A Daughter of the Middle Border Part 44

As the Interstate Fair came on, he quietly engaged a neighbor to take us all down to La Crosse in an automobile. "This is my treat," he said, and knowing how much it meant to him I gladly accepted. With a fine sense of being up-to-date he reverted to the early days as we went whirling down the turnpike, and told tales of hauling hay and grain over these long hills. He pointed out the trail and spoke of its mud and sand. "It took us six hours then. Now, see, it's just like a city street."

He was greatly pleased to find an aeroplane flying above the grounds as we drew near. "They say the Germans are making use of these machines for scouting--and they are building others to fight with. I can't understand how they make a ton of iron fly."

Once inside the gates we let him play the host. He bought candy for the children, paid for our dinners at the restaurant and took us to the side-shows. It wearied him, however, and about three o'clock he said "Let's go home by way of Onalaska. I want to visit the cemetery and see if Father's lot is properly cared for." It seemed a rather melancholy finish to our day, but I agreed and as we were crossing the sandy stretch of road over which I limped as a child, I remarked "How short the distance seems." He smiled like a conqueror, "This is next thing to flying," he said.

This lonely little burial ground, hardly more impressive than the one at Neshonoc, contained the graves of all the Garlands who had lived in that region. "There is a place here for me," he said, "but I want you to put me in Neshonoc beside your mother."

On the way home he recovered his cheerfulness with an almost boyish resiliency. The flight of the car up the long hill which used to be such a terror to his sweating team, gave a satisfaction which broke out in speech. "It beats all how a motor can spin right along up a grade like this--and the flies can't sting it either," he added in remembering the tortured cattle of the past. When I told him of an invitation to attend a "Home Coming of Iowa Authors" which I was considering, he expressed his pleasure and urged me to accept. Des Moines was a real city to him.

It possessed the glamour of a capital and to have me claimed by the State of Iowa pleased him more than any recognition in New York.

The following day he watched while the carpenter and I worked at putting my study into shape. Ever since the fire two years before its ceiling had needed repair, and even now I was but half-hearted in its restoration. As I looked around the square, bare, ugly room and thought of the s.p.a.cious libraries of Longfellow, Lowell and Holmes, I realized my almost hopeless situation. I was only a literary camper after all. My life was not here--it couldn't be here so far from all that makes a writer's life worth while. "Soon for the sake of the children I must take them from this pleasant rut," I said to Zulime. "It is true an author can make himself felt from any place, but why do it at a disadvantage? If it were not for Father, I would establish our winter home in New York, which has the effect of increasing my power as well as my happiness."

On the twentieth of October Father called me to his room. "I'm getting near the end of my trail," he said, "and I want to talk to you about my will. I want you two boys to share equally in all I've got and I'd like to have you keep this property just as it is, then you'll be safe, you'll always have a home. I'm ready to go--any time, only I don't like to leave the children--" His voice failed him for a moment, then he added, "I know I can't last long."

Though refusing to take a serious view of his premonition I realized that his hold on life was loosening and I answered, "Your wishes shall be carried out."

He did not feel like going up to the club that night, and so we played cards with him. Wilson Irvine, a landscape painter, who was visiting us chose Constance as a partner against Mary Isabel and her grandsire. Luck was all in Constance's favor, she and Irvine won, much to the veteran's chagrin. "You little witch," he said, "what do you mean by beating your granddad?" He was very proud of her skill, for she was only six years old.

To end the evening to his liking, we all united in singing some old war songs and he went away to his bed in better spirits than he had shown for a week or more.

He was at the breakfast table with me next morning, but seemed not quite awake. He replied when I spoke to him, but not alertly, not as he should, and a few minutes later rose with effort. This disturbed me a little, but a few minutes later he left the house as if to do some work at the barn, and I went to my writing with a feeling that he was quite all right.

It was a glorious October morning and from my desk as I looked into the yard I could see him standing in the gate, waiting for the man and team.

He appeared perfectly well and exhibited his customary impatience with dilatory workmen. He was standing alertly erect with the sunshine falling over him and the poise of his head expressed his characteristic energy. He made a handsome figure. My eyes fell again to my ma.n.u.script and I was deep in my imaginary world when I heard the voice of my uncle Frank calling to me up the stairs:

"Hamlin! Come quick. Something has happened. Come, quick, quick!"

