Beechenbrook is a Webnovel created by Margaret Junkin Preston.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“I turn a deaf ear to the scream of the wind, I leave the rude camp and the forest behind; And Beechenbrook, wrapped in its raiment of white, Is tauntingly filling my vision to-night.
I catch my sweet little ones’ innocent mirth, I watch your dear face, as you sit at the hearth; And I know, by the tender expression I see, I know that my darling is musing of me.
Does her thought dim the blaze?–Does it shed through the room A chilly, unseen, and yet palpable gloom?
Ah! then we are equal! _You_ share all my pain, And _I_ halve your blessedness with you again!
“Don’t think that my hardships are bitter to bear; Don’t think I repine at the soldier’s rough fare; If ever a thought so unworthy steals on, I look upon Ashby,–and lo! it is gone!
Such chivalry, fort.i.tude, spirit and tone, Make brighter, and stronger, and prouder, my own.
Oh! Beverly, boy!–on his white steed, I ween, A princelier presence has never been seen; And as yonder he lies, from the groups all apart, I bow to him loyally,–bow with my heart.
“What brave, buoyant letters you write, sweet!–they ring Through my soul like the blast of a trumpet, and bring Such a flame to my eye, such a flush to my cheek,– That often my hand will unconsciously seek The hilt of my sword as I read,–and I feel As the warrior does, when he flashes the steel In fiery circles, and shouts in his might, For the heroes behind him, to follow its light!
True wife of a soldier!–If doubt or dismay Had ever, within me, one instant held sway, Your words wield a spell that would bid them be gone, Like bodiless ghosts at the touch of the dawn.
“Could the veriest craven that cowers and quails Before the vast horde that insults and a.s.sails Our land and our liberties,–could he to-night, Sit here on the ice-girdled log where I write, And look on the hopeful, bright brows of the men, Who have toiled all the day over mountain, through glen,– Half-clothed and unfed,–would he doubt?–would he dare, In the face of such proof, yield again to despair?
“The hum of their voices comes laden with cheer, As the wind wafts a musical swell to my ear,– Wild, clarion catches,–now flute-like and low; –Would you like me to give you their Song of the Snow?
Halt!–the march is over!
Day is almost done; Loose the c.u.mbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun: Chilled and wet and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amidst the snow.
Round the bright blaze gather, Heed not sleet nor cold,– Ye are Spartan soldiers, Stout and brave and bold: Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe, Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow.
Shivering midst the darkness Christian men are found, There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground,–
Pleading for their country, In its hour of woe,– For its soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow.
Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife; Dreaming of their dear ones,– Home, and child, and wife; Tentless they are lying, While the fires burn low,– Lying in their blankets, Midst December’s snow!
Come, Sophy, my blossom! I’ve something to say Will chase for a moment your gambols away: To-day as we climbed the steep mountain-path o’er, I noticed a bare-footed lad in my corps; “How comes it,”–I asked,–“you look careful and bold, How comes it you’re marching, unshod, through the cold?”
“Ah, sir! I’m a poor, lonely orphan, you see; No mother, no friends that are caring for me; If I’m wounded, or captured, or killed, in the war, ‘Twill matter to n.o.body, Colonel Dunbar.”
Now, Sophy!–your needles, dear!–Knit him some socks, And send the poor fellow a pair in my box; Then he’ll know,–and his heart with the thought will be filled,– There is _one_ little maiden will care if he’s killed.
The fire burns dimly, and scattered around, The men lie asleep on the snow-covered ground; But ere in my blanket I wrap me to rest, I hold you, my darling, close,–close, to my breast: G.o.d love you! G.o.d grant you His comforting light!
I kiss you a thousand times over!–Good night!
V.
“To-morrow is Christmas!”–and clapping his hands, Little Archie in joyful expectancy stands, And watches the shadows, now short and now tall, That momently dance up and down on the wall.
Drawn curtains of crimson shut out the cold night, And the parlor is pleasant with odours and light; The soft lamp suspended, its mellowness throws O’er cl.u.s.ter’d geranium, jasmine and rose; The sleeping canary hangs caged midst the blooms, A Sybarite slumberer steeped in perfumes; For Alice still clings to her birds and her flowers, Sweet tokens of kindlier, happier hours.
“To-morrow is Christmas!–but Beverly,–say, Will it do to be glad when Papa is away?”
And the face that is tricksy and blythe as can be, Tries vainly to temper its shadowless glee.
“For _you_, pet, I’m sure it is right to be glad; ‘Tis a pitiful thing to see little ones sad; But for Sophy and me, who are older, you know,– We dare not be glad when we look at the snow!
I shrink from this comfort, this light and this heat, This plenty to wear, and this plenty to eat, When the soldiers who fight for us,–die for us,–lie, With nothing around and above, but the sky; When their clothes are so light, and the rations they deal, Are only a morsel of bacon and meal: And how can I fold my thick blankets around, When I know that my father’s asleep on the ground?
I’m ashamed to be happy, or merry, or free, As if war and its trials were nothing to me: Oh! I never can know any frolic or fun,– Any real, mad romps,–till the battles are done!”
