Eustace Bright told the legend of Bellerophon with as much fervor and
animation as if he had really been taking a gallop on the winged
horse. At the conclusion, he was gratified to discern, by the glowing
countenances of his auditors, how greatly they had been interested.
All their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of Primrose.
In her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of
something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough
to feel. Child's story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe
through it the ardor, the generous hope, and the imaginative
enterprise of youth.
"I forgive you, now, Primrose," said he, "for all your ridicule of
myself and my stories. One tear pays for a great deal of laughter."
"Well, Mr. Bright," answered Primrose, wiping her eyes, and giving him
another of her mischievous smiles, "it certainly does elevate your
ideas, to get your head above the clouds. I advise you never to tell
another story, unless it be, as at present, from the top of a
mountain."
"Or from the back of Pegasus," replied Eustace, laughing. "Don't you
think that I succeeded pretty well in catching that wonderful pony?"
"It was so like one of your madcap pranks!" cried Primrose, clapping
her hands. "I think I see you now on his back, two miles high, and
with your head downward! It is well that you have not really an
opportunity of trying your horsemanship on any wilder steed than our
sober Davy, or Old Hundred."
"For my part, I wish I had Pegasus here, at this moment," said the
student. "I would mount him forthwith, and gallop about the country,
within a circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on my
brother-authors. Dr. Dewey would be within my reach, at the foot of
Taconic. In Stockbridge, yonder, is Mr. James, conspicuous to all the
world on his mountain-pile of history and romance. Longfellow, I
believe, is not yet at the Ox-bow, else the winged horse would neigh
at the sight of him. But, here in Lenox, I should find our most
truthful novelist, who has made the scenery and life of Berkshire all
her own. On the hither side of Pittsfield sits Herman Melville,
shaping out the gigantic conception of his 'White Whale,' while the
gigantic shape of Graylock looms upon him from his study-window.
Another bound of my flying steed would bring me to the door of Holmes,
whom I mention last, because Pegasus would certainly unseat me, the
next minute, and claim the poet as his rider."
"Have we not an author for our next neighbor?" asked Primrose. "That
silent man, who lives in the old red house, near Tanglewood Avenue,
and whom we sometimes meet, with two children at his side, in the
woods or at the lake. I think I have heard of his having written a
poem, or a romance, or an arithmetic, or a school-history, or some
other kind of a book."
"Hush, Primrose, hush!" exclaimed Eustace, in a thrilling whisper, and
putting his finger on his lip. "Not a word about that man, even on a
hill-top! If our babble were to reach his ears, and happen not to
please him, he has but to fling a quire or two of paper into the
stove, and you, Primrose, and I, and Periwinkle, Sweet Fern,
Squash-Blossom, Blue Eye, Huckleberry, Clover, Cowslip, Plantain,
Milkweed, Dandelion, and Buttercup,--yes, and wise Mr. Pringle, with
his unfavorable criticisms on my legends, and poor Mrs. Pringle,
too,--would all turn to smoke, and go whisking up the funnel! Our
neighbor in the red house is a harmless sort of person enough, for
aught I know, as concerns the rest of the world; but something
whispers to me that he has a terrible power over ourselves, extending
to nothing short of annihilation."
"And would Tanglewood turn to smoke, as well as we?" asked Periwinkle,
quite appalled at the threatened destruction. "And what would become
of Ben and Bruin?"
"Tanglewood would remain," replied the student, "looking just as it
does now, but occupied by an entirely different family. And Ben and
Bruin would be still alive, and would make themselves very comfortable
with the bones from the dinner-table, without ever thinking of the
good times which they and we have had together!"
"What nonsense you are talking!" exclaimed Primrose.
With idle chat of this kind, the party had already begun to descend
the hill, and were now within the shadow of the woods. Primrose
gathered some mountain-laurel, the leaf of which, though of last
year's growth, was still as verdant and elastic as if the frost and
thaw had not alternately tried their force upon its texture. Of these
twigs of laurel she twined a wreath, and took off the student's cap,
in order to place it on his brow.
"Nobody else is likely to crown you for your stories," observed saucy
Primrose, "so take this from me."
"Do not be too sure," answered Eustace, looking really like a youthful
poet, with the laurel among his glossy curls, "that I shall not win
other wreaths by these wonderful and admirable stories. I mean to
spend all my leisure, during the rest of the vacation, and throughout
the summer term at college, in writing them out for the press. Mr.
J.T. Fields (with whom I became acquainted when he was in Berkshire,
last summer, and who is a poet, as well as a publisher) will see their
uncommon merit at a glance. He will get them illustrated, I hope, by
Billings, and will bring them before the world under the very best of
auspices, through the eminent house of TICKNOR & CO. In about five
months from this moment, I make no doubt of being reckoned among the
lights of the age!"
"Poor boy!" said Primrose, half aside. "What a disappointment awaits
him!"
Descending a little lower, Bruin began to bark, and was answered by
the graver bow-wow of the respectable Ben. They soon saw the good old
dog, keeping careful watch over Dandelion, Sweet Fern, Cowslip, and
Squash-Blossom. These little people, quite recovered from their
fatigue, had set about gathering checkerberries, and now came
clambering to meet their playfellows. Thus reunited, the whole party
went down through Luther Butler's orchard, and made the best of their
way home to Tanglewood.
[Illustration]