Rensselaer Union, Volume 8, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 December 1875 — BACK FROM THE DEAD. [ARTICLE]

BACK FROM THE DEAD.

It was the day before Thanksgiving. "The first snow of the season had fallen, and the apple trees before Deacon Brown’s old red farm-house bent wearily under the damp weight upon their leafless branches. In the low kitchen mysterious “ doings” were going on. Mrs. Brown was up to her elbows in a great bowl of flour, from which her inimitable doughnuts were to be manufactured. Nobody else in Rasherville could make such doughnuts as Mrs. Brown—so crisp, so rich, so sweet that they fairly melted in one’s mouth. The children which Thanksgiving Day always brought together around Deacon Brown’s hospitable table appreciated them in a way which reflected the most sincere and substantial praise on the skill which could make such delectable goodies. I warrant more than one juvenile’s mouth watered at the prospect of to-morrow’s feast, as Mrs. Brown mixed her doughnuts that day. “Be spry, now,” to Roxy, her assistant, in cheery, pleasant tones, which were just suited to the pl amp, good-natured face of . the deacon’s wife. “Be spiy, now, or the pies won’t bake so’s.to be or jest precisely the right color by the time we want the oven for the cake. Ptinkin pies alters ought to be the color of the shell, you know, Roxy, an’ we’ll hev to hurry ’em up a leetle, we’ve such lots o’ work to do. I’m awful thankful Thanksgivin’ don’t come more’n once a year, there’s alters so much to be done.” And then Mrs. Brown laughed in such a pleasant, hearty way, as she proceeded to prepare some of her ■doughnut mixture for ' * rolling out,” that I am sure, if you could have heard her, you would not have thought her very much cast down because there was so much l to do, or in the least disturbed with the labor Thanksgiving Day entailed. On the whole, I think Mrs. Brown thoroughly enjoyed it “Them pies are done,” announced Roxy, after a peep into the oven. “Are, hey?” said Mrs. Brown, with a patronizing nod and a smite at Roxy, as she plied her rolling-pin energetically. “You may set ’em by the north winder to cool, and then put in the cake. It’s all ready. If it stan’s much longer I’m afraid it’ll be heavy, an’ if there’s anything in this world I do hate more’n another it’s to hev cake heavy as lead.’,’ Roxy proceeded to take out the deliciouslooking pies and by the pantrywindow. Then the cake was put to bake. “ There, now, Roxy,” said Mrs. Brown, peremptorily, “you jest set down an’ rest yourself a minnit. There’s nothing else to do till I get these doughnuts ready to fry, an’ I know you’re jest ready to drop.” “I ain’t much tired. Miss Brown,” demurred Roxy, “ an’ if there’s anything to do ” “ But there ain’t jest now,” answered Mrs. Brown. “ Ain’t I boss here, Roxy Stone?” with acheery littlelaugh. “Wall, I thought so,” as Roxy made reply that “she s’posed she was.” “ Then do’s I tell ye, an’rest yerself a little.” So Roxy sat down, and Mrs. Brown kept on rolling out her doughnuts and talking. “I can’t make it seem’s es Jamie was really going to be married to-morrow,” she said, patting out the dough. “You see, he’s so much younger’n any of the rest of the children that somehow I can’t make it seem as es he’d ever get big an’ be married. I’ve alters considered him as the baby, you know,” and Mrs. Brown laughed again, a pleasant, mellow laugh that was good to hear. “And I’m the baby yet!” said a voice in the doorway, a voice like Mrs. Brown’s, and James came into the kitchen —a tall, good-looking young fellow, with his mother’s face and eyes. “Lawfulsakes! How you scart me!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown w’ith a proud, motherly smite. “ I didn’t know you was anywhere about.” “I came in to see how the pies and cakes were getting along. You know I’m always interested in them,” he said, laughingly. “ There’s the pies,” said Mrs. Brown, with a motion of her hand toward the pantry, “ an’ the cake ain’t done yet.” “They’re too tempting to be looked at,” said J ames, smacking his lips. “ Walt till to-morrow, mother mine, and see what becomes of your pies.”

