GIPSEYING.
We tried the deck again, but the fog was too disagreeable to remain
there, for the water fell from the ropes in such large drops, and the
planks were so wet and slippery, we soon adjourned again to the cabin.
“I have to thank you, Doctor,” said I, “for a most charming day at the
Beaver-Dam. That was indeed a day in the woods, and I believe every one
there knew how to enjoy it. How different it is from people in a town
here, who go out to the country for a pic-nic! A citizen thinks the
pleasure of gipseying, as they call it in England, consists solely in
the abundance and variety of the viands, the quality and quantity of
the wines, and as near an approach to a city dinner as it is possible
to have, where there are neither tables, chairs, sideboards, nor
removes. He selects his place for the encampment in the first opening
adjoining the clearing, as it commands a noble view of the harbour, and
there is grass enough to recline upon. The woods are gloomy, the
footing is slippery, and there is nothing to be seen in a forest but
trees, windfalls which are difficult to climb, and boggy ground that
wets your feet, and makes you feel uncomfortable. The limbs are
eternally knocking your hat off, and the spruce gum ruins your clothes,
while ladies, like sheep, are for ever leaving fragments of their dress
on every bush. He chooses the skirts of the forest therefore, the
background is a glorious wood, and the foreground is diversified by the
shipping. The o-heave-o of the sailors, as it rises and falls in the
distance, is music to his ears, and suggestive of agreeable
reflections, or profitable conversation peculiarly appropriate to the
place and the occasion. The price of fish in the West Indies, or of
deals in Liverpool, or the probable rise of flour in the market, amuse
the vacant mind of himself and his partner, not his wife, for she is
only his _sleeping_ partner, but the wide-awake partner of the firm,
one of those who are embraced in the comprehensive term the ‘Co.’ He is
the depository of his secrets, the other of his complaints.
“His wife is equally happy, she enjoys it uncommonly, for she knows it
will spite those horrid Mudges. She is determined not to invite them,
for they make too much noise, it gives her the headache, and their
flirting is too bad. Mrs White called them garrison hacks. And besides
(for women always put the real reason last—they live in a postscript)
they don’t deserve it, for they left her girls out when they had the
lobster-spearing party by torch-light, with the officers of the
flag-ship, though that was no loss, for by all accounts it was a very
romping party, knocking off the men’s hats, and then exchanging their
bonnets for them. And how any mother could allow her daughter to be
held round the waist by the flag-lieutenant, while she leaned over the
boat to spear the fish, is a mystery to her. The polka is bad enough,
but, to her mind, that is not decent, and then she has something to
whisper about it, that she says is too bad (this is a secret though,
and she must whisper it, for walls have ears, and who knows but trees
have, and besides, the _good_ things are never repeated, but the _too
bad_ always is), and Mrs Black lifts up both her hands, and the whites
of both eyes in perfect horror.
“‘Now did you ever! Oh, is that true? Why, you don’t!’
“‘Lucy Green saw him with her own eyes,’ and she opens her own as big
as saucers.
“‘And what did Miss Mudge say?’
“‘Well, upon my word,’ said she, ‘I wonder what you will do next,’ and
laughed so they nearly fell overboard.
“‘Oh, what carryings on, ain’t it, dear? But I wonder where Sarah
Matilda is? I don’t see her and Captain De la Cour. I am afraid she
will get lost in the woods, and that would make people talk as they did
about Miss Mudge and Doctor Vincent, who couldn’t find their way out
once till nine o’clock at night.’
“‘They’ll soon get back, dear,’ sais the other, ‘let them be; it looks
like watching them, and _you_ know,’ laying an emphasis on _you_, ‘you
and I were young _once_ ourselves, and so they will come back when they
want to, for though the woods have no straight paths in them, they have
short cuts enough for them that’s in a hurry. Cupid has no _watch_,
dear; his _fob_ is for a _purse_,’ and she smiles wicked on the mother
of the heiress.