And the face of the boy, so heroic and fair, Is touched with the singular shadow of care.
Sophy ceases her warbling, subdues her soft mirth, And draws her low ottoman up to the hearth:
“But, brother, what good would it do to refuse The comforts and blessings G.o.d gives us, or use Them quite with indifference, as much as to say, We care not how soon they are taken away!
I am sure I would give my last blanket, and spread My pretty, blue cloak, at night, over my bed,– (Mamma, you know, covers herself with her shawl, Since we’ve sent all our blankets,)–but, then, it’s too small!
Would Papa be less hungry or cold, do you think, If _we_ had too little to eat or to drink?
So I mean to be busy,–I mean to be glad; Mamma says there’s time enough yet to be sad; I’ll work for the soldiers,–I’ll pray, and I’ll plan, And just be as happy as ever I can; I’ve made the grey shirt, and I’ve finished the socks:– So come, let us help,–they are packing the box.”
How grateful the task is to Alice! her cares Are quite put aside, and her countenance wears A look of enjoyment as eager, as bright, As Santa Claus brings little dreamers to-night; For Dougla.s.s away in his camp, is to share The daintiest cates that her larder can spare.
The turkey, well seasoned, and tenderly browned, Is flanked by the spiciest _a la mode_ “round;”
The great “priestly ham,” in its juiciest pride, Is there,–with the tenderest surloin beside; Neat bottles, suggestive of ketchups and wines, And condiments racy, of various kinds; And firm rolls of b.u.t.ter as yellow as gold, And patties and biscuit most rare to behold, And sauces that richest of odors betray,– Are marshalled in most appetizing array.
Then Beverly brings of his nuts a full store, And Archie has apples, a dozen or more; While Sophy, with gratified housewifery, makes Her present of spicy “Confederate cakes.”
And then in a snug little corner, there lies A pacquet will brighten the orphan boy’s eyes; For Beverly claims it a pleasure to use His last cherish’d h.o.a.rdings in buying him shoes.
Sophy’s socks too are there; and she catches afar– “There’s _somebody_ cares for me, Colonel Dunbar!”
What subtlest of essences, sovereign to cheer– What countless, uncatalogu’d tokens are here!
What lavender’d memories, tenderly green, Lie hidden, these grosser of viands between!
What food for the heart-life,–unreckon’d, untold– What manna enclosed in its chalice of gold!
What caskets of sweets that Love only unlocks,– What mysteries Dougla.s.s will find in the box!
VI.
The lull of the Winter is over; and Spring Comes back, as delicious and buoyant a thing, As airy, and fairy, and lightsome, and bland, As if not a sorrow was dark’ning the land;– So little has Nature of pa.s.sion or part In the woes and the throes of humanity’s heart.
The wild tide of battle runs red,–dashes high, And blots out the splendour of earth and of sky; The blue air is heavy, and sulph’rous, and dun, And the breeze on its wings bears the boom of the gun.
In faster and fiercer and deadlier shocks, The thunderous billows are hurled on the rocks; And our Valley becomes, amid Spring’s softest breath, The valley, alas! of the shadow of death.
The crash of the onset,–the plunge and the roll, Reach down to the depth of each patriot’s soul; It quivers–for since it is human, it must; But never a tremor of doubt or distrust, Once blanches the cheek, or is wrung from the mouth, Or lurks in the eye of the sons of the South.
What need for dismay? Let the live surges roar, And leap in their fury, our fastnesses o’er, And threaten our beautiful Valley to fill With rapine and ruin more terrible still: What fear we?–See Jackson! his sword in his hand, Like the stern rocks around him, immovable stand,– The wisdom, the skill and the strength that he boasts, Sought ever from him who is Leader of Hosts: –He speaks in the name of his G.o.d:–lo! the tide,– The red sea of battle, is seen to divide; The pathway of victory cleaves the dark flood;– And the foe is o’erwhelmed in a deluge of blood!
The spirit of Alice no longer is bowed By the troubles, and tumults, and terrors, that crowd So closely around her:–the willow’s lithe form Bends meekly to meet the wild rush of the storm.
Yet pale as Ca.s.sandra, unconscious of joy, With visions of Greeks at the gates of her Troy, All day she has waited and watched on the lawn, Till the purple and gold of the sunset are gone; For the battle draws near her:–few leagues intervene Her home and that Valley of slaughter, between.
The tidings and rumors come thick and come fast, As riders fly hotly and breathlessly past; They tell of the onslaught,–the headlong attack Of the foe with a quadruple force at his back: They boast how they hurl themselves,–shiver and fall Before their stout rampart, the valiant “Stonewall.”
At length, with the gradual fading of day,– The tokens of battle are floated away: The booming no longer makes sullen the air, And the silence of night seems as holy as prayer.
Gray shadows still linger the beeches among, And scarce has the earliest matin been sung, Ere Alice with Beverly pale at her side, Yet firm as his mother, is ready to ride.
With sympathy, womanly, tender, divine,– With lint and with bandage, with bread and with wine,– She hastes to the battle-field, eager to bear Relief to the wounded and perishing there: To breathe, like an angel of mercy, the breath Of peace over brows that are fainting in death.