A White Heron and Other Stories

by Sarah Orne Jewett

  When we had eaten our peaches we still sat under the pines, and I was not without pride when I had poked about in the ground with a little twig, and displayed to my crony a long fine root, bright yellow to the eye, and a wholesome bitter to the taste.

  “Yis, dear, goldthread,” she assented indulgently. “Seems to me there’s more of it than anything except grass an’ hardhack. Good for canker, but no better than two or three other things I can call to mind; but I always lay in a good wisp of it, for old times’ sake. Now, I want to know why you should a bit it, and took away all the taste o’ your nice peach? I was just thinkin’ what a han’some entertainment we’ve had. I’ve got so I ‘sociate certain things with certain folks, and goldthread was somethin’ Lizy Wisby couldn’t keep house without, no ways whatever. I believe she took so much it kind o’ puckered her disposition.”

  “Lizy Wisby?” I repeated inquiringly.

  “You knew her, if ever, by the name of Mis’ Deacon Brimblecom,” answered my friend, as if this were only a brief preface to further information, so I waited with respectful expectation. Mrs. Goodsoe had grown tired out in the sun, and a good story would be an excuse for sufficient rest. It was a most lovely place where we sat, halfway up the long hillside; for my part, I was perfectly contented and happy. “You’ve often heard of Deacon Brimblecom?” she asked, as if a great deal depended upon his being properly introduced.

  “I remember him,” said I. “They called him Deacon Brimfull, you know, and he used to go about with a witch-hazel branch to show people where to dig wells.”

  “That’s the one,” said Mrs. Goodsoe, laughing. “I didn’t know’s you could go so far back. I’m always divided between whether you can remember everything I can, or are only a babe in arms.”

  “I have a dim recollection of there being something strange about their marriage,” I suggested, after a pause, which began to appear dangerous. I was so much afraid the subject would be changed.

  “I can tell you all about it,” I was quickly answered. “Deacon Brimblecom was very pious accordin’ to his lights in his early years. He lived way back in the country then, and there come a rovin’ preacher along, and set everybody up that way all by the ears. I’ve heard the old folks talk it over, but I forget most of his doctrine, except some of his followers was persuaded they could dwell among the angels while yet on airth, and this Deacon Brimfull, as you call him, felt sure he was called by the voice of a spirit bride. So he left a good, deservin’ wife he had, an’ four children, and built him a new house over to the other side of the land he’d had from his father. They didn’t take much pains with the buildin’, because they expected to be translated before long, and then the spirit brides and them folks was goin’ to appear and divide up the airth amongst ‘em, and the world’s folks and onbelievers was goin’ to serve ‘em or be sent to torments. They had meetins about in the schoolhouses, an’ all sorts o’ goins on; some on ’em went crazy, but the deacon held on to what wits he had, an’ by an’ by the spirit bride didn’t turn out to be much of a housekeeper, an’ he had always been used to good livin’, so he sneaked home ag’in. One o’ mother’s sisters married up to Ash Hill, where it all took place; that’s how I come to have the particulars.”

  “Then how did he come to find his Eliza Wisby?” I inquired. “Do tell me the whole story; you’ve got mullein leaves enough.”

  “There’s all yisterday’s at home, if I haven’t,” replied Mrs. Goodsoe. “The way he come a-cortin’ o’ Sister Wisby was this: she went a-courtin’ o’ him.

  “There was a spell he lived to home, and then his poor wife died, and he had a spirit bride in good earnest, an’ the child’n was placed about with his folks and hers, for they was both out o’ good families; and I don’t know what come over him, but he had another pious fit that looked for all the world like the real thing. He hadn’t no family cares, and he lived with his brother’s folks, and turned his land in with theirs. He used to travel to every meetin’ an’ conference that was within reach of his old sorrel hoss’s feeble legs; he j’ined the Christian Baptists that was just in their early prime, and he was a great exhorter, and got to be called deacon, though I guess he wa’n’t deacon, ‘less it was for a spare hand when deacon timber was scercer ’n usual. An’ one time there was a four days’ protracted meetin’ to the church in the lower part of the town. ’T was a real solemn time; something more’n usual was goin’ forward, an’ they collected from the whole country round. Women folks liked it, an’ the men too; it give ‘em a change, an’ they was quartered round free, same as conference folks now. Some on ‘em, for a joke, sent Silas Brimblecom up to Lizy Wisby’s, though she’d give out she couldn’t accommodate nobody, because of expectin’ her cousin’s folks. Everybody knew ’t was a lie; she was amazin’ close considerin’ she had plenty to do with. There was a streak that wa’n’t just right somewheres in Lizy’s wits, I always thought. She was very kind in case o’ sickness, I’ll say that for her.

