W. H. H. Murray - How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year\'s
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W. H. H. Murray >> How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year\'s
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8 How Deacon Tubman and
Parson Whitney Kept New Year's
_And Other Stories_
BY
W.H.H. MURRAY
_Illustrated_
BOSTON
CUPPLES & HURD
_94 Boylston Street_
1888
CONTENTS
How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's
The Old Beggar's Dog
The Ball
Who Was He?
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
I
HOW DEACON TUBMAN AND PARSON WHITNEY KEPT NEW YEAR'S
(Illustrated by THOMAS WORTH)
Vignette Initial--"New Year's, eh?"
"What's the matter with the pesky thing?"
"Miranda belonged to that sisterhood commonly known as spinsters"
Miranda's chirography--"A Happy New Year"
"Ha, none of that, you woolly-coated rogue, you"
"I want to talk with you about the church"
"Tell the folks that you won't be back till night"
"It was found that the parson could steer a sled"
"Little Alice Dorchester begged him to stay"
"Old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character"
"Hillow, Deacon, ain't you going to shake out old shamble-heels to-day?"
"Jack was going nigh to a thirty clip"
"Go it, old boy!"
Tail piece
II
THE OLD BEGGAR'S DOG
(Illustrated by A.B. SHUTE)
Vignette Initial--"Trusty"
"The old man and his dog were constant companions"
"He was teaching the dog a new trick"
"It was to the honor of the crowd that they hooted the officer roundly"
Tail piece
III
THE BALL
(Illustrated by A.B. SHUTE)
Vignette Initial--"It was evening"
"The Lad began to play"
"The God of Music was there"
"Even the waiters caught the infection"
"The music stopped with a snap"
Tail piece
IV
WHO WAS HE?
(Illustrated by J.H. Snow)
Vignette Initial--"John Norton watched the approaching fire"
"A deer suddenly sprang from the bank"
"Past mossy banks where the great eddies whirled"
"Come ashore--you and your companion"
"The four sat in silence by the fire"
Tail piece
How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's
I
[Illustration: Vignette Initial N]
"New Year's, eh?" exclaimed Deacon Tubman, as he lifted himself to his
elbow and peered through the frosty window pane toward the east, where
the colorless morning was creeping shiveringly into sight.
"New Year's, eh?" he repeated, as he hitched himself into an upright
position and straightened his night-cap, that had somehow gone askew in
his slumber. "Bless my soul, how the years fly! But that's all right;
yes, that's all right. No one can expect them to stay, and why should
we? there's better fish in the net than we've taken out yet," and with
this consolatory observation, the deacon rubbed his head energetically,
while the bright, happy look of his face grew brighter and happier as
the process proceeded. "Yes, there's better fish in the net than we've
taken out," he added, gayly, "and if there isn't, there's no use of
crying about it." With this philosophical observation, he bounced
merrily out of bed and into his trousers.
I say Deacon Tubman bounced into his trousers, but, to be exact, I
should say that he bounced into half of them; and, with the other half
trailing behind him, he skipped to the window and, putting his little,
plump, round face almost against the pane, gazed out upon the world.
Everything was bright, sparkling and cold, for the earth was covered
with snow and the clear gray of the early morning spread its rayless
illumination over the great dome, in the fading blue of which a few
starry points still gleamed.
"Bless me, what a morning!" he exclaimed. "Beautiful! beautiful!" he
repeated, as he stood with his eyes fastened upon the east and,
balancing himself on one foot, felt around with the other for that half
of the trousers not yet appropriated. "Bless me, what a day," he
ejaculated, as he saved himself by a quick, upward wrench, from falling
from a trip he had inadvertently given himself in an abortive effort to
insert his foot into the unfilled leg of his pantaloons. "Ha, ha, that's
a good un," he exclaimed; "trip yourself up in getting into your own
trousers, will you, Deacon Tubman?" and he laughed long and merrily to
himself over his little joke.
"A happy New Year to everybody," cried the deacon, as he thrust his foot
into his stocking, for the floor of the good man's chamber was
carpetless and so cleanly white that its cleanliness itself was enough
to freeze one. "Yes, a happy New Year to everybody, high, low, rich,
poor, south, north, east and west, where'er they are, the world over, at
home and abroad--Amen!" And the deacon, partly at the sweeping character
of his benediction and partly because he was feeling so jolly inside he
couldn't help it, laughed merrily, as he seized a boot and thrust his
foot vigorously into it.
