CHAPTER VIII.

“And when they next do go abroad,May I be there to see.”

“And when they next do go abroad,

May I be there to see.”

It is four o’clock, and a lively scene is taking place before the Funny house on Funny street. The roomy carriage, drawn up before the door, is being packed by Papa, whilst Hugh stands at his horses’ heads, whispering lessons of patience.

A nurse, a coachman, four boys, two girls, three dolls, a bundle of wraps, and a large basket! Who ever saw such a load for a pleasure drive? What would Fifth avenue think of such a turn out? Why, the very carriage-sides creak out their remonstrance,and Jerry horse whispers to Fash, “to turn his head, and did he ever see the like?” and Fashion answers “Neigh.”

Hugh gathers up his reins and seizes his whip, whilst Papa helps Aunt Emma into a light carriage waiting near.

At the door stands Celia, watching to see that no stray foot finds its way into the depths of that basket, whose contents none knew better than she, whilst Nan looks wistfully on.

Suddenly Papa calls out:

“Nan, could you put on your bonnet in three seconds, and stow yourself in the cracks between the Monkeys?” then turning to his companion, says,—

“Beg pardon, Auntie, for interfering with your servants, but, really, I could not withstand the wistful looks in the face of my dark old playmate.”

“It is just what I was wishing, John, but I confess I couldn’t see the possible crack.”

“Nor I, Auntie; but I have full faith in the old saying, ‘There’s always room for one more,’ and Nan will be sure to find it.”

How ever that Nan got up to her attic nest, donned her best sack and bonnet, and was out in that carriage before Papa’s watch told the third second past,

“Nor you, nor I, nor nobody’ll know;”

perhaps the old creaking garret stairs had a slight idea, buttheywill be sure to keep dark.

Then the reins were fairly tightened. Hugh’s long lash made a great circle in the air, ending in a terrific crack, and off started the merry, noisy party. Surely such a load did never coach convey since the ride of

“My sister and my sister’s child,Myself and children three,”

“My sister and my sister’s child,

Myself and children three,”

when the coach was a chaise and Gilpin John, on frantic steed, vainly tried to follow.

My young reader, do you know anything about the Providence hill-side streets?

If you do, you will not wonder that Bear winced, Charlotte “oh, oh’d,” the Monkeys screamed, and Artie’s “Pshaw! don’t be foolish,” from the coachman’s box, had a little bit of a quaver in it.

Poor old Roger Williams! your weary spirit is at rest! There’s no more up-hill work foryou, but in the steep hill-sides your descendants must daily climb, they may find fitting emblem of your life-work here below.

It was a great relief to Charlotte and her bairns, to see the horses’ heads turned into the pleasant, level Prospect street, with its veterancollege buildings, so severely respectable and yet so very shabby, which arrested Artie’s attention, and prompted him to call out:

“Papa, what sort of a manufactory is this one on our right?”

“For making brains, my boy.”

“But where, sir, is the engine kept?”

Papa points with his whip toward a pretty house on the corner.

“But I see no smoke.”

“No, my son; during the Summer months the steam-engine and the firemen rest.”

The trembling of the coachman’s box causes Artie to look up at his companion’s face, and there learns from the glittering ivories that he is a victim to one of Papa’s jokes.

Now it is a very curious fact, that young folk, yea, and old folk too, who are very fond of “quizzing” others, seldom like the ball returned; and so Master Artie refrained from further questions, and cast a stealthy glance behind to see if

“That little Leonard chap knew he had been quizzed;” but the little “chap” is busy whispering to the Monkeys:

“I do believe Aunt Emma is going to surprise us all by a visit to the old Brown Farm, with its cows, and pigs, and chickens, and old Poll the Parrot, and the kind Grandma that gives children berries and milk out under a big, big tree. Now be sure,” he adds, “you are surprised, ’cause if you are not, Aunt Emma will be disappointed, and, after all, Jack, you needn’t say ‘Goody, goody,’ for like as not I don’t know anything about it, and we are going to the Asylum, or somewhere another.”

“Charlie, if we do go to the Brown Farm, will we be sure to see Silly-chick and the oldPortulak that bit off the little Singing Bird’s head, ’cause it didn’t know manners?”

“Daisy, whatisthe little fellow talking about? He speaks so fast I can’t know what he means.”

“Why, he thinks, Charlie, that everything in Artie’s Wonder Book is true and for fair, like you believe your Mother Goose.”

“Oh, but Daisy, Mother Goose is real for fair. I have seen her at a party, and the very ‘old woman that lived in her shoe and had the many children;’ there they were, sure enough, Daisy, for one of them, who was peeping out of the bursted toe of the shoe, was eating bread and butter, and winked his eye at me, and another little fellow sneezed and seemed to have a dreadful cold in his head. What was that but sure-enough-alive, I should like to know?”

“But, Charlie,” Daisy reasoned, “don’t you know that was a tableau-party, and they were playing ‘The Old Woman in her Shoe?’”

“Well, perhaps it was; only I believe Mother Goose was real-for-fair. Why, Daisy, don’t you know Auntie’s picture of your father that hangs in the dining-room? Well, isn’t he sure-enough-alive, I should like to know?”