  “You know where the house is, over there on what they call Windy Hill? There the deacon went, all unsuspectin’, and ‘stead o’ Lizy’s resentin’ of him she put in her own hoss, and they come back together to evenin’ meetin’. She was prominent among the sect herself, an’ he bawled and talked, and she bawled and talked, an’ took up more ’n the time allotted in the exercises, just as if they was showin’ off to each other what they was able to do at expoundin’. Everybody was laughin’ at ’em after the meetin’ broke up, and that next day an’ the next, an’ all through, they was constant and seemed to be havin’ a beautiful occasion. Lizy had always give out she scorned the men, but when she got a chance at a particular one ’t was altogether different, and the deacon seemed to please her somehow or ‘nother, and—There! you don’t want to listen to this old stuff that’s past an’ gone?”

  “Oh yes, I do,” said I.

  “I run on like a clock that’s onset her striking hand,” said Mrs. Goodsoe mildly. “Sometimes my kitchen timepiece goes on half the forenoon, and I says to myself the day before yisterday I would let it be a warnin’, and keep it in mind for a check on my own speech. The next news that was heard was that the deacon an’ Lizy—well, opinions differed which of ‘em had spoke first, but them fools settled it before the protracted meetin’ was over, and give away their hearts before he started for home. They considered ’t would be wise, though, considerin’ their short acquaintance, to take one another on trial a spell; ’t was Lizy’s notion, and she asked him why he wouldn’t come over and stop with her till spring, and then, if they both continued to like, they could git married any time ’t was convenient. Lizy, she come and talked it over with mother, and mother disliked to offend her, but she spoke pretty plain; and Lizy felt hurt, an’ thought they was showin’ excellent judgment, so much harm come from hasty unions and folks comin’ to a realizin’ sense of each other’s failin’s when ’t was too late.

  “So one day our folks saw Deacon Brimfull a-ridin’ by with a gre’t coopful of hens in the back o’ his wagon, and bundles o’ stuff tied on top and hitched to the exes underneath; and he riz a hymn just as he passed the house, and was speedin’ the old sorrel with a willer switch. ’T was most Thanksgivin’ time, an’ sooner ’n she expected him. New Year’s was the time she set; but he thought he’d better come while the roads was fit for wheels. They was out to meetin’ together Thanksgivin’ Day, an’ that used to be a gre’t season for marryin’; so the young folks nudged each other, and some on’ ’em ventured to speak to the couple as they come down the aisle. Lizy carried it off real well; she wa’n’t afraid o’ what nobody said or thought, and so home they went. They’d got out her yaller sleigh and her hoss; she never would ride after the deacon’s poor old creatur’, and I believe it died long o’ the winter from stiffenin’ up.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Goodsoe emphatically, after we had silently considered the situation for a short space of time,—“yes, there was consider’ble talk, now I tell you! The raskil boys pestered ’em just about
to death for a while. They used to collect up there an’ rap on the winders, and they’d turn out all the deacon’s hens ‘long at nine o’clock ‘o night, and chase ‘em all over the dingle; an’ one night they even lugged the pig right out o’ the sty, and shoved it into the back entry, an’ run for their lives. They’d stuffed its mouth full o’ somethin’, so it couldn’t squeal till it got there. There wa’n’t a sign o’ nobody to be seen when Lizy hasted out with the light, and she an’ the deacon had to persuade the creatur’ back as best they could; ’t was a cold night, and they said it took ‘em till towards mornin’. You see the deacon was just the kind of a man that a hog wouldn’t budge for; it takes a masterful man to deal with a hog. Well, there was no end to the works nor the talk, but Lizy left ‘em pretty much alone. She did ‘pear kind of dignified about it, I must say!”

  “And then, were they married in the spring?”

