CHAPTER XXI.
Winter had gradually melted away before the genial sun and warm rains of spring, till the snow had entirely disappeared, and the fields began to wear a tinge of green, with many other indications that summer was about to revisit the earth. There is something very cheering in the return of spring after enduring for a lengthened period the rigors of winter. The waters are loosed from their icy fetters, and sparkle with seemingly renewed brightness in the glad beams of the sun, and all nature seems to partake of the buoyant spirit called forth by this happy season. The song of birds fill the air, and they seem in their own way to offer their tributes of praise to the kind and benevolent Father, by whose direction the seasons succeed each other in their appointed order. All were busy at the farm. Uncle Nathan was beginning to look up his "help" for the labors of the summer, and my aunt was equally busy within doors. Grandma is still there, always contented and always happy, for the old-fashioned leather-covered Bible, which lies in its accustomed place by her side, has been her guide through the period of youth and middle-age, and now, in extreme old age, its promises prove, "as an anchor to her soul, both sure and steadfast." The Widow Green is at present an inmate of the dwelling, as she often is in busy seasons. A letter has lately been received from Cousin Silas, saying he hoped it would afford them no serious disappointment if he postponed the proposed journey to Canada for a time, and added, by way of explanation, that his wife was anxious to revisit the scenes of her childhood in the State of Maine, before removing to Canada, and, as he considered it the duty of every man to make the happiness of his wife his first consideration, he was for this reason obliged to defer the proposed removal for the present. Had he seen the look of relief which passed over my aunt's countenance as she read the letter, he certainly would have felt no fears of her suffering from disappointment by their failing to arrive at the time expected. "I only hope," said she, "that his wife may find the ties which bind her to the scenes of her childhood strong enough to keep her there, and I am certain I shall not seek to sever them." "I am afraid Lucinda," said her mother, "that your heart is not quite right." "Perhaps not mother," she replied, "I try to do right, but I can't help dreading the arrival of that lazy Silas Stinson and his family; he was always too idle to work and when they are once here we cannot see them suffer, so I see nothing for us but to support them." "Let us hope for the best" said the old lady, "he may do better than you think, and it's no use to meet troubles half way."
The preceding winter had been one of unusual severity, and, as is often the case in the climate of Canada where one extreme follows another, an early spring had given place to an intensely hot summer. The school had closed, but I was to remain with Uncle Nathan till autumn, when I was to return to my home at Elmwood for a short time before seeking a situation. It was the tenth of August, a day which will be long remembered by the dwellers in and around Fulton. For many weeks not a drop of rain had fallen upon the dry and parched ground, and the heat from the scorching rays of the sun was most oppressive. Day and night succeeded each other with the same constant enervating heat. Sometimes the sun was partially obscured by a sort of murky haze, which seemed to render the air still more oppressive and stifling, and all nature seemed to partake of the universal languor; not a breath of air stirred the foliage of the trees, and the waters of the river assumed a dull motionless look, in keeping with the other elements. "This day does beat all," said the Widow Green as she came in, flushed and heated from the dairy room. "I thought," replied my aunt, "I could bear either heat or cold as well as most people, but this day is too much for me. I cannot work, and I would advise you to give over too." "I remember a summer like this thirty years ago," said Grandma, "the same heat continued for nine weeks, and then we had a most terrible storm, and after that we had no more to say very warm weather the rest of the season; and I am pretty sure there is a tempest brooding in the air to-day, by the dull heavy feeling about my head, which I always experience before a thunder-storm."
