For My Children and Grandchildren
These memories were put on paper
during three or four waves of nostalgia between 1964 and 1967. The postscripts were added a little
later. When I once started writing it
seemed as if I could not stop; it simply flowed out of me with scant attention
to spelling, punctuation and sometimes order of phrasing. Consequently, C. J.
C. has been of tremendous help as editor and supporter.
My excuse is, of course, that I have
lived through enormous changes. Also I
was fortunate enough to have been brought up, during my early years, in a small
intelligent backwater of security and peace.
As the Exxon T. V. "ad"
says, "We should like you to know."
S.
E. C. 1974
S. E. C.'s Chronicle
The Early Years 1898 – 1912
Life for Theodore and me seemed
always busy, exciting, and immensely interesting though quite different for
each of us. Theodore's interest was in
man-made things - everything from clocks to chemical formulas. He had to know how things worked. He loved to take things apart and put them
together again. He taught himself
through the years the skills of plumber, electrician, carpenter, mechanic, cabinet-maker. I
admired his knowledge and his abilities but preferred the less intellectual
pursuit of just loving to be alive.
I loved the out-of-doors - earth,
sky, water, mountains, birds, flowers, animals -
especially animals. I belonged to the
natural world and loved it with passion even as a very small child. I accepted it as it was.
Yet often through the growing years
Theodore and I would team up, he to invent and I to taste the fruits of his
inventions, sometimes disastrously. I
shall never forget one early summer day about the turn of the century, when we
were at Putnamville and Mother's "Cheerful
Workers," her ladies' sewing society, were coming from Salem on the
electric cars for an afternoon party.
Theodore had announced to me that he was making a watering-cart out of a
baking-powder can. I admired greatly the
watering-cart which in dry weather
dampened the streets of our little town where
we lived in the summer. Bright yellow with red underbody and wheels, always
freshly painted, it was drawn by a pair of fat, shining chestnut horses whose
three inch high manes were cut like those in a Greek relief sculpture. They
wore harnesses decorated with gleaming brass studs and their tails were often
braided with strands of red cloth. They
moved with slow, royal dignity in the continuous round of subduing dusty
streets. I thought this a beautiful sight.
So when Theodore announced he was
making a watering-cart I had to "go and see" immediately. Its construction had started with a hole in
one end of the shiny can. I wondered
whether the hole was going to be large enough and pushed into it the forefinger
of my right hand. The fit was snug, so
snug that the jagged edges on the inside gripped my finger when I tried to pull
it out. I can clearly remember the
dawning horrid thought that I should not be able to get that can off. Also I was afraid of Theodore's wrath when he
would discover that I had been meddling with his work. Panic swept over me. I rushed to my mother, who was busily
preparing for her party, and weeping, I asked her if I should have to wear that
tin can on my finger all my life. The
ladies arrived in the midst of her patient cutting it away with her best
shears. Needless to say Theodore was
furious.
Our summer home in Putnamville was a tremendous outlet for vigorous physical
and mental energy of children. We loved
our beauti-
ful old house in Salem, but the garden
was small and quite fenced in, and, like many eighteenth century houses in New
England seaport towns, the sidewalk was directly outside our windows. There was a certain
coziness about this during the winter months when the window shades were drawn
and the shaded mantle gas-lights, turned low, made a really beautiful soft
light. We could hear the footsteps of
people passing on the brick sidewalk outside but we ourselves were quite unseen
and private in the security of warmth and snugness. As I sat on the old window seats, Stevenson's
"Lamplighter" would run through my head, even at an early age, for we
knew and loved "The Child's Garden of Verses."
But real joy came to me (I think it
mattered to me more than to the others) with the coming of early May. Usually by May tenth, my mother's birthday,
the big moving van would have arrived to transport her piano and other precious
pieces to our country house for the next five or six months' stay. The distance was only five and a half
miles. The automobile age was in its
infancy and for the first years the trip was made by horse and carriage,
electric car or steam train. Now the
suburbs have engulfed the area, and I barely recognize it. Neat streets with pleasant houses and lawns
wind about where once Mr. Lovelace's cow pastures and blueberry hillside used
to be. They have invaded the tennis
court, the horse paddock, the field of timothy grass, my mother's cutting
garden, the field where Mr. McCarthy used to grow his cabbages on land rented
to
him by my father. The house and barn and perhaps an acre of
land still survive, bereft of the softening, embracing, graceful elms. I
scarcely recognize it. The old farmhouse
behind us down the grassy lane is now a handsome suburban house, the grassy lane
a neat gravel driveway. The great cow
barn across and up the road a bit is empty now, a shabby ruin. I do not wish to stay.
But all this is ahead of my story.
My first memory is of being hastily
snatched from the woolen carpet covering the nursery floor of the Salem house
and my nurse saying crossly, "You naughty girl, you are much too old to do
such a thing." Three,
perhaps? The curtain is hastily
drawn again. The next memory is a flash
picture of my mother, father, brother and me standing by the glass doors
leading to the garden. In my father's
arms is a small black cocker spaniel puppy.
My father (or mother) is saying, "How about Captain Sigsbee for a name?"
(The battleship "Maine" had just been blown up.) So Sig or Siggy it was until he died, an
elderly gray-chinned admirer of my father.
Beginning with the summer when I was
four years old in 1898, memories come flooding fast. Life really began then in the freedom of a
White Mountain valley, Waterville Valley, where my family went for a month's
vacation. I must have been like an
ecstatic puppy, so joyful and so real are those memories. I discovered an unbelievably beautiful world
of enclosing mountains, wild rushing river, myriads of pollywogs, captive
little green snakes, a sandbank chute,
prize red pigs, white fairy Indian pipes, unblemished white
fungi, mysterious forest trails, and most of all the four-horse stage which
brought passengers, baggage, supplies and mail fourteen miles up into the
valley - the only contact with the outside world. Then and there began my passion for any and
all kinds of Horse.
In short order I made friends with
the driver - a shadowy memory now, but I think his name was Alec. Whenever possible thereafter, I greeted the
stage at the hotel when it stopped to discharge its passengers, climbed up
beside Alec who would let me take the reins and with his guidance drive the
horses to the stables. Some years later,
when I was nine years old, I won over the driver of a stage -coach in the
Scottish lake district who allowed me to sit beside
him all day long while the Scottish mist dripped from our hats and even ran
down our necks a bit.
We went to Waterville for two summers
but memories merge here. I remember stepping into a yellow jackets' nest in a
ditch and (plastered with cool mud) lying in the porch hammock of our little
cottage while people came to sympathize.
I remember the horses of the stage starting unexpectedly while I was
climbing to the driver's seat, my falling and thinking the heavy wheel had run
over my leg. I now doubt that this was
so since my leg was only bruised. I
remember that my knees were in a constant state of rawness from my falling down
on the gritty gravel paths of the valley.
But these disasters only pointed up the joys of this Golden Age. Other memories of other
years are of happy, interesting, important
times but they remain in a dimmer light beyond the focused clarity of those two
mountain vacations. Waterville became
my Arcady with or without reason, probably because I
did not return there until I was grown up.
Last summer, at the age of nearly seventy, I returned for a few
days. I took the trail of a mile or so
to the Boulder, a famous huge fellow around which the Mad River flows. (I have a faded photograph
of Theodore and me in 1899 standing in front of its sheer face with the water
of the river flowing about our legs.)
Sitting now on a rock I removed my sneakers and socks and dabbled my legs up to the knees in the cold mountain
stream. The music of the rushing river,
the song of a white-throated sparrow, the water swirling about my legs, the
smell of fir balsam, the sight of delicate pink wood
oxalis nodding above the river bank gave me a sudden sharp stab of
recognition. I was a child once more for
a few moments, passionately embracing the natural world with all the warm
emotion of the one-time five-year-old.
"You surely have come full circle," I smilingly told myself.
When I was five - or was I just six?
- Father bought five acres of land and a large white house built about 1820 at
the top of a hill in that part of Danvers called Putnamville. The house and lawn were shaded by stately
elms which edged the property. Standing
on the banking (as we called it) you could follow the road with your eye down
two humps of the hill to a bend at the bottom where the road began to lead
straight as a string across the plain to the town.
Along the plain were then scattered
two or three farms and three or four pleasant, more distinguished houses where
now there is an endless row of suburban homes.
The situation of our house was of real importance, for from the
embankment you could watch the straining of both carriage and work horses
toiling up the hill. Up this hill also
came herds of cattle and flocks of sheep on their way to a slaughterhouse a
mile or more away. I remember many times
trying to plot the kidnapping of one of the little lambs following its mother
to its untimely end, but I was never able to carry through the plan. I remember
being specially fascinated by a whistling work horse which frequently went by
and which had had a tracheotomy and now breathed through a metal button
inserted in its neck. Then there was
Colonel Appleton, an elderly, mustachioed, pith-helmeted man of great military
bearing, who used to ride by on his handsome dock-tailed horse. I was particularly angry with people who
docked their horses' tails, but Colonel Appleton only amused us. The horse's tail was bound to the end of his
riding-crop which he continuously flecked to shoo the flies away. On this banking good dog Rover, of setter
extraction, would patiently sit waiting for the return of horse or pony or,
later, the chugging automobile which would bring his family home.
Up this hill, also, very slowly would
come the country trolley car once every hour, occasionally in the fall, because
of fallen leaves, unable to make the grade without the motorman sanding the
tracks, shovel and bucket always being kept
on the front platform of the car. In
blueberry time the cars would be swarming with people, young and old, almost
everyone provided with a shiny metal bucket. At the end of the carline, a mile
or so away, they would scatter into the pastures for the day, returning on the
cars late in the afternoon with pails full of blueberries and with small children
asleep in their arms.
Father and Mother made immediate
alterations to the newly acquired property.
The fence along the road was replaced by a border of shrubs. The barn was detached from the house, moved
back, and changed into a useful stable and carriage house. A wide veranda was built outside the
dining-room, which opened onto it through French doors. Vegetable and flower gardens were laid out,
vines and trees were planted, and later a tennis court was built. But that first summer there was no bathroom.
All day long I lived at the well-kept
dairy farm across the street. It was
owned by a Mr. de las Casas who loved the old colonial house, in which he
established a tenant farmer named Mr. Landers, and to which he would frequently
come. Mr. and Mrs. Landers as well as
Mr. de las Casas became our
friends. No one could have been more
patient with children than Mr. Landers and his hired man, Roy. I followed them everywhere like a dog. I rode on hay loads, corn stalks,
manure. I rode on the field drag, behind
which clouds of dust rose to settle on our bodies. I followed the plow and rode the plow horse.
I helped remove stones from the fields. I fed hens, drove in the cows, pitched hay
down the horse mangers, and when all was finished sat in the sun in the great
barn door fondling Gip, the bull dog, and the
numerous barn kittens. Then it would be
time to go home. My mother soon learned
to accept the bodily condition of her child. During that
first summer, each night I stood or sat in the laundry tubs (which were piped
with running water) while I was shampooed and scrubbed and made acceptable once
more. Soon my attire became
nothing but sneakers and overalls, and for two or three summers I lived in dirt
and bliss.
On hot days Theodore and I would
bring down the old fashioned "tin hat," fill it with water from the
hose, after placing it at the foot of the sloping bulkhead door which we wet
with the hose to make it slippery. Then
we would slide down the door to splash into the cool water in the old tin
hat. This was splendid fun.
Father was sweetly trusting and
gullible about horseflesh and used to pay much too much for what always seemed
to turn out unworthy. Our first horse, a bay, was bought from our Salem
grocer. We owned him for only part of a
summer, for he was as slow as a snail and also was a balker,
sometimes refusing to budge. The next
horse was a tall long-legged gray. He
covered the ground well, but when he had recovered from the boredom of being a
delivery horse, his spirits became so high that he developed the trying habit
of kicking to free himself from carriage and
harness. Father bought a heavy kicking
strap but
even then his heels were on display too
often. This horse gave Father and me a
fright one day. We were returning from
Salem. Going downhill Gray fell down and
began to struggle to get free. Father
jumped out and sat on his head while I freed the harness from the carriage and
backed the carriage away. From then on I
was certain I could be master of the Horse.
But our next horse and the next I could do little about. They both were very pretty, but the bay with
a double mane and thick tail was a stumbler, and the
white one, though a good roader, used to crib,
filling her stomach with air which gave her colic. Dan used to pull her to her feet, jump on her
back and make her run until her stomach ache had subsided. A wide strap around her neck seemed to do no
good. Next came
a bay named Mabel which Father bought from a friend of Mr. Landers. Mabel was
sure but slow and disappointingly unexciting.
When it was time to buy the next
horse I knew more about horseflesh than Father did. I was nine or ten when a beautiful bay was
brought for inspection. He was a bit
chunky of body but quietly spirited, eager and gentle. I prayed "Please," and Father said
"Yes." We named him "Duke" and we loved him for years, even
turning him into a saddle horse when I had outgrown my pony. He and my pony became inseparable
friends. I used to slide down his hay
chute to talk to him and to stroke his nose, and he always seemed glad to see
me come.
By the time of the First World War
the automobile had largely crowded out the horse and buggy. I grew up with the automobile just
as my children grew up with the
airplane. Ours was one of the early cars
in our neighborhood, bought in 1906, but it was a second-hand 1903
Cadillac. It was a one cylinder car
which looked for all the world like a fussy old lady
with bustle and parasol. Its back seat
rose above the rest of the car like a throne.
It had side entrances rather than ones through the rear like some, but
no doors and no windshield. It was
covered with brass - brass trim, brass side lamps, brass search lights, brass
levers, brass horn. It was not reliable
because of frequent flat tires and slipping clutch,* but for the first time we
were able to see what was beyond the five or ten mile radius of our known world
away from train and trolley tracks.
My early world, then, was very small
and intimate. It seemed peaceful and
secure. You absorbed the belief of your
parents in the long sure upward progress of mankind. You had not the slightest inkling that you
would be married in wartime to an army officer.
War and torture the human race had outgrown. Life was like the slow meanderings of a
placid meadow stream; there were no rapids.
