OLD JEREMIAH;
OR, SUNNY DAYS.
IT was a sulty morning in August when
I first halted under the shade of Jeremiah Crispin's old sycamore
trees. Bless the old house, with its red eaves, and the little
shoe-maker's shop adjoining, where for many a long year he had
hammered away at his lap-stone, at peace with all mankind! His wife
slept quietly in the moss-grown church-yard near by; and Jeremiah and
his daughter Xantippe were sole tenants of the red-eaved house. I beg
pardon of Miss Xantippe, for allowing her father to precede her! It
is a sin I should not dare to be guilty of, were there not a good
twenty miles between us; for, truth to tell, the old man's shop was
the only place where he could reign unmolested by petticoat
government. Dear old Jeremiah! When the house was too hot for us,
what an ark of refuge was the old shop; and what cosey talks we used
to have over that old lap-stone! With what native politeness he would
clear a place for me to sit beside him, where "my dress should not be
soiled!" What long, wonderful stories I used to hear about "the Brit-
ish;" and how skilfully he wove "a moral" into the warp and woof of his narrative! How many sermons in disguise did I voraciously swallow! and how sorry we were when Xantippe's shrill voice called us in "to supper!" With what a sublime unconsciousness of "outward appearances" did Jeremiah, in his leather apron and rolled-up shirt-sleeves, grasp the back of the rude chair, with his toil-worn hands, and say "grace,"—travelling over the world, never forgetting a tribe or nation that the sun shone upon,—embracing Jew and Hottentot, black and white, in the open arms of his Christian philanthropy,—to the manifest discomfort of the carnal-minded hens and chickens, under the table, who were impatiently waiting for their share of the loaves and fishes! How patiently he listened, for the five hundred and fortieth time, to Xantippe's account of the obstreperous conduct of old Brindle in "kicking over the milk-pail;" and of the ingratitude of the hens, who persisted in laying Jeremiah's eggs in neighbor Hiram Smith's barn! How uncomplainingly he crumbed Xantippe's sour bread—manufactured simultaneously with the perusal of "The Young Woman's Guide"—into his scanty allowance of milk! How circumspectly he set the four legs of that chair down in its appropriate corner! How many impromptu errands he got up to the village, after sundown, for "leather" and "meal," (?) as much to my delight, as to the astonishment and indignation of the asthmatic old horse, who
had a way of his own of remonstrating, by quietly standing still every three paces, until reminded by the whip, that—when Xantippe was not present—Jeremiah held the reins! What sweet mouthfuls of berries and pretty flowers found their way into the wagon, never forgetting the mullen stalk and elder blow, to stow away under the seat as a propitiatory "olive branch" to Miss Xantippe! How many nights have I been lulled to sleep with the song of "happy Canaan," issuing from the old raftered chamber across the entry! How many mornings, with the first golden sunbeams, has come to my ear the tremulous voice of old Jeremiah, "wrestling" like the angel at "day-break," for a blessing!
God be thanked,—in this day of many creeds, of intolerance, and sham piety,—these memories sweep over my soul's dark hours, soothing as the sweet music of David's harp to Saul's chafed spirit.
Jeremiah's simple, unpretending piety, and childlike trust and love, chase away every shadow of unbelief, and again I am a guileless child, listening with round-eyed wonder to lessons of wisdom,—then but half understood,—from the silver-haired patriarch, over the old lap-stone.