Father Brighthopes; Or, An Old Clergyman's Vacation — Context and Discussion

One had already jumped down into a blackberry-bush, which filled him with disgust and prickles. Another, having thrust his curly head between two rails, stuck fast, and began to cry out against the owner of the grounds--my benevolent uncle--as the author of his calamity.

Then it occurred to me that the prefatory leaf of a volume is like yonder wicket. The garden is not complete without it, although many reckless young people rush to the enclosure, creeping under and climbing over at any place, in order to plunge at once amid the fruits and flowers. But the wise always go through the gate; and the little fellow who leaps among the briers or hangs himself in the fence has only himself to blame for the misfortune.

So I resolved to put together this little wicket of a preface; and now, as I throw it open to my friends, let me say a few words about the garden-walks I have prepared.

That they contain some things beautiful, as well as useful, is my sincere trust. Yet I warn thee, ardent youth, and thee, romantic maid, that you will find no hothouse plants, no frail exotics, here. I may promise you some stout sunflowers, however,--pinks, pea-blossoms and peonies,--also a few fresh roses, born in the free country air.

Scorn not these homely scenes, my friends; for you may perchance find the morning-glory of Truth blooming at your side; the vine of Hope overarching your path like a rainbow; yea, and the tree of Life growing in the midst of the garden.

I hope no one will complain of the gay birds singing and fluttering among the boughs; for they can do but slight damage to the sober fruit, and the visitor may owe it to their cheerful strains if he is preserved from drowsiness amid the odors of the poppy-beds.

I. A "United Happy Family."

III. Evening at the Farm-house

IV. The Old Clergyman

V. Chester's Confession

VI. Morning at the Farm

VII. Clouds and Sunshine

XI. The Lovely and the Unloved

XII. Domestic Economy

XIII. Talk by the Way

XIV. Deacon Dustan's Policy

XV. The Philosophy of a Wooden Leg

XVI. Going to Meeting

XVII. Father Brighthopes in the Pulpit

XXII. The Fight and the Victory

XXIII. Saturday Afternoon

XXIV. The Thunder-storm

XXV. A Stream of Peace

XXVII. "Old Folks and Young Folks"

XXVIII. Mr. Kerchey's Daring Exploit

XXIX. Mrs. Royden's Dinner-party

XXX. The Old Clergyman's Farewell

OR, AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION.

A "UNITED HAPPY FAMILY."

There was an unpleasant scowl on Mr. Royden's face, as he got out of his wagon in the yard, and walked, with a quick pace, towards the rear entrance of his house.

"Samuel!" said he, looking into the wood-shed, "what are you about?"

The sharp tone of voice gave Samuel quite a start. He was filling a small flour-sack with walnuts from a bushel-basket placed upon the work-bench, his left hand holding the mouth of the bag, while his right made industrious use of a tin dipper.

"O, nothing,--nothing much!" he stammered, losing his hold of the sack, and making a hasty attempt to recover it. "There! blast it all!"

The sack had fallen down, and spilled its contents all over his feet.

"What _are_ you doing with those nuts?" demanded Mr. Royden, impatiently.

"Why, you see," replied the lad, grinning sheepishly, as he began to gather up the spilled treasure, "I'm making--a piller."

"A piller,--to sleep on. There an't but two feathers in the one on my bed, and they are so lean I can't feel 'em."

"What foolishness!" muttered Mr. Royden, smiling notwithstanding his ill-humor. "But let your _pillow_ alone for the present, and take care of the horse."

"The bag won't stand up, if I leave it."

"Then let it fall down; or set it against the wood-pile. Go and do as I bid you."

Samuel reluctantly left his occupation, and went lazily to unharness the horse, while Mr. Royden entered the old-fashioned kitchen.

The appearance of her uncle was anything but agreeable to poor Hepsy Royden, who stood on a stool at the sink,--her deformed little body being very short,--engaged in preparing some vegetables for cooking. Tears were coursing down her sickly cheeks, and her hands being in the water, it was not convenient to wipe her eyes. But, knowing how Mr. Royden hated tears, she made a hasty snatch at a towel to conceal them. He was just in time to observe the movement.

"Now, what is the matter?" he exclaimed, fretfully. "I never see you, lately, but you are crying."

Hepsy choked back her swelling grief, and pursued her work in silence.

"What ails you, child?"