"What's this? what's this?" cried the deacon, as he tugged away at the
straps until he was red in the face. "This boot never went on hard
before. What's the matter with the pesky thing?" And he arose from his
chair, and, standing on one foot, turned and twisted about, tugging all
the while at the straps.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the deacon, disgusted with its strange
behavior, "what is the matter with the pesky boot?"
[Illustration: "_What's the matter with the pesky thing?_"]
Then he sat down upon the chair again, wrenched his foot out of the
offending article and held it up between both hands in front of him and
shook it violently, when, with a bump and a bound, out rattled a package
upon the floor and rolled half way across the room. The deacon was after
it in a jiffy and, seizing it in his little fat hands, held it up
before his eyes and read: "A New Year's gift from Miranda."
Now Miranda was the deacon's housekeeper,--Mrs. Tubman having peacefully
departed this life some years before,--and, speaking appreciatively of
the sex, a more prim, prudent, particular member of it never existed.
She had been initiated, some ten years before, into that amiable
sisterhood commonly known as spinsters, and was, it might be added, a
typical representative. Industrious? You may well say so. Her floors,
stoves, dishes, linen,--- well, if they weren't clean, nowhere on earth
might you find clean ones. She hated dirt as she did original sin, and
I've no doubt but that in her own mind considered its existence in the
world as the one certain, damning and conclusive evidence of the Fall.
It was really an entertainment to see her looking about the house for a
speck of dirt; and the cold-blooded manner in which she would seize upon
it, bear it away in the dust pan, and, removing the lid of the stove,
consign it to the flames, was--well,--what should I say,--yes, that's
it--was most edifying.
Amiable! Yes,--after her way. And a very noiseless sort of way it was,
too. For, though she had lived with the deacon for nearly a dozen
years, he had never known her to so far forget her propriety as to
indulge in anything more hearty and hilarious than the most decorous of
smiles, which smile was such a kind of illumination to her face as a
star of inconceivably small magnitude makes to the sky in trailing
across it.
[Illustration: "_Miranda belonged to that sisterhood commonly known as
spinsters._"]
Of her personal appearance I will say--nothing. Sacred let it be to
memory! If you ever saw her, or one like her, whether full front or
profile, whether sideways or edgewise, the vision, I am ready to swear,
remains with you vividly still. Let it suffice, then, when I observe
that Miss Miranda was not physically stout, and that the deacon's
standing joke was by no means a bad one when he described her as "not
actually burdened with fat." Yes, she was a very cleanly, very thin,
very prudent, very particular person, that never joined in any sports or
amusements; never joked or participated in any happy events in a happy,
joyous fashion, but lived unobtrusively, and, I may say, coldly, in her
own prim, cold, bloodless, little world.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed the deacon, as he looked at the package.
"Gracious me! what has got into Mirandy?" And he looked scrutinizingly
at the little, fine, thin, faintly-traced inscription on the package, as
if the writer had begrudged the ink that must be expended on the
letters, or from a subtle and mystic self-sympathy had made the
chirography faint, delicate, and attenuated as her own self.
"Gracious me!" reiterated Deacon Tubman, as he proceeded to untie the
knot in the pale blue ribbon smoothly bound around the package. "Who
ever knew Mirandy to make a present before?" and the deacon was so
surprised at what had taken place that, for a moment, he doubted the
evidence of his own senses. "And put it in my boot, too, ha, ha!" And
the deacon stopped undoing the parcel, and, lying back in the chair,
roared at the thought of the prim, modest, particular Miranda
perpetrating such a joke. And when the wrapping of the package was at
last undone, for every corner and crease of it was as carefully turned
and as sharply edged as if the smoothing iron had passed over
them,--will wonders ever cease in this startling world of ours?--out
dropped a night-cap! Yes, a night-cap, delicately and deftly crocheted
in warm, woolen stuff of a rich cardinal color.
"Ha, ha," laughed the deacon, as he held the cap between his thumb and
forefinger of one hand up before his eyes, while he rubbed his bald
crown with the other. "Good for Mirandy." And then, as a small slip of
white paper fluttered to the floor, he seized it, and read:
[Handwritten: A happy New Year
to Deacon Tubman
from Miranda.]
"A good girl, a good girl," said the deacon, "not overburdened with fat,
but a good girl!" and with this rather equivocal compliment to the
donor, with his boot in one hand and the cap in the other, he rushed
impulsively to the stairway and shouted:
"A happy New Year to you, Mirandy. God bless you; God bless you," and he
swung the boot, instead of the cap, vigorously over his head, while his
round, rosy face beamed down the stairway into the cold hall below, like
a warm harvest moon over the autumnal stubble.
