Merryvale was not a very lively place for any one except a couple of
young colts, and as many calves, jumping around after their mothers.
The bees seemed to be making a good deal of fun for themselves, if
stinging us children amused them, and buzzing into every pretty,
bright flower, so that no one could pick it with safety.
The crows, too, collected in great gossiping parties, in the pines,
over on the shore of the pond, and they always seemed to be
congratulating themselves over something immensely satisfactory.
But we children, especially the girls, found it very dull after we had
seen the few sights of the farm. The boys were trying to hunt and
fish; but Lib and I talked that over, and we came to the conclusion,
after much laughing and many caustic remarks, that the only amusement
we had was, laughing at their failures.
We communicated that fact to them, but it didn't seem to make any
difference; off they went on the same fruitless hunt, and left us to
do what we might, to make ourselves happy.
The next day, Lib and Dora and I told them we would go into the woods
with them and see what the charm was. Lib was the eldest of us three,
and had read a great deal, and she said:
"May be we shall find the robbers' cave, and if we say, 'Open Sesame,'
the great stone doors will slowly swing open, and we can go in where
the chains of flashing gems and the heaps of golden coin are."
"I think you'll get into places where you can't get out; 'open sesame'
will never lift you out of a marsh hole," said William Pitt Gaylord,
our eldest brother.
"Mollie, you can find somebody to have a talking match with, for there
are lots of chipmunks over in the grove," remarked Hugh.
"I've seen snakes in that very woods, too, and if you'd holler, Lib,
at that end of the pond, as you do at this end of the tea-table, you
wouldn't catch any fish," said William. This caused an uproarious
laugh on the part of the boys.
We listened quietly to their sarcastic remarks, knowing they were
prompted by an unreasonable desire to monopolize the delights of the
woods to themselves.
William Pitt remarked that "Girls had no business to meddle with boys'
sports, and they'd come to grief if they did; you'd see!"
Next morning the August haze lay soft on the landscape, but in a
short time it went off, and Father, learning that we girls were going
to spend a part of the day in the woods, quietly told the boys that
they must escort us to the pleasantest place, and not wander very far
off. They pouted considerably, and had a talk at the corner of the
barn; they then came back, smiling, and apparently good-natured.
[Illustration: {WALKING THROUGH THE FIELDS.}]
Our brothers did not intend to be unkind, but they had the common
failing of humanity--selfishness. But Lib matched them in a dozen ways
with her good-humored retaliations; and many a tilt she had with
William Pitt since we had arrived at the farm. In the city she was
abreast of him in all his studies; and I noticed that Lib could get
out her Latin, and write a composition much faster than he, and often
he had been obliged to come to her for aid. It nettled Lib not to be
able to hunt and fish. We two younger ones modeled after her; she was
the leader, and when she said we would go with the boys, we went.
"Hello Fred," said Hugh, as a neighboring boy, a city boarder, came
through the gate, attired in base-ball cap and knickerbockers, "we
can't go to Duck Inlet to-day. Father says the girls must have a good
time, too, and that we must devote one day to them, at least."
"All right," said Fred, "can I go with you? I'll go and get my
butterfly net, and we can go over to Fern Hollow mill, the
winter-greens and berries are as thick there! Gracious! you can get a
quart pail full in no time. The mill-wheel is a beautiful sight," said
Fred, turning to Lib, "and you can sketch it, Miss Gaylord."
Lib looked upon Fred with a little more toleration, after he had said
"Miss Gaylord," and went and ordered an additional ration to be put
into the lunch basket. We were glad to have Fred along with us, for he
was very funny, and made jokes on every thing.
Lib would allow no one to carry the lunch basket but herself, as she
remarked, "It is safer with me."
We started, and were tempted to loiter at all the little nooks on the
leaf-shadowed road, and investigate the haunts of the curious dwellers
in the rocks and bushes, and especially were we interested in the
ducks on Fern Hollow creek. Dora insisted upon feeding them a piece of
bread. "Calamity," the dog, was along, of course, and as he belonged
to William Pitt, who called him "Clam," he was always in that boy's
company. It was, "Love me, love my dog," with William; and as he was a
professional of some kind, he was greatly prized by the boys.
We reached the woods and the old mill early; I think I never was in a
more delightful place. Every thing seemed to grow here.
Winter-greens, with their crimson berries, shining in the moss, and
blueberries, where the sun came; tall, white flowers that grew in
clusters in the shade, sent their perfume all about. Back of the mill,
on some sandy ledges, grew pennyroyal and spearmint; raspberries and
blackberries grew everywhere.
[Illustration: {A STREAM RUNNING THROUGH FIELDS.}]
The boys went off to gather a quantity for lunch, and Lib and Dora and
I hunted for a pleasant place to set out our dainties. We found it. A
natural bower, between four trees; one being a giant of a pine, right
at the doorway. The wild grape-vine and the woodbine had inclosed the
space so completely, that Lib, who had thoughtfully brought along a
scissors to cut off stubborn plants, could make two windows in the
green wall; one looking into the woods, the other off at the distant
pond. The grass was fine in here, and the sunbeams dropped down in
little round spots, on the pine needles that covered the floor.
"This is certainly the fairies' dining hall," said Lib.
