A wagon loaded with empty barrels drove up to Tommy Taft’s one morning.
“Mr. Brett wants to know if you can fix those barrels to-day? The heads want resetting, and all of ’em want hoops. These two, he says, want two iron hoops apiece, besides the hickory.”
“Get away with your barrels! Do you think I’m going to work to-day? No, by Josey—I don’t as long as, ‘I can read my title clear!’ It would be just as wicked to work to-day as if it was a Sabby day.”
“Matter enough—matter enough! We’ve got another baby! Old woman’s up there now. I’m goin’ up to the prospect. Work? Not by a jug-full! Tumble off your barrels! Thеy won’t spile afore to-morrow. Wherе’s old Smasher? Come here, old fellow. Let’s go up to the doctor’s.”
From such an address one would look to see some man appear as Uncle Tommy’s companion. But it was to his wooden leg that he addressed the endearing epithet of old Smasher.
Tommy Taft was about forty-five years old. A big head he had, round, and bald down to the top of his ears, but at that point, for some reason, the hair refused to retreat, and sprang up with such vigor that it looked like an abattis; as if the hair, driven down from the heights, determined to make a stand an fight for its rights. His eyes were small, gray, sunk deeply beneath bold eyebrows, whose hair was wonderfully luxuriant, curling over, and standing out, in immense profusion. A big nose, that hung on his face like an old-fashioned door-knocker, and a wide mouth, completed his portrait, which was framed in by bushy whiskers, carried under his chin, leaving the chin and both lips shorn smooth. His voice was rough and deep, and his manner, of all sorts that ever were found in man, except, always, a refined manner. He had been a sailor all his long life, and brought inland into this quiet village, all the odd and outlandish ways which a sea-faring life, in olden times, was wont to breed.
Why is it that children take to these great shaggy natures, seemingly attracted by those very appearances which would seem likely to repel them? Children act by sympathy. A warm heart attracts them, and when once a child’s confidence is gained, these rudenesses of person become agreeable, as something out of the common way. It is that element in manners or person, which the heart inspires, that wins children.
Who in the village did not like Tommy? Not a child under fifteen, certainly. His poor old shop and house was the fascination of all the young folks of the village and of the country round. The ground floor was a cooper shop and general tinkering establishment; up stairs were two rooms, plain to rudeness, and as rough in furnishing as if they had been hewed out and fitted by a sailor’s axe on a desolate island after a shipwreck, and of as ill-assorted materials as a shipwreck would be apt to cast up. Yet, there was an indescribable air of comfort and peace in the two rooms.
When Uncle Tommy was good natured he seemed always to be comically in sympathy with his wife, in external things. He was always good natured when he was sober. He was sober nearly nine-tenths of his time. When these infrequent moods were on him he was apt to be profane, but never blasphemous or foul. He alternated during such excesses, between scolding his wife, and religious exercises of various kinds.
“It’s as good as a play,” said Hiram, “to hear Uncle Tommy when he gets the steam up.”
But as soon as he recovered from his aberration, Tommy came down from his height of morality and religion, and became gracious and helpful, with a rough disinterestedness which was quite touching. All the children repaired to him, to have their toys mended, for which he could never be persuaded to take a penny. Boys’ knives with broken backs, or blades, or handles, went into hospital with him; their skates and sleds in winter, and her kites, and traps, and gun-locks in summer, were his peculiar charge, and his invariable answer was, “Oh, we mustn’t charge children anything.” The cheery old fellow was full of quips and pranks, of stories of adventure, drawn from his former seafaring life, or from the full volume of sailors’ yarns, which had accumulated in his long years of cruising. While he was willing to take compensation from grown people, he was sure to reject any attempt on the parents’ part to requite him by overpayment for his services to their children.
He was known, too, to perform services for those poorer than himself, who were also more helpless. An old black woman who lived by “washing,” had fallen sick with rheumatism; Uncle Tommy was heard every evening for a week, sawing away busily at her wood, until he had provided enough for her needs. A gate that had got unhinged, would some morning be found safely tinkered back to its duty.
If a poor creature’s bucket was going to pieces, in some mysterious manner it got to itself a new hoop, and the pail was secured again, by a rivet in the ear. The pump-pin was replaced when lost by a new one. These and such like services he delighted to render freely to those who were comparatively helpless.
The jolly old fellow had a wink and a word for everybody, and his passage through the street was celebrated by a stirring, merry out-burst, and to everybody according to his kind.
It was impossible to separate between his humor and earnestness, between conviction and waggery.
