_AMONG THE HAY-COCKS._
Uncle Alec did not object; and, finding that no one had any claim upon
the child, permitted Rose to keep it for a time at least. So little
Dulce, newly equipped even to a name, took her place among them and
slowly began to thrive. But she did not grow pretty, and never was a
gay, attractive child; for she seemed to have been born in sorrow and
brought up in misery. A pale, pensive little creature, always creeping
into corners and looking timidly out, as if asking leave to live, and,
when offered playthings, taking them with a meek surprise that was
very touching.
Rose soon won her heart, and then almost wished she had not; for baby
clung to her with inconvenient fondness, changing her former wail of
"Marmar" into a lament for "Aunty Wose" if separated long.
Nevertheless, there was great satisfaction in cherishing the little
waif; for she learned more than she could teach, and felt a sense of
responsibility which was excellent ballast for her enthusiastic
nature.
Kitty Van, who made Rose her model in all things, was immediately
inspired to go and do likewise, to the great amusement as well as
annoyance of her family. Selecting the prettiest, liveliest child in
the Asylum, she took it home on trial for a week. "A perfect cherub"
she pronounced it the first day, but an "_enfant terrible_" before the
week was over; for the young hero rioted by day, howled by night,
ravaged the house from top to bottom, and kept his guardians in a
series of panics by his hair-breadth escapes. So early on Saturday,
poor, exhausted Kitty restored the "cherub" with many thanks, and
decided to wait till her views of education were rather more advanced.
As the warm weather came on, Rose announced that Dulce needed mountain
air; for she dutifully repeated as many of Dr. Alec's prescriptions as
possible, and, remembering how much good Cosy Corner did her long ago,
resolved to try it on her baby. Aunt Jessie and Jamie went with her,
and Mother Atkinson received them as cordially as ever. The pretty
daughters were all married and gone, but a stout damsel took their
place; and nothing seemed changed except that the old heads were
grayer and the young ones a good deal taller than six years ago.
Jamie immediately fraternized with neighboring boys, and devoted
himself to fishing with an ardor which deserved greater success. Aunt
Jessie revelled in the reading, for which she had no time at home; and
lay in her hammock a happy woman, with no socks to darn, buttons to
sew, or housekeeping cares to vex her soul.
Rose went about with Dulce like a very devoted hen with one rather
feeble chicken; for she was anxious to have this treatment work well,
and tended her little patient with daily increasing satisfaction. Dr.
Alec came up to pass a few days, and pronounced the child in a most
promising condition. But the grand event of the season was the
unexpected arrival of Phebe.
Two of her pupils had invited her to join them in a trip to the
mountains, and she ran away from the great hotel to surprise her
little mistress with a sight of her, so well and happy that Rose had
no anxiety left on her account.
Three delightful days they spent, roaming about together, talking as
only girls can talk after a long separation, and enjoying one another
like a pair of lovers. As if to make it quite perfect, by one of those
remarkable coincidences which sometimes occur, Archie happened to run
up for the Sunday; so Phebe had _her_ surprise, and Aunt Jessie and
the telegraph kept their secret so well, no one ever knew what
maternal machinations brought the happy accident to pass.
Then Rose saw a very pretty, pastoral bit of love-making, and long
after it was over, and Phebe gone one way, Archie another, the echo of
sweet words seemed to linger in the air, tender ghosts to haunt the
pine-grove, and even the big coffee-pot had a halo of romance about
it; for its burnished sides reflected the soft glances the lovers
interchanged, as one filled the other's cup at that last breakfast.
Rose found these reminiscences more interesting than any novel she had
read, and often beguiled her long leisure by planning a splendid
future for her Phebe, as she trotted about after her baby in the
lovely July weather.
On one of the most perfect days, she sat under an old apple-tree on
the slope behind the house where they used to play. Before her opened
the wide intervale, dotted with hay-makers at their picturesque work.
On the left, flowed the swift river fringed with graceful elms in
their bravest greenery; on the right, rose the purple hills serene and
grand; and overhead glowed the midsummer sky which glorified it all.
