The Harvest of Years

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The Harvest of Years

Project Gutenberg's The Harvest of Years, by Martha Lewis Beckwith Newell This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Harvest of Years
Author: Martha Lewis Beckwith Newell
Release Date: May 6, 2006 [EBook #18332]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE
HARVEST OF YEARS
BY
M.L.B. EWELL
NEW YORK G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS 182 Fifth Avenue 1880

Copyright by G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS 1880

TO MY FAMILY
THIS RECITAL OF MY LIFE IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
Old friends and other days have risen about me as I have written, recalling, through my pen, these treasured experiences; and the pictured characters are to me as real as earthly hands, whose touch we feel. I have written as the story runs, with no effort at adorning, and those who love me best will not bring to it the cold criticisms that may come from other readers. To illustrate the truth of "a little leaven's leavening the whole lump" has been my purpose, and if this purpose can be even partially achieved, I shall deem myself sufficiently rewarded. To those whom in previous years I have met in the field of my mission, whose heart-felt sympathy and interest became the tide which bore me on, as from public platform (as well as in private ways) I have, for truth's dear sake, been impelled to utterances, to these friends I may hope this volume will not come as a stranger, but that through it I may receive, as in the days gone by, the grasp of their friendly hands.
M.L.B.E.
New Haven, Conn., June, 1880.

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--Emily Did It 1
II.--From Girlhood to Womanhood 5
III.--Changes 11
IV.--Our New Friend 18
V.--Louis Robert 31
VI.--A Question and a Problem 49
VII.--Wilmur Benton 60
VIII.--Fears and Hopes 71
IX.--The New Faith 84
X.--Matthias Jones 95
XI.--The Teaching of Hosea Ballou 109
XII.--A Remedy for Wrong-talking 123
XIII.--Perplexities 137
XIV.--Louis returns 150
XV.--Emily finds peace 164
XVI.--Mary Harris 177
XVII.--Precious Thoughts 210
XVIII.--Emily's Marriage 226
XIX.--Married Life 240
XX.--Life Pictures and Life Work 254
XXI.--John Jones 274
XXII.--Clara leaves us 290
XXIII.--Aunt Hildy's Legacy 317

THE HARVEST OF YEARS
CHAPTER I.
"EMILY DID IT."
Among my earliest recollections these three words have a place, coming to my ears as the presages of a reprimand. I had made a frantic effort to lift my baby-brother from his cradle, and had succeeded only in upsetting baby, pillows and all, waking my mother from her little nap, while brother Hal stood by and shouted, "Emily did it." I was only five years of age at that eventful period, and was as indignant at the scolding I received when trying to do a magnanimous act, take care of baby and let poor, tired mother sleep, as I have been many times since, when, unluckily, I had upset somebody's dish, and "Emily did it" has rung its hateful sound in my ears. To say I was unlucky was not enough; I was untimely, unwarranted and unwanted, I often felt, in early years in everything I attempted, and the naturally quick temper I possessed was only aggravated and tortured into more harassing activity, rendering me on the whole, perhaps, not very amiable. Interesting I could not be, since whatever I attempted I seemed fated to say or do something to hurt somebody's feelings, and, mortified at my failures, I would draw myself closer to myself, shrinking from others, and saying again and again, "Emily, why must you do it?"
Introducing myself thus clouded to your sympathy, I cannot expect my reader would be interested in a rehearsal of all my early trials.
You can imagine how it must have been as I marched along from childhood through girlhood into womanhood, while I still clung to my strange ways and peculiar sayings; upsetting of inkstands at school, mud tracking over the carpet in the "best room" at home, unconscious betrayal of mischief plans, etc., etc., made up the full catalogue of my days and their experiences, and although I did have a few warm friends, I could not be as other girls were, generally happy and beloved.
Mother was the only real friend I had; it seemed to me, as I grew older, she learned to know that I was too often blamed, where at heart I was wholly blameless, and when sometimes she stroked my hair, and said, "My dear child, how unlucky you are," I felt that I could do anything for her, and she never, to my remembrance, said "Emily did it."
From my father I often heard it. Hal rarely, if ever, said anything else, and if I did sometimes darn his stockings a little too thick, it was not such a