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Hetty's Strange History   By: (1830-1885)

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By Anonymous



Daniel Deronda.



What lover best his love doth prove and show? The one whose words are swiftest, love to state? The one who measures out his love by weight In costly gifts which all men see and know? Nay! words are cheap and easy: they may go For what men think them worth: or soon or late, They are but air. And gifts? Still cheaper rate Are they at which men barter to and fro Where love is not!

One thing remains. Oh, Love, Thou hast so seldom seen it on the earth, No name for it has ever sprung to birth; To give one's own life up one's love to prove, Not in the martyr's death, but in the dearth Of daily life's most wearing daily groove .

II .

And unto him who this great thing hath done, What does Great Love return? No speedy joy! That swift delight which beareth large alloy Is guerdon Love bestowed on him who won A lesser trust: the happiness begun In happiness, of happiness may cloy, And, its own subtle foe, itself destroy. But steadfast, tireless, quenchless as the sun Doth grow that gladness which hath root in pain. Earth's common griefs assail this soul in vain. Great Love himself, too poor to pay such debt, Doth borrow God's great peace which passeth yet All understanding. Full tenfold again Is found the life, laid down without regret!



When Squire Gunn and his wife died, within three months of each other, and Hetty their only child was left alone in the big farm house, everybody said, "Well, now Hetty Gunn'll have to make up her mind to marry somebody." And it certainly looked as if she must. What could be lonelier than the position of a woman thirty five years of age sole possessor of a great stone house, half a dozen barns and out buildings, herds of cattle, and a farm of five hundred acres? The place was known as "Gunn's," far and wide. It had been a rich and prosperous farm ever since the days of the first Squire Gunn, Hetty's grandfather. He was one of Massachusetts' earliest militia men, and had a leg shot off at Lexington. To the old man's dying day he used to grow red in the face whenever he told the story, and bring his fist down hard on the table, with "damn the leg, sir! 'Twasn't the leg I cared for: 'twas the not having another chance at those damned British rascals;" and the wooden leg itself would twitch and rap on the floor in his impatient indignation. One of Hetty's earliest recollections was of being led about the farm by this warm hearted, irascible, old grandfather, whose wooden leg was a perpetual and unfathomable mystery to her. Where the flesh leg left off and the wooden leg began, and if, when the wooden leg stumped so loud and hard on the floor, it did not hurt the flesh leg at the other end, puzzled little Hetty's head for many a long hour. Her grandfather's frequent and comic references to the honest old wooden pin did not diminish her perplexities. He was something of a wag, the old Squire; and nothing came handier to him, in the way of a joke, than a joke at his own expense. When he was eighty years old, he had a stroke of paralysis: he lived six years after that; but he could not walk about the farm any longer. He used to sit in a big cane bottomed chair close to the fireplace, in winter, and under a big lilac bush, at the north east corner of the house, in summer. He kept a stout iron tipped cane by his side: in the winter, he used it to poke the fire with; in the summer, to rap the hens and chickens which he used to lure round his chair by handfuls of corn and oats. Sometimes he would tap the end of the wooden leg with this cane, and say, laughingly, "Ha! ha! think of a leg like that's being paralyzed, if you please. Isn't that a joke? It 's just as paralyzed as the other: damn those British rascals." And only a few hours before he died, he said to his son: "Look here, Abe, you put on my grave stone, 'Here lies Abraham Gunn, all but one leg... Continue reading book >>

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