the village watch-tower-第27章

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A　sweet　gravity　and　consecration　of　thought　possessed　her；

and　the　pink　blossoms　falling　into　her　basket　were　not　more　delicate

than　the　rose…colored　dreams　that　flushed　her　soul。



Anthony　put　in　the　last　wooden　peg；　and　taking　up　his　violin　called；

〃Davy；　lad；　come　out　and　tell　me　what　this　means！〃



Davy　was　used　to　this；　from　a　wee　boy　he　had　been　asked

to　paint　the　changing　landscape　of　each　day；　and　to　put　into

words　his　uncle's　music。



Lyddy　dropped　her　needle；　the　birds　stopped　to　listen；

and　Anthony　played。



〃It　is　this　apple　orchard　in　May　time；〃　said　Davy；

〃it　is　the　song　of　the　green　things　growing；　isn't　it？〃



〃What　do　you　say；　dear？〃　asked　Anthony；　turning　to　his　wife。



Love　and　hope　had　made　a　poet　of　Lyddy。　　〃I　think　Davy　is　right；〃

she　said。　　〃It　is　a　dream　of　the　future；　the　story　of　all　new　and

beautiful　things　growing　out　of　the　old。　　It　is　full　of　the　sweetness

of　present　joy；　but　there　is　promise　and　hope　in　it　besides。

It　is　like　the　Spring　sitting　in　the　lap　of　Winter；　and　holding

a　baby　Summer　in　her　bosom。〃



Davy　did　not　quite　understand　this；　though　he　thought　it　pretty；

but　Lyddy's　husband　did；　and　when　the　boy　went　back　to　his　books；

he　took　his　wife　in　his　arms　and　kissed　her　twice；once　for　herself；

and　then　once　again。





…





THE　EVENTFUL　TRIP　OF　THE　MIDNIGHT　CRY。





In　the　little　villages　along　the　Saco　River；

in　the　year　1850　or　thereabouts；　the　arrival　and　departure

of　the　stage…coach　was　the　one　exciting　incident　of　the　day。

It　did　not　run　on　schedule　time　in　those　days；　but　started

from　Limington　or　Saco；　as　the　case　might　be；　at　about　or

somewhere　near　a　certain　hour；　and　arrived　at　the　other　end

of　the　route　whenever　it　got　there。　　There　were　no　trains　to　meet

（the　railway　popularly　known　as　the　〃York　and　Yank'em〃　was　not　built

till　1862）；　the　roads　were　occasionally　good　and　generally　bad；

and　thus　it　was　often　dusk；　and　sometimes　late　in　the　evening；

when　the　lumbering　vehicle　neared　its　final　destination

and　drew　up　to　the　little　post…offices　along　the　way。

However　late　it　might　be；　the　village　postmaster　had　to　be　on　hand

to　receive　and　open　the　mailbags；　after　which　he　distributed

the　newspapers　and　letters　in　a　primitive　set　of　pine

pigeon…holes　on　the　wall；　turned　out　the　loafers；　〃banked　up〃

the　fire；　and　went　home　to　bed。



〃Life〃　Lane　was　a　jolly　good　fellow；just　the　man　to　sit　on　the　box

seat　and　drive　the　three　horses　through　ruts　and　〃thank…you…ma'ams；〃

slush　and　mud　and　snow。　　There　was　a　perennial　twinkle　in　his　eye；

his　ruddy　cheeks　were　wrinkled　with　laughter；　and　he　had　a　good　story

forever　on　the　tip　of　his　tongue。　　He　stood　six　feet　two　in　his　stockings

（his　mother　used　to　say　she　had　the　longest　Life　of　any　woman　in　the

State　o'　Maine）；　his　shoulders　were　broad　in　proportion；　and　his　lungs

just　the　sort　to　fill　amply　his　noble　chest。　　Therefore；　when　he　had

what　was　called　in　the　vernacular　〃turrible　bad　goin'；〃　and　when　any　other

stage…driver　in　York　County　would　have　shrunk　into　his　muffler　and　snapped

and　snarled　on　the　slightest　provocation；　Life　Lane　opened　his　great

throat　when　he　passed　over　the　bridges　at　Moderation　or　Bonny　Eagle；

and　sent　forth　a　golden；　sonorous　〃Yo　ho！　halloo！〃　into　the　still　air。

The　later　it　was　and　the　stormier　it　was；　the　more　vigor　he　put　into

the　note；　and　it　was　a　drowsy　postmaster　indeed　who　did　not　start

from　his　bench　by　the　fire　at　the　sound　of　that　ringing　halloo。

Thus　the　old　stage…coach；　in　Life　Lane's　time；　was　generally　called　〃The

Midnight　Cry；〃　and　not　such　a　bad　name　either；　whether　the　term　was　derisively

applied　because　the　stage　was　always　late；　or　whether　Life's　〃Yo　ho！〃

had　caught　the　popular　fancy。



There　was　a　pretty　girl　in　Pleasant　River　（and；　alas！　another　in

Bonny　Eagle）　who　went　to　bed　every　night　with　the　chickens；　but　stayed　awake

till　she　heard　first　the　rumble　of　heavy　wheels　on　a　bridge；　then　a　faint；

