace to be seen. I didn't think so much about it till since I saw how other folks live. You needn't begin, as I know you will, to talk about the expense. You may just as well spend a little money for this as for any thing else; and if as you say 'we have but one life to live,' we will try and spend the remainder of it in a respectable looking house." "What color would you prefer Lucinda," replied my uncle, "I suppose it will have to be of the most fashionable tint. Ah me, this is what comes of women folks going to visit, and seeing the world; I wonder," continued he, with a roguish look at me "if Aunt Lucinda isn't expecting some gentleman from Elmwood to visit her shortly, whom she would dislike should find her in this rusty-looking old house. There's no telling what may grow out of this visit yet." "There's no use in expecting you to talk sensibly," replied my aunt, "but the house will have to be painted, and that's all about it." "Any thing to keep peace," replied Uncle Nathan; "and if you are really in earnest we will see what can be done about it next week, if this fine weather continues, for the old house does need brushing up a little, no mistake." And this was the way matters usually ended. To confess the truth, Uncle Nathan was inclined to be rather careless in matters requiring extra exertion and confusion; but when my aunt once took a decided stand, the matter was soon accomplished, for much as my Uncle enjoyed teasing her, he entertained a high regard for her opinion, and was often willing to trust matters to her judgment as being superior to his own. As they were all busy in various ways, Grandma motioned me to take a seat by her side, and read to her, saying in an undertone, she had had no good reading while I was away, for Nathan reads too fast, and the Widow Green speaks through her nose, "and you don't know how much I have missed your clear voice and plain pronunciation." "What shall I read Grandma," said I, as I turned the leaves of the large Bible. "Oh, first read my favourite psalm which you know is the thirty-seventh, and then read from St. John's Gospel." For an hour she seemed filled with quiet enjoyment while I read, till, becoming tired, she said "that will do for this time, Walter, for you must be tired after your journey." The few days which remained of the week after our return were busy ones; school was to open on the following Monday and there were many matters requiring attention. The painting of the house was begun in due time, and Uncle Nathan thought "Lucinda was going a little too far" when she first proposed adorning the house which, instead of a dingy red, was now a pure white, with green blinds, but she soon (as she said) talked him over to her side, and the first time Deacon Martin's wife passed the homestead after the improvements were completed, she remarked to a friend, that she almost felt it her duty, to call and ask Uncle Nathan if he were not evincing too much love of display, by expending so much money on mere outward adornings. Somehow or other it came to Aunt Lucinda's ears that the good Deacon's wife thought they had better give their money to the cause of, "Foreign Missions" than spend it in so needless a manner. My uncle's family did give liberally when called upon, in this way, and, more than this, they were not inclined to make remarks upon the short-comings of others; but, upon this occasion my aunt replied with much warmth: "If the Deacon's wife has any thing to say to me upon the subject let her come and say it, the sooner the better, and I'll ask her if she remembers the year I was appointed as one of the collectors for the Foreign Missionary Society, and when I called upon her, after she had complained for some time of hard times and the numerous calls for money, put down her name for twenty-five cents, and did not even pay that down, and I had to go a second time for it; if she knows what's for the best she won't give herself any further trouble as to how we spend our money." On the whole I presume it was all the better that the Deacon's wife never called to censure Aunt Lucinda for extravagance in spending money.
CHAPTER XIX.
