The Harvest of Years

by Martha Lewis Beckwith Ewell

We all laughed at this, and my father looked with fondness at his boy, as he answered:

"Ben, it shall be, and a week from next Sabbath, the day, if nothing happens."

I believe it was a relief to my father, this hope that there might be something more beautiful beyond than he had dared to dream; and Clara was absorbed with the prospect of his getting hold of the truth, which, though unnamed by her, had always been, it seemed, her firm belief. She said nothing to me of what had occurred, and the days wore on until the morning came when Louis said "good-bye," and left us for school.

Directly after his departure, Aunt Phebe (mother's sister) wrote us she was coming to visit us for a few days. Of this I was glad, and I rehearsed to Clara her virtues, told her of her early years, the sorrows which she had borne, the working early and late to maintain the little family of four children (for at the age of twenty-eight she was left widowed and alone in a strange city). Her native town was not far distant from the one in which we lived, and when she came I expected a treat, for together these two sisters unshrouded the past, took off the veil of years that covered their faces, and walked back, hand in hand, to their childhood—its years, its loves, its friends, its home—and it was never an old tale to me.

I loved to hear of grandfather Lewis, who went as minister's waiter in the War of Seventy-six, going with old Minister Roxford, whose name has been, and is still to be handed down through generations as a good old man of Connecticut. Grandfather was only sixteen years at that time, and though he saw no hard service, but was dressed up in ruffled shirt, etc., received through life a pension of ninety-six dollars per year, having enlisted for a period of six months, whereas some of his friends, who saw hard service, and came out of the contest maimed for life, received nothing.

Grandfather was of French extraction, and he boasted largely of this, but I could not feel very proud of the fact that he traded with the British, carrying to them hams, dried beef, poultry, and anything in shape of edibles, receiving in return beautiful silk stockings, bandanna handkerchiefs, and the tea that the old ladies were so glad to get. Several times he was nearly captured, and once thrust into a stone wall, in the town of Stratford, a quantity of silk stockings, with which his pockets were filled. He was so closely pursued at that time, that he lay down close to a large log and covered himself with dead leaves, and one of his pursuers, a moment after, stood on that very log and peered into the distance, saying, "I wonder which track the scamp took."

I must not tell you more about this grandfather, whose history filled me full of wonder, but must hasten on to meet Aunt Phebe, who came according to appointment, and found a warm reception. She had a fine face, was tall and well-formed, her hair was a light-brown, and her eyes a bright, pure blue; she had a pleasant mouth and evenly set teeth, and she was a sweet singer. She is yet living, and sings to-day a "Rose tree in full blooming" with as sweet a cadence as when I was a child.

Clara was drawn toward her, and brought some of her best thoughts to the surface; read to her some of her own little poems, and wrote one for her, speaking tenderly of the past and hopefully of the future. Aunt Phebe had a nature to appreciate the beautiful, and ought herself to have been given the privilege of a later day, that she might have expressed her own good and true thoughts. She was a member of the Baptist church, and while we had no fear of condemnation from her lips, we knew she had not as yet tested this new thought that was now agitating our minds. She said she would like to go with us to hear "Father Ballou," as he was called by the Universalist people, and Clara, said:

"Well, Mrs. ——, the day is coming when all shall see and rejoice at the knowledge they have long desired; this will be the real fruit that has been promised by the hope of the soul for years; and it is not new, it is an old, old truth, and for this reason there will be less preparation needed to accept it. The soil is ready, and the hand of the age will drop the seed in the furrows which the years have made."

"This talk is as good as a sermon," said Aunt Phebe, "I would like to hear you every week. Learning the work of wisdom is not an easy task, and all these thoughts come as helping hands to us; we are never too old to learn."