The Old Brown House

The brown house stood a little ways off the road. It was very old. It had a low roof and looked rather run-down. It almost looked deserted except for a thin column of smoke that wound slowly above the roof.

But someone did live there, and if you had pushed open the creaking door you would have seen an old woman, wrinkled and grey, sitting by the silent hearth, stirring the dull fire, or looking absently from the window.

It was Aunt Ruth Jones, as the neighbours called her. No one knew very much about her, except that she seemed to be a queer old woman – a sort of hermit, living all alone in the neglected old house. She had inherited it, along with the small farm next door, when her parents died, some thirty years earlier.

When she first moved in the neighbours were a bit curious to find out who the new occupant was. They found a tall, thin woman about thirty-four years of age. She kept to herself – did not like to join in the local gossip. They perceived her as shy and cold. Some thought that she was proud, and others said that her life had been one of disappointment. But no one had succeeded in drawing out her story, and gradually the old brown house and its occupant were left to themselves.

Years had gone by and the house became run-down. The walls were darkened with smoke; the windows dingy; the floor sunken in; there was nothing cheery in the ill-kept room, or in the face of Aunt Ruth. Some people become shrivelled and crumpled when left to themselves, and Aunt Ruth was such an one. I am afraid it was also narrowed and hardened by being shut off from humanity, with none to share her joys or grief, or to care indeed, if she had any.

As the days came and went, they brought nothing to her but a little round of chores, a bit of patchwork, or straw braiding, and occasionally a walk to the village store to buy the few articles she needed.

The pretty dresses that the other women wore, the stares of the girls, the glimpses of the happy homes she saw through windows as she walked along, and the noisy stir of life, only made more striking the contrast of her lonely life. Gladly she would hasten back to her own silent fireside, where the cats, at least, were glad to have her presence. Old Brindle knew the sound of her steps, and tossed her head impatiently for her food when she returned. The hens cackled merrily, and scarcely stirred from their tracks, as her dress brushed their shining feathers.

The care of these creatures was a kind of company, and on frosty mornings Aunt Ruth might be seen watching them eating greedily, while her own breakfast was yet untouched, and her feet and fingers were numb with cold.

Though no one shared her heart or home, yet there was sometimes one bright presence within those dim walls, a childish, questioning voice, and sweet laughter.

It was Bessie Lane. One June day, on her way to school, a sudden storm came up and drove the child to the old brown house to find shelter. And ever since that time, the happy little girl, with flaxen hair and clear eyes, would go to the forsaken old house to chat with Aunt Ruth. As that springing step was heard, and the latch lifted, there would come a gleam of brightness to the faded eyes, and a smile to the thin mouth.

The child found ready entrance to the lonely heart; children will, you know, they are so innocent, as wise old heads will agree.

“What in the world makes you visit that old hermit?” said Eliza Ray, her schoolmate, one morning. “Bridget, our hired girl, says she is sure such a strange looking old hag she must be a witch.”

“Witch or not, I like her;” and Bessie Lane tossed up her hat, and pranced off after a fox squirrel down the road.

So Bessie kept up her visits, and the two would sit and talk together by the hours, Aunt Ruth showing her long-treasured trinkets, relics of years gone by, and detailing their history, till Bessie’s eyes would be wide open with wonder.

On this wintry morning, in which we have introduced her to you, sitting by the dull fire, and looking from the dingy window, the time of Bessie’s absence had been longer than usual. The sky was leaden, and the wind whistled down the chimney and shook the bricks.

Suddenly Aunt Ruth starts and peers through the window. There is a bright little hood and blue cloak approaching; she sees that, but not the carefully wrapped parcel Bessie is carrying, for she hurries to brighten the fire and brush the hearth.

“Good morning, Aunt Ruth. It has been ever so long since I?ve been here, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, a long time for a lonesome old body like me; but this is no place for the young and happy, I know.”

“Oh, yes it is, dear Aunt Ruthie. You must not say so. I love coming to visit you. But Uncle Jake has been so sick; he asked my parents to visit him and I went with them. It is such a long way to go; I thought we would never get there. And Oh, Aunt Ruth, I have not told you yet? – and the chubby face sobered.

“What is it, child?” picking up bits of litter from the floor. Somehow she always did so when Bessie was around, the hands involuntarily moved in little touches of order and neatness. The room was good enough for her: for the child it seemed dismal and must be brightened a little. But Aunt Ruth was unconscious that she was being called to a better life, or that a love for light and beauty was awakening her weary heart.

“Well, I will tell you; we are going to move away. I declare, I think it’s too bad to leave all the girls just as I began to like them, and you, too, Aunt Ruth. I don?t want to go one bit;” tears rolling down her face.

“Going away, my little girl is going away?” said Aunt Ruth seriously.

“Yes; and mother said we couldn’t move Chip, it would be such a bother, so I have given poor birdie away to Allie Smith;” tears flowing afresh. ?I let Amy Wells have my kitten, but I haven?t found a place for my poor little rose. See,” said Bessie, going to the table and removing the wrapper from her parcel, ?isn?t she a beauty? You will keep it to remember me by, and take care of it always, won?t you, Aunt Ruth?”

