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diff --git a/old/lnago10.txt b/old/lnago10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..47e7438 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lnago10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1519 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Long Ago, by Jacob William Wright + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Long Ago + +Author: Jacob William Wright + +Release Date: December, 2003 [EBook #4757] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on March 12, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LONG AGO *** + + + + +This etext was produced by David A. Schwan, davidsch@earthlink.net. + + + +The Long Ago + + + +by Jacob William Wright + + + + + 1 The Garden + 2 The River + 3 Christmas + 4 Butter, Eggs, Ducks, Geese + 5 The Sugar Barrels + 6 Jimmy, the Lamplighter + 7 Flies + 8 The Autumn Leaves + 9 Getting in the Wood +10 The Rain +11 Grandmother +12 When Day is Done + + + +Then said he unto me, +Go thy way, +Weigh me the weight of the fire, +Or measure me the blast of the wind, +Or call me again the day that is past. +II Esdras IV:5 + + + +The day is done, and yet we linger here at the window of the private +office, alone, in the early evening. Street sounds come surging up to us - +the hoarse Voice of the City - a confused blur of noise - clanging +trolley-cars, rumbling wagons, and familiar cries - all the varied +commotion of the home-going hour when the city's buildings are pouring +forth their human tide of laborers into the clogged arteries. + +We lean against the window-frame, looking across and beyond the myriad +roofs, and listening. The world-weariness has touched our temples with +gray, and the heaviness of the day's concerns and tumult presses in, +presses in . . . . presses in . . . . + +Yet as we look into the gentle twilight, the throbbing street below +slowly changes to a winding country road . . . . the tall buildings fade +in the sunset glow until they become only huge elm-trees overtopping a +dusty lane . . . . the trolley-bells are softened so that they are but +the distant tinkle of the homeward herd on the hills . . . . and you and +I in matchless freedom are once more trudging the Old Dear Road side by +side, answering the call of the wondrous Voice of Boyhood sounding +through the years. + + + +The Garden + + + +It was the spirit of the garden that crept into my boy-heart and left +its fragrance, to endure through the years. What the garden stood for - +what it expressed - left a mysterious but certain impress. Grandmother's +touch hallowed it and made it a thing apart, and the rare soul of her +seemed to be reflected in the Lilies of the Valley that bloomed sweetly +year by year in the shady plot under her favorite window in the +sitting-room. Because the garden was her special province, it expressed +her own sturdy, kindly nature. Little wonder, then, that we cherished +it; that I loved to roam idly there feeling the enfoldment of that same +protection and loving-kindness which drew me to the shelter of her +gingham-aproned lap when the griefs of Boyhood pressed too hard upon me; +and that we walked in it so contentedly in the cool of the evening, +after the Four O'clocks had folded their purple petals for the night. + +Grandmother's garden, like all real gardens, wasn't just flowers and +fragrance. + +There was a brick walk leading from the front gate to the sitting-room +entrance - red brick, all moss-grown, and with the tiny weeds and +grasses pushing up between the bricks. In the garden proper the paths +were of earth, bordered and well-defined by inch-wide boards that +provided jolly tight-rope practice until grandmother came anxiously out +with her oft-repeated: "Willie don't walk on those boards; you'll, break +them down." And just after the warm spring showers these earthwalks +always held tiny mud-puddles where the rain-bleached worms congregated +until the robins came that way. + +There's something distinctive and individual about the paths in a garden - +they either "belong," or they do not. Imagine cement walks in +grandmother's garden! Its walks are as much to a garden as its flowers +or its birds or its beetles, and express that dear, indescribable +intimacy that makes the Phlox a friend and the Johnny-Jump-Up a +play-fellow. + +- + +The best place for angle-worms was underneath the white Syringa bush - +the tallest bloomer in the garden except the great Red Rose that climbed +over the entire wall of the house, tacked to it by strips of red +flannel, and whose blossoms were annually counted and reported to the +weekly newspaper. + +Another good place was under the Snowball bush, where the ground was +covered with white petals dropped from the countless blossom-balls that +made passers-by stop in admiration. + +Still another good digging-ground was in the Lilac corner where the +purple and white bushes exhaled their incomparable perfume. Grandmother +forbade digging in the flower-beds - it was all right to go into the +vegetable garden, but the tender flower-roots must not be exposed to the +sun by ruthless boy hands intent only on the quest of bait. + +- + +Into the lapel of my dress coat She fastened a delicate orchid last +night. It must have cost a pretty penny, at this season - enough, no +doubt, to buy the seeds that would reproduce a half-dozen of my +grandmother's gardens. And as we moved away in the limousine She asked +me why I was so silent. She could not know that when she slipped its +rare stem into place upon my coat, the long years dropped away - and I +stood again where the Yellow Rose, all thorn-covered, lifted its sunny +top above the picket fence - plucked its choicest blossom, put it almost +apologetically and ashamed into the buttonhole of my jacket - stuffed my +hands into my pockets and went whistling down the street, with the +yellow rose-tint and the sunlight and the curls on my child head all +shining in harmony. The first boutonniere of my life - from the bush +that became my confidant through all those wondrous years before they +packed my trunk and sent me off to college! + +To be sure, I loved the bright-faced Pansies which smiled cheerily up at +me from their round bed - and the dear old Pinks, of a strange fragrance +all their own - and the Sweet William, and even the grewsome Bleeding +Heart that drooped so sad and forlorn in its alloted corner. Yet it is +significant that last night's orchid took me straight back over memory's +pathway to that simple yellow rosebush by the fence! + +- + +Tonight, with the forgotten orchid in my lapel, and all the weight of +the great struggle lying heavy against my heart, I stand where the +night-fog veils the scraggly eucalyptus, and the dense silence blots out +all the noises that have intervened between the Then and the Now - and I +can see again the gorgeous Peonies, pink and white, where they toss +their shaggy heads, and gather as of old the flaming Cock's Comb by the +little path. I hear the honeybees droning in the Crab Apple tree by the +back gate, and watch the robins crowding the branches of the Mountain +Ash, where the bright red berries cluster. I see the terrible bumble-bee +bear down the Poppy on its slender stem and go buzzing threateningly +away, all pollen-covered. + +And shining clear and true through the