bell…like　tone　that　might　have　come　out　of　the　mouth　of　a　silver　horn；

whereupon　she　blushed　as　if　it　were　an　offer　of　marriage；　and　turned

over　and　went　to　sleep。



If　the　stage　arrived　in　good　season；　Life　would　have　a　few　minutes

to　sit　on　the　loafers'　beach　beside　the　big　open　fire；　and　what　a

feature　he　was；　with　his　tales　culled　from　all　sorts　of　passengers；

who　were　never　so　fluent　as　when　sitting　beside　him　〃up　in　front！〃

There　was　a　tallow　dip　or　two；　and　no　other　light　save　that　of　the　fire。

Who　that　ever　told　a　story　could　wish　a　more　inspiring　auditor　than

Jacob　Bean；　a　literal；　honest　old　fellow　who　took　the　most

vital　interest　in　every　detail　of　the　stories　told；　looking　upon

their　heroes　and　their　villains　as　personal　friends　or　foes。

He　always　sat　in　one　corner　of　the　fireplace；　poker　in　hand；

and　the　crowd　tacitly　allowed　him　the　role　of　Greek　chorus。

Indeed；　nobody　could　have　told　a　story　properly　without　Jake　Bean's

parentheses　and　punctuation　marks　poked　in　at　exciting　junctures。



〃That　's　so　every　time！〃　he　would　say；　with　a　lunge　at　the　forestick。

〃I'll　bate　he　was　glad　then！〃　with　another　stick　flung　on　in　just

the　right　spot。　　〃Golly！　but　that　served　'em　right！〃　with　a　thrust

at　the　backlog。



The　New　England　story　seemed　to　flourish　under　these　conditions：

a　couple　of　good　hard　benches　in　a　store　or　tavern；　where　you　could

not　only　smoke　and　chew　but　could　keep　on　your　hat　（there　was　not　a　man

in　York　County　in　those　days　who　could　say　anything　worth　hearing

with　his　hat　off）；　the　blazing　logs　to　poke；　and　a　cavernous　fireplace

into　which　tobacco　juice　could　be　neatly　and　judiciously　directed。

Those　were　good　old　times；　and　the　stage…coach　was　a　mighty　thing

when　school　children　were　taught　to　take　off　their　hats　and　make

a　bow　as　the　United　States　mail　passed　the　old　stage　tavern。



Life　Lane's　coaching　days　were　over　long　before　this　story　begins；

but　the　Midnight　Cry　was　still　in　pretty　fair　condition；　and　was　driven

ostensibly　by　Jeremiah　Todd；　who　lived　on　the　〃back…nippin'〃　road　from

Bonny　Eagle　to　Limington。



When　I　say　ostensibly　driven；　I　but　follow　the　lead　of

the　villagers；　who　declared　that；　though　Jerry　held　the　reins；

Mrs。　Todd　drove　the　stage；　as　she　drove　everything　else。

As　a　proof　of　this　lady's　strong　individuality；　she　was　still

generally　spoken　of　as　〃the　Widder　Bixby；〃　though　she　had　been

six　years　wedded　to　Jeremiah　Todd。　　The　Widder　Bixby；　then；

was　strong；　self…reliant；　valiant；　indomitable。　　Jerry　Todd　was；

to　use　his　wife's　own　characterization；　so　soft　you　could

stick　a　cat's　tail　into　him　without　ruffling　the　fur。

He　was　always　alluded　to　as　〃the　Widder　Bixby's　husband；〃

but　that　was　no　new　or　special　mortification；　for　he　had　been

known　successively　as　Mrs。　Todd's　youngest　baby；　the　Widder

Todd's　only　son；　Susan　Todd's　brother；　and；　when　Susan　Todd's

oldest　boy　fought　at　Chapultepec；　William　Peck's　uncle。



The　Widder　Bixby's　record　was　far　different。

She　was　the　mildest　of　the　four　Stover　sisters　of　Scarboro；

and　the　quartette　was　supposed　to　have　furnished　more　kinds

of　temper　than　had　ever　before　come　from　one　household。

When　Peace；　the　eldest；　was　mad；　she　frequently　kicked　the　churn

out　of　the　kitchen　door；　cream　and　all；and　that　lost

her　a　husband。



Love；　the　second；　married；　and　according　to　local　tradition　once

kicked　her　husband　all　the　way　up　Foolscap　Hill　with　a　dried　cod…fish。

Charity；　the　third；　married　too；　　for　the　Stovers　of　Scarboro　were

handsome　girls；　but　she　got　a　fit　mate　in　her　spouse。　　She　failed

to　intimidate　him；　for　he　was　a　foeman　worthy　of　her　steel；

but　she　left　his　bed　and　board；　and　left　in　a　manner　that　kept　up

the　credit　of　the　Stover　family　of　Scarboro。



They　had　had　a　stormy　breakfast　one　morning　before　he　started

to　Portland　with　a　load　of　hay。　　〃Good…by；〃　she　called；

as　she　stood　in　the　door；　〃you've　seen　the　last　of　me！〃

〃No　such　luck！〃　he　said；　and　whipped　up　his　horse。

Charit