| |
| GRIEF hath been known to turn the young head gray,— | |
| To silver over in a single day | |
| The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime | |
| Scarcely o’erpast; as in the fearful time | |
| Of Gallia’s madness, that discrownèd head | 5 |
| Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled | |
| Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen! | |
| What must the sufferings of that night have been— | |
| That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o’er | |
| With time’s untimely snow! But now no more, | 10 |
| Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee— | |
| I have to tell a humbler history; | |
| A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth | |
| (If any), will be sad and simple truth. | |
| |
| “Mother,” quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,— | 15 |
| So oft our peasant’s use his wife to name, | |
| “Father” and “Master” to himself applied, | |
| As life’s grave duties matronize the bride,— | |
| “Mother,” quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north | |
| With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth | 20 |
| To his day labor, from the cottage door,— | |
| “I ’m thinking that, to-night, if not before, | |
| There ’ll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton 1 roar? | |
| It ’s brewing up, down westward; and look there, | |
| One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; | 25 |
| And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, | |
| As threats, the waters will be out anon. | |
| That path by the ford ’s a nasty bit of way,— | |
| Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.” | |
| |
| “Do, mother, do!” the quick-eared urchins cried; | 30 |
| Two little lasses to the father’s side | |
| Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy | |
| The answering language of the mother’s eye. | |
| There was denial, and she shook her head: | |
| “Nay, nay,—no harm will come to them,” she said, | 35 |
| “The mistress lets them off these short dark days | |
| An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, | |
| May quite be trusted—and I know ’t is true— | |
| To take care of herself and Jenny too. | |
| And so she ought,—she ’s seven come first of May,— | 40 |
| Two years the oldest; and they give away | |
| The Christmas bounty at the school to-day.” | |
| |
| The mother’s will was law (alas, for her | |
| That hapless day, poor soul!)—she could not err, | |
| Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane | 45 |
| (Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again, | |
| When each had had her turn; she clinging so | |
| As if that day she could not let him go. | |
| But Labor’s sons must snatch a hasty bliss | |
| In nature’s tenderest mood. One last fond kiss, | 50 |
| “God bless my little maids!” the father said, | |
| And cheerily went his way to win their bread. | |
| Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, | |
| What looks demure the sister pair put on,— | |
| Not of the mother as afraid, or shy, | 55 |
| Or questioning the love that could deny; | |
| But simply, as their simple training taught, | |
| In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought | |
| (Submissively resigned the hope of play) | |
| Towards the serious business of the day. | 60 |
| |
| To me there ’s something touching, I confess, | |
| In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, | |
| Seen often in some little childish face | |
| Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace | |
| (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!) | 65 |
| The unnatural sufferings of the factory child, | |
| But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, | |
| Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, | |
| Sense of life’s cares, without its miseries. | |
| So to the mother’s charge, with thoughtful brow, | 70 |
| The docile Lizzy stood attentive now, | |
| Proud of her years and of the imputed sense, | |
| And prudence justifying confidence,— | |
| And little Jenny, more demurely still, | |
| Beside her waited the maternal will. | 75 |
| So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain | |
| Gainsborough ne’er painted: no—nor he of Spain, | |
| Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shown | |
| More beautiful. The younger little one, | |
| With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair, | 80 |
| By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, | |
| Sable and glossy as the raven’s wing, | |
And lustrous eyes as dark.
“Now, mind and bring | |
| Jenny safe home,” the mother said,—“don’t stay | |
| To pull a bough or berry by the way: | 85 |
| And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast | |
| Your little sister’s hand, till you ’re quite past,— | |
| That plank ’s so crazy, and so slippery | |
| (If not o’erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. | |
| But you ’re good children—steady as old folk— | 90 |
| I ’d trust ye anywhere.” Then Lizzy’s cloak, | |
| A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied, | |
| And ample little Jenny’s lack supplied | |
| With her own warmest shawl. “Be sure,” said she, | |
| “To wrap it round and knot it carefully | 95 |
| (Like this), when you come home, just leaving free | |
| One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away— | |
| Good will to school, and then good right to play.” | |
| |
| Was there no sinking at the mother’s heart | |
| When, all equipt, they turned them to depart? | 100 |
| When down the lane she watched them as they went | |
| Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent | |
| Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell: | |
| Such warnings have been sent, we know full well | |
| And must believe—believing that they are— | 105 |
| In mercy then—to rouse, restrain, prepare. | |
| |
| And now I mind me, something of the kind | |
| Did surely haunt that day the mother’s mind, | |
| Making it irksome to bide all alone | |
| By her own quiet hearth. Though never known | 110 |
| For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, | |
| Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay | |
| At home with her own thoughts, but took her way | |
| To her next neighbor’s, half a loaf to borrow,— | |
| Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,— | 115 |
| And with the loan obtained, she lingered still. | |
| Said she, “My master, if he ’d had his will, | |
| Would have kept back our little ones from school | |
| This dreadful morning; and I ’m such a fool, | |
| Since they ’ve been gone, I ’ve wished them back. But then | 120 |
| It won’t do in such things to humor men,— | |
| Our Ambrose specially. If let alone | |
| He ’d spoil those wenches. But it ’s coming on, | |