Possibly it was a bit dull for grown-ups but I hardly think so. Conversation, reading aloud, music, friendly
visiting, games prevented that, and in the winter
community interests absorbed much time.
As I look back at my parents' friends, I think of them as remarkably
interesting
* Theodore says it was driven by a
long chain similar to a giant bicycle chain.
I remember that now, and I remember the gigantic heaving of the car
prior to putting it in gear.
people, most of them alert and
knowledgeable in one way or another. In any case, life was surely never dull
for me, a child. One had time to claim
kinship with Mother Earth, to learn to know her and love her, time to find what
eyes could see and ears could hear and nose could smell. You braved the elements in long woolly
under-drawers and high skating boots which I do not recommend, for my legs were
chapped all winter. Our wool gloves
never covered our wrists properly so that they always were rough and red. The
only leggings available in those days were black knitted tights which you wore
under your skirt and tucked into the tops of the shoes. These and the long underwear often were soggy
with melted snow. Ski trousers had never
been thought of and would have been unladylike, anyway. How foolish all that
seems this present day! You tramped for
miles with skates or sled or toboggan.
You walked long distances to school, even with eyes and nose adrip, in sun, rain, snow and icy winds. You were as undisturbed, undistracted and
free as a young colt in spring. You were in reality a young animal taking life
and all it had to offer for granted - all this until adolescence brought the
slowly dawning consciousness of the uncertainties and burdens of adulthood.
In Putnamville
a lane ran along the side of our property to the house where the Lovelaces lived.
They were an elderly couple, country folk, who had bought or inherited
the house which had once been a colonial homestead. The lane was canopied by our wineglass elms
and a beautiful old white birch. It
looked like a grass-grown
country road, and a stranger turning into it
by mistake would find that it completely circled the house and led him quickly
out to the main road again. On our side
of the lane was our lawn and the hay-field of timothy
grass growing taller and thicker than I have ever seen elsewhere. On the other side of the lane were woods
partly concealing an octagon house (we called it "the inkwell") in
which Mr. Jodrey lived, who knew more about poultry
than anyone else we knew. My brother and I, when we
were old enough, would buy his Silverlace Wyandotte
eggs and hatch them under one of our broody hens. Later we changed to Rhode Island Reds which
were better layers, but I considered this a great come-down in our association
with hens. The Wyandottes
were so distinguished looking that we used to name them for people we knew, but
the Rhode Island Reds never seemed worthy of that honor.
A path from our house through the
hayfield led to a gate in the wall opposite a door of the Lovelaces'
house. I never saw anyone use this door,
but it was impressively guarded by two wooden dolphins about four feet high
whose scales and teeth were all carved from one piece of wood. They stood on their chests with their tails
flung up in a reversed letter "S," so that their open mouths were
close to the granite step on which they rested.
They were painted dark red with appropriate colors for eyes and tails
and I think each carved scale was outlined in a lighter shade. At either side of the doorway tiger lilies
grew. I loved looking at this doorway;
it seemed
Oriental to me and I used to wonder if I should ever go to
China.
Mr. and Mrs. Lovelace were very
elderly and quite uncommunicative, but they were always kind and tolerant of
us who, I am sure, were rather annoying at times. They used to sit in a small summer-house near
their picturesque well with its little roof and its bucket drawn up by turning
a handle, winding the rope neatly around the thick wooden spindle. They always seemed to have leisure, though I
fancy their labors were done before I had left my bed. For Mr. Lovelace had a very good vegetable
garden in the pasture where he kept his cow, half an acre or more completely
encircled by a stone wall. There must
have been a gate leading into it, but I do not remember one. There was also a well-kept outhouse which
fascinated me because we had a bathroom.
The Lovelaces were generous with its use and
never told me to go home when I asked to go there. I liked the wallpaper samples and pictures
from calendars pasted on the walls. I remember particularly a bright pink
complexioned lady with a very short neck swathed in pink tulle who was wearing
a large red rose behind one ear.
The house was an old New England
homestead, well proportioned and well built. It was one of the oldest in the
neighborhood, though friends of ours lived about half a mile away in a splendid
old lean-to built at the very end of the sixteen hundreds; and the farmhouse
across the street was lovelier, and probably older, with the old fireplace, its
oven, and paneling in the downstairs rooms still intact. An out-
side flight of stairs led to a door in
the upper story of the Lovelace house, and there their widowed daughter lived
with her two sons a little older than I.
I liked these boys very much.
They were gentlemanly and well-mannered and never bothered us when we
did not wish them around. Roy I liked
particularly. He was always helpful when
I needed aid in catching my rabbits or finding the chickens. His skin tanned in
the sun each summer to a lovely biscuit brown. But I think it was his feet
which really fascinated me because his toes added up to the sum of twelve. His brother I thought a little pert. He had a turned-up nose inclined to
freckle. He would stand aloof, hands in
pockets, with a half humorous, half quizzical expression on his face. Still I liked him.
A wide gate led from the lane near
one end of the house into the larger pasture.
The Lovelaces rented this land to Mr. McCarthy
who lived a half a mile away. His son
was station master of our tiny local flag station where bright flower beds
tended by him won prizes from the Boston and Maine Railroad. Every morning and every evening Mr. McCarthy,
driving his old cream-colored horse and trailing two or three cows behind his
cart, would come and go from this pasture.
He was a taciturn man and I who worshipped all horseflesh, especially
cream-colored horses, asked him only once if I could ride with him. His horse was too old to walk faster than the
cows. It was a leisurely trip and I
wondered what Mr. McCarthy could be thinking about during his silence. Finally I asked, "What makes those
patches on your horse where there is no
hair?" Mr. McC.
replied with one word. "Moths,"
he said, withdrawing into silence once more.
Before long I was familiar with all
the wood-paths, brooks, the hill where high bush blueberries grew and on the
top of which the Judge Whites built their cabin. I could even find my way to Oak Knoll, where
Whittier had lived with his cousins in his latter days, through the woods a
good three quarters of a mile away. But
I did not need to stray so far afield with so much of
interest right at hand and with a three hundred acre farm across the road. I remember particularly the excitement I felt
one day near Mr. Lovelace's vegetable garden, where I was cutting a barberry
branch to make a bow and arrow. Suddenly
I noticed a partridge not six feet away, sitting quietly on a low limb of a
small tree. We knew we saw each other
but each of us waited minutes for the other to make a move. She held out longer than I. I had the same experience at other times with
a quail, a yellow-billed cuckoo and a scarlet tanager. I think these meetings were the beginning of
my interest in birds. The elms were a
great attraction to the orioles where they built their deep, swinging
horse-hair nests high above us. Their
lovely song still makes my heart leap up.
They always arrived on May tenth, my mother's birthday, - or so we
thought.
At one time we had, among many pets,
a tame crow named Jim. He was found by
my brother and George Benson while still a nestling. He used to sit on a limb of one of the apple
trees, ducking his head and
hunching his shoulders each time a pair of
outraged vireos, who were nesting there, zoomed down in quick succession, just
missing his head. I remember his
enormous appetite, for we had to feed him before he could fly. He would sit on our shoulders pecking away at
anything bright we were wearing and talk to us in soft, gutteral
sounds. One day he was missing. Auntie had seen a boy go up the road with a
basket on his arm quite early in the morning but she had thought nothing of it. Jim never came back.
We always had some project
afoot. For a while Theodore was interested
in the various creatures we tried to raise:
chickens, guinea fowl, pheasants, ducks, geese, pigeons, rabbits. The pigeons were strictly his; the rabbits
were mine. We cooperated on the others.
One summer we raised three white geese, the story-book kind. One of these became madly attached to Auntie
who often would sweep up the grass clippings and leaves on our lawns. I wish I had a photograph of this little old
lady (she seemed old to me) dressed in black, looking a good deal like the
elderly Queen Victoria, carrying her broom around, always followed by the
softly gabbling goose. She was ten years
older than my father. She had inherited
the Broad Street end of the Salem house with my father and always lived with
us. My father died in 1911. She died of cancer a year later.
Two or three years after my father
and mother were married in 1891 they purchased the Summer Street end of the
house from the other heirs, changing the old house once more into a single
home. This
was the
oldest part, built in 1762. It had, and
still has, a beautiful front hall and staircase. These and the mantel in what we called
"the music room" are all of McIntire design. The front doorway is often reproduced in books of photographs of old Salem houses.
Aunt Alice always lived in the Broad Street
end of the house, though she had meals with us.
Theodore and I, I am afraid, were not always kind to her; she seemed queer to us in contrast to
our beautiful young mother. We loved to play practical jokes on her in an
effort to upset her fixed habits.
I often wish I could tell her that I
really loved her because she was always kind and generous to me. She it was who
gave me a large azalea every birthday down through the years, and saw to it
that it was at my place for breakfast. I
should have missed it sorely had it not been there. She gave me my large stockinet doll, my
riding boots and half of the pony and cart I had so longed for. I never went into her bedroom, and only went
into her sitting room when invited.
Sometimes I slept in the big double bed there with a stiff hair mattress
and a soft feather bed on top of that.
In the morning the feather bed would be removed and the hair mattress
thrown over the footboard, making a tunnel through which I loved to
crawl.
This room was full of fascinating things from a child's point of view: onyx
paper weights, figurines, an iron donkey which threw a little darkie-boy over
its head when you pushed a button, a mahogany board holding beautiful colored agates
which I played with by the
hour. A
large engraving of the Madonna of the Chair hung over the bed and on another
wall an engraving - perhaps a Guido Reni- of Christ
wearing the Crown of Thorns with drops of blood running down his agonized face. I remember, also, little treats of a navel
orange and a piece of sponge cake, and of
sitting - or trying to - in her slippery lap, too stout to hold a child
comfortably, while she read me children's stories from the Christian
Register.
Her bedroom upstairs in the third story was so full of possessions of
sentimental value that we never once went beyond the locked door. She had a dressmaker and a seamstress come
regularly who made her handsome voluminous black or gray taffeta or satin dresses, always
trimmed with ruching, lace and sequins, the bodices
painstakingly
boned and lined. Many of these she never
wore, but when she was
dressed in one she looked very impressive, handsome and Victorian, I associate the making of these with a certain
embarrassment. Miss Parsons, the
seamstress, used to use many needles threaded with basting cotton, one after the other. One day I asked if I could help her thread
her needles. She gladly consented. After much effort on my part I carried to her about a dozen threaded needles only to
receive a round scolding. I had
carefully tied a knot in each thread at the needle's eye, as we were shown to
do with wool in our kindergarten. I
never offered to help Miss Parsons again.
Auntie wore a false piece on her front hair in
the morning while her sparse but pretty soft white hair was being crimped on
hairpins underneath. I never saw her use it in the afternoon. She was always late to meals, annoying all of us, especially Hannah,
the cook, and Ellie, the
"second-girl." She had to have
special dishes prepared for her because she would not touch many of the foods
the rest of us ate and liked. It must
have been very hard for Mother and I am sure Father was many times
pulled apart by split loyalties, rather
sadly.
I think of my father now with enormous respect. His kindnesses were myriad. My mother's family said he was the kindest
person they ever knew. He never failed to
help where help was needed. He had cared
for his two invalid parents for years, was tied to an eccentric older sister who
depended upon him for everything. He
tried to keep the family peace, took my mother's family into his home so that there
always was a Crowninshield aunt or aunts or
grandmother there, helped to support them (for Grandmother Crowninshield
was left a minister's widow with five young daughters when Aunt Margaret was
only six months old), paid for Aunt Margaret's education at Wheaton and for the
singing lessons (she sang beautifully), ran two large houses systematically
and carefully, took his useful place in the community, tried (oh, so hard) to
be a good husband to an intellectual wife not so well endowed domestically, and who was
fifteen years younger, tried to understand a gifted, rather wilful
son and a carefree, unseeing daughter who did not yet comprehend the burdens he
bore. He finally broke down in what was
then called nervous prostration, a terrible
two-year illness slowly developing before that. He finally took his own life. My heart is wrung with the thought of the
help denied him but available today.
But I must finish about Putnamville. How can I shorten this and yet tell all I need to tell?
I
think a very special joy was the drives with the family after supper through
the peaceful, darkening countryside, sitting beside Father on the front seat of
the commodious carry-all, with only the light from the carriage lamps, the
flashings of fireflies, and sometimes moonlight sifting through the trees to
light our way. Then there were trees to be
climbed, apples to be tasted - a dozen different
varieties - the ridgepole of the barn to be assaulted (Theodore climbed the
cupola, but I never quite dared), the large arborvitae trees to hide in, the
barn loft to play in, the swing, hammock and parallel bars to do stunts
with, the great Norway spruce to be scaled with
thumping heart and ruined clothes and Stevenson's "Up into the cherrytree" running through my head. I had to climb until "farther and
farther I could see," way above the barn and lower trees until I could see
the church spire in Danvers a mile or more away. Another great joy was Rover. He had been given to Theodore, a ball of
long soft fur when about two months old and I was nine, but from his arrival
on July Fourth, when he and I were somewhat timid of the fireworks Father always displayed for friends and
neighbors, we were
inseparable
partners for years and years.
The one drawback of being near a dairy farm was the swarm of flies we
had to contend with. We had flypaper
everywhere in sheets or in hanging curls.
Sometimes these would be quickly covered with flies. One of our half-grown kittens sat on a piece
of flypaper one day and then
ran wildly across the lawn with it sticking to her rear. All we could see was a sheet of flypaper, with a
tail waving above it, rushing away.
We had to remove the stuff with kerosene.
Those flies, I am sure, were responsible for
a serious illness I had when
I was seven years old. It had been a
very hot day in late July. The Gortons had
come to play with us and we played Run Sheep, Run hard until our heads
were soaking with perspiration. To cool
off we climbed an apple tree and tasted the
apples which were far from ripe.
After supper I went across the street to sit with Mrs. Landers in her lawn swing.
