Page:The Granite Monthly Volume 5.djvu/236

208 But twenty-five years of struggle had taken away the graceful curves of fancy, and now they were eminently satisfied with this solid, substantial, square farmhouse. The faint breezes stirring, brought from the spacious barn across the way, with its wide open doors, and from the fields beyond, the fragrant breath of the new-mown hay; while on the still air the voices of the teamsters rang out, urging on the oxen, with their mountain high burdens. From this hill could be seen the little village, nestling quietly in the valley below, with its row of white cottages on either side of the broad street. The little church with its modest spire pointing upward; a voiceless, yet eloquent appeal to men's hearts, seeming ever to say, "higher, higher; fling off your heavy burdens of care, of sorrow and of sin, and unfettered and free, rise higher, higher."

You could see too, just back of the village, on another hill, a large elegant house with all modern improvements, which was filled to over-flowing during the summer months with city guests. But it is neither of this house nor of the village in the valley below that I have to tell you, but of the inmates of the brown farm-house.

It was about half past four o'clock Saturday afternoon. The bare, grim house stood bravely yet painfully distinct upon its would be imposing eminence. The pitiless sun threw its scotching heat full upon the weather-beaten, faded exterior, that had withstood so many days of blighting heat and wintry tempest, with never so much as the faintest resemblance of a protector or sympathizer near. The continuous outline of the high fence, with its even row of pickets, that kept solemn guard around the enclosure, was broken here by a clumsy gate with rusty iron hinges and heavy latch that refused to be lifted unless most strenuously importuned, leading up to what seemed to be the main entrance of the house. But it were sacrilege to enter here, for the tall rank grass waving triumphantly where the path should have been, had surely never been pressed by the careless foot of man, and the pondrous knocker upon the close shut door, had not sent forth its resonant clang, since many months ago, the staid, venerable pastor from the village below paid his semi-annual visit to the farm-house.

Further on towards the pasture lands was another gate hospitably wide open, and following the well-worn foot-path you came at last to the inhabited portion of the house, an east wing or ell. Over the low door leading into the long, old-fashioned kitchen, was a kind of rustic porch, which had evidently not been designed for ornament, but for practicability; for climbing over and around it, effectually shutting out the glare of the summer sun, was a luxuriant grape vine with its large green leaves, and abundant clusters of cool, slowly maturing fruit. Nature, ever lavish with her gifts, had transformed the gaunt, unsightly handiwork of man, into a perfect bower of simple purity and quiet beauty.

Two curly-headed, rosy-cheeked boys of six and eight summers, evidently considered this snug retreat their particular province for playing at jack-straws; for boys, straws, and other miscellaneous debris known only to the treasure house of a boy's well-filled pockets, were scattered about over the clean wooden door steps at comfortable and convenient distances from one another. A little further back in the door-way a quiet, scholarly lad of about twelve years was seated, utterly oblivious of the merry play about him, being busily engaged in mastering some perplexing questions in next Monday's lesson. Presently the curly-heads disappeared noisily into the kitchen beyond. "Say Janet, a'int supper most ready, where's mother, got the head-ache? Oh, well, nevermind, give Tom and me something to eat," volunteered the eight year old. But it is about this Janet that I wish to tell you, and after all there isn't much to tell, only a simple, plotless record of a young girl's life. She was so very like the