“They was made to eat,” answered Mrs. Brown, giving her energies to the twisting of her doughnuts into the proper shape of that article of food. Nightfall came down over the gray New England landscape. In the pantry, where the pies had been set to cool, were {>ans of crisp, brown doughnuts and oaves of amber cake and flaky tarts with ruby jelly quivering in each cup of crust. Ana in the woodshed two great turkeys were being robbed ot their bronze coats after having lost their heads. To-morrow was to be Thanksgiving and James Brown’s wedding day, and it was to be kept in the best style known to Rasherville, Mrs. Brown declared. “ Dear me sus!” said Mrs. Brown, folding her plump arms across her chest and dropping into the great rocking-chair by the window, “ I’m e’namost tired to death.” The morrow dawned pleasantly. The sky was clear as a bell, and the air keen, frosty, sweet, like a draught of wine. They were early astir at Deacon Brown’s. Breakfast was dispatched, and then began the bustie and confusion of preparing for the expected guests. James harnessed up his horse and drove off to Mr. Stanley’s, where he knew a rosy-cheeked girl was waiting for him. It was the last time, he thought, -as he hitched his horse by the gate, that he should ever go there to see Susan Stanley. When he came again, if Susan was not with him, he should ask for Susan Brown. His heart was full of tender little memories of long, sweet walks under the starlight, and kisses at the gate, and whispers so low that only themselves and the night winds heard them. Now those walks and talks were over, and they were about to set out, hand in hand, upon the journey of life. “A good wife is the best thing a man can have except a good mother,” Deacon Brown had said to him that morning and James was just old-fashioned enough to believe him. There were services at the church at ten o’clock, and directly after they were over James and Susan were to be married. The old church was filled to overflowing on that clear Thanksgiving morning, and many thankful hearts were there, for earth had been very bountiful and lavish of her blessings, and the good people of Rasherville were not of the kind to be unthankful for God's favors to them. Services were over at last, and James and Susan came forward and stood before the white-haired man of God. Mrs. Brown was close by and Deacon Brown was looking on with fatherly pride. The Stanleys w’ere there too, feeling just as much pride in blushing, half-frightened Susan as the Browns did in the youngest son of their large family. Ana there, on that day so full of happy, thankful memories, the “twhin were made one flesh.” Mrs. Brown cried and laughed and wrung Mrs. Stanley’s hand, while people crowded up with congratulations for the newly-married pair. “The dears!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown. “Howhan’some they looked together—didn’t they, Miss Stanley?” “ The best-lookin’ couple I’ve seen in a long time, if one on ’em is my own da’ter,” answered Mrs. Stanley, with fond pride in her eyes. Kind, motherly hearts! She had found a new son to love, and Mrs. Brown a new daughter, and there was quite room enough for them in their affections. The hand-shaking and well-wishing were over at last, and Deacon Brown “ bundled” Mrs. Brown into the old red sleigh, with as many more as could ride, and drove off home, followed by the Stanleys, who were to take dinner with them. 1 wish I could tell you about the dinner and do it justice, but I quite despair of doing that. Such crisp-baked, juicymeated turkeys never graced a Thanksgiving table before, 1 feel assured, because Mrs. Stanley whispered to the delighted Mrs. Brown that “ She never see the beat in all her life,” and Mrs. Stanley had seen a great many fine Thanksgiving dinners and was considered almost as much of an authority on the subject as Mrs. Brown was, therefore was quite capable of judging, and her opinion must go a good deal further than mine. The young generation of Browns and Stanleys, peeping in at the open doors of the dining-room, wondered how long it would be before they got big enough to sit down with the other people and not be obliged to “wait.” On such occasions as this, to “ wait” was to suffer martyrdom The delightful, savory odors of nicely-browned turkeys, the bubble of sparkling cider and the busy clink ot knife and fork were simply tantalizing. Mrs. Brown’s pies and cakes and doughnuts and the many other good things her skill had prepared-for the (fccasion were admired and praised till she was perfectly satisfied that her efforts had proved eminently successful, and Thanksgiving had lost none of its old, time-honored