THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY PENNSTATE UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES It II PIULPIT OY THE (WA) WH ITE CHt-RI( H BACK HOME IN PENNSYLVANIA By KATHARINE HENRY 1 S'Z COTRIGHT 1987 DO1ROCE S COMPANY. na. EANWHAO'TMLD IN TEN UNITED STATRS 0 AMDRIOS I I I I i 'I I Ii To THIE BoY ORGANIST of THE OLD WHITE CHURCH I Certain of these stories have appeared in The Co Gentleman, The Philadelphia Public Ledger, an( Farmer's Wife. The Author and Publishers wi thank the Editors for the privilege of reprinting. CONTENTS PAGE A PENNSYLVANIA GIRLHOOD ....... ......... 7 THE FRAGRANCE OF MOTHER'S GARDEN ........ 14 HERE COME THE PEDDLERS .................. 25 WE ACHIEVE A LOCKUP ......... ........... 33 THE FAIR ....... ............... 37 SCHOOL DAYS ........... ........... 48 GETTING READY FOR SANTA CLAUS ..... ...... 59 THE UNION SUNDAY SCHOOL ..... ........... 68 THE EXHIBITION ......... ................. 76 THE CELEBRATION ......... ................ 85 OUR FEARSOME NEIGHBORS-THE MOLLY MA- GUIRES ............................... 94 MY PIONEER GRANDMOTHER ...... ........... 102 MY ACADEMY IN THE COVE ...... ............ 109 HAPPY DAYS ON UNCLE JOE'S FARM .... ...... 123 GRANDMA HENRY ......... .......... 139 GRANDFATHER'S CROSS-ROADS STORE .......... 151 TOLD IN THE COUNTRY CLUB . 166 OUR BELOVED PHYSICIAN .. 179 THE OLD WHITE CHURCH .. 194 UNCLE JOHNNY . 210 "FOR THERE WE LOVED, AND WHERE WE LOVED IS HOME; HOME THAT OUR FEET MAY LEAVE, BUT NOT OUR HEARTS." A PENNSYLVANIA GIRLHOOD The Home under the Pines Molly was going away! That much my little brain grasped. Why she was going, or where, did not con- cern me. I only knew that Mother's friend Molly, who had been a part of our home, was going away. I took my stand close to the door through which she would pass. As she stopped to tell a neighbor goodbye I noticed, and still recall distinctly, the dress she wore -a fawn-colored print, with a slender chain of black. Yielding to the atmosphere around me, I slid to the floor and gave audible expression to my feelings. Im- mediately Molly was on the floor beside me with com- forting words, as she brought forth from somewhere more chestnuts than the pocket of my pinafore could hold. Then she picked up her box and was gone! That is, I think, the earliest picture on the walls of my memory. Close beside it hangs another. It was a sultry afternoon in August. Suddenly great clouds, black and threatening, rolled and tumbled over each other in the west; thunder began to growl. Mother sent my sister Stella to close all windows, my brother John to bring in the frames of fruit set out to dry in the sun, while she hurried to shut in the hens with their baby chicks. I kept very close beside her. As the first big drops began to fall we reached the shelter of the porch. Once inside the house, she closed the door se- curely, drew the shades, and gathered her own chicks around her. The lightning flashed, the thunder cracked and rolled above our little home in a terrifying way; but Mother 7 I _ m 8 BACK HOME IN PENNSYLVANIA was with us. We huddled close to her in the stifling room. Several times we thought the worst was over- only to hear it crack harder than ever, until I felt that if there was one more flash, one more deep roll that made the earth tremble, I must scream. Then, almost as suddenly as it came, the storm passed. But I still clung to Mother's hand as she raised the shade. "Now we can open the door; the storm has gone down the valley" were welcome words. The moist, cool air refreshed us as we stood in the doorway; the beautiful scene before us rested our fev- ered eyes. Stretching away from our door, for miles down the sparkling valley were happy gardens, hillsides shimmering with corn, soft green fields, trees whose every leaf glistened in the clear atmosphere. The parched earth had been revived and purified. Over all arched a rainbow. "Oh, this rain can't be paid for," Mother said ferv- ently. And my little brain was perplexed. Paid for? How could a woman and three children pay for such a big, cooling rain? Why even Uncle Joe, with all his fields, and barns, and horses, wasn't rich enough to pay men with watering pots to give the whole valley such a big-drink. And I wasn't sure we could pay for the rain even if we were rich enough. From Mother came part of the answer: "Now we must pick up the apples under the early tree. We'll take some to Mrs. Faust, and see if we can do something for her. I