The Harvest of Years Part 1

The Harvest of Years.

by Martha Lewis Beckwith Ewell.

TO MY FAMILY

THIS RECITAL OF MY LIFE IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

Old friends and other days have risen about me as I have written, recalling, through my pen, these treasured experiences; and the pictured characters are to me as real as earthly hands, whose touch we feel. I have written as the story runs, with no effort at adorning, and those who love me best will not bring to it the cold criticisms that may come from other readers. To ill.u.s.trate the truth of "a little leaven's leavening the whole lump" has been my purpose, and if this purpose can be even partially achieved, I shall deem myself sufficiently rewarded.

To those whom in previous years I have met in the field of my mission, whose heart-felt sympathy and interest became the tide which bore me on, as from public platform (as well as in private ways) I have, for truth's dear sake, been impelled to utterances, to these friends I may hope this volume will not come as a stranger, but that through it I may receive, as in the days gone by, the grasp of their friendly hands.

M.L.B.E.

New Haven, Conn., _June_, 1880.

THE HARVEST OF YEARS

CHAPTER I.

"EMILY DID IT."

Among my earliest recollections these three words have a place, coming to my ears as the presages of a reprimand. I had made a frantic effort to lift my baby-brother from his cradle, and had succeeded only in upsetting baby, pillows and all, waking my mother from her little nap, while brother Hal stood by and shouted, "Emily did it." I was only five years of age at that eventful period, and was as indignant at the scolding I received when trying to do a magnanimous act, take care of baby and let poor, tired mother sleep, as I have been many times since, when, unluckily, I had upset somebody's dish, and "Emily did it" has rung its hateful sound in my ears. To say I was unlucky was not enough; I was untimely, unwarranted and unwanted, I often felt, in early years in everything I attempted, and the naturally quick temper I possessed was only aggravated and tortured into more hara.s.sing activity, rendering me on the whole, perhaps, not very amiable. Interesting I could not be, since whatever I attempted I seemed fated to say or do something to hurt somebody's feelings, and, mortified at my failures, I would draw myself closer to myself, shrinking from others, and saying again and again, "Emily, why _must_ you do it?"

Introducing myself thus clouded to your sympathy, I cannot expect my reader would be interested in a rehearsal of all my early trials.

You can imagine how it must have been as I marched along from childhood through girlhood into womanhood, while I still clung to my strange ways and peculiar sayings; upsetting of inkstands at school, mud tracking over the carpet in the "best room" at home, unconscious betrayal of mischief plans, etc., etc., made up the full catalogue of my days and their experiences, and although I did have a few warm friends, I could not be as other girls were, generally happy and beloved.

Mother was the only real friend I had; it seemed to me, as I grew older, she learned to know that I was too often blamed, where at heart I was wholly blameless, and when sometimes she stroked my hair, and said, "My dear child, how unlucky you are," I felt that I could do anything for her, and she never, to my remembrance, said "Emily did it."

From my father I often heard it. Hal rarely, if ever, said anything else, and if I did sometimes darn his stockings a little too thick, it was not such a heinous crime. He was handsome, and I was as proud of his face as I was ashamed of my own; I know now that my features were not so bad, but my spirit never shone through them, while Hal carried every thought right in his face. My face also might have looked attractive if I had only been understood, but I blame no one for that, when I was covered even as a "leopard with spots," indicating everything but the blessed thoughts I sometimes had and the better part of my nature. The interval of years between my fifth and sixteenth birthdays was too full of recurring mishaps of every kind to leave within my memory distinct traces of the little joys that sometimes crept in upon me. I number them all when I recall the face of my more than blessed mother and the mild eyes of Mary Snow, who was kinder and nearer to me than the others of my school-mates.

Hal grew daily more of a torment, and being five years my senior, "bossed" me about to his satisfaction, except at such times as I grew too vexed with him to restrain my anger, and turning upon him would pour volleys of wrath upon his head. On these occasions he seemed really afraid of me, and, for a time after, I would experience a little peace.

Learning from experience that keeping my thoughts to myself was the best means of quiet, I grew, after leaving school, less inclined to a.s.sociate with anyone except sweet Mary Snow. One blessed consciousness grew daily on me, and that was that I came nearer my mother's heart, and as I was never lazy, I shared many of her joys and trials and learned to keep my rebellious nature almost wholly in check. Father was a good man, but unfortunate in business affairs, and the first time he undertook to carry out an enterprise of his own, he pulled everything over on to his head--just as I did the baby. This was of course a misfortune of which his wife had her share, but she never complained. The lines about her eyes grew darker, and she ceased to sing at her work as before, and I knew, for she told me, that in the years that followed, I grew so close to her, I became a great help to her and really shared her burdens. My little brother, Ben, varied Hal's "Emily did it," and with him "Emily will do it" was a perfect maxim. Kites I made without number, and gave my spare time to running through the meadows with him to help him fly them and to the making of his little wheelbarrows, and I loved him dearly. I seemed now to be less unlucky, and at home, at least, contented, but society had no charms for me and I had none for society; consequently we could happily agree to let each other alone, but, without repining, I had still sometimes, oh! such longings--for something, I knew not what.

CHAPTER II.

FROM GIRLHOOD TO WOMANHOOD.

