Having devoted much space in the foregoing pages to those scenes, descriptive, grotesque, and sentimental, which took place at the Bower of Nature and Winchester, it is proper that we should now go back to the domain of Apple Orchard, and the inhabitants of that realm, so long lost sight of in the contemplation of the graces and attractions of Miss Sallianna, and the various planets which hovered in the wake of that great feminine sun of love and beauty. Apple Orchard, so long lost sight of, will not longer suffer itself to be neglected; and, fortunately, the return of our heroine, Redbud, affords an opportunity of passing away, for the time, from other scenes, and going thither in her company.
Redbud's sickness did not last long. The girl had one of those constitutions which, though they seem frail and delicate, yet, like the reed, are able to resist what breaks more robust frames. The wetting she had gotten, on the evening whose events we have chronicled, had not seriously affected her;—a severe cold, and with it some slight fever, had been the result. And this fever expended itself completely, in a few days, and left the girl well again, though quite weak and "poorly," as say the Africans.
Redbud, like most persons, was not fond of a sick-room; and after sending word, day after day, to our friend Verty—who never failed to call twice at least, morning and evening—that she was better, and better, the girl, one morning, declared to cousin Lavinia that she was well enough to put on her dressing-wrapper, and go down stairs.
After some demur, accompanied by many grave and solemn shakes of the head, Miss Lavinia assented to this view of the case; and accordingly set about arranging the girl's hair, which had become—thanks to the fact that she could not bear it tied up—one mass of curls of the color of gold; and this task having been performed with solemn but affectionate care, the Squire made his appearance, according to appointment, and taking his "baby," as he called our heroine of sixteen and a half, in his arms, carried her down stairs, and deposited her on a sofa, fronting the open window, looking on the fresh fields and splendid autumn forest.
Redbud lay here gazing with delight upon the landscape, and smiling pleasantly. The autumn hours were going to the west—the trees had grown more golden than on that fine evening, when, with sad mishaps to Fanny, the gay party had wandered over the hills, though not very far away, and seen the thunder-storm suck in the dazzling glories of the bannered trees. Another year, with all its light, and joy, and beauty, slowly waned away, and had itself decently entombed beneath the thick, soft bed of yellow leaves, with nothing to disturb it but the rabbit's tread, or forest cries, or hoof-strokes of the deer. That year had added life and beauty to the face and form of Redbud, making her a woman-child—before she was but a child; and the fine light now in her tender eyes, was a light of thought and mind, the mature radiance of opening intellect, instead of the careless, thoughtless life of childhood. She had become suddenly much older, the Squire said, since going to the Bower of Nature even; and as she lay now on her couch, fronting the dying autumn, the year which whispered faintly even now of its bright coming in the Spring, promised to make her a "young lady!"
And as Redbud lay thus, smiling and thinking, who should run in, with laughing eyes and brilliant countenance, and black curls, rippling like a midnight stream, but our young friend, Miss Fanny.
Fanny, joyous as a lark—and merrier still at seeing Redbud "down stairs" again—overflowing, indeed, with mirth and laughter, like a morn of Spring, and making old Caesar, dozing on the rug, rise up and whine.
Fanny kissed Redbud enthusiastically, which ceremony, as everybody knows, is, with young ladies, exactly equivalent to shaking hands among the men; and often indicates as little real good-feeling slanderous tongues have whispered. No one, however, could have imagined that there was any affectation in Fanny's warm kiss. The very ring of it was enough to prove that the young lady's whole heart was in it, and when she sat down by Redbud and took her white hand, and patted it against her own, the very tenderest light shone in Miss Fanny's dancing eyes, and it was plain that she had not exaggerated the truth, in formerly declaring that she was desperately in love with Redbud. Ah! that fond old school attachment—whether of boy or girl—for the close friend of sunny hours; shall we laugh at it? Are the feelings of our after lives so much more disinterested, pure and elevated?
So Miss Fanny chatted on with Redbud, telling her a thousand things, which, fortunately, have nothing to do with our present chronicle—else would the unfortunate chronicler find his pen laughed at for its tardy movement. Fanny's rapid flow of laughing and picturesque words, could no more be kept up with by a sublunary instrument of record, than the shadow of a darting bird can be caught by the eager hand of the child grasping at it as it flits by on the sward.
And in the middle of this flow of words, and just when Fanny makes a veiled allusion to an elderly "thing," and the propensity of the person in question, to rob more juvenile young ladies of their beaux—enter Miss Lavinia—who asks what thing Miss Fanny speaks of, with a smile upon the austere countenance.
Fanny declines explaining, but blushes instead, and asks Miss Lavinia where she got that darling shawl, which is really a perfect love of a thing; and so, with smiles from Redbud, the conversation continues until dinner-time, when the Squire makes his appearance, and after kissing Miss Redbud, affects to take Miss Fanny by the elbows and bump her head against the ceiling, baby-fashion. In this attempt, we need not say, the worthy gentleman fails, from the fact, that young ladies of seventeen, are, for some reason, heavier than babies, and are kissed with much more ease, and far less trouble, standing on their feet, than chucked toward the ceiling for that purpose.
Having dined and chatted pleasantly, and told a number of amusing tales for Miss Redbud's edification—and against the silent protest and remonstrance of said Miss Lavinia—the Squire declares that he must go and see to his threshing; and, accordingly, after swearing at Caesar, goes away; and is heard greeting somebody as he departs.
This somebody turns out to be Verty; and the young man's face blushes with delight at sight of Redbud, whom he runs to, and devours with his glances. Redbud blushes slightly; but this passes soon, and the kind eyes beam on him softly—no confusion in them now—and the small hand is not drawn away from him, but remains in his own.
And Fanny—amiable Fanny—knowing all about it, smiles; and Miss Lavinia, staidest of her sex, suspecting something of it, looks grave and dignified, but does not frown; and Verty, with perfect forgetfulness of the presence of these persons, and much carelessness in regard to their opinions, gazes upon Redbud with his dreamy smile, and talks to her.