Little Dulce tired of play, lay fast asleep in the nest she had made
in one of the hay-cocks close by; and Rose leaned against the gnarled
old tree, dreaming day-dreams with her work at her feet. Happy and
absorbing fancies they seemed to be; for her face was beautifully
tranquil, and she took no heed of the train which suddenly went
speeding down the valley, leaving a white cloud behind. Its rumble
concealed the sound of approaching steps, and her eyes never turned
from the distant hills, till the abrupt appearance of a very sunburnt
but smiling young man made her jump up, exclaiming joyfully,--
"Why Mac! where did you drop from?"
"The top of Mount Washington. How do you do?"
"Never better. Won't you go in? You must be tired after such a fall."
"No, thank you; I've seen the old lady. She told me Aunt Jessie and
the boy had gone to town, and that you were 'settin' round' in the old
place; so I came on at once, and will take a lounge here, if you don't
mind," answered Mac, unstrapping his knapsack, and taking a hay-cock
as if it were a chair.
Rose subsided into her former seat, surveying her cousin with much
satisfaction, as she said,--
"This is the third surprise I've had since I came. Uncle popped in
upon us first, then Phebe, and now you. Have you had a pleasant tramp?
Uncle said you were off."
"Delightful! I feel as if I'd been in heaven, or near it, for about
three weeks; and thought I'd break the shock of coming down to the
earth by calling here on my way home."
"You look as if heaven suited you. Brown as a berry; but so fresh and
happy, I should never guess you had been scrambling down a mountain,"
said Rose, trying to discover why he looked so well in spite of the
blue-flannel suit and dusty shoes; for there was a certain sylvan
freshness about him, as he sat there full of the reposeful strength
the hills seemed to have given, the wholesome cheerfulness days of air
and sunshine put into a man, and the clear, bright look of one who had
caught glimpses of a new world from the mountain-top.
"Tramping agrees with me. I took a dip in the river as I came along,
and made my toilet in a place where Milton's Sabrina might have
lived," he said, shaking back his damp hair, and settling the knot of
scarlet bunch-berries stuck in his button-hole.
"You look as if you found the nymph at home," said Rose, knowing how
much he liked the Comus.
"I found her _here_," and he made a little bow.
"That's very pretty; and I'll give you one in return. You grow more
like Uncle Alec every day, and I think I'll call you Alec, Jr."
"Alexander the Great wouldn't thank you for that," and Mac did not
look as grateful as she had expected.
"Very like, indeed, except the forehead. His is broad and benevolent;
yours high and arched. Do you know if you had no beard, and wore your
hair long, I really think you'd look like Milton," added Rose, sure
that would please him.
It certainly did amuse him; for he lay back on the hay and laughed so
heartily that his merriment scared the squirrel on the wall and woke
Dulce.
"You ungrateful boy! will nothing suit you? When I say you look like
the best man I know, you give a shrug; and, when I liken you to a
great poet, you shout: I'm afraid you are very conceited, Mac;" and
Rose laughed too, glad to see him so gay.
"If I am, it is your fault. Nothing I can do will ever make a Milton
of me, unless I go blind some day," he said, sobering at the thought.
"You once said a man could be what he liked if he tried hard enough;
so why shouldn't you be a poet?" asked Rose, liking to trip him up
with his own words, as he often did her.
"I thought I was to be an M.D."
"You might be both. There have been poetical doctors, you know."
"Would you like me to be such an one?" asked Mac, looking at her as
seriously as if he really thought of trying it.
"No: I'd rather have you one or the other. I don't care which, only
you must be famous in either you choose. I'm very ambitious for you;
because, I insist upon it, you are a genius of some sort. I think it
is beginning to simmer already, and I've a great curiosity to know
what it will turn out to be."
Mac's eyes shone as she said that, but before he could speak a little
voice said, "Aunty Wose!" and he turned to find Dulce sitting up in
her nest, staring at the broad blue back before her with round eyes.
"Do you know your Don?" he asked, offering his hand with respectful
gentleness; for she seemed a little doubtful whether he was friend or
stranger.
"It is 'Mat,'" said Rose, and that familiar word seemed to reassure
the child at once; for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quite
used to doing it.
"I picked up some toys for her by the way, and she shall have them at
once to pay for that. I didn't expect to be so graciously received by
this shy mouse," said Mac, much gratified; for Dulce was very chary of
her favors.