Good Parson Buell sometimes visited his shop in the regular rounds of parochial duty, and attempted to talk faithfully with him. Tommy owned every thing—made no resistance—yea, went before the minister and beyond him, in self-accusations.
“Do you not feel that you are a sinner?”
“I know that I am, parson, a sinner—an awful sinner; and without excuse. I live below my privileges; I don’t live up to my light and knowledge. To set under such preachin’ as I do, Parson Buell, and not to be better’n I am, is a great sin; and I’m afeerd that I get harder and harder, and that I am puttin’ off the day of repentance, and sinnin’ away my opportunities, and wastin’ my day of grade. It is a surprisin’ thing in me! I don’t wonder that you are alarmed at my case, parson. It is a very alarmin’ case—I know it is. It has been alarmin’ for more’n forty years. I ought to repent, that’s sartain! Why shouldn’t I? It is well said that it is time for sinners to be surprised in Zion. The rest of the varse too, is very alarmin’. ‘Who among us shall dwell with devourin’ fire, and who among us shall dwell with everlastin’ burnings?’ It is sartinly time that I should repent of my evil thoughts, and my drinkin’, and of my swearin’, and of my manifold evil ways and deeds, and I hope, parson, you will pray for me.”
This and such like speeches were not said with the slightest accent of drollery and still less of scoffing. Dr. Buell himself could not have uttered them in a manner more entirely proper. He never seemed in haste to finish the conversation. He would follow the parson to the gate, still descanting on the sinfulness of sin, and admitting every argument, and bringing it home upon himself with such a zeal that Dr. Buell found nothing to do. As the good man left, an indescribable sense of mirth twinkled in Tommy’s eyes, and happy was the child that needed his services after a visit from this pastor. He laughed and bubbled over with fun, and contrived some new plaything, or rejoiced the urchin with some queer story, and sent him home happy as a king!
Tommy Taft was always a sailor. Among other notions was that of eating with his sheath-knife, which was an exaggerated jack-knife, with a hole bored in the handle and tied to his belt, which he wore instead of suspenders, by a long yarn or string. At table he would draw out old Rouser, as he named it, and refuse any other knife.
Could any contrast be greater than his wife? Gentle, patient, happy, with an undertone of sadness, which was a shadow to the high light; refined in expression, delicate in action. She seemed like a morning glory that had run up on the knots and rugged bark of an oak tree. Whatever rough usage she received at his hands, none ever knew of it from her; whatever discrepancy or uncongeniality there might be between them, there was no sign of it.
Every day, when her home duties were done, Mother Taft slipped forth for an hour to see some person in trouble. She had a remarkable instinct in finding out trouble. Better than the clergyman, she knew who was in sorrow. Nor is it extravagant to say, that, better than all these, she knew the art of bringing consolation to those who were in sorrow. Whatever the history of her own past life, her victory had made her a leader for others in the dark land.
When Widow Barnes’ only boy was brought home dead, flung from a horse in a drunken race, on a muster-day, the first person who came after his companions had laid him down, was Mother Taft. All that night she was with her—in silence herself—doing everything, listening to the mother’s distracted utterances, keeping away intrusive curiosity; and with exquisite instinct, encouraging her grief, that it might spend itself, and be the sooner comforted.
When Maggie Keech had been turned out of her father’s house, it was Mother Taft that went after her, and brought her to her own chamber, and nursed her in her sickness, and when she was again strong enough to work, secured for her, in a neighboring town, a place. Happily, the babe had died.
Go where you would, you would soon meet Mother Taft there, if there was trouble. Like Uncle Tommy, she received wages of the prosperous, but of those in moderate circumstances, nothing would she take. She served others for the reason that birds sing, because she loved to; for the reason that dews fall upon flowers, because such is the nature which the heavens gave it. Born in the air, the dew hides in the day-time, but comes to all things in their night and darkness to deck them in beauty.
How odd that she should ever have married such a man! But they were so utterly unlike that she could not help it. Her peacefulness felt the attraction of his great, boisterous way. Her silence marvelled at his elemental talk, which rained, and blew, and at times burst out into squalls, as if his mouth were the very cave of the winds. Her trustful simplicity admired his shrewdness and penetration of human nature. Her literal soul, that never conceived a jest, nor understood wit or humor, how could it help going to a nature whose every sentence was so balanced that it might be taken either way—earnest or ironical?
In one of these New England villages, there is nothing so original and racy as a great strong nature that dares to say just what it thinks. Common people are restrained by law, by moral teachings, by public sentiment, by interest, by fear. Their real thoughts are smothered, or kept alive in silence. They dare not coin them into words and put them in circulation. They become so used to caution and social conformity, that they cease at length to know how much each man is the echo of the other.