The old adage of a poor beginning makes a good ending, may have been true in my case; certain it is that my sorest mishaps, or those I had least strength to bear, came between my fifth and sixteenth birthdays.

After this came the happy period in which I was helpmeet to my mother, and the gaining of an almost complete victory over my temper, even when teased by Hal, who at that time was developing rapidly into manhood and was growing very handsome.

I was not changed outwardly, unless my smile was more bright and frequent, as became my feelings, and my eyes, I know, shot fewer dark glances at those around me when mishaps, although less frequent, came sometimes to me. My good angel was with me oftener then, I thought, and as I often told mother, it seemed to me I had daily a two-fold growth, meaning that there was the growing consciousness of a nature pulsating as a life within my heart that seemed like a strong full tide constantly bearing me up. I scarcely understood it then, but now I know I had, as every one has, a dual nature, one side of which had never been allowed to appear above its earthly covering.

My daily trials, coming always from luckless mistakes of my own, were equal in their effect to the killing of my blossoms, for if any dared to show their heads an untimely word or deed would bring a reproach--if only in the three words, "Emily did it"--and this reproach was like the stamping of feet on violet buds, breaking, crushing and robbing them of their sweet promise. The life then must go back into the roots and a long time elapse ere they could again burst forth; so all my better nature, with its higher thoughts longing to develop, was forced down and back, and now, in the enjoyment of more favorable environment, I was beginning to realize the fruitful life which daily grew upon me, and with it came strength of mind and purpose and an imagery of thought that filled my soul to a delicious fullness.

What a power those conditions were to me! I drank joy in everything. My mother's step was as music, and her teachings even in household affairs a blessing to my spirit. I remember how one day in September I was dishing soup for dinner, the thought--suppose that she dies--came rushing over me like a cold wave, and I screamed aloud; dropping my soup-dish and all, and frightening poor mother almost out of her senses.

"Have you scalded yourself, dear?" she cried, running toward me, and I was nearly faint as I replied:

"Only a thought. I am so sorry about the soup, but it was a terrible thought," and then I told her.

No word of chiding came from her lips. I thought I saw tears in her eyes as she said: "I should not like to leave you, dear. We are very happy here together," and I know my eyes were moist as I thought, "Emily did it," but her mother understands her.

How necessary all those days of feeling, full and deep, combined with the details of practical life were to me, and although I shall never date pleasant memories back to my earlier years, still if I had been too carefully handled and nursed I never could have enjoyed those days so much.

Nearly twenty-four months of uninterrupted work and enjoyment pa.s.sed over me--and here is a thought from that first experience in soul growth; I cannot ever believe that people will enjoy themselves lazily in heaven more than here; I have another, only a vague idea of how it will be, but I cannot think of being idle there--when a little change appeared, only to usher in what proved to be a greater one, and the days of the June month in which the first came I shall never forget. It was when Hal came to me, hemming and thinking under my favorite tree in the old orchard, while beside me lay my sc.r.a.p-book in which I from time to time jotted thoughts as they came to me. Hal sat down beside me and said at once:

"I'm going to try it, Emily." I dropped hemming and thinking together, and said:

"Try what?"

"Try my luck."

I was only bewildered by his answer, and he continued:

"Emily, I'm determined to carry out the desires of my life, and now I am intent on a Western city as the place best calculated to inspire me with the courage and strength I need to carry out my aims and purposes, and I thought I'd tell you now that I feel decided, and you will tell mother for me; will you?"

Never before in my life had I felt Hal so near to me. His manner toward me had changed, of course, as he grew into manhood, and "Emily, will you sew on this b.u.t.ton?" or "Emily, are my stockings ready?" were given in place of "Emily did it," but now, as he looked full in my face, and even pa.s.sed his arm about me with true brotherly affection, he seemed so near, that the hot tears chased each other down my cheeks, and I sat speechless with the feelings that overcame me. I thought of the handsome face--always handsome in whatever mood--opposite me at the table, of the manly form and dignified carriage I had watched with pride, and when I could speak, I said,

"Hal I cannot let you go." Hal was brave, but I knew he felt what I said, for his looks spoke volumes as he said,

"Shall you miss me so much?"

"Oh! Hal," I cried, "we love you, mother and I, I never knew how much till now." His head dropped a moment, and then he suddenly said,

"You are the best sister a fellow ever had," and swallowing something that rose in his throat, marched off through the fields directly away from the house. I gathered up my work and sc.r.a.p book, went in and prepared the supper, showing outwardly no emotion, but with my heart throbbing as if it would tell the secret on which I pondered, while I wondered how I should tell my mother.

Hal came in late to supper. I rushed from the table when I heard his footsteps, and sought my room until I heard him coming up to his room, when I went down stairs and busied myself with my work as usual.

I washed the milk pans three or four times over that night, and was about carrying them into the "best room," when mother said,

"Why, Emily, we keep our milk pans in the b.u.t.tery."

"Oh!" I said, turning suddenly and letting my pans fall and scatter. And when I picked them up and collected my senses, I thought, "I cannot tell mother to-night after all, Hal will stay with us." When things were at last in their places, I sauntered out through the lane in the beautiful moonlight, and coming back met Hal who took my hand in his and whispered,

"Tell mother to-morrow, please, I want to go away next month and some things are necessary to be done."

"Have you told father yet?"