Chapter XVII

Gabrielle and her Embroidery--Life in Pennsylvania continued--Sugar-making--Horrible Incident--A Woman devoured by Wolves--A Domestic Picture--Evening Readings--The Library of Mr. Greeley's Father--Mr. Greeley's Mother intellectually considered--Her Education--Mr. Greeley's Eldest Sister--She teaches School at the Age of Twelve.

_July 25_.

"It is some time, auntie," said Gabrielle, from the sofa, "since you have told us any stories. Now I wish that this evening, while I am working upon my pin-cushion, you would relate some more episodes of your Pennsylvania life;" and she opened her work box, and took out a little roll of canvas, upon which she was busy delineating in pale yellow wool a stiff little canary, with a surprising eye, and an impossible tail.

"I have forgotten what I have already related, dear," replied mamma; "you must tell me where to take up my story."

"You left off at the manufacture of black salts," said Gabrielle, "and I want you to commence at that very point, and not forget anything that occurred."

"Perhaps you would like to hear about sugar making," said mamma; "that was one of father's yearly enterprises, and great sport we young people thought it."

"Oh, do tell us about it," said Gabrielle, with sparkling eyes; "that will be delightful; almost as good as meeting a bear."

"Although not so exciting, I fear," said mamma, laughing; "I am sorry that I have no encounters with bears to meet your demands for thrilling adventures to-night; but if, as I suppose, you have never seen the process of sugar making, you will find an account of it quite interesting."

"Father had upon his extensive acres hundreds of grand old forest maples, which, growing as they did, in patches in the wilderness, formed what were called in country parlance 'sugar bushes,' or, in the more elegant language of books, 'sugar orchards.' Early in the spring, when the sun stood high, and the snow began to melt, the maples would be 'tapped,' as the farmers say; sometimes by boring into them, and often by driving in a chisel; then a wooden spout would be inserted through which the sweet sap would begin to trickle down into the troughs placed there to receive it. From these troughs it was collected and carried in buckets and pails to an immense receptacle hollowed out of the trunk of some great tree; usually selecting what was called the 'cucumber tree,' as its soft wood could be more easily excavated than that of other trees. The men used to wear a yoke upon their shoulders with hooks from which the pails were suspended; and thus equipped they would traverse to and fro with the sap. I well remember lending my assistance to father by trudging valiantly through snow that reached my knees, to carry buckets of sap, but without the assistance of a yoke.

"The process of making sugar is very like that I described in the manufacture of black salts. The sap is poured into immense cauldrons, and boils sometimes for several days. As fast as it evaporates, fresh sap is poured in until the syrup becomes thick, and then follows granulation, or, as the farmers call it, 'sugaring off.' These periods of sugaring off, which occurred usually once or twice a week during the sugar season, were participated in by the neighbors from far and near, who would come to eat sugar and make merry.

"I forgot, however, to tell you that while the sap was boiling, some one had to spend the night in the woods to refill the cauldron, and to keep up the fire. In our family this duty fell to brother Barnes, who took much delight in it. With some boy friend he would camp out upon a bundle of straw before the fire, and with a nice supper, and songs and stories, diversified by rising every half hour to stir up the fire, and watch the cauldron, and to have a private sugaring off for their own benefit, the boys would pass away the night.

"But were they in no danger from wild animals, mamma?" inquired Marguerite.

"Not much," replied mamma; "the boys always took their guns with them, but although the deer would rustle over the leaves, and bears and wolves would creep softly up to the little encampment, the fire was usually sufficient protection, and the wolves would content themselves with howling, and with a dissatisfied grunt the bears would move slowly away.

"Often the boys would see through the darkness a pair of fiery eyes glaring at them, and seizing their rifles they would shoot; but if they missed aim, the bears or wolves would have been sufficiently alarmed by the noise to make their escape whilst they could. Boys accustomed to a pioneer's life feared nothing; such adventures were as great sport to them in the woods, as they are to you, Gabrielle, while listening to them safely housed."

