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Chanticleer: A Thanksgiving Story of the Peabody Family, a fiction by Cornelius Mathews |
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CHAPTER 5. THE CHILDREN |
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_ CHAPTER 5. THE CHILDREN There was no question where the children were to lodge, for there had been allotted to them from time immemorial, ever since children were known in the Peabody family, a great rambling upper chamber, with beds in the corners, where they were always bestowed as soon after dark as they could be convoyed thither under direction of Mopsey and the mistress of the household. This was not always--in truth it was rarely--easy of achievement, and cost the shuffling black servant at least half an hour of diligent search and struggling persuasion to bring them in from the various strayings, escapes, and lurking-places, where they shirked to gain an extra half-hour of freedom. To the children, however darker humors might work and sadden among the grown people, (for whatever hue rose-favored writers may choose to throw over scenes and times of festivity, the passions of character are always busy, in holiday and hall, as well as in the strifes of the world,) to the Peabody children this was thanksgiving time indeed--it was thanksgiving in the house, it was thanksgiving in the orchard, climbing trees; it was thanksgiving in the barn, tumbling in the hay, in the lane. It was thanksgiving, too, with the jovial Captain, a grown-up boy, heading their sports and allowing the country as he did, little rest or peace of mind wherever he lead the revel; it was not four-and-twenty hours that he had been at the quiet homestead before the mill was set a-running, the chestnut-trees shaken, the pigeons fired into, a new bell of greater compass put upon the brindle cow, the blacksmith's anvil at the corner of the road set a-dinging, fresh weather-cocks clapped upon the barn, corn-crib, stable, and out-house, the sheep let out of the little barn, all the boats of the neighborhood launched upon the pond. With night, darkness closed upon wild frolic; bed-time came, and thanksgiving had a pause; a pause only, for Mopsey's dark head, with its broad-bordered white cap, was no sooner withdrawn and the door firmly shut, than thanksgiving began afresh, as though there had been no such thing all day long, and they were now just setting out. For half a minute after Mopsey's disappearance they were all nicely tucked in as she had left them--straight out--with their heads each square on its pillow; then, as if by a silent understanding, all heads popped up like so many frisking fish. They darted from bed and commenced in the middle of the chamber, a great pillow-fight amicable and hurtless, but furiously waged, till the approach of a broad footstep sent them scampering back to their couches, mum as mice. Mopsey, well aware of these frisks, tarried till they were blown over, in her own chamber hard by, a dark room, mysterious to the fancy of the children, with spinning wheels, dried gourd-shells hung against the wall, a lady's riding-saddle, now out of use this many a day, and all the odds and ends of an ancient farm-house stored in heaps and strings about. It was only at last by going aloft and moving a trap in the ceiling, which was connected in tradition with the appearance of a ghost, that they were at length fairly sobered down and kept in bed, when Mopsey, looking in for the last time, knew that it was safe to go below. They had something left even then, and kept up a talk from bed to bed, for a good long hour more, at least. "What do you think of the turkey, Bill?" began Master Robert Peabody, the flat-featured, rising from his pillow like a homely porpoise. "I don't know," Peabody Junior answered, "I don't care for turkeys." Little Sam Peabody, the master of the turkey, took this very much to heart. "I think he's a very fine one," continued Master Robert, "twice as big as last year's." "I'm very glad to hear you say that, Cousin Robert," said little Sam Peabody, turning over toward the quarter whence the voice of encouragement came. "As fine a turkey as I've ever seen," Robert went on. "When do they kill him?" Little Sam struggled a little with himself, and answered feebly, "To-morrow." There was silence for several minutes, broken presently by Peabody Junior, fixing his pillow, and saying "Boys, I'm going to sleep." Allowing some few minutes for this to take effect, Master Robert called across the chamber to little Sam, "I wonder why Aunt Hannah wears that old green shade on her face?" "Pray don't say anything about that," little Sam answered, "Cousin don't like to hear about that!" Master Robert--rather a blunt young gentleman--is not to be baffled so easily. "I say, Bill, why does your mother wear that green patch over her eye?" he called out. There was no answer; he called again in a louder key. "Hush!" whispered Peabody Junior, who was not asleep, but only thinking of it, in a tone of fear, "I don't know." "Is the eye gone?" Robert asked again, bent on satisfaction of some kind. "I don't know," was the whispered answer again. "Don't ask me anything about it." "I'm afraid Aunt Hannah's not happy," suggested little Sam, timidly. "Pr'aps she is'nt, Sam," Peabody Junior answered. "What is the reason," continued little Sam, "I always liked her." "Don't know," was all Peabody Junior had to reply. "Did you ever see that other eye? Bill," asked the blunt young gentleman, whose head was still running on the green shade. "Oh, go to sleep, will you, Nosey," cried Peabody Junior. "If you don't leave me alone I'll get up and wollop you." The flat-featured disappeared with his porpoise face under the bed-clothes and breathed hard, but kept close; and when he fell asleep he dreamed of dragons and green umbrellas all night, at a fearful rate. "I would'nt be angry, Cousin," said little Sam, when the porpoise gave token that he was hardbound in slumber. "He don't mean to hurt your feelings, I don't believe." "Pr'aps he don't," Peabody Junior rejoined. "What could I tell him, if I wanted to; all I know is, mother has worn the shade ever since I can recollect anything. I think sometimes I can remember she used to have it on as far back as when I was at the breast, a very little child, and that I used to try and snatch it away--which always made her very sad." "Don't she ever take it away?" asked little Sam. "I never saw it off in all my life; nor can I tell you whether my dear mother has one eye or two. I know she never likes to have any one look at it. It makes her melancholy at once; nurse used to tell me there was a mystery about it--but she would never tell me any more. It always scares father when she turns that side of her face on him, that I've noticed; and he always at home sits on the other side of the table from it." "I wouldn't think any more about it to-night, Cousin," said little Sam. "I know it makes you unhappy from your voice. Don't you miss some one to-night that used to keep us awake with telling pleasant stories?" "I do," answered Peabody Junior. "I'm thinking of him now. I wish Cousin Elbridge was back again." "You know why he isn't?" "Father says it's because he's a bad young man." "And do you believe it, William?" "I'm afraid he is--for father always says so." A gentle figure had quietly opened the chamber-door, and stood listening with breathless attention to the discourse of the two children. "You wait and see," continued little Sam firmly, "I'm sure he'll come back--and before long." "What makes you think so?" William asked. "I'm sure I hope he will." "Because the red rooster," answered little Sam, "crowed yesterday morning for the first time since he went away, and the red rooster knows more than anybody about this farm except old grandfather." Thinking how that could be, Peabody Junior fell asleep; and little Sam, sure to dream of his absent brother, shortly followed after. The gentle figure of Miriam Haven glided into the chamber, to the bed-side of little Sam, and watching his calm, innocent features--which were held to greatly resemble those of the absent Elbridge--with tears in her eyes, she breathed a blessing from her very heart on the dear child who had faith in the absent one. "A blessing!" such was her humble wish as she returned to her chamber and laid her fair head on the pillow, "a blessing on such as believe in us when we are in trouble and poverty, out of favor with the world, when our good name is doubted, and when the current running sharply against, might overwhelm us, were not one or two kind hands put forth to save us from utter ruin and abandonment!" _ |
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