The Harvest of Years Part 41

It seemed to me sometimes that Louis' money would not last as long as his life; but when I said something of the kind, he answered:

"Yes, yes, Emily; we shall not be embarra.s.sed financially, for we consult needs, and these you know are small compared to wants. A little ready money will go a long way; we shall not suffer from interest nor from high rates of taxation here; give yourself no uneasiness."

When the school was started we were surprised, as well as pleased, to receive calls from some of our good people, who desired to have their children go to the Home School as pupils. They felt moved to take this step from two considerations; one, the more thorough education which the children would receive; and the other, an interest felt in our work, and a desire to help the school to become one of the best.

They proposed paying a tuition fee, to which we all consented, reserving to ourselves the right of taking those who might desire to attend and not be able to pay; and through their really generous contributions in this way, when Burton Brown came to a.s.sume the duties of a schoolmaster, there was a fund sufficient to pay him well for his services.

We named this the Turner Fund, although Jane insisted it should be _De_mond.

John desired to donate his gift from Aunt Hildy to the Turner Fund, but Louis objected, saying:

"John, you have no right to do this; you need to get a house for yourself before you help others. It would not be right to take your money, and we cannot accept it."

Matthias says:

"'Pears like I kin tote ober to de 'Plot' an' tinker roun' thar wid de chilun. John's done boun' I shan't do no moah work, an' I can't stop still no how, for it 'pears like I'm dead 'fore de time."

He made himself wonderfully useful there, and the children loved him.

John got along splendidly, and bought the saw-mill; for Ben, although better, could not do any work at the mill, and John was very glad to own it.

I am ashamed to say that now and then a small-souled individual would ventilate his miserable prejudices, and expressions like the following came to our ears:

"Wonder what'll happen if the n.i.g.g.e.rs all get free; got one for a saw-mill owner already;" all of which fell, to be sure, at John's feet with an ignorant thud. Still, when we looked at him and realized his n.o.ble nature, it seemed too bad to think there could be one such word spoken.

How fortunate it is that our hearts do naturally retain the perfume of the roses, and forget the presence of the thorns! The wiser we grow the more natural we become; and on the rock of truth we can stand, feeling no jar, when the missiles of a grovelling mind are hurled against its base. When we get tired, however, and are forced by the pressure of material circ.u.mstances to wander down into the valley, while we stand even then in the shelter of our mountain, still we find our feet sometimes soiled by the gathered mud.

Here is where the weak-hearted of our earth fail, and, looking not to the mountains, become at last settled in the valley, and suffer even to the end, borne down by the fettering chains of a life which is, at best, only breathing. Their wings held close, they cannot rise beyond the clouds and fog into the clearer atmosphere of a higher condition.

My fortieth birthday is upon me. I am sitting in the room where, since the day of our wedding, all of my best thoughts have been written. Sharp winds blow around our dwelling, but our hearts heed not their harsh voices. Louis and I have been retrospecting to-day, reading together the journal of the past two years. We have kept it together, devoting two pages to each day, each of us writing one. It is not uninteresting; many changes have been dotted down; and still, to look in upon us, you could not see them. Here is the date of one, the death of good Mr. Davis, and an account of the sermon preached by Louis at his funeral, the witnessing of his last experience among us, and the blessed comfort it gave us, as with his death-cold lips he murmured, "My wife." Clara and all, he saw their beckoning hands and angelic faces. He heard sweet music blending with our voices as we sang to him at his request.

"It is enough; let us rejoice together," said Louis, "for he has gone to his own, and he shall have no more pain forever."

