The Bowden Reunion Page #2

"The Bowden Reunion" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a poignant short story that explores themes of family, nostalgia, and the passage of time. Set in a small New England town, the narrative revolves around a family gathering that brings together various generations of the Bowden family. As the characters reflect on their shared history and the changes in their lives, the story captures the complexities of familial relationships and the bittersweet nature of reunion. Jewett’s lyrical prose and keen observations highlight the emotional richness of homecoming and the enduring bonds that tie family members together across time.

• Short story

								

across the field.

Out of the chattering crowd of noisy children, and large-waisted women
whose best black dresses fell straight to the ground in generous folds,
and sunburnt men who looked as serious as if it were town-meeting day,
there suddenly came silence and order. I saw the straight, soldierly
little figure of a man who bore a fine resemblance to Mrs. Blackett, and
who appeared to marshal us with perfect ease. He was imperative enough,
but with a grand military sort of courtesy, and bore himself with solemn
dignity of importance. We were sorted out according to some clear design
of his own, and stood as speechless as a troop to await his orders. Even
the children were ready to march together, a pretty flock, and at the
last moment Mrs. Blackett and a few distinguished companions, the
ministers and those who were very old, came out of the house together
and took their places. We ranked by fours, and even then we made a long
procession.

There was a wide path mowed for us across the field, and, as we moved
along, the birds flew up out of the thick second crop of clover, and the
bees hummed as if it still were June. There was a flashing of white
gulls over the water where the fleet of boats rode the low waves
together in the cove, swaying their small masts as if they kept time to
our steps. The plash of the water could be heard faintly, yet still be
heard; we might have been a company of ancient Greeks going to celebrate
a victory, or to worship the god of harvests in the grove above. It was
strangely moving to see this and to make part of it. The sky, the sea,
have watched poor humanity at its rites so long; we were no more a New
England family celebrating its own existence and simple progress; we
carried the tokens and inheritance of all such households from which
this had descended, and were only the latest of our line. We possessed
the instincts of a far, forgotten childhood; I found myself thinking
that we ought to be carrying green branches and singing as we went. So
we came to the thick shaded grove still silent, and were set in our
places by the straight trees that swayed together and let sunshine
through here and there like a single golden leaf that flickered down,
vanishing in the cool shade.

The grove was so large that the great family looked far smaller than it
had in the open field; there was a thick growth of dark pines and firs
with an occasional maple or oak that gave a gleam of color like a bright
window in the great roof. On three sides we could see the water, shining
behind the tree trunks, and feel the cool salt breeze that began to come
up with the tide just as the day reached its highest point of heat. We
could see the green sunlit field we had just crossed as if we looked out
at it from a dark room, and the old house and its lilacs standing
placidly in the sun, and the great barn with a stockade of carriages
from which two or three care-taking men who had lingered were coming
across the field together. Mrs. Todd had taken off her warm gloves and
looked the picture of content.

“There!” she exclaimed. “I’ve always meant to have you see this place,
but I never looked for such a beautiful opportunity—weather an’ occasion
both made to match. Yes, it suits me: I don’t ask no more. I want to
know if you saw mother walkin’ at the head! It choked me right up to see
mother at the head, walkin’ with the ministers,” and Mrs. Todd turned
away to hide the feelings she could not instantly control.

“Who was the marshal?” I hastened to ask. “Was he an old soldier?”

“Don’t he do well?” answered Mrs. Todd with satisfaction.

“He don’t often have such a chance to show off his gifts,” said Mrs.
Caplin, a friend from the Landing who had joined us. “That’s Sant
Bowden; he always takes the lead, such days. Good for nothing else most
o’ his time; trouble is, he”—

I turned with interest to hear the worst. Mrs. Caplin’s tone was both
zealous and impressive.

“Stim’lates,” she explained scornfully.

“No, Santin never was in the war,” said Mrs. Todd with lofty
indifference. “It was a cause of real distress to him. He kep’
enlistin’, and traveled far an’ wide about here, an’ even took the bo’t
and went to Boston to volunteer; but he ain’t a sound man, an’ they
wouldn’t have him. They say he knows all their tactics, an’ can tell all
about the battle o’ Waterloo well’s he can Bunker Hill. I told him once
the country’d lost a great general, an’ I meant it, too.”

“I expect you’re near right,” said Mrs. Caplin, a little crestfallen and
apologetic.

“I be right,” insisted Mrs. Todd with much amiability. “’Twas most too
bad to cramp him down to his peaceful trade, but he’s a most excellent
shoemaker at his best, an’ he always says it’s a trade that gives him
time to think an’ plan his manœuvres. Over to the Port they always
invite him to march Decoration Day, same as the rest, an’ he does look
noble; he comes of soldier stock.”

I had been noticing with great interest the curiously French type of
face which prevailed in this rustic company. I had said to myself before
that Mrs. Blackett was plainly of French descent, in both her appearance
and her charming gifts, but this is not surprising when one has learned
how large a proportion of the early settlers on this northern coast of
New England were of Huguenot blood, and that it is the Norman
Englishman, not the Saxon, who goes adventuring to a new world.

“They used to say in old times,” said Mrs. Todd modestly, “that our
family came of very high folks in France, and one of ’em was a great
general in some o’ the old wars. I sometimes think that Santin’s ability
has come ’way down from then. ’Tain’t nothin’ he’s ever acquired; ’twas
born in him. I don’t know’s he ever saw a fine parade, or met with those
that studied up such things. He’s figured it all out an’ got his papers
so he knows how to aim a cannon right for William’s fish-house five
miles out on Green Island, or up there on Burnt Island where the signal
is. He had it all over to me one day, an’ I tried hard to appear
interested. His life’s all in it, but he will have those poor gloomy
spells come over him now an’ then, an’ then he has to drink.”

Mrs. Caplin gave a heavy sigh.

“There’s a great many such strayaway folks, just as there is plants,”
continued Mrs. Todd, who was nothing if not botanical. “I know of just
one sprig of laurel that grows over back here in a wild spot, an’ I
never could hear of no other on this coast. I had a large bunch brought
me once from Massachusetts way, so I know it. This piece grows in an
open spot where you’d think ’twould do well, but it’s sort o’
poor-lookin’. I’ve visited it time an’ again, just to notice its poor
blooms. ’Tis a real Sant Bowden, out of its own place.”

Mrs. Caplin looked bewildered and blank. “Well, all I know is, last year
he worked out some kind of a plan so’s to parade the county conference
in platoons, and got ’em all flustered up tryin’ to sense his ideas of a
holler square,” she burst forth. “They was holler enough anyway after
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