Suddenly the world began to spin around me and I felt horribly
ill. I stumbled home on wobbly legs and
remember nothing more until I was conscious
of being in my mother's bed with a nurse all in white bending over me. The doctor called it dysentery. It was
during this illness that Dr. Kittredge, our beloved
Salem doctor, bought his first automobile
and Father had our first telephone in the country installed. I remember that the number was "seven,
seven, ring eleven" (you said it that way). It was a clumsy looking instrument screwed to
the wall with a crank to ring "Central." Almost the first message which came over it
was that President McKinley
had been shot.
This is my impression, anyway, though I have not checked on the dates. I was a starved little girl not able to take
anything at first. I remember how good
the warm milk toast and the broth tasted,
when I finally could take food, and especially the sherbet which Theodore made
for me each day in a tiny ice cream freezer.
Then one day my naughtiness returned.
I got out of bed and ran on very wobbly legs through two or three rooms
before the distracted nurse caught me and carried me back to bed.
One day during the next summer I went with Mother through the blueberry
pastures to Mrs. White's hill where she had invited her sewing
"circle" to a picnic lunch.
The Whites had built a pleasant cabin with benches outside around an outdoor fireplace, and there
the Salem ladies settled down. I knew
that there was a handsome year-old colt which roamed that hill, unbroken but
gentle enough. It had long been my desire to feed him some sugar while I
petted him, all of which I did. He insisted on following me when I started
back to the camp. It never
occurred to me that the ladies would not be delighted to see him. When the colt and I arrived
in the clearing there was a mad scramble for the cabin. Mrs. White flashed daggers at me so the colt
and I went away. I think I went home
rather than to face more disapproval.
I had dreamed of owning a pony for years and told so many
people that I was surely going to own one
some day that I think that made it come to pass. How well I remember that fresh June morning
when I
woke to realize that my own pony was in the
stable. I was eleven years old. I had dreamed of brushing him and braiding
his tail and mane with ribbon and then taking him out to munch green
grass. I rose very early, took Jackie
(he was named before we bought him) by the halter rope down to the timothy
hayfield, feeling sure he would henceforth follow me with gratitude like my beloved Rover. No sooner had
we reached the field than he wheeled around, kicked me soundly in the stomach and went galloping away. Tears stung my eyes, but then my ire rose,
and from that day on we had constant battles over balking, over trying to throw
me, over watertroughs, over anything he wanted to do
and I did not. He was a beautiful little
beast, half Welsh, half Shetland, with
an indomitable spirit which I learned to respect, admire and love. Riding
or driving him, I would follow behind
the family carriage. He insisted upon
staying so close that often he would
bump his nose when Duke came to a sudden stop.
But he never would do
otherwise. His real affections were
centered in Duke whom he loved with
all his loyal, worshipping small heart.
I
had a few chores to do, picking strawberries, cutting sweet peas and roses for the
house, helping to shell peas, caring for animals,
making beds. Occasionally Michael would
be too busy to cut the lawns and we would be asked to help with them. One time a bit disgruntled at the thought, I
harnessed my pony to the lawnmower. Everything went very well until we hit a
snag. Jackie started to run with the
mower banging at his heels. First one
trace broke and
then the
other, freeing him to dash wildly away.
Fortunately no real harm was done, but I never tried that again.
After I acquired Jack I bought from Carter White a Spanish nanny
goat, a pretty creature with a little harness and a two-wheeled cart. I have a photograph of Rover sitting on the seat
with a cap on his head while small Bunny Putnam holds the reins. But pony eclipsed Nanny, although I had them
both for some time; in fact Jack was a member
of our family until he died in 192 9 when he was about twenty-seven years old.
He had been passed on to my sister when I grew too old for him. After that, children of friends used him for
a while. Finally he gave our own children a few summers of fun, though by that
time he was no longer handsome or spirited.
Theodore, as I said, was always inventing and
building. I remember particularly a
kind of cable car and a roller coaster.
For the cable car he ran a stout wire from rather high up in the Porter apple tree down to a lower limb of a tree
some distance away. On this he had rigged a block with two wheels or pulleys
which could travel along the wire.
Through the block he bored a hole and attached a rope, two or three feet
long, which held a short horizontal bar or seat. We would climb the tree, straddle the bar,
hold on to the supporting rope and let go. The resulting ride was short but quite
breathtaking and most successfully exciting until our parents persuaded us it was not safe.
The next experiment
was a roller coaster which he built with the
aid of his friends - a wooden track running from
a platform to which we climbed by a short ladder to enter a two-seated wooden
car. Down we would go with heart in
mouth, the chief trouble being that the car often came off the track giving its
passengers bumps and bruises. Our
parents persuaded us this also was dangerous.
As we grew older Theodore's friends came more and more often. Rifle
practice became their sport, with a target out by the tennis court. I was not in that group very much but I
practiced with Theodore's rifle and one day shot a red squirrel in the top of
the black walnut tree. I was so
disturbed and amazed that I had actually shot him that I think I never shot at an animal again - until
recently when I shot a rabbit here in our
Belmont garden. I took the little dead
creature to Michael, our handyman and friend, and asked him to bury it for me.
The boys were beginning to be mischievous
adolescents. One Saturday in the fall, late
in the day, they greased the electric car tracks most of the way up the hill. The poor motorman was desperate, got out of the car and endeavored to round up the
culprits. I had not participated but I
warned the boys that the motorman was on the lookout for them, that they should
be innocent looking and not get caught.
I think they were really afraid that the police might investigate. They never bothered the carline again.
Except once, when my cousin Faelton Perkins was visiting us. We
thought it would be splendid fun to make a dummy and stand him beside
the white post.
This we did one evening, putting a joss stick in his mouth and tying a
rope around his waist which we strung over a limb of an elm tree above. When the
car came up the hill it stopped for the supposed passenger to get on. Nothing happened so the motor-man leaned out
to investigate. It must have dawned on
him that the figure in the dark was a dummy.
In any case, when the car came back the motorman was ready, leaned out and
tried to hook the dummy with his switch stick.
But we were also ready. We were
lying on our stomachs behind the hedge with the rope in our hands. Theodore gave the rope a tremendous pull; the
dummy flew up into the elm tree and both motorman and we gave a roar of
laughter. The motormen and conductors -
there were only two of each - were really our friends, We rode with them to
Salem and to school each spring and fall.
I wish I could remember their names.
I am sure Theodore can.* One
motorman was
very jolly, always cracking jokes about "Punkinville"
and playing Yankee Doodle on the bell which he banged with his foot. Was there ever more fun than sitting on the
front seat of an open trolley car driven by a friendly motorman?
There were not many children near at hand to
play with except Roy and
Webster Blanchard, but Mother was very good about letting our friends come to visit. I remember many giggles and night-time talks
in the big painted bed in the downstairs guest room when Rebecca
Two of the four were Mr. Lyle and Mr.
Porter.
Pickering or Kitty Pew or some other girl came to visit me. But there were many interesting grownups in the
neighboring houses who often came to our house to spend an
afternoon or evening to talk, take a drive, or to sing. I remember the pungent smell of cigar smoke
drifting into my bedroom while the grownups sat on the wide veranda below my
window, the men smoking and the ladies twirling joss sticks to keep the mosquitoes
away. At the foot of the hill, Mr.
Watts, a delightful Englishman, and his humor-loving New England wife had built a
charming house full of interesting mementos from his wide travels. He and others would come to sing while Mother
played
the piano. My Crowninshield
grandmother had a good voice. Mother has told me that she sang in this group also, but I
do not remember
it because pernicious anemia made her an invalid when I was still a little
girl. I barely remember her when she was
active and well. The Whites, the Wattses, the Fowlers, the Misses Lander - Salem ladies who
bought the house half way up the hill - were frequently there. The Lees, the Brookses,
Professor Morse as well as other friends came often from Salem.
I remember well one evening, when I was sitting just inside
from the covered front porch, that a bat lighted on my
arm. They say bats do not bite, but his hooks gripped and I,
terrified, let out a murderous yell. I
remember Professor Morse dashing in from the porch terribly concerned, and shouting,
"Good God, what's the matter? A bat, is that ALL?"
Mr. Frank Lee - Francis Lee - was a great wag. He was always chuckling over his own numerous amusing experiences. He could imitate sounds of animals and birds, invent spur-of-the
moment riddles, tell exceedingly tall stories to a delighted audience. I remember one evening a group of friends
were sitting on the wide veranda which overlooked the lawn and Mother's garden. The white phlox shone in the moonlight. Mr. Lee asked, "Why are the Brownes like the Bethlehem shepherds of old?" A long pause. "Because they watch
their flocks by night." His sister was Alice Roosevelt's mother. When Alice was married to Nicholas Longworth Mr. Lee came
back from the White House wedding with a long amusing story about his borrowed
top hat; and after going to England he circulated among his friends a
photograph of himself and Queen Victoria having a cosy
tea together - a trick of blending two photographs. One day we took him to see the big dairy barn nearby.
The farmer, who kept no pigs, was quite excited to hear one grunting in
his barn. He was rather disappointed, I
think, to discover Mr. Lee instead of a pig.
My memory of the Misses Lander centers around one event. They were rather
elderly, intelligent, musical maiden ladies of the old school. I thought them
rather forbidding, but I think now they were merely shy with children. Mother was very fond of them. One day they came to call. That was the day I chose to be rude to my
mother in front of them. I cannot
remember what I said, but it was bad enough to embarrass my mother.
Children then were supposed to treat grownups with
great deference. After the ladies were gone Mother talked to
me very
seriously. She told me I must go down to
the Lander house to apologize to Miss Helen and Miss Lucy for my rude
behavior. (I probably was eleven, or
possibly twelve.) That was one of the
hardest things
I have ever done. Miss Helen Lander came
to the door. I blurted out my
apologies to her with Miss Lucy hovering in the background. I think they tried to hide their smiles. Anyway, I was sent home with a cookie.
Before long the carefree days were
over. Since my sister was born when I was ten, I
was cautioned over and over to be quiet, to learn to be more thoughtful, not to bang
around so. Almost for the first time I had to
consider others. I was growing up. Later Father's illness caused a pall to hang
over the family, voices became lower, friends came
less often. Finally one day in May,
1911, when I had gone to Pittsfield for the weekend to visit Anna Hathaway at
Miss Hall's School, Father took his own life.
After that, life was never the same.
Soon Hannah, Ellie and Michael all left us because it was not the same
for them, either. They had loved
him. Mother let me buy a polo pony with
money I had earned barreling and selling windfall apples. We stayed in Putnamville
that summer, but our hearts were no longer there.
Mother, more crushed than we knew, was lonely and restless. She decided to sell the house, send many of
the things there to the Perkinses in Bridgewater and spend
the summers with them
for the present.
That fall, with the aid of a young lad, I drove over the road with the horses to
Bridgewater where Uncle Charles used them to drive to and from work. A young fourteen-year-old, named Walter, who
was trying to fill Michael's place, led Texas, my polo pony, while I drove
Duke. Walter sat, with legs dangling, on
the back of the one-seated run-about. We
went by the way of the Salem-Lynn turnpike, across the marshes, through Revere,
Charlestown, past the North Station in Boston, all along Tremont Street,
Columbus Avenue, Blue Hill Avenue to Milton where the horses were put up for the
night. In Charlestown Duke, terrified by
the elevated trains thundering above us, sank spread-eagled flat on the
cobblestones, while Tex broke loose, wheeled up onto the sidewalk and nearly crashed
into the large plate glass window of a saloon before we were able to catch him.
Somehow we reached Milton
quite whole. Walter then returned to
Salem. Uncle Charles Perkins met me next day
to help me get the horses to Bridgewater. I was seventeen.
I have never forgotten driving our caravan
down Tremont Street past the Common.
Even then this seemed rather unusual.
I often think of this trip when I am shopping at R. H. Stearns's. Duke finally went to live with friends of
Uncle Charles, and the following year I sold Texas. Jackie remained in the family to give
pleasure to Rebecca and much later to our children and the cousins during summers at Chocorua. He died
old and tired and quite ready to go.
But Putnamville was only half of my life
and it became even less so as I grew older, for I began to be hungry for my
friends and looked forward with eagerness to
visiting them, especially Kitty Pew in Rockport. More about those visits later, for now I must
go back to early years in Salem.
How can I tell all I wish to without
becoming a frightful bore? I
shall put it on paper, nevertheless.
Our Salem house was altered during the summer
of 1900 after Father had bought the house in Putnamville. I remember it as it used to be quite well - the
inconvenient picturesque old kitchen and pantry ell, the inner windowless
room through which Pat, the furnace man, had to go to reach the cellar stairs
and where Theodore and I, alone at early supper, sloshed lemon jelly through our teeth
with giggles and joy. I remember the dining room which opened from it with soft orangy wallpaper and steel engravings of famous people on
its walls; the carpeted front parlors divided by sliding doors; the very steep
stairs leading to the third story. All
these were entirely changed, most changes for the better, yet I have regretted
that the kitchen ell and the dining room, as lovely and large as it came to be, had to
lose their eighteenth century character and become more of 1900 in feeling.
However, the front hall set the atmosphere for the whole
house. Its low stud, handsome paneling,
carved twisting balusters and wide hand
rail which swept around the open upper front hall in gracious
line, the arches of doorways and of the
upper hall window with its window
seat, remained untouched and quite perfect.
It is in my opinion, the more
beautiful twin of the hall in the King Hooper Mansion in Marblehead.*
The 40 Summer Street part of the house had
been the original part built
in 1762 by my great-great-great grandfather, Thomas Eden. He lived only six
years longer in which to enjoy his house, dying at the early age (it seems to us moderns) of forty-eight. A little later the Broad Street end was added
to accommodate various Smiths. (Theodore thinks the whole house dates
from 1762. I must check on this.)