  “I was tryin’ to remember whether it was just before Fast Day or just after,” responded my friend, with a careful look at the sun, which was nearer the west than either of us had noticed. “I think likely ’t was along in the last o’ April, any way some of us looked out o’ the window one Monday mornin’ early, and says, ‘For goodness’ sake! Lizy’s sent the deacon home again!’ His old sorrel havin’ passed away, he was ridin’ in Ezry Welsh’s hoss-cart, with his hen-coop and more bundles than he had when he come, and he looked as meechin’ as ever you see. Ezry was drivin’, and he let a glance fly swiftly round to see if any of us was lookin’ out; an’ then I declare if he didn’t have the malice to turn right in towards the barn, where he see my oldest brother, Joshuay, an’ says he real natural, ‘Joshuay, just step out with your wrench. I believe I hear my kingbolt fattlin’ kind o’ loose.’ Brother, he went out an’ took in the sitooation, an’ the deacon bowed kind of stiff. Joshuay was so full o’ laugh, and Ezry Welsh, that they couldn’t look one another in the face. There wa’n’t nothing ailed the kingbolt, you know, an’ when Josh riz up he says, ‘Goin’ up country for a spell, Mr. Brimblecom?’

  “‘I be,’ says the deacon, lookin’ dreadful mortified and cast down.

  “‘Ain’t things turned out well with you an’ Sister Wisby?’ says Joshuay. ‘You had ought to remember that the woman is the weaker vessel.’

  “‘Hang her, let her carry less sail, then!’ the deacon bu’st out, and he stood right up an’ shook his fist there by the hencoop, he was so mad; an’ Ezry’s hoss was a young creatur’, an’ started up an set the deacon right over backwards into the chips. We didn’t know but he’d broke his neck; but when he see the women folks runnin’ out, he jumped up quick as a cat, an’ clim’ into the cart, an’ off they went. Ezry said he told him that he couldn’t git along with Lizy, she was so fractious in thundery weather; if there was a rumble in the daytime she must go right to bed an’ screech, and if ’t was night she must git right up an’ go an’ call him out of a sound sleep. But everybody knew he’d never a gone home unless she’d sent him.

  “Somehow they made it up agin right away, him an’ Lizy, and she had him back. She’d been countin’ all along on not havin’ to hire nobody to work about the gardin’ an’ so on, an’ she said she wa’n’t goin’ to let him have a whole winter’s board for nothin’. So the old hens was moved back, and they was married right off fair an’ square, an’ I don’t know but they got along well as most folks. He brought his youngest girl down to live with ’em after a while, an’ she was a real treasure to Lizy; everybody spoke well o’ Phebe Brimblecom. The deacon got over his pious fit, and there was consider’ble work in him if you kept right after him. He was an amazin’ cider-drinker, and he airnt the name you know him by in his latter days. Lizy never trusted him with nothin’, but she kep’ him well. She left everything she owned to Phebe, when she died, ‘cept somethin’ to satisfy the law. There, they’re all gone now: seems to me sometimes, when I get thinkin’, as if I’d lived a thousand years!”

  I laughed, but I found that Mrs. Goodsoe’s thoughts had taken a serious turn.

  “There, I come by some old graves down here in the lower edge of the pasture,” she said as we rose to go. “I couldn’t help thinking how I should like to be laid right out in the pasture ground, when my time comes; it looked sort o’ comfortable, and I have ranged these slopes so many summers. Seems as if I could see right up through the turf and tell when the weather was pleasant, and get the goodness o’ the sweet fern. Now, dear, just hand me my apernful o’ mulleins out o’ the shade. I hope you won’t come to need none this winter, but I’ll dry some special for you.”

  “I’m going home by the road,” said I, “or else by the path across the meadows, so I will walk as far as the house with you. Aren’t you pleased with my company?” for she demurred at my going the least bit out of the way.

  So we strolled toward the little gray house, with our plunder of mullein leaves slung on a stick which we carried between us. Of course I went in to make a call, as if I had not seen my hostess before; she is the last maker of muster-gingerbread, and before I came away I was kindly measured for a pair of mittens.

  “You’ll be sure to come an’ see them two peach-trees after I get ’em well growin’?” Mrs. Goodsoe called after me when I had said good-by, and was almost out of hearing down the road.

  The Town Poor

  MRS. WILLIAM TRIMBLE and Miss Rebecca Wright were driving along Hampden east road, one afternoon in early spring. Their progress was slow. Mrs. Trimble’s sorrel horse was old and stiff, and the wheels were clogged by clay mud. The frost was not yet out of the ground, although the snow was nearly gone, except in a few places on the north side of the woods, or where it had drifted all winter against a length of fence.

