like everything else in my early life, my aunt mary is a memory that is shrouded in mist. i have no idea when i first heard of her or first saw her, but both events were while i was very young. neither can i now separate my earlier impressions of aunt mary from those that must have been formed when i had grown into my boyhood. it was some time after she was fixed in my mind before i knew that there was an uncle ezra, and that he was aunt mary’s husband. they had never had any children, and had always lived alone. whenever either one was spoken of, or any event or affair connected with their lives was referred to, it was always aunt mary instead of uncle ezra.

when i first remember them, they were old, or at least they seemed old to me. they had a little farm not far from our home; and i 221sometimes used to go down the dusty road to their house for eggs, butter, and buttermilk. aunt mary was famed throughout the region for the fine butter she made; and, either from taste or imagination, i was so fond of it that i would eat no other kind.

aunt mary lived in a two-story white house with a wing on one side. in front was a picket fence, whitewashed so often that it fairly shone. two large elm-trees stood just outside the fence, and a little gate opened for the footpath from the road, and next to this were bars that could be taken down to let teams drive in and out. in the front yard were a number of evergreen trees trimmed in such a way as to leave a large green ball on top. a door and several windows were in the front of the house, and another door and more windows on the side next the wing, which was mainly used for a woodshed and summer kitchen. a little path ran from the gate to the side door, and this was covered with large flat stones, which were kept so clean that they were almost spotless. there was no path running to the front door, although two stone steps led down to the ground. the house was always white, as if freshly painted the day before. each of the windows had outside shutters (which we called blinds), and these were painted blue. i well remember these shutters, for all the others that i had ever seen were painted green, and i wondered why everyone did not know that blue was much the most beautiful color for blinds. the front door was never opened, and the front shutters were always tightly closed. whenever any of us went to the house, we knew that we must go to the side door. if perchance a stranger knocked at the front door, aunt mary would come around the corner of the house and ask him to come to the kitchen.

through all the country aunt mary was known for her “neatness.” this had grown to a disease, the ruling passion of her life. it was never easy to get any of the other boys to go with me to aunt mary’s when i went for butter. none of them liked her, and they all knew that she did not care for them. i remember that when i first used to go there she would meet me at the side door and ask me to stay out in the yard or go into the woodshed while she got the butter or eggs. then she would bring me a lump of sugar or a fried cake 223(which she called a nut-cake) made from dough boiled in lard, and which was very fine, especially when fresh and hot, and tell me not to get any crumbs on the stone steps or on the woodshed floor. sometimes uncle ezra would come in from the barn or fields while i was there, and he always seemed to be kind and friendly, and would take me out to the pigpen while he poured the pails of swill into the trough. i used to think it great sport to see the grunting hogs rushing and shoving and tumbling over each other, and standing in the trough to get all the swill they could. none of them ever seemed to have enough, or to care whether the others had their share of swill or not. i shall always feel that i learned a great deal about human nature by helping uncle ezra feed his hogs.

uncle ezra was a man who said but little. i never found him in the house; he was always out on the farm, or in the barn, or sometimes in the woodshed. this seemed the nearest that he ever came to the house. uncle ezra was a short man with a bald head and a round face. he had white whiskers and a little fringe of white hair around his head. he had no teeth, at least none that i can remember to have seen. he was slightly stooping, and was lame from rheumatism; and he wore a round black hat, and a brown coat buttoned tightly around his waist, and trousers made of some sort of brown drilling, and almost always rubber boots. in the woodshed he kept another pair of trousers and clean boots, which he put on when he went into the house to get his meals, or after it was too late to stay outside. i never heard him joke or laugh, or say anything angry or unkind. he always spoke of aunt mary as “the old woman,” and showed no feeling or emotion of any sort in connection with her. whenever he was asked about any kind of business, he directed inquirers to “the old woman.”

aunt mary was tall and thin and very straight. her hair was white, and done up in a knot on the back of her head. it seems as if she wore a sort of striped calico dress, and an apron over this. no doubt she sometimes wore other clothes; but she has made her impression on my memory in this way. poor thing! like all the rest of the mortals who ever lived and died, she doubtless tried to make the best impression she could, and at some fateful time this image was cast upon my mind, and there it stayed forever, and gets printed in a book,—the only one that ever held her name. the real person may have been very different indeed, and the fault have been not at all with her, but with the poor substance on which the shadow fell.

i can remember aunt mary only in one particular way; and when her name is called, and she steps out from the dim, almost forgotten past, i see the tall, spare old woman, with two or three long teeth and a wisp of snow-white hair, and a dress with stripes running up and down, making her seem even taller and thinner than she really was. i see her, through the side door which opened from the room which was kitchen, dining-room, and living-room combined. i am a barefooted child standing on the stone steps outside, and looking in through the open door. i am nibbling slowly and prudently at a delicious nut-cake, and wondering if there are any more where that one came from, and if she will bring me another when this is eaten up, and thinking that if i really knew she would i need not make this one last so long. almost opposite the door 226stands the cooking-stove. i can see it now, with its two short legs in front, and its two tall ones in the back. there is the sliding hearth, used to regulate the draught. back of this, and above the hearth, is the little square iron box where wood is put in; over this are the holes for pots and kettles; and farther back, and above all, is the tall oven almost on a level with aunt mary’s shoulders. on the oven is a pan of dish-water, and she is wringing out a rag and for the thousandth time wiping the spotless oven. when this is done, she goes downstairs to the cellar, and gets the butter in the little tin pail, then goes to the cupboard and finds another nut-cake and brings them to the door. then she looks carefully down to the stone steps to see if i have left any crumbs, and puts the pail and the nut-cake into my waiting hands. before i go, she asks me about my father and mother, my brothers and sisters; whether the washing has been done this week; whether my sister is going to take music-lessons this fall; whether there is water enough in the dam to run the mill; and then she bids me hurry home lest the butter should melt on the way.