"She knew you; for I always carry my home-album with me and when she
comes to your picture she always kisses it, because I never want her
to forget her first friend," explained Rose, pleased with her pupil.
"First, but not best," answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsack for the
promised toys, which he set forth upon the hay before delighted Dulce.
Neither picture-books nor sweeties; but berries strung on long stems
of grass, acorns and pretty cones, bits of rock shining with mica,
several bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with white pebbles for
eggs.
"Dearest Nature, strong and kind," knows what children love, and has
plenty of such playthings ready for them all, if one only knows how to
find them. These were received with rapture; and, leaving the little
creature to enjoy them in her own quiet way, Mac began to tumble the
things back into his knapsack again. Two or three books lay near Rose,
and she took up one which opened at a place marked by a scribbled
paper.
"Keats? I didn't know you condescended to read any thing so modern,"
she said, moving the paper to see the page beneath.
Mac looked up, snatched the book out of her hand, and shook down
several more scraps; then returned it with a curiously shame-faced
expression, saying, as he crammed the papers into his pocket,--
"I beg pardon, but it was full of rubbish. Oh, yes! I'm fond of Keats;
don't you know him?"
"I used to read him a good deal; but uncle found me crying over the
'Pot of Basil,' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or I
should get too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pages without
seeing them; for a new idea had just popped into her head.
"'The Eve of St. Agnes' is the most perfect love-story in the world, I
think," said Mac, enthusiastically.
"Read it to me. I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do it
justice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book with
an innocent air.
"Nothing I'd like better; but it is rather long."
"I'll tell you to stop if I get tired. Baby won't interrupt; she will
be contented for an hour with those pretty things."
As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himself comfortably on the
grass, and leaning his head on his hand read the lovely story as only
one could who entered fully into the spirit of it. Rose watched him
closely, and saw how his face brightened over some quaint fancy,
delicate description, or delicious word; heard how smoothly the
melodious measures fell from his lips, and read something more than
admiration in his eyes, as he looked up now and then to mark if she
enjoyed it as much as he.
She could not help enjoying it; for the poet's pen painted as well as
wrote, and the little romance lived before her: but she was not
thinking of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if this
cousin was a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave as
sweet an echo behind him. It seemed as if it might be; and, after
going through the rough caterpillar and the pent-up chrysalis changes,
the beautiful butterfly would appear to astonish and delight them all.
So full of this fancy was she that she never thanked him when the
story ended; but, leaning forward, asked in a tone that made him start
and look as if he had fallen from the clouds,--
"Mac, do you ever write poetry?"
"Never."
"What do you call the song Phebe sang with her bird chorus?"
"That was nothing till she put the music to it. But she promised not
to tell."
"She didn't; I suspected, and now I know," laughed Rose, delighted to
have caught him.
Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling, and leaning on both
elbows tried to hide his face; for it had reddened like that of a
modest girl when teased about her lover.
"You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry," said Rose,
amused at his confusion.
"It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry," muttered Mac, with great
scorn.
"It is a greater sin to tell a fib, and say you never write it."
"Reading so much sets one thinking about such things, and every fellow
scribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, you know,"
explained Mac, looking very guilty.
Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him, till his
last words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was apt to
inspire young men. Leaning forward again, she asked solemnly, though
her eyes danced with fun,--
"Mac, are you in love?"
"Do I look like it?" and he sat up with such an injured and indignant
face, that she apologized at once; for he certainly did not look
lover-like with hay-seed in his hair, several lively crickets playing
leap-frog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching from tree
to hay-cock.
"No, you don't; and I humbly beg your pardon for making such an
unwarrantable insinuation. It merely occurred to me that the general
upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, since it wasn't
poetry."
"It is the good company I've been keeping, if any thing. A fellow
can't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau, and not be the better for it. I'm
glad I show it; because in the scramble life is to most of us, even an
hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must help
one," said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket with the air
of introducing a dear and honored friend.
"I've read bits, and liked them: they are so original and fresh and
sometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural and
appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon the
pages Mac was turning eagerly; for one had evidently been rained on, a
crushed berry stained another, some appreciative field-mouse or
squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was faded with the
sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through to the thoughts
within.
"Here's a characteristic bit for you:--
"'I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be
crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an
ox-cart, with free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of
an excursion train, and breathe malaria all the way.'