On another page we read of the children's harvest gathered, and also of their Christmas festivities, of the prosperous condition of the school, and the untiring diligence of the scholars; extracts from lectures given by John at the schoolhouse, and the date of his first lecture in the Quaker city, Philadelphia; sorrowful records of the battles fought and gained; a sad story of Willie Goodwin, who was taken prisoner by the Confederates, and came home, poor fellow, only to die; news from our Southern Mary in her Pennsylvania home, and an account of her visit to us, bringing with her Louise, a pet girl, once owned by her father. I saw John looking at her sharply, and with undisguised admiration, and I thought, perhaps, when Ben's wedding day had pa.s.sed, John might have one. I could say truthfully, "I hope he will."

No matter how many or great the changes, the robins still build their nests in the elm tree, and the gra.s.s still grows to cover the earth of brown with its emerald mantle; for what care the daisies and the grapes, if the hand of the reaper bids them bow before his trusty blade? The life is at their roots, and their flowers and blades will come again. So with our hearts; they are as hopeful as in the earlier days, ere we had lost sight of some of our jewels, and it is true our love has deathless roots.

Louis grows more blessed all the while. The step of my mother is slow, and father bends to bear the burden of his years, while the voice of our f.a.n.n.y, who will be my sister through all time, cheers them in their daily walk, as she holds in peace the place of little house-keeper. She loves her home, and we love her. Louis and I have just been looking at the pleasant picture in our middle room, where our Emily Minot, sitting between gray hairs, holds in her lap a year-old brother (Louis), while f.a.n.n.y, sitting on the old sofa, sings the song of "Gentle Annie."

Matthias, Peg and John are coming over the hill; Jane and her husband will be here soon, for I am to have a birthday supper. Ben will be with us, but Hal and Mary, with little Hal, are across the sea. They sailed last June to find "Love's Fawn," or rather strength for Mary. Aunt Hildy, "done up in marble," went with them. They will come to us in June, the month of roses; I love it best of all.

"Hope dey will; but 'pears like you's jes' gone an' done it."

It is morning again. No clouds skirt the horizon; broad, beautiful daylight beams lovingly upon us. The wind, which yesterday blew such fierce breaths, journeyed southward during the night, and returned laden with good-tempered sweetness, whispering of warmer days. We had a pleasant birthday supper, and by request I read aloud a few of the foregoing chapters. Matthias rose in terror as he listened to the recital of our united lives, and interrupted me, saying:

"De good lansake, 'fore de Lord ob Canaan! but you ain't gwine to put _me_ down in rale printed readin', is ye?"

One would have supposed I had been reading his death warrant, or something equally portentous, as he stood before me with dilated eyes and upraised hands. I smiled at the picture and answered:

"Certainly."

"Wall," he said, in a despairing tone, "it'll jes' kill de sale ob dat book. All de res' is good nuf, but dem tings I'se said don't have no larnin' to 'em, Miss Em'ly. 'Spect de folks'll tink you's done gone crazy puttin' me down by de side ob de white lamb. It's mighty quare an'

on-reasonablelike, 'tis sartin'."

"Oh, Matthias," I replied, "the people will like it!"

"Hope you's in de right ob it, but what kin you call it when it's all done printed out fur ye?"

"That is the question. Louis says 'call it _The Harvest of Years_.'"

The look of quiet wonder which had succeeded the terrified expression his face at first revealed merged gradually into one of happy certainty, his large eyes filled with honest tears, and he said with much feeling:

"Mas'r Louis knows what's right sure nuf. De good Lord had taken into de kingdom some ob de bes' grain an' lef de ole stubble still. 'Pears like 'twas cuttin' a big field fur to take Miss Catten an' de white lamb too.

Ah! Miss Em'ly, dis harves' ob years is a gwine on troo all de seasons; hope dis ole n.i.g.g.e.r'll be ready when de Lord comes roun' fur him."

The child of my thought is christened by the recognition which comes from the heart of one who is "faithful over the few things," and therefore claims the promise which many with enlarged privileges fail to acknowledge. Can I regret the choice Louis made? My heart says "never,"

and my narrative shall be called "The Harvest of Years."

"Yes," said Louis, "I think so too; but my name for the book is 'Emily Did It.'"