"But in novels, and books of travel in new countries, auntie," said Gabrielle with a dissatisfied shake of her pretty head, "when you fire at a bear or other wild animal and do not kill him, he instantly turns and kills you. Were the bears and wolves of Pennsylvania less ferocious than those of other countries?"

"They did not often seem bloodthirsty," replied mamma, "for the reason, I suppose, that the woods were full of smaller animals on which they could prey, and consequently they did not need to attack human beings for sustenance. I remember, however, one incident that may perhaps satisfy your desire for more thrilling adventures.

"An old woman living near what was called 'the Carter settlement,' some six miles from us, started to pay a visit to a friend in the next 'clearing.' To reach her destination she had to pass through the densest part of the forest, with no indication of a path to guide her: but she never thought of danger as she started upon her long, lonely walk.

"Several days elapsed before it was fairly realized that the old lady was missing; and then the neighbors started en masse through the forest with tin pans, tin horns, and stalwart lungs, to look for her. Their shouts met with no response, but after a long search they met a pack of wolves who fled rapidly past them. Fairly alarmed now lest the old woman should have perished from fatigue and exposure, they pursued the search with desperate haste, and not far from the spot where they had met the wolves, found some scraps of a dress that was recognized as hers, a few bones, and her feet, which, encased as they were in stout boots, the wolves had disdained to devour. Whether the old woman had fallen a live victim to the wolves, or had died of hunger and fatigue and then furnished a repast to them, we never knew; this latter supposition, however, seemed hardly probable, for she could have found in the woods wild berries, succulent roots, and water sufficient to subsist upon for several days."

A shiver of horror went around our little circle, and even Gabrielle's love for the terrible was satisfied.

After a short pause, Marguerite said:

"You must often have felt lonely, mamma, did you not, living so far away from all places of amusement, lectures, and the like? Indeed, I suppose that buried as you were in the woods, you did not even have the excitement of going to church."

"No," said mamma; "we were dependent for entertainment entirely upon our own resources and the few books we had brought with us from Vermont; but we children were never conscious of a lonely hour, and if dear mother felt sad and weary of our uneventful life, we never knew it.

"We worked hard all day, every one of us, even little Margaret having something to do; but in the evening we had a change of occupation. At twilight, when father and brother Barnes had come home, and our early supper was over, father would say:

"'Mary, what have you to read to us to-night?'

"Immediately fresh logs would be piled up in the great open fireplace, the candles lighted, we girls would draw up to the table with our knitting or sewing, Barnes would throw himself down before the fire, and mother would take up a book for the evening's reading. This reading was as much a part of the routine of the day as dinner or supper, and was indeed our only means of culture that winter, distant as we were from schools and all other educational advantages. Mother always monopolized the position of reader; indeed, until after her death, father seldom read a book, but contented himself with being a listener."

"And was he a good listener, mamma?" I inquired, "or did he stop grandmamma from time to time to comment upon the author and the events?"

"Father's intentions were the best in the world," replied mamma smiling, "but you must remember that he would sit down to listen, completely exhausted from a day's work that had commenced with the first tinge of dawn, and before very long, soothed by mother's musical voice, his breathing would become more and more audible, and his head commence to nod. Quite patiently mother would continue her chapter, feigning not to be conscious of the heavy breathing that proceeded from the arm-chair, and often from the boyish figure stretched before the fire, until their slumber would become _too_ apparent, when, closing the book, she would call them severely to task for their inattention.

"Rubbing his eyes, father would rouse up, and indignantly refuting the accusation, declare that he had heard every word.

"Instantly putting him to the test, mother would inquire what she had been reading about?

"After a moment of deep reflection, father would say penitently:

"'Well, Mary, if you will just read back a page or two, I will remember all about it.'

"Very indulgently mother would turn back, but often before she had reached the former stopping-place, father's breathing would announce that he was again resting from the hard day's toil.

