_ CHAPTER VIII
We had written to Uncle Nathan, informing him of the day on which he might expect my arrival; and at the time appointed he drove over to Fulton, the small village two miles from his farm, where was the railway-station. As I stepped from the car I eagerly scanned each face among the crowd to see if I could find any one whose appearance answered to my ideas of Uncle Nathan, but for some time I could see no one whom I could suppose to be my unknown relative. I at length spied a middle-aged gentleman walking backward and forward in a leisurely manner, upon the platform, whom I thought might possibly be my uncle, and, as the crowd had mostly dispersed, I mustered up courage, and in a low voice accosted him with the question. "Please Sir are you my uncle Nathan?" "Your uncle who?" said the old man, as he elevated his eyebrows and regarded me with a broad stare of astonishment. "No I'm not your Uncle, nor nobody's else that I know of," said he, in a sharp crusty voice, then, giving a second look at my downcast face, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and said in a much softer tone: "If its Nathan Adams you mean he's just driven round to the other door. Be you a friend of his'n." "Yes Sir," answered I, as I hurried away to the "other door" pointed out by the stranger. From the ideas I had formed of my uncle I was unprepared to meet the kind, hearty looking man whose sunburned face beamed with a smile of welcome, when his eye rested upon me, as I walked with a timid, hesitating manner toward him. He at once held out his hand, saying, "I don't need to ask if you are my nephew Walter, for if I'd a met you most anywhere I should have known you were Ellen Adams' son; just the same dark eyes and happy smile which made your mother such a beauty at your age, for your mother was handsome if she was my sister; but I suppose, like all the rest of us she's beginnin' to grow old and careworn by this time, 'tis the way of the world, you know, boy, we can't always keep young, do our best. Its amazin' how time does fly, it only seems like yesterday since your mother trudged to school over this very road, with her books and dinner-basket on her arm; and now here's you, her son, a great stout boy that will soon be as tall as your old Uncle Nathan. It really does beat all; but I forget that, while I am moralizin' like on the flight of time, you must be famishin' with hunger, to say nothin' of your bein' tired most to death with your long ride in the cars; give me a seat in my wagon behind old Dobbin, with a good whip in my hand, and those who like the cars better may have them for all me. Come right along with me, my boy, and point out your luggage and we'll be off to my farm in no time." Before I reached my new home I had quite got rid of my fears of finding a second Farmer Judson in the person of my Uncle Nathan. As we drove through the village of Fulton, my Uncle directed my attention to a large and tasteful building standing in an open green, on a slightly elevated portion of ground. I said the building stood in an open space, but omitted to mention the thick shade trees which stood in regular rows between the building, and the long street which ran the entire length of the village.
"That," said my Uncle, with no little pride in his voice, "is Fulton Academy, where I mean to send you to school; and I hope when you leave it, you will be a wiser boy than you are now." The homeward drive after leaving the village lay past finely cultivated farms, with their waving fields of ripe grain and beautiful orchards loaded with ripe fruit, which delighted the eye of the passer-by; but the most important object (to me) was the Academy, where I hoped to acquire the knowledge necessary to fit me for the duties of life. During the year I lived with Mr. Judson I many a time thought how I should enjoy my books did my circumstances allow me to do so, and now all this was within my reach. As these thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, I looked up in the kind face of my relative and impelled by a sudden impulse, I seized his hand and, pressing it to my lips, said, "if I am a good boy and do my best to please, you will love me a little, won't you, Uncle Nathan?" "Bless your heart, child," replied my Uncle, "who on earth could help loving you? Yes, Walter, you may be sure I shall love the son of my favorite sister, Ellen; and, were it not so, I think I should soon love you for yourself alone, for, if I am any judge of faces, you are better than the general run of boys of your age."