So the day passes onward, and the shades of evening take away the merry voices—the bright sunset shining on them as they go. They must come again without waiting for her to return their visit—says Redbud smiling—and the happy laughter which replies to her, makes Apple Orchard chuckle through its farthest chambers, and the portraits on the wall—bright now in vagrant gleams of crimson sundown—utter a low, well-bred cachinnation, such as is befitting in the solemn, dignified old cavaliers and ladies, looking from their laces, and hair-powder, and stiff ruffs, upon their little grandchild.
So the merry voices become faint, and the bright sunset slowly wanes away, a rosy flush upon the splendid sky, dragging another day of work or idleness, despair or joy, into oblivion!
Redbud lies and gazes at the noble woods, bathed in that rosy flush and smiles. Then her eyes turn toward a portrait settling into shadow, but lit up with one bright beam—and the dear mother's eyes shine on her with a tender light, and bless her. And she clasps her hands, and her lips murmur something, and her eyes turn to the western sky again. And evening slowly goes away, leaving the beautiful pure face with evident regret, but lighting up the kind blue eyes, and golden hair, and delicate cheek, with a last vagrant gleam.
So the dim cheerful night came down—the day was dead.
In a week Redbud was going about again: slowly, it is true, and taking care not to fatigue herself, but still she was no longer confined to the house.
She rose one morning, and came down with a face full of happy expectation.
That day had been appointed for a holiday in the woods, and Fanny,Verty and Ralph were coming. Soon they came.
Ralph was resplendent in a new suit of silk, which he had procured after numerous directions from our friend Mr. O'Brallaghan; Verty resembled the young forest emperor, which it was his wont to resemble, at least in costume;—and Fanny was clad in the finest and most coquettish little dress conceivable. After mature deliberation, we are inclined to believe that her conquest of Ralph was on this day completed and perfected:—the conduct of that gentleman for some days afterwards having been very suspicious. We need only say, that he sat at his window, gazing moonward—wrote sonnets in a very melancholy strain, and lost much of his ardor and vivacity. These symptoms are sufficient for a diagnosis when one is familiar with the disease, and they were exhibited by Mr. Ralph, on the occasion mentioned. But we anticipate.
The gay party went out in the grove, and wandering about in the brilliant October sunlight, gathered primroses and other autumn flowers, which, making into bunches, they topped with fine slender, palm-like golden rods:—and so, passing on, came to the old glen behind, and just beneath the acclivity which made the western horizon of Apple Orchard.
"Look what a lovely tulip tree!" said Fanny, laughing, "and here is the old lime-kiln—look!"
Ralph smiled.
"I am looking,"—he said.
"You are not!"
"Yes—at you."
"I asked you to look at the old kiln—"
"I prefer your charming face, my heart's treasure."
Redbud laughed, and turning her white, tender face, to the dreamy,Verty said:
"Are they not affectionate, Verty?"
Verty smiled.
"I like that," he said.
"So do I—but Mr. Ralph is so—"
"What, Miss Redbud?" said Ralph, laughing, "eh?"
"Oh, I did'nt know—"
"I heard you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, at least I did. I don't see why I should not be affectionate toFanny—"
"Humph!" from Fanny.
"She is my dearest cousin—is Miss Fanny Temple; and we have been in love with each other for the last twenty years, more or less!"
Fanny burst into laughter.
"Twenty years!" she cried.
"Well?" said Ralph.
"I'm only seventeen, sir."
"Seventeen?"
"Yes, sir."
"Seventeen—three from seventeen," said Ralph, thoughtfully calculating on his fingers, "ah! yes! you are right—you have been in love with me but fourteen years. Yes! yes! you have reason to say, as you did, that it was not twenty years—quite."
After which speech, which was delivered in an innocent tone, Mr. Ralph scratched his chin.
Fanny stood for a moment horrified at the meaning given to her exclamation—then colored—then cried "Humph!"—then burst into laughter. The party joined in it.
"Well, well," said the bright girl, whose dancing eyes were full of pleasure, "don't let us get to flirting to-day."
"Flirting?" said Ralph.
"Yes."
"I never flirt."
"No, never!"
"There, you are getting ironical—you fly off from—"
"The subject, I suppose—like that flying squirrel yonder—look!"
Indeed, a mottled little animal, of the description mentioned, had darted from the tulip toward a large oak, and falling as he flew—which we believe characterizes the flight of this squirrel—had lit upon the oak near the root, and run rapidly up the trunk.
"Did you ever!" cried Fanny.
"I don't recollect," said Ralph.
"Why how can he fly?"
"Wings," suggested Verty,
"But they are so small, and he's so heavy."
"He starts high up," said Verty, "and makes a strong jump when he flies. That's the way he does."
"How curious," said Redbud.
"Yes," cried Fanny, "and see! there's a striped ground squirrel, and listen to that crow,—caw! caw!"
With which Fanny twists her lips into astonishing shapes, and imitates the crow in a manner which the youngest of living crows would have laughed to scorn.
Redbud gathered some beautiful flowers, and with the assistance of Verty made a little wreath, which she tied with a ribbon. Stealing behind Fanny, she placed this on her head.
"Oh, me?" cried Miss Fanny.
"Yes, for you," said Ralph.
"From Redbud? Oh! thank you. But I'll make you one. Come, sir,"—toRalph,—"help me."
"To get flowers?"
"Yes."
"Willingly."
"There is a bunch of primroses."
"Shall I get it?" said Ralph.
"Yes, sir."
"I think you had better," said Ralph.
"Well, sir!"
"Now, Fanny—don't get angry—I will—"
"No, you shan't!"
"Indeed I will!"
The result of this contention, as to who should gather the primroses, was, that Fanny and Ralph, stooping at the same moment, struck their faces together, and cried out—the young lady at least.
Fanny blushed very much as she rose—Ralph was triumphant.
"I've got them, however, sir," she said, holding the flowers.
"And I had a disagreeable accident," said Ralph, laughing, and pretending to rub his head.
"Disagreeable, sir!" cried Fanny, without reflecting.
"Yes!" said Ralph—"why not?"