“Well, then, who can say this is not a pleasant day to both parties?
The old gentlemen have their nice snug business chat, and the old
ladies have their nice snug gossip chat, and the third estate (as the
head of the firm calls it, who was lately elected member for Grumble
Town, and begins to talk parliamentary), the third estate, the young
folks, the people of progression, who are not behind but rather ahead
of the age they live in, don’t they enjoy themselves? It is very hard
if youth, beauty, health, good spirits, and a desire to please (because
if people havn’t that they had better stay to home), can’t or won’t
make people happy. I don’t mean for to go for to say that will insure
it, because nothin’ is certain, and I have known many a gall that
resembled a bottle of beautiful wine. You will find one sometimes as
enticin’ to appearance as ever was, but hold it up and there is grounds
there for all that, settled, but still there, and enough too to spile
all, so you can’t put it to your lips any how you can fix it. What a
pity it is sweet things turn sour, ain’t it?
“But in a general way these things will make folks happy. There are
some sword-knots there, and they do look very like woodsmen, that’s a
fact. If you never saw a forrester, you would swear to them as perfect.
A wide-awake hat, with a little short pipe stuck in it, a pair of
whiskers that will be grand when they are a few years older—a coarse
check or red flannel shirt, a loose neck-handkerchief, tied with a
sailor’s knot—a cut-away jacket, with lots of pockets—a belt, but
little or no waistcoat—homespun trowsers and thick buskins—a rough
glove and a delicate white hand, the real, easy, and natural gait of
the woodman (only it’s apt to be a little, just a little too stiff, on
account of the ramrod they have to keep in their throats while on
parade), when combined, actilly beat natur, for they are too nateral.
Oh, these amateur woodsmen enact their part so well, you think you
almost see the identical thing itself. And then they have had the
advantage of Woolwich or Sandhurst, or Chobham, and are dabs at a
bivouac, grand hands with an axe—cut a hop-pole down in half a day
amost, and in the other half stick it into the ground. I don’t make no
doubt in three or four days they could build a wigwam to sleep in, and
one night out of four under cover is a great deal for an amateur
hunter, though it ain’t the smallest part of a circumstance to the
Crimea. As, it is, if a stick ain’t too big for a fire, say not larger
than your finger, they can break it over their knee, sooner than you
could cut it with a hatchet for your life, and see how soon it’s in a
blaze. Take them altogether, they are a killing party of coons them,
never miss a moose if they shoot out of an Indian’s gun, and use a
silver bullet.
“Well, then, the young ladies are equipped so nicely—they have uglies
to their bonnets, the only thing ugly about them, for at a distance
they look like huge green spectacles. They are very useful in the
forest, for there is a great glare of the sun generally under trees; or
else they have green bonnets, that look like eagle’s skins; thin
dresses, strong ones are too heavy, and they don’t display the beauty
of nature enough, they are so high, and the whole object of the party
is to admire that. Their walking shoes are light and thin, they don’t
fatigue you like coarse ones, and India-rubbers are hideous, they make
your feet look as if they had the gout; and they have such pretty, dear
little aprons, how rural it looks altogether—they act a day in the
woods to admiration. Three of the officers have nicknames, a very nice
thing to induce good fellowship, especially as it has no tendency
whatever to promote quarrels. There is Lauder, of the _Rifles,_ he is
so short, they call him _Pistol;_ he has a year to grow yet, and may
become a great _gun_ some of these days. Russel takes a joke
good-humouredly, and therefore is so fortunate as to get more than his
share of them, accordingly he goes by the name of Target, as every one
takes a shot at him. Duke is so bad a shot, he has twice nearly pinked
the marksman, so he is called Trigger. He always lays the blame of his
want of skill on that unfortunate appendage of the gun, as it is either
too hard or too quick on the finger. Then there is young Bulger, and as
everybody pronounces it as if it had two ‘g’s’ in it, he corrects them
and says, ‘g’ soft, my dear fellow, if you please; so he goes by the
name of ‘G’ soft. Oh, the conversation of the third estate is so
pretty, I could listen to it for ever.