mist I see her who was the Spirit +of the Garden. There she stands, on the broad step beside the bed where +the Lilies of the Valley grew, leaning firmly upon her one crutch, +looking out across her garden to each loved group of her flower-friends - +smiling out upon them as she did each day through fifty years - +turning at last into the house and taking with her, in her heart, the +glory of the Hollyhocks against the brick wall, the perfume of the +Narcissus in the border, the wing-song of the humming-bird among, the +Honey-suckle, and the warmth of the glad June sunshine. + + + +The River + + + +The river wasn't a big river as I look back at it now, yet it was wide +and wandering and deep, and flowed quietly along through a wonderful +Middle West valley, dividing the Little Old Town geographically and +socially. Its shores furnished such a boy playground as never was known +anywhere else in all the world - for it was a gentle river, a kindly +playfellow, an understanding friend; and it seemed fairly to thrill in +responsive glee when I plunged, naked and untamed, beneath the eddying +waters of the swimming-hole under the overhanging wild-plum tree. + +Its banks, curving in a semi-circle around the village, marked the +borders of the whole wide world. There were other rivers, other +villages, other lands somewhere - all with strange, queer names - +existing only in the geographies to worry little children. The real +world, and all the really, truly folks and things, were along the +far-stretching banks of this our river. Down by the flats, where the +tiny creek widened to a miniature swamp and emptied its placid waters +into the main stream, the red-wing blackbirds sounded their strange cry +among the cat-tails and the bull-rushes; the frogs croaked in ceaseless +and reverberant chorus; the catfish were ever hungry after dark, and the +night was broken by the glare of torches along the little bridge or in a +group of boats where fisher-lads kept close watch upon their corks. Far +below The Dam, where the changeful current had left a wide sand-bar and +a great tree-trunk stretched its fallen length across from the shore to +the water's edge, the mud-turtles basked in the sun-shine, and, at the +approach of Boyhood, glided or splashed to the safety of the water. + +The banks of the river were a deep and silent jungle wherein all manner +of wild beasts and birds were hunted; its bosom was the vasty deep out +upon which our cherished argosies were sent. And how often their prows +were unexpectedly turned by some new current into mid-stream; sometimes +saved by an assortment of missiles breathlessly thrown to the far side, +to bring them, wave-washed, back to us; sometimes, alas, swept +mercilessly out to depths where only the eye and childish grief could +follow them over the big dam to certain wreckage in the whirlpools +below, but even then not abandoned until the shore had been patrolled +for salvage as far as courage held out. + +Let's go back to the banks of our beloved river, you and I - and get up +early in the morning and run to the riffles near the old cooper-shop and +catch a bucket of shiners and chubs, and then hurry on to Boomer's dam - +or 'way upstream above the Island where we used to have the +Sunday-school picnics - or, maybe just stay at the in-town dam near the +flour mills and the saw-mills where old Shoemaker Schmidt used to catch +so many big ones - fat, yellow pike and broad black-bass. We will climb +high up on the mist-soaked timbers of the mill-race and settle ourselves +contentedly with the spray moistening our faces and the warm sun +browning our hands - and the heavy pounding of falling waters sounding +in our ears so melodiously and so sweetly. Lazily, drowsily we'll hold a +bamboo pole and guide out shiner through the foam-crowned eddies of the +whirlpool, awaiting the flash of a golden side or a lusty tug at the +line; and dreamily watch a long, narrow stream of shavings and sawdust, +loosed from the opposite planing-mill, float away on the current. And +here, in the dear dream-days, the conquering of the world will be a +simple matter; for through the mist-prisms that rise from the foaming +waters below the dam only rainbows can be seen - and there is Youth and +the Springtime, and the new-born flowers and mating birds, and The +River. . . . + +And when the sun is low we'll wind our poles, at the end of a rare and +great day - one that cannot die with the sunset, but that will live so +long as Memory is. Tonight we need not trudge over the fields toward +home, in happy weariness, to Her who waited and watched for us at the +window, peering through the gathering dusk until the anxious heart was +stilled by the sight of tired little legs dragging down the street past +the postoffice. We'll stay here in the twilight, and watch the +fire-flies light their fitful lamps, and the first stars blinking +through the afterglow; and when the night drops down see the black bats +careening weirdly across the moon. . . . And we'll stretch out again on +the wild grass - soothed by the fragrance of the Mayapple and the +violets, and the touch of the night-wind. . . How still it is . . . and +The River doesn't seem to sound so loud when your head's on the ground - +and your eyes are closed - and you're listening to the far, far, far-off +lullaby of tumbling waters - and you're a bit tired, Perhaps . . . a bit +tired. . . . + +- + +The Winter Stream + + + +Somehow The River never terrified me. + +(It did mother, however!) + +Perhaps it brought no fear to me because it flowed so gently and so +helpfully through such a wonderful valley of Peace and Plenty. Even in +its austere winter aspect, with its tree-banks bare of leaves and its +snow-and-ice-bound setting, it rejoiced me. + +Teams of big horses and wagons and scores of men, worked busily upon its +frozen surface, sawing and cutting and packing ice in the big wooden +houses along the banks. + +Always there was enough wind for an ice-boat or a skate-sail, or to send +a fellow swiftly along when mother-made promises were forgotten and an +unbuttoned coat was held outstretched to catch the breeze. + +At night the torches and bonfires flickered and glowed where the skaters +sent the merry noises of their revelry afloat through the crisp air as +they dodged steel-footed in and out among the huts of the winter +fishermen. + +Perhaps I loved the winter river because I knew that beneath its +forbidding surface there was the life of my loved lilies, and because I +knew that all in good time the real river - our river - would be +restored to us again, alive and joyous and unchanged. + +One day, when first the tiny rivulets started to run from the bottom of +the snow-drifts, The River suddenly unloosed its artillery and the crisp +air reechoed with the booming that proclaimed the breaking-up of the +ice. Great crowds of people thronged the banks, wondering if the bridge +would go out or would stand the strain of pounding icecakes. The +unmistakable note of a robin sounded from somewhere. Great dark spots +began to show in the white ice-ribbon that wound through the valley. The +air at sundown had lost its sting. + +So day by day the breaking-up continued until at last the blessed stream +was clear - the bass jumped hungry to the fly - the daffodils and +violets sprang from beneath their wet