ENDURA: OR, THREE GENERATIONS. WE CHAPTER I. THE SETTLER. "Nature I'll court, in her sequested haunts, By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, And health, and peace, and contemplation dwell." E will lead you through uncertain paths, over stone walls buried beneath the debris and mould of ages, by the side of stream-beds that were once gurgling brooks, through tangled brushwood and brambles where once the smooth path led to a neighboring house, the path now choked and lost, except to him whose childish feet were wont to stray therein. Near this path was once a quaint old house of which naught remains but a pile of rough stones with plastered chinks-a crumbling monument of the builder long since forgotten. This old chimney brings to mind a long train of recollections, some sweet, some bitter. Here lived, long ago, the hardy tiller of the now worn-out soil. These hills once echoed to the sound of the woodman's axe, as it cleft the great oaks which have given place to their stinted successors that at present cumber the ground. Each generation seems to have scraped closer and closer to the bone, until it is almost bare, and to-day the sturdy farmer barely gathers the pittance which suffices to feed and poorly clothe his growing family. We know it was not always thus; comparative wealth was once found even here. The lines by Oliver Goldsmith, upon Old England, written a century and a quarter since, are to-day just as applicable to New England: "A time there was, ere England's griefs began, Indeed, the whole poem, "The Deserted Village," might well have been written for many a village in New England to-day. About the time the above lines were written, the agricultural interests of America were in their infancy, and yet, we might almost say, the Eastern States had reached their most happy, if not their most prosperous, stage. It is certain that the same amount of land supported fully four times as many inhabitants then as it does to-day; and who shall say that there was not more real happiness throughout that particular section of the country than there is at the present time? Comfortable homes, thrift and prosperity, where to-day is penury and parsimony. Indeed, it behooves the inhabitants who still remain at these old homes to be prudent, if not parsimonious, and it is little wonder if they have grown mean and bigoted amid the general decay. The hardy settlers of the New England States have a record that their descendants have never attained-a record for succeeding in the face of disaster and discouragement that the bravest and the best may well emulate. The forests became meadows, the apple-tree took the place of the oak, and corn-fields covered the hillsides and the valleys. The domain was sub-divided, line fences were built, stone walls gradually replaced the chestnut rails, with gaps and bar-ways here and there, from one field to another; crops were rotated, the meadow became a cornfield, and then the potato-vines covered the ground, and then the oats were scattered and grew apace with the clover, the redtop and the herd-grass planted and taking root at the same time, so that the fourth year it became a meadow meadow again. All seasons had their charms, and the happy husbandman was grateful for allthe spring that brought buds and promise, the summer with its fruits, and the autumn with its abundance, while winter brought rest and social enjoyments. The light work necessary to be done was a recreation. While the farmer did his indoor work, the good wife carded and spun, and wove or knitted, as the case might be, while the children studied or ate the apples and nuts which they had helped to gather ere the earth became bound in its icy chains. It was in the latter part of the last century, when the good people of good old New England were enjoying all that a contented, happy people could possibly enjoy, that a young man came into the thriving town of S and purchased a small tract of woodland, with a small clearing, which seemed most prolific of rocks and cobblestones. A pretty little stream went singing on over the rocks, and through the lowlands; now laughing in the sunshine; now plunging down into the crystal pool beneath; now hidden in the wild grass that grew by its side; anon, coqueting with the slender twigs of the willow that bent to kiss it as it passed; still singing its beautiful song "Men may come, and men may go; But I go on forever." Jeremiah Ivers concluded to cast his lot amid scenes like these. His cabin, or hut, as it really was, was built after the style of the Indian wigwam, by standing poles on end, leaning together at the top, with a small aperture through which the smoke from the fire, which was built in the center, was expected to find its way, after blinding for the time the tenant who was kept in-doors by the inclemency of the weather. A large, flat stone, standing on end, was supposed to represent the fire-place, while from long poles suspended from the top were hung the pot-hooks and trammels, well gauged to accommodate the fire that was to boil the water and cook the food. Upon either side were spaces alloted for household utensils, for a general storehouse, and for a bunk, or bunks, as the case might be. Some saplings, tied together with withes, calked and lined with flags, or grass, constituted the door, which fastened on the inside by a latch, with a strong leather strap passing through a hole to the outside, so that by pulling the string, or strap, the latch would be raised and one could enterhence, the saying of the latch-string being out to a friend. At night the string was pulled in, and so the door was fastened. Jerry Ivers took great interest and pride in his hut, and when it was completed, with its bunk of clean, dry leaves and glowing coals of fire, it pre sented an air of comfort that a tired man might well covet. Gradually a shed was erected, well thatched with leaves and mud. In good time a cow and a pig were added, when another tenement was erected. Soon turkeys and chickens and geese and ducks were seen around the isolated habitation. They made their nests, and laid their eggs, and hatched their young, and multiplied, and young Ivers was almost happy. True, wild animals would sometimes raid his hen-roosts, or destroy his young turkeys; but he was content to raise three-quarters of what the old ones brought from their nests. From chopping and grubbing came plowing and sowing, when cattle or horses became necessary. By trading and bartering, the young farmer at length became the happy possessor of a pair of steers. Two-year-old calves could scarcely be called oxen; but it was wonderful what the tough little creatures could do, and they grew as they worked until they were indeed oxen; and well repaid their owner's care and attention. One by one the implements of husbandry were brought to the settlement. Carts, plows, harrows, etc., were made and taken care of, until scarcely a thing was needed for successful farming, as farming was conducted at that time. Mr. Ivers began to feel that his hut had done its work, and that a modest house could be built with little expense other than his own labor. He could exchange work with others who lived but a few miles distant; and thus he could get assistance for doing the raising and heavier part of the building. When it was enclosed with rough boards, he rived and shaved the shingles for the entire outside and roof, and in due course of time he put them on. When the outside was finished he turned his attention to the interior, which required rather more skill than the exterior. A carpenter was employed for a few days, with whose help the house soon became habitable. At first a few benches and a rough table were all the furniture the mansion could boast of. Half a dozen splint-bottom chairs were soon added without paint or polish. Then a fall-leaf table of curled maple, and then a bedstead corded and pinned, with a good under-bed of clean rye-straw, and that old-time New England luxury, the feather-bed, completed the outfit. It appeared to the young |