Then comes along a great-footed man, like an elephant, with noting to gain or lose by men’s opinions, and determined to say what he has a mind to. He runs against custom, throws down fences, plunges across gardens and fields! If, however, he has a human heart, and at bottom is just and kind, men come to admire his audacity, and to enjoy his blunt speeches, especially if he have great faults. Men’s infirmities are the strongest bonds of sympathy. No matter how much better a man is than we, he shall be forgiven if he is also in some things a great deal weaker than we. Uncle tommy was poor—that was one good fault; he was never “overcome,” but sometimes he was “exalted” by strong drink—that was another redeeming fault. Being a sinner, men forgave his liberties!
“No work to-day. Tell old Brett, if he don’t like it, to cooper his own barrels! We’ve got a baby, up at the doctor’s. I’m going to put on Smasher, and go up and see how things are gettin’ on.”
Soon he bolted out upon the street, and, on coming up to the corner, Hiram Beers shouted out across the street:
“Halloo, old Dot-and-Go-One! where are you bound?”
“Better put a snaffle-bit in your mouth, my old jockey to hold that tongue of yours. They say you opened singin’-school for the crows, Hiram, and they wouldn’t come, ’cos it made their voices rough imitating yours—did ye?”
Hiram looked up the street, as if listening to something in the road, and then, with a look of feigned surprise, said;
“Why, I thought I heard a two-hoss wagon runnin’ away. Was that your leg, Tommy, making such a rattle? Why don’t you ile it? When you go along the street, I should think a hundred cupboard-doors were caught in a gale of wind!”
Having thus exchanged amiable salutations, Hiram came over. “How are you, old customer, anyhow?”
“Jolly as a crew just paid off. Goin’ down to see my lady. Old woman been down there for a month—child born two days ago—goin’ down to see it.”
All the children born under the administration of Mother Taft, Tommy considered as belonging to his family, and always spoke of them as his own. A stranger would hear him recount his children with amazement at the extent of his parentage.
A little further on one might have heard, loud enough for a deaf man’s ears, a new salutation.
“Good morning, Parson Buell, good morning! You’re looking well. Study too much, I expect; but ye stand it well. Good sermons ain’t drawn up easy as buckets of water! Have to work for ’em. Mighty sermon that, Sunday morning! This old sinner felt it. Says I, ‘if there wasn’t another soul that knew it, there was two in that audience that knew what a good sermon was, and that was Parson Buell and Tommy Taft!’ Am goin’ down to Wentworth’s. Wouldn’t you like to go? I’m not ashamed to be seen walkin’ with you! You see, I can get you in. Wouldn’t let common folks in so early. But Ma’am Taft, you know, has advantages, and will give us a sight.”
Then, his voice changing and lowering, he added:
“Parson Buell, it’s the unaccountablest thing what the Lord sends children into this world for, considerin’ what sort of a place ’tis, and what a time folks have in gettin’ thro’ it. Lord! They die off like apple-blossoms, half on ’em, afore they’re bigger’n mice. And the rest of ’em have a hard time gettin’ grown, and when you’ve got ’em growed, half the folks are paddling round as if they didn’t exactly know what they come on airth for; and nobody can tell ’em, for that matter. I never see babies but I think how we used to have birds come aboard ship, way out to sea—landbirds, and so tired, poor little things, and hungry. You could go up to ’em and take ’em in your hand, and they turned up their bright eyes with such a piteous look at you, as if they had come from ever so far, and lost their way, and didn’t know where they were. Wall, that’s about what I think of babies. What do they come off to this ’ere world for? Why don’t they stay where they’re well off?”
Buell was well used to all Tommy Taft’s vagaries, and he had that good sense and tact among men which enabled him to take every one in his own way; so he walked onward with Uncle Tommy to Dr. Wentworth’s gate, talking just enough to avoid a conversation.
Uncle Tommy’s expectations were fully realized. Though visitors were not yet expected, yet Mother Taft proved a friend at court. Parson Buell had humored queer Tommy Taft, not expecting that he would succeed. When he found himself invited in, he feign would decline. Tommy would not allow it. “Never’ll do in the world, Parson; shouldn’t have come so far, if you didn’t mean to go further. Can’t get away now. Must go in if ye’re civil.”
“But, Taft,” said the perplexed worthy, “I have another errand. You must excuse me.”
“Parson Buell, you know excuses are dangerous. You shouldn’t shirk your duty. Duties never conflict, you said, only Sabby-day morning last. Don’t you remember? Hope you don’t forget your own sermons, Parson. That’s other folks’ business.”