In response to the deacon's hearty, and, I may say, somewhat uproarious
greeting, the kitchen door timidly opened, and Miranda, who had been
astir for nearly an hour and had the table already laid for breakfast,
stepped into view, and, with a smile on her face that actually broadened
its thinness dangerously near to the proportions of a genial and happy
reciprocation of the jovial greeting, dropped a courtesy, and said:
"Thank you, Deacon Tubman, I hope you may have many happy returns."
"A thousand to you, Mirandy," shouted the deacon in response, "a
thousand to you and your--children!" and the little man swung his boot
vehemently over his head and laughed like a boy at his own joke, while
poor, frightened, scandalized Miranda turned and scudded, like a patch
of thin vapor blown by an unexpected gust of wind, through the door into
the kitchen, with a face colored scarlet from an actual, unmistakable
blush, though whence the blood came that reddened the clean cold-white
of her thin face is a physiological mystery.
In a moment the deacon was fully dressed and he scuttled as merrily and
noisily down the resounding stairway as a gust of autumn wind running
through a patch of russet leaves. Through the hall and kitchen he
bustled and out into the woodshed, where he ran against old Towser, the
big Newfoundland watch-dog, who stood in the passage expectantly
watching his coming.
[Illustration: "_Ha, none of that, you woolly-coated rogue, you._"]
"A happy New Year to you, Towser, old boy," he cried, and, seizing the
huge dog by his shaggy coat, he wrestled with him like a merry-hearted
boy. "A happy New Year to you, old fellow," he repeated, as the dog
broke into a series of joyful barks; "speak it right out, Towser. God
made you as full of fun as he has the rest of us, and a good deal
fuller than many of your kind, and mine, too," and with this backhanded
hit at the vinegar-visaged and acidulous-hearted of his own species, the
deacon shuffled along the crisp, icy path toward the barn, while Towser
gamboled through the deep snow and plunged into the huge, fleecy drifts
in as merry a mood as his merry master.
"A happy New Year to you, old Jack," he called out to his horse, as he
entered the barn, and Jack neighed a happy return, more expectant,
perhaps, of his breakfast of oats than appreciative of the greeting.
"And a happy New Year to you, you youngster," he shouted to the colt,
who, being at liberty to roam at will, had already appropriated a
section of the hay-mow to his own satisfaction. "Ha, none of that, you
woolly-coated rogue, you," he cried, as he jumped aside to escape a kick
that the bunch of equine mischief anticly snapped at him. "None of that,
you little unconverted sinner, you. I verily believe the parson is
right, and that
'In Adam's fall
We sinned all--'
men and beasts, colts and children, all in one lot."
And so, talking to himself and his cattle, the jolly little man, whose
good-heartedness represented more genuine orthodoxy than the whole
Westminster catechism, bustled merrily about the barn and did his
chores, while the cockerels crowed noisily from their perches overhead,
the fat white pigs grunted in lazy contentment from their warm beds of
straw, and the oxen, with their large, luminous eyes, gazed benevolently
at him as he crammed their mangers generously full with the fragrant hay
that smelled sweetly of the flowers and odorous meadow lands, where in
the warm summer sunshine it had ripened for the welcome scythe.
How happy is life, in whatever part of this great fragrant world of ours
it is lived, when men live it happily; and how gloomy seems its
sunshine, even, when seen through the shadows and darkness of our surly
moods.
What happy-hearted fairy was it that possessed the deacon's heart and
home, on this bright New Year's morn, I wonder? Surely, some angel of
fun and frolic had flown into the deacon's house with the opening of the
year and was filling it, and the hearts within it, too, with mirthful
moods. For the deacon laughed and joked as he buttered his cakes and
fired off his funny sayings at Miranda, as he had never joked and
laughed before, until Miranda herself smiled and giggled; yes, actually
giggled, behind the coffee-urn, at his merry squibs, as if the little
imp above mentioned was mischievously tickling her--yes, I will say
it,--her spinster ribs.
"Mirandy, I'm going up to see the parson," exclaimed the deacon, when
the morning devotions were over, "and see if I can thaw him out a
little. I've heard there used to be a lot of fun in him in his younger
days, but he's sort of frozen all up latterly, and I can see that the
young folks are afraid of him and the church, too, but that won't
do--no, that won't do," repeated the good man emphatically, "for the
minister ought to be loved by young and old, rich and poor, and
everybody; and a church without young folks in it is like a family with
no children in it. Yes, I'll go up and wish him a happy New Year,
anyway. Perhaps I can get him out for a ride to make some calls on the
people and see the young folks at their fun. It'll do him good and them
good and me good, and do everybody good." Saying which the deacon got
inside his warm fur coat and started towards the barn to harness Jack
into the worn, old-fashioned sleigh; which sleigh was built high in the
back and had a curved dasher of monstrous proportions, ornamented with a
prancing horse in an impossible attitude, done in bright vermilion on a
blue-black ground.
