HOW VERTY SHOT A WHITE PIGEON.
Mr. Roundjacket's illusions were all dissipated--the attentive
listener was a sleeping listener--his poem, dreadful to think of, had
absolutely lulled Verty to slumber.
We may understand the mortification of the great writer; the
_irritable genus_ had in him no unfit representative, thus far at
least. He caught Verty by the shoulder and shook him.
"Wake up, you young savage!" he cried, "sleeping when I am reading to
you; rouse! rouse! or by the immortal gods I'll commit an assault and
battery upon your barbarous person! Savage! barbarian! monster!"
Suddenly Mr. Roundjacket heard a hoarse growl, and something like
a row of glittering steel knives attracted his attention in the
direction of his legs. This phenomenon was caused by the opening of
Longears' huge mouth--that intelligent animal having espoused the
cause of his master, so rudely assaulted, and prepared for instant
battle.
Fortunately, Verty woke up before the combat commenced; and seeing the
hound standing in a threatening attitude, he ordered him to lie down.
Longears obeyed with great alacrity, and was soon dozing again.
Then commenced, on the part of Mr. Roundjacket, an eloquent and
animated remonstrance with Verty on the impropriety of that proceeding
which he had just been guilty of. It was unfeeling, and barbarous, and
unheard of, the poet observed, and but one thing induced him to pardon
it--the wild bringing up of the young man, which naturally rendered
him incapable of appreciating a great work of art.
Verty explained that he had been hunting throughout the preceding
night--setting traps, and tramping over hill and through dale--and
thus he had been overcome by drowsiness. He smiled with great good
nature upon Mr. Roundjacket, as he uttered this simple excuse, and
so winning was the careless sunshine of his countenance, that honest
Roundjacket, uttering an expiring grumble, declared that nothing was
more natural than his drowsiness. In future, he said, he would select
those seasons when his--Verty's--senses were bright and wide-awake;
and he begged the young man not to fear a repetition of what he might
have heard--there were fifteen more cantos, all of which he would
read, slowly and carefully explaining, as he went along, any
difficulties.
Verty received this announcement with great good humor, and then began
tracing over his paper, listlessly, the word "Redbud." That word had
been the key-note of his mind throughout the morning--that was the
real secret of his abstraction.
Miss Lavinia had informed him on that morning, when she had dismissed
him from Apple Orchard, that Redbud was going away for the purpose of
being educated; and that he, Verty, would act very incorrectly if he
asked any one whither Redbud was going. Thus the boy had been rendered
gloomy and sad--he had wandered about Apple Orchard, never daring to
ask whither the young girl had gone--and so, in one of his wanderings,
had encountered Mr. Rushton, who indeed was seeking him. He had easily
yielded to the representations of that gentleman, when he assured him
that he ought to apply his mind to something in order to provide for
all the wants of his Indian mother--and this scheme was all the more
attractive, as the neighborhood of Apple Orchard, to which his steps
ever wandered, occasioned him more sadness than he had ever felt
before. Redbud was gone--why should he go near the place again? The
sunshine had left it--he had better seek new scenes, and try what
effect they would have.
Therefore was it that Verty had become a lawyer's clerk; and it was
the recollection of these causes of sadness which had made the boy so
dull and languid.
Without Redbud, everything seemed dim to him; and he could not ask
whither she had flown.
This was his sad predicament.
After receiving the assurance of Roundjacket's pardon, Verty, as we
have said, began scrawling over the copy of the deed he was making the
name of Redbud. This persevering and thoughtful occupation at last
attracted the attention of his companion.
"Redbud!" asked the poet, "who is Redbud, my young friend? I should
conjecture that she was a young lady, from the name.--Stay, is there
not a Miss Redbud Summers, daughter of the Squire of said name?"
Verty nodded.
"A friend of yours?"
"Yes," sighed Verty.
Mr. Roundjacket smiled.
"Perhaps you are making love to her?" he said.
"Making love?" asked Verty, "what is that?"
"How!" cried the poet, "you don't mean to say you are ignorant of the
nature of that divine sentiment which elevates and ennobles in so
remarkable a degree--hem!--all humanity!"
"Anan!" said Verty, with an inquiring look.
Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving a
profound silence.
"My young friend," he said at last, "how old are you?"
"Eighteen, _ma mere_ says."
"Who's _mommer_, pray?"
"Mother."
"Oh," said the poet, with some confusion, "the fact is, your
pronunciation--but don't let us discuss that. I was going to say, that
it is impossible for you to have reached your present period of life
without making love to some lady."