There was a note in his voice which sent a chill through my blood, and my first glance into his eyes told me that he had looked upon the elemental. "Your father is lying out on the floor of the barn. I'm afraid he's gone!"

He was right. There on the rough planking of the carriage way lay the old pioneer, motionless, just as he had fallen not five minutes before.

The hat upon his head and his right hand in his pocket told that he had fallen while standing in the door waiting for the drayman. His eyes were closed as if in sleep, and no sign of injury could be seen.

Kneeling by his side I laid my hand on his breast. It was still! His heart invincible through so many years had ceased to beat. His breath was gone and his empty left hand, gracefully lax, lay at his side. The veteran pioneer had pa.s.sed to that farther West from whose vague savannahs no adventurer has ever returned.

"He must have died on his feet," said my uncle gravely, tenderly.

"Yes, he went the way he wished to go," I replied with a painful stress in my throat.

Together we took him up and bore him to the house, and placed him on the couch whereon he had been wont to rest during the day.

I moved like a man in a dream. It was all incredible, benumbing.

Tenderly I disposed his head on its pillow and drew his hands across his breast. "Here is the end of a good man," I said. "Another soldier of the Union mustered out."

His hands, strong, yet singularly refined, appealed to me with poignant suggestion. What stern tasks they had accomplished. What brave deeds they had dared. In spite of the hazards of battle, notwithstanding the perils of the forests, the raft, the river, after all the hardships of the farm, they remained unscarred and shapely. The evidence of good blood was in their slender whiteness. Honorable, skilful, indefatigable hands,--now forever at rest.

My uncle slipped away to notify the coroner, leaving me there, alone, with the still and silent form, which had been a dominant figure in my world. For more than half a century those gray eyes and stern lips had influenced my daily life. In spite of my growing authority, in spite of his age he had been a force to reckon with up to the very moment of his death. He was not a person to be ignored. All his mistakes, his weaknesses, faded from my mind, I remembered only his heroic side. His dignity, his manly grace were never more apparent than now as he lay quietly, as though taking his midday rest.

A breath of pathos rose from the open book upon his table. His hat, his shoes, his gloves all spoke of his unconquerable energy. I thought of the many impatient words I had spoken to him, and they would have filled me with a wave of remorse had I not known that our last day together had been one of perfect understanding. His final night with us had been entirely happy, and he had gone away as he had wished to go, in the manner of a warrior killed in action. His unbending soul had kept his body upright to the end.

All that day I went about the house with my children like one whose world had suddenly begun to crumble. The head of my house was gone.

Over and over again I stole softly into his room unable to think of him as utterly cold and still.

For seventy years he had faced the open lands. Starting from the hills of Maine when a lad, he had kept moving, each time farther west, farther from his native valley. His life, measured by the inventions he had witnessed, the progress he had shared, covered an enormous span.

"He died like a soldier," I said to the awed children, "and he shall have the funeral of a soldier. We will not mourn, and we will not whisper or walk tip-toe in the presence of his body."

In this spirit we called his friends together. In place of flowers we covered his coffin with the folds of a flag, and when his few remaining comrades came to take a last look at him, my wife and I greeted them cordially in ordinary voice as if they had come to spend an evening with him and with us.

My final look at him in the casket filled my mind with love and admiration. His snowy hair and beard, his fair skin and shapely features, as well as a certain firm sweetness in the line of his lips raised him to a grave dignity which made me proud of him. Representing an era in American settlement as he did I rejoiced that nothing but the n.o.blest lines of his epic career were written on his face.

This is my consolation. His last days were spent in calm content with his granddaughters to delight and comfort him. In their young lives his spirit is going forward. They remember and love him as the serene, white-haired veteran of many battles who taught them to revere the banner he so pa.s.sionately adored.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The art career which Zulime Taft abandoned (against my wish) after our marriage, is now being taken up by her daughter Constance who, at fourteen, signs herself C. Hamlin Garland, Artist.]

AFTERWORD

[Ill.u.s.tration: To Mary Isabel, who, as a girl of eighteen, still loves to impersonate the majesty of princesses, I entrust the future literary history of Neshonoc.]

