Abbott Jacob
Caleb in the Country
“Does he?” said Caleb. “O, I wish you would let him out. I don't believe he would run away.”
“Not just yet,” said Mary Anna.
“But if you don't let him out pretty soon, I shall be gone,” said Caleb; “for I am going to Boston, you know, next week.”
“So you are,” said Mary Anna; “I forgot that.”
Caleb's father and mother were coming up from Boston that week, and they had written something about taking Caleb back with them, when they returned. Caleb was much pleased with this idea. He liked living in the country better than living in Boston; but still, he was very much pleased at the thought of seeing his father and mother, and his little sister, at home. He also liked riding, and was very glad of the opportunity to ride several days in the carryall, upon the front seat with his father. He expected that his father would let him have the whip and reins pretty often to drive.
“It is not certain, however,” continued Mary Anna, “that you will go to Boston this summer. Mother said that perhaps you would not go until the fall, and then perhaps she would go with you, and bring you back to stay here through the winter.”
“But I don't want to stay here in the winter,” said Caleb.
“Why not?” said Mary Anna.
“O, it is so cold and snowy;—and we can't play any.”
“That's a great mistake,” said Dwight; “we have fine times in the winter.”
“Why, what can you do?”
“O, a great many things; last winter we dug out a house in a great snow-drift under the rocks, and played in it a good deal.”
“But it must be very cold in a snow-house,” said Caleb.
“O, we had a fire.”
“A fire?” said Caleb.
“Certainly,” said Dwight, “We put some large stones for the fire-place, and let the smoke go out at the top.”
“But then it would melt your house down.”
“It did melt it a little around the sides, and so made it grow larger: but it did not melt it down. We had some good boards for seats, and we could stay there in the cold days.”
“Yes,” said Mary Anna, “I remember I went in one cold, windy day, and I found you boys all snugly stowed in your snow-house, warm and comfortable, by a good blazing fire.”
“Once we made some candy in our snow-house,” said David.
“Did you?” said Caleb.
“Yes,” said David; “Mary Anna proposed the plan, and got mother to give us the molasses in a little kettle, and we put it upon three stones in our snow-house, and we boiled it all one Wednesday afternoon, and when it was done, we poured it out upon the snow. It was capital candy.”
“I should like to see a snow-house,” said Caleb, “very much.”
“Then should not you like to stay here next winter? And then we can make one,” said David.
“Perhaps I could make one in Boston,” said Caleb.
“Ho!” said Dwight, with a tone of contempt, “you couldn't make a snow-house.”
“But there are enough other boys in Boston to help me,” said Caleb.
“There is not any good place,” said Mary Anna, in a mild and pleasant tone. “There is only a very small yard, and that is full of wood piles.”
“I can make it on the common,” said Caleb. “The common is large enough I can tell you.”
Here Dwight suddenly called out in a tone of great eagerness and delight, to look off to a little bush near them, to which he pointed with his finger.
“See! see! there is a squirrel!—a large grey squirrel!”
“Where?” said Caleb, “where? I don't see him.”
“Hush!” said Mary Anna, in a low tone: “All keep perfectly still. I'll shew him to you, Caleb. There, creeping along the branch.”
“I see him,” said David. “Let us catch him, and put him in with Mungo.”
“I'm afraid it is Mungo,” said Mary Anna.
“Mungo!” said Dwight, with surprise.
“Yes,” said Mary Anna, “it looks like him. I am afraid he has got out of some hole, and is going away. Sit still, and we will see what he will do.”
“O, no,” said Dwight, “I will go and catch him.”
“No, by no means,” said Mary Anna, holding Dwight back, “let us see what he will do.”
It was Mungo. He had gnawed himself a hole, and escaped from his prison.
He did not, however, seem disposed to go away very fast. He came down from the bush, and crept along upon the ground towards the brook, and then finding that he could not get across very well, he ran about the grass a little while, and then went back by degrees to the tree. He climbed up to the great branch, playing a minute or two about the grating over the hole, and then ran along out to the end of the branch, the children watching him all the time, and walking slowly along up towards the tree.
“I'll go and get him some corn,” said Mary Anna, “and see if he will not come down for it to his hole, when I call him. You stand here perfectly still, till I come back.”
So she went in and got a nut instead of corn, and put it down by the hole, calling “Mungo!” “Mungo!” as usual. The squirrel came creeping down the branch, and Mary Anna left the nut upon the grating, and went away. He crept down cautiously, seized the nut, stuffed it into his cheek, and ran off to one of the topmost branches; and there standing upon his hind legs, and holding his nut in his forepaws, he began gnawing the shell, watching the children all the time.
The next morning, Mary Anna tore off the netting, and the squirrel lived in the tree a long while. Caleb, however, saw but little more of him at this time, for he went to Boston the next week with his father. What befell him there may perhaps be described in another book, to be called “Caleb in Town.”
END OF CALEB IN THE COUNTRY.
POETRY.
PASSING AWAY
Mothers! where are they?—where?
They are gone from this passing scene,
Gone with the dreams of joy that were,
As if they ne'er had been.
Husbands! where are they?—where?
The visions of life are fled;
But they live—beneath—above—in air,
For spirits can ne'er be dead.
Children! where are they?—where?
Will the sun or stars reply?
Nor earth, nor sea, nor air,
Will answer to the cry.
Return they not with the early morn?
Where are the lost ones? say—
Gone to a land whence none return,
But where,—Oh, where are they?
Dear ones! where are they?—where?
They are gone from the village home;
We ponder and gaze on the empty chair,
And recall the voice's tone.
Loved ones! where are they?—where?
We stand by the vacant bed,
On the spot where we breathed the prayer,
When we raised the dying head.
The friends! where are they?—where?
Their spirits have left the clay;
Are they gone to weep in black despair,
Or to sing in eternal day?
Where are they? Oh tell us where!
That our aching hearts may rest;
Do they breathe the rich man's prayer,
Or are they among the blest?
Lost ones! where are they?—where?
We ask—but we ask in vain;
The sound goes round on the waves of air,
And echo says, “Where?” Again—
Where are they?—where?
WEEP NOT FOR ME
Weep not, my child, weep not for me,
Though heavy is the stroke,
And thou must early learn indeed
To bear affliction's yoke.
Yet weep not, for you all have heard,
Oft from these lips, in health,
How Death will often snatch away
Mothers by mystic stealth.
How often, when within the home
The sun of joy doth glow,
Some deed of his insidious hand
Will fill that home with woe.
But when thy mother far has soared
To regions all divine,
A livelier voice, my precious one,
Shall speak to thee, than mine.
Weep not for me—all tears remove—
I die without a fear;
My God, to whom you are assigned,
Your early prayers shall hear.
When twilight opes the dappled morn,
And clothes the east in grey,
When sunbeams deck the west at eve,
Oh then, beloved one—Pray.