"Barnes was somewhat better as a listener, but he, like father, worked hard, and it was often difficult for him to keep awake during the reading of history or novels; but we three girls were a most interested audience, and somewhat compensated for masculine inattention.

"But father was not always drowsy; at times he would listen with keen interest to the evening reading, and very much vexed he would be if the arrival of any neighbor should put a stop to it.

"'My wife is reading something extremely interesting to us,' he would artfully say; 'perhaps you would like to listen to it also?'

"'By all means,' the unsuspecting visitor would reply, and not another opportunity would he have to speak until it was time to take leave."

"What books did grandmamma read to you?" inquired Marguerite. "You have mentioned both history and novels, but without giving any names."

"Your uncle," replied mamma, "supplied us with light literature from the resources of the _Spectator_ office--newspapers, pamphlets, periodicals, etc., and mother's own little library was sterling in its quality as her own old-fashioned ballads; it was quite varied, too, considering how few volumes it contained.

"One of the books that I remember was Butler's 'History of the United States;' a ponderous tome that I presume you children have never seen.

"Another volume from which we derived much information and pleasure was a large 'Universal History;' the name of its author I have forgotten.

"The 'History of the Jews,' by Josephus, was also a great favorite with mother; this work did not, however, belong to us, but was lent us by your other grandfather, Marguerite. Mr. Cleveland, a neighbor of ours, you know, had, like us, a small library of standard books, which he was always glad to lend to an _appreciative_ reader.

"The 'Wonders of Nature and Providence' was another book that I remember well, and a 'Life of Napoleon,' by what author I do not know, but which was a source of endless delight both to father and mother. The emperor, you know, had been dead only since 1821, consequently his exploits were fresh in every one's memory, and some of mother's most stirring songs were about 'General Bonaparte.' You four children come legitimately by your devotion to Napoleon, for both father and mother were enthusiastic in their admiration for the great French hero.

"Among our smaller books was a life of Prince Eugene of Savoy, and the memoirs of Baron Trenck, whose romantic history we enjoyed as much as the most thrilling novel.

"As for novels, we had not many at that time, although the newspapers with which brother furnished us usually contained serial stories that mother used to read aloud. I remember, however, that mother owned 'Waverley,' 'Rob Roy,' and 'Francis Berrian,' a romance of which father was especially fond, and all of which she read to us.

"For poetry, we had a volume of selections from English poets, accompanied with brief sketches of their lives, a volume about two-thirds the size of Dana's 'Household Book of Poetry,' a copy of Cowper, whose poems mother particularly liked, especially 'The Task'; a small, unbound copy of Byron's 'Corsair,' and a volume of English songs, a collection that I have never since seen. This list refers, you know, to our first years in the woods, and everything that I have mentioned was read aloud to us by mother.

"On Sundays we had a change of literature. Father, although not what would be called a religious man, as he was not a member of any church, had a great respect for the observance of the Sabbath, and unlike his less scrupulous neighbors, rested from work on that day. The morning was devoted to reading the Bible, and in the evening father would sing with his splendid voice, 'God of Israel,' the 'Rock of Ages,' and other fine old psalm tunes. One hymn of which he was especially fond, I remember commenced,

"'The day is past and gone,
The evening shades appear;
Oh, may we all remember well
The day of Death draws near.'

"This he used to sing with great expression of devotion.

"I have often wished that I had had the advantage of living in New York when a child, but I would not now exchange a city education for the sweet memory of our quiet evenings at home, and the sphere of intelligence and affection in which I was nurtured."

Mamma paused a moment, then continued:

"These books that I have mentioned were not new to mother: she had read and knew them almost by heart long before she commenced reading them to us, and her mind was an inexhaustible source of knowledge. Although her school-days were limited, she was not ignorant of the common branches. She had studied, she told me, the 'Ladies' Lexicon,' from which she had obtained a very thorough knowledge of English grammar. She wrote a trim hand, she had a practical knowledge of arithmetic, and geography had claimed a portion of her time in school; but what she had learnt there was but a commencement. She must subsequently have studied astronomy, for she taught me without books to recognize the planets and trace the constellations, and at any hour of the night she could tell the time by looking at the position of the stars. She had the talent for dates that you have inherited, Marguerite, and was authority for the neighborhood upon all disputed points in politics since the days of Washington; indeed, it was quite amusing to see the men all come to consult 'Aunt Mary' rather than father, when a knotty question arose."