Afterword

At this point I make an end of this chronicle, the story of two families whose wanderings and vicissitudes (as I conceive them) are typical of thousands of other families who took part in the upbuilding of the Middle Western States during that period which lies between the close of the Civil War and the Great War of Nineteen Fourteen. With the ending of the two princ.i.p.al life-lines which bind these pages together my book naturally closes.

In these two volumes over which I have brooded for more than ten years, I have shadowed forth, imperfectly, yet with high intent, the experiences of Isabel McClintock and Richard Garland, and the lives of other settlers closely connected with them. For a full understanding of the drama--for it is a drama, a colossal and colorful drama--I must depend upon the memory or the imagination of my readers. No writer can record it all or even suggest the major part of it. At the end of four years of writing I go to press with reluctance, but realizing that my public, like myself, is growing gray, I have consented to publish my ma.n.u.script with its many imperfections and omissions.

My Neshonoc is gone. The community which seemed so stable to me thirty years ago, has vanished like a wisp of sunrise fog. The McClintocks, the Dudleys, the Baileys, pioneers of my father's generation, have entered upon their final migration to another darkly mysterious frontier. My sunset World--all of it--is in process of change, of disintegration, of dissolution. My beloved trails are gra.s.s-grown. I have put away my saddle and my tent-cloth, realizing that at sixty-one my explorations of the wilderness are at an end. Like a captive wolf I walk a narrow round in a city square.

With my father's death I ceased to regard the La Crosse Valley even as my summer home. I decided to make my permanent residence in the East, and my wife and daughters whose affections were so deeply inwound with the Midland, loyally consented to follow, although it was a sad surrender for them. As my mother, Isabel McClintock, had given up her home and friends in the Valley to follow Richard Garland into the new lands of the West, so now Zulime Taft, A Daughter of the Middle Border, surrendered all she had gained in Illinois and Wisconsin to follow me into the crowded and dangerous East. It was a tearing wrench, but she did it. She sold our house in Woodlawn, packed up our belongings and joined me in a small apartment seven stories above the pavement in the heart of Manhattan.

The children came East with a high sense of adventure, with no realization that they were leaving their childhood's home never to return to it. They still talk of going back to West Salem, and they have named our summer cabin in the Catskills "Neshonoc" in memory of the little pioneer village whose graveyard holds all that is material of their paternal grandparents. The colors of the old Homestead are growing dim, and yet they will not permit me to deed it to others. We still own it and shall continue to do so. It has too many memories both sweet and sacred,--it seems that by clinging to its material forms we may still retain its soul.

We think of it often, and when around our rude fireplace in Camp Neshonoc in a room almost as rough as a frontier cabin, we sit and sing the songs which are at once a tribute to our forebears and a bond of union with the past, the shadows of the heroic past emerge. David and Luke, Richard and Walter, and with them Susan and Lorette--all--all the ones I loved and honored----.

My daughters are true granddaughters of the Middle Border. Constance at fourteen, Mary Isabel at eighteen, are carrying forward, each in her distinctive way, the traditions of the Border, with the st.u.r.dy spirit of their forebears in the West. To them I am about to entrust the work which I have only partially completed.

Too young at first to understand the reasons for my decision, they are now in agreement with me that we can never again live in the Homestead.

They love every tree, every shrub on the old place. The towering elms, the crow's nest in the maples, the wall of growing woodbine, the gaunt, wide-spreading b.u.t.ternut branches,--all these are very dear to them, for they are involved with their earliest memories, touched with the glamour which the imagination of youth flings over the humblest scenes of human life. To them the Fern Road, The Bubbling Spring, and the Apple Tree Glen, scenes of many camping places, are all a part of childhood's fairy kingdom. The thought of never again walking beneath those familiar trees or sitting in those familiar rooms, is painful to them, and yet I am certain that their Neshonoc, like my own, is a realm remembered, a region to which they can return only on the wings of memory or of dream.

Happily the allurement of art, the stimulus of ambition and the promise of love and honor already partly compensate them for their losses. Their faces are set to the future. On them I rest my hopes. By means of them and their like, Life weaves her endless web.