"Yes," said Marguerite, who always remembers dates; "he was apprenticed the April before you left, and came over to Westhaven to bid you all good-by. I remember what he says of the parting in his 'Recollections:' [1]

"'It was a sad parting. We had seen hard times together, and were very fondly attached to each other. I was urged by some of my kindred to give up Poultney (where there were some things in the office not exactly to my mind), and accompany them to their new home, whence, they urged, I could easily find in its vicinity another and better chance to learn my chosen trade. I was strongly tempted to comply, but it would have been bad faith to do so; and I turned my face once more towards Poultney, with dry eyes but a heavy heart. A word from my mother, at the critical moment, might have overcome my resolution. But she did not speak it, and I went my way, leaving the family soon to travel much farther and in an opposite direction. After the parting was over, and I well on my way, I was strongly tempted to return; and my walk back to Poultney (twelve miles) was one of the slowest and saddest of my life.'

"Do commence at the beginning, mamma," Marguerite continued, "and tell us all about the journey to Pennsylvania, and how your new home looked when you arrived. How large was the family then? Aunt Margaret was born in Vermont, was she not?"

"Yes, and a very pretty little creature she was," said mamma, with a sister's pride in the youngest of the family. "She was extremely small for her age--indeed, she weighed only three pounds and a half at her birth, and I recollect hearing some one say that the nurse put her into the family coffee-pot and shut down the lid."

"The coffee-pot!" we all exclaimed, in chorus. "Pray how large was it?

Somewhat over the ordinary size, I trust."

Mamma laughed. "Yes, it was larger than coffee-pots of the present day," she said; "an old-fashioned tin coffee-pot, broad at the bottom and gradually narrowing towards the top. But still it was extraordinary that a baby could be put in it, and the lid shut down."

"What induced grandpapa to select Pennsylvania for a residence, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida. "Was land cheaper there than elsewhere?"

"You have answered your question yourself, dear," was mamma's reply.

"Land was very cheap there, and through our careful economy in Vermont, father had saved enough money to buy about two hundred acres, to which he subsequently added, from time to time, so that the old Greeley homestead now consists of between three and four hundred acres. Then two of father's brothers, Uncle Benjamin and Uncle Leonard, had settled in Wayne township three or four years previous, and, to use your papa's words, had 'made holes in the tall, dense forest that covered nearly all that region for twenty to fifty miles in every direction.' Father went to Pennsylvania in advance of us, bought his land, and then returned to fetch us to our new home.

"I remember seeing mother weep bitterly when she left Vermont; but, as ever through her brave life, she made no complaint. As for myself, I remember no regrets, save at parting with dear brother; for I was too young to feel other than childish exultation at the prospect of making a long journey; and that journey from Vermont to our new home upon the 'State line,' between New York and Pennsylvania, I must here remark, occupied a month. Locomotion, you see, was not so rapid in the year 1826 as it is now."

"I should think not!" exclaimed Gabrielle. "Pray, auntie, in what way did you travel to advance at such a snail's pace? I should think you could almost have walked the distance in that length of time."

"You will be amused when I tell you the length of the first day's journey," replied mamma. "Father hired a large wagon, and stowed away our trunks, furniture, and all of his family in it, and we went as far as Whitehall, a distance of about nine miles. Here we stopped over night, and the next day took the boat for Troy, where we again broke the journey after travelling, I believe, two days. At that time there were no regular ferry-boats to cross the river from East to West Troy, and pa.s.sengers were taken over in row-boats. I remember that the boatmen stood by the river-side and called all day and night:

"'Over, over, over, going o-o-o-o-ver!' to attract custom.

"Now came the most delightful part of the journey--going from Troy to Buffalo upon the ca.n.a.l-boat. There were two different kinds of boats that went between those cities; the packet-boats, carrying the mails and pa.s.sengers but no freight, and the line-boats, which took both freight and pa.s.sengers, and were consequently cheaper. These were used by people like ourselves, who were moving from one part of the country to the other, with furniture, who wished to economize, and to whom time was no object; for the packet-boats travelled twice or thrice as rapidly as the line-boats.

"I think I never enjoyed myself so thoroughly when a child, as at that time. My sisters and I were much petted by the captain and the pa.s.sengers; and the excitement of being on the water, and the constant change of scene, kept up our spirits to the highest pitch. Margaret, who was then four years old, was, I remember, an especial favorite on the boat; for she was extremely pretty, with her fragile, doll-like figure, her clear complexion, bright blue eyes, and reddish gold curls.

She inherited the family talent for spelling, and was very fond of displaying her accomplishments in that line; for sister Margaret was a very self-possessed little creature, and was afraid of no one--not even of father himself. I recollect that when the boat stopped at any small town to take on pa.s.sengers, Margaret's bright eyes would if possible discover a shop with the sign 'Grocery;' and then, going up to some one of her new friends, would gravely spell 'G-r-o, gro, c-e, ce, groce, r-y, ry, grocery;' followed usually by an intimation that a reward of merit would be acceptable. She was so extremely small for her age, that her achievement of spelling a three-syllable word was looked upon as something marvellous by the pa.s.sengers, and some one would immediately take her ash.o.r.e, and buy her some candy or fruit from the grocery.