"I'll tell you what," said I, "this is not far from home, and we can
bring things, and have a little parlor here. I can make a couple of
curtains out of that figured scrim, for windows, and that old square
rug in the carriage-house will do for the floor. You can bring your
rocking-chair, Lib, and Dora can bring her tea-set."
"I'll bring our Christmas and Easter cards, and we can fasten them all
about, on the walls," said Lib, who had fallen in immediately with the
plan.
"I'll bring Mrs. Snobley, and all her children, and the dining table,"
said Dora.
She had reference to her large doll, and a whole dozen of little ones,
that were always brought forward in any play that Dora had taken a
fancy to.
We were in such haste to put our scheme into operation, that we
dispatched the lunch in short order, and told the boys of our plan.
They thought it was capital. Any thing that would release them, after
they had eaten all that was to be had, would, of course, be received
with acclamation. They acknowledged the same, in a very neat speech,
which Lib said, "did very good for Hugh."
She fell in immediately with our fun, and helped us to a number of
nice things, to furnish our greenwood bower. We worked tremendously
that afternoon, and after Betty had washed the dinner dishes, she
helped us. Before sun-down every thing was complete. The boys, who had
taken themselves a mile away, to hunt, came round to visit us on their
way home. They agreed that it was just perfect, and inquired if we
hadn't put in an elevator, to reach the second story, with numerous
other inquiries, intended to be funny; and then asked where we kept
our cranberry tarts.
"We're not going to allow any boys in this play-house after to-day,"
said I; "your feet are muddy, and you're so big, you fill it all up."
Our visitor, Fred, looked at his feet, and blushed. "Not after to-day?
How are you going to keep any one out?" inquired William Pitt.
"We will draw this portiere across the doorway, and no _gentleman_
would think of entering," said Lib.
"No, they wouldn't, sure enough," said Hugh. "How are you going to
prevent our looking in the windows?"
"Only rude boys would look in windows," said Fred, "and I don't know
of any hereabouts."
They laughed at this, and Lib laughed too, and made the sly remark,
that "Hunting on the duck-pond transformed some people mighty soon."
Fred said he'd try to be on his good behavior if we'd let him make a
formal call on us the next afternoon. We consented to this; then they
all said they'd call.
The next day we busied ourselves in preparing a spread of good things
for our reception, and Betty took it over, and on returning, said
every thing was just as we had left it. We dressed ourselves up in our
best, to receive the gentlemen, a little time after dinner. The woods
were never so lovely, we thought, and to add to our personal charms,
we made wreaths and garlands of ferns and wild-flowers to adorn our
persons and hats.
I had sauntered along considerably in advance, and as I approached the
bower I was not a little surprised to see from a distance that the
door-curtain was drawn half open. I stopped to listen, but there was
no sound, only a wild bird piping its three little notes, down by the
mill. I cautiously went up, and peeped into the little window, and
there stood a man on the rug! He seemed to be looking about. I think I
never was so frightened. I ran back, and whispered to the rest the
dreadful state of things. They looked horror-stricken. Lib changed
color, but just stood still. Then she said,--"There's plenty of help
over at the mill."
"Oh, let us go no nearer, but get home as fast as we can," I said.
Lib raised her hand in warning for us to keep still, and we crept
along, softly, behind the bower; and when we had gotten so far, we all
turned around and ran for dear life into the woods again.
"This is nonsense," said Lib. "You were mistaken, Mollie, I'm sure."
I said I'd go back with her, and she could see for herself. We crept
to the back of the bower, and Lib leaned over and looked in. Lib
turned pale, caught hold of my hand and Dora's, and ran quite a
distance toward the mill. Then she stopped, and said, as true as she
was alive, there was a man in there; he stood with a large stick
resting on his shoulder, upon which was slung a bundle, tied up in a
red handkerchief, his clothing was ragged, and his hat was very
dilapidated.
"Oh, Lib, I'm going to run for it," said I.
"Wait a minute," said she. "I don't hear any noise. Let's think; if we
didn't have to go right in front of the door, we could get to the
mill."
All this time we were edging ourselves as far away from the dangerous
precincts as we conveniently could. She stood again, perfectly still.
"I won't go another step," she said. That moment's reflect had
re-instated her courage. "He don't come out; I should say that was
making an informal call when the ladies were out. He's a
beautiful-looking specimen anyway," said Lib, with fine irony; and as
she said this, she frowned, and put her head back.
No sound was heard, and no demonstrations from the interloper were
made. The sight of the mill-wagon, going slowly down the road, gave us
heart, and Lib said:
"I'll go and order him out, be the consequences what they may.
Mollie, you're good at screaming, you can bring the miller here if we
have to get help."
"Don't! Don't! I would rather he stole all our things; let him have
the tarts and the cocoanut cake, and the jam, and the pickles, and the
cheese, and the sandwiches! Let him have them in welcome! I'm going to
fly home!"
"I want Mrs. Snobley!" sobbed Dora.
Lib never said another word. She walked up to the entrance, and pulled
aside the curtain, and there stood the semblance of a man. In his
extended hand was a card, on which was very badly printed:
"_I'm a poor b'y,--I want a home._"
"_References exchanged._"
"_I'll scrape the mud off me boots, if ye'll let me
in._"