The Land of Long Ago Part 14

Well, child, that all comes o' livin' in town. Town's a fine place to go to once in a while, but there's a heap o' disadvantages about livin' there all the time. A May-meetin' is the first Sunday in May, when we all take big baskets o' dinner to the church and eat outdoors under the trees after preachin's over. And now let me git back to my story or, the first thing you know, I'll be tellin' about a May-meetin' instead of a watch-meetin'. But I thought I'd better explain it to you right now, honey, so's you won't be mortified this way again. There's some things everybody's expected to know, and this is one of 'em.

"I ricollect jest how the old church looked the night o' that watch-meetin'. It was soon after we'd got the new organ, and the shine hadn't wore off the new cyarpet yet, and the lamps was burning bright on the stands each side o' the pulpit and on the organ. Some o' the young folks had hung branches o' pine and cedar around the walls and over the winders, and you could hear the hickory wood cracklin' and poppin' in the stove at the back o' the church, and there was all the Goshen folks sittin' in their pews: Sam and Milly, and Hannah and Miles, and Maria and Silas, and Uncle Jim and Sally Ann, and Parson Page down in front o' the pulpit leanin' back in his chair with his chin restin' on his hand and his other hand proppin' up his elbow. The young folks of course was in the back part o' the church, where they could talk and laugh without bein' seen by their parents; and little Sam Amos and two or three more o' the Goshen boys, along with Martin Luther Wilson, was sittin' down on the pulpit steps, where they could see everything that was to be seen and hear everything that was to be heard."

Aunt Jane began to laugh gently, and the knitting dropped from her hands. Another moment and she would have slipped away to the watch-meeting of forty years ago, leaving me alone in the quiet shadow-haunted room; but I called her back.

"How did Martin Luther happen to be at Goshen?" I asked. It was an idle question, but it served my purpose.

"Why, don't you ricollect?" said Aunt Jane brightly. "Brother Wilson preached in town, but after Squire Schuyler give him that house for a weddin' fee he lived there. That was betwixt and between the town and the country. Martin Luther loved the country jest like his father did, and there never was a watch-meetin' or a May-meetin' that Martin Luther wasn't on hand; but I'm bound to say that most o' the time it wasn't for any good.

"Well, by nine o'clock everything was ready for the watch-meetin' to begin, and Parson Page set the clock on the floor back o' the pulpit--it sounds a heap solemner at a watch-meetin', child, to hear the clock strike when you can't see it--and then he give out the first hymn:

"'A few more years shall roll, A few more seasons come, And we shall be with those that rest, Asleep within the tomb.

"'A few more suns shall set O'er these dark hills of time, And we shall be where suns are not, A far serener clime.'"

To me there seemed nothing joy-inspiring in the old hymn, but Aunt Jane smiled radiantly as she chanted the melancholy words that held in their cadences the voices of the choir and the music of the organ in the old country church.

"That's one o' the hymns we always sung at a watch-meetin'," she observed, "that and

"'Lo, on a narrow neck of land 'Twixt two unbounded seas I stand.'

"I love every one o' the old hymns, child, jest as much as I love my Bible, and I can take that hymn-book yonder and read over the hymns we used to sing at prayer-meetin' and communion and funerals and baptizin's, and I declare it's jest like livin' over again all the Sundays of my life. When we got through singin' the hymn Parson Page read a chapter out o' the Bible. It was the ninetieth psalm, the one that begins, 'Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations'; and then he give us a little talk, not a sermon exactly, but jest a little talk about the new year and the old year. I ricollect pretty much all he said as well as if it was yesterday. He said that there was nothin' sad about the pa.s.sin' of the years, and every New-year's eve ought to be a time for rejoicin'; that life was jest a gainin' and a losin' and the two balanced pretty even. Every year we lost a little of our youth and a little of our strength, but we gained in wisdom and understandin'. He said if we'd improved our time and come up to our opportunities durin' the past year, we could go forward joyfully to meet the new year, and if we hadn't, why, still there wasn't any reason for givin' up and feelin' downhearted, for the mercy of the Lord was infinite, and there was always another chance waitin' for us, and if a man turned over a new leaf and made up his mind to do better, every day was a New-year's day.

