ON THE RIVER.
Hildegarde went softly downstairs, and stood in the doorway for a few
minutes, looking about her. The house was very still; nothing seemed to
be stirring, or even awake, except herself. She peeped into the parlor,
and saw Cousin Wealthy placidly sleeping in her easy-chair. At her feet,
on a round hassock, lay Dr. Johnson, also sleeping soundly. "It is the
enchanted palace," said Hildegarde to herself; "only the princess has
grown old in the hundred years,--but so prettily old!--and the prince
would have to be a stately old gentleman to match her." She went out on
the lawn; still there was no sound, save the chirping of grasshoppers
and crickets. It was still the golden prime of a perfect June day; what
would be the most beautiful thing to do where all was beauty? Read, or
write letters? No! that she could do when the glory had begun to fade.
She walked about here and there,--"just enjoying herself," she said. She
touched the white heads of the daisies; but did not pick them, because
they looked so happy. She put her arms round the most beautiful
elm-tree, and gave it a little hug, just to thank it for being so
stately and graceful, and for bending its branches over her so lovingly.
Then a butterfly came fluttering by. It was a Camberwell Beauty, and
Hildegarde followed it about a little as it hovered lazily from one
daisy to another.
"Last year at this time," she said, thinking aloud, "I didn't know what
a Camberwell Beauty was. I didn't know any butterflies at all; and if
any one had said 'Fritillary' to me, I should have thought it was
something to eat." This disgraceful confession was more than the Beauty
could endure, and he fluttered away indignant.
"I don't wonder!" said the girl. "But you'd better take care, my dear. I
know you now, and I don't _think_ Bubble has more than two of your kind
in his collection. I promised to get all the butterflies and moths I
could for the dear lad, and if you are too superior, I may begin with
you."
At this moment a faint creak fell on her ear, coming from the direction
of the garden. "As of a wheelbarrow!" she said.
"Jeremiah!--boat!--river!--_now_ I know what I was wanting to do." She
ran round to the garden; and there, to be sure, was Jeremiah, wheeling
off a huge load of weeds.
"Oh, Jeremiah!" said Hildegarde, eagerly, "is the--do you think the boat
is safe?"
[Illustration: "'DO SAY IT'S ALL RIGHT, JEREMIAH!'"]
Jeremiah put down his load and looked at her with sad surprise. "The
boat?" he repeated. "She's all safe! I was down to the wharf this
mornin'. Nobody's had her out, 's I know of."
"Oh, I didn't mean that!" said Hildegarde, laughing. "I mean, is she
safe for me to go in? Miss Bond said that I could go out on the river,
if _you_ said it was all right. _Do_ say it's all right, Jeremiah!"
Jeremiah never smiled, but his melancholy lightened several shades.
"She's right enough," he said,--"the boat. She isn't hahnsome, but she's
stiddy 's a rock. _She_ don't like boats, any way o' the world, but I'll
take ye down and get her out for ye."
Rightly conjecturing that the last "her" referred to the boat,
Hildegarde gladly followed the Ancient Mariner down the path that sloped
from the garden, through a green pasture, round to the river-bank. Here
she found the boat-house, whose roof she had seen from her window, and
a gray wharf with moss-grown piers. The tide was high, and it took
Jeremiah only a few minutes to pull the little green boat out, and set
her rocking on the smooth water.
"Oh, thank you!" said Hildegarde. "I am so much obliged!"
"No need ter!" responded Jeremiah, politely. "Ye've handled a boat
before, have ye?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "I don't think I shall have any trouble." And as
she spoke, she stepped lightly in, and seating herself, took the oars
that he handed her. "And which is the prettiest way to row,
Jeremiah,--up river, or down?"
Jeremiah meditated. "Well," he said, "I don't hardly know as I can
rightly tell. Some thinks one way's pooty; some thinks t' other. Both of
'em 's sightly, to my mind."
"Then I shall try both," said Hildegarde, laughing. "Good-by, Jeremiah!
I will bring the boat back safe."
The oars dipped, and the boat shot off into midstream. Jeremiah looked
after it a few minutes, and then turned back toward the house. "_She_
knows what she's about!" he said to himself.
Near the bank the water had been a clear, shining brown, with the
pebbles showing white and yellow through it; but out here in the middle
of the river it was all a blaze and ripple and sparkle of blue and gold.
Hildegarde rested on her oars, and sat still for a few minutes, basking
in the light and warmth; but soon she found the glory too strong, and
pulled over to the other side, where high steep banks threw a shadow on
the water. Here the water was very deep, and the rocks showed as clear
and sharp beneath it as over it. Hildegarde rowed slowly along,
sometimes touching the warm stone with her hand. She looked down, and
saw little minnows and dace darting about, here and there, up and down.