| That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,— | |
| Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff | 125 |
| Will come into one’s head! And here with you | |
| I stop, as if I ’d nothing else to do— | |
| And they ’ll come home, drowned rats. I must be gone | |
| To get dry things, and set the kettle on.” | |
| |
| His day’s work done, three mortal miles and more, | 130 |
| Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door. | |
| A weary way, God wot, for weary wight! | |
| But yet far off the curling smoke in sight | |
| From his own chimney, and his heart felt light. | |
| How pleasantly the humble homestead stood, | 135 |
| Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood! | |
| How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze, | |
| In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees, | |
| Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July, | |
| From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, | 140 |
| How grateful the cool covert to regain | |
| Of his own avenue,—that shady lane, | |
| With the white cottage, in the slanting glow | |
| Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, | |
| And jasmine porch, his rustic portico! | 145 |
| |
| With what a thankful gladness in his face, | |
| (Silent heart-homage,—plant of special grace!) | |
| At the lane’s entrance, slackening oft his pace, | |
| Would Ambrose send a loving look before, | |
| Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door; | 150 |
| The very blackbird strained its little throat, | |
| In welcome, with a more rejoicing note; | |
| And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed, | |
| All bristle, back, and tail, but “good at need,” | |
| Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear; | 155 |
| But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear, | |
| The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells, | |
| Of his two little ones. How fondly swells | |
| The father’s heart, as, dancing up the lane, | |
| Each clasps a hand in her small hand again, | 160 |
| And each must tell her tale and “say her say,” | |
| Impeding as she leads with sweet delay | |
| (Childhood’s blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way. | |
| |
| And when the winter day closed in so fast; | |
| Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last; | 165 |
| And in all weathers—driving sleet and snow— | |
| Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go, | |
| Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight | |
| (His polestar) of that little twinkling light | |
| From one small window, through the leafless trees,— | 170 |
| Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his | |
| Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, | |
| Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, | |
| Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour, | |
| Streaming to meet him from the open door. | 175 |
| Then, though the blackbird’s welcome was unheard,— | |
| Silenced by winter,—note of summer bird | |
| Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive, | |
| But from the cuckoo clock just striking five. | |
| And Tinker’s ear and Tinker’s nose were keen,— | 180 |
| Off started he, and then a form was seen | |
| Darkening the doorway; and a smaller sprite, | |
| And then another, peered into the night, | |
| Ready to follow free on Tinker’s track, | |
| But for the mother’s hand that held her back: | 185 |
| And yet a moment—a few steps—and there, | |
| Pulled o’er the threshold by that eager pair, | |
| He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair; | |
| Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say, | |
| “Master, we ’ve done our business for the day.” | 190 |
| The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs, | |
| The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs; | |
| The door ’s made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn; | |
| How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on! | |
| How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he? | 195 |
| Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree, | |
| With a wee lassie prattling on each knee. | |
| |
| Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart— | |
| Warmed in expectancy the poor man’s heart. | |
| Summer and winter, as his toil he plied, | 200 |
| To him and his the literal doom applied, | |
| Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet | |
| So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet, | |
| Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way; | |
| So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray | 205 |
| That time I tell of. He had worked all day | |
| At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke | |
| Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke, | |
| And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that? | |
| There was a treasure hidden in his hat,— | 210 |
| A plaything for the young ones. He had found | |
| A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round | |
| For its long winter sleep; and all his thought, | |
| As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught | |
| But the glad wonderment in Jenny’s eyes, | 215 |
| And graver Lizzy’s quieter surprise, | |
| When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer | |
| Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. | |
| |
| ’T was a wild evening,—wild and rough. “I knew,” | |
| Thought Ambrose, “those unlucky gulls spoke true,— | 220 |
| And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,— | |
| I should be mortal ’mazed now if I thought | |
| My little maids were not safe housed before | |
| That blinding hail-storm,—ay, this hour and more,— | |
| Unless by that old crazy bit of board, | 225 |
| They ’ve not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford, | |
| That I ’ll be bound for,—swollen as it must be— | |
| Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me—” | |
| But, checking the half-thought as heresy, | |
| He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone, | 230 |
| And with a gladdened heart he hastened on. | |
| |
| He ’s in the lane again,—and there below, | |
| Streams from the open doorway that red glow, | |
| Which warms him but to look at. For his prize | |
| Cautious he feels,—all safe and snug it lies,— | 235 |
| “Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free,— | |
| The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.— | |
| But what ’s the meaning? no lookout to-night! | |
| No living soul astir! Pray God, all ’s right! | |
| Who ’s flittering round the peat-stack in such weather? | 240 |
| Mother!” you might have felled him with a feather, | |