leaf-blankets - and all the world +joined the birds in one grand song of emancipation and joy. + +- + +The Big Bend + + + +Above the town, just beyond the red iron bridge, the river made a great +bend and widened into a lake where the banks were willow-grown, and +reeds and rushes and grasses and lily-pads pushed far out into +mid-stream, leaving only a narrow channel of clear water. + +To the Big Bend our canoe glided often, paddling lazily along and going +far up-stream to drift back with the current. + +Arms bared to the shoulder, we reached deep beneath the surface to bring +up the long-stemmed water-lilies - the great white blossoms, and the +queer little yellow-and-black ones. + +Like a blight-eyed sprite the tiny marsh-wren flitted among the rushes, +and the musk-rat built strange reed-castles at the water's edge. + +The lace-winged dragon-fly following our boat darted from side to side, +or poised in air, or alighted on the dripping blade of our paddle when +it rested for a moment across our knees. + +Among the grasses the wind-harps played weird melodies which only +Boyhood could interpret. + +In this place The River sang its love-songs, and sent forth an answering +note to the vast harmonious blending of blue sky and golden day and +incense-heavy air and the glad songs of birds. + +And here at this tranquil bend The River seemed to be the self-same +river of the old, loved hymn we sang so often in the Little Church With +The White Steeple - that river which "flows by the throne of God"; +fulfilling the promise of the ancient prophet of prophets and bringing +"peace . . . like a river, and glory . . . like a flowing stream." + + + +Christmas + + + +We always used grandmother's stocking - because it was the biggest one +in the family, much larger than mother's, and somehow it seemed able to +stretch more than hers. There was so much room in the foot, too - a +chance for all sorts of packages. + +There was a carpet-covered couch against the flowered wall in one corner +of the parlor. Between the foot of it and the chimney, was the door into +our bedroom. I always hung my stocking at the side of the door nearest +the couch, on the theory, well-defined in my mind with each recurring +Christmas, that if by any chance Santa Claus brought me more than he +could get into the stocking, he could pile the overflow on the couch. +And he always did! + +It may seem strange that a lad who seldom heard even the third +getting-up call in the morning should have awakened without any calling +once a year - or that his red-night-gowned figure should have leaped +from the depths of his feather bed - or that he should have crept +breathless and fearful to the door where the stocking hung. +Notwithstanding the ripe experience of years past, when each Christmas +found the generous stocking stuffed with good things, there was always +the chance that Santa Claus might have forgotten, this year - or that he +might have miscalculated his supply and not have enough to go 'round - +or that he had not been correctly informed as to just what you wanted - +or that some accident, might have befallen his reindeer-and-sleigh to +detain him until the grey dawn of Christmas morning stopped his work and +sent him scurrying back to his toy kingdom to await another Yule-tide. + +And so, in the fearful silence and darkness of that early hour, with +stilled breath and heart beating so loudly you thought it would awaken +everyone in the house, You softly opened the door - poked your arm +through - felt around where the stocking ought to be, but with a great +sinking in your heart when you didn't find it the first time - and +finally your chubby fist clutched the misshapen, lumpy, bulging fabric +that proclaimed a generous Santa Claus. + +Yes, it was there! + +That was enough for the moment. A hurried climb back into the warm bed - +and then interminable years of waiting until your attuned ear caught the +first sounds of grandmother's dressing in her nearby bedroom, and the +first gleam of winter daylight permitted you to see the wondrous +stocking and the array of packages on the sofa. It was beyond human +strength to refrain from just one look. But alas! The sight of a +dapple-grey rocking-horse with silken mane and flowing tail was too +much, and the next moment you were in the room with your arms around his +arched neck, while peals of unrestrained joy brought the whole family to +the scene. Then it was that mother gathered you into her lap, and +wrapped her skirt about your bare legs, and held your trembling form +tight in her arms until you promised to get dressed if they would open +just one package - the big one on the end of the sofa. After that there +was always "just one more, please!" and by that time the base burner was +warming up and you were on the floor in the middle of the discarded +wrapping-paper, uncovering each wonderous package down to the very last - +the very, very last - in the very toe of the stocking - the big round +one that you were sure was a real league ball but proved to be nothing +but an orange! . . . + +No Santa Claus? Huh! . . . + +If there isn't any Santa Claus, what does he put all the sample toys in +the stores for every Christmas so boys and girls can see what they want? +If he doesn't fill the stockings, who does, I'd like to know. Some folks +say that father and mother do it - but s'posin, they do, it's only to +help Santa Claus sometimes when he's late or overworked, or something +like that. + +The Spirit of Christmas is Santa Claus - else how could he get around to +everybody in the whole world at exactly the same time of the night? + +There is a new high-power motor in my garage. It came to me yesterday - +Christmas. It is very beautiful, and it cost a great deal of money, a +very great deal. If we were in the Little Old Town it would take us all +out to Aunt Em's farm in ten minutes. (It always took her an hour to +drive in with the old spotted white mare.) + +I am quite happy to have this wonderful new horse of today, and there is +some warmth inside of me as I walk around it in the garage while Henry, +its keeper, flicks with his chamois every last vestige of dust from its +shiny sides. + +And yet . . . how gladly would I give it up if only I could have been in +my feather bed last night - if I could have awakened at daybreak and +crept softly, red-flanneled and barefooted, to the parlor door - if I +could have groped for grandmother's stocking and felt its lumpy shape +respond to my eager touch - and if I could have known the thrill of that +dapple-grey rocking-horse when I flung my arms around its neck and +buried my face in its silken mane! + + + +Butter, Eggs, Ducks, Geese + + + +It seems mighty convenient to telephone your grocer to send up a pound +of butter and have it come all squeezed tight into a nice +square-cornered cardboard box whose bright and multi-colored label +assures you that the butter has been properly deodorized fumigated, +washed, sterilized, antisepticized and conforms in every other respect +to the Food and Drugs Act, Serial 1762973-A. You read the label again +and feel reasonably safe at meals. + +Huh! Precious little grandmother knew about that kind of butter! + +Hers came in a basket - a great big worn-brown-and-shiny, round bottom, +willow basket, hand-wove. It didn't come in any white-and-gold delivery +wagon, either. It was delivered by a round-faced, rosy-checked, +gingham-gowned picture of health, whose apron-strings barely met around +the middle - for Frau Hummel brought it herself - after having first +milked the cows with her own hands and wielded the churning-stick with +her own stout German arms. She had the butter all covered up with fresh, +sweet, white-linen cloths-and hand-moulded into big rolls - each roll +wrapped in its own immaculate cloth - and when that cloth was slowly +pulled away so that grandmother could stick the point of a knife in the +butter and test it on her tongue, you could see the white salt all over +the roll - and even the imprint of the cloth-threads . . . Good? . . . +Why, you could eat it without bread! + +"What else have you got today, Mrs. Hummel?" (Grandmother never could +say "Frau" - and as if she didn't know what else was in the basket!) + +"Vell, Mrs. Van, dere is meppe some eks, und a dook - und also dere is +left von fine stuffed geese." + +So the cloth covering was rolled farther back - and the 3-dozen eggs +were gently taken out and put in the old tin eggbucket - and just then +grandfather came in and lifted tenderly out of the basket one of those +wonderful geese "stuffed" with good food in a dark cellar until fat +enough for market. . . . Ever have a toothful of that kind of +goose-breast or second joint? . . . No? . . . Your life is yet +incomplete - you have something to live for! . . . Goodness me! I can't +describe it! How can a fellow tell about such things! It's like - well, +it's like Frau Hummel's "stuffed" goose, that's all! . . . + +And then it was weighed on the old balances, steels - (no, I don't mean +scales!) - steelyards, you know - a long-armed affair with a pear-shape of +iron at one end and a hook at the other and a handle somewhere in +between at the center-of-gravity, or some such place. . . . Anyway, they +gave an honest pound, which is perhaps another respect in which they +were different. + +Then the ducks, too, were unwrapped from their white cloths and weighed - +usually a pair of them - and the old willow basket had nothing left +but its bundle of cloths when Frau Hummel started out again on her +10-mile walk to the farm. + +Whenever I see a glassy-eyed, feather-headed, cold-storage chicken half +plucked and discolored hanging in a present-day butcher-shop +accumulating dust - or a scrawny duck almost popping through its skin - +I think of Frau Hummel and her willow basket. . . . + +But Frau Hummel isn't here now - and they don't build ducks and geese +like hers any more - and her old willow basket is probably in some +collection while we use these machine-made things that fall to pieces +when you accidentally stub your toe against them in the cellar. . . . We +are hurrying along so fast that we don't see anything until it's cooked +and served. . . . We just use the phone and let them send us any old +thing that they can charge on a bill. . . . But in those days +grandfather and grandmother inspected everything - and it just had to be +good - and there weren't any trusts - or eggs of various grades from +just eggs to strictly fresh eggs and on down to eggs guaranteed to boil +without crowing. Every Frau Hummel in the country wanted the Van Alstyne +trade - and Frau Hummel knew it - and she never brought anything to that +back kitchen door unless it was perfect of its kind. + +No wonder grandfather lived to be 92 and grandmother 86 - in good health +and spirits to the last! + + + +The Sugar Barrels + + + +Do you remember the three barrels of sugar in the dark place under the +stairs - or were they in the big pantry just off the kitchen? + +Well, anyway, there were three, you recollect - two of white and one of +brown. + +Always the brown sugar - and each Autumn the same colloquy: + +"Mr. Van, don't you think we can get along without the brown sugar this +year?" + +"Now, Mrs. Van, you've got to have a little brown sugar in the house - +and it comes cheaper by the barrel." + +"Yes, so it does, Mr. Van . . . . . We can use it, I suppose, in +something . . . . . And we always have had it, and . . . . . Well, do as +you think best." + +White sugar was good when you had something to go with it. + +But brown sugar stood alone - sticky, heavy, crumbly lumps that held +together until a fellow could tip back his head and drop one of the +chunks in his mouth. + +And after school grandmother could be persuaded to cut a full-size slice +of bread (thick) and spread it with butter (thick) and you'd start away +with it (quick) - just nibbling at one edge, not really biting - and +you'd sneak into the dark place under the stairs (or into the pantry) - +and reach deep down into the white sugar barrel - and grab a handful - +and sprinkle it over the bread-and-butter - and shake back into the +barrel all that didn't stick to the butter - and then do it all over +again - and pat it down hard - and then sprinkle just a little bit more +on hurriedly, (because grandfather's cane could be heard tapping down +the hall) - and then you emerged with dignity, but with no unnecessary +commotion - and just faded away into the Outer World so softly, so +gently, so contentedly! . . . . . + +(Have you tried any bread-and-butter-and-sugar recently? Did it taste +the same as it used to? . . . + +No? . . . Perhaps you broke it into pieces instead of beginning at one +side and eating straight through? + +Or maybe you got hold of the cooking butter . . . Or did you try it with +baker's bread? . . . + +No? . . . Well, why didn't it taste the same? + + + +Jimmy the Lamplighter + + + +The sun had gone down behind the willows on the river-bank. The +night-clouds still carried the crimson-and-purple of the late twilight; +and the deep, still waters of the channel gave back the colors and the +gleam of the first stars that heralded the night . . . . . The martins +chattered under the eaves, scolding some belated member of the clan who +pushed noisily for a lodging-place for the night. The black bat and the +darting nighthawk were a-wing, grim spectres of the dusk. The +whip-poor-will was crying along the river, and far up-stream the loon +called weirdly across the water. . . . . + +A small boy was sitting on grandfather's front steps, his elbows on his +knees, his chin in his palms, seeing familiar objects disappear in the +gathering dusk, and watching the stars come out. He was safe, very safe +for grandfather had not gone to the dining-room yet, and his arms could +be reached for shelter in two or three bounds, if need be. So it was +very pleasant to sit on the steps and see the little old town fold-up +its affairs and settle down for the night. + +And more particularly to watch for Jimmy, the Lamplighter. + +Far up the street, in the almost-dark place, about where Schmidt's +shoestore ought to be, a point of light flashed suddenly, flickered, and +then burned steadily - and in a moment another, across the street . . . . +Then a space of black, and two more points appeared. Down the street +they came in pairs, closely following the retreating day. + +And the Little Boy on the Steps knew that it was Jimmy, the Lamplighter, +working his way swiftly and silently. If only the supper bell would +delay awhile The Boy would see old Jimmy light the lamp on grandfather's +corner, as he had seen him countless times