Brook Farm: Historic and Personal Memoirs

by John Thomas Codman

It was with one of our little social groups of friends, that Mr. Dwight gave the toast, "Here's to the coffeepot! If it is not spiritual, it's not material!"

There was a gentleman who resided with us who had promised, on a certain day, to assist a department of our industry with a loan of cash, and had taken the light wagon to Boston for the purpose of securing the funds and bringing them home for use. Somewhere about nine o'clock in the evening the dwellers at the "Hive" were disturbed by the approach of a team and the groans of a person. Going out, they discovered that it was our team, and our member, who had apparently fallen into the back part of the wagon in a helpless state. They assisted him out and conveyed him to his chamber.

He did not seem to be much hurt; but he stated that in passing through the little patch of woods on the "back road," some one came out and knocked him off his seat and then robbed him. He had lain in the wagon, unable to rise, and the horse had come home of his own accord. This is the outline of the story. Parties went out on the road with lanterns, but found no lost pocket-book. The news of the robbery spread. It was the common talk the next day. There were suspicious circumstances. It might have been a ruse to cover a personal loss of the money, or to deceive us in the pretended loan. Who could tell?

A few days later a stranger called at the Hive door. He had an announcement to make; he had seen a mystery—doubtless it had something to do with the robbery. He had been travelling that morning through Muddy Pond woods, in a thick part of which he had seen—what? Why, a shirt hanging on the bushes to dry; and had heard voices in the woods near. He had no doubt marauders were encamped there. We might find there the man who committed the assault and robbery. His manner was excited, but he seemed to believe his own story.

It was Sunday. Work would not prevent us. We would hunt for the robbers. We would go to Muddy Pond woods and investigate. We were not over sanguine, but there was mystery in it, and we were bound to solve it. I don't think anyone of us thought there was any danger in the affair. A party of volunteers, consisting of some six or eight, was formed, and the valuable Glover placed himself at our head. "By the by," said he, as we were about to start, "I'll go and borrow Mr. Shaw's pistols." What insane idea entered his head at that moment who can tell. Did he have the thousandth part of an idea that he was going to put a bullet into a man's body? I don't think he had! Returning soon with the pistols, we started on our way.

It would be worth a thousand dollars now if we had a picture of that party on their tramp. As I remember it, there were some four of us who were of the "young group" and had not quite attained our legal majority.

"The Admiral" and "the Hero," with "Glover," made the older portion of the party, and as we strayed along with our clear, sun-browned, young faces, our classic locks and natural beards—those who had any—with our unique tunics or blouses, with a certain regular quaintness running through them, were picturesque enough. The idea of arming ourselves, suggested by Glover's pistols, soon developed into the improvising of canes and walking sticks from the wayside.

"Glover" paired off with the curly headed Hero, I with the curly headed Admiral, for Glover loved the Hero, and I admired the Admiral's honest, sincere, pleasant ways and heart. The city life we all had tasted, had given new zest to country life. We straggled by the roadside; we sought wild berries; we observed the varieties of foliage and flower, and conversation never flagged. Glover and Hero were ever in earnest talk. There was with them a never-ending story, and I am reminded of the everlasting confidences of school girls when I recall their being together, excepting only that they did not put their arms around each other's waists.

The Admiral's heart was full of music. He could talk of music, poetry and love, and there was a tender spot in him that I did not venture on, although I knew it was there. He was also a deep admirer of nature. Truly we could sing together, "A life in the woods for me!"

It was three miles to the robbers' rendezvous, but what cared we? We dwelt in the bosom of nature, and three miles was but a pastime. We only wanted an excuse of the most feeble kind to start on a tramp, day or night. All along the way we breathed health and vitality; the air was full of singing birds, and our hearts were crying out, "What is so rare as a day in June?" In fact, our June days lasted longer than they did elsewhere—they ran into September, October and November. It is the harmony of our hearts that makes the force of poetry, and not the mere words; and the June feeling may be present in December.