The second year which I spent at Uncle Nathan's was one which I often since called to mind as the happiest of my life. The days glided by in the busy routine of school duties, and my evenings were spent in study varied by social enjoyment. I was never too busy to respond to grandma's request that I should leave my lessons or play for an hour and read to her. I had learned to regard this aged relative with much affection; even as a child I believe I was of a reflective cast of mind, and Grandma Adams was the first very old person with whom I had been intimately associated. And often as I sat by her side and watched the firelight as it shone upon her silvery hair, and lighted up her venerable and serene countenance, would I wonder mentally if I would ever grow as old and feeble and my hair become as white as her's. I remember one evening when I was indulging in these thoughts the old lady asked me what I was thinking about that caused me to look so serious? "I was wondering," replied I, "if I shall live to see as many years, and if my eyes will become as dim and my air grow white as yours." "My dear boy," she replied, "I suppose I seem to you like one who has travelled a long journey. At your age, ten or twenty years seemed to me almost an endless period of time, but now that I have seen more than eighty years of life the whole journey seems very short, when taking a backward view of the path over which I have travelled. It seems but as yesterday since I was a little mischief-loving school girl, when my only anxiety was how I could obtain the most play, and get along with the least study. I used then often to think how glad I would be when my school-days should be over; but how little did I then realize that I was then enjoying my happiest days; for, with many others, I now believe, our school days to be the happiest period of life. Time passed on, till I grew up, and married. I left my native place which was Salem, in the State of New Hampshire, and removed to Western Canada. When you look around, my boy, over this prosperous and growing country, with its well-cultivated farms, and numerous towns and villages, you can form no idea of what the place was like when I arrived here, fifty-six years ago last February. Your grandfather was born, and passed the days of his childhood and early youth, in Scotland, but when he was nearly grown to manhood his parents emigrated to the United States, where he resided for some years; but as he grew older he became prejudiced against the 'Yankee Rule,' as he styled the Republican Government of the United State, and, soon after our marriage, he resolved to remove to Canada. 'I desire,' said he, 'to seek a home where I hope to spend my life, be it long or short, and that home must be in a country subject to the British Government under which, I am proud to say, I was born, and under which I wish to die.' I was willing to make any sacrifice to please my husband, for whom I had a deep affection," and, as grandma said these words, youthful memories moistened her eyes and caused her voice to tremble, but she soon regained her composure, and continued: "I was then young and full of hope, and the trials which I knew would fall to my lot gave me no anxiety. The weather was bitter cold, during all that weary journey to our forest home in Canada. We had been married less than a year when we left our friends in New Hampshire to seek a home in this new country. The summer before my husband visited the place to purchase a lot of wild land, and build the log cabin which was to be our first shelter in the Canadian wilderness. Much as he had told me, I had formed but a very imperfect idea of the appearance of the place, till after a ten days' journey (by slow teams) through the deep snows which often impeded our way, we reached, near nightfall, the small log-hut which was to be our home. I had ever thought I possessed a good share of fortitude and resolution, but at that time it was put to a severe test. 'There Martha, is our home,' said my husband, pointing to the rude pile of logs, which stood in a cleared space, barely large enough to secure its safety from falling trees, and beyond all was a dense forest of tall trees and thick underbrush and a fast falling shower of snow (at the time) added to the gloominess of the scene. I gazed around me with sadness, almost with dismay and terror. At length I found voice to say 'can we live here.' 'I have no doubt that we can live here, and be happy too,' replied your grandfather in a hopeful voice, 'if it pleases God to grant us health and strength to meet and, I trust, overcome, the difficulties and hardships which are the inevitable lot of the early settlers in a new country.' A man whom Mr. Adams had hired had gone before us that we might not find a fireless hearth upon our arrival; and the next day, after having become somewhat rested from the fatigues of our toilsome journey, and having arranged our small quantity of furniture with some attempt at order, I began to feel something akin to interest in our new home; but, to a person brought up as I had been, it was certainly a gloomy-looking spot; and I must own that I shed some tears for the home I had left. We were three miles from any neighbour, and in the absence of my husband I felt a childish fear of being left alone in that strange wild looking place. Time would fail me to tell you of all the hardships and privations we endured during the first years of our residence in this our new home. Lucinda there was our first child. I buried a little boy younger than Nathan. A few kind settlers gathered together and laid him in his grave without a minister to perform the rites of burial. I buried another son and daughter, and all that's left to me now are Lucinda and Nathan, and your mother, who was my youngest child; as my children grew older I learned the value of the tolerable education I had myself received. For many years such a thing as a school was out of the question, and all the leisure time I could command I spent in teaching my children. Nathan was slow at learning, but it did beat all, how smart Lucinda was at her book. I could never tell how she learned her letters; I may say she picked them up herself, and with a very little assistance was soon able to read. Other settlers came among us from time to time, and bye-and-bye we had both a school and a meeting-house. I tell you, Walter, when I now sit at the door, and look around me over the beautiful farms, with their orchards and smooth meadow-lands, and further away the gleaming spire of the village church, and hear the sharp shriek of the locomotive (I believe they call it) and call to mind the log-hut in the depth of the forest, which was, my first home on this farm, I am lost in wonder at the changes which have taken place, and I cannot help repeating the words, 'old things have passed away, behold all things have become new.' Your grandfather lived to a good old age, and, when infirmities obliged him to resign the care of the farm to our boy Nathan he enjoyed the fruits of his former industry in the comforts of a home of plenty, and the care and attention of our dutiful children. As for me I do not now look forward to a single day. I have already outlived the period of natural life and feel willing to depart whenever an all-wise Providence sees fit to remove me; but I would not be impatient and would say from my very heart: 'All the days of my appointed time will I wait till my change comes.' And now, Walter, read to me, for it is past my usual time of retiring to rest." As I closed the book (after reading for half an hour) Grandma said, "I have read myself, and heard others read the Bible these many years, yet each time I listen to a chapter, I discover in it some new beauty which I had never noticed before. Truly the Bible is a wonderful book; it teaches us both how to live and how to die."