before. + +Then, just as the red glow faded in the West and Night settled down, he +came swinging sturdily across the street, his ladder hung on his right +shoulder, his wax taper in his left hand. Quickly, unerringly he placed +the ladder against the iron post that sent its metallic ring into the +clear night air as the ladder struck, and was three rounds up almost +before it settled into position. Then a quick opening of the glass; a +struggle with the matches in the wind, a hurried closing of the door, +one quick look upward; an arm through the ladder and a swing to the +shoulder - and Jimmy the Lamplighter was busily off to his next corner. + +Once, in the later years, he came with his new lighter - a splendid +brass affair, with smooth wood handle, holding a wax taper that +flickered fitfully down the street and marked old Jimmy's pathway +through the dusk. Although he could reach up and turn on the gas with +the key-slot at the end of the scepter and light it with the taper, all +at one time, he ever carried the ladder - for none could tell when or +where a burner might need fixing, or there would be other need to climb +the post as in the days of the lamp and sulphur-match. + +Short of stature, firm of build, was old Jimmy. The night storms of +innumerable years had bronzed his skin and furrowed his face. +Innumerable years, yes - for so faithful a servant as old Jimmy the +Lamplighter was not to be cast away by every caprice of the public mind +which changed the political aspect of the town council. So Jimmy stayed +on through the years and changing administrations -in the sultry heat of +the summer nights, or breasting his way through winter's huge +snow-drifts, fronting the wind-driven sleet, or dripping through the +spring-time rain, his taper hugged tight beneath his thick rubber coat, +his matches safe in the depths of an inside pocket. + +And tonight, as the Boy still watches, in memory, old Jimmy on his +rounds, they are a bit odd, these queer old street lamps that just seem +to belong to the night, after the garish blaze of electric signs and the +great arc-lights in the shop windows. Yet it shines through the years, +this simple lamp of the Long Ago, as it shone through the night of old - +a friendly beacon only, the modest servant of an humble race. . . . . + +Jimmy's boy Ted, who carried his father's ladder and taper when the good +old man laid them down, now nods in his chimney-corner o' nights. But +his boy, old Jimmy's grandson, is still a lamplighter - still +illuminating the streets of his town, still turning on its lamps when +the loon calls weirdly across the river in the gathering dusk. + +He bears no ladder nor fitful taper - he dreads no sultry summer heat - +he breasts no snowdrifts - he battles against no wind-driven sleet and +rain. + +There he sits, inside yonder great brick building, his chair tipped back +against the wall, reading the evening paper while the giant wheels of +the dynamo purr softly and steadily. He lowers his paper - looks at the +clock - then out into the early twilight . . . . then slowly turns to +the wall, pushes a bit of a button, takes up his paper again, and goes +on with his reading - while a thousand lights burn white through the +city! . . . . + +Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy! the world is all awry, man! Your son's son lights his +thousand lamps in a flash that's no more than the puff of wind that used +to blow your match out when you stood on your ladder and lighted one! + + + +Flies + + + +Come to think of it, the Old Folks never made such a fuss about flies as +we make nowadays. You cannot pick up a magazine without running plump +into an article on the deadly housefly - with pictures of him magnified +until he looks like the old million-toed, barrel-eyed, spike-tailed +dragon of your boyhood mince-pie dreams. The first two pages convince +you that the human race is doomed to extermination within eighteen +months by the housefly route! + +Grandmother never resorted to very drastic measures. The most violent +thing she ever did was to get little Annie, Bridget-the-housewoman's +Annie, to help her chase them out. They went from room to room +periodically (when flies became too numerous), each armed with an old +sawed-off broom-handle on which were tacked long cloth streamers - a +sort of cat-o'-nine-tails effect, only with about a score or more of +tails. After herding the blue-bottles and all their kith and kin into a +fairly compact bunch at the door, little Annie opened the screen and +grandmother drove them out - and that's all there was to it. + +Another favorite device (particularly in the dining-room and kitchen), +was the "fly-gallery" - a wonderful array of multicolored tissue-paper +festooned artistically from the ceiling or around the gas-pipes to lure +or induce the fly into moments of inactivity. There was no extermination +in this device - it was purely preventive in its function - the idea +being that since there must be fly-specks, better to mass them as much +as possible on places where they would show the least and could be +removed the easiest when sufficiently accumulated. + +But the greatest ounce-of-prevention was the screen hemisphere. Gee! I +haven't thought of that thing for years, have you? Of course you +remember it - absolutely fly-proof - one clapped over the butter, +another over the crackerbowl, another over the sugar! + +And say! I almost forgot! . . . (Yes, I know you were just going to +speak of it!) . . . That conical screen fly-trap where the flies see +something good inside, crawl up to the top and then over and in - and +then can't get out - but just buzz and buzz and buzz - and make a lot of +fuss about it - bluebottles and all - no respecter of persons - and when +it gets full of the quick and dead in flydom, Bridget takes it out in +the back yard and dumps it. Very simple . . . clean, peaceful, +effective. + +My, My! But it's a far cry back to those days, isn't it? And wouldn't +you like right this minute to sneak into the cool, curtain-down, +ever-so-quiet dining-room again . . . and nose around to see if anything +edible bad been overlooked - and see one of those dear old round +fly-screens guarding the sugar! + + + +The Autumn Leaves + + + +There were three recognized uses for leaves in the Autumn - first, to be +banked by the wind along fences or sidewalk edges and provide +kicking-ground for exuberant youngsters returning home from school; +second, to be packed around the foundations of the house as a measure +for interior comfort in winter; and, third, to be pressed between the +pages of the big Bible and kept for ornamental purposes until they +crumbled and had to be thrown away. This last-named use was always +questioned by every red-blooded boy, and more tolerated than accepted - +a concession to the women of earth, from little sister with her +bright-hued wreath to mother and grandmother with their book of pressed +leaves. + +Even for purposes of comfort their use was more or less secondary - +granted because the banking-up process was a man's job and an out-door +enterprise. Then, too, it was a lot of fun to rake the big yard and get +the fallen leaves into one or two huge piles; and wheelbarrow them to +the edge of the house where old Spencer had driven the wooden pegs that +held the boards ready to receive the leaves. Load