Fanny found herself involved again in an awkward explanation—the fact being, that Ralph's lips had, by pure accident, of course, touched her brow.
It would, therefore, have only complicated matters for Fanny to have explained why the accident ought not to be "disagreeable," as Ralph declared it to be. The general reply, however, which we have endeavored, on various occasions, to represent by the word "Humph!" issued from the young girl's lips; and busying herself with the wreath, she passed on, followed by the laughing company.
From the forest, they went to the mossy glen, as we may call it, though that was not its name; and Verty enlivened the company with a description of a flock of young partridges which had there started up once, and running between his feet, disappeared before his very eyes. Redbud, too, recollected the nice cherries they had eaten from the trees—as nice as the oxhearts near the house—in the Spring; and Fanny did too, and told some very amusing stories of beaux being compelled to climb and throw down boughs laden with their red bunches.
In this pleasant way they strolled along the brook which stole by in sun and shadow, over mossy rocks, and under bulrushes, where the minnows haunted—which brook, tradition (and the maps) call to-day by the name of one member of that party; and so, passing over the slip of meadow, where Verty declared the hares were accustomed to gambol by moonlight, once more came again toward the locust-grove of "dear old Apple Orchard,"—(Fanny's phrase,)—and entered in again, and threw down their treasures of bright flowers and bird's-nests—for they had taken some old ones from the trees—and laughed, sang, and were happy.
"Why! what a day!" cried Ralph; "if we only had a kite now!"
"A kite!" cried Fanny.
"Yes."
"An elegant college gentleman—"
"Oh—suspend the college gentleman, if I may use the paraphrase," said Mr. Ralph; "why can't you permit a man to return again, my heart's delight, to his far youth."
"Faryouth."
"Ages ago—but in spite of that, I tell you I want to see a fine kite sailing up there."
"Make it, then!"
"By Jove! I will, if Miss Redbud will supply—"
"The materials? Certainly, in one moment, Mr. Ralph," said Redbud, smiling softly; "how nice it will be!"
"Twine, scissors, paper," said Ralph; "we'll have it done immediately."
Redbud went, and soon returned with the materials; and the whole laughing party began to work upon the kite.
Such was their dispatch, that, in an hour it was ready, taken to the meadow, and there, with the united assistance of gentlemen and ladies, launched into the sky.
The rolling ground beyond the meadow, where the oaks rustled, was the point of departure of the kite—the post from which it sailed forth on its aerial voyage.
The whole affair was a success, and never did merrier hearts watch a kite.
It was beautifully made—of beautiful paper, all red, and blue and yellow—and the young girls had completely surrounded it with figures of silver paper, and decorated it, from head to foot, with flowers.
Thus, when it ascended slowly into the cerulean heavens, as said the poetical Ralph, its long, flower-decorated streamers rippling in the wind, it was greeted with loud cries of joy and admiration—thunders of applause and enthusiastic encouragement to "go on!" from Ralph, who had grown very young again—from Fanny, even more exaggerated cries.
That young lady seemed to be on the point of flying after it—the breeze seemed about to bear her away, and she clapped her hands and followed the high sailing paper-bird with such delight, that Ralph suggested she should be sent up as a messenger.
"No," said Fanny, growing a little calmer, but laughing still, "I'm afraid I should grow dizzy."
And looking at the kite, which soared far up, and seemed to be peeping from side to side, around the small white clouds, Fanny laughed more than ever.
But why should we waste our time in saying that the gay party were pleased with everything, and laughed out loudly for that reason?
Perhaps a merrier company never made the golden days of autumn ring with laughter, either at Apple Orchard, where hill and meadow echoed to the joyous carol, or in any other place. Sitting beneath the oaks, and looking to the old house buried in its beautiful golden trees, the girls sang with their pure, melodious voices, songs which made the fresh, yet dreamy autumn dearer still, and wrapped the hearts of those who listened in a smiling, calm delight. Give youth only skies and pure fresh breezes, and the ready laughter shows how happy these things, simple as they are, can make it. It wants no present beyond this; for has it not what is greater still, the radiant and rosy future, with its splendid tints of joy and rapture?
Youth! youth! Erect in the beautiful frail skiff, he dares the tide, gazing with glorious brow upon the palace in the cloud, which hovers overhead, a fairy spectacle of dreamland—real still to him! Beautiful youth! As he stands thus with his outstretched arms, the light upon his noble face, and the young lips illumined by their tender smile, who can help loving him, and feeling that more of the light of Heaven lingers on his countenance, than on the man's? Youth! youth! beautiful youth!—who, at times, does not look back to it with joyful wonder, long for it with passionate regret—for its inexperience and weakness!—its illusions and romance!—its fond trust, and April smiles and tears! Who does not long to laugh again, and, leaning over the bark's side, play with the foaming waves again, as in the old days! Beautiful youth! sailing for Beulah, the land of flowers, and landing there in dreams—how can we look upon your radiant brow and eyes, without such regret as nothing taking root in this world can console us for completely! Ah! after all, there is no philosophy like ignorance—there is no joy like youth and innocence!
The shouts and laughter ringing through the merry fields, on the fine autumn morning, may have led us into this discourse upon youth: the very air was full of laughter, and when Fanny let the kite string go by accident, the rapture grew intense.
Verty and Redbud sitting quietly, at the distance of some paces, under the oaks, looked on, laughing and talking.
"How bright Fanny is," said Redbud, laughing—"Look! I think she is lovely; and then she is as good as she can be."
"I like her," said Verty, tenderly, "because she likes you, Redbud. I like Ralph, too—don't you?"
"Oh, yes—I think he is very pleasant and agreeable; he has just come from college, and Fanny says, has greatly improved—though," whispered Redbud, bending toward Verty, and smiling, "she says, when he is present, that he hasnotimproved; just the opposite."
Verty sighed.
The delicate little face of Redbud was turned toward him inquiringly.
"Verty, you sighed," she said.
"Did I?" said Verty.
"Yes."
Verty sighed again.
"Tell me what troubles you," said Redbud, softly.
"Nothing—nothing," replied Verty; "I was only thinking about college, you know."