"As you have described grandmamma," said Marguerite, "she appears to be superior to grandpapa. Do you so consider her?"

"Mother was father's superior," replied mamma, "intellectually and morally. Father was rather cold in his nature, but mother had a warm heart. She was an enthusiastic friend, and she loved every living thing. I do not remember ever hearing her speak an ill word of a neighbor, and I am sure she never had an enemy in her life.

"Though I do not call father warm-hearted, he certainly had great affection for mother, and was sincerely attached to his family. I have heard him say that he would walk all night, rather than stop short of his home.

"Father was sometimes called by our neighbors a hard parent. He never was, it is true, demonstrative in his affection, but he was strictly just, and never harsh in his treatment of us. As I have often told you, he believed in work for himself and his family, and I have heard him say that sooner than have a child of his grow up idle, he would make him pick up stones in one lot, and throw them over into the next one. He considered that he had been generous in allowing brother Horace to leave home, or, as country people call it, 'giving him his time,' six years before he became of age, and he was willing at any time to allow his daughters to seek their fortunes away from home, should they desire to do so.

"This winter of 1826-27 was the last one that we four children spent at home together. The next year sister Arminda, although only twelve years old, opened a school in the little log-house upon our west farm--"

"When only twelve years old!" we interrupted in chorus; "pray whom did she teach? Babies?"

"No," replied mamma, "she had a dozen or fourteen pupils, little boys and girls, some of whom were older than herself, for very young children could not have walked that distance--three and four miles."

"But I should think," interposed Gabrielle, "that the scholars would have felt more inclined to play with Aunt Arminda, than to learn the lessons she gave them; she was such a child."

"Your aunt was tall and well-developed," replied mamma, "and had a natural air of dignity that gave her the appearance of being older than she really was. She did not find it difficult to impress her pupils with respect, or to enforce obedience."

"What did she teach them, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida; "only the elementary branches, I suppose?"

"Reading, writing, and spelling," replied mamma; "arithmetic and grammar, geography, sewing and knitting."

"And how much did she make?" I inquired, being of a practical turn of mind at that moment.

"She was paid by the week," said mamma, "and received the same salary as the majority of school-mistresses in those primeval days; seventy-five cents and her board. She 'boarded around,' as the phrase was, among her pupils. This may seem very little to you, but you must remember that in those days a good milch cow cost only ten dollars, and everything else was proportionately cheap.

"The next two winters, sister Arminda was in school herself, and the following year, when she was fifteen, she was married to our handsome cousin Lovel, Uncle Benjamin's son."

Another exclamation of amazement from the little group, and a chorus of--

"Married at fifteen! How surprising! And did she make a pretty bride?"

"She was a very handsome girl," replied mamma, and made a striking contrast to her blonde brothers and sisters, for she had a rich brunette complexion, large, dark-blue eyes, glossy dark hair, and set roses in her cheeks, which, even now that she is a great-grandmother have not entirely faded. She was womanly far beyond her years; not so romantic, perhaps, as sister Margaret and I were at her age, but that she possessed talent, enterprise, and ambition, is shown by the success of her school, established at an age when most girls are contentedly dressing their dolls.

"Sister Arminda is a woman of superior character, and a devoted wife and mother. She has had many severe trials to contend with during her long married life. Her heart has known bitter sorrow, for of her family of eleven beautiful children only four are now living; but she has borne all these afflictions with enduring heroism. The devotion of herself and her husband is something people of the world would consider quite Arcadian in these days of matrimonial infelicity, for until your Aunt Arminda paid me that visit three years ago, she had never, since her marriage, left her husband two successive nights."