"Another incident that impressed itself strongly upon me during this journey, was eating a peach for the first time. I had never seen a peach in either New Hampshire or Vermont.

"But, during those long September days that we children spent running over the boat, and indulging in all sorts of wild mischief, poor mother had by no means an easy life. It was impossible for her to keep us together and under her eyes; and what with the fear that we might fall overboard, or meet with some accident from the bridges, I know that she only looked forward to the time when the journey should be over, and we safe on land again."

"The bridges, mamma!" said Marguerite, "to what danger were you exposed from them?"

"The bridges crossing the ca.n.a.l," explained mamma, "were so extremely low, that no one upon the boat could stand upright; often the boat could barely glide under them without grazing the rails of the deck.

The captain used to keep on the lookout, and as we approached one, would call, 'Bridge ahead.' Then the women and children would rush down the staircase to the little cabin, and the gentlemen would usually throw themselves at full length upon the dock until the bridge was pa.s.sed. That was always a moment of terrible anxiety for poor mother if we were out of sight; for accidents and even loss of life had been known to occur; indeed, on father's previous journey, he witnessed an accident of a most terrible character. A woman, who was going only a short distance in the boat, was very much afraid that she would be taken past the town where she wished to stop, and paid no attention to the warning to go below as they approached a bridge. The captain, seeing the danger she was in, seized her by the arm, and thrust her downstairs. She rushed up, and he again pulled her down. Confident that she was about to be taken past her destination, the poor woman for the third time broke away from him, and reached the deck just in time to be struck by the bridge and instantly killed."

"Frightful!" said Marguerite with a shudder. "Tell us about the rest of your journey, mamma. How did you travel after you left Buffalo?

Upon Lake Erie, I suppose?"

"No, indeed!" replied mamma, "although there were at that time steamboats upon the lake; but father had had so terrible an experience upon his previous journey, that he would not subject his family to the caprices of Lake Erie. He had started from Buffalo upon a schooner, but a dreadful storm arose, in which the boat struggled for three days and was then obliged to put back to Buffalo a complete wreck. Father declared at that time that he would never expose his family to the hair-breadth escape from death that he had undergone; consequently, he hired a strong wagon at Buffalo, and we travelled along what was called the 'Lake Sh.o.r.e Road' to the town of North East, whence we took a southern course to Wattsburgh.

"When at Wattsburgh, we were only eight miles distant from our destination, but as we were now to leave the main road and plunge into the deep forest, father exchanged his horses and wagon for a heavy wooden sled and a yoke of oxen. Then we commenced to realize what our new life was to be. There was no road through the woods, and the only indication of the route was blazed or marked trees. Huge logs, so high that the oxen could barely step over them, lay occasionally across our path, and from time to time we had to stop while father and brother Barnes hewed down the trees that obstructed the way. We children thought this pioneer episode even preferable to our experience upon the boat, but I remember that dear mother sighed often and deeply.

"At the close of the second day, the eight miles were accomplished, and we reached father's property. He had bought with the land a rough little log-house, or rather hut, as it had but one room, and in this we were to live until he could build a better one. At the sight of her dreary home, mother's heart fairly sunk, and I shall never forget her tears."

Mamma paused for a moment; then steadying her voice, said:

"I am prouder than ever of my mother when I think how n.o.bly she bore the separation from her darling son, and her exile from her family, and, you may almost say, from civilization. She could not, at first, it is true, restrain her tears, but from that moment never a murmur of complaint crossed her brave lips, and we children never dreamed, till years later, how keenly she felt the sacrifice that she had been compelled to make."

"But were you really so far out of the world, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida. "Did you have no neighbors at all? We had two uncles there, I thought. Surely they must have been some society for grandmamma?"

"I do not believe," mamma replied, "that any other spot upon the globe, not even Robinson Crusoe's island, could now seem so desolate and shut off from all communication as our home in the woods did then. You must remember that there were no railways in 1826, which fact made us still more remote from the rest of the world. Now, with the railways spreading in every direction over our vast Republic, you can scarcely imagine what it was to live with an almost impenetrable forest between yourself and your nearest neighbor. Uncle Benjamin occupied what was called the 'next lot,' and had the ground been cleared, the distance from us would still have been three-quarters of a mile; but when the distance was increased three-fold by the darkness of the forest, and there was in addition every probability of meeting a bear or two on the way, you can imagine that being neighborly was scarcely practicable."

"Bears!" exclaimed Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with excitement; "how lovely! Darling auntie, do tell us more about them. It must have been like one of Captain Mayne Reid's stories, to live in that delightful Pennsylvania!"

"Our life there," said mamma, "certainly equalled the wildest tales of adventures experienced by early settlers that I have ever read, and we children found it quite as 'lovely' as you imagine it to have been. We never felt isolated, although our entire 'clearing' consisted of only four acres, upon which our house stood, and any further prospect was shut out by the woods. To us it was delightful to realize the adventures of Robinson Crusoe, which, as I told you, brother had read to us in Vermont, merely changing tropical animals and scenery for that of the North. I do not remember ever being afraid, but the wolves, who nightly howled in gangs about our slightly built house, the bears who ate up the corn in our little patch, the porcupines who gnawed the hoops off our pork barrels, and the frightful, screaming owls, struck terror to poor mother's heart.

