Sam Lawson's Oldtown Fireside Stories. Гарриет Бичер-Стоу
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cleared up, Ketury and the man was both gone, and only old Cack lay on the ground, rolling and moaning as if he'd die.
“Wal, Cap'n Eb he picked him up, and built up the fire, and sort o' comforted him up, 'cause the crittur was in distress o' mind that was drefful. The awful Providence, ye see, had awakened him, and his sin had been set home to his soul; and he was under such conviction, that it all had to come out—how old Cack's father had murdered poor Lommedieu for his money, and Cack had been privy to it, and helped his father build the body up in that very chimbley; and he said that he hadn't had neither peace nor rest since then, and that was what had driv' him away from ordinances; for ye know sinnin' will always make a man leave prayin'. Wal, Cack didn't live but a day or two. Cap'n Eb he got the minister o' Sherburn and one o' the selectmen down to see him; and they took his deposition. He seemed railly quite penitent; and Parson Carryl he prayed with him, and was faithful in settin' home the providence to his soul: and so, at the eleventh hour, poor old Cack might have got in; at least it looks a leetle like it. He was distressed to think he couldn't live to be hung. He sort o' seemed to think, that if he was fairly tried, and hung, it would make it all square. He made Parson Carryl promise to have the old mill pulled down, and bury the body; and, after he was dead, they did it.
“Cap'n Eb he was one of a party o' eight that pulled down the chimbley; and there, sure enough, was the skeleton of poor Lommedieu.
“So there you see, boys, there can't be no iniquity so hid but what it 'll come out. The wild Indians of the forest, and the stormy winds and tempests, j'ined together to bring out this'ere.”
“For my part,” said Aunt Lois sharply, “I never believed that story.”
“Why, Lois,” said my grandmother, “Cap'n Eb Sawin was a regular church-member, and a most respectable man.”
“Law, mother! I don't doubt he thought so. I suppose he and Cack got drinking toddy together, till he got asleep, and dreamed it. I wouldn't believe such a thing if it did happen right before my face and eyes. I should only think I was crazy, that's all.”
“Come, Lois, if I was you, I wouldn't talk so like a Sadducee,” said my grandmother. “What would become of all the accounts in Dr. Cotton Mather's 'Magnilly' if folks were like you?”
“Wal,” said Sam Lawson, drooping contemplatively over the coals, and gazing into the fire, “there's a putty consid'able sight o' things in this world that's true; and then ag'in there's a sight o' things that ain't true. Now, my old gran'ther used to say, 'Boys, says he, 'if ye want to lead a pleasant and prosperous life, ye must contrive allers to keep jest the happy medium between truth and falsehood.' Now, that are's my doctrine.”
Aunt Lois knit severely.
“Boys,” said Sam, “don't you want ter go down with me and get a mug o' cider?”
Of course we did, and took down a basket to bring up some apples to roast.
“Boys,” says Sam mysteriously, while he was drawing the cider, “you jest ask your Aunt Lois to tell you what she knows 'bout Ruth Sullivan.”
“Why, what is it?”
“Oh! you must ask her. These 'ere folks that's so kind o' toppin' about sperits and sich, come sift 'em down, you gen 'lly find they knows one story that kind o' puzzles 'em. Now you mind, and jist ask your Aunt Lois about Ruth Sullivan.”
THE SULLIVAN LOOKING-GLASS
UNT LOIS,” said I, “what was that story about Ruth Sullivan?”
Aunt Lois's quick black eyes gave a surprised flash; and she and my grandmother looked at each other a minute significantly.
“Who told you any thing about Ruth Sullivan,” she said sharply.
“Nobody. Somebody said you knew something about her,” said I.
I was holding a skein of yarn for Aunt Lois; and she went on winding in silence, putting the ball through loops and tangled places.
“Little boys shouldn't ask questions,” she concluded at last sententiously. “Little boys that ask too many questions get sent to bed.”
I knew that of old, and rather wondered at my own hardihood.
Aunt Lois wound on in silence; but, looking in her face, I could see plainly that I had started an exciting topic.
“I should think,” pursued my grandmother in her corner, “that Ruth's case might show you, Lois, that a good many things may happen—more than you believe.”
“Oh, well, mother! Ruth's was a strange case; but I suppose there are ways of accounting for it.”
“You believed Ruth, didn't you?”
“Oh, certainly, I believed Ruth! Why shouldn't I? Ruth was one of my best friends, and as true a girl as lives: there wasn't any nonsense about Ruth. She was one of the sort,” said Aunt Lois reflectively, “that I'd as soon trust as myself: when she said a thing was so and so, I knew it was so.”
“Then, if you think Ruth's story was true,” pursued my grandmother, “what's the reason you are always cavilling at things just 'cause you can't understand how they came to be so?”
Aunt Lois set her lips firmly, and wound with grim resolve. She was the very impersonation of that obstinate rationalism that grew up at the New-England fireside, close alongside of the most undoubting faith in the supernatural.
“I don't believe such things,” at last she snapped out, “and I don't disbelieve them. I just let 'em alone. What do I know about 'em? Ruth tells me a story; and I believe her. I know what she saw beforehand, came true in a most remarkable way. Well, I'm sure I've no objection. One thing may be true, or another, for all me; but, just because I believe Ruth Sullivan, I'm not going to believe, right and left, all the stories in Cotton Mather, and all that anybody can hawk up to tell. Not I.” This whole conversation made me all the more curious to get at the story thus dimly indicated; and so we beset Sam for information.
“So your Aunt Lois wouldn't tell ye nothin',” said Sam. “Wanter know, neow! sho!”
“No: she said we must go to bed if we asked her.”
“That 'are's a way folks has; but, ye see, boys,” said Sam, while a droll confidential expression crossed the lack-lustre dolefulness of his visage, “ye see, I put ye up to it, 'cause Miss Lois is so large and commandin' in her ways, and so kind o' up and down in all her doin's, that I like once and a while to sort o' gravel her; and I knowed enough to know that that 'are question would git her in a tight place.
“Ye see, yer Aunt Lois was knowin' to all this 'ere about Ruth, so there wer'n't no gettin' away from it; and it's about as remarkable a providence as any o' them of Mister Cotton Marther's 'Magnilly.' So if you 'll come up in the barn-chamber this arternoon, where I've got a lot o' flax to hatchel out, I 'll tell ye all about it.”
So that afternoon beheld Sam arranged at full length on a pile of top-tow in the barn-chamber, hatchelling by proxy by putting Harry and myself to the service.
“Wal, now, boys, it's kind o' refreshing to see how wal ye take hold,” he observed. “Nothin' like bein' industrious while ye'r young: gret sight better now than loafin off, down