"I've tried both and quite agree with him," laughed Mac; and, skimming
down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there.
"'Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them
at all.'
"'We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincere human
books: frank, honest biographies.'
"'At least let us have healthy books. Let the poet be as vigorous as a
sugar-maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure, besides what
runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, being cut in the
spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor to heal
its wounds.'"
"That will do for you," said Rose, still thinking of the new suspicion
which pleased her by its very improbability.
Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly,
though his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about his mouth,--
"We shall see, and no one need meddle; for, as my Thoreau says,--
"'Whate'er we leave to God, God does
And blesses us:
The work we choose should be our own
God lets alone.'"
Rose sat silent, as if conscious that she deserved his poetical
reproof.
"Come, you have catechised me pretty well; now I'll take my turn and
ask why _you_ look 'uplifted,' as you call it. What have you been
doing to make yourself more like your namesake than ever?" asked Mac,
carrying war into the enemy's camp with the sudden question.
"Nothing but live, and enjoy doing it. I actually sit here, day after
day, as happy and contented with little things as Dulce is, and feel
as if I wasn't much older than she," answered the girl, feeling as if
some change was going on in that pleasant sort of pause, but unable to
describe it.
"'As if a rose should shut and be a bud again,'"
murmured Mac, borrowing from his beloved Keats.
"Ah, but I can't do that! I must go on blooming whether I like it or
not, and the only trouble I have is to know what leaf I ought to
unfold next," said Rose, playfully smoothing out the white gown, in
which she looked very like a daisy among the green.
"How far have you got?" asked Mac, continuing his catechism as if the
fancy suited him.
"Let me see. Since I came home last year, I've been gay, then sad,
then busy, and now I am simply happy. I don't know why; but seem to be
waiting for what is to come next, and getting ready for it, perhaps
unconsciously," she said, looking dreamily away to the hills again, as
if the new experience was coming to her from afar.
Mac watched her thoughtfully for a minute, wondering how many more
leaves must unfold, before the golden heart of this human flower would
lie open to the sun. He felt a curious desire to help in some way, and
could think of none better than to offer her what he had found most
helpful to himself. Picking up another book, he opened it at a place
where an oak-leaf lay, and, handing it to her, said, as if presenting
something very excellent and precious,--
"If you want to be ready to take whatever comes in a brave and noble
way, read that, and the one where the page is turned down."
Rose took it, saw the words "Self-Reliance," and, turning the leaves,
read here and there a passage which was marked:--
"'My life is for itself, and not for a spectacle.'
"'Insist on yourself: never imitate. That which each can do best, none
but his Maker can teach him.'
"'Do that which is assigned to you, and you cannot hope or dare too
much.'"
Then coming to the folded leaf, whose title was "Heroism," she read,
and brightened as she read,--
"'Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on her way; accept
the hint of each new experience; search in turn all the objects that
solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her
newborn being.'
"'The fair girl who repels interference by a decided and proud choice
of influences inspires every beholder with something of her own
nobleness; and the silent heart encourages her. O friend, never strike
sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas.'"
"You understand that, don't you?" asked Mac, as she glanced up with
the look of one who had found something suited to her taste and need.
"Yes, but I never dared to read these Essays, because I thought they
were too wise for me."
"The wisest things are sometimes the simplest, I think. Every one
welcomes light and air, and cannot do without them; yet very few could
explain them truly. I don't ask you to read or understand all of
that,--don't myself,--but I do recommend the two essays I've marked,
as well as 'Love and Friendship.' Try them, and let me know how they
suit. I'll leave you the book."
"Thanks. I wanted something fine to read up here; and, judging by what
I see, I fancy this _will_ suit. Only Aunt Jessie may think I'm
putting on airs, if I try Emerson."
"Why should she? He has done more to set young men and women thinking,
than any man in this century at least. Don't you be afraid: if it is
what you want, take it, and go ahead as he tells you,--
"'Without halting, without rest,
Lifting Better up to Best.'"
"I'll try," said Rose, meekly; feeling that Mac had been going ahead
himself much faster than she had any suspicion.