And so, like a slow ship with a tug pulling away at its side, Buell found himself, half laughing and half vexed, ushered in by Tommy under circumstances slightly inclining to the ludicrous.
The babe was brought down by Mother Taft, Agate Bissell following. She was now again housekeeper, as she had been prime minister to Mrs. Wentworth ever since her arrival in Norwood. For, in this tall, slender New-England woman, she discerned from the first, an amount of energy, conscientious fidelity, and real affection, which paid a thousand times over for the inconveniences arising from her hard manner, her inflexible precision, and her despotic regularity.
Tommy seized the babe from his wife’s arms, and fairly danced with delight. He chuckled, and chirruped, and Ho-ho’d, as if his reason had left him. Rough as he was, no nurse ever held a babe more tenderly and dextrously.
But when he suddenly thrust it upon Parson Buell, who was talking with stately Agate Bissell, the good minister held it in his hands as if it was something which he dared not drop and could not hold.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said Tommy, “is it hot that ye are so awkward about it?”
Mother Taft came to his relief, and the good minister, leaving messages of kindness, was glad to get away from the office of a nurse, and, full as much, from the officious humor of Tommy Taft, who, however, followed him to the very door.
“A good baby, parson, but come to a poor world—a sinful world. If it had known what’s good for itself, it had better staid away. P’rhaps it wern’t asked about it! Very likely. But we must make the best on’t now.”
Turning back from the door, Uncle Tommy found Agate Bissell ready to express her mind.
“Taft, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You stick to that good man like a burr. You’ve no more respect for your betters than a bull has for good manners.”
“What now, Miss Bissell?” said Taft, with an innocent and injured look; “would you have me run away from the minister?”
“No—but you had no need to make a nurse of him, and make him feel ridiculous with this baby in his arms.”
“He did look ridiculous, didn’t he?” said Tommy, with a joyous acquiescence.
“Of course he don’t know how to tend babies. If it had been a book he could have handled it, I warrant ye.”
“What a pity,” said Uncle Tommy, with a very sober air, “that babies weren’t born like books. Then they wouldn’t trouble any body—could put ’em up on a shelf, have ’em always dry—take ’em down when you want to use ’em—never grow any bigger—no trouble to anybody.”
“What do you know about ’em?” said Agate, with great precision. “Children are from the Lord, and they come on his errands and in such manner as pleases him. And it don’t please him to send them by men. Naturally, a baby is a woman’s care, and men are always awkward about such things. Everything in its place.”
“But don’t you think, Miss Bissell, that if they come on the Lord’s arrants, they forget what they come for, afore they get far along? If the Lord’s got any arrants, seems to me he ought to send something better ’n these little creeturs, that keep two or three folks busy the best part of their time for two or three years, and then die off their hands.”
“It’s a pity that a baby didn’t die about the time you were small,” said Agate Bissell, straightening up, and turning somewhat scornfully away from Tommy to his wife, who, good soul, sat quietly by, as if the conversation was merely a little wind out of the window, whistling through the sweet brier bushes.
“There’d have been lots of crying and sobbin’ if I had died young,” said Uncle Tommy, with a wink at his antagonist.
Nothing ever provoked Agate Bissell so much as one of Uncle Tommy’s winks. She deigned neither a word nor a look—but walked out of the room, pale and straight as a candle, and as if she thought that with her all the light would go out too.
Mother Taft mildly expostulated. “Father, what do you love to provoke her for? She ’s so good.”
“I’d as lief tend flowers with a crowbar as to have one of them old maids about with little babies. I wonder she don’t take the little creetur in her work-bag and walk off to prayer meetin’ with it! You need to watch her, mother, or she ’ll bile down a catechism instead of mint or catnip, when the child has wind.”
And with that he insisted on another look at Rose, who lay sleeping as unconscious of all this whir of talk, as a rosebud in March, hidden deep in the bush, is of the rough winds. The old man really looked beautiful as he gazed on the child, and his face seemed to catch something of the purity and brightness of childhood.
How strangely such a tender spot appears in an old, rude nature like Tommy’s. Rough in speech, audacious in manner, a non-conformist to all the customs of society, yet, for children, showing a rich and wonderful love, that cast its light over all his faults, and left something of beauty upon them!
So an old oak tree—too old for acorns, too old for leaves, almost dead, rugged and vast, yet bears up on its shaggy branches bunches of vivid green mistletoe most beautiful—rejoicing as if decay and death were better to it than life.
