The Hiltons’ Holiday Page #3

"The Hiltons’ Holiday" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a charming short story that captures the essence of family dynamics and the joys of rural life. Set against the backdrop of a small New England town, the narrative follows the Hilton family as they embark on a holiday adventure. Through rich characterizations and vivid descriptions, Jewett explores themes of tradition, community, and the simple pleasures found in nature and familial connections. The story reflects the author's signature style, combining warmth and humor while offering insights into the everyday lives of her characters.

• Short story

								

shoulders. They wore gray thread gloves, and sat very straight. Susan
Ellen was half a head the taller, but otherwise, from behind, they
looked much alike. As for their father, he was in his Sunday best,—a
plain black coat, and a winter hat of felt, which was heavy and
rusty-looking for that warm early summer day. He had it in mind to buy a
new straw hat at Topham, so that this with the turnip seed and the hoe
made three important reasons for going.

“Remember an’ lay off your shawls when you get there, an’ carry them
over your arms,” said the mother, clucking like an excited hen to her
chickens. “They’ll do to keep the dust off your new dresses goin’ an’
comin’. An’ when you eat your dinners don’t get spots on you, an’ don’t
point at folks as you ride by, an’ stare, or they’ll know you come from
the country. An’ John, you call into Cousin Ad’line Marlow’s an’ see how
they all be, an’ tell her I expect her over certain to stop awhile
before hayin’. It always eases her phthisic to git up here on the high
land, an’ I’ve got a new notion about doin’ over her best-room carpet
sence I see her that’ll save rippin’ one breadth. An’ don’t come home
all wore out; an’, John, don’t you go an’ buy me no kickshaws to fetch
home. I ain’t a child, an’ you ain’t got no money to waste. I expect
you’ll go, like ’s not, an’ buy you some kind of a foolish boy’s hat; do
look an’ see if it’s reasonable good straw, an’ won’t splinter all off
round the edge. An’ you mind, John”—

“Yes, yes, hold on!” cried John impatiently; then he cast a last
affectionate, reassuring look at her face, flushed with the hurry and
responsibility of starting them off in proper shape. “I wish you was
goin’ too,” he said, smiling. “I do so!” Then the old horse started, and
they went out at the bars, and began the careful long descent of the
hill. The young dog, tethered to the lilac-bush, was frantic with
piteous appeals; the little girls piped their eager good-bys again and
again, and their father turned many times to look back and wave his
hand. As for their mother, she stood alone and watched them out of
sight.

There was one place far out on the high-road where she could catch a
last glimpse of the wagon, and she waited what seemed a very long time
until it appeared and then was lost to sight again behind a low hill.
“They’re nothin’ but a pack o’ child’n together,” she said aloud; and
then felt lonelier than she expected. She even stooped and patted the
unresigned little dog as she passed him, going into the house.

The occasion was so much more important than any one had foreseen that
both the little girls were speechless. It seemed at first like going to
church in new clothes, or to a funeral; they hardly knew how to behave
at the beginning of a whole day of pleasure. They made grave bows at
such persons of their acquaintance as happened to be straying in the
road. Once or twice they stopped before a farmhouse, while their father
talked an inconsiderately long time with some one about the crops and
the weather, and even dwelt upon town business and the doings of the
selectmen, which might be talked of at any time. The explanations that
he gave of their excursion seemed quite unnecessary. It was made
entirely clear that he had a little business to do at Topham Corners,
and thought he had better give the little girls a ride; they had been
very steady at school, and he had finished planting, and could take the
day as well as not. Soon, however, they all felt as if such an excursion
were an every-day affair, and Susan Ellen began to ask eager questions,
while Katy silently sat apart enjoying herself as she never had done
before. She liked to see the strange houses, and the children who
belonged to them; it was delightful to find flowers that she knew
growing all along the road, no matter how far she went from home. Each
small homestead looked its best and pleasantest, and shared the
exquisite beauty that early summer made,—shared the luxury of greenness
and floweriness that decked the rural world. There was an early peony or
a late lilac in almost every dooryard.

It was seventeen miles to Topham. After a while they seemed very far
from home, having left the hills far behind, and descended to a great
level country with fewer tracts of woodland, and wider fields where the
crops were much more forward. The houses were all painted, and the roads
were smoother and wider. It had been so pleasant driving along that Katy
dreaded going into the strange town when she first caught sight of it,
though Susan Ellen kept asking with bold fretfulness if they were not
almost there. They counted the steeples of four churches, and their
father presently showed them the Topham Academy, where their grandmother
once went to school, and told them that perhaps some day they would go
there too. Katy’s heart gave a strange leap; it was such a tremendous
thing to think of, but instantly the suggestion was transformed for her
into one of the certainties of life. She looked with solemn awe at the
tall belfry, and the long rows of windows in the front of the academy,
there where it stood high and white among the clustering trees. She
hoped that they were going to drive by, but something forbade her taking
the responsibility of saying so.

Soon the children found themselves among the crowded village houses.
Their father turned to look at them with affectionate solicitude.

“Now sit up straight and appear pretty,” he whispered to them. “We’re
among the best people now, an’ I want folks to think well of you.”

“I guess we’re as good as they be,” remarked Susan Ellen, looking at
some innocent passers-by with dark suspicion, but Katy tried indeed to
sit straight, and folded her hands prettily in her lap, and wished with
all her heart to be pleasing for her father’s sake. Just then an elderly
woman saw the wagon and the sedate party it carried, and smiled so
kindly that it seemed to Katy as if Topham Corners had welcomed and
received them. She smiled back again as if this hospitable person were
an old friend, and entirely forgot that the eyes of all Topham had been
upon her.

“There, now we’re coming to an elegant house that I want you to see;
you’ll never forget it,” said John Hilton. “It’s where Judge Masterson
lives, the great lawyer; the handsomest house in the county, everybody
says.”

“Do you know him, father?” asked Susan Ellen.

“I do,” answered John Hilton proudly. “Him and my mother went to school
together in their young days, and were always called the two best
scholars of their time. The judge called to see her once; he stopped to
our house to see her when I was a boy. An’ then, some years ago—you’ve
heard me tell how I was on the jury, an’ when he heard my name spoken he
looked at me sharp, and asked if I wa’n’t the son of Catharine Winn, an’
spoke most beautiful of your grandmother, an’ how well he remembered
their young days together.”

“I like to hear about that,” said Katy.

“She had it pretty hard, I’m afraid, up on the old farm. She was keepin’
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