“‘Aunt,’ sais Miss Diantha, ‘do you know what
gyp—gypsy—gypsymum—gypsymuming is? Did you ever hear how I stutter
to-day? I can’t get a word out hardly. Ain’t it provoking?’
“Well, stammering is provoking; but a pretty little accidental
impediment of speech like that, accompanied with a little graceful bob
of the head, is very taking, ain’t it?
“‘Gypsuming,’ sais the wise matron, ‘is the plaster of Paris trade,
dear. They carry it on at Windsor, your father says.’
“Pistol gives Target a wink, for they are honouring the party by their
company, though the mother of one keeps a lodging-house at Bath, and
the father of the other makes real genuine East India curry in London.
They look down on the whole of the townspeople. It is natural; pot
always calls kettle an ugly name.
“‘No, Ma,’ sais Di—all the girls address her as Di; ain’t it a pretty
abbreviation for a die-away young lady? But she is not a die-away lass;
she is more of a Di Vernon. ‘No, Ma,’ sais Di, ‘gipsey—ing, what a hard
word it is! Mr Russel says it’s what they call these parties in
England. It is so like the gipsy life.’
“‘There is one point,’ sais Pistol, ‘in which they differ.’
“‘What’s that?’ sais Di.
“‘Do you give it up?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘There the gipsy girls steal poultry; and here they steal hearts,’ and
he puts his left hand by mistake on his breast, not knowing that the
pulsation there indicates that his lungs, and not his gizzard is
affected, and that he is broken-_winded,_ and not broken-_hearted._
“‘Very good,’ every one sais; but still every one hasn’t heard it, so
it has to be repeated; and what is worse, as the habits of the gipsies
are not known to all, the point has to be explained.
“Target sais, ‘He will send it to the paper, and put Trigger’s name to
it,’ and Pistol says, ‘That is capital, for if he calls you out, he
can’t hit you,’ and there is a joyous laugh. Oh dear, but a day in the
woods is a pleasant thing. For my own part, I must say I quite agree
with the hosier, who, when he first went to New Orleens, and saw such a
swad of people there, said, he ‘didn’t onderstand how on earth it was
that folks liked to live in a heap that way, altogether, where there
was no corn to plant, and no bears to kill.’
“‘My, oh my!’ sais Miss Letitia, or Letkissyou, as Pistol used to call
her. People ought to be careful what names they give their children, so
as folks can’t fasten nicknames on ’em. Before others the girls called
her Letty, and that’s well enough; but sometimes they would call her
Let, which is the devil. If a man can’t give a pretty fortune to his
child, he can give it a pretty name at any rate.
“There was a very large family of Cards wunst to Slickville. They were
mostly in the stage-coach and livery-stable line, and careless,
reckless sort of people. So one day, Squire Zenas Card had a
christenin’ at his house.
“‘Sais the Minister, ‘what shall I call the child?’
“‘Pontius Pilate,’ said he.
“‘I can’t,’ said the Minister, ‘and I won’t. No soul ever heerd of such
a name for a Christian since baptism came in fashion.’
“‘I am sorry for that,’ said the Squire, ‘for it’s a mighty pretty
name. I heard it once in church, and I thought if ever I had a son I’de
call him after him; but if I can’t have that—and it’s a dreadful
pity—call him Trump;’ and he was christenened Trump Card.
“‘Oh my!’ sais Miss Letitia, lispin’, ‘Captain De la Cour has smashed
my bonnet, see, he is setting upon it. Did you ever?’
“‘Never,’ said Di, ‘he has converted your _cottage_ bonnet into a
_country seat,_ I do declare!’
“Everybody exclaimed, ‘That is excellent,’ and Russel said, ‘Capital,
by Jove.’
“‘That kind of thing,’ said De la Cour, ‘is more honoured in the
_breach_ than the _observance_;’ and winked to Target.