  “There must be a good deal o’ snow to the nor’ard of us yet,” said weather-wise Mrs. Trimble. “I feel it in the air; ’t is more than the ground-damp. We ain’t goin’ to have real nice weather till the up-country’s snow’s all gone.”

  “I heard say yesterday that there was good sleddin’ yet, all up through Parsley,” responded Miss Wright. “I shouldn’t like to live in them northern places. My cousin Ellen’s husband was a Parsley man, an’ he was obliged, as you may have heard, to go up north to his father’s second wife’s funeral; got back day before yesterday. ’T was about twenty-one miles, an’ they started on wheels; but when they’d gone nine or ten miles, they found ’t was no sort o’ use, an’ left their wagon an’ took a sleigh. The man that owned it charged ‘em four an’ six, too. I shouldn’t have thought he would; they told him they was goin’ to a funeral; an’ they had their own buffaloes2 an’ everything.”

  “Well, I expect it’s a good deal harder scratchin’, up that way; they have to git money where they can; the farms is very poor as you go north,” suggested Mrs. Trimble kindly. “’T ain’t none too rich a country where we be, but I’ve always been grateful I wa’n’t born up to Parsley.”

  The old horse plodded along, and the sun, coming out from the heavy spring clouds, sent a sudden shine of light along the muddy road. Sister Wright drew her large veil forward over the high brim of her bonnet. She was not used to driving, or to being much in the open air; but Mrs. Trimble was an active business woman, and looked after her own affairs herself, in all weathers. The late Mr. Trimble had left her a good farm, but not much ready money, and it was often said that she was better off in the end than if he had lived. She regretted his loss deeply, however; it was impossible for her to speak of him, even to intimate friends, without emotion, and nobody had ever hinted that this emotion was insincere. She was most warm-hearted and generous, and in her limited way played the part of Lady Bountiful in the town of Hampden.

  “Why, there’s where the Bray girls lives, ain’t it?” she exclaimed, as, beyond a thicket of witch-hazel and scruboak, they came in sight of a weather-beaten, solitary farmhouse. The barn was too far away for thrift or comfort, and they could see long lines of light between the shrunken boards as they came nearer. The fields looked both stony and sodden. Some
how, even Parsley itself could be hardly more forlorn.

  “Yes’m,” said Miss Wright, “that’s where they live now, poor things. I know the place, though I ain’t been up here for years. You don’t suppose, Mis’ Trimble—I ain’t seen the girls out to meetin’ all winter. I’ve re’lly been covetin’”—

  “Why, yes, Rebecca, of course we could stop,” answered Mrs. Trimble heartily. “The exercises was over earlier ’n I expected, an’ you’re goin’ to remain over night long o’ me, you know. There won’t be no tea till we git there, so we can’t be late. I’m in the habit o’ sendin’ a basket to the Bray girls when any o’ our folks is comin’ this way, but I ain’t been to see ’em since they moved up here. Why, it must be a good deal over a year ago. I know ’t was in the late winter they had to make the move. ’T was cruel hard, I must say, an’ if I hadn’t been down with my pleurisy fever I’d have stirred round an’ done somethin’ about it. There was a good deal o’ sickness at the time, an’—well ’t was kind o’ rushed through, breakin’ of ’em up, an’ lots o’ folks blamed the selec’ men; but when ’t was done, ’t was done, an’ nobody took holt to undo it. Ann an’ Mandy looked same ’s ever when they come to meetin’, ‘long in the summer,—kind o’ wishful, perhaps. They’ve always sent me word they was gittin’ on pretty comfortable.”

  “That would be their way,” said Rebecca Wright. “They never was any hand to complain, though Mandy’s less cheerful than Ann. If Mandy’d been spared such poor eyesight, an’ Ann hadn’t got her lame wrist that wa’n’t set right, they’d kep’ off the town fast enough. They both shed tears when they talked to me about havin’ to break up, when I went to see ‘em before I went over to brother Asa’s. You see we was brought up neighbors, an’ we went to school together, the Brays an’ me. ’T was a special Providence brought us home this road, I’ve been so covetin’ a chance to git to see ’em. My lameness hampers me.”