II
"Happy New Year to you, Parson Whitney; happy New Year to you," cried
the deacon, from his sleigh to the parson, who stood curled up and
shivering in the doorway of the parsonage, "and may you live to enjoy a
hundred."
"Come in; come in," cried Parson Whitney, in response, "I'm glad you've
come; I'm glad you've come. I've been wanting to see you all the
morning," and in the cordiality of his greeting, he literally pulled the
little man through the doorway into the hall and hurried him up the
stairway to his study in the chamber overhead.
"Thinking of me! Well, now, I never," exclaimed the deacon, as, assisted
by the parson, he twisted and wriggled himself out of the coat that he a
little too snugly filled for an easy exit. "Thinking of me, and among
all these books, too; bibles, catechisms, tracts, theologies, sermons;
well, well, that's funny! What made you think of me?"
"Deacon Tubman," responded the parson, as he seated himself in his
arm-chair, "I want to talk with you about the church."
[Illustration: "_I want to talk with you about the church._"]
"The church!" ejaculated the deacon, in response, "nothing going wrong,
I hope?"
"Yes, things are going wrong, deacon," responded the parson; "the
congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good,
strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I think."
"Good ones! good ones!" answered the deacon, promptly; "never better;
never better in the world."
"And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary," rejoined the parson,
solemnly, "and the young people won't come to the sociables and the
little children seem actually afraid of me. What shall I do, deacon?"
and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis.
"You have hit the nail on the head, square's a hatchet, parson,"
responded the deacon. "The congregation is thinning; the young people
don't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you."
"What's the matter, deacon?" cried the parson, in return. "What is it?"
he repeated, earnestly; "speak it right out; don't try to spare my
feelings. I will listen to--I will do anything to win back my people's
love," and the strong, old-fashioned, Calvinistic preacher said it in a
voice that actually trembled.
"You can do it; you can do it in a week!" exclaimed the deacon,
encouragingly. "Don't worry about it, parson, it'll be all right; it'll
be all right. Your books are the trouble."
"Eh? eh? books?" ejaculated the parson. "What have they to do with it?"
"Everything," replied the beacon, stoutly; "you pore over them day in
and day out; they keep you in this room here, when you should be out
among the people. Not making pastoral visits, I don't mean that, but
going around among them, chatting and joking and having a good time.
They would like it, and you would like it, and as for the young
folks,--how old are you, parson?"
"Sixty, next month," answered the parson, solemnly, "sixty next month."
"Thirty! thirty! that's all you are, parson, or all you ought to be,"
cried the deacon. "Thirty, twenty, sixteen. Let the figures slide down
and up, according to circumstances, but never let them go higher than
thirty, when you are dealing with young folks. I'm sixty myself,
counting years, but I'm only sixteen; sixteen this morning, that's all,
parson," and he rubbed his little, round, plump hands together, looked
at the parson and winked.
"Bless my soul, Deacon Tubman, I don't know but that you are right!"
answered the parson. "Sixty? I don't know as I am sixty." And he began
to rub his own hands, and came within an ace of executing a wink at the
deacon himself.
"Not a day over twenty, if I am any judge of age," responded the deacon,
deliberately, as he looked the white-headed old minister over with a
most comic imitation of seriousness. "Not a day over twenty, on my
honor," and the deacon leaned forward toward the parson and gave him a
punch with his thumb, as one boy might deliver a punch at another, and
then he lay back in his chair and laughed so heartily that the parson
caught the infectious mirth and roared away as heartily as the deacon.
Yes, it was impossible to sit hobnobbing with the jolly little deacon on
that bright New Year's morning and not be affected by the happiness of
his mood, for he was actually bubbling over with fun and as full of
frolic as if the finger on the dial had, in truth, gone back forty years
and he was only sixteen. "Only sixteen, parson, on my honor."
"But what can I do," queried the good man, sobering down. "I make my
pastoral visits"--
"Pastoral visits!" responded Deacon Tubman, "oh, yes, and they are all
well enough for the old folks, but they ar'n't the kind of biscuit the
young folks like--too heavy in the centre, and over-hard in the crust,
for young teeth, eh, parson?"