"About college?"
"Yes."
And Verty repeated the sigh.
"Tell me your thoughts," said Redbud, earnestly.
"I was only thinking," returned her companion, "that there was no chance of my ever going to college, and I should like to know how I am to be a learned man without having an education."
Redbud sighed too.
"But perhaps," she said, "you might make yourself learned without going to college."
Verty shook his head.
"You are not so ignorant as you think," Redbud said, softly. "I know many persons as old as you are, who—who—are not half as—intelligent."
Verty repeated the shake of his head.
"I may know as much as the next one about hunting," he said; "andma meresays that none of her tribe had as much knowledge of the habits of the deer. Yes! yes! that is something—to know all about life in the autumn woods, the grand life which, some day, will be told about in great poetry, or ought to be. But what good is there in only knowing how to follow the deer, or watch for the turkeys, or kill bears, as I used to before the neighborhood was filled up? I want to be a learned man. I don't think anybody would, or ought to, marry me," added Verty, sighing.
Redbud laughed, and colored.
"Perhaps you can go to college, though," she said.
"I'm afraid not," said Verty; "but I won't complain. Why should I? Besides, I would have to leave you all here, and I never could make up my mind to that."
("Let it go, Ralph!" from Fanny.
To which the individual addressed, replies:
"Oh, certainly, by all means, darling of my heart!")
Redbud smiled.
"I think we are very happy here," she said; "there cannot be anything in the Lowlands prettier than the mountains—"
"Oh! I know there is not!" exclaimed Verty, with the enthusiasm of the true mountaineer.
"Besides," said Redbud, taking advantage of this return to brighter thoughts, "I don't think learning is so important, Verty. It often makes us forget simple things, and think we are better than the rest of the world—"
"Yes," said Verty.
"That is wrong, you know. I think that it would be dearly bought, if we lost charity by getting it," said the girl, earnestly.
Verty looked thoughtful, and leaning his head on his hand, said:
"I don't know but I prefer the mountains, then. Redbud, I think if I saw a great deal of you, you would make me good—"
"Oh! I'm afraid—"
"I'd read my Bible, and think about God," Verty said.
"Don't you now, Verty?"
"Yes; I read."
"But don't you think?"
Verty shook his head.
"I can't remember it often," he replied. "I know I ought."
Redbud looked at him with her soft, kind eyes, and said:
"But you pray?"
"Sometimes."
"Not every night?"
"No."
Redbud looked pained;
"Oh! you ought to," she said.
"I know I ought, and I'm going to," said the young man; "the fact is,Redbud, we have a great deal to be thankful for."
"Oh, indeed we have!" said Redbud; earnestly—"all this beautiful world: the sunshine, the singing of the birds, the health of our dear friends and relatives; and everything—"
"Yes, yes," said Verty, "I ought to be thankful more than anybody else."
"Why?"
"You know I'm an Indian."
Redbud looked dubious.
"At leastma mereis my mother," said Verty; "and if I am not an Indian, I don't know what I am. You know," he added, "I can't be like a deer in the woods, that nobody knows anything about."
Redbud smiled; then, after a moment's thought, said:
"I don't think you are an Indian, Verty."
And as she spoke, the young girl absently passed the coral necklace, we have spoken of, backward and forward between her lips.
Verty pondered.
"I don't know," he said, at last; "but I know it was very good in God to give me such a kind mother asma mere; and such friends as you all. I'm afraid I am not good myself."
Redbud passed the necklace through her fingers thoughtfully.
"That is pretty," said Verty, looking at it. "I think I have seen it somewhere before."
Redbud replied with a smile:
"Yes, I generally wear it; but I was thinking how strange your life was, Verty."
And she looked kindly and softly with her frank eyes at the young man, who was playing with the beads of the necklace.
"Yes," he replied, "and that is just why I ought to be thankful. If I was somebody's son, you know, everybody would know me—but I aint, and yet, everybody is kind. I often try to be thankful, and I believe I am," he added; "but then I'm often sinful. The other day, I believe I would have shot Mr. Jinks—that was very wrong; yes, I know that was very wrong."
And Verty shook his head sadly.
"Then I am angry sometimes," he said, "though not often."
"Not very often, I know," said Redbud, softly; "you are very sweet tempered and amiable."
"Do you think so, Redbud?"
"Yes, indeed," smiled Redbud.
"I'm glad you think so; I thought I was not enough; but I have beentalking about myself too much, which, Miss Lavinia says, is wrong.But, indeed, Redbud, I'll try and be good in future—look! there isFanny quarreling with Ralph!"
They rose, and approached the parties indicated, who were, however, not more quarrelsome than usual: Fanny was only struggling with Ralph for the string of the kite. The contention ended in mutual laughter; and as a horn at that moment sounded for the servants to stop work for dinner, the party determined to return to Apple Orchard.
The kite was tied to a root, and they returned homeward.
"Oh!" cried Fanny, as they were again walking upon the smooth meadow, in the afternoon, "I think we ought to go and get some apples!"
"And so do I," said Ralph.
"Of course, I expected you to agree with me, sir."
"Naturally; I always do."
This observation was remotely satirical, and Miss Fanny resented it.
"You are the most contentious person I ever knew," she said.
"Am I?" asked Ralph.
"Yes, sir."
"That is fortunate."
"Why?"
"Because, difference of opinion is the soul of conversation, and as you never disagree with anybody, we could not converse. Observe how the syllogism comes out?"
"Fine logician!"
"Lovely damsel!"
"Mr. College-Graduate!"
"Miss School-Girl!"
"School-girl!"
"College-graduate!"
And after this exchange of compliments, the parties walked on, mutually pleased with each other.
Redbud and Verty followed them, and they soon arrived at the old orchard.
Behind the party followed Longears, whose presence, throughout the day, we have very improperly neglected to mention; but as that inquisitive animal was, during the whole morning, roaming, at his own wild will, the neighboring fields—prying into the holes of various wild animals, and exchanging silent commentaries with the Apple Orchard dogs—this omission will not appear very heinous.