“Miss Di is an inveterate punster, so she returns to the charge.
“‘Letty, what fish is that, the name of which would express all you
said about your bonnet?—do you give it up? A bon-net-o!’ (Boneto).
“‘Well, I can’t _fathom_ that,’ sais De la Cour.
“‘I don’t wonder at that,’ sais the invincible Di; ‘it is beyond your
_depth,_ for it is an out-of-_soundings_ fish.’
“Poor De la Cour, you had better let her alone, she is too many guns
for you. Scratch your head, for your curls and your name are all that
you have to be proud of. Let her alone, she is wicked, and she is
meditating a name for you and Pistol that will stick to you as long as
you live, she has it on the tip of her tongue—‘The babes in the wood.’
“Now for the baskets—now for the spread. The old gentlemen break up
their Lloyds’ meeting—the old ladies break up their scandal club—the
young ladies and their beaux are busy in arrangements, and though the
cork-screws are nowhere to be found, Pistol has his in one of the many
pockets of his woodsman’s coat, he never goes without it (like one of
his mother’s waiters), which he calls his _young man’s best companion_;
and which another, who was a year in an attorney’s office, while
waiting for his commission, calls _the crown circuit assistant;_ and a
third, who has just arrived in a steamer, designates as _the screw
propeller._ It was a sensible provision, and Miss Di said, ‘a
_corkscrew_ and a _pocket-pistol_ were better suited to him than a
rifle,’ and every one said it was a capital joke that—for everybody
likes a shot that don’t hit themselves.
“‘How tough the goose is!’ sais G soft. ‘I can’t carve it.’
“‘Ah!’ sais Di, ‘when Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.’
“Eating and talking lasts a good while, but they don’t last for ever.
The ladies leave the gentlemen to commence their smoking and finish
their drinking, and presently there is a loud laugh; it’s more than a
laugh, it’s a roar; and the ladies turn round and wonder.
“Letty sais, ‘When the wine is in, the wit is out.’
“‘True,” sais Di, ‘the wine is there, but when you left them the wit
went out.’
“‘Rather severe,’ said Letty.
“‘Not at all,’ sais Di, ‘for I was with you.’
“It is the last shot of poor Di. She won’t take the trouble to talk
well for ladies, and those horrid Mudges have a party on purpose to
take away all the pleasant men. She never passed so stupid a day. She
hates pic-nics, and will never go to one again. De la Cour is a fool,
and is as full of airs as a night-hawk is of feathers. Pistol is a
bore; Target is both poor and stingy; Trigger thinks more of himself
than anybody else; and as for G soft, he is a goose. She will never
speak to Pippen again for not coming. They are a poor set of devils in
the garrison; she is glad they are to have a new regiment.
“Letty hasn’t enjoyed herself either, she has been devoured by black
flies and musquitoes, and has got her feet wet, and is so tired she
can’t go to the ball. The sleeping partner of the head of the firm is
out of sorts, too. Her crony-gossip gave her a sly poke early in the
day, to show her she recollected when she was young (not that she is so
old now either, for she knows the grave gentleman who visits at her
house is said to like the mother better than the daughter), but before
she was married, and friends who have such wonderful memories are not
very pleasant companions, though it don’t do to have them for enemies.
But then, poor thing, and she consoles herself with the idea the poor
thing has daughters herself, and they are as ugly as sin, and not half
so agreeable. But it isn’t that altogether. Sarah Matilda should not
have gone wandering out of hearing with the captain, and she must give
her a piece of her mind about it, for there is a good deal of truth in
the old saying, ‘If the girls won’t run after the men, the men will run
after them;’ so she calls out loudly, ‘Sarah Matilda, my love, come
here, dear,’ and Sarah Matilda knows when the honey is produced, physic
is to be taken, but she knows she is under observation, and so she
flies to her dear mamma, with the feet and face of an angel, and they
gradually withdraw.
“‘Dear ma, how tired you look.’