Sarah Eden Smith, Captain Thomas Eden's daughter, lost her husband
Captain Edward Smith at sea as did her daughter, Mehitabel. The elder widow had her widowed daughter and
her little granddaughter come to live with her in the Broad Street end of the
house. Father said he was told that his
great-grandmother, who died in 1833, used to sit at the window hopefully
waiting for her husband who never came.** Mehitabel Smith had married a Jesse Smith of no relation
whose father, also Jesse, had
been a member of Washington's bodyguard.***
I remember Mehitabel's daughter (the little girl) as a very lame old
lady, Cousin
The stair rail carving is identical with
that in the Derby Mansion.
**
Jesse Smith II, a lieutenant in the Navy, lost in the U. S. S.
"Hornet" in a hurricame in the Gulf of
Mexico in 1830.
***
Jesse Smith III, died at the Cape Verde Islands of yellow fever
in the
early 1840's. Frances Ver Planck has his portrait - a young midshipman in the U.
S. Navy.
Sarah Smith. She had been a
pupil of William Morris Hunt and was an excellent artist. She gave me some sketching lessons when I was
about twelve, but I was always afraid of her, probably because of her crutches
and her high cracked voice. Because I
bore her name she left me when she died in 1907 six dainty old silver spoons, six Windsor chairs, and one
of the bureaus her grandmother had had made for her two daughters, Mehitabel
and Sarah. Sarah was my great-grandmother. Her portrait, painted by Charles Osgood about
1838, hangs in our dining room. I have
told elsewhere about all this.
Father and Auntie bought the 40 Summer
Street part of the house about 1896 from the other heirs and turned the whole
into a single house. Auntie was once again
able to have her privacy in her own domain.
It must have been a tremendous relief for Mother and Father to be able to expand
quarters for their family. I was not
quite two years
old.
The house seemed very large to me, and
indeed it was with two front halls and its many rooms. It was a wonderful place in which to play hide-and-seek. My special hide-out was behind the flounces
under the
great four-poster bed* in the guest room.
There I used to hide when I had been punished or frightened or wished to
be alone or just to play a game. I
remember one day, when I was eleven, Father had taken Theodore and me to Boston
to see Ben Hur (I think). As we turned the corner into Summer
Street we saw an ambulance in front of our house.
Dr. Kittredge was waiting for our return to
have permission to take *Frances Ver Planck now owns
this bed.
Mother
to the hospital. As she was brought downstairs on a stretcher,
I fled to my secret hiding place, which I had
not visited for a long time, and it was not until I heard the horse
clopping down the street, taking my mother
away, that I realized she had had no goodbye from me. I ran like a hare after the ambulance crying
loudly. It stopped to let me climb up to
kiss Mother goodbye.
She had a ruptured appendix and was in the hospital three long months
at death's door. It was only by a
miracle that she lived. As I write these
words, it is only by a miracle that she is
still alive at nearly ninety-nine, again hanging on by that thread of
indomitable will.
The back stairs, after dark, always
filled me with alarm. I was almost sure
something was following me up those two flights of stairs to my room. I think this was caused by the two gas jets,
open flames turned rather low, which flared
and flickered making moving shadows on the
walls. The cellar, too, was a place
where evil lurked. This well could be where ghosts and witches
walked. Later the cellar lost its sinister aspect when Theodore's chemical
experiments were relegated to a little room there with a gay "T.C.B.'s Shop" painted by him in red on its
window. Another "T.C.B." still
exists on a window pane of the second story hall, engraved there by him with
the edge of a diamond.
I loved our front hall.
Theodore and I used to slide down the broad
banister much to Father's anxiety, I think, because of the beautiful
carved rundles, yet he never prohibited us from doing so.
(Long before the days of play-yard gymnastic equipment and jungle-jims,
he had built for us in Putnamville some parallel
bars, swings and gymnastic aids on which we played for hours.) I was well acquainted with the front hall. A punishment, which I never
minded, for being too strenuous, noisy or
unruly was to sit on the stairs for five minutes. I could time myself by the grandfather clock*
whose smiling friendly face I learned to know well and whose loud tick-tock
counted off sixty seconds of each minute.
This clock told the phases of the moon so that sometimes a full moon's
jovial face would smile down on me.
Father, before church every Sunday morning,
would wind up the two great
weights in preparation for another week of ticking seconds. All the clocks in the house were wound then, and
all the clocks would announce the hour and half-hour in various voices, deep
like the grandfather clock or tinkly like the black
marble and bronze ones in parlors
and library.
I loved Sunday morning.
Somehow everything seemed a little different - polished shoes, best clothes, Father in his cutaway and Mother
often supervising the dining room for expected dinner guests. Even the chirping sparrows outside sounded
differently, chirping against the church bells.
Sometimes I would go to church, probably not so often as I think
I did because we always went to Sunday School from twelve to one o'clock, but I liked church
better. Father, with
*Now owned by the Bradfords.
his silk top hat and cane and Mother holding up her best long
skirts, which otherwise would sweep the
sidewalk, made me feel proud and important.
I must have wiggled a great deal - in fact my baby name was Sally Wiggles - because there would always be
made available pencil and paper to
keep me quiet. Father was a warden or
deacon, and later Aunt Margaret was the soprano of the choir, so I felt the North Church was very much our church. Carey and I went to a service there last fall after many years and I was
again thankful that the rather beautiful and unusual 1830 Early English Gothic
church had been among my early
memories. We treasure the thought of
having been married there.
I went to kindergarten, and later to school,
at Miss Howe's. Classes were held in one large room on the
third floor of Hamilton Hall, now the supper
room. This is a happy memory. Miss Howe commuted from Boston every
day. She was a born teacher, strict,
fair, rather modern in her choice of curriculum, homely with crossed eyes,
short, straight backed, apt to wear bright green or red flannel shirtwaists
with flat brass buttons, a broad belt from which hung an ample purse-bag, over her heart a gold watch hanging from a watch pin, and over her ear a gold chain
attached to her gold glasses. We did not
quite like her, but we respected her and I suspect she understood children
better than they understood themselves.
I went to Miss Howe's School until I was ten. It soon moved into Studio House on the corner of Summer and
Chestnut Streets. I
remember with joy being introduced to Greek myths by
Miss Howe's sister, Mrs. Winchester, pretty and sweet, whom we all adored. Also I found excitement in using compass and
ruler with which we constructed various geometric figures on paper, and much
happiness in using paint brush and water colors. We sang a lot and often, loudly bellowing, "Men
of Harlech in the hollow," and occasionally we
were allowed
to sing some amusing jingle which ended in a near riot.
I remember kindergarten most clearly - the well framed butterflies and moths hanging on the wall, one a
huge Polyphemus moth with the great "eyes" on his lower wings. We learned to make butter in small
churns, to set a miniature table with miniature plates, forks, knives, spoons, fruits, meats and vegetables while
Fraulein Liebert tried to teach us their names in
German. We modelled
objects from cool smooth clay kept in
a large jar in the supply closet. We
made strings of colored beads and wove reins of colored wools. I loved it all.
I think Theodore had to be disciplined more often than any other child. I
remember one day he was very naughty and Miss Howe, in desperation, locked him
in the supply closet. After a long
silence she went to let him out and
found a lighted candle on the shelf and a grinning happy boy busily sticking
the colored beads all through the clay
in the great jar. He was then sent
home. I rose in wrath at this punishment and marched home with him. Ideas of discipline change with each
generation. In Father's, it was the
dunce cap and
switch; in ours, the closet or bed. I am sure we were rather an unruly pair- Although I never
remember being locked in a closet, I remember Theodore was several times. I well remember when he kicked a panel out of
the nursery closet door, crawling through the opening with a triumphant
smile on his face.
I have a photograph which Betty Coggin sent to me a few years ago of the members of
Miss Howe's School while it was still in Hamilton Hall. There were nineteen of us. The girls all are wearing some kind of hat -
flat sailor hats, scoop sailor hats, ruffled hats, hats trimmed with high
stiff bows, chiefly according to age. Totty Benson is wearing a ruffled bonnet which I vaguely
remember as red trimmed with white. The
boys are all wearing round cloth sailor caps or snug fitting little caps. It was as unthinkable to go to school or even play out of
doors without a hat as it was not to wear long-legged underwear and high boots in
the winter months. Both boys and girls
wore long black stockings. In the photograph
my sailor hat is on the back of my head probably held on by an
elastic under my chin. I seem to be the most disheveled of them
all. The photograph was taken on the
steps of Hamilton Hall. Outside was a
wide strip of asphalt instead of brick for a sidewalk. This made a splendid place to play hopscotch
or jump rope. A horse chestnut tree
shaded this area and added to our joy in the Fall when
the splitting burs fell to reveal the lovely smooth rich brown nuts
within. We collected these and sometimes
made chains by stringing them on stout thread.
When I think of the chestnuts the image of Mr. Wentworth comes to mind. He was the janitor and lived in rooms on the
ground floor. He was darker than the chestnuts with very white teeth, and he
was kindly and friendly.
Hamilton Hall was built in 1806 and named, of course, for Alexander Hamilton, who,
in spite of careless modern explanation, never danced there. The architect-builder was Samuel McIntire
whose designs
and carvings so enriched Salem's architecture in that period. It remains one of
the most treasured buildings in Salem. I
do not wish
to try to describe it here except to say that it and the South Church which stood directly across the
street, but which burned down in 1903, made
Chestnut Street with its great merchant houses one of the most distinguished
streets in America. How marvelous it
would have been if the church could
have been rebuilt exactly as it had been, for it was probably the most
beautiful of all the Federal New England wooden churches.
We went to dancing school in Hamilton Hall for years because dancing school seemed to be more of a
party than a class. The girls wore wide hair ribbons and wider sashes to match,
and patent leather slippers with one strap; the boys, patent leather pumps with
flat bows, Eton collars, broad ties and tight, above-the-knee-length dark blue
trousers and coats to match. We felt
very handsome. Miss Pitman,
gray-haired, plump but exceedingly light of foot, in her ankle-length
light blue accordion pleated silk skirt, carrying a fan, made
it all seem quite festive. She wore a suspicion of rouge on her cheeks which in those
days seemed almost naughty to us. The
last half-hour was usually spent dancing one of the two square dances we
learned: the Portland Fancy and the
Lancers - or often we danced a German, and always the finish was a wonderful
grand march. When I see the Frug or the Watusi today my heart
goes back to the little boys - later the big boys - gravely placing a hand on
their tummies and making a deep bow before the little girls - later the big girls -of
their choice. The floor of the old hall,
supported by chains, would begin to heave ever so gently when we began to
dance the polka or the schottische, and the three great gilt mirrors (still there)
would reflect the kaleidoscope of gay colors of dresses, hair ribbons and sashes.
I loved Hamilton Hall. It stood diagonally across from our house in the same
block with nothing between except our garden, the Coggins' woodshed and
another small garden. Often at night I
could see the shadows of dancing couples flit by the lighted Palladian windows and I could
hear the music drifting across the space between.
The shed roof belonging to the Coggins, which I just mentioned, I speak of rather shamedly. The Coggins, Mrs. Raynor Wellington's
family, were lovely people, kindly and patient - patient because we and our friends
loved nothing better than to climb the various slopes of the various roofs of their
ell and woodshed which stood directly at the foot of our garden behind our little
"barn." As we
grew older, we grew bolder, and I remember with shame one day helping some older boys carry
good sized stones up to the shed roof to throw down at the Coggins'
garbage pail while Billy shook his fist and swore at us. Dear Billy - who as a little boy, not quite
old enough to go to kindergarten, stood on the sidewalk outside his house to greet me and to say
he wished he could go too; and who a few months after he had graduated from
Harvard in 1916 was carried to his death in a Boston trolley car which plunged
through an opened drawbridge near the South Station in Boston.
Fires in Salem were often serious.
I can feel my heart pound at the memory of the first blast of the
bellowing fire alarm which Often woke me at night to make me lie rigid while I
counted the number of blasts from its cavernous source. Any number in the fifties or a second alarm
would bring me tumbling out of bed to see if I could see any flames. Too often the lurid light of a night fire would be visible, and
then with a dry mouth and a pounding heart, I could not sleep again until I heard
the two blasts of the all-out signal. I
experienced too many serious fires ever to have peace of mind when there was
one in Salem, and perhaps I was not so foolish after all because most of Salem did
finally burn down in 1914 when Mother, Rebecca and I were abroad. The two I remember with real fear were when the South
Church burned and when Mechanics Hall, our only theatre, hurled firebrands in a strong
wind over our little section of the city.
The South Church was being prepared for its one hundredth birthday about
Christmastime in 1903.*
Members of the parish had been decorating it all day. Father, as was his custom, took Siggy, his black cocker spaniel, to walk before supper. This time I asked to go with him. As we passed the South Church, only a block
away opposite
Hamilton Hall, we saw through the basement windows a mass of firey, roaring flames.
There seemed to be no one else in the neighborhood, yet someone else had
seen the flames because just then the fearful fire alarm blew, and it was our
own box, number fifty-six. In two or
three minutes swinging around the corner at the head of Chestnut Street, a
quarter of a mile away, came the fire engine. We could see the
reflected glow on the billowing steam and hear the drumming hoofbeats
of the galloping horses. I had seen this
sight many times before and I think it is the greatest sight I shall ever see -
the gleaming engine, with sparks showering from it, drawn by three great black
horses abreast, each with four white feet and a white nose, plunging right down
the middle of the beautiful wide street arched with towering elms. I always felt exultant, as if I were watching
St. George slay the dragon. This was
"our" engine, "our" horses from "our" engine
house. I had even been in
"our" fire station at the time of a fire alarm and had watched
"our" horses trot out from their stalls, when the gates flew open, to take
their
I may be wrong about
its centennial. The clipping says it was
built in 1805.
places under the harnesses which then dropped on
their backs. I had watched the firemen
slide down the brass pole from above,.snatch
up their
rubber coats and hats, snap one or two buckles on the harnesses and jump on the fire engine even then
leaving the station. I am sure that anyone who has seen the run of a horse-drawn
fire engine thinks of it as the most dramatic sight he will ever see.
This time a second alarm followed by a
general alarm sounded almost immediately.
