The Story of a Summer Part 17

"As a rule they are," replied mamma; "but your uncle was not. His delicate, sensitive nature was always shocked by the sharp report of a gun. I remember that when we were in Vermont he and brother Barnes would go out together to hunt squirrels, Barnes carrying the gun; and that when the game was found, brother Horace would cover his ears with his hands, to soften the noise of the discharge.

"I suppose, my dears, that you do not know how hunters find wild honey?"

We knew little of wild honey save that John the Baptist used to eat it, so mamma continued:

"The bees, having no hives provided for them, made their honey in the hollow trunks of trees; and as it was one of the luxuries of our table, it was quite important to trace out their hiding-places. Brother Barnes would go out with a little box of syrup or honey, and when he found a bee upon a flower would imprison it in the box, detaining it there until it had had time to load itself with sweetness. When it was released, it would make a 'bee line' for its home in the tree; never pausing by the way, even for the sweetest flowers. Barnes would note the direction it had taken, and follow it as well as he could; but often he would be obliged to capture several bees, and sometimes pa.s.s days in the pursuit, before he would be rewarded by hearing in some tree a buzzing that could almost be called roaring. The next step was to fell the tree, which would cause the bees to quickly disperse; not, however, without stinging the intruder; but the result compensated for a sting or two, for it was not unusual for Barnes to find from twenty to thirty pounds in a tree, often, however, so mixed with the soft wood that we were obliged to strain it before it was fit to put upon the table."

"You spoke of the forest fires, mamma," said Marguerite; "pray, what were they? The woods were never literally on fire, I suppose."

"Oh yes," replied mamma, "and the fire often lasted a long time. One means of clearing the ground to make a farm was to fell the trees, while in full leaf.a.ge, in what were called 'winrows.' They lay in great piles for a year and sometimes longer; then when quite dry they would be ignited, and a glorious bonfire on a gigantic scale would ensue. The fire would burn up not only all the logs and dead leaves upon the ground, but, spreading its way through the forest, would do considerable damage to the living trees, burning as it often did for weeks. It was, however, a grand sight to watch it through the darkness of the night, and when the fire running up the hollow trunk of some dead tree would burst out in a blaze at the top, we children were filled with enthusiasm, and used to call them 'our beacon lights.'

Never did brother Horace seem happier than during that fiery season, and often he and brother Barnes spent the greater portion of the night among the burning log-piles, stirring up the fires when they smouldered, and throwing on brush and fresh logs.

"During the year that he worked at his trade upon the sh.o.r.es of Lake Erie, we saw him more frequently; but the visit that I remember with the greatest pleasure was one that he made us just after establis.h.i.+ng his _New Yorker_. I was much impressed during this last visit with a marked change in brother's taste and character--a change indicated as much by his reading as by his external appearance. His trunk was now filled with standard works and volumes of poems, instead of treatises upon science, and he appeared in a perpetual rose-dream. He seemed to me the embodiment of romance and poesy, and now as I think of him with his pure, unselfish nature, so early devoted to what was n.o.blest and best, I can only compare him to the high-minded boy-saint, the chaste, seraphic Aloysius.

"It was while at home this time that he wrote his poem 'The Faded Stars,' that was published in the _New Yorker_, and copied into several leading journals--"

"Oh, I am so fond of that poem," interrupted Ida, "that I have copied it into my alb.u.m of poetical selections. Papa wrote it, you say, while visiting you?"

"Yes, he wrote it in the room where the family were all a.s.sembled. I recollect sitting beside him and watching his face as line after line flowed from his pen. I had never before seen any one write a poem, and it seemed to me quite wonderful. Read it to me, Ida, if your alb.u.m is at hand; I do not recollect all the stanzas."

"THE FADED STARS."

BY HORACE GREELEY.

I

"I mind the time when Heaven's high dome Woke in my soul a wondrous thrill-- When every leaf in Nature's tome Bespoke Creation's marvels still; When morn unclosed her rosy bars, Woke joys intense; but naught e'er bade My soul leap up like ye bright stars!

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II.

"Calm ministrants to G.o.d's high glory!

Pure gems around His burning throne!

Mute watchers o'er man's strange, sad story Of crime and woe through ages gone!

'Twas yours, the wild and hallowing spell, That lured me from ign.o.ble glens-- Taught me where sweeter fountains Than ever bless the worldling's dreams.

III.

"How changed was life! A waste no more Beset by Pain, and Want, and Wrong, Earth seemed a glad and fairy sh.o.r.e, Made vocal with Hope's impa.s.sioned song.

But ye bright sentinels of Heaven!

Far glories of Night's radiant sky!

Who when ye lit the brow of Even Has ever deemed man born to die?

IV.

"'Tis faded now! That wondrous grace That once on Heaven's forehead shone: I see no more in Nature's face A soul responsive to mine own.

A dimness on my eye and spirit Has fallen since those gladsome years, Few joys my hardier years inherit, And leaden dulness rules the spheres.

V.

"Yet mourn not I! A stern high duty Now nerves my arm and fires my brain.

Perish the dream of shapes of Beauty!

And that this strife be not in vain To war on fraud intrenched with power, On smooth pretence and specious wrong, This task be mine tho' Fortune lower-- For this be banished sky and song."

"How did it happen, mamma," inquired Marguerite, "that Uncle Barnes has not become a distinguished man? Is he not clever like Uncle Horace, or was he not fond of learning? It seems strange that he never left home to seek his fortune in the world."

