Within this square, plain, solemn-looking house, on a certain dull and solemn autumn evening, sat the Morgan family, gathered apparently for a special occasion; for though every one of them, down to the gray old cat purring behind the great wood stove, tried to act as usual, a general air of expectancy, indescribable and yet distinctly felt, pervaded the room.
The room, by the way, deserves a passing description. It was at once the sitting-room, dining-room, and kitchen of the Morgans. It was large and square, and scrupulously clean. There was a large old-fashioned table, with its great leaves turned down, and itself pushed up against the north side of the house; and it had a dark, flowered, shiny oil-cloth spread all over its surface, reaching down nearly to the floor. On the oiled surface a large-sized, old-fashioned candlestick held a substantial tallow candle, which served to show Mother Morgan where to put the point of the great darning-needle as she solemnly wove it in and out of the gray sock drawn on her large, labour-roughened hand. The old-fashioned tray and snuffers stood beside the candlestick, and a dreary-faced girl, in a dark calico dress, closely buttoned at the throat and guiltless of a collar, occupied herself in applying the snuffers at regular intervals to the black wick that rapidly formed.
Occasionally the mother hinted that it was a very shiftless way to spend her time, and that she would do better to get out her mending or her knitting. But the girl, with a restless sort of half-sigh, replied that she "couldn't mend or knit to-night."
"And why not to-night as well as any time?" questioned Mrs. Morgan in a half-vexed tone, as one who was fully prepared to combat sentiment or folly of any sort that might have arisen in her daughter's mind. But the daughter only answered, "Oh, I don't know!" and snuffed the candle again; and the darning-needle gleamed back and forth in the candle-glow, and no sound broke the stillness for the next ten minutes.
The other furnishings of the room can be briefly given. A square stand in the corner held the "Farmer's Companion," a weekly paper highly prized; a small copy of "Webster," very much abridged, and with one cover gone. A tack in the wall, over the stand, held the "Farmer's Almanac;" and near it a pasteboard case, somewhat gaily decorated with fancy pictures, held the family hairbrush and comb. The great stove, capable of taking in large pieces of wood at a time, was aglow, both with fire-light and with polish, and was really the only bright and pleasant thing in the room. The floor was painted a good, clear yellow, and was guiltless of even a rug to relieve its bareness.
Behind the stove, with his feet on the hearth, and his slouched hat pushed on the back of his head, and his pants tucked carefully into his barn-yard boots, sat the younger son of the family, John Morgan, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes fixed somewhat gloomily on the fire. Just across from him, occupying the other corner of the fireplace, was the father of the family, a prematurely old, bent man. His gray hair stood in disorder on his head—"stood" being the exact word to apply to it, as even vigorous brushing never coaxed it into quietness for any length of time. He was tilted slightly back in his straight-backed wooden arm-chair, which boasted of a patchwork cushion, and was the only bit of luxury that the room contained. A few chairs, yellow painted like the floor, wooden-bottomed, keeping themselves in orderly condition in the three unoccupied corners of the room, completed its furnishings—unless a shelf at the back of the stove, and in somewhat alarming proximity to the aforesaid barn-yard boots, where a row of milk-pans were stationed waiting for the cream to "set," and a line on which hung certain towels used in cleansing and drying the pans, and a hook at a little distance holding the family hand-towel, can be called furnishings.
Sundry other hooks were empty—the sixteen-year-old daughter having taken counsel with herself for a little, and then quietly removed two coats and a pair of overalls to the back kitchen closet.
A door leading into the small, square, bare-floored bedroom of Jacob Morgan and his wife stood open, and revealed the six-year-old baby of the family, fair-haired, soft-eyed Nellie Morgan, her eyes at this time being wide-open and aglow with an excitement which she could not control. But for the solemn rule that seven o'clock must find her in bed, whether the town three miles away was on fire, or whatever was happening, she would have begged to stay out of that trundle-bed, on this particular evening, just one hour more.
John Morgan winked and blinked, and nodded assent to his dream-thoughts with his mouth wide-open, then came down on the four legs of his chair with a sudden thud that made him wide-awake and rather cross. He looked at the tall, loud-voiced old clock in the corner, which was certainly part of the furniture, and the most important part; it is strange I should have forgotten it. At this moment it was making up its mind to announce the advent of the next hour.
"It seems a pity that Lewis couldn't have got around at a little more seasonable hour," Farmer Morgan said at last, rubbing his eyes and yawning heavily, and gazing at the solemn-faced clock. "I can't see why he couldn't just as well have taken an earlier train and got here this afternoon. It will be getting-up time before we fairly go to bed."