Longears had now regaled himself with a comfortable dinner, the last bone of which he had licked—and having thus, like a regular and respectable citizen, taken care of the material, was busily engaged again in the intellectual pursuit of his enemies, the squirrels, butterflies and bees, at which he barked and dashed at times with great vigor and enthusiasm.
"Look at him," said Redbud; "why does he dislike the butterflies?"
"Only fun," said Verty; "he often does that. Here, Longears!"
Longears approached, and Verty pointed to the ground. Longears laid down.
"Stay there!" said Verty.
And smiling, he walked on.
Redbud laughed, and turning round made signs to the dog to follow them. Longears, however, only moved his head uneasily, and wagged his tail with eloquent remonstrance.
"Let him come, Verty," said the girl.
Verty smiled, and made a movement of the hand, which, from the distance of a hundred yards, raised Longears three feet into the air. Returning from this elevation to the earth again, he darted off over the fields after the bees and swallows.
The young men and their companions smiled, and strolled on. They reached the old orchard, and ran about among the trees picking up apples—now the little soft yellow crab apples—then the huge, round, ruddy pippins—next the golden-coat bell apples, oblong and mellow, which had dropped from pure ripeness from the autumn boughs.
Verty had often climbed into the old trees, and filled his cap with the speckled eggs of black-birds, or found upon the fence here, embowered in the foliage, the slight nests of doves, each with its two eggs, white and transparent almost; and the recollection made him smile.
They gathered a number of the apples, and then strolled on, and eat a moment with the pleasant overseer's wife.
A number of little curly-headed boys had been rolling like apples on the grass as they approached; fat-armed and chubby-legged, and making devoted advances to Longears, who, descending from his dignity, rolled with them in the sunshine. These now approached, and the young girls patted their heads, and Mr. Ralph gave them some paternal advice, and the good housewife, spinning in her cane-bottom chair with straight tall back, smiled pleasantly, and curtsied.
The baby (there always was a baby at the overseer's) soon made his appearance, as babies will do everywhere; and then the unfortunate young curly-heads of riper age were forced to return once more to the grass and play with Longears—they were forgotten.
To describe the goings on of the two young ladies with that baby is wholly out of the question. They quarreled for it, chucked it in their arms, examined its toes with critical attention, and conversed with it in barbarous baby language, which was enough, Ralph said, to drive a man distracted. They asked it various questions—were delighted with its replies—called its attention to the chickens—and evidently labored under the impression that it understood. They addressed the baby uniformly in the neuter gender, and requested to know whether it was not their darling. To all which the baby replied with thoughtful stares, only occasionally condescending to laugh. The feet having been examined again—there is much in babies' feet—the party smiled and went away, calling after baby to the last.
"Now, that's all affectation," said Ralph; "you young ladies—"
"You're a barbarian, sir!" replied Fanny, with great candor.
"I know I am."
"I'm glad you do."
"But," continued Ralph, "tell me now, really, do you young girls admire babies?"
"CertainlyIdo—"
"And I," said Redbud.
"They're the sweetest, dearest things in all the world," continuedFanny, "and the man who don't like babies—"
"Is a monster, eh?"
"Far worse, sir!"
And Fanny laughed.
"That is pleasant to know," said Ralph; "then I'm a monster."
Having arrived at which highly encouraging conclusion, the young man whistled.
"I say," he said, suddenly, "I wanted to ask—"
"Well, sir?" said Fanny.
"Before we leave the subject—"
"What subject?"
"Babies."
"Well, ask on."
"I wish to know whether babies talk."
"Certainly!"
"Really, now?"
"Yes."
"And you understand them?"
"Ido," said Fanny.
"What does 'um, um,' mean? I heard that baby say 'um, um,' distinctly."
Fanny burst out laughing.
"Oh, I know!" she said, "when I gave him an apple."
"Yes."
"It meant, 'that is a very nice apple, and I would like to have some.'"
"Did it?"
"Of course."
"Suppose, then, it had been a crab-apple, and the baby had still said 'um, um,' what would it then have meant?"
"Plainly this: 'that is not a nice apple, and I would not like to have any.'"
"That is perfectly satisfactory," said Ralph;"'um, um,' expresses either the desire to possess a sweet apple, or the objection to a sour one. I have heard of delicate shades of language before, but this is the sublimity thereof."
And Ralph laughed.
"I never saw such a person," said Fanny, pouting.
"By the bye," said Ralph.
"Well, sir?"
"What was there so interesting in the toes?"
"They were lovely."
"Anything else?"
"Beautiful."
"That all? Come, now, tell me the charm in those feet which you young ladies designated, I remember, as 'teensy,' and expressed your desire to 'tiss.' Shocking perversion of the king's English—and in honor of nothing but two dirty little feet!" said Ralph.
The storm which was visited upon Ralph's unhappy head for this barbarous criticism was dreadful. Fanny declared, in express terms, that he was a monster, an ogre, and with a stone in his breast instead of a heart. To which Mr. Ralph replied, that the best writers of ancient and modern times had nowhere designated as a monster the man who was not in raptures at the sight of babies;—whereupon Miss Fanny declared her disregard of writers in general, and her preference for babies—at which stage of the discussion Ralph began to whistle.
Why not catch the laughter of those youthful lips, and tell how the young men and maidens amused themselves that fine autumn day? Everything innocent and fresh is beautiful—and there are eyes which shine more brightly than the sun, voices which make a softer music than the breezes of October in the laughing trees. Redbud's face and voice had this innocence and joy in it—there was pleasure in the very sound of it; and such a delicate kind of light in the soft eyes, that as they went, the young men felt more pure, and bowed to her, as something better than themselves—of higher nature.
The light of Fanny's eyes was more brilliant; but Redbud's were of such softness that you forgot all else in gazing at them—lost your heart, looking into their lucid depths of liquid light.
One heart was irremediably lost long since, and, gone away into the possession of the young lady. This was Verty's; and as they went along he gazed so tenderly at the young girl, that more than once she blushed, and suffered the long lashes to fall down upon her rosy cheek.
