THREE LITTLE CANDLES.
The winter dusk was settling down upon the old farmhouse where threegenerations of Marshes had already lived and died. It stood on a gentlerise of ground above the Kittery sands,--a low, wide, ramblingstructure, outgrowth of the gradual years since great-grandfather Marsh,in the early days of the colony, had built the first log-house, and solaid the foundation of the settlement.
This log-house still existed. It served as a lean-to for the largerbuilding, and held the buttery, the "out-kitchen" for rougher work, andthe woodshed. Moss and lichens clustered thickly between the old logs,to which time had communicated a rich brown tint; a mat of luxurianthop-vine clothed the porch, and sent fantastic garlands up to theridgepole. The small heavily-puttied panes in the windows had taken onthat strange iridescence which comes to glass with the lapse of time,and glowed, when the light touched them at a certain angle, with oddgleams of red, opal, and green-blue.
On one of the central panes was an odd blur or cloud. Cynthia Marshliked to "play" that it was a face,--the face of a girl who used tocrawl out of that window in the early days of the house, but had longsince grown up and passed away. It was rather a ghostly playmate, butCynthia enjoyed her.
This same imaginative little Cynthia was sitting with her brother andsister in the "new kitchen," which yet was a pretty old one, and hadrafters overhead, and bunches of herbs and strings of dried apples tiedto them. It was still the days of pot-hooks and trammels, and a kettleof bubbling mush hung on the crane over the fire, which smelt very good.Every now and then Hepzibah, the old servant, would come and give it astir, plunging her long spoon to the very bottom of the pot. It was the"Children's Hour," though no Longfellow had as yet given the pretty nameto that delightful time between daylight and dark, when the toils of theday are over, and even grown people can fold their busy hands and restand talk and love each other, with no sense of wasted time to spoiltheir pleasure.
"I say," began Reuben, who, if he had lived to-day, would have put onhis cards "Reuben Marsh, 4th," "what do you think? We're going to haveour little candles to-night. Aunt Doris said that mother said so. Isn'tthat famous!"
"Are we really?" cried Cynthia, clasping her hands. "How glad I am! It'smore than a year since we had any little candles, and though I've triedto be good, I was so afraid when you broke the oil-lamp, the other day,that it would put them off. I do love them so!"
"How many candles may we have?" asked little Eunice.
"Oh, there are only three,--one for each of us. Mother gave the restaway, you know. Have you made up any story yet, Eunice?"
"I did make one, but I've forgotten part of it. It was a great whileago, when I thought we were surely going to get the candles, and thenReuben had that quarrel with Friend Amos's son, and mother would not letus have them. She said a boy who gave place to wrath did not deserve alittle candle."
"I know," said Reuben, penitently. "But that was a great while ago, andI've not given place to wrath since. You must begin and think of yourstory very hard, Eunice, or the candle will burn out while you areremembering it."
These "little candles," for the amusement of children, were an ancientcustom in New England, long practised in the Marsh family. When thegreat annual candle-dipping took place, and the carefully saved tallow,with its due admixture of water and bayberry wax for hardness, was madehot in the kettle, and the wicks, previously steeped in alum, were tiedin bunches so that no two should touch each other, and dipped and dried,and dipped again, at the end of each bundle was hung two or three tinycandles, much smaller than the rest. These were rewards for the childrenwhen they should earn them by being unusually good. They were lit atbedtime, and, by immemorial law, so long as the candles burned, thechildren might tell each other ghost or fairy stories, which at othertimes were discouraged, as having a bad effect on the mind. Thisprivilege was greatly valued, and the advent of the little candles madea sort of holiday, when holidays were few and far between.
"I suppose Reuben will have his candle first, as he is the oldest," saidEunice.
"Mother said last year that we should have them all three on the samenight," replied Cynthia. "She said she would rather that we lay awaketill half-past nine for once, than till half-past eight for three times.It's much nicer, I think. It's like having plenty to eat at one dinner,instead of half-enough several days running. Eunice, you'd better burnyour candle first, I think, because you get sleepy a great deal soonerthan Reuby or I do. You needn't light it till after you're in bed, youknow, and that will make it last longer. When it's done, I'll hurry andgo to bed too, and then we'll light mine; and Reuben can do the same,and if he leaves his door open, we shall hear his story perfectly well.Oh, what fun it will be! I wish there were ever and ever so many littlecandles,--a hundred, at the very least!"
"Hepsy, ain't supper nearly ready? We're in such a hurry to-night!" saidEunice.
"Why, what are you in a hurry about?" demanded Hepsy, giving a last stirto the mush, which had grown deliciously thick.
"We want to go to bed early."
"That's a queer reason! You're not so sharp set after bed, as a generalthing. Well, the mush is done. Reuby, ring the bell at the shed door,and as soon as the men come in, we'll be ready."
