Brightly looked forth the stars on one February night,
while the pale moon, yet in its first quarter, hung in the
western sky, illuminating as far as was possible the little
settlement of P—, Virginia. In a large square building,
the house of Deacon Wilder, there was a prayer
meeting, consisting mostly of members from “the first
families in Virginia.”

In this meeting Deacon Wilder took a prominent part,
although there was an unusually mournful cadence in the
tones of his voice; and twice during the reading of the
psalm was he obliged to stop for the purpose of wiping
from his eyes two large tear-drops, which seemed sadly
out of place on the broad, good-humored face of the deacon.
Other eyes there were, too, on whose long lashes
the heavy moisture glistened, and whose faces told of
some sad event, which either had happened or was about
to happen. The cause of all this sorrow was this: Ere
the night for the weekly prayer meeting again came,

[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]

Deacon Wilder and his family, who were universally liked,
would be far on the road toward a home in the dense forests
of Kentucky. In that old-fashioned kitchen were
many who had come long, weary miles for the sake of
again shaking the deacon's hand, and again telling his
gentle wife how surely their hearts would go with her to
her home in the far west.

The meeting proceeded decently and in order, as meetings
should, until near its close, when Deacon Wilder, for
the last time, lifted up his voice in prayer with the loved
friends and neighbors he was leaving. At this point, the
grief of the little company burst forth unrestrainedly. The
white portion of the audience gave vent to their feelings
in tears and half smothered sobs, while the blacks, of
whom there was a goodly number present, manifested
their sorrow by groans and loud lamentations.

Among these was an old negro named Cato, who, together
with his wife Dillah, had formerly belonged to
Deacon Wilder's father, but on his death they had passed
into the possession of the oldest son, Capt. Wilder, who
lived within a stone's throw of his brother. Old Cato
was decidedly a Methodist in practice, and when in the
course of his prayer Deacon Wilder mentioned that in all
human probability he should never on earth meet them
again, old Cato, who was looked upon as a pillar by his
colored brethren, forgetting in the intensity of his feelings
the exact form of words which he wanted, fervently ejaculated,
“Thank the Lord!” after which Dillah, his wife,
uttered a hearty “Amen!”

This mistake in the choice of words was a slight setback
to the deacon, who was feeling, perhaps, a trifle
gratified at seeing himself so generally regretted. But
Cato and Dillah were a well-meaning couple, and their
mistake passed unnoticed, save by the young people, who

[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]

smiled a little mischievously. The meeting continued until
a late hour, and the hands of the long Dutch clock
pointed the hour of midnight, ere the windows of Deacon
Wilder's dwelling were darkened, and its inmates were
dreaming, may be, of a home where good-bys and partings
were unknown.

Next morning, long before the sun had dallied with the
east until over its gray cheek the blushes of daylight were
stealing, the deacon's family were astir. Fires were lighted
in the fire-place, candles were lighted in the candlesticks,
and breakfast was swallowed in a space of time altogether
too short for the credulity of modern dyspeptics. Then
commenced the exciting process of “pulling down” and
“packing up.” Bedsteads were knocked endwise, bed-clothes
were thrown all ways, crockery was smashed, and
things generally were put where there was no possible
danger of their being found again for one twelve-month.
Deacon Wilder scolded, his wife Sally scolded, old Cato
and Dillah, who had come over to superintend matters,
scolded, the other negroes ran against each other and
every way, literally doing nothing except “'clarin' they's
fit to drap, they's so tired,” while George, the deacon's
oldest son, looked on, quietly whistling “Yankee Doodle.”

In the midst of all this hubbub, little Charlie, a bright,
beautiful, but delicate boy of nine summers, crept away
to the foot of the garden, and there, on a large stone under
a tall sugar maple, his face buried in his hands, he
wept bitterly. Poor Charlie! he was taking his first lesson
in home-sickness, even before his childhood's home
had disappeared from view. He had always been opposed
to emigrating to Kentucky, which, in his mind, was all
“dark, dark woods,” where each member of the family
would be tomahawked by the Indians every day, at least,
if not oftener.

[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]

But Charlie's tears were unavailing,—the old homestead
was sold, the preparations were nearly completed,
and in a few hours he would bid good-by to the places he
loved so well. “I shall never sit under this tree again,”
said the weeping boy, “never again play in the dear old
brook; and when I die there, I shall be afraid to lie alone
in the dark woods, and there will be none but our folks
to cry for me, either.”

A soft footstep sounded near, two little arms were
wound round Charlie's neck, and a childish voice whispered,
“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, I will cry when I hear you
are dead, and if you will send for me before you die, I
will surely come.”

It was Ella, his cousin. She was a year his junior, and
since his earliest remembrance she had been the object of
his deepest affection. Together they had played in the
forest shade, together in the garden had they made their
flower beds, and together had they mourned over torn
dresses, lost mittens, bumped heads, nettle stings, and so
forth. It is not altogether improbable that Charlie's grief
arose partly from the fact that Ella must be left behind.
He had always been delicate, and had frequently talked
to Ella of dying, so that she readily believed him when he
told her he should die in Kentucky; she believed, too,
that she should see him again ere he died. Did she believe
aright? The story will tell you, but I shall not.

p598-284

Previous section

Next section