The spire of the church was one hundred and sixty-five feet tall. If it fell outward across the street it would
fall across Hamilton
Hall. If it fell to either side it would
fall across houses. The only way to prevent a terrible conflagration
was to make it fall within the
church.
Father and I went home to warn the household
of the great danger. Apart from packing
up some silver and personal papers there seemed little one could do but wait. Before very long we could see from our third story windows that the spire was
beginning to burn. The heat became so
intense that we closed the windows. I
remember watching the flames as long as I could bear it, finally getting a little
history book (I was only nine) to read aloud to Mother about Christopher Columbus. I really hated Christopher Columbus because
it seemed as if everyone wished to read about him to me, but this time
he came to my rescue. Finally we went
back to watch the spire fall. The hoses
had been played on the fire in such a way that, like a great tree, the spire fell within the ruins of the church.
Sparks flew up and out all over the neighborhood, but other hoses were
ready, and neighboring roofs had been wet.
The excitement was over, the beautiful old church was gone and Salem was
so much the poorer.
I wish I could note that the parishioners rebuilt the church in the old
design. Despite petitions from many
leading citizens, they refused, fearful of another fire.
They built a suburban-looking stone church, an anachronism in that location . Mr. Francis Lee, a great wag and a friend of my parents,
who lived in a beautiful Chestnut Street house (later bought by Frank Benson,
the artist), remarked that it looked as if one of the Newtons
had flown over Salem and laid a church.
Years later the Chestnut Street Associates bought the church,
pulled it down and turned the site into a little park.
Only last Thursday, Rosie Putnam took me to a lecture in Hamilton Hall
and to lunch there. She told me that
there was great pressure to turn the park into a ball field. If only a Mr. Rockefeller could rebuild the
church and help the Chestnut Street Associates maintain this handsome street!
Whenever I feel discouraged about the
present world (and goodness knows there is enough cause right now) I am apt to remind
myself of the
social make-up of Salem as I remember it.
Anyone who has read Marquand's "Point of
No Return," a satire about the "upper-uppers" and
"middle-uppers" and "lower-uppers" - social distinctions in
old Newburyport - will understand a little of how it was in Salem about
1900. Wealth seemed to have
little to do with social acceptance there.
New wealth was almost a hindrance unless the person or family passed the test
of cultural acceptance. An ornithologist
or traveler or scientist or musician or artist or teacher of broad interests usually was
socially acceptable. Yet there was the
inner core of people - usually descended from old first families - who seemed to decide who
was really acceptable: whose children would be invited to dancing school or children's
parties; who would be invited to join one of the three "sewing
societies;"* who would be invited to the three annual "Informals"
and to the two very formal "Assemblies," held in Hamilton Hall. I can think of three or four families in
really straightened circumstances, who participated in all these things. Of course there were fringe families
sometimes included, sometimes not. There
were families whose children were accepted but the parents were not. The area of the city in which they lived had a
little to do with it, those in North or South Salem usually without the
pale because of being comparative new comers, not belonging to Old Salem. All this is interesting to think upon.
Where these acceptable people really did fail
was in their relation to the immigrants. Only one
block away from our house were
Their names:
The oldest and most venerable to which Mother belonged: "The
Cheerful Workers."
The next oldest to which Aunt Rebecca Putnam belonged: "The
Busy Bees."
The younger set belonged to the "Thread & Needles." Daughters
usually were elected to
their mothers' club.
three streets where I never dreamed of
going. Creek Street, which was mockingly
called Greek Street, Gedney Court and High Street. Not many years
before, these streets had been gardens of old houses or narrow ancient lanes,
once charmingly quaint
perhaps (Creek Street followed the creek which flowed through my
great-grandfather Cox's garden) but into which the Greeks and Italians, who worked
in the
mills, overflowed. Norman Street where
we did go and where Cousin Sarah Smith lived and where the large Cox mansion
was, in which the numerous Coxes, including my grandmother, were born and grew up, was
even in my childhood being turned into a slum neighborhood. These slums have gone,
having been cleared for business or parking areas, and all the original
quaintness and greenness has gone also.
As far as I know, few people did anything
for these mill people until Aunt Rebecca Putnam in the teens and twenties
started a small settlement house in the old high school building across from our house
on Broad Street. Mother was interested
in working girls -largely shop girls - and for years worked hard for the Women's Bureau,
a home for working girls, and was its president at one time. Father was interested
in the hospital and in boys, and had much to do with the Salem Fraternity, a
forerunner of the Salem Y. M. C. A. But the mill workers, as I try to remember,
seemed to be forgotten. I forgot to say that both Mother and Father were
interested in the beginnings of the Associated Charities.
I grew up literally ignoring many of our neighbors - uneducated
Irish living just up the street in what happily now are redeemed old houses, even
neighbors across the street who went to the wrong church and with whom
my parents had only nodding acquaintance.
However, other neighbors across the street who also went to the wrong church
were our friends. I never quite
understood. I suppose this was common
practice in old New England, but I squirm a bit to
think how blithely we went our own rather selfish way. Next door to us lived a Miss
Pickering, to whom I paid very little attention although she and her old
mother lived barely thirty feet away.
Sometimes I would see the old lady sitting near her bedroom window without
her wig, her head as smooth and round and shiny as a billiard ball. Perhaps in some future life I shall have a
chance of giving her some small word of friendly greeting.
These neighbors must have been sorely
tried with the unruly Brownes. Mother was the disciplinarian and was very
uneven in her handling of us, especially of Theodore.
She could be very severe, but later tried to make up for the heavy hand
with too soft forgiveness. Theodore was
difficult without question. He was
precocious, bright and willful. Often they
would clash, as persons very much alike usually do. There was also a strong bond of affection and
admiration
between them. This sometimes would be
hard for me and I grew older often feeling inadequate in their presence. Fortunately for me I could easily escape to friends, animals and the
out-of-doors. Father never interfered. He was naturally a peace-loving man. The
only times I remember seeing him lose his temper were when the Parker boys climbed our
newly painted fence to hurl bags of water at our newly painted back door and
when, in Putnamville on a very windy day, someone
lifted the rock from the platform of the smaller kite reel which then was
pulled by the great kite across Mr. McCarthy's cabbage field, uprooting cabbages on
its way.
Father loved to fly kites with
us. He showed us how to fly great kites six and
more feet tall with a mile or so of kite string wound on a great reel. This was truly exciting sport, especially
when the kite strained and dipped at its tether a mile away above the Burleigh
woods. I often wonder why kite flying is
no longer a
popular sport.
Father was generous with us about his
library - so-called. It was filled with fascinating things: the Franklin stove, books, framed autographed
letters from famous people, old silhouettes, Indian trophies, swords, muskets, old
prints and engravings. The John Brown pike hung
horizontally above the pictures. This
had been given to Grandfather Browne who had been an abolitionist and had
participated with John Greenleaf Whittier in helping escaped slaves on their
way to Canada. John Brown was no
relation, nor did Grandfather know him, but he admired him. The Browne Bible was there, brought from England by
Elder John Browne to Salem in 1628 or 162 9 and in which was entered down to the present
the births and deaths of direct descendants.
All this is told elsewhere in the Browne
history.
Father's chair was a large mahogany leather-upholstered rocking chair. How well I remember sitting in his lap while
he rocked me back and forth. He used to
crack walnuts for us under its rockers ever so carefully so that the shell
would be cracked just
right. I never remember being told to
leave this room although it was his own
special precinct with his desk there where he worked a great deal. One of the first Christmas gifts I ever
bought for him with my allowance was a hideous (I then
thought it beautiful) cast iron paperweight representing three cigars. Father always kept it on his desk although
the sight must have been painful. That Christinas, too, I bought for Mother a little round gilt
picture frame - very cheap looking, I
fear - into which she slipped a picture
of Father and v/hich she kept on her bureau for
years. I must have been about
nine.
Much of Salem, when I was a child, was still
very much of the past. It was changing
character rapidly from the sleep of post-shipping days to the hum of cotton
mills. Large sections of the city had
become Irish or Italian or Greek or French Canadian. The very oldest and quaintest part -
down-town Salem near the wharves and Derby Street - had been forsaken because
of the immigrant push. Town politics, by the time I was eight or nine, had
fallen to the Irish, and by the time I reached High School, three years or so later, the once excellent schools were
engulfed by political appointments. Such is the history of New England towns
which have become
mill towns.
My family had a good deal to do with this change because Uncle Frank Cox
(great-uncle), who built the Victorian house at the corner of Summer
and Chestnut Streets, was for many years president of the Naumkeag
Steam Cotton Company. I have spoken of
him earlier - a tall, gentle, gracious man whom the whole family loved. Little did he perceive what was happening to the
Salem he loved - the myopic malady of the eighties and nineties.
But much remained the same also. I think I am setting this all down because I
regret greatly that my father had not done so with his memories. So much interesting local history, amusing
anecdotes, word pictures of old Salem and its characters were thereby lost
forever. My memories seem pallid in
comparison. Yet I do remember Mr. Nye, our piano
tuner whom one would never meet now. He
came once or twice a year, a rather old, stringy man, bald with baggy clothes, watery very light blue
eyes and delicate hands with long fingers.
A fringe
of white hair hung down over his coat collar.
I was never sure his eyes ever really saw me. Certainly he never spoke to me even though I liked to
watch him if I happened to be at home.
After he removed his old hat and coat he would put on a skull cap, open
his black bag of tuning instruments, dismantle the piano and then start a steady hour
or so of hitting the same note or trio of notes until we all wished to cover our
ears. His conversation consisted entirely of.
"Yes's" or "No's."
Just before he left he would play
a
succession of delicate trills or runs, apparently satisfied with the result of
his labors.
Another person I well remember, although his
shop disappeared before I was very old, was Mr. Welch, the bird man. He had a diminutive shop on Essex Street,
completely filled with bird cages and birds of various kinds. The clamor was incessant. Small yellow canaries fluttered and sang
inside their small Hartz Mountain wooden cages - dozens of
them. Other birds in larger cages
peeped, squeaked and croaked. Parrots blinked
their baleful eyes at you and sometimes suddenly addressed you with "Hello
there" quite unexpectedly. Mr. Welch was old, bald and wore a skull cap
also. Underneath beetling white eyebrows
a magnificent hawk nose protruded like a great beak. He was deaf.
When he spoke it was through his beak nose. He sounded for all the
world like his parrots. We had a cage of canaries when I
was a small girl and for years Auntie kept one, yellow with black wings, so visits to Mr. Welch's shop were
frequent.
Miss Plummer's shop on the opposite
side of Essex Street and a little nearer "the Square" was very
important to our family. How often I was
told, upon returning from school, to run down to Miss Plummer's to buy a spool
of thread or buttons or hooks and eyes or Belgian lace trimming or pins and
needles. Miss Plummer's shop was even more diminutive than Mr. Welch's -
not more than ten feet wide with shelves and
counter on one side and tiers of drawers and glass cases on the other. Somehow she always seemed to have what one
needed from sequins to safety pins. She even carried little old-fashioned wooden, jointed dolls about six
inches high and any hair-ribbon or sash I
might need for dancing school. She
herself is a shadowy memory, but I do remember her spare angular figure, her
little tightly knotted bun at the back of her head which quite belied
the kindly, patient woman. Salem missed
her when her shop was absorbed by the department store.
Weber's department store was a product of the
new age of the eighties and nineties. It was -
and probably still is - in the most central location in Salem, in Town House
Square. It had show windows. A heavy brightly polished brass rail
protected them.
|
Someone told me that when it was below freezing if you touched your
tongue to the railing it would stick there.
That was too much for Miss Curiosity, so one winter day I leaned over
and licked the brass rail. Stick to my
tongue it did. I was anchored to that horrible metal right in the
main square of Salem with
everyone there to see. This disgrace was too much, so I wrenched
my tongue away, probably
leaving a coating of skin behind. Anyway, my tongue was so sore for a week I
could hardly eat.
At the corner of Summer
and Norman Streets was "Mr. Hale's," an old New England store, dark and smelling of kerosene and
vinegar.
He sold groceries from shelves and from various barrels, and a large
cask of sour pickles stood in the middle of the shop handy to the school
children, who would, for a penny or two, pull out a whole cucumber pickle and
devour it with relish. This I could
never do. There was the candy counter, protected from greedy hands by a rounding glass cover, displaying Salem Gibralters, Black Jacks, rock crystal candy made on a string, various cheap sugar candies and my favorite,
red licorice sticks. I think it was not
the taste so much as the delicate sharp point one could produce by judicious
sucking. Mr. Hale was short, bent and tired looking. We did not trade there regularly, but it was
a convenient place to send us to buy something that might have been forgotten
from the daily grocery order at Whel-ton's Market.
Before 1901, when we had our first telephone - 431 ring 2, the grocery man
would come to the door for the order and deliver the proceries
later in the day. This was the method in
Putnamville and even
at Chocorua in 1915.
Mr. Hale's store, the interesting old house next to it, later belonging to George Benson, Doyle's
Mansion,* Creek Street, the Todds' house, the elm trees have all gone to make way for
a business area. Fine houses on upper Summer Street, which once supported a
coachman and a stable of horses, are now largely shabby rooming houses. Only our part of Summer Street has remained
in good hands. The Eden house
*A superior boarding
house where several of our older friends lived.
(ours) stands rather starkly forsaken by any softening
graciousness of the ancient elms and
quaintness of surroundings.
I wish I could make a word picture of Salem
as it was before 1906. It still had its
aristocratic crust which, as I look back, lent lustre
to an already quickly changing world.
Its schools were still excellent with genteel, well-educated teachers, some
of whom were my parents' personal friends.
It had an active local intellectual life, quite separate from Boston, with
lectures, concerts and theatre. Its
previously good city government was just beginning to be undermined by Irish
politicians and graft. Its First
Citizens were still gentlemen and Yankees, and usually well-to-do. Almost every family you were acquainted with
had two maids or more. Nursemaids were
common. Many houses had a stable in the
garden with a coachman to drive a handsome pair of matched horses, and Mr.