It was a good supper. The generous heat of the great fireplace in theMarsh kitchen seemed to communicate a special savor of its own toeverything that was cooked before it, as if the noble hickory logs lenta forest flavor to the food. The brown bread and beans and the squashpies from the deep brick oven were excellent; and the "pumpkin sweets,"from the same charmed receptacle, had come out a deep rich red color,jellied with juice to their cores. Nothing could have improved them,unless it were the thick yellow cream which Mrs. Marsh poured over eachas she passed it. The children ate as only hearty children can eat, butthe recollection of the little candles was all the time in their minds,and the moment that Reuben had finished his third apple he began tofidget.
"Mayn't we go to bed now?" he asked.
"Not till father has returned thanks," said his mother, rebukingly. "Youare glad enough to take the gifts of the Lord, Reuben. You should beequally ready to pay back the poor tribute of a decent gratitude."
Reuben sat abashed while Mr. Marsh uttered the customary words, whichwas rather a short prayer than a long grace. The boy did not dare toagain allude to the candles, but stood looking sorry and shamefaced,till his mother, laying her hand indulgently on his shoulder, slippedthe little candle in his fingers.
"Thee didn't mean it, dear, I know," she whispered. "It's natural enoughthat thee shouldst be impatient. Now take thy candle, and be off.Cynthia, Eunice, here are the other two, and remember, all of you, thatnot a word must be told of the stories when once the candles burn out.This is the test of obedience. Be good children, and I'll come up laterto see that all is safe."
Mrs. Marsh was of Quaker stock, but she only reverted to the oncefamiliar _thee_ and _thou_ at times when she felt particularly kind andtender. The children liked to have her do so. It meant that mother lovedthem more than usual.
The bedrooms over the kitchen, in which the children slept, were veryplain, with painted floors and scant furniture; but they were used tothem, and missed nothing. The moon was shining, so that little Eunicefound no difficulty in undressing without a light. As soon as she was inbed, she called to the others, who were waiting in Reuben's room, "I'mall ready!"
A queer clicking noise followed. It was made by Reuben's striking theflint of the tinder-box. In another moment the first of the littlecandles was lighted. They fetched it in; and the others sat on the footof the bed while Eunice, raised on her pillow, with red, excited cheeks,began:--
"I've remembered all about my story, and this is it: Once there was aFairy. He was not a bad fairy, but a very good one. One day he broke hiswing, and the Fairy King said he mustn't come to court any more till hegot it mended. This was very hard, because glue and things like thatdon't stick to Fairies' wings, you know."
"Couldn't he have tied it up and boiled it
in milk?" asked Cynthia, whohad once seen a saucer so treated, with good effect.
"Why, Cynthia Marsh! Do you suppose Fairies like to have their wingsboiled? I never! Of course they don't! Well, the poor Fairy did notknow what to do. He hopped away, for he could not fly, and pretty soonhe met an old woman.
"'Goody,' said he, 'can you tell me what will mend a Fairy's brokenwing?'
"'Is it your wing that is broken?' asked the old woman.
"'Yes,' said the Fairy, speaking very sadly.
"'There is only one thing,' said the old woman. 'If you can find a girlwho has never said a cross word in her life, and she will put the piecestogether, and hold them tight, and say, "_Ram shackla alla balla ba_,"three times, it will mend in a minute.'
"So the Fairy thanked her, and went his way, dragging the poor wingbehind him. By and by he came to a wood, and there in front of a littlehouse was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Her eyes were as blue as,as blue as--as the edges of mother's company saucers! And her hair,which was the color of gold, curled down to her feet.
"'A girl with hair and eyes like that couldn't say a cross word to saveher life,' thought the Fairy. He was just going to speak to her. Shecouldn't see him, you know, because he was indivisible--"
"'Invisible,' you mean," interrupted Reuben.
"Oh, Reuben, don't stop her! See how the tallow is running down the sideof the candle! She'll never have time to finish," put in Cynthia,anxiously.
"I meant 'invisible,' of course," went on Eunice, speaking fast. "Well,just then a woman came out of the house. It was the pretty girl'smother.
"'Estella,' she said, 'I want you to go for the cows, because yourfather is sick.'
"'Oh, bother!' said the pretty girl. 'I don't want to! I hate going forcows. I wish father wouldn't go and get sick!' Just think of a girl'sspeaking like that to her mother! And the Fairy sighed, for he thought,'My wing won't get mended here,' and he hopped away.
"By and by he came to a house in another wood, and there was anothergirl. She wasn't pretty at all. She had short stubby brown hair likeCynthia's, and a turn-up nose like me, and her freckles were as big asReuben's, but she looked nice and kind.
"The Fairy didn't have much hope that a girl who was as homely as thatcould mend wings. But while he was waiting, another woman came out. Itwas the turned-up-nose girl's mother, and she said, 'I want you to gofor the cows to-night, because your father has broken his leg.'
"And the girl smiled just as sweet, and she said, 'Yes, mother, I'll beglad to go.'
"Then the Fairy rejoiced, and he came forward and said--Oh, dear!"
This was not what the Fairy said, but what Eunice said; for at thatmoment the little candle went out.