after load was dumped +into the trough-like arrangement and stamped down tight and hard by old +Tom's huge feet and little Willie's eager but ineffective ones - and +then the top board was fastened down, and never a cold winter wind could +find its way under the floors with such a protective bulwark around the +house. . . . And in the spring the boards had to be taken down - and +countless bleached bugs fairly oozed out into the spring sunlight - and +the snow-wet soggy leaves were raked out and burned, and the smoke was +so thick and heavy that it hardly got out of the yard. + +But the real use of leaves - their only legitimate function in the Autumn, +according to all accepted boy-law - was for kicking purposes. + +Plunging through banks of dry leaves along the edge of the +sidewalk-knee-deep sometimes - scattering them in all directions, even +about our heads - there was such a racket that we could scarcely hear +each other's shouts of glee. And we'd run through them only to dive +exhausted into some huge pile of them, rolling and kicking and hollering +until some kid came along and chucked an armful, dirt and all, plumb +into our face! This was the signal for a battle of leaves - and perhaps +there would have been fewer tardy-marks, teacher, if there had been +fewer autumn leaves along the route . . . Perhaps! + +There were influences that tempered the joys of leaf-kicking - some +"meanie" was always ready to hide a big rock, or other disagreeable +foreign substance, under a particularly inviting bunch of leaves - then +watch and giggle at your discomfiture when you came innocently ploughing +along! + +What a riot of wonderful color they made just after the first frosts had +turned their green to red and gold and brown! As a boy I disdained so +weak a thing as noticing the coloring on Big Hill - but now, in the +long-after years, I realize that its vivid Autumn garment was +indestructibly fixed in my memory and has lived - saved for me until I +could look back through Time's long glass and understand and love that +glorious picture. Not even the brush of a Barbizon master could tell the +story of Big Hill, three miles up the river from Main Street bridge, +gleaming in the hues that Jack Frost mixed, beneath the blue-gold dome +of a cloudless sky - for it could not paint the chatter of the squirrel, +or the glint of the bursting bittersweet berry, or the call of the crow, +or the crisp of the air, or the joy of life that only boyhood knows! + + + +Getting in the Wood + + + +An autumnal event of importance, second only to the filling of the +meat-house, was the purchase and sawing of the wood. + +Three sizes, remember - the 4-foot lengths for the long, low stove in +the Big Room, 12-inch "chunks" for the oval sheet-iron stove in the +parlor, and the fine-split 18-inch lengths for the kitchen. (Yes, they +burned wood in the kitchen - not only wood, but oak and maple and +hickory - the kind you buy by the carat nowadays!) + +And what a fire it made! Two sticks of the long wood in the stove in the +Big Room, and the damper open, and you'd have to raise the windows +inside of fifteen minutes no matter how low the thermometer registered +outside. In the kitchen grandmother did all her cooking with a wood fire - +using the ashes for the lye barrel - and the feasts that came steaming +from her famous oven have never been equalled on any gas-range ever +made. (Gas-range! how grandmother would have sniffed in scorn at such a +suggestion!) Even coal was only fit for the base burner in the family +sitting-room - and that must be anthracite, or "hard" coal, the kind +that comes in sacks nowadays at about the same price as butter and eggs. +And even the wood had to be split just so and be "clear" and right, or +grandmother would scold grandfather for not wearing his near-seeing +specs when he bought it. "Guess they fooled you on that load, Mr. Van," +she'd say. "It isn't like the last we had." + +Don't you remember how you were hanging around the kitchen one Saturday +morning kind-a waiting for something to come within reach, and +grandfather's cane came tap-tapping down the long hall, and he pushed +open the kitchen door and stood there, just inside the door, until the +kettle started boiling over and making such a noise. And then he +announced that he thought he better go out and see if there was any wood +in market. (As if there weren't fifty farmers lined up there almost +before daylight!) It was about nine o'clock and the sun had had a chance +to warm things up a bit - so grandmother wrapped him up in his knitted +muffler and away he went beneath his shiny silk hat. And because you +stood around and looked wistfully up at him, he finally turned back, +just before he reached the big front door and said: "Want to go along, +Billie?" Of course you went, because there were all kinds of shops on +the way up town to the wood market and grandfather always had an extra +nickle for such occasions. + +Can't you just see that wood-market now, as it used to be in the Long +Ago - with its big platform scales - and its wagons of accurately-piled +cord-wood marked on the end of some stick with the white chalk-mark of +the official "inspector" and measurer - and the farmers all bundled-up +and tied-around with various cold-dispelling devices and big mitts and +fur caps? So far as you could tell then (or now, either, I'll wager!) +every load was exactly like every other load - but not so to +grandfather, for he would scrutinize them all, sound them with his +stick, barter and dicker and look out for knots - and then make the +rounds again and do it all over before finally making his selection - +and I distinctly remember feeling that the wood left in market after +grandfather had made his selection wasn't worth hauling away! + +Load after load was driven up to the high backyard fence and its sticks +heaved into the yard and piled in perfect order - and it made a goodly +and formidable showing when Old Pete, the wood-sawyer, finally arrived +on the scene. The time of wood-buying was determined partly by Pete's +engagements - he went first to the Perkinses and next to the Williamses +and so on in rotation as he had done for years, his entire winter being +"engaged" far ahead. It did not seem possible, to boyish mind, that one +man could ever get all that wood sawed and split, even if he was a great +giant Norseman with the finest buck-saw in the country. + +But each year Old Pete's prowess seemed to increase - and day after day +the ceaseless music of his saw sounded across the crisp air - and the +measured strokes of his axe struck a clarion note - until finally the +yard showed only chips and saw-dust where that vast wood-pile had been - +and the big barn was piled full to the rafters - the kitchen wood and +chunks on one side, the big wood on the other. + +Then Pete would come in and announce that the job was done - and +grandfather would bundle-up and go out for a final inspection. Pete +removed the pad from his leg (you remember the carpet he wore on his +left knee - the one that held the stick in place in the buck when he was +sawing) and together they went into the barn - and talked it all over - +and Pete said it was harder wood than last year's and more knots in it +and ought to be worth two shillings more than contract price - and +grandfather finally