Fanny was talking with Ralph;—for these young gentlemen had made the simple and admirable arrangement, without in the least consulting the ladies, that Verty should always entertain and be entertained by Redbud, Ralph quarrel with, and be quarreled with, by Fanny.
Each, on the present occasion, was carrying out his portion of the contract; that is to say, Verty and Redbud were quietly smiling at each other; Ralph and Fanny were exchanging repartees.
They came thus to the knoll which they had stopped upon in the forenoon.
The fine kite—tied to a root, as we have said—was hovering far up among the clouds, swaying and fluttering its streamers in the wind: the various colors of the paper, and the flowers almost wholly indiscernible, so high had it ascended.
"Look!" said Fanny, "there it is up among the swallows, which are flying around it as if they never saw a kite before."
"Female swallows, doubtless," observed Ralph, carelessly.
"Female? Pray, why?"
"Because they have so much curiosity; see, you have made me utter what is not common with me."
"What, sir?"
"A bad witticism."
Fanny laughed, and replied, gazing at the kite:
"Your witticisms are, of course, always, fine—no doubt very classic; now I will send up a messenger on the string. Redbud, have you a piece of paper?"
Redbud drew the paper from her apron pocket, and gave it to Fanny, with a smile.
Fanny tore the yellow scrap into a circle, and in the centre of this circle made a hole as large as her finger.
"Now, Mr. Ralph, please untie the string from the root."
"With pleasure," said the young man; "for you, my heart's delight, I would—"
"Come, come, sir! you make an oration upon every occasion!"
With many remonstrances at being thus unceremoniously suppressed, Mr.Ralph knelt down, and untied the string.
"Does it pull strongly, Mr. Ralph?" said Redbud, smiling.
"Oh, yes! you know it was nearly as tall as myself—just try."
"The messenger first!" cried Fanny.
And she slipped it over the string.
"Now, Miss Redbud, just try!" said Ralph.
Redbud wrapped the string around her hand, and Ralph let it go.
"How do you like it!" he said.
"Oh!" cried Redbud, "it is so strong!—there must be a great wind in the clouds!—Oh!" added the girl, laughing, "it is cutting my hand in two!"
And she caught the string with her left hand to relieve the afflicted member.
"Give it to me!" cried Fanny.
"Yes, give it to her; she has the arm of an Amazon," said Ralph, enthusiastically.
"Humph!"
And having entered this, her standing protest, Fanny laughed, and unwound the string from Redbud's hand, on whose white surface two crimson circles were visible.
"I can hold it!" cried the young girl, "easily!"
And to display her indifference, Fanny knelt on one knee to pick up her gloves.
The consequence of this movement was, that the heavy kite, struck, doubtless, at the moment by a gust of wind, jerked the lady with the Amazonian arm so violently, that, unable to retain her position, she fell upon her left hand, then upon her face, and was dragged a pace or two by the heavy weight.
"By Jove!" cried Ralph, running to her, "did anybody—"
"Oh, take care!" exclaimed Redbud, hastening to her friend's assistance.
"It is nothing!" Fanny said; "I can hold it."
And to prove this, she let go the string, which was cutting her hand in two.
The poor kite! loosed from the sustaining hand, from the earth, which, so to speak, held it up—it sees its hopes of elevation in the world all dashed with disappointment and obscured. It is doomed!
But no! A new friend comes to its rescue—deserted by the lords and ladies of creation, the lesser creature takes it under his protection.
Longears is the rescuer. Longears has watched the messenger we have mentioned with deep interest, as it lays upon the string and flutters; Longears imagines that it is a bee of the species called yellow-jacket challenging him to combat. Consequently, Longears no sooner sees the string dart from Fanny's hand, than believing the enemy about to escape him, he springs toward it and catches it in his mouth.
Longears catches a tartar; but too brave to yield without a struggle, rolls upon the ground, grinding the yellow enemy, and the string beneath his teeth.
His evolutions on the grass wrap the string around his feet and neck; Longears is taken prisoner, and finds himself dragged violently over the ground.
Brave and resolute before a common enemy, Longears fears this unknown adversary. Overcome with superstitious awe, he howls; endeavoring to howl again, he finds his windpipe grasped by his enemy. The howl turns into a wheeze. His eyes start from his head; his jaws open; he rolls on the grass; leaps in the air; puts forth the strength of a giant, but in vain.
It is at this juncture that Verty runs up and severs the string with his hunting-knive; whereat Longears, finding himself released, rubs his nose vigorously with his paws, sneezes, and lies down with an unconscious air, as if nothing had happened. He is saved.
The kite, however, is sacrified. Justly punished for wounding Redbud's hand, throwing Miss Fanny on her face, and periling the life of Longears, the unfortunate kite struggles a moment in the clouds, staggers from side to side, like a drunken man, and then caught by a sudden gust, sweeps like a streaming comet down into the autumn forest, and is gone.
Fanny is wiping her hands, which are somewhat soiled; the rest of the company are laughing merrily at the disappearance of the kite; Longears is gravely and seriously contemplating the yellow enemy with whom he has struggled so violently, and whose conqueror he believes himself to be.
This was the incident so frequently spoken of by Mr. Ralph Ashley afterwards, as the Bucolic of the kite.
The day was nearly gone now, dying over fir-clad hills; but yet, before it went, poured a last flood of rich, red light, such as only the mountains and the valley boast, upon the beautiful sloping meadow, stretching its green and dewy sea in front of Apple Orchard.
As the sun went away in royal splendor, bounding over the rim of evening, like a red-striped tiger—on the eastern horizon a light rose gradually, as though a great conflagration raged there. Then the trees were kindled; then the broad, yellow moon—call it the harvest moon!—soared slowly up, dragging its captive stars, and mixing its fresh radiance with the waning glories of the crimson west.
And as the happy party—grouped upon the grassy knoll, like some party of shepherds and shepherdesses, in the old days of Arcady—gazed on the beautiful spectacle, the voices of the negroes coming from their work were heard, driving their slow teams in, and sending on the air the clear melodious songs, which, rude and ludicrous as they seem, have yet so marvellous an effect, borne on the airs of night.