"And then he called on the men folks to tell what their experience had been durin' the past year, and jest as Uncle Jim Mathews got up to tell his experience the clock struck ten, and Uncle Jim says: 'Brethren, you hear that? Jest two more hours of this year is left to us.' Says he, 'I don't know how it is with the rest of you, but for my part I feel that this has been a profitable year for my soul. I feel,'

says he, 'that I have grown in grace and in the knowledge of the Lord, that my faith has been strengthened, that patience has had her perfect work in me, and that I'm nearer to the kingdom than I ever was'; and he went on this way for about ten minutes, and Sally Ann whispered to me and says she, 'If one-half o' that's true, the Lord ought to send down a chariot of fire and take Uncle Jim up to heaven this very night.'

"Then Uncle Jerry Amos got up and says he, 'Brethren, I thank the Lord that during the past year I have grown more charitable toward my fellow men.' And to save our lives we couldn't help laughin' at that, for if there was anything Uncle Jerry didn't need it was more charity.

I ricollect when old man Abner Simpson died--he was a mighty mean man, so mean that Parson Page had a heap o' trouble to preach the right kind of a funeral sermon about him--and right after the funeral Uncle Jerry heard some o' the neighbors talkin' about him and says he: 'Boys, ain't you ashamed to be talkin' this way about the dead? Don't you know you mustn't say anything but good about the dead, or the livin' either, for that matter?' And Bush Elrod says, 'Now, Uncle Jerry, you know n.o.body could say anything good about old man Abner; you couldn't yourself.' And Uncle Jerry says: 'Yes, I can. Jest give me time, and I can think o' plenty o' good things to say about him.'

And he stood and thought and thought, and the rest o' the men laughin'

at him, and Bush Elrod says, 'You'll have to give it up, Uncle Jerry.'

But Uncle Jerry says, 'No, there never was a human bein' that somethin' good couldn't be said about him.' And pretty soon he slapped his side and says he: 'I've got it! He had a good appet.i.te.' That's why we all had to laugh when Uncle Jerry said he'd grown more charitable toward his fellow men.

"Well, all the men folks got up and told what progress in grace they'd made durin' the year, and I ricollect Sam Amos sayin' it was astonishin' how many saints there was in Goshen church, but n.o.body knew anything about 'em till we had an experience-meetin'. After the experiences had all been give in we sung another hymn and had another prayer. Then the clock struck eleven, and Parson Page said, 'We will spend a little time in forming good resolutions for the coming year.'

And after we'd set there a while makin' our resolutions and had some more singin' and prayin', he said, 'Brethren and sisters, let us give the remaining minutes of the old year to silent prayer for grace that will help us to keep the good resolutions we've made for the new year that is so close at hand.' And we all bowed our heads feelin' mighty solemn, everything so still you could hear the folks around you breathin' and the old clock back o' the pulpit tickin', tickin' away the minutes o' the old year. And we set there expectin' every minute to hear the first stroke o' twelve.

"I ricollect Abram had rheumatism in the muscles of his neck that winter, and leanin' over was mighty painful to him; so pretty soon he straightened up, but all the rest of us kept our heads bowed on the back o' the pew in front of us, and waited for the clock to strike.

Somehow or other the time seemed mighty long, and everybody begun to feel restless. Sam Amos was in the pew jest across the aisle from me and Abram and I saw him take out his watch and look at it, and Uncle Jim Mathews dropped off to sleep and got to snorin', and that set the young folks to laughin', and everybody got tired leanin' their heads over so long, and every now and then somebody would straighten up, till at last everybody was settin' up straight except two or three that was fast asleep. And still the clock didn't strike, and I reckon we'd 'a' stayed there till daylight if it hadn't been for Sam Amos.

Everybody knew there was something wrong, but n.o.body had the courage to git up and say so except Sam. He rose up in his pew and says he, 'Neighbors, I don't want to disturb this watch-meetin', but it looks to me like one of two things has happened: either the new year's got lost on the way or the old year's took a notion to stay with us a little longer, and,' says he, 'I move that somebody goes behind the pulpit and sees if there ain't somethin' wrong with the clock.'

"Well, Parson Page he got up and went up the pulpit steps--I ricollect he had to step over Martin Luther's legs; Martin Luther was lyin' over on his face sound asleep--and he stooped down and looked at the clock, and then he threw up his hands and says he: 'Why, bless my soul! It's nearly one o'clock.'