allowed the excess - and Old Pete came in and got +his money (in gold and silver) and a bowl of coffee and some bread - and +went his way to the Jonesses or some other folks. + +And you, young man - you surely hated to see that great Viking go - for +he had told you many a wonderful tale at the noon hour as he munched his +thick sandwiches - and no one could look at his massive head and huge +shoulders and great beard and hair and doubt that his forebears had done +all that he credited to them. + +Somehow, Old Pete seemed more real than most men you knew - except +grandfather, of course. There was something unexplainable in the man and +his work that rang true - something that was so wholesome and sound. He +wasn't like old Hawkins, the grocer - he'd as lief give you a rotten +apple as not if he could smuggle it into the bag without you seeing him; +and Kline the candy-man sometimes sold you old hard stuff mixed with the +fresh. But Old Pete here - he just worked honest and steady - out in the +open - at a fixed wage - and he did an honest job and was proud of it +even if it was only sawing wood. He worked faithfully until it was done, +and then he got a good word and a bowl of coffee and his wages in gold +and silver - and went his way rejoicing, leaving behind him the glory of +labor well performed blending with the refreshing fragrance of new-cut +logs that sifted through the cracks of the old barn. + + + +The Rain + + + +It is early, and Saturday morning - very, very early. + +Listen! . . . An unmistakable drip, drip, drip . . . and the room is +dark. + +A bound out of bed - a quick step to the window - an anxious peering +through the wet panes . . . . and the confirmation is complete. + +It is raining - and on Saturday, the familiar leaden skies and steady +drip that spell permanency and send the robin to the shelter of some +thick bush, and leave only an occasional undaunted swallow cleaving the +air on swift wing. + +In all the world there is no sadness like that which in boyhood sends +you back to bed on Saturday morning with the mournful drip, drip, drip +of a steady rain doling in your ears. + +Out in the woodshed there is a can of the largest, fattest angle-worms +ever dug from a rich garden-plot - all so happily, so feverishly, so +exultantly captured last night when Anticipation strengthened the little +muscles that wielded the heavy spade. All safe in their black soil they +wait, coiled round and round each other into a solid worm-ball in the +bottom of the can. + +A mile down the river the dam is calling - the tumbled waters are +swirling and eddying and foaming over the deep places where the +black-bass wait - and old Shoemaker Schmidt, patriarch of the river, is +there this very minute, unwinding his pole, for well he knows that if +one cares to brave the weather he will catch the largest and finest and +most bass when the rain is falling on the river. + +But small boys who have anxious mothers do not go fishing on rainy days - +so there is no need of haste, and one might as well go back to bed and +sleep unconcernedly just as late as possible. If only a fellow could get +up between showers, or before the rain actually starts, so that he could +truthfully say: "But, mother, really and truly, it wasn't raining when +we started!" it would be all right, and the escape was warrantable, +justified and safe; but with the rain actually falling, there was +nothing to do but go to sleep again and turn the worms back into the +garden if the rain didn't let up by noon. + +- + +It is one of the miracles of life that Boyhood can turn grief into joy +and become almost instantly reconciled to the inevitable like a true +philosopher, and change a sorrow into a blessing. The companion miracle +is that Manhood with its years of wisdom forgets how to do this. + +And so, when the rainy day becomes hopelessly rainy, and Shoemaker +Schmidt is left alone at the dam, the rain that sounded so dismal at +dawn proves to be a benefactor after all. There will be no woodsplitting +today, no outdoor chores - for if it's too wet to go fishing, as mother +insists, of course it's too wet to carry wood, or weed gardens or pick +cucumbers for pickles. The logic is so obvious and conclusive that even +mother does not press the point when you remind her of it - and you are +free for a whole day in the attic. + +Instantly the blessing is manifest - the sadness of that day-break drip, +drip, drip is healed - the whole character of the day is changed, and +the rain-melody becomes not a funeral-march but a dance. + +The attic is the place of all places you would most love to be on this +particular calendar day! + +How stupid to spoil a perfectly good Saturday by sitting on a hard beam, +with wet spray blowing in your face all the time, and getting all tired +out holding a heavy fish-pole, when here is the attic waiting for you +with its mysterious dark corners, its scurrying mice that suddenly +develop into lions for your bow-and-arrow hunting, and its maneuvers on +the broad field of its floor with yourself as the drum-corps and your +companions as the army equipped with wooden swords and paper helmets! + +- + +The day has been rich in adventure, and exploration, and the doing of +great deeds. + +And it has been all too short, for the attic is growing dim, and mother +is again calling us - telling us to send our little playmates home and +come and get our bread and milk. + +A last arrow is shot into the farthest comer where some undiscovered +jungle beast may be prowling. + +A last roll is given to the drum, and the army disbands. + +A sudden fear seizes upon us as we realize that night has come and we +are in the attic, alone. + +And with no need of further urging we scamper unceremoniously down the +stairs, slam the attic door, hurry into the kitchen where Maggie has our +table waiting . . . . + +- + + +Eight o'clock - and we're all tucked away among the feathers again! + +Aren't we glad we didn't go down to the river - it would have been a +cold, dismal day - and perhaps they weren't biting today, anyway - and +we should have gotten very wet. + +It is still raining, raining hard - pattering unceasingly on the roof . . . +And the tin eave-troughs are singing their gentle lullaby of running +water trickling from the shingles . . . a lullaby so soothing that we do +not hear mother softly open the door . . . and come to our crib and +place the little bare arms under the covers and leave a kiss on the +yellow curls and a benediction in the room. + + + +Grandmother + + + +Do you remember the day she lost her glasses? My, such a commotion! +Everybody turned in to hunt for them. Grandmother tramped from one end +of the house to the other - we all searched - upstairs and down - with +no success. + +They weren't in the big Bible (we turned the leaves carefully many times - +it was the most likely place). They weren't in either of her sewing +baskets, nor in the cook-book in the kitchen. Grandfather said she could +use one pair of his gold-bowed ones - but shucks! She couldn't see with +anything except those old steel-bowed specs! . . . + +And then, when she finally sat down and said for the fiftieth time: "I +wonder where those specs are!" . . . and put the corner of her apron to +her eyes - I happened to look up, and there they were - on the top of +her head! Been there all the