HOW VERTY THOUGHT, AND PLAYED, AND DREAMED.
Verty took his weary way westward through the splendid autumn woods,
gazing with his dreamy Indian expression on the variegated leaves,
listening to the far cries of birds, and speaking at times to Longears
and Wolf, his two deer hounds.
Then his head would droop--a dim smile would glimmer upon his lips,
and his long, curling hair would fall in disordered masses around
his burnt face, almost hiding it from view. At such moments Verty
dreamed--the real world had disappeared--perforce of that imagination
given him by heaven, he entered calm and happy into the boundless
universe of reverie and fancy.
For a time he would go along thus, his arms hanging down, his head
bent upon his breast, his body swinging from side to side with every
movement of his shaggy little horse. Then he would rouse himself, and
perhaps fit an arrow to his bow, and aim at some bird, or some wild
turkey disappearing in the glades. Happy birds! the arrow never
left the string. Verty's hand would fall--the bow would drop at his
side--he would fix his eyes upon the autumn woods, and smile.
He went on thus through the glades of the forest, over the hills, and
along the banks of little streams towards the west. The autumn reigned
in golden splendor--and not alone in gold: in purple, and azure and
crimson, with a wealth of slowly falling leaves which soon would pass
away, the poor perished glories of the fair golden year. The wild
geese flying South sent their faint carol from the clouds--the swamp
sparrow twittered, and the still copse was stirred by the silent croak
of some wandering wild turkey, or the far forest made most musical
with that sound which the master of Wharncliffe Lodge delighted in,
the "belling of the hart."
Verty drank in these forest sounds, and the full glories of the
Autumn, rapturously--while he looked and listened, all his sadness
passed away, and his wild Indian nature made him happy there, in the
heart of the woods. Ever and anon, however, the events of the morning
would occur to him, sweeping over his upraised brow like the shadow of
a cloud, and dimming the brightness of his dreamy smiles.
"How red the maples grow!" he said, "they are burning away--and the
dogwood! Poor oaks! I'm sorry for you; you are going, and I think
you look like kings--going? That was what Redbud said! She was going
away--going away!"
And a sigh issued from Verty's lips, which betrayed the importance
he attached to Redbud's departure. Then his head drooped; and he
murmured--"going away!"
Poor Verty! It does not require any very profound acuteness to divine
your condition. You are one more added to the list which Leander heads
in the old Grecian fable. Your speech betrays you.
"Wild geese! They are early this year. Ho, there! good companions that
you are, come down and let me shoot at you. 'Crake! crake!' that is
all you say--away up there in the white clouds, laughing at me, I
suppose, and making fun of my bow. Listen! they are answering me from
the clouds! I wish I could fly up in the clouds! Travelling, as I
live, away off to the south!--leaving us to go and join their fellows.
They are wild birds; I've shot many of em'. Hark, Longears! see up
there! There they go--'crake! crake! crake!' I can see their long
necks stretched out toward the South--they are almost gone--going away
from me--like Redbud!"
And Verty sighed piteously.
"I wonder what makes my breast feel as if there was a weight upon it,"
he said, "I'll ask _ma mere_."
And putting spurs to Cloud, Verty scoured through the pine hills, and
in an hour drew near his home.
It was one of those mountain huts which are frequently met with to
this day in our Virginian uplands. Embowered in pines, it rather
resembled, seen from a distance, the eyrie of some huge eagle, than
the abode of human beings, though eagles' eyries are not generally
roofed in, with poles and clapboards.
The hut was very small, but not as low pitched as usual, and the place
had about it an air of wild comfort, which made it a pleasant object
in the otherwise unbroken landscape of pines, and huge rocks, and
browling streams which stretched around it. The door was approached
by a path which wound up the hill; and a small shed behind a clump of
firs was visible--apparently the residence of Cloud.
Verty carefully attended to his horse, and then ascended the hill
toward the hut, from whose chimney a delicate smoke ascended.
He was met at the door by an old Indian woman, who seemed to have
reached the age of three-score at least. She was clad in the ordinary
linsey of the period; and the long hair falling upon her shoulders was
scarcely touched with grey. She wore beads and other simple trinkets,
and the expression of her countenance was very calm and collected.
Verty approached her with a bright smile, and taking her hand in his
own, placed it upon his head; then saying something in the Delaware
tongue, he entered the hut.
Within, the mountain dwelling was as wild as without. From the brown
beams overhead were suspended strings of onions, tin vessels, bridles,
dried venison, and a thousand other things, mingled in inextricable
confusion. In the wide fire-place, which was supplied with stones for
and-irons, a portion of the lately slaughtered deer was broiling on
an impromptu and primitive species of gridiron, which would have
disgusted Soyer and astonished Vatel. This had caused the smoke; and
as Verty entered, the old woman had been turning the slices. Longears
and Wolf were already stretched before the fire, their eyes fixed upon
the venison with admiring attention and profound seriousness.