"Well, I am glad you got as far as you did," whispered Cynthia, "for Iguess the turned-up-nose girl could mend the wing. Now, Reuby, if you'llgo into your room I'll not be two minutes. And then you can light mycandle."
In less than two minutes all was ready. This time there were two littlegirls in bed, and Reuben sat alone at the foot, ready to listen.
"My story," began Cynthia, "is about that girl in the window-pane in theell. Her name was Mercy Marsh, and she lived in this house."
"Is it true?" asked Eunice.
"No, it's made up, but I'm going to make believe that it's true. Sheslept in the corn chamber,--it was a bedroom then,--and she had thatyellow painted bedstead of Hepzibah's.
"There was a hiding-place under the floor of the room. It was made toput things in when Indians came, or the English,--money and spoons, andthings like that.
"One day when Mercy was spinning under the big elm, a man came runningdown the road. He was a young man, and very handsome, and he had on asort of uniform.
"'Hide me!' he cried. 'They will kill me if they catch me. Hide me,quick!'
"'Who will kill you?' asked Mercy.
"Then the young man told her that he had accidentally shot a man who wasout hunting with him, and that the man's brothers, who were very badpeople, had sworn to have his blood.
"Then Mercy took his hand, and led him quickly up to her room, andlifted the cover of the hiding-place, and told him to get in. And he gotin, but first he said, 'Fair maiden, if I come out alive, I shall havesomewhat to say to thee.' And Mercy blushed."
"What did he mean?" asked Eunice, innocently.
"Oh, just love-making and nonsense!" put in Reuben. "Hurry up, Cynthia!Come to the fighting. The candle's all but burned out."
"There isn't going to be any fighting," returned Cynthia. "Well, Mercypulled the bedside carpet over the cover, and she set that redcandle-stand on one corner of it and a chair on the other corner, andwent back to her spinning. She had hardly begun before there was arustling in the bushes, and two men with guns in their hands came out.
"'Which way did he go?' they shouted.
"'Who?' she said, and she looked up so quietly that they never suspectedher.
"'Has no one gone by?' they asked her.
"'No one,' she said; and you know this wasn't a lie, for the young mandid not go by. He stopped!
"'There is the back door open,' she went on, 'and you are welcome tosearch, if you desire it. My father is away, but he will be here soon.'She said this because she feared the men.
"So the men searched, but they found nothing, and Mercy's room looked soneat and peaceful that they did not like to disturb it, and just lookedin at the door. And when they were gone, Mercy went up and raised thecover, and the youth said that he loved her, and that if the Lordwilled, he--"
Pop! The second candle went suddenly out.
"It's a shame!" cried Reuben, dancing with vexation. "It seems as if theblamed things knew when we most wanted them to last!"
"Oh, Reuben! don't say 'blamed.'"
"I forgot. Well, blame-worthy, then. There's no harm in that."
"We shall never know if the young man married Mercy," said littleEunice, lamentably.
"Oh, of course he did! That's the way stories always end."
"Now, Reuben, hurry to bed, and when you are all ready, light yourcandle, and if you speak loud we shall hear every word."
This was Reuben's story: "Once there was a Ghost. He had committed amurder, and that was the reason he had to go alone and fly about on coldnights in a white shirt.
"He used to look in at windows and see people sitting by fires, and envythem. And he would moan and chatter his teeth, and then they would saythat he was the wind."
"Oh, Reuben! is it going to be very awful?" demanded Cynthia,apprehensively.
"Not very. Only just enough to half-scare you to death! He would puthis hand out when girls stood by the door, and they would feel as if awhole pitcher of cold water had been poured down their backs.
"Once a boy came to the door. He was the son of the murdered man. TheGhost was afraid of him. 'Thomas!' said the Ghost.
"'Who speaks?' said the boy. He couldn't have heard if he hadn't beenthe son of the murdered man.
"'I'm the Ghost of your father's slayer,' said the Ghost. 'Tell me whatI can do to be forgiven.'
"'I don't think you can be forgiven,' said the boy. Then the Ghost gavesuch a dreadful groan that the boy felt sorry for him.
"'I'll tell you, then,' he said. 'Go to my father's grave, and lay uponit a perfectly white blackberry, and a perfectly black snowdrop, and avaluable secret, and a hair from the head of a really happy person, andyou shall be forgiven!'
"So the Ghost set out to find these four things. He had to bleach theblackberry and dye the snowdrop, and he got the hair from the head of alittle baby who happened to be born with hair and hadn't had time to beunhappy, and the secret was about a goldmine that only the Ghost knewabout. But just as he was laying them on the grave, a cold handclutched--" The sentence ended in a three-fold shriek, for just at thisexciting juncture the last candle went out.
"Children," said Mrs. Marsh, opening the door, "I'm afraid you've beenfrightening yourselves with your stories. That was foolish. I am gladthere are no more little candles. Now, not
another word to-night."
She straightened the tossed coverlids, heard their prayers, and wentaway. In a few minutes all that remained of the long-anticipated treatwere three little drops of tallow where three little candles had quiteburned out, three stories not quite told, and three children fastasleep.