Charles Sanders used to drive
his pacers in a light two-wheeled gig or sulky. The houses of these people were large, well kept and rather impressive. Today
on Summer Street two or three of these have become shabby-looking rooming
houses, as I have said. The world is
probably a happier place for the many, but the lustre
has gone. The David Littles, the Richard Wheatlands
- to me wonderful families - moved to
Boston about 1912 or so, a trend already begun as early as 1850 by the Peabodys, Saltonstalls, Endicotts, Lees and
other well-known families.
I had a great deal of freedom when I was growing up. My second cousin, Rebecca Pickering, who was
four months older than I and with whom I used to play a good deal, did
not. She and her brother John, about
three years younger, had a nursemaid tagging along until she was ten or
eleven. This I thought very silly. I persuaded Rebecca a few times to escape
from Josephine by climbing over back fences which Josephine could not climb,
and I was rather scornful when later I came upon them weeping upon each other's
shoulders from remorse and relief.
However, we did have good times together. Some very happy memories are those of playing
inside and outside at 18 Broad Street, the lovely old Pickering house and garden. Out-of-doors we played
"horse" endlessly or "house" or croquet or baseball. Inside we played "farm" in
Rebecca's room by drawing in chalk on the brown linoleum floor railroad tracks, roads,
fields, and building with blocks railroad stations, barns and houses. Our imaginations must have been very active
because I always loved this pastime.
John, three years younger, used to play with us often. His father, Cousin John, often ended the
afternoon play with an exciting hunt and chase around the upstairs bedrooms
until I was sent home to calm down and let the Pickering household settle into peace once more. Cousin John was
very strict with his children but he also had a good sense of humor and loved
to joke with them. He never could let
them decide anything for themselves, even as to what clothes to wear or
whether they should wear rubbers.
Several times I led them astray by persuading
them to eat the forbidden cherries and Bosc pears in their garden. I remember especially the day
Cousin Anna invited me to go to Salem Willows with her and the children. While we were waiting to go I enticed Rebecca
into eating some cherries. Shortly we
were called into the house to have glasses of milk before we went. At the Willows, while having an exciting ride on the Merry-Go-Round, both Rebecca and I were seized with cramps. Fortunately Cousin Anna found privacy for us
behind a redoubt of the old fort where at both ends we could rid ourselves of
cherries and milk. I bravely confessed
that I had been the culprit.
For a child cooped up in a city through
half the year, with only a small back garden to call her own, warm spring evenings
brought tremendous joy. After supper,
which was almost always at quarter past six, some friends and I would sit on
the granite steps of our front door, hatless and coatless, talking together,
smelling the earthy promise
of summer and freedom and savoring that new joy. There we
would sit playing jack-stones or bouncing rubber balls on their long
elastics until our families summoned us to bed.
Spring, too, on Saturdays brought
games like Hare and Hounds and
Run Sheep Run. Hare and Hounds we played
with a vengeance, marking our trails with chalk or torn newspaper over back
fences, through private gardens, and sometimes even over shed roofs. I remember with a pang my devoted dog Rover, who accompanied me everywhere and who
often would wait hours while I played
inside friends' houses. One day, too heavy to
boost over an extra high fence beside the Grace Church, I rushed on leaving him
behind and forgot all about him until hours later when I went back and found
him still waiting beside the fence.
Rover was the dog of dogs, as all devoted
dogs of one's childhood seem to be.
Still he was extra special - handsome (part Irish, part English setter),
utterly devoted, eager to please, gentle, quiet and easy to teach. He carried basket
or umbrella in his mouth. He. never could judge the space needed to
maneuver an umbrella past tree or post and he always seemed puzzled when it hit. I used to dress him in goggles, cap
and pipe, put his paws on the steering wheel of the car and make him sit there
until I told him to get down. I could
put a piece of bread on the tip of his nose and he would look crosseyed at it until I signalled
him to toss it up and catch it in his mouth.
He was a wonderful dog, though no one thought him as wonderful as I did. He died at Uncle Charles Perkins' when I went
abroad for the year of 1913-14, and I grieve still not to have been able to say goodbye to him at
the last.
I must not forget what fun two or three of us had a few times when I
hitched Jackie to the toboggan by extending the pony harness traces and reins with
rope. We knew this to be a dangerous
pastime because
Jack's heels were just where we would be if we allowed the toboggan to slide
into them. I remember no accident on our
long
trips out into the
country, but I do remember tremendous excitement at skimming over the snowy roads so close to the ground, at times slewing
on the icy surface. Our toes and heels
were the brakes and we must have used a good
deal of strength and some skill in keeping clear of those iron-shod spiked
heels.
The Healey family loomed very large in our
lives. When I was about five we went to
Topsfield one day to call on Dr. and Mrs. Putnam, Uncle Alfred's parents, who
were at a boarding house on a lovely hill on the Newburyport Turnpike, then a
simple country road. I fell down and badly
scraped my knee. A tender young Irish
girl ran out
of the kitchen to pick me up. She
comforted me and bathed my knee. That
fall the employment office sent a prospective maid to Mother to be interviewed. It was the same young Irish girl, Hannah
Healey. She came to us and was with us
twelve years. I loved her dearly. I wish I could repeat her wonderful warm
Irish brogue. She used to sing me songs
in Gaelic. She came running to Mother
one Sunday
when the Sunday roast had disappeared from its platter. "'Tis that Sig," she said,
"He's the divil, he is. He's big and fat-like and pantin'
wid t' weight o' it."
Hannah sent to Ireland for her brother, Dan,
who became our gardener (too confining a word) during our five or six months'
stay in Putnamville.
During the remaining months he had a room in our tiny barn in the Salem garden and took
care of several furnaces and
sidewalks
for us and our friends. He was
delightfully paddy-Irish and a little slow in the head, and he had the same kind, patient disposition
which Hannah had.
One hot day he was weeding in the
vegetable garden. Mother, whose ideas
were definite and original, suggested he put grapevine leaves in his hat to keep him cool. He objected, saying, "Oi'd be lookin' foolish-like, oi would, wid leaves stickin' in me hat."
Hannah next sent for her sister, Ellie, and then for another brother, Michael, and
later for another brother, John. John
never worked
for us but the others all did at one time or another. Michael followed Dan as our
furnace-man-gardener and Ellie was our second maid for years. Ellie had a temper and could grow white
around the mouth with pursed lips, and Michael was inclined to be dapper with a clipped moustache and checked
suits on Sundays, but they were all helpful, loyal and devoted to Father. Dan became the gardener for Mr. Watts, who built for him a little gardener's cottage when
he married a truly superior
woman. They had one child, a son named
Matthew who was a bright boy and who
became a graduate of M. I. T. John
worked as an orderly for the Salem
Hospital, a position gotten for him by Father, who was a trustee. When Father died they all left us, Hannah and
Ellie going back to Ireland and Michael becoming a miner in Montana earning ten
dollars a day, a fabulous sum in those days.
He came to see us once, wearing a loud checkered suit and a diamond
stickpin in his tie. It is much to our discredit that we finally lost touch
with them all.
I tell this because this was the early history of so many young immigrant
Irish. Perhaps the Healeys
were especially fortunate. Every Sunday
morning in Putnamville Michael, Hannah and Ellie, all
in their best clothes, would climb into the freshly washed Democrat wagon with Duke in a
freshly polished harness, to drive three miles to the Catholic church between Danvers and Danversport. Should you look for that church now you might
find its ghost under Route 128.
When I was nine Father took us all to
the British Isles for two months. I had
known early in the winter that I was going abroad quite soon because a girl at
school, who noticed a wide separation between my front teeth, had said that if
I could put a penny between them it meant I was going abroad that year. I could and I went. It was a happy time for
all four of us - that summer of 1903. I
am still amazed that I
remember so much of where we went and what we saw: the castles, cathedrals, London City, boating on the Thames with English
friends, Edinburgh with its castle, Scottish stage-coaching in Scottish mist, entrancing
Scottish cattle, Welsh rivers, Welsh yellow roses on gray stone walls of houses, Welsh mountains and a trip up Mt.
Snowden by train. I even remember some
picture galleries in London and
especially Rosa Bonheur's "Horse Fair."* We went to Devon
and saw wild ponies on the moors and we went to Land's End. At St. Ives we walked out beyond the
town. I remember how Theodore and I spent
hours trying to answer Mother's rhyme riddle,
*I must check this. Probably another Rosa Bonheur. The
"Horse Fair" is in the Metropolitan Museum.
"As I was going to St. Ives I met a man with seven wives." etc.
It must have been a happy carefree
time for Father and Mother also, because ten years after I was born small
Rebecca entered the world. She was a
very beautiful baby and grew to be a beautiful child and woman. From then on my life had to change, to hold a
little consideration for
others. The new baby was quite delicate
at first and I had to be quiet now and could
not bang around the house any more. I
grew more and more independent of family and more and more dependent upon
outside contacts and friends.
Several more memories: the pearl-handled knife, for instance. I was
with Father one day at the hardware store and saw a pen knife for sale which I
coveted. It had a lovely mother-of-pearl
handle, two blades and a nail
file. Father bought it for me, urging me
to be careful when I used it. I took it proudly home, started whittling a
stick and promptly gave myself a deep jab in the fleshy part of my leg just above the knee. The gap was wide and deep and most bloody and
probably should have had a stitch or two, but I never told anyone and so was
able to keep my knife. It was later
borrowed by a girl in school I disliked, named Gertrude Blood. I supposed she wished to sharpen a pencil, but she cleaned her nails with it instead.
Florence Ball, a colored girl with very frizzy hair who sat next to me
(we were all B's), saw I was distressed, asked Gertrude for the knife,
then handed it to me. Since then I have
always liked colored people.
At ten I began music lessons - piano. Miss Charlotte Nichols, who lived with her sister in the beautiful
Pierce-Nichols house on Federal
Street, was my teacher. I had my lesson
before school and I often would arrive before Miss Charlotte had finished
breakfast. I remember that during one of those waits I crawled and hid way
under her beautiful grand piano and that she had to haul me out. Later I took
violin lessons from Mr. Arthur Luscomb and dabbled at
it way through to the winter of 1913-14 in Berlin. Mother had been my accompanist and had prodded me on.
I had no determination or even
desire to go it alone. How is motivation
achieved anyway?
Theodore and I had measles quite severely when I was twelve. Mother put
me in her room and Theodore in the four-poster in the guest room (my hiding place) and each day
she sat in the hall between the two rooms
reading David Copperfield to us.
She must have read hours and hours in all because I think she read a
good part of the book to us.
She read aloud well.
Occasionally she would read aloud in the evening to Father and their friends. I
remember her reading "Garibaldi and the Thousand" to Lees and to Putnams. The Lees and one or two other couples sometimes
came for an evening of whist. They always called one another "Mr." or
"Mrs." or "Miss" So-and-so, rarely using first names
except for childhood friends.
It was after we recovered from measles that Father took
Theodore and me to New York for three or
four days. This was a big event for
us. We stayed at the
Park Avenue Hotel near 32nd Street. At
that time it seemed to us
rather grand but now it has gone into oblivion. Professor Morse had given
Father a letter of introduction to a Mr. Isles
who lived there. He was a literary figure
and belonged to the Century Club. He
took great interest in us, as did the staff of the hotel who
worried lest Father was keeping us up too late.
But Father's idea of a good time for us in New York was to forget about
bed hours and to do and see all we could.
This suited Theodore and me very well.
He took us to see the Battle of Port Arthur at the Hippodrome,
terrifyingly real with live men and horses careening around the huge stage amid
explosions of gunfire, the men brandishing drawn sabres
until I thought all heads and arms would be hacked off. We went two times in the evening to the
theatre, though now I do not recall what we saw there. (In Boston we had already seen Ben Hur and Joseph Jefferson in Rip Van Winkle.) We drove in Central Park, visited the Natural History Museum, rode on a
horse-car (the very last one, I think) down by the Battery where we jolted over
cobblestones to get around the end of a stalled freight train. This made Theodore and me feel very superior
because we knew of no horse-cars in Salem or Boston. It was a wonderful trip. Mother at home with small Rebecca must have
been envious after hearing all we had to tell her.
I have not spoken of
"Professor" Morse, Edward S. Morse, who was a close friend of my parents, especially
of my mother, a friend of his
daughter.
Mr. Morse came frequently to sae us or to have
Sunday supper with us since he had been a widower for many years. Unconsciously, through the years this
unusual, gifted, uninhibited man brought a sense of wonder, of joy, of humor,
of caprice into my world and into our otherwise more usual household. Auntie never did understand or like him, with
the result that he ignored or teased her.
He was the product of the explosion of fresh thinking sparked by
Darwin's theories - a zoologist primarily, who had had a brachiopod named for
him when only a lad of seventeen. He had
been one of Louis Agassiz's assistants, often
quarreling with him and with the other assistants. He was largely self-taught, playing hooky
from school to wander among the tidal rocks of Portland where he was born. He was misunderstood by his rather devout Baptist parents. He must have been a very trying son.
He was interested in almost everything he saw or heard, and wrote
pamphlets on various subjects continuously.
He was a minor astronomer and wrote a fascinating book on Mars. He was a student of anatomy of man, bird and
beast. (I remember a human fetus
preserved in a jar in his study.) He had
been for a series of years a professor of Zoology at the Imperial
University of Japan and proudly wore the imperial decoration in his
lapel. While in Japan he made an
extensive collection of
Japanese pottery, which is one of the treasures of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. He was the author of a fascinating
two volume diary (now treasured by modern Japan) called "Japan, Day
by Day," written in Japan in the late
1870's and early 1880's, illustrated on nearly every page
with his delicate, skillful sketches at first
hand. He was for years
curator of the Peabody Museum in Salem.
Today the Japanese are building an institute of Zoology in his honor at
Enoshima Island, the place where he first taught Japanese students
Zoology while studying brachio-pods gleaned from the
waters at hand.