Those evening songs and sounds! Not long ago, one says, I stood, just at sunset, on the summit of a pretty knoll, and, looking eastward, saw the harvesters cutting into the tall, brown-headed, rippling wheat. I heard the merry whistle of the whirling scythes; I heard their songs—they were so sweet! And why are these harvest melodies so soft-sounding, and so grateful to the ear? Simply because they discourse of the long buried past; and, like some magical spell, arouse from its sleep all the beauteous and gay splendor of those hours. As the clear, measured sound floated to my ear, I heard also, again, the vanished music of happy childhood—that elysian time which cannot last for any of us. I do not know what the song was—whether some slow, sad negro melody, or loud-sounding hymn, such as the forests ring with at camp-meetings; but I know what the murmuring and dying sound brought to me again, living, splendid, instinct with a thoughtful but perfect joy. Fairyland never, with its silver-twisted, trumpet-flower-like bugles, rolled such a merry-mournful music to the friendly stars! I love to have the old days back again—back, with their very tints, and atmosphere, and sounds and odors—now no more the same. Thus I love to hear the young girl's low, merry song, floating from the window of a country-house, half-broken by the cicala, the swallow's twitter, or the rustling leaves;—I love to hear the joyous ripple of the harpsichord, bringing back, with some old music, times when that merry music stamped the hours, and took possession of them—in the heart—forever more! I love a ringing horn, even the stage-horn—now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only memory!—the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far, clear cry of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle; every sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering plains of youth. And that is why, standing on this round knoll, beneath the merrily-rustling cherry-trees, and listening to the murmurous song, I heard my boyhood speak to me, and felt again the old breath on my brow. The sun died away across the old swaying woods; the rattling hone upon the scythe; the measured sweep; the mellow music—all were gone away. The day was done, and the long twilight came—twilight, which mixes the crimson of the darkling west, the yellow moonlight in the azure east, and the red glimmering starlight overhead, into one magic light. And so we went home merrily, with pleasant thoughts and talk; such pleasant thoughts I wish to all. Thus wrote one who ever delighted in the rural evenings and their sounds;—and thus listened the young persons, whose conversation, light and trivial though it seem, we have not thought it a loss of time to chronicle, from morn till eve.
They gazed with quiet pleasure upon the lovely landscape, and listened to the negroes as they sang their old, rude, touching madrigals, shouting, at times, to the horses of their teams, and not seldom sending on the air the loud rejoiceful outburst of their laughter.
The moonlight slept upon the wains piled up with yellow sheaves—and plainly revealed the little monkey-like black, seated on the summit of the foremost; and this young gentleman had managed to procure a banjo, and was playing.
As he played he sang; and, as he sang, kept time—not with the head alone, and foot, but with his whole body, arms, and legs and shoulders—all agitated with the ecstacy of mirth, as—singing "coony up the holler," and executing it with grand effect moreover—the merry minstrel went upon his way. Various diminutive individuals of a similar description, were observed in the road behind, executing an impromptu "break down," to the inspiring melody; and so the great piled-up wagon came on in the moonlight, creaking in unison with the music, and strewing on the road its long trail of golden wheat.
The moon soared higher, bidding defiance now to sunset, which it drove completely from the field; and in the window of Apple Orchard a light began to twinkle; and Redbud rose. She should not stay out, she said, as she had been sick; and so they took their way, as says our friend, "in pleasant talk," across the emerald meadow to the cheerful home.
The low of cattle went with them, and all the birds of night waked up and sang.
The beautiful moon—the very moon of all the harvest-homes since the earth was made—shone on them as they went; and by the time they had reached the portico of the old comfortable mansion, evening had cast such shadows, far and near, that only the outlines of the forms were seen, as they passed in through the deep shadow.
They did not see that Verty's hand held little Redbud's; and that he looked her with a tenderness which could not be mistaken. But Redbud saw it, and a flush passed over her delicate cheek, on which the maiden moon looked down and smiled.
So the day ended.
Busy with the various fortunes of our other personages, we have not been able of late to give much attention to the noble poet, Roundjacket, with whose ambition and great thoughts, this history has heretofore somewhat concerned itself.
Following the old, fine chivalric mansion, "Place aux dames!" we have necessarily been compelled to elbow the cavaliers from the stage, and pass by in silence, without listening to them. Now, however, when we have written our pastoral canto, and duly spoken of the sayings and doings of Miss Redbud and Miss Fanny—used our best efforts to place upon record what they amused themselves with, laughed at, and took pleasure in, under the golden trees of the beautiful woods, and in the happy autumn fields—now we are at liberty to return to our good old border town, and those other personages of the history, whose merits have not been adequately recognized.
When Verty entered Winchester, on the morning after the events, or rather idle country scenes, which we have related, he was smiling and joyous; and the very clatter of Cloud's hoofs made Longears merry.
Verty dismounted, and turned the knob of the office-door.
In opening, it struck against the back of Mr. Roundjacket, who, pacing hastily up and down the apartment, seemed to be laboring under much excitement.
In his left hand, Roundjacket carried a small brown newspaper, with heavy straggling type, and much dilapidated from its contact with the equestrian mail-bag, which it had evidently issued from only a short time before. In his right hand, the poet held a ruler, which described eccentric circles in the air, and threatened imaginary foes with torture and extermination.
The poet's hair stood up; his breath came and went; his coat-skirts moved from side to side, with indignation; and he evidently regarded something in the paper with a mixture of horror and despair.
Verty paused for a moment on the threshold; then took off his hat and went in.
Round jacket turned round.
Verty gazed at him for a moment in silence; then smiling:
"What is the matter, sir?" he said.
"Matter, sir!" cried Roundjacket—"everything is the matter, sir!"
Verty shook his head, as much as to say, that this was a dreadful state of things, and echoed the word "everything!"
"Yes, sir! everything!—folly is the matter!—crime is the matter!—statutory misdemeanor is the matter!"
And Roundjacket, overcome with indignation, struck the newspaper a savage blow with his ruler.