The heat had become so intense by noon that Uncle Nathan and his hired men did not attempt to go back to the fields after dinner, but sat listlessly in the coolest part of the house; they made some attempt to interest each other in conversation, but even talking was an exertion, and they finally relapsed into silence, and, leaning back in his chair, Uncle Nathan's loud breathing soon indicated that in his case the heat as well as all other troubles were for the present forgotten in sleep. A change came over the heavens with the approach of evening, a breeze sprung up, scattering the misty haze which had filled the air during the day, and disclosing a pile of dark clouds in the western sky, which seemed to gather blackness as they rose. "It's my opinion," said Grandma, who had carefully observed the weather during the day, "that the storm will burst about sunset," and true enough it did burst with a violence before unknown in that vicinity. I had gone to the far-off pasture to drive home the cows at the usual time for milking. The huge pile of clouds, which for hours had lain motionless in the west, now rose rapidly toward the zenith, and hung like a funeral pall directly over our heads. The tempest burst in all its fury before I reached home, clouds of dust filled the air, which almost blinded me, and almost each moment was to be heard the crash of falling trees in the distant forest. The thunder, which at first murmured faintly, increased as the clouds advanced upward, till by the time I reached home it was indeed terrific. They were all truly glad when I burst suddenly into the house drenched with rain, and completely exhausted. The cows remained unmilked for that night, a thing which Aunt Lucinda said had never happened before since her recollection. Flash after flash of vivid lightning filled the otherwise darkened air, succeeded by the deep heavy roll of the thunder. It was noticed by those who witnessed this storm, that the lightning had that peculiar bluish light which is sometimes, but not often, observed during a violent summer tempest. The inmates of our dwelling became terrified. The Widow Green crept to the darkest corner of the room and remained with her face bowed upon her hands. "I am no safer," said she, "in this corner than in any other place, but I do not like to sit near a window while the lightning is so bright and close at hand." Even my aunt, self-possessed as she usually was, showed visible signs of alarm, and truly the scene would have inspired almost any one with a feeling of terror, mixed with awe, at the sublime but awful war of the elements. The wind blew a perfect hurricane, and the rain fell in torrents, and, quickly succeeding the flashes of forked lightning, peal after peal of thunder shook the house to its foundation. Grandma Adams was the only one who seemed to feel no fear; but there was deep reverence in her voice as she said, "Be not afraid my children; for the same Voice which calmed the boisterous waves on the Sea of Galilee governs this tempest, and protected by Him we need not fear." The storm lasted for hours and increased in violence till Grandma said, "the storm of thirty years ago was far less severe than this." The rushing of the wind and rain, the deep darkness, except when lighted by the glare of the vivid lightning, with the awful roll of the thunder, altogether formed a scene which tended to inspire a feelings of deep awe mingled with terror. There had been a momentary lull in the tempest, when the air was filled with a sudden blaze of blinding light, succeeded by a crash of thunder which shook the very ground beneath our feet. "That lightning surely struck close at hand," said Uncle Nathan, as he opened the door and looked out into the darkness, and a few moments after the cry of "fire" added to the terrors of the storm. A barn belonging to a neighbor who lived a mile distant from us, had been struck by that flash, and was soon wrapped in flames. It was a large building, with timbers and boards like tinder, and was filled with hay, and it was well-nigh consumed before assistance could reach the spot, and it was with much difficulty that the flames could be kept from the other buildings on the premises, indeed several of the neighbours were obliged to remain on the spot most of the night. The storm continued with unabated fury till after midnight and then gradually died away, and from many a home a prayer of thanksgiving ascended to Heaven, for protection amid the perils of that long-to-be-remembered storm.
CHAPTER XXII.
I believe there is a power and solemnity in the near approach of death which often makes itself felt even before it invades a household; and something of this kind was experienced by the change which came over Grandma Adams about this time. It would have been difficult for her dearest friends to have explained in what the change consisted; but a change there certainly was which impressed all who saw her. She still sat in her arm-chair, she suffered no pain, and her countenance was cheerful and happy, and her intellect seemed unusually strong and clear; but to the eye of experience it was evident that this aged pilgrim, who for more than eighty years had trod the uneven and often toilsome journey of life, would soon be forever at rest. The Widow Green remarked to my aunt one day in a mysterious whisper, "that she was sure grandma was drawing near the brink of the dark river, and the bright expression of her countenance was but a reflection of the happiness in store for her on the other side." Strong and self-reliant as was my aunt, the death of her mother was something of which she could not bear to speak, and the widow was one who so often talked of dreams and mysterious warnings, that my aunt usually paid little heed to her remarks in this respect. But she could not reason away the change in her mother's appearance. Her mother had been so long spared to her that