hope the storm didn't make her worse." Probably it was that same summer that Mother hur- riedly called us from play and said "Old Mr. Brown's coming along the street and he might wander in here. He's been drinking all week; and he has the poker." We scurried to cover like chickens when - hawk is near. We children helped lock doors and draw the shades to the very bottom of the windows. Then we A PENNSYLVANIA GIRLHOOD .9 sat down together, quiet as mice. Listen! That was the gate ! Uncertain steps on the walk! Hesitating feet on the porch, with a cane trailing along! A hand fumb- ling at the door! My heart thumped uncomfortably, and I suspect mine was not the only one. I imagined Mr. Brown standing outside the door, poker in hand. Every moment I ex- pected to hear a crash, and to see glass flying into the room, as, annoyed because no one opened the door, he used his poker on the window. No such crash came. Only the pathetic groping at the latch. Loud ticking of the clock. An attempt to turn the doorknob. Labored steps, with a cane trailing. The click of the gate. Mother drew aside the shade a tiny crack, and we all peeped out. When the old man, still showing traces of the gentleman he once had been, turned the corner and was well on his way home, we raised the shades, un- locked the door, and once more talked in normal tones. Not until years afterward did I learn that 'poker' did not mean the tool we use around the fire, but delirium tremens. The houses along the village streets were not num- bered, and were designated to strangers by some special feature-"The house next to the shoemaker's"; "The one with a new hitching post"; "The house with the iron fence." - Ours was "The house with the two pine trees." To us children those friendly trees were as much a part of the home as the cottage itself. We lived with them so intimately they developed a distinct personality. On guard between us and the street, they screened us from too much publicity; they tempered the North Wind as it came down with a great wo-o-o, threatening to carry off the little cottage or us little cottagers as we came round a corner; they sheltered us from the blazing 10 BACK HOME IN PENNSYLVANIA sun in summer; and not only us, but occasionally a weary traveler, and many "little brothers of the air." Under their sheltering branches we played and work- ed and visited. We wove the long needles into hats for our dollies, and tiny baskets for our playhouses. We gathered the cones for our winter fires, and fastened the ropes of our swing to a convenient branch. In summer each of these trees wore "a nest of robins in her hair," often more than one nest. After every storm we looked out to see if any of the little birds had come to grief. I remember particularly one hail storm. As soon as the worst was over we went to the windows, and there on the icy lawn we saw part of a nest, and a huddle of tiny birdlings, while the helpless parents flew round and round, with pitiful cries. John put on storm clothes and gathered the wreckage into a basket. The old birds seemed to understand, and did not harry him. We packed the babies in cotton and set their box near the stove, having first shut Tabby in the woodhouse. When the storm was well over John mended the nest as best he could, lined it with soft wool, and took the little family back home. Then we girls dug earth worms to help the busy parents. That is, I dug worms, while my sister stood by, shivering every time one wriggled out of the soft earth, groaning every time I scooped him up in the tin can. The nest held together, the little brood thrived, and probably by the next year they, too, wove a nest for some tree's hair. Those same pine trees sometimes served as a conven- ient ladder to and from my brother's room, when there was interesting mischief going on at night, after he was supposed to be safe in bed. One of the dearest friends who came through the gate and passed under those trees was our beloved Great Grandfather. No wonder our little Jean said, when we A PENNSYLVANIA GIRLHOOD 11 were in danger of missing a train: "But I tan't hurry; I must tiss Gampa fest." Staff in hand, he always brought with him an atmosphere of serenity and good will. His memories went back to the time when all the cabins in the Upper Valley could be counted on the fingers of one hand. It was deliciously creepy to sit up late and listen to his tales of timber wolves, of Indian raids, close-ups with bear, or the story of Negro Hollow.