CHAPTER XX.
"I wish you would go over to the post office, Nathan," said my aunt one evening in the latter part of winter; "none of us have been over to Fulton this week, and who knows but there may be letters," "Who knows indeed!" replied Uncle Nathan, "I am as you say a careless mortal, and never inquired for letters the last time I was over, so I'll just harness up and drive over this clear moonlight evening." He returned in an hour's time and soon after entering the house, handed a letter to my aunt saying, "read that and see what you think of it." Seating herself and adjusting her glasses, she unfolded the letter, and perused it carefully; but any one acquainted with her would at once have been aware, by the expression of her countenance, as she read, that the communication, whatever it was, was not of an agreeable nature. The letter was from a cousin residing in the State of Massachusetts whom they had not seen for many years, but who used in his youthful days to be a frequent visitor. Indeed it would seem, by all accounts, that he was fonder of visiting than of any regular employment. This cousin, Silas Stinson, had grown up to manhood with no fixed purpose in life. As a boy he was quick at learning, and obtained a fair education, which, as he grew older, he was at much pains to display by using very high-flown language, which often bordered upon the flowery and sublime. I believe in their younger days Aunt Lucinda used to allow "it fairly turned her stomach to hear the fellow talk." He was a dashing, showy follow when young, and was soon married to a delicate and lady-like girl, just the reverse of what his wife should have been. A woman like Aunt Lucinda would have given him an idea of the sober realities of life, but the disposition of the wife he chose was something like his own, dreamy and imaginative, with none of the energy necessary to face the trials and difficulties which lie in the life-path of all, in a greater or less degree. He had tried various kinds of business but grew weary of each in its turn. At the time of his marriage his father set him up in a dry-goods store, and, had he given proper attention to his business, would probably have become a rich man. For a time things went on swimmingly, but the novelty of the thing wore off, and he soon felt like the clerk who told his employer "he only liked one part of the business of store-keeping, and that was shutting the blinds at night." After trying various kinds of business, with about equal success, he got the idea, and a most absurd one it was, that farming "was his proper vocation." His indulgent father again assisted him, by purchasing for him a small farm, thinking he would now apply himself and make a living. His father maintained a kind of oversight of matters during his life-time, but in process of time he died, and Silas was left to his own resources. His father's property was divided among the surviving children, and it was found that Silas had already received nearly double his share of the patrimony, so, of course, nothing remained for him at the time of his father's death. Necessity at length drove him to mortgage his home, and he never paid even the interest on the claim, and when the above mentioned letter was written, the term of the mortgage was nearly expired, and he must soon seek another home for his family. Such was the idle whimsical being who now wrote to these relatives to know what they thought of his removal to Canada, and only waited, as he said, to see what encouragement they could give him adding that he was willing to work and only asked them to assist him in getting his family settled till he could look about him a little and see what was to be done, signing himself their attached but unfortunate cousin. But the professed attachment of her Cousin Silas failed to call up a very pleased expression of countenance as my aunt refolded the letter, saying, "Well if this isn't a stroke of business, then I'm mistaken. What are you going to do about it Nathan Adams?" "I can't answer that question just yet," said my uncle, reflectively. "I think we'd better all have a night's sleep before we say any more about it." They felt in duty bound to reply to the letter, but what reply to make was an unsettled question for several days. They were aware that, for all their cousin's professed willingness to work, the care of his family would in all probability devolve upon them, for some time at any rate. But Grandma Adams had tenderly loved her brother, Silas' father, and at length by her advice a favourable reply was written. "I can tell, you one thing," said Aunt Lucinda, after the letter was sent away, "I cannot, and will not have Silas Stinson's