"Well, with that the young folks begun to laugh scandalous, and everybody jumped up and begun talkin' at once. Abram says, 'The strikin' part o' that clock must be out o' fix.' And Parson Page says, 'That can't be, for I carried it to town last week and had it put in order especially for this occasion.' And Milly Amos says, 'Why didn't some o' you men folks look at your watches instead o' lettin' us sit here wastin' all this good time?' And Sam Amos says, 'I did look at mine, but it didn't do much good, for I forgot to wind it last night, and it had stopped at half-past five in the mornin' or the evenin', I couldn't tell which.' And Silas Petty said his watch hadn't been keepin' good time lately, and he didn't think it was worth while to look at it. And Parson Page said he laid his watch on the bureau and forgot to put it back in his vest pocket when he put on his Sunday clothes. And somebody says, 'Maybe the clock struck and we didn't hear it.' And Abram says: 'I'm pretty certain the strikin' part o' that clock is out o' fix. Probably it got jarred bringin' it over here.'

"Jest then the old clock struck one, as loud and clear as you please.

And Parson Page says: 'Do you hear that? There's nothing wrong with the clock; it must be our ears that are out of fix.' And Silas Petty says: 'There's nothin' the matter with my ears. It's my opinion some o' those rascally boys have been foolin' with the clock jest to play a trick on us. They've had a mighty good chance at it, sprawlin' around here on the floor and the clock out o' sight behind the pulpit.'

Little Sam Amos and the Crawford boys they spoke up and says they, 'We never touched the clock,' and Milly says: 'You can't lay it on little Sam. He's been fast asleep for the last two hours.' And somebody says, 'Where's Martin Luther?' and we all looked around, and Parson Page says, 'Why, he must be here; he was sound asleep on the floor when I stepped up here to examine the clock.' And Sam Amos says, 'Look a-yonder, will you?' and he p'inted toward the winder, and there was Martin Luther up on the winder-sill outside, with his face right up against the gla.s.s and his nose all flattened out, and grinnin' like a Cheshire cat. And as soon as he saw us lookin' at him, he dropped down to the ground and give a whoop like a wild Indian and went tearin'

down the road as hard as he could foot it in the direction of Schuyler Hall.

"Well, honey, it was right aggravatin'. You know country folks have to work hard and git up early, and there we'd lost a good hour o' sleep all for nothin', and a madder set o' folks you never saw, all but the young folks. They laughed and laughed, and of course that made us all still madder. Silas Petty and Dave Crawford begun blessin' Martin Luther and sayin' what ought to be done to him and how they was goin'

to let Brother Wilson know about this as soon as day broke, and Sam Amos he listened to 'em a while and then says he: 'Now here it is, the new year jest an hour old, and you church-members are breakin' every one o' your good resolutions about keepin' your temper and bein'

charitable to your neighbors. Can't you make allowances for a boy?'

And Uncle Jerry says: 'That's right, Sam. What's the use in takin'

notice of a boy's pranks? We've all been boys once--all except the women folks--and there ain't one of us that hasn't rocked houses and stole watermelons and robbed orchards and disturbed meetin' and done all the rest o' the devilment that boys delight in. But jest let a boy play a joke on us and we forgit all about the sins of our youth. To hear us talk, a person would think that we was born sixty years old.'

Says he: 'All we've lost is an hour's sleep, and we can make that up by goin' to bed earlier to-morrow night. Now, why not overlook this little caper of Martin Luther's and begin the new year in a good humor with everything and everybody?'

"And Sam Amos he begun to laugh, and he laughed till he had to set down, and he kept on till Milly got skeered and beat him in the back to make him stop, and finally he got his breath and says he, 'I'm laughin' to think how we all looked settin' here at one o'clock in the mornin' waitin' to hear the clock strike twelve.' And then he started out again, and we laughed with him, and everybody went home in a good humor. I ricollect me and Abram had an argument on the way home about whether it was worth while to go to bed or not. Abram said it was worth while to go to bed if you couldn't sleep but a half-hour, but betwixt laughin' and ridin' in the cold air I was so wide awake I felt like I never wanted to sleep again; and I went to work and cleaned up the house and cut out some sewin' and had breakfast ready by half-past four. I never made that sleep up, child, and I never felt any worse for it. You know what the Bible says, 'As thy days so shall thy strength be,' and when a person's young, there's strength for the day and more besides."