“Oh, but Charlie,” remonstrated little Jack, “you ought to believe my sister Daisy. Papa says it isn’t nice manners to conterdict a lady, and ’sides that, my Daisy ought to know, for she studies French and definitions.”

Where this hot little dispute would have ended, is not very clear, for Charlie was always loath to be convinced against his will, and the Owl had no idea of having her superior wisdom questioned by a youngling, but just then a sudden jolt, as the carriage-wheel passed over a stone, caused a scream of fright from the little Monkeys, and Mother Goose, Singing Bird, and ugly Portulak, were all forgotten as the young city folk gazed admiringly at the country landscape before them.

A few moments before, they had seen blocks of houses, and pretty villas, with their well-kept lawns, bright with midsummer glories, whilst pillars of cloudy smoke loomed up from the many manufactories in the distance.

Now they are travelling at quick pace along the smoothest of roads. Meadows of deepest green, gemmed with gay dandelions and wild daisies, with a background of woodland, are hemmed in by old fences, whose defects are changed to beauties by the Eglantine and Grape-vines which cling about them.

Behind these draped old fences graze gay goats, ungainly young colts, with their bright eyes and long stilty legs; and little calves, with their sweet “June breath” and shaggy coats, who spring up to greet the travellers, and follow them to the full extent of their tether.

Hugh’s gentle horses drink in refreshment from the pure country air, whose perfumes whisper to them of abundant pastures and well-filled barns, while their pricked ears and quivering nostrils give promise of a breezy pace, very different from their languid walk through the heated city streets.

A few moments later, and the merry party near that bit of woody road, the joy and pride of every true Nature-loving inhabitant of Providence.

Do you know it, young reader? No? Well, then, there’s room for one more, for omnibuses, and Narragansett Bay excursion boats have clearly proved to the public that “two or more bodies can occupy the same space at the same time,” whatever your Natural Philosophy may have to say to the contrary; so jump into the old carriage, and by force of imagination, stow yourself away in one of the “cracks.”

We are just turning an unexpected corner, and now we find ourselves suddenly transported from the unshaded road, into a long woody aisle where the interlacing branches of the trees on either side form a high leafy arch, through which, only rarely, you can gain a peep at the sky above.

The busy world is all shut out here. There is nothing to tell of ceaseless labor and sordid gain. Only Nature’s voice speaks.

The damp, cool air, the woody smell; the rustling of branches, the quivering of leaves, the trickling of the little rills in the distance, the noiseless flitter of the yellow butterfly, the katydid’s ceaseless chatter, and the broad, cool surfaces of the glorious ferns, reflecting the rare bits of sunlight which pierce through the dense arch above, all contribute to the delicious feeling of repose and refreshment which steal over languid city folk, tarrying in this grateful shade.

This woody aisle reëchoes many times a day with the prattle of childhood and the silvery laugh of light-hearted youth; but, ah! there is rarely a day that it does not reëcho, too, the heavy tread of funeral coach and the mourners’ quivering sob, as through the sweet quiet of this woodland road, they bear their dearly loved to the “City of the Dead,” that lies just beyond.

Sometimes it seems as if this quiet woody road must whisper words of soothing to those aching hearts, and that the glimpses, they sometimes catch, of a bright sun behind the leafy screen, must bring, to faithful hearts, thoughts of “the Sun of Righteousness with healing in its beams,” which, ere long, will in mercy dispel the mists of sadness and shine into their aching hearts.

The little spot of light, so scarcely seen, at the far-away end of the leafy corridor, grows wider with each advancing rod, and soon, with a shout of joy, the spell-bound children hail the blue sky and the smooth, light road before them.

Another turn in the road, and Charlie Leonard cries out—

“Oh, I smell my fun, I smell my fun! Hoorah! Hoorah! Oh, thank you, Miss kind Aunt Emma!”

Swinging Under the Old Elm. Page 127.

Such a hurrahing, hat-waving, and hand-clapping as went up from that Menagerie van, as the hospitable old gates swung out their giant arms to welcome the noisy party to the “old Brown Farm,” Papa’s young Paradise,—the theme of many a thrice-told nursery tale.

The horses, too, “smell their fun,” as they plunge through the open gateway, and, halting under an elm-tree’s shade, bend their glistening necks to seek the sweet morsels at their feet.

Papa looks almost a “boy again,” as with bright, glistening eyes he unpacks and deposits on the soft turf the “two girls, two nurses, three boys, and two dolls.”

Just one minute to straighten out the cramped limbs, one minute of oh! oh! ohing at the gigantic size and wonderful beauty of “the Old Elm” of the “old, old story,” and thenCharlie Leonard, whose frequent visits here with Aunt Emma, in her quest of cream and butter, have made him quite at home, gives the marching order, and away fly the “two girls and three boys,” with nurses in the rear, first to the old well, for a drink from the very same

“Moss-covered bucket,”

their Papa had so often uplifted in the days of his boyish thirst,—then for a few high swings to explore the elm’s upper stories,—and then another flutter, and away they all flew, like a flock of chattering magpies, to find out for themselves the beauties and pleasures of the

“Old Brown Farm.”

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