the feast was a noble feast, as has already been said. there was an elegant ingenuity displayed in the form of pies which delighted my heart. once acknowledge that an american pie is far to be preferred to its humble ancestor, the english tart, and it is joyful to be reassured at a bowden reunion that invention has not yet failed. beside a delightful variety of material, the decorations went beyond all my former experience; dates and names were wrought in lines of pastry and frosting on the tops. there was even more elaborate reading matter on an excellent early-apple pie which we began to share and eat, precept upon precept. mrs. todd helped me generously to the whole word bowden, and consumed reunion herself, save an undecipherable fragment; but the most renowned essay in cookery on the tables was a model of the old bowden house made of durable gingerbread, with all the windows and doors in the right places, and sprigs of genuine lilac set at the front. it must have been baked in sections, in one of the last of the great brick ovens, and fastened together on the morning of the day. there was a general sigh when this fell into ruin at the feast's end, and it was shared by a great part of the assembly, not without seriousness, and as if it were a pledge and token of loyalty. i met the maker of the gingerbread house, which had called up lively remembrances of a childish story. she had the gleaming eye of an enthusiast and a look of high ideals.
“i could just as well have made it all of frosted cake,” she said, “but 'twouldn't have been the right shade; the old house, as you observe, was never painted, and i concluded that plain gingerbread would represent it best. it wasn't all i expected it would be,” she said sadly, as many an artist had said before her of his work.
there were speeches by the ministers; and there proved to be a historian among the bowdens, who gave some fine anecdotes of the family history; and then appeared a poetess, whom mrs. todd regarded with wistful compassion and indulgence, and when the long faded garland of verses came to an appealing end, she turned to me with words of praise.
“sounded pretty,” said the generous listener. “yes, i thought she did very well. we went to school together, an' mary anna had a very hard time; trouble was, her mother thought she'd given birth to a genius, an' mary anna's come to believe it herself. there, i don't know what we should have done without her; there ain't nobody else that can write poetry between here and 'way up towards rockland; it adds a great deal at such a time. when she speaks o' those that are gone, she feels it all, and so does everybody else, but she harps too much. i'd laid half of that away for next time, if i was mary anna. there comes mother to speak to her, an' old mr. gilbreath's sister; now she'll be heartened right up. mother'll say just the right thing.”
the leave-takings were as affecting as the meetings of these old friends had been. there were enough young persons at the reunion, but it is the old who really value such opportunities; as for the young, it is the habit of every day to meet their comrades,—the time of separation has not come. to see the joy with which these elder kinsfolk and acquaintances had looked in one another's faces, and the lingering touch of their friendly hands; to see these affectionate meetings and then the reluctant partings, gave one a new idea of the isolation in which it was possible to live in that after all thinly settled region. they did not expect to see one another again very soon; the steady, hard work on the farms, the difficulty of getting from place to place, especially in winter when boats were laid up, gave double value to any occasion which could bring a large number of families together. even funerals in this country of the pointed firs were not without their social advantages and satisfactions. i heard the words “next summer” repeated many times, though summer was still ours and all the leaves were green.
the boats began to put out from shore, and the wagons to drive away. mrs. blackett took me into the old house when we came back from the grove: it was her father's birthplace and early home, and she had spent much of her own childhood there with her grandmother. she spoke of those days as if they had but lately passed; in fact, i could imagine that the house looked almost exactly the same to her. i could see the brown rafters of the unfinished roof as i looked up the steep staircase, though the best room was as handsome with its good wainscoting and touch of ornament on the cornice as any old room of its day in a town.
some of the guests who came from a distance were still sitting in the best room when we went in to take leave of the master and mistress of the house. we all said eagerly what a pleasant day it had been, and how swiftly the time had passed. perhaps it is the great national anniversaries which our country has lately kept, and the soldiers' meetings that take place everywhere, which have made reunions of every sort the fashion. this one, at least, had been very interesting. i fancied that old feuds had been overlooked, and the old saying that blood is thicker than water had again proved itself true, though from the variety of names one argued a certain adulteration of the bowden traits and belongings. clannishness is an instinct of the heart,—it is more than a birthright, or a custom; and lesser rights were forgotten in the claim to a common inheritance.
