Between the two neighboring homes was the family burying-ground: all this pleasant intercourse went on with the silent cognizance and sympathy, as it were, of the forefathers who trod the path no more. The burying-ground was by far the best spot for a resting-place on either of the farms,—in a hollow of the hills, with a stone fence all round, draped as if to deaden sounds with heavy festoons of woodbine. Above the gray granite and white marble tombstones, rose the locust-trees, tall and still. The beds of myrtle, underneath, were matted into a continuous carpet of thick, shining leaves which caught the sunlight at broad noon with a peculiar pale glister like moonlight. The chestnut-tree stood a little apart, with one great arm outstretched as if calling attention, or asking for silence. Yet no child ever hushed its laughter as it passed the little gate with the gray pickets, overhung by a climbing rose, which opened into the burying-ground; and when, in the autumn, the old chestnut-tree dropped its nuts, the children never hesitated to go in that way and gather them because of the solemn neighborhood. They had grown up in the presence of these memorials of the beloved dead. But no one ever opened that gate without at least a momentary thoughtfulness. No one ever slammed it, in anger or in haste. And so it became a dumb teacher of reverence—a daily reminder to be quiet, to be gentle, for the sake of those at rest on the other side of the wall.
THE GARRET AT GRANDFATHER’S
The rooms at grandfather’s house had been used so long, they were almost human themselves. Each room had a look of its own, when you opened the door, as expressive as a speaking countenance.
“Come in, children dear!” the sunny sitting-room always seemed to say.
“Sit still and don’t talk too much, and don’t handle the things on the tables,” said the large, gleaming, dim-lighted parlors.
“Dear me, what weather this is!” grumbled the poky back entry where the overshoes and waterproofs and wood-boxes were kept.
“There’s a piece—of cake—in the cupboard for you,” quietly ticked the dining-room clock, its large face looking at no one in particular.
But of all the rooms in that house, upstairs or down, not one had the strangeness, the mysterious nod and beck and whisper, of the murky old garret.
“Hark, what was that?” it would seem to creak; and then there was silence. “Hush! I’ll tell you a story,” it sometimes answered.
Some of its stories were true, but I should not like to vouch for all of them.