“meadow brook station! stop five minutes for refreshments!” shouted the conductor, and alighting from the noisy, crowded cars, i stood once more in my own native town, gazing with a feeling of delight upon the sunny hills, dotted over with the old-fashioned gable-roofed houses, and upon the green, grassy meadow, through which rolled the blue waters of the chicopee. i had not stood thus long, when a broad hand was laid upon my shoulder, and the next instant my arms were around the neck of my father, who, i thought, had changed much since last i saw him; for his face was thin and pale, while threads of silver were scattered through his soft, brown hair.
it was the loss of anna, i fancied; and when we at last were seated in the buggy, and on our way home, i hastened to speak of her, and to tell him of the favorable report we heard of herbert. but naught which i said seemed to rouse him; and at last i, too, fell into the same thoughtful mood, in which even old sorrel shared, for he moved with his head down, scarcely once leaving the slow, measured walk he had first assumed. when, at last, we reached the hill-top, from which could be seen the homestead, with its maple trees in front, and long row of apple trees, now in full bloom, in the 175rear, i started up, exclaiming, “home, sweet home! it never looked half so beautiful to me before.”
in a moment, however, i checked myself; for my father groaned aloud, while his face grew whiter than before.
“what is it, father,” i asked; “are they sick, or dead?”
“neither, neither,” he replied, at the same time chirruping to old sorrel, who pricked up his ears, and soon carried us to the door of our house, where i was warmly greeted by all.
and still there was in what they said and did an air of melancholy which puzzled me; and when i was alone with lizzie, i asked her the cause why they looked so sad? bursting into tears, she replied, “this is not our home any longer. we must leave it, and go, we don’t know where—to the poor-house, ’pa sometimes says, when he feels the worst, and then grandma cries so hard—oh, it’s dreadful!”
“and why must we leave it?” i asked; and lizzie answered, “pa has signed notes for uncle thomas, who has failed, and now the homestead must be sold to pay his debts—and they so proud, too!”
it was as lizzie had said. uncle thomas harding was my mother’s brother, who lived in providence, in far greater style, it was said, than he was able to support. several times had aunt harding visited us, together with her two daughters, ellen and theodosia. they were proud, haughty girls, and evidently looked upon us, their country cousins, with contempt; only tolerating us, because it was pleasant to have some place in the country where to while away a few weeks, which, in the heated, dusty city, would otherwise hang heavily upon their hands. on such occasions they made themselves perfectly at home, and somehow or other managed to have my mother feel that she was really indebted to them for the honor they conferred upon her, by 176calling her aunty, by appropriating to themselves the greater portion of the house, by skimming the cream from the pans of milk, by eating up the pie she had saved for us children when we came hungry and cross from school, and by keeping old sorrel constantly in the harness, or under the saddle.
in return for all this, they sometimes gave us an old collar, a silk apron, a soiled ribbon, or broken parasol—and once, when my parents visited them, they sent us a trunk full of rubbish, among which was fielding’s “tom jones!” this my grandmother cautiously took from the trunk with the tongs and threw into the fire, thereby creating in me so great a desire for a knowledge of its contents, that, on the first occasion which presented itself, i gratified my curiosity, feeling, when i had done so, that my grandmother was right in disposing of the volume as she did. dear old lady! her aversion to everything savoring of fiction was remarkable, and when not long since a certain medium informed me that she, my grandmother, was greatly distressed to learn that i had so far degenerated as to be writing a book, i thought seriously of giving up my project at once, and should probably have done so, had not another medium of still greater power than the first received a communication, stating that, after due reflection, my grandmother had concluded that “i might continue the story called meadow brook, provided i showed off my aunt harding and her two daughters in their true character.” so, as a dutiful child, it becomes me to tell how my father, who was warmly attached to my uncle thomas, lent him money from time to time, and signed notes to the amount of several thousand dollars, never once dreaming that in the end he would be ruined, while my uncle, influenced by his more crafty wife, managed in some unaccountable way to 177maintain nearly the same style of living as formerly; and if his proud daughters ever felt the ills of poverty, it was certainly not apparent in the rich silks and costly furs which they continued to sport.
it was a terrible blow to us all, but upon no one did it fall so heavily as upon my father, crushing him to the earth, and rendering him nearly as powerless as is the giant oak when torn from its parent bed by the wrathful storm. the old homestead was endeared to him by a thousand hallowed associations. it was the home of his boyhood, and around the cheerful fires, which years ago were kindled on its spacious hearth-stone, he had played with those who long since had passed from his side, some to mingle in the great drama of life, and others to that world where they number not by years. there, too, in his early manhood had he brought his bride, my gentle mother, and on the rough bark of the towering maples, by the side of his own and his brothers’ names, were carved those of his children, all save little jamie, who died ere his tiny fingers had learned the use of knife or hammer. no wonder, then, that his head grew dizzy and his heart sick as he thought of leaving it forever; and when at last the trying moment came, when with trembling hand he signed the deed which made him homeless, who shall deem him weak, if he laid his weary head upon the lap of his aged mother and wept like a little child?
a small house in the village was hired, and after a few weeks’ preparation, one bright june morning, when the flowers we had watched over and tended with care were in bloom, when the robins which, year after year had returned to their nests in the maple tree, were singing their sweetest songs, and when the blue sky bent gently over us, we bade adieu to the spot, looking back with wistful eye until every trace of our home had disappeared. farewell forever to 178thee, dear old homestead, where now other footsteps tread and other children play than those of “auld lang syne.” the lights and shadows of years have fallen upon thee since that summer morn, and with them have come changes to thee as well as to us. the maple, whose branches swept the roof above my window, making oft sad music when tuned by the autumn wind, has been cut away, and the robins, who brought to us the first tidings of spring, have died or flown to other haunts. “the moss-covered bucket which hung in the well” has been removed; the curb, whose edges were worn by childish hands, is gone; while in place of the violets and daisies which once blossomed on the grassy lawn, the thistle and the burdock now are growing, and the white rose bush by the door, from whence they plucked the buds which strewed the coffin-bed of our baby brother, is dead. weeds choke the garden walks, and the moss grows green and damp on the old stone wall. even the brook which ran so merrily past our door has been stopped in its course, and its sparkling waters, bereft of freedom, now turn the wheel of a huge saw-mill, with a low and sullen roar. all is changed, and though memory still turns fondly to the spot which gave me birth, i have learned to love another home, for where my blessed mother dwells, ’tis surely home to me. by her side there is, i know, a vacant chair, and in her heart a lonely void, which naught on earth can fill; but while she lives, and i know that there is in the world for me a mother and a mother’s love, can i not feel that i have indeed a home, though it be not the spot where first she blessed me as her child?