character from failure on her part to do it justice. “If God is willing,” Janies said, very reverently, as he and Susan stood together after dinner in thg empty sitting-room, “we will live to see many Thanksgiving Days as pleasant as this one.” “ I hope so,” Susan answered, and then he kissed her, “If God is willing!” You see James had another old-fashioned way clinging to him j 11 It was to not forget that God has something to do with us, albeit he lived in modern times when creed and theory would almost lead one to believe that people could get along without God well enough. \ “ To-morrow’s Thanksgivin’, but somehow I can’t seem to enter into the speret of what such a day ought to be,” Mrs. Brown said, as she sat before the fire in the November of 1866, much the same as she had sat there in the November of four years before, and she wiped her glasses which had grown dim with the moisture of tears. “ 1 know it don’t seem like Thanksgivin’ season,” Deacon Brown answered sadly, “still we to be thankful for what we have enjoyed.” “ O dear! O dear!” cried Mrs. Brown, breaking down completely, and folding hqr arms upon the arm of the rockingchair she laid her head upon them and sobbed. “I can’t be thankful when I think our boy’s gone—all the one we had left to love and care for us in our old age. I try. not to think of it sometimes; but I'

can’t shut my eyes ’thout seein’ him lyin’ in the grass, dead or dyin’. Poor boy! Poor Jamie! I know he thought of you an’ me, an’ Susan, and I wake up in the ‘night thinkin’ how like as not he kep’ callin’ for us when he died, an’ we couldn’t see or answer him, an’ the poor boy had to die all alone, so fur away from home. O my boy!—my boy!” and the sorrowful woman rocked herself to and fro in her grief as. many another Northern mother has done, aye, and Southern mother, too. “If he was fur away from us, an’ his earthly home,” Deacon Brown said, solemnly, “he was jest as near to God as he would have been here in the house where he was born. ’Twan’t but a little ways from the battle-field to his everlastin’ home. I’m comforted to think of that, Rachael.” “ I know all that,” sobbed Mrs. Brown, “ but I loved him so!” “ Don’t cry, mother.” Susan got up from a cradle where she had just laid a chubby, red-cheeked baby down to sleep, and came to Mrs. Brown’s side. “We can’t help having sorrowful thoughts for James, and wishing that God could have spared him to us a little longer; but there’s one consolation —he’s better off than we are, and we shall meet him in heaven. When I think of that I can’t help having thankful thoughts,” and she bent down and kissed her mother-in-law’s wrinkled face. “I know!” Mrs. Brown said, wiping her eyes. “If it wan’t for that thought I don’t know what I’d do. I miss him so sometimes. So does father, though he don’t say so much about it.” “So do we all,” said Deacon Brown, with a far-off look in his eyes. Perhaps he was looking with eyes of faith to the land beyond the river where he believed his boy was waiting for the loved ones left behind. “ 1 guess, on tlw whole, we’d better do somethin’ toward gettin’ up a dinner tomorrow,” Mrs. Brown said a half hour later. “ ’Twon’t do to let the custom drop, you know; an’ mebbe ’twill liven us up a little,” she added with a sigh. So they went to work, and ere long the kitchen was full of all kinds of savory odors. You would have missed the old, cheery laugh of Mrs. Brown had you been these. The shadow of war lay over that household as over thousands of others, and where, of old, laughter rang and happy voices echoed, tears fell ana W’eary faces told of heavy hearts. “ There, the baby’s waked up,” Susan said, as a crowing voice came through the kitchen door. “Hear him talking to his grandpa.” “Bless his dear little heart!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed, with quite as much pride and tenderness in her face and tone as there had been in Susan’s. “We shouldn’t know how to get along without him, should we? He’s about all the sunshine we’ve got left now Jamie’s gone.” I think he looks more and more like James,” said. Susan. And so they worked always talking and thinking of “Jamie.” Did they make pies or beat up cakes, Mrs. Brown was sure to tell how much he liked them; and if they spoke of baby Susan was ready to tell of some little trick or look or gesture which reminded her of the husband she had lost. Thanksgiving Day dawned beautifully bright ana clear. There were services at church, as usual, and Deacon Brown harnessed up old “Steady” and filled the old red sleigh-box brimming full of hay; “ For how,” he argued, “could a horse feel thankful standing out in the cold, if he had nothing