"I recollect that one night father went out to drive away a porcupine whose teeth and claws he heard busily at work upon a barrel hoop, but the creature rushed into the house through the open door, and ran across the trundle bed where sister Arminda and I slept. I need not tell you how dangerous it would have been had one of his quills penetrated our flesh."

"Do go on, auntie; this is delightful," said Gabrielle.

"When father had paid for his land," said mamma, "and bought a yoke of oxen and a cow--two essential things for a farmer--he had very little, if any, money left. There was no danger, however, that we should suffer from want, for the woods were so full of game that father would take his gun in the morning and go out to shoot something for dinner with the same confidence that he would have gone to a market to buy it.

Partridges and pigeons in the greatest abundance formed our daily fare, while the deer used to walk into our corn-patch and almost offer themselves as targets for father's or brother Barnes' gun. Venison, I recollect, was so plentiful that a farmer, after shooting a deer, would only trouble himself to fetch home the hind-quarters and hide--the latter being marketable. In the spring there were cowslips and other wood plants in abundance, which made a delicious subst.i.tute for spinach. Tea was very scarce with us, and was kept for Sundays; but beech nuts, burnt and ground, made a very palatable coffee, that formed our daily beverage. b.u.t.ter must have been an unmarketable article, for I remember that during the first three years we spent there, it sold for six cents a pound."

"Did you grow anything on the farm to sell, mamma?" I inquired. "I suppose not, during the first years."

"'No," said mamma; "and if we had, there would have been no market for it."

"Then what did you do for money, Aunt Esther?" said Ida. "Grandpapa had very little, you say."

"I must not forget," said mamma, "that we had one marketable production, and one that you would not easily guess.

"I wonder, Gabrielle, if your favorite chemistry goes back so far into elementary principles, as to tell you from what black salts are made?

School-books seldom, I think, trouble themselves with the origin of things, so I will tell you that after the great logs were burnt that father had felled in clearing, the ashes were collected and leeched, and the lye boiled down in immense cauldrons till it became granulated like sugar. It then formed what was called 'black salts,' and these salts are the basis of potash, soda, etc. The salts could always find a ready market, and with them we paid our taxes, and bought what necessaries we could not raise ourselves."

[1] Page 62.

CHAPTER XVI.

A Birthday--A Surprise--The Day celebrated by a Dinner--An Awkward Mistake--A Queen of Fashion--A Drive to Tarrytown--A Poem to Ida.

_July 16_.

An air of mystery has pervaded the house for the past week. My offers to take Ida's letters to the post, or to go and fetch home the mail, have been met with a hasty negative, and Minna despatched forthwith to attend to them; and whenever I might enter Ida's room, it would appear to be at a most inopportune moment, for the earnest conversation that had been going on between herself and Gabrielle would instantly stop, and their countenances a.s.sume a most transparent expression of indifference. Long whispered conversations with mamma were continually taking place, and Ida seemed to be more frequently called to the kitchen by Lina than I had ever before known her to be, that autocrat being ordinarily by no means tolerant of her presence there. Finally, Ida was summoned to New York upon important business--to meet her lawyer, I supposed, but wondered why she did not simply authorize papa to represent herself, as well as Gabrielle, whose guardian he is, and thus spare herself a tedious day in the city in such sultry weather.

Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is Marguerite's. As the fetes occur in midsummer, we are usually--if in America--upon the Catskill Mountains, or some equally inaccessible place, so that a celebration is not practicable; indeed, our birthdays have not been celebrated since 1869, when some friends in Paris took us all to St. Germain, where we pa.s.sed a most delightful week at the Pavilion Henri Quatre (a hotel built upon the spot where Louis XIV. was born), and daily drove and picniced in the grand old forest for which St. Germain is noted. The events of yesterday were therefore most unexpected and agreeable.

Ida and Gabrielle, after congratulating Marguerite and I, and giving us some elegant presents (for we usually receive our presents upon the same day, as less than twenty-four hours separate our anniversaries), asked us to drive down to the station with them to meet the train, and gently intimated that as some one might come up from New York with papa, we had better put on our best bombazines. Quite obediently I went upstairs, put on the dress with its weight of c.r.a.pe, clasped on my new black velvet _ceinture_, with its buckles of oxidized silver in delicate filagree work, (Marguerite's gift), and obtuse to the inappropriateness of a dress fan for morning use, suspended from the chatelaine another birthday gift--a black lace fan. Then, when I had put the finishing touch, in the shape of dear Ida's present--a vinaigrette of oxidized silver formed like a half-furled fan--I was quite satisfied with my toilette; before the day was over, however, my _ceinture_ was adorned with a tortoise-sh.e.l.l chatelaine, whistle, and tablets, as well as a dainty riding-whip--papa's present--and I deeply mourned the impossibility of wearing two beautiful pictures, a new novel, and a large box of Iauch's best bonbons.

When the train arrived, papa emerged, followed by our artist neighbor, Mr. John Hows.