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Updated: May 6, 2025
She shook her head in my direction, and I knew what was in store, as we had been at enmity a long time, and she only waited for a decisive piece of mischief on my part. As soon as the visitors had gone, she said in a loud voice: "Cassandra Morgeson, take your books and go home. You shall not come here another day."
The most that could be said of him was that he had the rudiments of a Founder. My father, whose name was Locke Morgeson also, married early. My mother was five years his elder; her maiden name was Mary Warren. She was the daughter of Philip Warren, of Barmouth, near Surrey.
Father profited by his grandfather's plans, and his means, too; less visionary, he had modified and brought out practically many of his projections. Old Locke had left little to his son John Morgeson, in the belief that father was the man to carry out his ideas. Besides money, he left him a tract of ground running north and south, a few rods beyond the old house, and desired him to build upon it.
"Do you like horses?" I asked. "Not in the least." Somebody called Helen. "Good-night, Cass." "Good-night; keep out of the rain." "Good-night, Miss Morgeson," said Mr. Somers, when she had gone. "Good-night and good-morning. My acquaintance with you has begun; it will never end. You thought me a boy; I am just your age." "'Never, is a long word, Boy Somers." "It is."
Grandfather Locke went away in the same yellow-bottomed chaise a week after, and returned in a few days with a tall lady of fifty by his side "Marm Tamor," a twig of the Morgeson tree, being his third cousin, whom he had married. This marriage was Grandfather Locke's last mistake. He was then near eighty, but lived long enough to fulfill his promises to father.
"My boy does read beautiful," said Mrs. Saunders. "Where's the potash, Mis Morgeson?" I heard the bell toll as I loitered along the roadside, pulling a dandelion here and there, for it was in the month of May, and throwing it in the rut for the next wheel to crush. When I reached the schoolhouse I saw through the open door that the New Testament exercise was over. The teacher, Mrs.
She made a motion to strike me, but her hand dropped; I felt my nostrils quiver strangely. "For shame," she said, in a tremulous voice, and turned away. I sat on the bench at the back of the desk, heartily tired, till school was dismissed; as Charlotte Alden passed out, courtesying, Miss Black said she hoped she would extend a Christian forgiveness to Miss C. Morgeson, for her unladylike behavior.
"I tell you, Cousin Sue," said Arthur, who overheard the last remark, "that you don't know what they say of Cassandra in Rosville. She's the biggest beauty they ever had, and had lots of beaus." A significant expression passed over Cousin Sue's face, which was noticed by Alice Morgeson, who colored deeply. "Have you not forgotten?" I asked her. "It was of you I thought, not myself.
She sent out the two youngest, put little Edward in his chair, and breakfast began. "Mrs. Morgeson," said Charles, "the horses will be ready to take you round Rosville. We will call on Dr. Price, for you to see the kind of master Cassandra will have. I have already spoken to him about receiving a new pupil." "Oh, I am homesick at the idea of school and a master," I said.
They had no portrait, nor curious chair, nor rusty weapon no old Bible, nor drinking cup, nor remnant of brocade. Morgeson Born Lived Died were all their archives. But there is a dignity in mere perpetuity, a strength in the narrowest affinities. This dignity and strength were theirs. They are still vital in our rural population.
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