Can this, thought I, be the man who wrote that short, crusty letter. I must confess, that (at first sight) I was not favorably impressed by the external appearance of the home I was approaching. I had expected to see a handsome tasty building, painted white perhaps; with green blinds, like those we had passed on the way from the village; and when Uncle Nathan said "here we are, Walter, most at home," and I raised my eyes to gain a view of the homestead, the faded dingy appearance of the house and its surroundings struck me as unpleasant. It was a large old-fashioned square farm-house, which had once boasted a coat of red paint, but the winds and rains of many years had sadly marred its beauty, so much so that, but for the patches of dull red still visible beneath the eaves and round the windows, one would have been loth to believe the old house had all been of a deep red. The high road lay between the house and the long stretch of meadow-land which separated it from the river. The picket fence in front of the dwelling was in rather a dilapidated condition, and the gate, being minus a hinge, hung awry. Many tall sunflowers stood in the narrow strip of ground between the front fence and the house, and they were about all I could see in the way of ornament. But with this rather shabby look there was after all something inviting and attractive about the place, something that suggested the idea of quiet and repose and cozy comfort. Reader, have you never seen a home like Uncle Nathan's? I have seen many of them. Little did I then think how, in course of time, I should learn to love that old house and its inmates. A little before we reached home Uncle Nathan addressed me in a confidential voice, saying:
"Aunt Lucinder (as every body calls her) is my sister, who keeps house for me. She's kinder partickler and fussy, and you must not mind if she does snap you up kinder short sometimes, 'tis her way you know; but never you fear, for with all her sharp speeches she has a kind heart, and her bark is a deal worse than her bite; and if you once gain her over for a friend, you'll have a firm one, depend upon that. Then there's mother, she lives with us, too, she's an old, old woman Walter, and we have all try to please her in everything, and of course you'll always be quiet and respectful-like to her. I have often before spoke of hiring a boy to do chores about the house, but Lucinder always said, 'all boys were good for was to make a noise and litter up the house,' but I guess you'll get along famously with her; she's an old maid you know, that is she never was married, and folks say that old maids are always kinder cross and crusty." Seeing my sober face as we drew nigh the house my uncle laughed, as he said in an encouraging tone, "Don't you be a grain scared, Walter, neither of them old wimmen will hurt you. I shouldn't a said a word, only I thought if I gave you a hint of Aunt Lucinder's queer ways you'd know better how to get along with her." I had always thought all women like my own mild-speaking mother and kind old Mrs. Judson, but by this time I began to think Aunt Lucinda must differ very widely from them; and when I followed Uncle Nathan into the clean wide kitchen where a bountiful supper awaited our arrival, I felt somehow as though I was stepping upon dangerous ground, and I almost feared to set my foot down lest it might chance to be in the wrong place. Aunt Lucinda, however, gave me a much more kindly welcome than I had feared, which I regarded as a favourable omen. She also introduced me to the notice of my aged grandmother who was seated in her deep arm-chair in the corner. She has seen more than eighty years of life, but as she sits there, day by day, in her quiet decrepitude, she still pretends to a superintendence of the labors of Aunt Lucinda in a way that might sometimes provoke a smile. She seems not to realize that my uncle and aunt are themselves middle aged gray-haired people, and still calls them her boy and girl. When made aware who I was my grandmother seemed delighted to see me, and talked long and affectionately of my mother whom she had not seen for many years. Aunt Lucinda was busily employed at the ironing-board, but looked often to see that her mother's wants were all supplied; nothing could exceed the affection and care she seemed to bestow upon her aged parent, indulging every whim, so that the old lady hardly can realize that she is old and almost helpless. We were soon seated at the supper table, and they all must have had the idea that I had brought with me from Elmwood a most unheard-of appetite, if I could judge by the quantities of food they insisted upon piling on my plate. Aunt Lucinda treated me with a good degree of kindness, but evidently kept a sharp eye to all my movements, doubtless expecting that in a short time I would break out in some flagrant misdemeanor, when she would be called to open hostilities. Poor Aunt Lucinda, you had little to fear from the homesick boy who sat in the purple twilight, leaning his elbows upon the window-sill, thinking of his now far-distant mother and sister, and his loved companion, Charley Gray. As I sat there a line of light in the eastern sky gradually became brighter, till the full round moon rose to view, bathing the whole scene in a flood of silver light. Seated thus, gazing over the moonlit landscape I began (with a mind beyond my years) to look far away into the future, and I made many resolves for my course of action in time to come. I wished to assist my uncle in doing up the "chores" for the night, but he would not hear of it. "You'll get work enough here," said he, "but you shall rest after your journey and you shall not lift a hand to-night." When work was over and the house quiet, Aunt Lucinda placed the large family Bible upon the table, preparatory to their evening worship. "Now won't it be nice, Lucinda," said Uncle Nathan, "we've got some one in the house that has good eyes, to read the chapter for us every night, it bothers me to read by lamplight, and I have often heard you call a word wrong if the light was the least mite dim." "My sight isn't so bad as it might be," replied my aunt who evidently did not relish this hint that she was not as young as she had been, but she readily consented that for the future I should read the Chapter from the Bible each evening. After reading we all kneeled and Uncle Nathan offered a simple but heartfelt prayer, in which he failed not to remember the poor boy, who kneeled by his side, as well as his distant friends. After prayers I was shown at once to the room which was to be mine during my stay, and very different it was from the one I occupied at Farmer Judson's. It was an airy, cheerful, looking apartment, furnished plainly, but with everything necessary to my comfort. When left alone my first act was to remove from my trunk the small Bible which was my mother's parting gift, with the request that I would allow no day to pass without reading at least one Chapter, alone. And I have no doubt the obeying my mother's parting injunction, made the slumber all the sweeter, which weighed down my eyelids almost as soon as my head pressed my pillow. _