she had almost forgotten that it could not always be thus, and the All-wise Father, who sees the end from the beginning, willed it that the sudden death of her aged and pious mother should in a great measure be the means of preventing her from placing her affections too much on the perishable things of earth. One evening, when I closed the Bible after spending the usual time in reading to grandma, she said: "If you are not tired, Walter, read for me once more my favorite psalm." I read the psalm from the beginning in a clear distinct voice as I knew pleased her best, and when I had finished she said: "You have often, dear Walter, during the two past years forsaken your books or your play to read to me, and you have been to me a great blessing, and you will be rewarded for it, for respect and veneration from youth toward age and helplessness is a noble virtue, and the youth who pays respect to the aged will be prospered in his ways." There was something in the look and manner of my aged relative which affected me strangely. Her countenance looked unusually bright and happy, and her words had an earnestness of expression which I had never noticed before. At the time I knew but little of the different ways in which death approaches, and was not aware that with the very aged the lamp of life often burns with renewed brightness just before it goes out forever. After a short silence, grandma spoke again, saying, "Have you ever read Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, Walter?" I replied that I had, and she continued: "You may remember that when an order was sent for one of the pilgrims to make ready to cross the 'dark river', the messenger gave him this token that he brought a true message, 'I have broken thy golden bowl and loosed thy silver cord.' I think I have the same token, Walter. I feel that the golden bowl is well-nigh shattered, and the silver cord of my life is loosening, and soon the last strand will be severed, and to me it is rather a matter of joy than of sorrow. I know in whom I have believed, and all is peace. Continue, my child, as you have begun in life, and should you be spared to old age you will never regret following my advice. And now I must go to rest, for I am weary, and would sleep." Her words awed me deeply; but surely, thought I, grandma cannot die while she seems so well and so like herself. The words she had spoken so agitated my mind that it was long after I retired to rest, before I slept, and when at length slumber stole over my senses, I dreamed that a being beautiful and bright stood at my bedside, who was like Grandma Adams, only decrepitude and age had all disappeared, and a beauty and brightness, such as I am unable to describe, had taken their place. A smile rested upon her countenance, as she seemed in my dream, for a moment, to raise her hands above my head in blessing, when she disappeared from my view, and I awoke. But even while I dreamed, the angel of death came with noiseless step, and severed the last strand in the cord of grandma's life, and who shall say that her spirit was not permitted to hover for a moment, in blessing, over the youth so dear to her, before taking its final leave of earth.
Upon going to her mother's room the next morning, my aunt found that she had passed from the sleep of repose to the deeper sleep of death. Thinking that possibly life still lingered, they immediately summoned the physician, but after one glance at the still features, he addressed my aunt, saying, "Your mother has been a long time spared to you, but she has gone to her rest." Even death dealt gently with the aged one whom every one loved. There was no sign of suffering visible, for as she sank to sleep, even so she died without a struggle, and a smile still seemed to linger upon her aged but serene countenance. I believe there are few who have not at some period of their life been called to notice the change which a few short hours will bring over a household. A family may have lived on for years with no break in the home circle, and every thing connected with them have moved on with the regularity of clockwork, when some sudden and unlooked-for event will all at once change the very atmosphere of their home. Owing to her advanced age, Grandma Adams' death could hardly be supposed to have been unlooked for, yet so it was.
For so many years had she occupied her accustomed place in the family circle with health seemingly unimpaired, that her children had almost forgotten to realize that a day must come when she would be removed from their midst, and the place which then knew her would know her no more forever. Very silent and gloomy was the old farm-house, during the days Grandma Adams lay shrouded for the grave. A hush seemed to have fallen over the darkened rooms, and the soft footsteps of friends and neighbors as they quietly passed in and out, all told the story of death and bereavement. Funeral preparations were something for which the Widow Green seemed peculiarly adapted, and her presence was ever sought in the house of mourning. She was a very worthy woman, and much respected by the people of Fulton, among whom she had resided for many years; but along with many estimable qualities she had also her failings and weak points; she had an undue zest for whatever partook of the marvellous or mysterious, her education was extremely limited, and her method of reasoning was not always most clear and logical. She was a firm believer in signs and omens, as warnings of death and other misfortunes, and very few events of this kind took place in the vicinity of which the Widow Green, according to her own statement, was not favored with a warning. But some of the neighbors were often heard to assert that many of her warnings were never spoken of till after the event happened. But setting aside this weakness, and the Widow Green was a kind and useful woman in the vicinity where she resided.