Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1883-04-11
For the Vermol
Patience Waite.
nj LUCIA Z. rREviTT.

nj LUCIA e. fREvtTT.
We were little girls, my sister and |, when |
my aunt took us to the Waite homestead
for the first time. We went "across lots"
through the narrow lane to the pasture over
rambling stonewall, across the merry little
brook and up the steep, almost perpendicu-
lar hill, to the breezy upland pasture which
is all aglow with little yellow blossoms in
June, and later on is light by dazzling
match Of goldenrod. That high, wind
swept pasture always gives me feeling Of
upliftedness, as though had been snatched
like Ganymede from common things and set
down in the presence Of the gods, but not to
be cup-bearer. The winds are my cup
bearers, and they bring me wine Of purest,
clearest air, spicy with the fragrance caught
from the pine.clad hillsides 1t penetrates
my whole being and my heart grows lighter,
my step more elastic with the inspiration
of it. We followed grass green cartpath
along the brow Of the hill, the woods at our
left, the sunny pasture at our right, till we
came to place where the path divides. |
never can lose the childish impression that
this is an illustration of the Scriptural al
legory, and in my mind these two woodsy,
brush grown paths always stand for the
" straight and narrow way" and the /" broad
road which leads to destruction" cannot
remember which way my aunt led us, and
to this day do not know which path leads
to destruction and which to Patience
Waite's. But it does not make much dffer-
ence, for both are so overgrown with bushes
and blackberry vines that one soon loses
the path altogether. We went on through
deep, still woods, and pastures with sunny
knolls covered with wild straw berry vines
or rocky stretches clothed with the glossy
leaves and scarlet berries of the partridge
vine, till at last we came out into an open
field and right before us was the house
where Patience Waite lived. For years
1t seemed to me that this little, long,
low, yellow house was dropped right
down in the midst of fields and pas
lures and that the narrow, grass-grown
road wandering by it was part of the
dooryard. The house nestles costly in its
nook to the southeast, but sheltered on the
north and west by the rocky sleeps of rugged
old North Hill. That great pile of granite
boulders, with here and there strata of
quartz, where they used to find the big crys-
tails, clothed with patches of old forest and
fresh young growth this hill is something
like the people who built their houses in its
shelter and titled the land around Though,
stern, uncompromising, but strong and true
and upright, with now and then something
of real beauty in the midst Of the rough
ness, holy thoughts pure as the quartz crys-
tails, or little tendernesses like the ferns and
columbine that grew among the cliffs. l
remember how later in the day auntie and
Miss Patience took us up the road little
way and let US climb those wonderful cliffs
and gather the rock columbine that grew in
such abundance Beautiful with the pale
green ferns and the little tender leaves aud
blossoms of early summer, the roadsides
were that day. A few months later they
would be all aAame with Haunting naples and
sumachs, and every fence corner would be
crimson with laden barberry bushes. Then
they took US to the spring which for years
had supplied the family with water. That
spring 1t was like an enchanted well in
fairy tale, and we children were wild
with delight over it, A little beaten path
led from the house down where it was hid
den among the bushes. There overhung by
green branches was little basin followed
out of the earth and walled around with
stones, where we could easily dip our tin
cups and drink of the magical water. No
water that flows from modern pump or faucet
can equal that which came up clear and
sparkling, or dripped back with musical
splash into the cool, shaded basin. Aud this
little yellow house, with the rough hillside
rising up behind it, with the sunny fields
and pastures in front and the magic spring
down beyond the kitchen garden, this was
Patience Waite's home. Here she lived
with her father and mother, old people of
nearly fourscore. The mother was feeble
then, withered, bent old woman but the
father still worked his little farm himself.
used to see him come to church with Pa
tience every Sunday, in an ancient four
wheeled chaise, drawn by an old white-faced
sorrel horse-the plain, elderly woman, and
the hale, hearty old man with his white
hair and weather-beaten face He died
first. His wife soon followed him, and Pa
tience was left alone in the old homestead,
her years of patient service ended.
1t was years after that first visit that |
learned Patience Waite's story, for even
into the life Of this plain, hard-working
woman had come a romance. Further back
among the hills, in another low, rambling
farmhouse, a sturdy New England hoy had
grown up to young manhood, while the
years were making Patience into bright and
blooming maiden. Not beautiful, she could
never have been that, even in her fairest
days, but Reuben Freeman knew that be-
meath the plain exterior there beat warm
true heart, and 80 Patience had lover.
The farmer-people approved the choice of
their children, and all went smoothly till
the gold fever broke out, and one day
Reuben came to his sweetheart eager with
new hopes and plans. "Why, Patience"
he said, al could lay up more money in one
year out there than | could in lifetime
here. II go out now in year or so, i can
make few hundreds or thousands may be,
then I'll come back and we'll be married
with something to start on. You will wait
for me, won't you, Patience 7"
With sinking at her heart as she
thought of the multitude of maddened gold.
seekers, and a dreary foreboding that the
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