The little blossoms were out in full bloom and seemed to smile a benediction upon the old woman.

“Yes, yes child, I will keep your rose; no harm shall come to it.” The little plan seemed to carry her thoughts away, for she began talking absently to herself, then recalling her musing she said: “So you are going away; and you?ll forget about poor Aunt Ruth with so many new friends. Well, well, it’s natural.?

“No, no, indeed I shall not,? said Bessie, giving her a hearty hug, “and sometime I will come to see you.” They talked a long time, but at last, with a good-bye kiss to Aunt Ruth, and to the pet rose, she was gone like a flittering sunbeam.

Then the shadows seemed to come back to the inmate of the old house; but as her glance fell upon the flower, she began clearing a place for it to stand in the warmest corner, thinking to herself awhile:

“Just such roses I used to carry in my hand to the old stone church in Amsden when I was no bigger than Bessie. It seems like yesterday, but ah! It is a long time. Maybe if I could do like that again, it would not be so dark and lonesome. I think I?ll put the rose here by the south window, then if the child ever does come, she will see it from the gate.”

Bringing a little pine stand, she carefully placed the plant upon it. In doing so, she chanced to glance at the window. “Bless me! It never looked quite so dirty before;” and Aunt Ruth moved with new life, as she cleansed, rinsed, and polished the glass. But this being done, the old curtain seemed dingier than usual, shading the clear glass; so it was taken down, and another finer one unpacked from a drawer and put in its place.

The next morning, as she ate her lonely breakfast, she placed her chair to face the window and the rose. The sun was shining, and as the rays streamed across the room to the opposite wall, she noticed the cobwebs. That day the cobwebs were swept down, the other window washed, and the floor cleaned. The old house had not been so neat and cheery for many years.

Near the close of the week she went to the village, this time putting on a nice neat dress, rather than the old shabby one she used to wear. Somehow the pretty dresses that others wore, or their curious stares did not bother her any more. She pleasantly waved to a neighbour that she had not spoken to in years.

A strange feeling had come over her, –a feeling that she was one of the great human family after all, and the icy mountain of reserve began to thaw just a little. Her purchases made, she decided to take another road home. This road went past the little church. It had a light on, and though it was early, there were a few worshippers that had met to pray before the regular service.

They were singing now, and Aunt Ruth paused, as a clear triumphant voice was heard singing, “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair?” Spell-bound, she listed to the end of the song, never stirring from her tracks until a group of people passed near, then slowly she walked on, you might have heard her talking to herself:

“Oh, Ruth Jones, where are you? I used to sing that song too, in the same old church where I carried the roses, only it was years ago. I used to pray, too. I wonder if God would hear me now.”

That night, and many nights after, she could not sleep; the words of that song kept ringing in her ears, bringing up the old scenes and associations, until the great deep in her soul was broken up.

In her darkness she felt gropingly, feebly, for the old paths, and the good Spirit was all the time leading her back to the light. I cannot retrace for you all the way that she came. I only know that gradually, surely, the night wore away, and the Sun of peace shone upon her soul. She went to the church, where the song had that night stayed her footsteps, and listened to the words of life.

Her life became a blessing; for her nature was broadened, deepened and purified. The sick and needy learned to be glad at her coming, and little children ran to meet her.

And did Bessie Lane ever come again?

Yes, when June smiled upon the earth, the childish figure once more paused at the gate, but the blue eyes gazed bewilderingly around. “This isn’t the place. Aunt Ruth must have moved away.” Well might she think so; the house was neatly painted, the yard fence repaired, and up and down the path all sorts of flowers were blooming. Just then Bessie noticed a neatly dressed old lady tying up some vines.

“Can you tell me where Aunt Ruth Jones has gone? She used to live here.” Bessie stopped, and with one bound sprang into the woman’s arms, for it was Aunt Ruth herself.

“It is so beautiful here! How did it all happen?” cried the delighted child.

Aunt Ruth smiled brightly, and, taking Bessie by the hand, passed into the neat, cheerful room, and up to the south window, where the carefully tended rose was putting forth beauty and fragrance.

Bessie fairly danced with delight at the sight of the rose, but Aunt Ruth seated the child gently by her side, and told her how it had happened; how the gift of the little flower had at first touched her heart; of the holy song that would not let her sleep; and, lastly of God’s good Spirit that had so tenderly led her straying steps to the sun-gilt path of peace.

The loving gift of a small child had changed the life of Aunt Ruth. Everyone else simply stared at Aunt Ruth and left her alone. They could not take the time for her. She was judged as odd, but the love of a little girl, and her small gift changed her life. Is there someone that you can help by a small loving gift? Or is there someone who is alone and lonely and could use some company to cheer them up? Are we too busy with our lives to not take notice of the elderly and lonely? Jesus said, “What then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me? Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Matthew 25:35,36,40