Spring passed slowly on, things were surely moving. The petals had fallen, and tiny round things appeared in their places. Trees were coming to full foliage, their branches swaying, leaves fluttering in the breeze. Plowing, harrowing and seeding were over. He had been given a tiny patch in the main garden to be all his own, and with toy tools he worked the soil and planted flower seeds. He became impatient when certain nasturtium seeds failed to show above the surface, so he dug them up with his fingers, only to be astonished that they had really put forth roots. He pressed them back into the earth. To his sorrow that was the end of them. For a first attempt however he did pretty well.
He learned little by little. He was now abundantly freckled, and in a measure toothless. His heavy thatch of black hair seemed to have known no brush. His hands were soiled, his clothes were dirty. Hatless, barefooted, his short pants rolled above his knees, and unkempt with activity, he was effectively masked as a son of the soil. To the passerby, he was a stout, stocky, miniature ruffian, let loose upon a helpless world. The more discerning noted two fine eyes, clear and bright. He saw all things just as they were. The time had not arrived for him to penetrate the surface. Exceedingly emotional—though unaware of it—the responses of his heart, the momentary fleeting trances, the sudden dreaming within a dream, perturbed him.
He wished to know about these; he wished to know what it was that enthralled him time after time. And in this he failed also; he could not interpret—few can. For that which perturbed him lay far deeper than his thoughts—a living mystic presence within the selfsame open that was his. Per contra, he was generally regarded as a practical little fellow who liked to work. Casually speaking the family was “without the pale.” The father had some nondescript notions, without form, and void. He was attracted by the artistic, especially by the painter’s art. He was well posted as to the names and works of contemporaries, and was a fairly good judge of landscape and still-life; also he admired a fine orchestra. He had tried church after church seeking what he wanted. What he wanted was not priest or preacher, but a thinker and orator. At last he found, in Theodore Parker, the satisfaction of his quest. Going alone, he attended regularly. From this it may be inferred that he leaned toward Unitarianism. Nothing of the sort—he leaned toward oratory. If Unitarianism went with it, well and good. It was of no moment. He praised Parker highly.
Mother had a fixed idea that existence was continuous in a series of expanding becomings, life after life, in a spiral ascending and ever ascending until perfection should be reached in a bodiless state of bliss. This ethereal belief, opened to view the beauty and purity of her heart. Moreover, she read with avidity Renan’s Vie de Jesu.
Grandpa looked upon religion as a curious and amusing human weakness—as conclusive evidence of universal stupidity. Grandma alone was devout. Quietly she believed in her God; in the compassion of His Son, in the wondrous love He bore—a love freely given to the outcast—a love so great, so tender, so merciful, that for its sake he yielded up in agony His earthly being, the supreme sacrifice, to the end that all men might be blessed thereby; that, as His mortality passed, His supernal love might be revealed to men throughout all time; that His divine being ascended through the firmament to join the Father in Glory on the throne of Heaven. These things she firmly believed. They were the atmosphere of her inner life, the incentive of her daily deeds. She believed in doctrine—and it may be in dogma. She held the scriptures of the Hebrews to be sacrosanct—as verily inspired of God. She did not seek to proselyte. She was satisfied to abide in her faith, undisturbed and undisturbing. Perhaps this is why her grandson loved her so. Innocent of creed, of doctrine and dogma, he loved her because she was good, he loved her because she was true, he loved her because to his adoring eyes she was beautiful. Such was Grandmama.
Otherwise Grandmama was the responsible head of a family consisting of herself, her husband, her son and her grandson. She was methodical, orderly, knew the true meaning of thrift, entered every item promptly in the account books, struck the monthly balance, had a fine mind for figures, and withal she was prudently generous. Her main business was to give private lessons in French to certain brahmins and their offspring in that curious