family move in here, for if he has no more method in governing his children than in other things we might as well have as many young Indians right out of the Penobscot Tribe brought into the house. I am willing to help them as far as I can, but bringing them into the house is out of the question." "I'll tell you what you can do, Nathan," said grandma, "you know there's an old house on that piece of land you bought of Squire Taylor last fall, and you just fix it up as well as you can, and let them live in it this summer, and by the time another winter comes you can see further about it; perhaps by keeping round with Silas you may get some work out of him on the farm this summer, and his family must have a home of some kind. Providence has been very kind to us, and we must lend them a helping hand." "I dare say," replied my aunt, in her usual sharp manner, "that Providence has done as much for Cousin Silas as for us, only while we have toiled early and late, he has been whiffling about from one thing to another, trying to find some way to live without work; but I guess he'll learn before he's done that he'll have to work for a living like other people. But I suppose, Nathan as they've got to come you'd better see about fixing up that old house right away. If there was only himself and wife, I'd try and put up with them here for a while, but with their five wild tearing children—it makes me shudder to think of it!"
When the matter of Cousin Silas' removal to Canada became a settled thing it appeared less terrible than upon first consideration. April arrived, bringing it's busy season of sugar-making, and it's mixture of sunshine and showers. Amid the hurry of work Uncle Nathan found time to give some attention to the matter of repairing the house, for the reception of the expected new-comers. Aunt Lucinda said she supposed her mother was right, and it was their duty to extend a helping hand to Cousin Silas, but at the same time it appeared to her that the path of duty really did have a great many difficult places, and she supposed as we could not go round about them we must keep straight forward and get over the hard places as well as we could. Preparations went on apace, and before the last of April the repairs on the house were completed. I was still studying hard, expecting this to be my last year at school. Of all the family I had become most attached to my aged grandma, whose life was evidently drawing near the close. She liked to have me near her, and, to her, no other reading was like mine; and the best which any one else could do, fell far below my services in waiting upon her; and my uncle and aunt often wondered what mother would do when the time came that I must leave them. Considerate ones, spare yourselves these forebodings, for, before I shall have left your family-circle, your aged mother will have been called to enjoy that rest which remaineth to all who live the life she has lived. It was thought by many to be somewhat singular that a youth of my age should have been so happy and contented in the quiet dwelling of my uncle, whose youngest occupants were middle-aged, and they could not be supposed to have much sympathy with the thoughts and feelings of youth. I had gone there in the first place merely to obey the wishes of my mother, which had ever been as a law unto me. I loved my uncle from the first, and, instead of feeling anger at the distrust with which my aunt was inclined to regard me, I felt a sort of pity for the lonely woman, and resolved, if possible, to teach her by my conduct that I was not altogether so bad as she supposed; and my kindness to her soon softened a heart which had become somewhat unfeeling, from having so few natural ties, as well as for want of intercourse with the world at large; and I learned that my attempts to please her, especially when they involved self-sacrifice, made me all the happier, so true it is that "it is more blessed to give than to receive."
And in time I learned to love my home at the old farm house, with an affection so deep that the thought of leaving it was very unpleasant to me. I had also become much attached to my kind teacher and his family, and thought with pain of a separation from them. But the time was now drawing nigh when, like every youth who must depend upon his own exertions for success, I must go forth to make my own way in the world. By diligent study I had acquired an education which would enable me to fill a position of trust and responsibility, when I should have gained a practical knowledge of business. My mind turned toward mercantile pursuits, and it was my intention (after leaving school) to seek a situation where I could obtain experience in business.