Cellar Holes

THESE reminders of human habitation are hidden in the most unexpected places. Once, pushing my way through the tangled underbrush in a forest, I came across a stone wall marking what was once a field, and not far from this was the cellar hole indicating the position of the house. I knew that this section had been a thriving centre of the iron foundries during the Revolution, but now it is lost beneath a thick growth of pine, birch, and maple trees, which shut out the sun completely.

Such an encounter makes one curious about the human beings who lived there and worked hard to gain sustenance from fields now unknown and forgotten. Some few, it is true, have left their indelible imprint upon the history and literature of the country. But for the most part only the mosscovered stones in the graveyard near by testify to their former presence.

A remark made by a companion one day as we motored through a forest of second-growth timber on a mountain top brought to light one of my most romantic discoveries.

‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘there were two famous little girls living in this region who wrote poetry.’ And that was all the speaker knew about them. Having this ‘germ’ in mind, I made inquiries among old-timers when opportunity afforded until I had collected a few facts for guidance. In time I rediscovered the ‘child poetesses of the Berkshires.’

These little girls were Elaine and Dora Goodale, living with their parents at Sky Farm, whose once fertile fields were beneath the forest through which we had motored. They had published their first book of poems, Apple Blossoms, during the seventies, in their early teens, which gained for them the entrance into the Berkshire ‘jungle of literary lions’ as ‘cubs.’ In the Great Barrington Library, my Mecca of research, I found the volume, reading it meticulously to restore the home and farm life into activity before my mental vision. There was little difficulty in revealing the intelligent parents who inspired their daughters into expressive verse. Of the zealous farmer, —

Of the mother, with understanding vision for her family, there was written on the birth of a child: —

After the reading of several poems of the inner home life and the outdoor life, it was a simple matter to reconstruct a vivid picture of the mountain farm. These were magic; achieving wind-blown, sunny, prosperous fields, spring flowers, and apple blossoms, and then the cold, desolate winter shutting all in from the valley below. ‘Oh dear Sky farm! Oh rare Sky farm! Rejoice, today rejoice!’

After several weeks’ search, I found a man who knew where the farm was, and asked him to guide us to the old house.

‘Just a cellar hole in the woods, now,’ he replied, and looked rather perplexed at my eager request to see it.

Following him into the woods, we found all that was left of the old home hidden beneath some aged beech trees — just a cellar hole overgrown with sumac. The two little girls accompanying me entered into the spirit of this adventure, consciously projecting themselves into the thoughts of those lively little girls of the past. They found hidden apple trees through whose hoary limbs Nature was struggling fiercely to continue her creative activities. The beloved Sky Farm is no more, but the gnarled apple trees perfume the air in the springtime with their pink blossoms, keeping a pact with the little girl who wrote in their shade: ‘Touch us gently, gently, Time.’

Of course, after this my one desire was to know what happened to the girls when they grew up. I could find nothing of Dora’s life, but much of Elaine’s, which was full of interest. Educated at home in her early years, she was sent to Hampton, Virginia, to teach Indians and negroes. Two years later she was sent to the Sioux Indian Reservation in Dakota and later received a government appointment to teach Indians at White River Camp. Following this, she was made superintendent of all the Indian schools in that state. She was married later to Dr. Charles Alexander Eastman, a Sioux Indian, graduate of Dartmouth and of Boston University.

Dr. Eastman, son of Many Lightnings, has written many books which are considered our most authentic stories of Indian life. Inquiries at libraries disclosed the fact that they are great favorites with boys. Indian Boyhood is the story of his own life, for he was fifteen before he came to live in civilization. By looking for his dedications in his books, I discovered the Eastmans had one son, Ohiyesa, — Dr. Eastman’s own Indian name, — and six daughters.

Elaine has written several books in collaboration with her husband since her youthful attempt, Journal of a Farmer’s Daughter, which I could not find. But one day I discovered a treasure from her pen called Little Brother o’ Dreams, a wistful romance, having as a setting her own Sky Farm.