Part 1 (2/2)

might well be called the ”Village Watch-Tower,” when you consider further that she had moved only from her high-backed rocker to her bed, and from her bed to her rocker, for more than thirty years,--ever since that july day when her husband had had a sun-stroke while painting the meeting-house steeple, and her baby Jonathan had been thereby hastened into a world not in the least ready to receive him.

She could not have lived without that window, she would have told you, nor without the river, which had lulled her to sleep ever since she could remember. It was in the south chamber upstairs that she had been born. Her mother had lain there and listened to the swirl of the water, in that year when the river was higher than the oldest inhabitant had ever seen it,--the year when the covered bridge at the Mills had been carried away, and when the one at the Falls was in hourly danger of succ.u.mbing to the force of the freshet.

All the men in both villages were working on the river, strengthening the dam, bracing the bridge, and breaking the jams of logs; and with the parting of the boom, the snapping of the bridge timbers, the cras.h.i.+ng of the logs against the rocks, and the shouts of the river-drivers, the little Lucinda had come into the world. Some one had gone for the father, and had found him on the river, where he had been since day-break, drenched with the storm, blown fro his dangerous footing time after time, but still battling with the great heaped-up ma.s.ses of logs, wrenching them from one another's grasp, and sending them down the swollen stream.

Finally the jam broke; and a cheer of triumph burst from the excited men, as the logs, freed from their bondage, swept down the raging flood, on and ever on in joyous liberty, faster and faster, till they encountered some new obstacle, when they heaped themselves together again, like puppets of Fate, and were beaten by the waves into another helpless surrender.

With the breaking of the jam, one dead monarch of the forest leaped into the air as if it had been shot from a cannon's mouth, and lodged between two jutting peaks of rock high on the river bank. Presently another log was dashed against it, but rolled off and hurried down the stream; then another, and still another; but no force seemed enough to drive the giant from its intrenched position.

”Hurry on down to the next jam, Raish, and let it alone,” cried the men.

”Mebbe it'll git washed off in the night, and anyhow you can't budge it with no kind of a tool we've got here.”

Then from the sh.o.r.e came a boy's voice calling, ”There's a baby up to your house!” And the men repeated in stentorian tones, ”Baby up to your house, Rais.h.!.+ Leggo the log; you're wanted!”

”Boy or girl?” shouted the young father.

”Girl!” came back the answer above the roar of the river.

Whereupon Raish Dunnell steadied himself with his pick and taking a hatchet from his belt, cut a rude letter ”L” on the side of the stranded log.

”L's for Lucindy,” he laughed. ”Now you log if you git's fur as Saco, drop in to my wife's folks and tell 'em the baby's name.”

There had not been such a freshet for years before, and there had never been one since; so, as the quiet seasons went by, ”Lucindy's log” was left in peace, the columbines blooming all about it, the harebells hanging their heads of delicate blue among the rocks that held it in place, the birds building their nests in the knot-holes of its withered side.

Seventy years had pa.s.sed, and on each birthday, from the time when she was only ”Raish Dunnell's little Lou,” to the years when she was Lucinda Bascom, wife and mother, she had wandered down by the river side, and gazed, a little superst.i.tiously perhaps, on the log that had been marked with an ”L” on the morning she was born. It had stood the wear and tear of the elements bravely, but now it was beginning, like Lucinda, to show its age. Its back was bent, like hers; its face was seamed and wrinkled, like her own; and the village lovers who looked at it from the opposite bank wondered if, after all, it would hold out as long as ”old Mis'

Bascom.”

She held out bravely, old Mrs. Bascom, though she was ”all skin, bones, and tongue,” as the neighbors said; for n.o.body needed to go into the Bascoms' to brighten up aunt Lucinda a bit, or take her the news; one went in to get a bit of brightness, and to hear the news.

”I should get lonesome, I s'pose,” she was wont to say, ”if it wa'n't for the way this house is set, and this chair, and this winder, 'n' all.

Men folks used to build some o' the houses up in a lane, or turn 'em back or side to the road, so the women folks couldn't see anythin' to keep their minds off their churnin' or dish-was.h.i.+n'; but Aaron Dunnell hed somethin' else to think about, 'n' that was himself, first, last, and all the time. His store was down to bottom of the hill, 'n' when he come up to his meals, he used to set where he could see the door; 'n'

if any cust'mer come, he could call to 'em to wait a spell till he got through eatin'. Land! I can hear him now, yellin' to 'em, with his mouth full of victuals! They hed to wait till he got good 'n' ready, too.

There wa'n't so much comp't.i.tion in business then as there is now, or he'd 'a' hed to give up eatin' or hire a clerk. ... I've always felt to be thankful that the house was on this rise o' ground. The teams hev to slow up on 'count o' the hill, 'n' it gives me consid'ble chance to see folks 'n' what they've got in the back of the wagon, 'n' one thing 'n'

other. ... The neighbors is continually comin' in here to talk about things that's goin' on in the village. I like to hear 'em, but land!

they can't tell me nothing'! They often say, 'For ma.s.sy sakes, Lucindy Bascom, how d' you know that?' 'Why,' says I to them, 'I don't ask no questions, 'n' folks don't tell me no lies; I just set in my winder, 'n' put two 'n' two together,--that's all I do.' I ain't never ben in a playhouse, but I don't suppose the play-actors git down off the platform on t' the main floor to explain to the folks what they've ben doin', do they? I expect, if folks can't understand their draymas when the're actin' of 'em out, they have to go ignorant, don't they? Well, what do I want with explainin', when everythin' is acted out right in the road?”

There was quite a gathering of neighbors at the Bascoms' on this particular July afternoon. No invitations had been sent out, and none were needed. A common excitement had made it vital that people should drop in somewhere, and speculate about certain interesting matters well known to be going on in the community, but going on in such an underhand and secretive fas.h.i.+on that it well-nigh destroyed one's faith in human nature.

The sitting-room door was open into the entry, so that whatever breeze there was might come in, and an unusual glimpse of the new foreroom rug was afforded the spectators. Everything was as neat as wax, for Diadema was a housekeeper of the type fast pa.s.sing away. The great coal stove was enveloped in its usual summer wrapper of purple calico, which, tied neatly about its ebony neck and portly waist, gave it the appearance of a buxom colored lady presiding over the a.s.sembly. The kerosene lamps stood in a row on the high, narrow mantelpiece, each chimney protected from the flies by a brown paper bag inverted over its head. Two plaster Samuels praying under the pink mosquito netting adorned the ends of the shelf. There were screens at all the windows, and Diadema fidgeted nervously when a visitor came in the mosquito netting door, for fear a fly should sneak in with her.

On the wall were certificates of members.h.i.+p in the Missionary Society; a picture of Maidens welcoming Was.h.i.+ngton in the Streets of Alexandria, in a frame of cuc.u.mber seeds; and an interesting doc.u.ment setting forth the claims of the Dunnell family as old settlers long before the separation of Maine from Ma.s.sachusetts,--the fact bein' established by an obituary notice reading, ”In Saco, December 1791, Dorcas, daughter of Abiathar Dunnell, two months old of Fits unbaptized.”

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