aunt mary did not live in the kitchen because there was no other room. after a time i learned that there were a parlor and a spare bedroom on the lower floor, and that the front door opened into a hall that led to the parlor and then on to the kitchen at the back. as i grew older and gained her confidence, she told me that if i would go out in the tall grass by the pump and wipe my feet carefully she would let me come into the house. as i came up to the door, she looked at me suspiciously, to see that there was no dirt on my feet or clothes, and set me down in a straight wooden chair; then she kept on with her dish-rag, and plied me with questions as to the health of the various members of the family, and how they were progressing with their work. she never left the high oven, with its everlasting dish-pan, except to wipe imaginary dirt from some piece of furniture, and then go back to wring the cloth from the water once again. although she almost always gave me a nut-cake or a piece of pie, she never invited me to dinner, and always asked me to go outside to eat.

by slow degrees she told me about her parlor and spare bedroom. and one day, 228after watching me wipe my feet with special care, she took me into the hall, cautiously opened the parlor door, and let me into the forbidden room. as we went into the hall and the parlor, she took pains that no flies should follow through the doors; and then, when these were closed and we were safely inside the cool dark room, she slowly and cautiously pushed back the curtains, raised the window just enough to put through her long thin hand and turn the little blue slats of the window-blinds to let in some timid rays of light. then she pointed out the various pieces of furniture in the parlor, with all the pride of possession and detail of description of a lackey who shows wandering americans the belongings of an old english castle or country seat. on the floor was a real brussels carpet, with great red and black flower figures. a set of cane-seated chairs—six in all—were placed by twos against the different sides of the walls; while a large rocking-chair was near the spare bedroom, and in the corner a walnut whatnot on which were arranged shells and stones. near the centre was a real marble-top table, with a great bible and a red plush album in the middle. 229a square box sheet-iron stove, with black glistening pipe, stood on one side of the room on a round zinc base. on the walls were many pictures hung with big red cord on large glass-headed nails. there was a crayon portrait of her father, a once famous preacher, and also one of her mother; two or three yarn mottoes in black walnut frames hung above the doors, and some chromos, which she said had come with tea, completed the adornment of the walls. the elegance of all i saw made the deepest impression on my childish mind. not a fly was in sight, and everything was without blemish or spot. i could not refrain from expressing my admiration and surprise, and my regret that everyone in town could not see this beautiful parlor. then aunt mary confided to me that sometime she was going to have a party and invite all her friends. then she began looking doubtfully at the streaks of sunlight in the room, and casting her eyes around the ceiling and the walls to see if perchance a stray fly might have come through the door; and then she went to the window and pushed back the long stiff lace curtains, and closed the blinds, leaving us once more in 230the dark. of course i never could forget that parlor, though aunt mary did not take me there again.

sometime afterwards, when i went for butter, i missed her at the high oven where she always stood with the dish-cloth in her hand. when i knocked, uncle ezra let me in. the big rocker had been drawn out into the kitchen, near the stove; and aunt mary, looking very white, sat in the chair propped up with pillows. i asked her if she was sick, and she answered no, but that she had been “feeling poorly” for some time past.

of course i must have heard all about her illness at the time, but this has faded from my mind. i remember only that uncle ezra came to the house one day, looking very sad, and when he spoke he simply said, “the old woman is dead.”

we children were all taken to the funeral. i shall always remember this event, for when we went through the little gate there stood the front door wide open, and we went in through the hall. aunt mary was lying peacefully in her coffin in the front parlor. all the chairs in the house had been brought in. uncle ezra sat with downcast head near the spare bedroom door, a few neighbors and relatives were seated in chairs around the room, and overhead, on the white ceiling, the flies were buzzing and swarming as if in glee. the old preacher was there, and i remember that in his sermon he referred to aunt mary’s “neatness”; and here i know that uncle ezra groaned.

the day was rainy, and the neighbors had tracked mud on the nice brussels carpet. i looked around the room that aunt mary had shown me with such pride and care. the muddy shoes of the neighbors who had gathered about the coffin were making great spots on the floor; the ceiling was growing blacker each minute with the gathering flies. a great bluebottle, larger than the rest, was buzzing on the glass above aunt mary’s head, trying to get inside the lid. the windows were wide open, the curtains drawn aside, and the blinds thrown back. slowly i looked at the muddy floor, the swarming flies, and the people gathered in aunt mary’s parlor; and then i thought of the party that she had told me she was going to give.