Here a voice exclaimed "Hallo!" and, looking round, Jamie was
discovered surveying them critically, as he stood in an independent
attitude, like a small Colossus of Rhodes in brown linen, with a
bundle of molasses-candy in one hand, several new fish-hooks
cherished carefully in the other, and his hat well on the back of his
head, displaying as many freckles as one somewhat limited nose could
reasonably accommodate.
"How are you, young one?" said Mac, nodding.
"Tip-top. Glad it's you: thought Archie might have turned up again,
and he's no fun. Where did you come from? What did you come for? How
long are you going to stay? Want a bit? It's jolly good."
With which varied remarks Jamie approached, shook hands in a manly
way, and, sitting down beside his long cousin, hospitably offered
sticks of candy all round.
"Did you get any letters?" asked Rose, declining the sticky treat.
"Lots: but mamma forgot to give 'em to me, and I was rather in a
hurry; for Mrs. Atkinson said somebody had come, and I couldn't wait,"
explained Jamie, reposing luxuriously with his head on Mac's legs, and
his mouth full.
"I'll step and get them. Aunty must be tired, and we should enjoy
reading the news together."
"She is the most convenient girl that ever was," observed Jamie, as
Rose departed, thinking Mac might like some more substantial
refreshment than sweetmeats.
"I should think so, if you let her run your errands, you lazy little
scamp," answered Mac, looking after her as she went up the green
slope; for there was something very attractive to him about the
slender figure in a plain white gown, with a black sash about the
waist, and all the wavy hair gathered to the top of the head with a
little black bow.
"Sort of pre-Raphaelite, and quite refreshing after the furbelowed
creatures at the hotels," he said to himself, as she vanished under
the arch of scarlet-runners over the garden-gate.
"Oh, well! she likes it. Rose is fond of me, and I'm very good to her
when I have time," continued Jamie, calmly explaining. "I let her cut
out a fish-hook, when it caught in my leg, with a sharp pen-knife; and
you'd better believe it hurt: but I never squirmed a bit, and she said
I was a brave boy. And then, one day I got left on my desert
island,--out in the pond, you know,--the boat floated off, and there I
was for as much as an hour before I could make any one hear. But Rose
thought I might be there; and down she came, and told me to swim
ashore. It wasn't far; but the water was horrid cold, and I didn't
like it. I started though, just as she said, and got on all right,
till about half way, then cramp or something made me shut up and howl,
and she came after me slapdash, and pulled me ashore. Yes, sir, as wet
as a turtle, and looked so funny, I laughed; and that cured the cramp.
Wasn't I good to mind when she said, 'Come on?'"
"She was, to dive after such a scapegrace. I guess you lead her a life
of it, and I'd better take you home with me in the morning," suggested
Mac, rolling the boy over, and giving him a good-natured pummelling
on the hay-cock, while Dulce applauded from her nest.
When Rose returned with ice-cold milk, gingerbread, and letters, she
found the reader of Emerson up in the tree, pelting and being pelted
with green apples, as Jamie vainly endeavored to get at him. The siege
ended when Aunt Jessie appeared; and the rest of the afternoon was
spent in chat about home affairs.
Early the next morning Mac was off, and Rose went as far as the old
church with him.
"Shall you walk all the way?" she asked, as he strode along beside
her, in the dewy freshness of the young day.
"Only about twenty miles, then take car and whisk back to my work," he
answered, breaking a delicate fern for her.
"Are you never lonely?"
"Never: I take my best friends along, you know," and he gave a slap to
the pocket from which peeped the volume of Thoreau.
"I'm afraid you leave your very best behind you," said Rose, alluding
to the book he had lent her yesterday.
"I'm glad to share it with you. I have much of it here; and a little
goes a great way, as you will soon discover," he answered, tapping his
head.
"I hope the reading will do as much for me as it seems to have done
for you. I'm happy; but you are wise and good: I want to be, also."
"Read away, and digest it well; then write, and tell me what you think
of it. Will you?" he asked, as they paused where the four roads met.
"If you will answer. Shall you have time with all your other work?
Poetry--I beg pardon--medicine is very absorbing, you know," answered
Rose, mischievously; for just then, as he stood bareheaded with the
shadows of the leaves playing over his fine forehead, she remembered
the chat among the hay-cocks, and he did not look at all like an M.D.
"I'll make time."
"Good-by, Milton."
"Good-by, Sabrina."