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I “AH, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us! | |
| In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest | |
| Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming, | |
| Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight; | |
| Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the snow is, and perfect!” | 5 |
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| Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to Hannah the housemaid, | |
| As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor, | |
| By the window she sat with her work, and looked on the landscape | |
| White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision, | |
| By the four corners let down and descending out of the heavens. | 10 |
| Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the meadows. | |
| Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing | |
| Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river. | |
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| Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid: | |
| “Beautiful winter! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely, | 15 |
| If one could only walk like a fly with one’s feet on the ceiling. | |
| But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it | |
| Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough, | |
| Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going; | |
| Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches. | 20 |
| There is snow in the air, and see! it is falling already; | |
| All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow, | |
| Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and then, too, | |
| How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day?” | |
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| But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving: | 25 |
| “Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow He sayeth, | |
| Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth; He is it | |
| Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost.” | |
| So she folded her work and laid away in her basket. | |
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| Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters, | 30 |
| Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there | |
| Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter | |
| Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder, | |
| Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering kettle, | |
| Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot, | 35 |
| Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures. | |
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| Then Elizabeth said, “Lo! Joseph is long on his errand. | |
| I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing | |
| For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph; | |
| In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing.” | 40 |
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| Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid | |
| Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was silent, | |
| While her mistress went on: “The house is far from the village; | |
| We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing | |
| Sometimes tarry o’ernight, and make us glad by their coming.” | 45 |
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| Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal: | |
| “Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern; | |
| Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons | |
| In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft, | |
| Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the sunshine.” | 50 |
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| But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered: | |
| “All I have is the Lord’s, not mine to give or withhold it; | |
| I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people | |
| Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service. | |
| His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them | 55 |
| Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given. | |
| Therefore my excellent father first built this house in the clearing; | |
| Though he came not himself, I came; for the Lord was my guidance, | |
| Leading me here for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others | |
| Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table.” | 60 |
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| Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid; | |
| And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer: | |
| “Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London, | |
| When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly, | |
| Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission? | 65 |
| No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh, | |
| Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle, | |
| Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong wind | |
| Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle. | |
| Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me, | 70 |
| Wherefore I do not know; but strong is the feeling within me | |
| That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten.” | |
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II E’en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells, | |
| First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance, | |
| Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard, | 75 |
| Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners. | |
| Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together, | |
| And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid, | |
| “It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him.” | |
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| Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern | 80 |
| Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse, | |
| And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway, | |
| Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow | |
| Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses, | |
| And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic. | 85 |
| Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger. | |
| Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air; | |
| And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him, | |
| As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence, | |
| And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected, | 90 |
| Quietly gave him her hand, and said, “Thou art welcome, John Estaugh.” | |
| And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior, | |
| “Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? After so many | |
| Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee. | |
| Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold. | 95 |
| For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence | |
| On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist, | |
| Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside | |
| Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace’s eunuch, | |
| How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza, | 100 |
| Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip, | |
| Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with him. | |
| So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me, | |
| And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead, | |
| How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth, | 105 |
| Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst come to this country. | |
| And I remembered thy name, and thy father and mother in England, | |
| And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon, | |
| Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing.” | |
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| And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely | 110 |
| Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as she answered, | |
| “Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee | |
| Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside.” | |
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| Then, with stamping of feet the door was opened, and Joseph | |
| Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out, | 115 |
| Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper; | |
| For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons, | |
| But one family only, one heart, one hearth, and one household. | |
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| When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace, | |
| Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood, | 120 |
| Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of fagots, | |
| Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty | |
| All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter! | |
| Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table, | |
| Coming and going, and bustling about in closet and chamber. | 125 |
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| Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh, | |
| Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood; | |
| How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments, | |
| Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet inflowings | |
| Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded, | 130 |
| And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people | |
| Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue. | |
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| Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely | |
| Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed | |
| Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid | 135 |
| Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order. | |
| And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, “The maiden | |
| Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward.” | |
| Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent. | |
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| Then came the hour of sleep, death’s counterfeit, nightly rehearsal | 140 |
| Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of shadows, where no man | |
| Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken! | |
| Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended. | |
| But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor, | |
| Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the heavens, | 145 |
| Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway | |
| Through the drifts of snow; the horses already were harnessed, | |
| And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold, | |
| Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May; while above them | |
| Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic, | 150 |
| Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement, | |
| As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window, | |
| Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it. | |
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III Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast | |
| Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other | 155 |
| That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely | |
| All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, | |
| Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only | |
| Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. | |
| With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon | 160 |
| Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. | |
| Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and music, | |
| Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. | |
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| Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly | |
| Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims, | 165 |
| Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting | |
| In the neighboring town; and with them came riding John Estaugh. | |
| At Elizabeth’s door they stopped to rest, and alighting | |
| Tasted the current wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey | |
| Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden; | 170 |
| Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, | |
| And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. | |
| But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning | |
| Over her horse’s neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh: | |
| “Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, | 175 |
| Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; | |
| Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth.” | |
| And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. | |
| It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest; | |
| It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning! | 180 |
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| Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, | |
| As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: | |
| “I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; | |
| I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh.” | |
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| And John Estaugh made answer, surprised at the words she had spoken, | 185 |
| “Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; | |
| Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul’s immaculate whiteness, | |
| Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. | |
| But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. | |
| When the Lord’s work is done, and the toil and the labor completed | 190 |
| He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness | |
| Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance.” | |
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| Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, | |
| “So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further. | |
| It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow | 195 |
| Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not | |
| When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it, | |
| Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me.” | |
| And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others. | |
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IV Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, | 200 |
| Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; | |
| So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, | |
| Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. | |
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| Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead. | |
| Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things | 205 |
| Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others, | |
| Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled; and Hannah the housemaid | |
| Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring, | |
| Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph, | |
| And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior, | 210 |
| For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings, | |
| Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with sheaves overladen, | |
| As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures. | |
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| Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing | |
| Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious, | 215 |
| Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness | |
| Mary’s ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor. | |
| O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting! | |
| O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy! | |
| But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps, | 220 |
| And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain. | |
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| Then John Estaugh came back o’er the sea for the gift that was offered, | |
| Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman’s affection. | |
| And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly, | |
| Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little, | 225 |
| Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things. | |
| Such were the marriage rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh. | |
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| And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant, | |
| Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid; | |
| For when he asked her the question, she answered, “Nay;” and then added: | 230 |
| “But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph.” | |
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