"I am the victim, sir, of editorial iniquity, and typographical abomination!"
"Anan?" said Verty.
"I am a victim, sir!"
"Yes, you look angry."
"I am!"
Verty shook his head.
"That is not right," he replied; "Redbud says it is wrong to be angry—"
"Redbud!"
"Yes, sir."
"Consign Miss Redbud—!"
"Oh, no!" said Verty, "don't do that."
"I have a right to be angry," continued Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler; "it would be out of the question for me to be anything else."
"How, sir?"
"Do you see that?"
And Roundjacket held up the paper, flourishing his ruler at it in a threatening way.
"The paper, sir?" said Verty.
"Yes!"
"What of it?"
"Abomination!"
"Oh, sir."
"Yes! utter abomination!"
"I don't understand, sir."
"Mark me!" said Roundjacket.
"Yes, sir."
"That is the 'Virginia Gazette.'"
"Is it, sir?"
"Published at Williamsburg."
"I think I've heard of it, sir."
"Williamsburg, the centre of civilization, cultivation, and the other ations!" cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler savagely, and smiling with bitter scorn.
"Ah!" said Verty, finding that he was expected to say something.
"Yes! the Capital of Virginia, forsooth!"
"Has Williamsburg made you angry, sir?"
"Yes!"
"But the 'Gazette'—?"
"Is the immediate cause."
Verty sat down.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, smiling; "but I don't understand. I never read the newspapers. Nothing but the Bible—because Redbud wants me to: I hope to like it after awhile though."
"I trust you will never throw away your time on this thing!" cried Roundjacket, running the end of his ruler through the paper; "can you believe, sir, that the first canto of my great poem has been murdered in its columns—yes, murdered!"
"Killed, do you mean, sir?"
"I do—I mean that the illiterate editor of this disgraceful sheet has assassinated the offspring of my imagination!"
"That was very wrong, sir."
"Wrong? It was infamous? What should be done with such a man!" criedRoundjacket.
"Arrest him?" suggested Verty.
"It is not a statutable offence."
"What, sir?"
"Neglecting to send sheets to correct."
"Anan?" said Verty, who did not understand.
"I mean that I have not had an opportunity to correct the printed verses, sir; and that I complain of."
Verty nodded.
"Mark me," said Roundjacket; "the publisher, editor, or reviewer who does not send sheets to the author for correction, will inevitably perish, in the end, from the tortures of remorse!"
"Ah?" said Verty.
"Yes, sir! the pangs of a guilty conscience will not suffer him to sleep; and death only will end his miserable existence."
Which certainly had the air of an undoubted truth.
"See!" said Mr. Roundjacket, relapsing into the pathetic—"see how my unfortunate offspring has been mangled—maimed—a statutory offence—mayhem!—see Bacon's Abridgment, page ——; but I wander. See," continued Roundjacket, "that is all that is left of the original."
"Yes, sir," said Verty.
"The very first line is unrecognizable."
And Roundjacket put his handkerchief to his eyes and sniffled.
Verty tried not to smile.
"It's very unfortunate, sir," he said; "but perhaps the paper—I mean yours—was not written plain."
"Written plain!" cried Roundjacket, suppressing his feelings.
"Yes, sir—the manuscript, I believe, it is called."
"Well, no—it was not written plain—of course not."
Verty looked surprised, spite of his own suggestion.
"I thought you wrote as plain as print, Mr. Roundjacket."
"I do."
"Why then—?"
"Not do so in the present instance, do you mean?"
"Yes, sir."
"Young man," said Roundjacket, solemnly, "it is easy to see that you are shockingly ignorant of the proprieties of life—or you never would have suggested such a thing."
"What thing, sir?"
"Plain writing in an author."
"Oh!" said Verty.
"Mark me," continued Roundjacket, with affecting gravity, "the unmistakable evidence of greatness is not the brilliant eye, the fine forehead, or the firm-set lip; neither is the 'lion port' or noble carriage—it is far more simple, sir. It lies wholly in the hand-writing."
"Possible, sir?"
"Yes; highly probable even. No great man ever yet wrote legibly, and I hold that such a thing is conclusive evidence of a narrowness of intellect. Great men uniformly use a species of scrawl which people have to study, sir, before they can understand. Like the Oracles of Delphos, the manuscript is mysterious because it is profound. My own belief, sir, is, that Homer's manuscript—if he had one, which I doubt—resembled a sheet of paper over which a fly with inked feet has crawled;—and you may imagine, sir, the respect, and, I may add, the labor, of the old Greek type-setters in publishing the first edition of the Iliad."
This dissertation had the effect of diverting Mr. Roundjacket's mind temporarily from his affliction; but his grief soon returned in full force again.
"To think it!" he cried, flourishing his ruler, and ready to weep,—"to think that after taking all the trouble to disguise my clear running hand, and write as became an author of my standing—in hieroglyphics—to think that this should be the result of all my trouble."
Roundjacket sniffed.
"Don't be sorry," said Verty.
"I cannot refrain, sir," said Roundjacket, in a tone of acute agony; "it is more than I can bear. See here, sir, again: 'High Jove! great father!' is changed into 'By Jove, I'd rather!' and so on. Sir, it is more than humanity can bear; I feel that I shall sink under it. I shall be in bed to-morrow, sir—after all my trouble—'By Jove!'"
With this despairing exclamation Roundjacket let his head fall, overcome with grief, upon his desk, requesting not to be spoken to, after the wont of great unfortunates.
Verty seemed to feel great respect for this overwhelming grief; at least he did not utter any commonplace consolations. He also leaned upon his desk, and his idle hands traced idle lines upon the paper before him.
His dreamy eyes, full of quiet pleasure, fixed themselves upon the far distance—he was thinking of Redbud.
He finally aroused himself, however, and began to work. Half an hour, an hour, another hour passed—Verty was breaking himself into the traces; he had finished his work.
He rose, and going to Mr. Rushton's door, knocked and opened it. The lawyer was not there; Verty looked round—his companion was absorbed in writing.
Verty sat down in the lawyer's arm-chair.