Verty looked bewildered, but smiled.
Mr. Roundjacket was astounded at finding such savage ignorance in his
companion;--he revolved in his mind the means of enlightening Verty,
in vain.
At last he placed the end of his ruler upon his waistcoat, and said,
mysteriously:
"Do you see me?"
"Yes," replied Verty.
"Well, sir, I made love to a young woman when I was six."
Verty looked interested.
"At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times," continued
Mr. Roundjacket; "and now, sir, I make it a point to pay my
addresses--yes, to proceed to the last word, the 'will you,'
namely,--once, at least, a year."
Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and then
rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow.
"I feel very tired," he said, "I wish I was in the woods."
And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to the door,
and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the busy street.
He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the dingy
office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town. He seemed to have
been translated thither, from the far forest wilds, by the wave of
some magician's wand, so little did he appear to be a portion of the
scene. Verty looked even wilder than ever, from the contrast, and
his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping hat of fur, would have
induced the passers-by to take him for an Indian, but for the curling
hair and the un-Indian face.
Verty gazed up into the sky and mused--the full sunlight of the bright
October morning falling in a flood upon his wild accoutrements.
By gazing at the blue heavens, over which passed white clouds,
ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the
uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;--and passing perforce of
his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was again on the
hills, breathing the pure air, and following the deer.
Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud often,
while gazing on them; and now he smiled, and felt brighter as he
looked.
His forest instincts returned, and, bending his bow, he carelessly
fitted an arrow upon the leather string. What should he shoot at?
There was a very handsome fish upon a neighboring belfry, which was
veering in the wind; and this glittering object seemed to Verty an
excellent mark. As he was about to take aim, however, his quick eye
caught sight of a far speck in the blue sky; and he lowered his bow
again.
Placing one hand above his eyes, he raised his head, and fixed his
penetrating gaze upon the white speck, which rapidly increased in size
as it drew nearer. It was a bird with white wings, clearly defined
against the azure.
Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string, waited
until the air-sailer came within striking distance. Then drawing the
arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose ruffled breast
presented an excellent mark.
The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air--struck
the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl fell toward
Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched arms, ran to catch
it.
It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated and
lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its onward career,
like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with canvas, snaps in a
sudden gust.
Verty caught the pigeon, and drew the arrow from its wing, which was
all stained with blood.
"Oh, what large eyes you have!" he said, smiling; "you're a handsome
pigeon. I will not kill you. I will take you home and cure your wing,
and then, if ever I again see Redbud, I will give you to her, my
pretty bird."
Poor Verty sighed, and his eyes drooped as he thought of the girl.
Suddenly, however, a small scroll of yellow paper encircling the
pigeon's neck, and concealed before by the ruffled plumage, caught his
eye.
"Paper! and writing on it!" he said; "why, this is somebody's
pet-pigeon I have shot!"
And tearing off the scroll, Verty read these words, written in a
delicate, running-hand:
"_I am Miss Redbud's pigeon; and Fanny gave me to her_!" Verty
remained for a moment motionless--his eyes expanded till they
resembled two rising moons;--"I am Miss Redbud's pigeon!" Then Redbud
was somewhere in the neighborhood of the town--she had not gone far
out into the wide, unknown world--this pigeon might direct him;--Verty
found a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, like so many deer
in a herd, jostling each other, and entangling their horns.
Surely, it would not be wrong for him to embrace this chance of
discovering Redbud's residence--a chance which seemed to have been
afforded him by some unseen power. Why should he not keep the bird
until its wing was healed, and then observe the direction of its
flight? Why not thus find the abode of one in whose society so much of
his happiness consisted? Was there any thing wrong in it--would any
one blame him?
These were the questions which Verty asked himself, standing in the
October sunshine, and holding the wounded pigeon to his breast. And
the conclusion was ere long reached. He decided, to his own perfect
satisfaction, that he had the full right to do as he wished; and then
he re-entered the office.
Mr. Roundjacket was busy at some more law papers, and did not observe
the object which he carried. Verty sat down at his desk; betook
himself to copying, having rejected the sketch-ornamented sheet; and
by evening had done a very fair day's work.
Then he put on his hat, placed the wounded pigeon in his bosom, and,
mounting his horse, set forward toward the hills.
"In three days," he said, "you will be cured, pretty pigeon, and then
I will let you go; and it will be hard if I don't follow your flight,
and find out where your mistress lives. Oh, me! I must see Redbud--I
can't tell why, but I know I must see her!"
And Verty smiled, and went on with a lighter heart than he had
possessed for many a day.