“‘I am not tired, dear.’
“‘Well, you don’t look well; is anything the matter with you?’
“‘I didn’t say I wasn’t well, and it’s very rude to remark on one’s
looks that way.’
“‘Something seems to have put you out of sorts, ma, I will run and call
pa. Dear me, I feel frightened. Shall I ask Mrs Bawdon for her salts?’
“‘You know very well what’s the matter; it’s Captain De la Cour.’
“‘Well, now, how strange,’ said Sarah Matilda. ‘I told him he had
better go and walk with you; I wanted him to do it; I told him you
liked attention. Yes, I knew you would be angry, but it isn’t my fault.
It ain’t, indeed.’
“‘Well, I am astonished,’ replies the horrified mother. ‘I never in all
my life. So you told him I liked attention. I, your mother, your
father’s wife, with my position in _so_cie_tee_; and pray what answer
did he make to this strange conduct?’
“‘He said, No wonder, you were the handsomest woman in town, and so
agreeable; the only one fit to talk to.’
“‘And you have the face to admit you listened to such stuff?’
“‘I could listen all day to it, ma, for I knew it was true. I never saw
you look so lovely, the new bishop has improved your appearance
amazingly.’
“‘Who?’ said the mother, with an hysterical scream; ‘what do you mean?’
“‘The new bustler, ma.’
“‘Oh,’ said she, quite relieved, ‘oh, do you think so?’
“‘But what did you want of me, ma?’
“‘To fasten my gown, dear, there is a hook come undone.’
“‘Coming,’ she said, in a loud voice.
“There was nobody calling, but somebody ought to have called; so she
fastens the hook, and flies back as fast as she came.
“Sarah Matilda, you were not born yesterday; first you put your mother
on the defensive, and then you stroked her down with the grain, and
made her feel good all over, while you escaped from a scolding you know
you deserved. A jealous mother makes an artful daughter. But, Sarah
Matilda, one word in your ear. Art ain’t cleverness, and cunning ain’t
understanding. Semblance only answers once; the second time the door
ain’t opened to it.
“Henrietta is all adrift, too; she is an old maid, and Di nicknamed her
‘the old hen.’ She has been shamefully neglected today. The young men
have been flirting about with those forward young girls—children—mere
children, and have not had the civility to exchange a word with her.
The old ladies have been whispering gossip all day, and the old
gentlemen busy talking about freights, the Fall-catch of mackarel, and
ship-building. Nor could their talk have been solely confined to these
subjects, for once when she approached them, she heard the head of the
firm say:
“‘The ‘lovely lass’ must be thrown down and scraped, for she is so
foul, and her knees are all gone.’
“And so she turned away in disgust. Catch her at a pic-nic again! No,
never! It appears the world is changed; girls in her day were never
allowed to romp that way, and men used to have some manners. Things
have come to a pretty pass!
“‘Alida, is that you, dear? You look dull.’
“‘Oh, Henrietta! I have torn my beautiful thread-lace mantilla all to
rags; it’s ruined for ever. And do _you_ know—oh, _I_ don’t know how I
shall ever dare to face ma again! I have lost her beautiful little
enamelled watch. Some of these horrid branches have pulled it off the
chain.’ And Alida cries and is consoled by Henrietta, who is a
good-natured creature after all. She tells her for her comfort that
nobody should ever think of wearing a delicate and expensive lace
mantilla in the woods; she could not expect anything else than to have
it destroyed; and as for exposing a beautiful gold watch outside of her
dress, nobody in her senses would have thought of such a thing. Of
course she was greatly comforted: kind words and a kind manner will
console any one.
“It is time now to re-assemble, and the party are gathered once more;
and the ladies have found their smiles again, and Alida has found her
watch; and there are to be some toasts and some songs before parting.
All is jollity once more, and the head of the firm and his vigilant
partner and the officers have all a drop in their eye, and Henrietta is
addressed by the junior partner, who is a bachelor of about her own
age, and who assures her he never saw her look better; and she looks
delighted, and is delighted, and thinks a pic-nic not so bad a thing
after all.