time . . . And she enjoyed the joke as much +as we did - a joke that went around the little town and followed her +through all the years within my memory of her. + +Sometimes (as often as expedient), you asked her for a penny - never +more, and then: + +"Now, Willie, what do you want with a penny? I haven't got it. Run along +now." + +"Aw, Gran'ma, don't make a feller tell what he's goin' to buy. I know +you got one - Look'n see! Please, Gran'ma!" + +Slowly the wrinkled hand would fumble for that skirt-pocket which was +always so hard to locate - and from its depths there would come the old +worn leather wallet with a strap around it - and slowly, (gee! how +s-l-o-w-l-y), - after much fumbling, during which you were never sure +whether you were going to get it or not . . . the penny would come forth +and be placed (with seeming reluctance) in the grimy, dirty boy-hand. +And usually, just as you reached the door on your hurried way to the +nearest candy-shop, she would scare you almost stiff by calling you +back, and say: + +Wait a minute, Willie, I found another one that I didn't know was in +here!" + +And then you kissed her wrinkled, soft check and ran away thinking, +after all, grandmother was pretty good. + +Good? + +Can a woman stick to a man through sixty-odd years - and keep his linen +and his broadcloth - and bear him children - and make them into fine +wives and husbands - and take them back to her bosom when their mates +turn against them - and raise a bunch of riotous grandchildren - and +manage such a household as ours with never a complaint - get up at five +o'clock every morning and sit up till half-after nine o'clock every +night - busy all the time - and nurse her own and other folks' ailments +without a murmur - and submerge self completely in her constant doing +for others - can a frail woman so live for eighty-six years and be +anything less than good? + +And then, at the end of the long journey she was still trudging +patiently and gladly along, side by side with Grandfather - making less +fuss over the years - old pain in her knees than we make now over a +splinter in a finger - going daily and uncomplainingly about her +manifold duties. + +And at night, about an hour before bedtime, she would sit down in the +black-upholstered rocker almost behind the big base burner - her first +quiet moment in all the long day - head resting against the chair's high +back - and doze and listen to the fitful conversation in the room, or to +someone reading - giving everything, demanding nothing - as had been her +wont all the long years! + +And Christmas eve . . . (I'll have to go a bit slow now) . . . On +Christmas eve, you remember, when out-of-doors the big snow-flakes were +slowly and softly fluttering down, grandmother would get the huge Bible +and her treasure-box and bring them up to the little round table covered +with its red cloth . . . And you'd get a chair and come up close ('cause +you knew what was happening) . . . Then she would read you a wonderful +story out of the Bible about the love of God so great that He sent His +only-begotten Son to be a Light unto the World . . . and then she'd go +down into that little old card-board treasure-box and find some +Christmas carols printed in beautiful colors on lace-edged cards folded +up just like a fan. She would look down at you over the top of her specs +and tell you how the street minstrels in England used to stand out in +the snow and sing, and be brought into the house and given a warm mug +and a bite to eat - going from house to house all through the early +night . . . + +And then she would close her eyes and begin to sing the dear old +carols . . . with the tremble in her voice . . . and tapping on the table +with her finger-ends in rhythm . . . and Memory's tears dropping +on the wrinkled checks . . . and the tremulous voice, still soft and +sweet, chanting: + +"God rest you, merrie gentlemen! +Let nothing you dismay; +For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, +Was born on Christmas Day!" +. . . . . . . . . . . . . + +Aye and amen, dear soul! God rest you - and He does! + + + +When Day is Done + + + +If the page blurs, as it may do if you were ever a child and if you have +been tempered in the cruel furnace of the years, maybe the mists that +fill the eyes will bathe the soul of you in their hallowed flood until +the world-ache is soothed, and you can start up the big road again with +some of the same wonderful exultation that sped you onward and forward +in the Long Ago . . . One touch of that, and the burden of Today, grown +great in the years of struggle, slips from your shoulders as lightly as +the wild-rose petal drops upon the bosom of the stream and floats away +to the music of the riffles. + +Only a strong man can go back over the Old Road to the beginning-point - +facing the memories that throng the path - meeting the surging emotions +that sweep away all our carefully-laid defenses - braving the grim +spectre that puts the white seal of age upon our heads. + +Once more, in the cool of the late twilight, we'll sit with chin in hand +on grandfather's front steps and watch the stars come out . . . and hear +the loon calling weirdly across the water . . . and catch the perfume of +the lilacs and narcissus from the garden . . . and gather at +grandmother's knee to feel her soft fingers in our curls and hear her +bedtime story. Half asleep, but ever reluctant, we will trudge +stumblingly to the little room with its deep feather bed, and get into +our red-flannel nightie. Down on our knees, with our face in the soft +edges of the mattress and tiny hands uplifted, we will say our prayers, +and end them in the same old way: "God bless father and mother, and +grandfather and grandmother . . . and ev-ery-body . . . else in . . . +the . . . world . . amen . . . " and feel those strong mother-arms +lifting our sleepy form into the downy depths! + +Never until now have we known the reality of the boy-days, or paused to +receive their hallowed touch. + +Grandfather and grandmother, and the garden, and the river, and the song +of the robin in the appletree, and all the myriad experiences of the +boy-time, are glorified now as never before. In the halcyon Then they +were but incidents of the day; in the mellowed Now we learn the truth of +them, and catch their wondrous meaning. + +The flower blossoms are gleaming as colorful and fragrant today as they +did in the Long Ago. The bird-songs are as tuneful now as they were +then. The sun is shining just as golden and as genial this moment as it +did when we sat on the beams of the mill-race and felt on our faces the +spray of tumbling waters sun-warmed in the air. + +We need only open our hearts and let the sunshine in! + +And Youth and Age, blended and rejoicing, will go hand in hand along the +path of life to its far goal bestowing upon us all the freshness of the +dew-damp morning, all the vigor of the strenuous noon, and all the peace +and calm assurance of the star-lit night. + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LONG AGO *** + +This file should be named lnago10.txt or lnago10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, lnago11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lnago10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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