| When the short answer to his loud “Hillo!” | |
| And hurried question, “Are they come?” was “No.” | |
| |
| To throw his tools down, hastily unhook | |
| The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook, | 245 |
| And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word, | |
| That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, | |
| Was but a moment’s act, and he was gone | |
| To where a fearful foresight led him on. | |
| Passing a neighbor’s cottage in his way,— | 250 |
| Mark Fenton’s,—him he took with short delay | |
| To bear him company,—for who could say | |
| What need might be? They struck into the track | |
| The children should have taken coming back | |
| From school that day; and many a call and shout | 255 |
| Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, | |
| And, by the lantern light, peered all about, | |
| In every roadside thicket, hole, nook, | |
| Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook— | |
| Something brushed past them. That was Tinker’s bark,— | 260 |
| Unheeded, he had followed in the dark, | |
| Close at his master’s heels; but, swift as light, | |
| Darted before them now. “Be sure he ’s right,— | |
| He ’s on the track,” cried Ambrose. “Hold the light | |
| Low down,—he ’s making for the water. Hark! | 265 |
| I know that whine,—the old dog ’s found them, Mark.” | |
| So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on | |
| Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! | |
| And all his dull contracted light could show | |
| Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. | 270 |
| “Yet there ’s life somewhere,—more than Tinker’s whine,— | |
| That ’s sure,” said Mark. “So, let the lantern shine | |
| Down yonder. There ’s the dog,—and, hark!” “O dear!” | |
| And a low sob came faintly on the ear, | |
| Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, | 275 |
| Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught | |
| Fast hold of something,—a dark huddled heap,— | |
| Half in the water, where ’t was scarce knee-deep | |
| For a tall man, and half above it, propped | |
| By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt | 280 |
| Endways the broken plank, when it gave way | |
| With the two little ones that luckless day! | |
| “My babes!—my lambkins!” was the father’s cry. | |
| One little voice made answer, “Here am I!” | |
| ’T was Lizzy’s. There she crouched with face as white, | 285 |
| More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light | |
| Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight, | |
| Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, | |
| And eyes on some dark object underneath, | |
| Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,— | 290 |
| One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, | |
| Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny’s frock. | |
| There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock, | |
| The doting father? Where ’s the unriven rock | |
| Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part | 295 |
| As that soft sentient thing,—the human heart? | |
| |
| They lifted her from out her watery bed,— | |
| Its covering gone, the lovely little head | |
| Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside; | |
| And one small hand,—the mother’s shawl was tied, | 300 |
| Leaving that free, about the child’s small form, | |
| As was her last injunction—“fast and warm”— | |
| Too well obeyed,—too fast! A fatal hold | |
| Affording to the scrag by a thick fold | |
| That caught and pinned her in the river’s bed, | 305 |
| While through the reckless water overhead | |
Her life-breath bubbled up.
“She might have lived, | |
| Struggling like Lizzy,” was the thought that rived | |
| The wretched mother’s heart, when she knew all, | |
| “But for my foolishness about that shawl! | 310 |
| And Master would have kept them back the day; | |
| But I was wilful,—driving them away | |
In such wild weather!”
Thus the tortured heart | |
| Unnaturally against itself takes part, | |
| Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe | 315 |
| Too deep already. They had raised her now, | |
| And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, | |
| To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold, | |
| The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled | |
| Once more the fatal shawl—her winding-sheet— | 320 |
| About the precious clay. One heart still beat, | |
| Warmed by his heart’s blood. To his only child | |
| He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild | |
| Pierced him afresh,—and now she knew him not. | |
| “Mother!” she murmured, “who says I forgot? | 325 |
| Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, | |
| And tied the shawl quite close—she can’t be cold— | |
| But she won’t move—we slipt—I don’t know how— | |
| But I held on—and I ’m so weary now— | |
| And it ’s so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!— | 330 |
| And she won’t move;—if daddy was but here!” * * * * * | |
| Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, ’t was clear; | |
| But soon the piteous murmur died away, | |
| And quiet in her father’s arms she lay,— | |
| They their dead burden had resigned, to take | 335 |
| The living, so near lost. For her dear sake, | |
| And one at home, he armed himself to bear | |
| His misery like a man,—with tender care | |
| Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold | |
| (His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold), | 340 |
| He clasped her close, and so, with little said, | |
| Homeward they bore the living and the dead. | |
| |
| From Ambrose Gray’s poor cottage all that night | |
| Shone fitfully a little shifting light, | |
| Above, below,—for all were watchers there, | 345 |
| Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care, | |
| Parental watchfulness, availed not now. | |
| But in the young survivor’s throbbing brow, | |
| And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned; | |
| And all night long from side to side she turned, | 350 |
| Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, | |
| With now and then the murmur, “She won’t move.” | |
| And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright | |
| Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,— | |
| That young head’s raven hair was streaked with white! | 355 |
| No idle fiction this. Such things have been, | |
| We know. And now I tell what I have seen. | |
| |
| Life struggled long with death in that small frame, | |
| But it was strong, and conquered. All became | |
| As it had been with the poor family,— | 360 |
| All, saving that which nevermore might be: | |
| There was an empty place,—they were but three. | |