"How pleasant to be a fish!" she thought. "There comes one up out of the
water. Plop! Did you get the fly, old fellow?
"'They wriggled their tails;
In the sun glanced their scales.'"
Then she tried to repeat "Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes," of
which she was very fond.
"Sharp-snouted pikes,
Who keep fighting like tikes,
Now swam up harmonious
To hear Saint Antonius.
No sermon beside
Had the pikes so edified."
Presently something waved in the shadow,--something moving, among the
still reflections of the rocks. Hildegarde looked up. There, growing in
a cranny of the rock above her, was a cluster of purple bells, nodding
and swaying on slender thread-like stems. They were so beautiful that
she could only sit still and look at them at first, with eyes of
delight. But they were so friendly, and nodded in such a cheerful way,
that she soon felt acquainted with them.
"You dears!" she cried; "have you been waiting there, just for me to
come and see you?"
The harebells nodded, as if there were no doubt about it.
"Well, here I am!" Hildegarde continued; "and it was very nice of you to
come. How do you like living on the rock there? He must be very proud of
you, the old brown giant, and I dare say you enjoy the water and the
lights and shadows, and would not stay in the woods if you could. If I
were a flower, I should like to be one of you, I think. Good-by, dear
pretties! I should like to take you home to Rose, but it would be a
wickedness to pick you."
She kissed her hand to the friendly blossoms, and they nodded a pleasant
good-by, as she floated slowly down stream. A little farther on, she
came to a point of rock that jutted out into the river; on it a single
pine stood leaning aslant, throwing a perfect double of itself on the
glassy water. Hildegarde rested in the shadow. "To be in a boat and in a
tree at the same moment," she thought, "is a thing that does not happen
to every one. Rose will not believe me when I tell her; yet here are the
branches all around me, perfect, even to the smallest twig. Query, am I
a bird or a fish? Here is actually a nest in the crotch of these
branches, but I fear I shall find no eggs in it." Turning the point of
rock, she found on the other side a fairy cove, with a tiny patch of
silver sand, and banks of fern coming to the water's edge on either
side. Some of the ferns dipped their fronds in the clear water, while
taller ones peeped over their heads, trying to catch a glimpse of their
own reflection.
Hildegarde's keen eyes roved among the green masses, seeking the
different varieties,--botrychium, lady-fern, delicate hart's-tongue;
behind these, great nodding ostrich-ferns, bending their stately plumes
over their lowlier sisters; beyond these again a tangle of brake running
up into the woods. "Why, it is a fern show!" she thought. "This must be
the exhibition room for the whole forest. Visitors will please not touch
the specimens!"
She pulled close to the bank. Instantly there was a rustle and a flutter
among the ferns; a little brown bird flew out, and perching on the
nearest tree, scolded most violently. Very carefully Hildegarde drew
the ferns aside, and lo! a wonderful thing,--a round nest, neatly built
of moss and tiny twigs; and in it four white eggs spotted with brown.
"It is too good to be true," thought the girl. "I am asleep, and I shall
wake in a moment. I haven't done anything to deserve seeing this. Rose
is good enough; I wish she were here."
But the little brown bird was by this time in a perfect frenzy of
maternal alarm; and very reluctantly, with an apology to the angry
matron, Hildegarde let the ferns swing back into place, and pulled the
boat away from the bank. On the whole, it seemed the most beautiful
thing she had ever seen; but everything was so beautiful!
The girl's heart was very full of joy and thankfulness as she rowed
along. Life was so full, so wonderful, with new wonders, new beauties,
opening for her every day. "Let all that hath life praise the Lord!" she
murmured softly; and the very silence seemed to fill with love and
praise. Then her thoughts went back to the time, a little more than a
year ago, when she neither knew nor cared about any of these things;
when "the country" meant to her a summer watering-place, where one went
for two or three months, to wear the prettiest of light dresses, and to
ride and drive and walk on the beach. Her one idea of life was the life
of cities,--of _one_ city, New York. A country-girl, if she ever thought
of such a thing, meant simply an ignorant, coarse, common girl, who had
no advantages. No advantages! and she herself, all the time, did not
know one tree from another. She had been the cleverest girl in school,
and she could not tell a robin's note from a vireo's; as for the
wood-thrush, she had never heard of it. A flower to her meant a
hot-house rose; a bird was a bird; a butterfly was a butterfly. All
other insects, the whole winged host that fills the summer air with life
and sound, were included under two heads, "millers" and "bugs."
"No, not _quite_ so bad as that!" she cried aloud, laughing, though her
cheeks burned at her own thoughts. "I _did_ know bees and wasps, and I
_think_ I knew a dragon-fly when I saw him."
But for the rest, there seemed little to say in her defence. She was
just like Peter Bell, she thought; and she repeated Wordsworth's
lines,--
"A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more."