we were among the very last to return to our proper lives and lodgings. i came near to feeling like a true bowden, and parted from certain new friends as if they were old friends; we were rich with the treasure of a new remembrance.
at last we were in the high wagon again; the old white horse had been well fed in the bowden barn, and we drove away and soon began to climb the long hill toward the wooded ridge. the road was new to me, as roads always are, going back. most of our companions had been full of anxious thoughts of home,—of the cows, or of young children likely to fall into disaster,—but we had no reasons for haste, and drove slowly along, talking and resting by the way. mrs. todd said once that she really hoped her front door had been shut on account of the dust blowing in, but added that nothing made any weight on her mind except not to forget to turn a few late mullein leaves that were drying on a newspaper in the little loft. mrs. blackett and i gave our word of honor that we would remind her of this heavy responsibility. the way seemed short, we had so much to talk about. we climbed hills where we could see the great bay and the islands, and then went down into shady valleys where the air began to feel like evening, cool and camp with a fragrance of wet ferns. mrs. todd alighted once or twice, refusing all assistance in securing some boughs of a rare shrub which she valued for its bark, though she proved incommunicative as to her reasons. we passed the house where we had been so kindly entertained with doughnuts earlier in the day, and found it closed and deserted, which was a disappointment.
“they must have stopped to tea somewheres and thought they'd finish up the day,” said mrs. todd. “those that enjoyed it best'll want to get right home so's to think it over.”
“i didn't see the woman there after all, did you?” asked mrs. blackett as the horse stopped to drink at the trough.
“oh yes, i spoke with her,” answered mrs. todd, with but scant interest or approval. “she ain't a member o' our family.”
“i thought you said she resembled cousin pa'lina bowden about the forehead,” suggested mrs. blackett.
“well, she don't,” answered mrs. todd impatiently. “i ain't one that's ord'narily mistaken about family likenesses, and she didn't seem to meet with friends, so i went square up to her. 'i expect you're a bowden by your looks,' says i. 'yes, i can take it you're one o' the bowdens.' 'lor', no,' says she. 'dennett was my maiden name, but i married a bowden for my first husband. i thought i'd come an' just see what was a-goin' on!”
mrs. blackett laughed heartily. “i'm goin' to remember to tell william o' that,” she said. “there, almiry, the only thing that's troubled me all this day is to think how william would have enjoyed it. i do so wish william had been there.”
“i sort of wish he had, myself,” said mrs. todd frankly.
“there wa'n't many old folks there, somehow,” said mrs. blackett, with a touch of sadness in her voice. “there ain't so many to come as there used to be, i'm aware, but i expected to see more.”
“i thought they turned out pretty well, when you come to think of it; why, everybody was sayin' so an' feelin' gratified,” answered mrs. todd hastily with pleasing unconsciousness; then i saw the quick color flash into her cheek, and presently she made some excuse to turn and steal an anxious look at her mother. mrs. blackett was smiling and thinking about her happy day, though she began to look a little tired. neither of my companions was troubled by her burden of years. i hoped in my heart that i might be like them as i lived on into age, and then smiled to think that i too was no longer very young. so we always keep the same hearts, though our outer framework fails and shows the touch of time.
“'twas pretty when they sang the hymn, wasn't it?” asked mrs. blackett at suppertime, with real enthusiasm. “there was such a plenty o' men's voices; where i sat it did sound beautiful. i had to stop and listen when they came to the last verse.”
i saw that mrs. todd's broad shoulders began to shake. “there was good singers there; yes, there was excellent singers,” she agreed heartily, putting down her teacup, “but i chanced to drift alongside mis' peter bowden o' great bay, an' i couldn't help thinkin' if she was as far out o' town as she was out o' tune, she wouldn't get back in a day.”