"Brother Barnes has quite as much genius," mamma quickly replied, "as your Uncle Horace, and under equally favoring circ.u.mstances would have made as brilliant a man. A farmer's life was distasteful to him, and it was for years his dream to go away from home, and receive an education that would fit him for the bar or the pulpit, towards both of which 'callings' he was strongly attracted. It would, however, have been impossible for father to have hewn a farm unaided out of the wilderness, and he could not afford to hire any a.s.sistance, so brother Barnes generously sacrificed all his own aspirations and preferences, and devoted his life, which might have been a brilliant and successful one, to the dull routine of farm acres."

"Did Uncle Barnes resemble papa much, as a boy?" inquired Ida.

"Your uncle was of a very different temperament," replied mamma; "he was as gay and loquacious as your papa was silent and abstracted. He was very fond of reading and of study, but he lacked your papa's perseverance; he was more awake to the outer world and its distractions, whereas brother Horace was oblivious to everything else, when he once held a book in his hand.

"I have told you what a splendid voice your grandfather had. Brother Barnes was the only one of the five children who inherited it, and with it a very quick ear for music. I remember hearing mother say, that when he was three and four years old, he was often called upon to sing for our friends, who not unfrequently rewarded his talent with presents; however, at the time when his voice changed, it completely lost its musical qualities, to our great regret.

"As he grew older, he developed a taste for argument, that would have done him good service had he been able to follow out his darling project of becoming a lawyer; indeed, as it was, he was always called upon, unprofessionally, to settle the neighbors' disputes, and was renowned for making all the love-matches of the neighborhood. In his reading he had rather a peculiar taste; he delighted in theological and controversial books, and I never knew any one who was more thoroughly acquainted with the Bible. He could not only give the precise chapter and verse from which any text was taken, but was able to detect the slightest verbal error in the quotation.

"He had a pa.s.sion for preaching, and although unordained, was always ready to deliver a sermon whenever he could find a vacant church and an audience.

"Every one in America has heard of your papa's benevolent disposition, and the amount he used to spend in private charities. Your Uncle Barnes was, if possible, more generous. I have known him to part with his last dollar to relieve another from want or embarra.s.sment, and this was not done through weakness or inability to refuse, but from a genuine impulse of sympathy with those in need.

"I am very proud to say of my only surviving brother, that although he has never had the advantage of a good education, he has lived to the age of sixty without indulging in tobacco, wine, or profane language, and has brought up his boys in the same temperate habits."

"How many children has Uncle Barnes, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida. "I have, I think, seen only three."

"There are ten living," replied mamma. "Brother Barnes, you know, has been twice married. His first wife was a woman of fine character, but became, soon after her marriage, a confirmed invalid, and brother Barnes' constant attention and care of her during her years of illness was almost unparalleled for devotion.

"Victoria is the oldest of the children: she was a very bright, clever little girl, and a great pet with mother, as she was the first grandchild born at home. Sister Arminda's children, living at some distance, were not so available for instruction, and in that occupation consisted mother's happiness. She taught Victoria to read when she was two years and a half old, and I remember seeing her stand, a few years later, at mother's knee, reading one of Hans Christian Andersen's stories, with the tears streaming down her cheeks at the pathos--a proof of appreciation that delighted mother's heart.

"Victoria is married, and lives in Kansas. She is a fine, intelligent woman, and since the loss of her little girl, last winter, has shown a strong disposition to write. She has the ability to do so, and if her health and her home duties permit, I am sure she will make a clever writer.

"Horace, whom you have seen, is next Victoria in age; he is also married, and lives in New Jersey.

"Two married daughters, Mary and Esther, follow. Mary's mind resembles mother's in her grasp for politics and history, but she inherits her own mother's feeble health, which unfits her for giving expression to her masculine intellect. Esther, who was named for me, is a sweet and lovely woman, and a devoted wife and mother.

"Poor Woodburn came next on the list--a sensitive, silent youth, more resembling his Uncle Horace than any of the other children. You all recollect his sad death three years ago.

"Oscar and Clarence are the youngest of Sally's, the first wife's, children. Clarence is the cleverest of the family among the boys. He is very well educated, and now supports himself as a land surveyor, although not yet twenty years old."

"Where does he live, Aunt Esther?" inquired Gabrielle, "With his father?"

"No; in Kansas with Victoria," was the reply. "I must not forget to tell you that he taught school in Indiana when only sixteen years old, and received a diploma from the State. His half-sister, Eugenia, who is only fourteen, has had very pretty verses published in different New York journals."

"Did Aunt Margaret receive as good an education as you did, when a young girl, mamma?" inquired Marguerite. "I remember hearing you say that you were sent away to school for two or three years."

"No," replied mamma, "her advantages for learning were not so good as mine; indeed, I was her princ.i.p.al teacher. As I have told you, I went to school very little as a child, and the village school at Vermont gave only the most meagre and elementary instruction, but I was always an eager reader of whatever came in my way, as well as an attentive listener, and thus I contrived while in the woods to pick up considerable information. I remember seeing at that time in a neighbor's house, a little, cheaply bound volume, 'Blair's Rhetoric,'

which so interested me that I offered to take care of the owner's baby for two weeks, if she would give me the book. A bargain was accordingly made; I 'tended baby' for fifteen days, and received in exchange the precious volume, which I studied until I learnt it by heart.