to eat?” Susan could not help crying when she remembered that other Thanksgiving Day four years before. Now everything was so changed. An unknown grave held the brightest part of her life, and hopes that had been bright and full of promise had §one down with the murky sun on that readful battle-day when James Brown fell, fighting in his country’s defense. I am afraid there were many hearts in the congregation that day full of such or similar sorrowful thoughts as those which rose up in Susan’s heart or expressed themselves on Mrs. Brown’s kind old face; for there were many graves in Rasherville Cemetery where soldier-boys were sleeping, and many, many more on the battle-fields “down South.” At length the sermon was ended and the congregation broke up. Deacon Brown drove up to the gate to leave Susan, Mrs. Brown and the baby, before driving old Steady around to the barn. ” “ It’s purty slippery,” he said. “ Le’me carry the baby, an’ ol’ Steady can go round to the barn alone. He knows the way as well as I do. Git up, Steady; gee there—so!” Steady started off obediently and Deacon Brown unlatched the gate and went up the path, carrying the baby. “ Somebody’s been here,” said Mrs. Brown. “ Here’s a track in the snow that don’t belong to father.” “ Sam Pringle, likt mough,” said the Deacon, opening the door. “He said he was coming after the cow, but he didn’t git ’round afore we went, an’ I wan’t agoin’ to wait for him.” “ We’ll go right into the kitchen till it gits warm in the other room,” said Mrs. Brown, and led the way. The pantry door was open. She went and looked in and started back with a little cry of astonishment. “ Somebody's been here an’ e’t half o’ one o’ them punkin pies, true’s you live. Who could it ha’ been, d’ye s’pdse?” “ Who do you think?” said a voice. They all started and looked around them at the sound of the voice, but saw no one. It was strangely like onb they used to hear. I “ I don’t See anybody, but I’d ha’ been willin’ todeclar’ ’twas James, es I hadn’t known belter. Eatin that pie is list like one o’ his tricks, for all the world. Like enough it’s son Lemuel come over a’ter somethin’ an’ hid on purpose to s’prise us. Is that you, Lemuel?” called Mrs. Brown, expecting to see her eldest son step from behind Some door in answer. “No, it ain’t Lemuel, but it’s me, mother,” answered a voice from the hall, and a thin, worn face looked m upon them with a greatgladness shining over it. “ My G f, d! it’s James,” and Susan held out her arms toward the husband who had come back to her from the grave, and

sank down, faint and white, upon the nearest chair. “ Yes, Jamie’s come back to you,” he answered, folding his arms about her and kissing her again and again. “ You thought I was dead, didn’t you? I’m not, you see.” “My boy!” Mrs. Brown cried, her old face all beaming over with sudden, hard-ly-comprehended happiness, while tears ran down to see you again—never! But God is good to us—so good!” and she sobbed out her joy upon her baby's breast. Though twenty-five years haa gone by since first he lay iipon her breast, he was her “ baby” still —would always be. And Deacon Brown, with his arms full of the struggling, squirming specimen of humanity, bundled up in white flannel, looked on, hardly comprehending his eyes or ears. “ Haven’t you any welcome for me, father?” James asked, coming toward him. “ Yes, yes,” said the old man, with a terrible winking and blinking, which failed to keep back the tears in his eyes. “An’—here ’tis!” Whereupon he deposited in Jamie’s arms the crowing, kicking grandson, of which he was “ proud as he could be,” according to Mrs. Brown. “ It’s the best welcome I can give you, my boy,” the old man added, wringing his boy’s hand in a way that was as eloquent as any words could have been. I can’t tell you much about that Thanksgiving. It was too sacred. I can only say that no other Thanksgiving under the old homestead roof ever came up to that in true, thankful happiness. Late into the night light shone from the windows of the old red farm-house, where Lemuel’s folks and Joseph’s family and Rachel and her husband were gathered about the hearthstone, summoned feome to givewelcome to the dead who was alive again. And James told over and over the story of his capture after being wounded, and his life in a Southern prison, and how, just as he was about to give up all hope of living to get out of it, relief came, and he was among a lot of exchanged soldiers. Deacon Brown read a chapter from the old Bible and prayed before they separated. It was a short and simple prayer, but it had a world of thanksgiving in it. And every heart there joined in the Amen. — Rural New Yorker.