Here was this little brown bird, for example. Bird and song and eggs,
all together could not tell her its name. She drew from her pocket a
little brown leather note-book, and wrote in it, "Four white eggs,
speckled with brown; brown bird, small, nest of fine twigs, on
river-bank;" slipped it in her pocket again, and rowed on, feeling
better. After all, it was so _very_ much better to know that one had
been a goose, than not to know it! Now that her eyes were once open, was
she not learning something new every day, almost every hour?
She rowed on now with long strokes, for the bank was steep and rocky
again, and there were no more fairy coves. Soon, however, she came to an
island,--a little round island in the middle of the river, thickly
covered with trees. This was a good place to turn back at, for Rose
would be awake by this time and looking for her. First, however, she
would row around the island, and consider it from all sides.
The farther side showed an opening in the trees, and a pretty little
dell, shaded by silver birches,--a perfect place for a picnic, thought
Hildegarde. She would bring Rose here some day, if good Martha would
make them another chicken-pie; perhaps Cousin Wealthy would come too.
Dear Cousin Wealthy! how good and kind and pretty she was! One would not
mind growing old, if one could be sure of being good and pretty, and
having everybody love one.
At this moment, as Hildegarde turned her boat up river, something very
astonishing happened. Not ten yards away from her, a huge body shot up
out of the water, described a glittering arc, and fell again,
disappearing with a splash which sent the spray flying in all directions
and made the rocks echo. Hildegarde sat quite still for several minutes,
petrified with amazement, and, it must be confessed, with fear. Who ever
heard of such a thing as this? A fish? Why, it was as big as a young
whale! Only whales didn't come up rivers, and she had never heard of
their jumping out of water in this insane way. Suppose the creature
should take it into his head to leap again, and should fall into the
boat? At this thought our heroine began to row as fast as she could,
taking long strokes, and making the boat fairly fly through the water;
though, as she said to herself, it would not make any difference, if her
enemy were swimming in the same direction.
Presently, however, she heard a second splash behind her, and turning,
saw the huge fish just disappearing, at some distance down river. She
recovered her composure, and in a few minutes was ready to laugh at her
own terrors.
Homeward now, following the west bank, as she had gone down along the
east. This side was pretty, too, though there were no rocks nor ferny
coves. On the contrary, the water was quite shallow, and full of brown
weeds, which brushed softly against the boat. Not far from the bank she
saw the highway, looking white and dusty, with the afternoon sun lying
on it. "No dust on my road!" she said exultingly; "and no hills!" she
added, as she saw a wagon, at some distance, climbing an almost
perpendicular ascent. "I wonder what these water-plants are! Rose would
know, of course."
Now came the willows that she had seen from the window,--the "margin
willow-veiled" that had reminded her of the Lady of Shalott. It was
pleasant to row under them, letting the cool, fragrant leaves brush
against her face. Here, too, were sweet-scented rushes, of which she
gathered an armful for Rose, who loved them; and in this place she made
the acquaintance of a magnificent blue dragon-fly, which alighted on
her oar as she lifted it from the water, and showed no disposition to
depart. His azure mail glittered in the sunlight; his gauzy wings, as he
furled and unfurled them deliberately, were like cobwebs powdered with
snow. He evidently expected to be admired, and Hildegarde could not
disappoint him.
"Fair sir," she said courteously, "I doubt not that you are the Lancelot
of dragon-flies. Your armor is the finest I ever saw; doubtless, it has
been polished by some lily maid of a white butterfly, or she might be a
peach-blossom moth,--daintiest of all winged creatures. The sight of you
fills my heart with rapture, and I fain would gaze on you for hours.
Natheless, fair knight, time presses, and if you _would_ remove your
chivalrous self from my unworthy oar,--really not a fit place for your
knighthood,--I should get on faster."
Sir Lancelot deigning no attention to this very civil speech, she
splashed her other oar in the water, and exclaimed, "Hi!" sharply,
whereupon the gallant knight spread his shining wings and departed in
wrath.
And now the boat-house was near, and the beautiful, beautiful time was
over. Hildegarde took two or three quick strokes, and then let the boat
drift on toward the wharf, while she leaned idly back and trailed her
hand in the clear water. It had been so perfect, so lovely, she was very
loath to go on shore again. But the thought of Rose came,--sweet,
patient Rose, wondering where her Hilda was; and then she rowed quickly
on, and moored the boat, and clambered lightly up the wharf.
"Good-by, good boat!" she cried. "Good-by, dear beautiful river! I shall
see you to-morrow, the day after, every other day while I am here. I
have been happy, happy, happy with you. Good-by!" And with a final wave
of her hand, Hildegarde ran lightly up the path that led to the house.