"But what shall I do? what shall I do?" reiterated the parson, somewhat
despondently.
"Oh, put on your hat and gloves and warmest coat and come along with me.
We will see what the young folks are doing and will make a day of it.
Come, come; let the old books and catechisms and sermons and tracts have
a respite for once, and we'll spend the day out of doors with the boys
and girls and the people."
"I'll do it!" exclaimed the parson. "Deacon Tubman, you are right. I
keep to my study too closely. I don't see enough of the world and what's
going on in it. I was reading the Testament this morning and I was
impressed with the Master's manner of living and teaching. It is not
certain that he ever preached more than twice in a church during all his
ministry on the earth. And the children! how much he loved the children
and how the little ones loved him! And why shouldn't they love me, too?
Why shouldn't they? I'll make them do it. The lambs of my flock shall
love me." And with these brave words, Parson Whitney bundled himself up
in his warmest garment and followed the deacon down stairs.
[Illustration: "_Tell the folks that you won't be back till night._"]
"Tell the folks that you won't be back till night," called the deacon
from the sleigh, "for this is New Year's and we're going to make a day
of it." And he laughed away as heartily as might be--so heartily,
indeed, that the parson joined in the laughter himself as he came
shuffling down the icy path toward him.
"Bless me, how much younger I feel already," said the good man, as he
stood up in the sleigh, and with a long, strong breath, breathed the
cool, pure air into his lungs. "Bless me, how much younger I feel
already," he repeated, as he settled down into the roomy seat of the old
sleigh. "Only sixteen to-day, eh, deacon," and he nudged him with his
elbow.
"That's all; that's all, parson," answered the deacon, gayly, as he
nudged him vigorously back, "that's all we are, either of us," and,
laughing as merrily as boys, the two glided away in the sleigh.
[Illustration: "_It was found that the parson could steer a sled._"]
Well, perhaps they didn't have fun that day--those two old boys that had
started out with the feeling that they were "only sixteen," and bound to
make "a day of it." And they did make a day of it, in fact, and such a
day as neither had had for forty years. For, first, they went to
Bartlett's hill, where the boys and girls were coasting, and coasted
with them for a full hour; and then it was discovered by the younger
portion of his flock that the parson was not an old, stiff, solemn,
surly poke, as they had thought, but a pleasant, good-natured, kindly
soul, who could take and give a joke and steer a sled as well as the
smartest boy in the crowd; and when it came to snow-balling, he could
send a ball further than Bill Sykes himself, who could out-throw any boy
in town, and roll up a bigger block to the new snow fort they were
building than any three boys among them. And how the parson enjoyed
being a boy again! How exhilarating the slide down the steep hill; how
invigorating the pure, cool air; how pleasant the noise of the chatting
and joking going on around him; how bright and sweet the boys and girls
looked, with their rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes; how the old parson's
heart thrilled as they crowded around him when he would go, and urged
him to stay; and how little Alice Dorchester begged him, with her little
arms around his neck, to "jes stay and gib me one more slide."
[Illustration: "_Little Alice Dorchester begged him to stay._"]
"You never made such a pastoral call as that, parson," said the deacon,
as they drove away amid the cheers of the boys and the good-byes of the
girls, while the former fired off a volley of snowballs in his honor and
the latter waved their muffs and handkerchiefs after them.
"God bless them! God bless them!" said the parson. "They have lifted a
great load from my heart and taught me the sweetness of life, of youth
and the wisdom of Him who took the little ones in His arms and blessed
them. Ah, deacon," he added, "I've been a great fool, but I'll be so,
thank God, no more."
III
Now, old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character, and had a great
history, but of this none in that section, save the little deacon, knew
a word. Dick Tubman, the deacon's youngest, wildest, and, I might add,
favorite son, had purchased him of an impecunious jockey at the close of
a, to him, disastrous campaign, that cleaned him completely out and left
him in a strange city, a thousand miles from home, with nothing but the
horse, harness and sulky, and a list of unpaid bills that must be met
before he could leave the scene of his disastrous fortunes. Under such
circumstances it was that Dick Tubman ran across the horse and, partly
out of pity for its owner and partly out of admiration of the horse,
whose failure to win at the races was due more to his lack of condition
and the bad management of his jockey than lack of speed, bought him
off-hand and, having no use for him himself, shipped him as a present to
the deacon, with whom he had now been for four years, with no harder
work than plowing out the good old man's corn in the summer, and jogging
along the country roads on the deacon's errands. Having said this much
of the horse, perhaps I should more particularly describe him.
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