Mr. Morse was my friend and paid as much
attention to me as if I had been an important grown-up. This was his greatness - to be always the
same person to young and old, the obscure and the famous, the poor and the
rich. When I was a little girl, I was enamoured of horses -played Horse, watched Horse, dreamed
Horse, drew Horse, played the Horse guessing game for
hours with Auntie of "What color horse will come by the house
next?" Professor Morse would find
my attempts at drawing Horse and quickly sketch in the skeleton, often with the
neck bones protruding beyond the nose or the backbone protruding beyond the tail, pointing out that I had not observed
their proportions carefully. My horses were chunky creatures.
I listened
long and silently to his wonderful talk and his humorous stories, and sometimes we would be taken to one of his lectures at Academy Hall where he would illustrate his lectures
by drawing with both hands at one time.
He was far from modest, sometimes boasting about the famous people he had met around the world,
and used to say that a chain of four people removed from him would include
almost all living people.
I remember one of his illustrations in talking about the stars.
Place a dime on Boston Common and call it the sun. Place the point of a pin six feet from it and
call it the Earth. With a giant compass
draw a circle, using the sun as the center, which would pass through Cleveland,
Ohio (I think it was) and there find the nearest fixed star. His interest and excitement about the world
were very contagious and perhaps a little naive from a modern point of view, but for people with whom he came in
contact, he was like a fresh breeze.
He was one of the most uninhibited people I
ever knew, denouncing the church in front of ministers, shocking the staid and
conventional for sheer amusement, falling in with children in their tricks and
pranks. If I met him on the street he
would grab me in his arms and swing me off my feet, giving me a resounding
smack. Two or three times, when he met
me with friends, he would take us all to Stoddard's Bakery, buy us cream puffs and walk down
the street with us, all stuffing cream
puffs into our mouths with glee. At our
dinner table sometimes he would grab all the napkin rings, put them in his eye
sockets, on his ears, crease one onto his upper lip, put one on top of his head
and rise carefully, parading around the table without losing one, sometimes stopping to boo at us or Auntie. Or he would bang on the table and yell for
his supper. Of course we would all
double up with laughter.
He was a wonderful, delightful man who never quite forgave me for marrying a theological student with a Baptist
minister for a father. However, I was on Essex Street in Salem one day with
Father Chamberlin
when Mr.
Morse came hurrying down the street. It
was the one and only time they met, and at the end of the two or three minute
meeting I could see that they both had enjoyed each other.
I have several things he gave to me - his book, "Chinese
Homes," an autographed photograph of
his portrait by Frank Benson, Totty's father, a piece
of Aunt Jenny Brooks' embroidery for an engagement gift and the mahogany tray
framing some more of Aunt Jenny's work, now
in my guest room.* I also have two or three little pieces of pottery
he gave Mother and, valued most of all, "Japan Day By Day" which she passed on to me.
He stayed youthful physically until
the last few years, not dying until
he was in his nineties, running up steps two or three at a time, playing tennis with gusto, or racing after us in play. I did not see him much during his last years
when he had grown repetitive, always chilly, and a little complaining,
so earlier memories remain clear and bright.
The Morse Auditorium at the Boston
Museum of Science is named for him and was given in his memory by his daughter,
Mrs. Russell Robb. How I wish we
all could live as fully, as freely, as gaily as he. Fortunately he was born in
exactly the right era when the scientific world was still young and largely
unexplored.
*Aunt by
courtesy. The Brookses
were close friends of Mr. Morse and of Mother.
Another great joy in my life was in knowing the Pew family. For several years Kitty was my best childhood
friend. The Pew family was unique, but it is hard
to explain or even know why. Colonel Pew
- as he was in the earlier years, later General - was a successful lawyer who had been colonel
of the 8th Regiment in the Spanish-American War. He had remained very active in the
National Guard subsequently. The
Military was an absorbing interest with him.
His great desire was to have a son to whom he could teach all the
masculine skills he had acquired
like fencing, boxing, riding. This he
never achieved, so Polly, the eldest, who was
more like her father than the rest, became his pupil. In her room were fencing foils, wire masks,
boxing gloves, dumbbells, and she was the horsewoman of the family. She always dressed mannishly with a jaunty tip to her stiff boater
hat. Men, I think, were a little afraid
of her. She never married.
Mrs. Pew, on the other hand, was one of the
most feminine people I ever knew, more so than any of her four daughters,
though the three younger ones had a good deal of her wry charm. She was soft of voice, gentle, dainty, firm
about noise and manners, and had a delightful elfish way of telling amusing
stories. She was a devoted Episcopalian and brought up her children to be
carefully schooled in Episcopal ways. It was
a more conventional household than ours with a sweetness
and feeling for good manners which ours (in my youthful mind) lacked. I always
felt a little clumsy and boorish in comparison.
The children all had set
duties which they performed without hesitation and with a
good deal of family loyalty and pride.
Mrs. Pew's insistence on afternoon tea and her
feeling that the proper way to eat an egg was English fashion from an egg cup,
and not cleaved apart as we did, and that the house should be quiet and peaceful for grown-ups'
enjoyment, also Colonel Pew's love of his garden and Mrs. Pew's gentle domesticity all
made for me a picture of what home life should be, and I loved it. Meals were usually gay and full of banter,
but at a word shrill voices were suddenly dropped. Their summer house in Rockport is the setting in
which I think of them because that was where I visited them. Although I loved Putnamville
I longed for the summer
companionship of bathing, fishing off the cliffs, building farms and villages on the beach, going to evening picnics on the rocks with a group of young and happy
children.
Yet behind the scenes among the girls was an
interest in the sensational, the unusual and the mysterious. They told ghost stories in the dark after we
had gone to bed, read detective stories by day.
It was there I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps I was more impressionable than they
because often I could not go to sleep for the fur rising on my spine. I would go home believing in ghosts, which
would be
unthinkable in our house. It was this
imaginative atmosphere which was different and let loose for me a sneaking
interest in the sensational
and the mysterious.
The Pews were not above playing pranks. One May I went with the girls to Rockport, before the house was open for
the summer, for a
long
weekend house party. Polly was to guide
us and Colonel Pew v/ith his
old orderly were to see that we were fed.
We walked from the station in Rockport to the house at Land's
End, two or three miles, and on the way Polly spied a large "For
Sale" sign which immediately called forth a plan in her head. She persuaded us to help her carry it to the back of Turks Head
Inn, the summer hotel next door which, of course, was closed. She knew of an
unlocked third story window on the fire escape.
We carried the sign up the fire escape, through the window and down into the hotel lobby where we propped it
up in front of the manager's
desk. Just then we heard footsteps
approaching outside on the long veranda.
We fled upstairs, our sneakers probably muffling our tread but which to us sounded like
ear-splitting squeaks and creaks. With hearts pounding we stole down the fire
escape and, apparently unseen, ran
home. I think we never trespassed again.
In
the evening, after a good hearty army meal, Colonel Pew told us stories - wonderful stories - while we huddled
around a blazing open fire. During the
day we went to the beach. Mrs. Pew had
asked us not to go wading because of the cold water, but we all got wet playing
tag with the waves. Polly then suggested
that we could dry our stockings by pounding them between stones, which we
did. Much to our dismay we found their
undersides riddled with holes. We went stockingless from then
on.
On another visit in the summer the girls kept going for a short swim and then lying on the beach or rocks
alternately. No one had
warned me of seaside sunburn since I already had a country brown,
but when we got back to the house Mrs. Pew had to cut the boy's bathing-suit I
was wearing from my scarlet body. I
remember I had to be sent home on the afternoon train to be doctored. I ran a fever for several days.
Visiting
still another time, Kitty and I slept on two cots in the attic. We had gone to the hotel, contrary to Mrs.
Pew's orders, to buy a small box of chocolate peppermints. I remember the sound of rain on the roof as
we ate several pieces of candy in the dark.
In the morning we looked to see how many pieces were left and saw little
white worms crawling about in the box.*
Kitty, who had a much greater sense of an ever watchful and disapproving
Providence than I, was sure it was punishment for not obeying her mother. She never could turn me into a conventional
believer, in spite of taking me to Lenten services with her. I had too much of my Unitarian minister grandfather's
blood in my veins. Even in those early
years my heart told me that small observances were not what mattered. The beauty and wonder of life all around me -
especially the out-of-doors - gave me, perhaps, what Kitty found in her church.
The Pews kept a spirited horse and light runabout at the
Turks Head Inn stables. Polly, three or
four years older than we, used to drive her father to the Rockport station each
morning and meet him each evening. It
was my ambition to drive Silvertip. He
was black, but he not
*Kitty now is Mrs. Angus Dun, wife of the retired Bishop of
Washington.
only had four long white socks and a white nose,
but also blue eyas and a white tip to his long tail. And he was nervous... definitely he was not
my father's idea of what a horse should be.
We were not allowed to drive him alone until we were thirteen or
fourteen. Polly was away and he
needed exercise so we were permitted to take him out, but "not to
Gloucester." We did not go to Gloucester - quite - but we had gone on the
Gloucester road which for a short distance paralleled the railroad
tracks. Much to our alarm, on coming
home, we met a train at exactly this point, with its whistle shrieking. Alethea was driving. Silvertip plunged like a wild animal and went
racing away toward home with the runabout swaying from side to side like a whiplash. First Kitty helped Alethea
pull on the reins, and then all three of us, trying to saw the bit in the
horse's mouth. Finally we got Silvertip
under control, or I might not be here to tell the tale. We were badly scared
young things.
I also played with Kitty in
Salem. As little girls, in kindergarten,
she and I one day sat on a curbing covered with coal dust in front of a stately
Chestnut Street house to which coal had just been delivered. We blackened our faces, arms and hands and
then parted company, already
late for lunch. Theodore had been sent
out into the garden to find me and I, knowing
I should not be warmly welcomed in my
blackened state, hid behind the fence and when he came near I rose up
like a young ogre to scare him. Instead,
he summoned Mother and I was duly spanked,
soaped and put to bed. Mrs. Pew told
Mother later
that she had heard Kitty ask me what my
punishment had been. I told her. "That's funny," she had said,
"Me too. I guess that must be the punishment for
children who blacken their faces and are late to lunch."
The Pews were really an original crew.
One day I went to play
and found that they had been making wine. They had picked their purple
grapes,
taken off their shoes and stockings and had trodden the grapes in an old wash tub. They then strained the juice and had given
some to their aunt, Miss Louisa Huntington, who was visiting them and who said
it was delicious. They had been reading
about treading grapes -in the Bible, perhaps?
Kitty, I know, stimulated my imagination. One time when she was visiting me at Putnamville we drove over to Ryalside,
a country area near the foot
of Folly Hill. There we found much tall
goldenrod growing by the roadsides. Its tasseled brilliance gave us the idea of weaving
the stalks through the spokes of the wheels, the pony harness, and wherever we could find a slot to hold it. We produced a golden carriage and a golden
pony with two extra long goldenrod feathers waving above his ears. We thought
this so beautiful a sight that we paraded
up and down through Danvers Square trying to attract everyone's attention.
As we reached our teens we became interested
in clubs. Kitty and Alethea and I formed a club called the "Slumgullian Suicide Brothers." As far as I can remember its sole purpose was to initiate other girls into
it - first Mildred Nason, Ellen Rice, and then Totty Benson. Our
sign was a drop of blood splashed oil
paper which was the membership card
given each girl after initiation. We
became quite adept at pricking our
fingers. The initiations were the
stiffest we could think of. Ellen, who was fat, had to crawl
between every leg of a gateleg table. Totty had to tell her aristocratic, rather terrifying
Chestnut Street aunt that her cocker spaniel was too fat. Mildred had to stop a street car, put her foot on the running-board, tie her
shoestring and then motion to the
motorman to go on. There were more, but
I do not remember .
The Pews' attic was where the club held forth. It was also a wonderful rainy day place to play. Its steep stairs made a splendid toboggan chute down which we would speed
on an old mattress, but after somebody's head got badly banged, that was
stopped.
Mrs. Pew, I think, felt her girls were
becoming too tomboyish and needed
to be led into quieter activities and skills.
Anyway, she persuaded Mother and
Marguerite Little's mother
(Marty was Harriet Pew's best friend)
to send us all to the French convent in South Salem for sewing and embroidery lessons. I remember a Sister Alexandra taught us - or tried to. She was a quiet, pleasing, gentle nun who won
our hearts and with whom we behaved
like genteel young ladies. But I do not
remember that we developed much skill.
Later Mrs. Williams, Osgood Williams' mother, held a sewing class at Mrs. David Little's. There we were put through the usual lessons
of learning the art of sewing with a good deal of firm discipline -
darning, patching, making button holes, feather
stitching (which I had always done for Mother's dusters as a labor of love) hemstitching, simple
embroidery. I certainly was not the star
of the class (Marty Was), but those lessons paid off well, and I have always
been grateful for them.
When I was eleven Kitty
had a large handsome stockinet doll given her and I was filled with envy. I had never much cared for dolls. Theodore
and I used to vaccinate their kid bodies with needle pricks and blue crayon,
and we would stuff tapioca pills into their china mouths, followed by a
teaspoon of water. I had never treated
them gently. But now, at eleven, the
maternal instinct was stirring over something beside animals. So I appealed to Auntie who gave me a doll
just like Kitty's. Rebecca was a year
old or so and had already outgrown her baby clothes. These exactly fitted my doll. We named our dolls Kitty Browne and Sally
Pew. The memory still remains with Kitty
because to this day she signs her letters "Kitty Browne."
And I must not forget the doll house. The Pews, in Salem, had a wonderful doll
house. I had one, also, but not so well
equipped. Father, when he went
to Boston, would often bring home to me some little piece for it. Theodore made the stairs. I loved it, not so much because of playing with
it as for making things for it from rugs to little curtains. When Rebecca Bradford was here last Sunday
she spoke of this summer's visit to the Peacock Inn at Rowsley
in Derbyshire. Instantly I remembered
the cakes of ice in my doll house refrigerator had been
pieces of quartz on the path in the Peacock
Inn's garden, which I had selected
and brought home in 1903.