“But there is a retributive justice in this world. Even pic-nic parties
have their moral, and folly itself affords an example from which a wise
saw may be extracted. Captain de Courlay addresses her, and after all,
he has the manners and appearance of a gentleman, though it is
whispered he is fond of practical jokes, pulls ‘colt ensigns’ out of
bed, makes them go through their sword exercise standing shirtless in
their tubs, and so on. There is one redeeming thing in the story, if it
be true, he never was known to do it to a young nobleman; he is too
well bred for that. He talks to her of society as it was before
good-breeding was reformed out of the colonies. She is delighted; but,
oh! was it stupidity, or was it insolence, or was it cruelty? he asked
her if she recollected the Duke of Kent. To be sure it is only
fifty-two years since he was here; but to have recollected him! How old
did he suppose she was? She bears it well and meekly. It is not the
first time she has been painfully reminded she was not young. She says
her grandmother often spoke of him as a good officer and a handsome
man; and she laughs, though her heart aches the while, as if it was a
good joke to ask _her._ He backs out as soon as he can. He meant well,
though he had expressed himself awkwardly; but to back out shows you
are in the wrong stall, a place you have no business in, and being out,
he thinks it as well to jog on to another place.
“Ah, Henrietta! you were unkind to Alida about her lace mantilla and
her gold watch, and it has come home to you. You ain’t made of glass,
and nothing else will hold vinegar long without being corroded itself.
“Well, the toasts are drunk, and the men are not far from being drunk
too, and feats of agility are proposed, and they jump up and catch a
springing bow, and turn a somerset on it, or over it, and they are
cheered and applauded when De Courlay pauses in mid-air for a moment,
as if uncertain what to do. Has the bough given way, or was that the
sound of cloth rent in twain? Something has gone wrong, for he is
greeted with uproarious cheers by the men, and he drops on his feet,
and retires from the company as from the presence of royalty, by
backing out and bowing as he goes, repeatedly stumbling, and once or
twice falling in his retrograde motion.
“Ladies never lose their tact—they ask no questions because they see
something is amiss, and though it is hard to subdue curiosity,
propriety sometimes restrains it. They join in the general laugh
however, for it can be nothing serious where his friends make merry
with it. When he retires from view, his health is drank with three
times three. Di, who seemed to take pleasure in annoying the spinster,
said she had a great mind not to join in that toast, for he was a
_loose_ fellow, otherwise he would have rent his _heart_ and not his
_garments._ It is a pity a clever girl like her will let her tongue run
that way, for it leads them to say things they ought not. Wit in a
woman is a dangerous thing, like a doctor’s lancet, it is apt to be
employed about matters that offend our delicacy, or hurt our feelings.”
“‘What the devil is that?’ said the head, of the firm, looking up, as a
few drops of rain fell. ‘Why, here is a thunder-shower coming on us as
sure as the world. Come, let us pack up and be off.’
“And the servants are urged to be expeditious, and the sword-knots
tumble the glasses into the baskets, and the cold hams atop of them,
and break the decanters, to make them stow better, and the head of the
firm swears, and the sleeping partner says she will faint, she could
never abide thunder; and Di tells her if she does not want to abide all
night, she had better move, and a vivid flash of lightning gives notice
to quit, and tears and screams attest the notice is received, and the
retreat is commenced; but alas, the carriages are a mile and a half
off, and the tempest rages, and the rain falls in torrents, and the
thunder stuns them, and the lightning blinds them.
“‘What’s the use of hurrying?’ says Di, ‘we are now wet through, and
our clothes are spoiled, and I think we might take it leisurely.
Pistol, take my arm, I am not afraid of you now.’
“‘Why?’
“‘Your powder is wet, and you can’t go off. You are quite harmless.
Target, you had better run.’
“‘Why?’
