"Why, papa has brought up Mr. Hows!" I said. "How very--" my exclamation of pleasure was checked by surprise at the appearance of his brother, the musical editor of the _Express_, followed by our friends, Dr. Taylor and Colonel Rogers.
"Is this a surprise party?" Marguerite and I inquired blankly.
My dear friend Lela Paraf then tripped out, a.s.sisted by her elegant husband, and followed by Mr. Eugene Durkee and his brother, two Paris friends of ours. Then the car door opened once more, and "our young chief," as papa calls Mr. Reid, and Colonel Hay issued--a surprise party indeed.
Ida had intended to invite only a few young gentlemen to spend the day with us, fearing that if she sent out invitations to ladies to dinner, some enterprising reporter might announce that she had given at least a _fete champetre_, if not a _bal masque_, which in our deep mourning would not be an agreeable report to be in circulation; but Lela is so charming and dear to us all, and has remained so faithfully my most intimate friend for the last six months, notwithstanding the rival that I dreaded in her husband, that Ida made an exception for her.
As we were marshalling our regiment to return to the house, a tall, dark, distinguished-looking gentleman, elegantly dressed, hastened towards us. Who he was I could not imagine, but as his face seemed familiar, I welcomed him with a beaming smile. He must, however, be very near-sighted, I thought, for he overlooked my extended hand, merely bowing very low, and going on towards the house.
"Who is he, Ida?" I said in a whisper; "I don"t remember his name."
"I suppose not," said Ida, laughing; "though you have seen him often enough. It is Emile, from Delmonico"s. I sent for him to help Minna serve the table."
I was no longer surprised that my distinguished-looking gentleman did not shake hands with me.
When we were upon the croquet ground, I had an opportunity to admire Lela"s toilette. A born Queen of Fashion, her dresses even when as a school-girl were my admiration, and her toilette for my birthday showed the refinement of delicacy and taste: for, not wishing to be the only lady present in colors, she wore a black grenadine, with black bows and a black lace hat; her diamond ear-drops and one half-blown deep red rose alone testifying that her mourning robe was only worn through sympathy.
We had sat three hours at the table, and were lingering over the ices and awaiting the coffee and fruit, when a shrill whistle, warning the guests that the train was nigh, caused a flight more rapid than that of Cinderella. Farewells were left unspoken, and "French leave" taken in good earnest, as our friends made a short cut through the garden of Bischoff, the trainmaster, who lives opposite us. Their departure could scarcely be said to be graceful, but as they had only three minutes" time to meet the train, it was obligatory.
Lina had exercised all of her art in preparing the birthday dinner, and as Ida gave her _carte blanche_ in her most extravagant demands--such as twenty pounds of beef for gravies, and an entire bottle of Madeira for the soup, the dinner was very elegant and satisfactory. Lina would, I fancy, have been much aggrieved, had she known that her artistic dishes were supposed to have been sent up from Delmonico"s.
_July 20_.
A drive to Tarrytown to-day. After two months of inland air, the change to the exhilarating salt breeze blowing up from the Hudson was very refreshing, and made us quite regret, during the few hours we spent there, that Chappaqua could not be occasionally transported to the seaside.
"I am especially fond," said Ida, "of living by the sea, although I do not enjoy an ocean voyage; but a cottage at Newport is my ideal home for the summer."
"Newport air," said mamma, "would, I think, be too strong for me. The most agreeable sea air that I ever experienced was upon the Isle of Wight. There the climate was so mild as to be very beneficial to me.
But you must know as much or more than I do about the Isle of Wight air, for you spent several months there with your mother when last in Europe, did you not?"
"Yes, we spent a winter and spring at Ventnor," said Ida; "that town, you know, is especially recommended to people with lung troubles, although I could never see that it did poor mamma much good."
"Did you ever see, Aunt Esther," inquired Gabrielle, "the poem that was addressed to Ida while she was at Ventnor?"
Mamma had not before heard of it; therefore, upon our return, Ida took it out of her portfolio, and showed it to us. It was written by a New York editor and poet, and was, we all thought, very beautiful and appropriate. As it was in MSS., Ida allowed me to copy it into my journal.
A FAMILIAR IDYL.
FOR IDA LILLIAN GREELEY.
Dear friend! If I could step to-day Upon your cosey English isle, Victoria"s chosen home erewhile, And hallowed by the Laureate"s lay;
Though beauty breaks from every view, And one long splendor edge the sh.o.r.e, I should not pause an hour before I touched the terrace graced by you.
For what"s a Queen"s or Poet"s worth?
