Part 13 (1/2)

But the ”Ego” had changed. I was living in a poetic atmosphere and imbibing its qualities and its stimulants. Born with artistic tastes, I had imagined an artistic future; but as the procession of realistic lives pa.s.sed before me, I seemed to see the inward side of the real and the ideal. An artistic life!--a triumph after long years of labor, awarded by the hand-clapping of a few admirers, most of whom had no appreciation of the work, and no sympathy with its higher motives.

Would it not be cold? Would it not slowly freeze my heart to the warm love of human beings, with every one of whom I had now something in common? A real life, taking part in active work, in plain, daily toil; touching the great, full, seething heart of humanity on its warm side; working for them; working with them; being one with many--one with her.

Which was best? Which was the supremest ideal? I think the latter.

There were other visitors who came, attracted by the little group of singers. There was a young lady, Miss Graubtner from Boston, who touched the piano with the grace of a master. Her German name indicated the stock from whence she sprung, and the training she received from her musical father. There were tenors and ba.s.ses who were attracted also, but they came and went; the sweetest songstress remained, and the cold days of winter were beginning to give way to the warm March sun when the visit was completed, and we reluctantly gave her back to ”civilization.”

Among the pleasant occasional visitors was a gentleman who joined in the circle with his flute, who had the reputation, well deserved, of having written some fine verses--some of them are in the _Harbinger_--and who was in very friendly sympathy with our music man, as an old and, I think, college acquaintance. His accomplishments were varied. He had graced a pulpit, and afterwards made his mark with his pen, pallet and brush. He had a very pleasant gift of imitation, and, with his modest and gentlemanly bearing, made quite an impression on me.

I fancy I see him now, with his tall, graceful, upright figure, his wealth of dark, curling hair, and his young manhood, with his sober, dignified face and large forehead, just retiring from our crowded Eyry parlor to the hall, where under cover, he can more readily introduce his menagerie--menagerie or barnyard you certainly would think it was; for from behind the door comes the imitation of the cow with its young calf; a sow and its pigs are squealing; the lambs and sheep are bleating; the rooster begins to crow, and near by the house dog is heard; soon all is still except his persistent, hoa.r.s.e bark; then from a distance we hear the bark of another dog awakened by the first; soon another, nearer still, wakes up and tunes his note; presently we hear all the dogs of the village who are now awake. Then the sound of the starting up of the locomotive drowns all other noises, and when it has pa.s.sed away we hear nothing but far in the dim distance some one solitary dog still barking. The frogs begin to peep, and the turtles whistle, and the doves coo, until you are carried away from the circle, its lights and its pleasant, laughing faces into the bosom of nature.

It is needless to say that all these sounds came from the throat of Christopher P. Cranch, the poet-artist, and were clever imitations which were hugely appreciated by the young folks.

CHAPTER X.

FUN ALIVE.

A lady said to me not long since, knowing it from experience, ”There was a great deal of fun at Brook Farm.” This was true, and I deem it worthy of particular mention, as I can scarce believe that there ever was in New England a body of men and women who for so long a time, maintained such friendly and intimate relations, and yet kept up such an interminable fire of small fun and joke, puns and _bon-mots,_ inoffensively shooting them off right and left at all times and places.

Being of an evanescent nature they have mostly vanished from my mind, but the spirit of them remains.

There were ”All-Fool's” day tricks played by the young people on such smart, independent geniuses as Irish John; the sending of a letter to him from a supposable lady friend, with a post-mark painted on it by one of the young ladies; putting parsnip ends into his study lamp for wicks, etc. But these are not to be cla.s.sed with the fun that was present of the genuine sort. There were a few live wits who were Tom Hoods on a small scale, seeing everything with a double meaning, and ”double-enders” (_double entendres_) were for breakfast, dinner and supper every day in the week.

Some little children were chasing one another one very warm day. ”Why,”

queried one, ”are those children like native Africans?” ”Because they belong to the 'hot' and 'tot' race!”

”Is Mr. ---- much of a carpenter?” ”Not a bit of one, that's _plain_,”

was the reply.

”What sort of a man is that long-haired fellow opposite?” said one. ”He is good in the _main_,” replied the other.

”These Grahamites will never make their ends _meet_,” said one. ”You may _stake_ your reputation on that,” said the other.

”Mrs. ---- is a regular steamboat,” said A. ”Yes, I know it; she goes by steam----_self 'steam_,” said B.----which was smart, but cutting!

If, for instance, Miss Kettell was to be married, one would ask if she was a ”_tin_” kettle, and another would ”_go bail_” she was, and the next would say that ”the larger the kettle the more tin it would have.”

”And the more _iron in (g)_, too!” some one would e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e. Then another would say that ”after she was married there would be none of the _Kettle_ left,” and the next wit would say, ”And none of the '_tin_' either,” and so the badinage would pa.s.s about.

It made no difference what the subject was, it was always suggestive.

If it was a dog, they would ask, ”What kind of a _bark_ he had on him?”

If it was a pump, ”Is it _well_ with it?” If it was a shepherd, they would like to inquire ”if he was not a _baa_-keeper?” and the first would reply that he would have to ”ruminate” on it before he made his answer; and the second would hope his reply would be ”_spirited_; if not he had better be _punched_ up.”

”Have you seen my umbrella?” asked one. ”What sort of an umbrella was it?” was the inquiry. ”It had a hooked end,” said number one. ”I have not seen it,” was the reply, ”but _I_ had a nice one once, and the end was _exactly_ like yours; it was _hooked!_”

Pa.s.sing a rosy-cheeked, unkempt boy, Miss--remarked to her friend, ”Isn't he a little honey?” ”Yes,” she replied, struck by his traits, ”honey without a _comb!_”

”Do you not think Miss B. is beautiful? She bows to perfection.” ”Yes; but she hasn't bowed to me. Has she to _you?_”

”Who are those girls out in the boat with the old man?” (The name of the boat was ”the Dart.”) ”Why, his _darters_, of course,” was the reply.

And how could any one do differently when the great Archon himself was first and foremost in the fray, poking fun at all? ”Don't do that,” he said one day to me when I put something unusual in the swine's mess, ”the hogs will all _die_ after it!” with a most serious look on his pleasant face. In my seat at the table, looking down the hall to where the Archon was, I saw him full of frolic, and oftentimes wondered what he could joke so much about.