In ten minutes the venison was done, and Verty and his mother ate in
silence--Verty not forgetting his dogs, who growled and contended for
the pieces, and then slept upon the rude pine floor.
The boy then went to some shelves in the corner, just by the narrow
flight of steps which led to the old woman's room above, and taking
down a long Indian pipe, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. This
having been accomplished, he took his seat on a sort of wicker-work
bench, just outside of the door, and began to smoke with all the
gravity and seriousness of a Sachem of the Delawares.
In a moment he felt the hand of the old woman on his shoulder.
"Verty has been asleep and dreamed something," she said, calmly, in
the Delaware tongue.
"No, _ma mere_, Verty has been wide awake," said the boy, in the same
language.
"Then the winds have been talking to him."
"Hum," said Verty.
"Something is on my son's mind, and he has tied his heart up--_mal_!"
"No, no," said Verty, "I assure you, _ma mere_, I'm quite happy."
And having made this declaration, Verty stopped smoking and sighed.
The old woman heard this sigh, slight as it was, with the quick ear of
the Indian, and was evidently troubled by it.
"Has Verty seen the dove?" she said.
The young man nodded with a smile.
"Did they laugh?"
"They laughed."
"Did he come away singing?"
Verty hesitated, then said, with an overshadowed brow--
"No, no, _ma mere_--I really believe he did not."
The old woman pressed his hand between her own.
"Speak," she said, "the dove is not sick?"
Verty sighed.
"No; but she is going away," he said, "and Miss Lavinia would not tell
me where. What a hawk she is--oh! she shall not harm my dove!"
And Verty betook himself to gazing with shadowy eyes upon the sky. The
old Indian was silent for some time. Then she said--
"Trust in the Good Spirit, my son. We are not enough for ourselves.
We think we are strong and mighty, and can do everything; but a wind
blows us away. Listen, there is the wind in the pines, and look how it
is scattering the leaves. Men are like leaves--the breath of the Great
Spirit is the wind which scatters them."
And the old Indian woman gazed with much affection on the boy.
"What you say is worthy to be written on bark, mother," he said,
returning her affectionate glance; "the Great Spirit holds everything
in the hollow of his hand, and we are nothing. Going away!" added
Verty after a pause--"Going away!"
And he sighed.
"What did my son say?" asked the old woman.
"Nothing, _ma mere. Ah le bon temp que ce triste jour_!" he murmured.
The old woman's head drooped.
"My son does not speak with a straight tongue," she said; "his words
are crooked."
"_Non non_" said Verty, smiling; "but I am a little unwell, _ma mere_.
All the way coming along, I felt my breast weighed down--my heart was
oppressed. Look! even Longears knows I'm not the Verty of the old
time."
Longears, who was standing at the door in a contemplative attitude,
fancied that his master called him, and, coming up, licked Verty's
hand affectionately.
"Good Longears!" said. Verty, caressing him, "lie down at my feet."
Longears obeyed with much dignity, and was soon basking in the
sunlight before the door.
"Now, _ma mere_" Verty said, with his habitual smile, "we have been
calling for the clouds to come up, and shut out the sun; let us call
for the sunlight next. You know I am your Verty, and every day as I
grow, I get able to do more for you. I shall, some day, make a number
of pistoles--who knows?--and then think how much I could buy for you.
Good mother!--happy Verty!"
And taking the old woman's hand, Verty kissed it.
Then, leaning back, he reached through the window, and took down a
rude violin, and began to play an old air of the border, accompanying
the tune with a low chant, in the Indian fashion.
The old woman looked at him for some moments with great affection, a
sad smile lighting up her aged features; then saying in a low tone, as
if to herself, "good Verty!" went into the house.
Verty played for some time longer. Tired at last of his violin, he
laid it down, and with his eyes fixed upon the sand at his feet, began
to dream. As he mused, his large twilight eyes slowly drooped their
long lashes, which rested finally on the ruddy cheek.
For some moments, Verty amused himself tracing figures on the sand
near Longears' nose, causing that intelligent animal to growl in his
sleep, and fight imaginary foes with his paws.
From the window, the old Indian woman watched the young man with great
affection, her lips moving, and her eyes, at times, raised toward the
sky.
Verty reclined more and more in his wicker seat; the scenes and images
of the day were mingled together in his mind, and became a dim wrack
of cloud; his tangled hair shaded his face from the sun; and, overcome
by weariness, the boy sank back, smiling even in his sleep. As he did
so, the long-stemmed Indian pipe fell from his hand across Longears'
nose, half covering the letters he had traced with it on the sand.
Those letters were, in rude tracing:
REDBUD.
And to these Verty had added, with melancholy and listless smiles, the
further letters:
GOING TO--
Unfortunately he was compelled to leave the remainder of the sentence
unwritten.