The light that lies on land and sea Resplendent? Dearer far to me The friendship which outweighs the earth.
Should I not find you--happy chance-- Just where your ivied cottage stands, Dreaming with hope of western lands, Or facing torn and tortured France?
And you could tell of sunny days?
Of chalky cliffs and spreading downs; Nature is more than bustling towns, And country life than city ways.
But hearing now a robin sing, I wonder if his English mate May not be hopping near your gate, A harbinger, with ours, of Spring.
I know the precious charge you hold; But now, when comes the budding year, I wish the rather you were here To see our leafy months unfold.
To watch the coming choir of birds, And note the lengthening twilight hours, The miracles of buds and flowers, And tender shows too sweet for words.
But you who hear the throstle sing, And greet the lark"s high ecstasies, May learn to care no more for these, And spurn each weaker voice and wing.
I will not think it--home is home; And much as other skies may do, Ours will not reach its sweetest blue, Nor May seem perfect, till you come.
_March 1, 1871_.
CHAPTER XVII.
Gabrielle and her Embroidery--Life in Pennsylvania continued--Sugar-making--Horrible Incident--A Woman devoured by Wolves--A Domestic Picture--Evening Readings--The Library of Mr.
Greeley"s Father--Mr. Greeley"s Mother intellectually considered--Her Education--Mr. Greeley"s Eldest Sister--She teaches School at the Age of Twelve.
_July 25_.
"It is some time, auntie," said Gabrielle, from the sofa, "since you have told us any stories. Now I wish that this evening, while I am working upon my pin-cushion, you would relate some more episodes of your Pennsylvania life;" and she opened her work box, and took out a little roll of canvas, upon which she was busy delineating in pale yellow wool a stiff little canary, with a surprising eye, and an impossible tail.
"I have forgotten what I have already related, dear," replied mamma; "you must tell me where to take up my story."
"You left off at the manufacture of black salts," said Gabrielle, "and I want you to commence at that very point, and not forget anything that occurred."
"Perhaps you would like to hear about sugar making," said mamma; "that was one of father"s yearly enterprises, and great sport we young people thought it."
"Oh, do tell us about it," said Gabrielle, with sparkling eyes; "that will be delightful; almost as good as meeting a bear."
"Although not so exciting, I fear," said mamma, laughing; "I am sorry that I have no encounters with bears to meet your demands for thrilling adventures to-night; but if, as I suppose, you have never seen the process of sugar making, you will find an account of it quite interesting."
"Father had upon his extensive acres hundreds of grand old forest maples, which, growing as they did, in patches in the wilderness, formed what were called in country parlance "sugar bushes," or, in the more elegant language of books, "sugar orchards." Early in the spring, when the sun stood high, and the snow began to melt, the maples would be "tapped," as the farmers say; sometimes by boring into them, and often by driving in a chisel; then a wooden spout would be inserted through which the sweet sap would begin to trickle down into the troughs placed there to receive it. From these troughs it was collected and carried in buckets and pails to an immense receptacle hollowed out of the trunk of some great tree; usually selecting what was called the "cuc.u.mber tree," as its soft wood could be more easily excavated than that of other trees. The men used to wear a yoke upon their shoulders with hooks from which the pails were suspended; and thus equipped they would traverse to and fro with the sap. I well remember lending my a.s.sistance to father by trudging valiantly through snow that reached my knees, to carry buckets of sap, but without the a.s.sistance of a yoke.
"The process of making sugar is very like that I described in the manufacture of black salts. The sap is poured into immense cauldrons, and boils sometimes for several days. As fast as it evaporates, fresh sap is poured in until the syrup becomes thick, and then follows granulation, or, as the farmers call it, "sugaring off." These periods of sugaring off, which occurred usually once or twice a week during the sugar season, were partic.i.p.ated in by the neighbors from far and near, who would come to eat sugar and make merry.
"I forgot, however, to tell you that while the sap was boiling, some one had to spend the night in the woods to refill the cauldron, and to keep up the fire. In our family this duty fell to brother Barnes, who took much delight in it. With some boy friend he would camp out upon a bundle of straw before the fire, and with a nice supper, and songs and stories, diversified by rising every half hour to stir up the fire, and watch the cauldron, and to have a private sugaring off for their own benefit, the boys would pa.s.s away the night.
"But were they in no danger from wild animals, mamma?" inquired Marguerite.
"Not much," replied mamma; "the boys always took their guns with them, but although the deer would rustle over the leaves, and bears and wolves would creep softly up to the little encampment, the fire was usually sufficient protection, and the wolves would content themselves with howling, and with a dissatisfied grunt the bears would move slowly away.