“‘You will be sure to be hit if you don’t—won’t he, Trigger?’
“But Pistol, and Target, and Trigger are alike silent. G _soft_ has
lost his _softness,_ and lets fall some _hard_ terms. Every one holds
down his head, why, I can’t understand, because being soaked, that
attitude can’t dry them.
“‘Uncle,’ says Di, to the head of the firm, ‘you appear to enjoy it,
you are buttoning up your coat as if you wanted to keep the rain in.’
“‘I wish you would keep your tongue in,’ he said, gruffly.
“‘I came for a party of pleasure,’ said the unconquerable girl, ‘and I
think there is great fun in this. Hen, I feel sorry for you, you can’t
stand the wet as those darling ducks can. Aunt will shake herself
directly, and be as dry as an India rubber model.’
“Aunt is angry, but can’t answer—every clap of thunder makes her
scream. Sarah Matilda has lost her shoe, and the water has closed over
it, and she can’t find it. ‘Pistol, where is your corkscrew? draw it
out.’
“‘It’s all your fault,’ sais the sleeping partner to the head of the
firm, ‘I told you to bring the umbrellas.’
“‘It’s all yours,’ retorts the afflicted husband, ‘I told you these
things were all nonsense, and more trouble than they were worth.’
“‘It’s all Hen’s fault,’ said Di, ‘for we came on purpose to bring her
out; she has never been at a pic-nic before, and it’s holidays now. Oh!
the brook has risen, and the planks are gone, we shall have to wade;
Hen, ask those men to go before, I don’t like them to see above my
ancles.’
“‘Catch me at a pic-nic again,’ said the terrified spinster.
“‘You had better get home from this first, before you talk of another,’
sais Di.
“‘Oh, Di, Di,’ said Henrietta, ‘how can you act so?’
“‘You may say Di, Di, if you please, dear,’ said the tormentor; ‘but I
never say die—and never will while there is life in me. Letty, will you
go to the ball to-night? we shall catch cold if we don’t; for we have
two miles more of the rain to endure in the open carriages before we
reach the steamer, and we shall be chilled when we cease walking.’
“But Letty can do nothing but cry, as if she wasn’t wet enough already.
“‘Good gracious!’ sais the head of the house, ‘the horses have
overturned the carriage, broke the pole, and run away.’
“‘What’s the _upset_ price of it, I wonder?’ sais Di, ‘the horses will
make ‘their _election_ sure;’ they are at the ‘head of _the pole,_ they
are returned and they have left no _trace_ behind.’ I wish they had
taken the _rain_ with them also.’
“‘It’s a pity you wouldn’t _rein_ your tongue in also,’ said the
fractious uncle.
“‘Well, I will, Nunky, if you will restrain your _choler._ De Courcy,
the horses are off at a ‘_smashing_ pace;’ G soft, it’s all _dickey_
with us now, ain’t it? But that _milk-sop,_ Russel, is making a noise
in his boots, as if he was ‘_churning_ butter.’ Well, I never enjoyed
anything so much as this in my life; I do wish the Mudges had been
here, it is the only thing wanting to make this pic-nic perfect. What
do you say, Target?’
“But Target don’t answer, he only mutters between his teeth something
that sounds like, ‘what a devil that girl is!’ Nobody minds teasing
now; their tempers are subdued, and they are dull, weary, and
silent—dissatisfied with themselves, with each other, and the day of
pleasure.
“How could it be otherwise? It is a thing they didn’t understand, and
had no taste for. They took a deal of trouble to get away from the main
road as far as possible; they never penetrated farther into the forest
than to obtain a shade, and there eat an uncomfortable cold dinner,
sitting on the ground, had an ill-assorted party, provided no
amusements, were thoroughly bored, and drenched to the skin—and this
some people call a day in the bush.
“There is an old proverb, that has a hidden meaning in it, that is
applicable to this sort of thing—‘_As a man calleth in the woods, so it
shall be answered to him_.’”