There was a lively, friendly group of young
people growing up in Salem. We did many
things together as a large group of girls and boys which broke down into
smaller groups for lesser activities. We
skated, we coasted on "doublerunners"
on down-hill streets - both very exciting and dangerous. (Doublerunners were
made from two sleds with a long board connecting them, pivoted on the front
sled for steering. They could carry several
people.) We tobogganed. We met at different houses for talk and
hot chocolate. In the spring and early
summer we played baseball, tried rifle practice, shot with shotguns at clay pigeons
(this was a Benson and Gifford sport).
Two or three or four of us rode horseback together. We had numerous parties at each others' houses - simple supper followed by the
game of Hearts, which we all liked, with
prizes for the winner and the booby.
There were a few house parties I remember,
one for some girls over Hallowe'en at the David Littles' at their summer house at Proctor's Crossing. The house was large and draughty, and the
ghost stories we told magnified banging doors and creaking stairs. We did not sleep very much. Another was at Putnamville
in our so-called bungalow (the Hodgson
portable house, later moved to Chocorua) for four or
five girls with their horses kept in our
paddock. The earlier one at Rockport in
May when I was twelve I have told about, but the one I remember most was in our
large house at Putnamville over Hallowe'en
when I was about
fourteen. Theodore and I put our heads together over
that one and thought up all sorts of spooky things.
The most scary for our friends was requiring each one to go alone at night
into the dead corn field where we had set up a witch's cauldron with a blue
light inside, guarded by a witch scarecrow.
Even I nearly panicked when the night wind rattled the dead corn stalks.
When I was sixteen. Cousin Sally and
Cousin Mary Pickering, Rebecca's aunts, loaned their guest cottage in Ogunquit
to Rebecca for a house-party lasting four or five days. There were seven or eight of us, chiefly from
the Misses Allen's School in West Newton, where Rebecca went for two
years. The aunts furnished meats and
groceries, but we were to do all cooking and housework. I remember I made an enormous bread
pudding and enough hard sauce to feed a regiment. We ate soggy bread pudding for several meals
and threw away the rest. Because I was accustomed to horses I was allowed to
drive Bob, the Pickerings' blind horse, to the beach
so that the girls could go swimming.
While they bathed, I drove up and down, not realizing that a tidal river at the
head of the beach was rising rapidly cutting horse and carriage off from
the mainland. The water became two feet
deep or
more. The horse, feeling the cold water
and not being able to see, refused to ford it.
Only when a concerned man came to my aid and helped me coax Bob across,
did my heart stop its wild beating. It was then that I learned the meaning of
responsibility.
In the winter a few times we had sleigh-ride or "pung-ride"
parties.
Once in a while someone or two or three would plan to hire a large
open pung drawn by two horses and bedded with straw
for us to sit on. We would try to choose a still winter night
with a moon shining on new white snow. Each of
us would contribute a small sum toward the expense. I can think of no greater fun than this - a
group of fifteen or eighteen young people sitting snugly together on the straw
or, when cold, running behind to get warm.
We usually sang all the way - every song we
knew. Once or twice we stopped at the
Berry Tavern in Danvers Square for cups of steaming hot chocolate. The last pung ride I ever had was when I was a
freshman at college. Sally Bradford, Gamaliel Bradford's daughter,
asked a group of us to Wellesley Hills to supper, followed by a pung ride around through Wellesley and back. But even then the
coming of the automobile had made the roads somewhat bare and no longer good
for sleighs or pungs.
It was "not like it used to be."
"Punging"
was a sport I pursued with great enthusiasm because it had to do with horses
and the out-of-doors. Most stores made
their own deliveries - by horse and wagon.
In winter pungs were used, long, open box-bodies
on four runners. The sound of jingling
bells was very enticing, though I think Theodore was immune. After school, if conditions were right, two
or three of us might pung for an hour or two, jumping onto a back
runner or sitting on a siderail or sometimes climbing
up inside. It depended upon how friendly
and forbearing the driver might be. If that
particular pung did not go where we wished, we would
leave it and hop onto another. We used to pung all
over the city in this way and sometimes into the country as well. Occasionally we would not be welcomed
freight and a long whip lash would fly out at us.
Sometimes we would have our sleds or toboggans with us. The rope attached to them could easily be slipped
through runner or cross bar and we would pile on. A fast horse could make this kind of ride
very exciting
because we were so near to the ground with snow spraying over us. I thought this a splendid pastime. For Rebecca Pickering this was forbidden sport
and I felt sorry for her.
As we grew older some of us, always headed by
the four Giffords,* made an annual trip on the
nineteenth of April by canoe down the Ipswich River from Middleton to Ipswich. It was a paddle of forty miles with two carries and
took all the hours of a long day. I
think one automobile, sometimes two, had to be driven to Ipswich first and left
there. The trip required a good deal of planning,
but it was an annual happiness I shall never forget. The boys paddled and the girls provided the
food. We used to stop for lunch at an
island in the marshes in Topsfield. The
buds usually had just burst and everything smelled of spring. I can remember, however, one very cold day
and one rainy day, but usually it was sunny and warm.
On the island were a good many gray birches. The boys taught us
A
truly fine foursome of motherless children, three of whom met tragic deaths before
they reached the age of 35. An older foursome, by the same parents,
included Walter Gifford who became president of the American Telephone
Company, and later, Ambassador to Britain.
how to swing them - a glorious ride which Robert
Frost tells about in one of his poems. I
remember stout Ellen Rice being marooned in the air on a birch which bent over
only half way. After much screeching from her and shouted
directions from the boys she was able to climb out on it far enough to make it
bend over to the ground. It always
amazed me to see the birch tree spring back to be upright again. As a high school freshman I had to learn,
"Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain," etc. I think those simple joys were similar to
ours.
I do not mean to say that we were entirely innocent, but so innocent compared to the
brittle sophistication of the mid-twentieth century. It was the innocence
of ignorance of the problems of the world at large. And we were happy -
at least for a while. I remember one
afternoon at the Seamans's, where several of us had
gathered to cheer Dick who was convalescing from having had a reef taken in his enormous
protruding ears. (His nickname was
"Donkey.") One of the boys
playfully pulled Mary Harris onto his lap.
This was rather daring and we all laughed as she sat there. Just then Mrs. Seamans
opened the door. I shall never forget her
look of astonished disapproval or our embarrassment.
At fourteen and fifteen I became sex
conscious and had my first "crush" on a handsome, mannerly boy named Nat
Harris whom I only knew in dancing school.
Unfortunately Kitty Pew had chosen him also, and since she was the
better dancer and it was obvious that Nat preferred Kitty to me, I had my first
disappointment in love.
About the same time Dick Seamans developed a
liking for me. He
sent me violets and gave me a silver pin to hold
them to my belt. He made a punctured
brass lampshade for my room, and came often to call, all of which amused my
parents greatly. Since he was three or
four years older than I and already a Harvard freshman, I was rather impressed, but had only a few flutterings of the heart.
And when I never finished
embroidering a Harvard pillow for him, his ardor cooled somewhat. We always remained good friends, however, and
for a few years, even when he was engaged to Nathalie Gifford, he always took
me to the Harvard-Dartmouth
game. His widow, Nathalie, had been a
riding companion through our teen
years. She and I had lunch together the
other day at the age of seventy-two.
Dick's brother, Robert or Bobby, was
Theodore's friend. He and Theodore and
Charles Fabens were not interested in girls.
They were young
scientists making chemical concoctions, building wireless apparatus, stringing telephone lines to each other's
houses. They had minds full of ideas not
at all interesting to girls. At this
time Theodore went his way and I went
mine, pursuing the out-of-doors, horses, birds and friends. (Bob's son is Dr. Robert Seamans
of NASA fame, and Dick's son, Jim, is a senior vice president of Raytheon.)
When I was fifteen Father developed a
depression about which I have
already written. The next years are full
of sadness, frustrations,
longings. I left the Salem High School in the middle of
my junior year
*
to go to a small Boston school, whose headmistress, Miss
Mabel Cummings,
Soon moved to become the Brimmer School, which now is the Brimmer-May
School.
was a friend of Mother. It was very evident that I should never make college without more
prodding and better teaching. For two
and a half years I commuted to Boston, reaching Salem again about three o'clock for a late
lunch. My great desire was to escape -
escape from family, studies, demands. I would gobble lunch, get into my riding
clothes, saddle
Duke (later the polo pony, Tex) and ride out into the country with horse and dog
for companions. It was a lonely kind of
life for an
adolescent, yet I think it helped me over a hump until I finally left home for
my freshman year at Radcliffe which, I think, was the
happiest
year of my life.
About E. C. B. and C.
C. B. — May 10, 1972
In reading this over at a later date I feel
that I have not given an adequate picture of my mother. Perhaps I overemphasized the importance of my father
to me; we really were not consciously that close. It was only after his death
that I began to realize what he had been like and I have tried to draw him from
an obscurity which he did not deserve. He was
not a strong character, but he was a remarkably patient, kind and
loving person.
I did not mention the headaches that plagued
him the last three or four years or his resorting to "headache
powders" and bromoseltzer, all of which I was
only vaguely conscious of. It must have
been a long, long strain on my mother. A
fifteen and sixteen-year old is oblivious of such things, or nearly so.
I never knew anyone quite like my mother. She belonged to that group of women, young
in the 1890's, who realized they had minds and intellectual capacities to be
developed. She was largely a
self-educated woman, but she absorbed knowledge and retained it by means of a remarkably
retentive memory and a tremendous thirst for books. She never pursued small talk. Her mind was what one would once have called
masculine. I was always impressed how quickly she
drew people up on to her plane of interest, and if they had nothing to contribute,
she would launch
into a monologue about something she had read and absorbed and thought about at
length. It was always worth listening
to. After she became very deaf and
cut-off from group conversation, sometimes this
monologue could be trying.
She was not a quickly sympathetic
person. She was often critical of people, especially
if their opinions differed from hers. At
times she
seemed to be the most unlikely person to harbor an active elfin, rare imagination
which attracted her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren and enabled
her to bend herself to changing times.
She grew -or changed - with the generations.
Often she filled us with delight with her little jingles and rhymes, and
occasionally a poem of rare insight. I
have collected a few of these under another cover. For instance, when she was ninety she wrote a poem
to all of her descendants, wondering where she would now be if she had lived
backwards. One of her real poems is so
full of grief and hurt that I can hardly read it. It must have been written
during Father's illness - or at his death.
Faith
Within depths where
the lonely soul
Baffled by tongue
which cannot say
The need for strength
Far greater than its own
To meet the grief and death
That have beset the way,
Comes mystic Strength
Lifting the grief and fog.
Shall there be doubt
It is the Strength of God?
C. C. B.
No matter if the rhyme is not right -
this was the strength which carried her through ninety-nine years of sorrows
and joys, and burdens on young shoulders almost too great to carry. This is why we all respected her and loved
her in spite of her faults. She was a
Spartan woman. Today Elizabeth called
her "a great lady." She was.
Postscript - Fall 1967
It is hard not to add some present day
thoughts to this Chronicle. I think I shall.
The world seems to be beset with all manner of difficulties. Often
these problems beat so constantly against one's mind and heart, because of
constant exposure through newspapers, magazines, radio, T. V., that it is
difficult to keep one's equilibrium of measured, well-balanced thought and
outlook. When I become depressed by the
state of
the world, Carey reminds me that his and my generation was pampered and
protected by a false impression of peace and security, gleaned through a
belief in steady sure Progress-toward-a-Better-World. Almost every
generation, he reminds me, had had to face upheavel
of one
kind or another.
However, I still remain an
optimist. I really do believe the
world is
growing better, that these upheavals and social revolts are the ever present
birth pangs of a better world. The human
race fumbles and bumbles, is often misled, often reels up the wrong alley, but I
believe it will always be searching for a better world, and in the long, long run will
find it.
In my lifetime so much of consequence has
happened to improve the lot of the "Common Man," for instance. He has acquired a much more dignified status;
he has access to better education, better health, better housing, better
working conditions, to recreation, vacations, to mobility in his own car. He is streaming from urban slums to the
suburbs. He
goes hunting, boating, fishing, camping. His wife has been freed from the scrubbing
board, oil lamps, ice refrigerators, from coal, wood or oil stoves, from brooms and
dust and moths and silent, lonely days.
It is possible that in the near future everyone of any worth or ability at all
will be thus free. It is heartening to
know how much effort is being made to achieve this.
This is what the young generation do not see. Their
view is myopic, as ours was at that age and every young generation that ever has been.
It cannot be otherwise because they are denied perspective and the backward
look. They see the present terrible
things war does to us, they sense hypocrisy in conventional manners of dress
and thought and action, they revolt against parental
authority, thinking they know and see more clearly and better. They feel that their own particular generation has been chosen
for such a revolt. What they cannot
believe is that each new generation has always been radical and the upholder of
new
ideas, of new solutions. Their sons and
daughters will critize them for what they did not see or
do. Of that one can be absolutely
sure. One can also be sure that, as the
years go by, they will discard some of their present ideas and beliefs,
strengthen others, thereby enriching and seasoning and testing and adding to
the accumulated wisdom (I hope it is wisdom) of successive generations.
Perhaps now it does not sound very important
because it is all so taken for granted, but my generation thought and talked
and sometimes worked for women's rights and woman suffrage, even marching with banners
and posters through the streets of Boston - all
over America and in England. It worked
against child labor and for shorter hours of work and for better working
conditions in the factories. I marched
too!
It was my generation and the previous one
whose social conscience revolted against powerful, selfish aggregations of
wealth. (Ex: John D. Rockefeller) It was my children's generation which first
saw industry
assume a sense of responsibility for its retired
employees, for education, for health.
I do not have to enumerate the contributions
of successive generations from Charles Dickens' time of poor debtors'
prisons and lunatic asylums to the present day.
A little imagination carries us quickly back to realize what a terrific debt
we owe to the generations now gone. Perhaps it
is like the frog trying to jump out of the well -three feet up, two back, but
he is one foot up for the better.
I hope the new generation will add a sense of the sin of racism and the
conviction
of the futility of war.