Aunt Jane dropped her knitting and rested her head against the patchwork cover of the high-backed chair. Like a great wall of shelter and defense, we felt around us the deep stillness of a midwinter night in the country. The last traveler had gone his homeward way over the pike hours ago, and in the quiet room we could hear now and then those faint noises made by shrinking timbers, as if the old house groaned in the icy clutch of the December cold, and, louder and clearer than by day, the voice of the clock ticking away the last hours of the old year.

What is there in the flight of years to sadden the heart? Our little times and seasons are but fragments of eternity, and eternity is ours.

The sunset on which we gaze with melancholy eyes is a sunrise on the other side of the world, and the vanishing days can take from us nothing that may not be restored by some day yet unborn. Eternity!

Immortality! If mortal mind could but fathom the depth of these ideas, they would be as wells of peace in which all trouble, all regret, would be forever drowned. But as Aunt Jane and I sat alone by her deserted hearth we saw the shadows of the night deepening while the fire burned low, and in our hearts we felt another and a darker shadow cast by the wing of the pa.s.sing year. And, breaking our dreams, the clock struck ten. Aunt Jane gave a start, and the ball of yarn fell from her lap. She picked it up before I could reach it, and winding the yarn and rolling the stocking around the ball she called in her wandering thoughts and entered instantly into the life of the present hour.

"Light the lamp, child," she said, "and hand me my Bible. The Scripture's got a word suitable for every season, and I'll read you the psalm that Parson Page read the night the clock didn't strike."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "REVERENTLY SHE LAID THE HEAVY CALF-BOUND VOLUME ACROSS HER KNEES."

_Page 290._]

Reverently she laid the heavy calf-bound volume across her knees, and turning the leaves with swift and certain fingers she found the ninetieth psalm as readily as the twentieth-century woman finds Sordello in her complete Browning. Centuries ago, a Hebrew, standing on one of the mountain peaks of old age, saw in a vision the little lives and the little deeds of men outlined against a background of the "eternal years of G.o.d." He put the vision into words, and because they held a universal thought, a burden of the soul in every age and clime, those words have outlasted kingdoms and dynasties. I had often heard the rhythmic lines rolling from priestly lips and echoing under cathedral arches, but never had they moved me as now, when by the dying fire in the last hours of a dying year, I heard them, half chanted, half read, in the tremulous voice of an old woman whose feet were on the same height and whose eyes beheld the same vision:

"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations.

"Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art G.o.d.

"Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye children of men.

"For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.

"Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the morning they are like gra.s.s which groweth up.

"In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth....

"For all our days are pa.s.sed away in thy wrath; we spend our years as a tale that is told.

"The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away....

"So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom....

"O satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.

"Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil.

"Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children.

"And let the beauty of the Lord our G.o.d be upon us; and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it."

Aunt Jane removed her gla.s.ses and folded her withered hands over the sacred pages. "You know, child," she said, "the Bible's the word of G.o.d. I ain't questionin' that. But it looks like to me there's some o'

the words of man in it, too. Now this psalm I've jest read is the very one to read at a watch-meetin' on New-year's eve because it's all about time and life and the pa.s.sin' o' the years, but there's some o'

the verses I'd like to leave out. There's that tenth one about 'the days of our years' and the strength of our years. I reckon we all feel like sayin' such things when we git tired and it looks like we haven't done the work we set out to do, but that's the sort o' feelin' to keep to ourselves. It don't do any good to tell such feelin's. And when a man can say that the Lord has been his dwellin' place in all generations, he oughtn't to turn right around and say that the strength of his years is jest labor and sorrow. The trouble with some folks is that they're always lookin' back and countin' the years wherein they have seen evil, but they don't ricollect that the Lord's promise is to make us glad accordin' to the evil years. Trouble has got to come to us, child, but whenever it comes we ought to know there's happiness comin' to make up for it jest like this psalm says, 'Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil.' I've lived pretty near eighty years, and I've had my share o' trouble, but I'm far from sayin' that the strength of my years is nothin' but labor and sorrow.