MAY AND GIRLHOOD
May came in reality the following morning. Perhaps she thought that the
leisure of Sunday would secure her a more appreciative welcome. The wind
no longer blew from the chill and still snowy North, but from lands that
had long since responded to the sun's genial power. Therefore, the breeze
that came and went fitfully was like a warm, fragrant breath, and truly
it seemed to breathe life and beauty into all things. During the morning
hours the cluster buds of the cherry burst their varnished-looking
sheath, revealing one-third of the little green stems on which the
blossoms would soon appear. The currant-bushes were hanging out their
lengthening racemes, and the hum of many bees proved that honey may be
gathered even from gooseberry-bushes, thus suggesting a genial philosophy.
The sugar-maples were beginning to unfold their leaves and to dangle their
emerald gold flowers from long, drooping pedicles. Few objects have more
exquisite and delicate beauty than this inflorescence when lighted up by
the low afternoon sun. The meadows and oat fields were passing into a vivid
green, and the hardy rye had pushed on so resolutely in all weathers, that
it was becoming billowy under the wind. All through the week the hues of
life and beauty became more and more apparent upon the face of Nature, and
by the following Saturday May had provided everything in perfection for
Johnnie's coronation ceremonies.
For weeks past there had been distinguished arrivals from the South
almost daily. Some of these songsters, like the fox-sparrow, sojourned a
few weeks, favoring all listeners with their sweet and simple melodies;
but the chief musician of the American forests, the hermit thrush, passed
silently, and would not deign to utter a note of his unrivalled minstrelsy
until he had reached his remote haunts at the North. Dr. Marvin evidently
had a grudge against this shy, distant bird, and often complained, "Why
can't he give us a song or two as he lingers here in his journey? I often
see him flitting about in the mountains, and have watched him by the hour
with the curiosity that prompts one to look at a great soprano or tenor,
hoping that he might indulge me with a brief song as a sample of what he
could do, but he was always royally indifferent and reserved. I am going to
the Adirondacks on purpose to hear him some day. There's the winter wren,
too-saucy, inquisitive little imp!--he was here all winter, and has left us
without vouchsafing a note. But, then, great singers are a law unto
themselves the world over."
But the doctor had small cause for complaint, for there are few regions
more richly endowed with birds than the valley of the Hudson. As has been
seen, it is the winter resort of not a few, and is, moreover, a great
highway of migration, for birds are ever prone to follow the watercourses
that run north and south. The region also affords so wide a choice of
locality and condition that the tastes of very many birds are suited.
There are numerous gardens and a profusion of fruit for those that are
half domesticated; orchards abounding in old trees with knotholes,
admirably fitted for summer homes; elms on which to hang the graceful
pensile nests--"castles in air," as Burroughs calls them; meadows in
which the lark, vesper sparrow, and bobolink can disport; and forests
stretching up into the mountains, wherein the shyest birds can enjoy all
the seclusion they desire, content to sing unheard, as the flowers around
them bloom unseen, except by those who love them well enough to seek them
in their remotest haunts.
The week which preceded the May party was a memorable one to Amy, for
during its sunny days she saw an American spring in its perfection. Each
morning brought rich surprises to her, Johnnie, and Alf, and to Webb an
increasing wonder that he had never before truly seen the world in which
he lived. The pent-up forces of Nature, long restrained, seemed finding
new expression every hour. Tulips opened their gaudy chalices to catch
the morning dew. Massive spikes of hyacinths distilled a rich perfume
that was none too sweet in the open air. Whenever Amy stepped from the
door it seemed that some new flower had opened and some new development
of greenery and beauty had been revealed. But the crowning glory in the
near landscape were the fruit trees. The cherry boughs grew white every
day, and were closely followed by the plum and pear and the pink-hued
peach blossoms. Even Squire Bartley's unattractive place was transformed
for a time into fairyland; but he, poor man, saw not the blossoms, and
the birds and boys stole his fruit. Amy wondered at the wealth of flowers
that made many of the trees as white as they had been on the snowiest day
of winter, and Johnnie revelled in them, often climbing up into some
low-branched tree, that she might bury herself in their beauty, and
inhale their fragrance in long breaths of delight. The bees that filled
the air about her with their busy hum never molested her, believing, no
doubt, that she had as good a right as themselves to enjoy the sweets in
her way. After all, it was Mrs. Clifford, perhaps, who obtained the
profoundest enjoyment from the season. Seated by her window or in a sunny
corner of the piazza, she would watch the unfolding buds as if she were
listening to some sweet old story that had grown dearer with every
repetition. Indeed, this was true, for with the blossoms of every year
were interwoven the memories of a long life, and their associations had
scarcely ever been more to her heart than the new ones now forming. She
often saw, with her children and grandchildren, the form of a tall girl
passing to and fro, and to her loving eyes Amy seemed to be the fairest
and sweetest flower of this gala period. She, and indeed they all, had
observed Burt's strongly manifested preference, but, with innate
refinement and good sense, there had been a tacit agreement to appear
blind. The orphan girl should not be annoyed by even the most delicate
raillery, but the old lady and her husband could not but feel the deepest
satisfaction that Bart was making so wise a choice. They liked Amy all
the better because she was so little disposed to sentiment, and proved
that she was not to be won easily.
But they all failed to understand her, and gave her credit for a maturity
that she did not possess. In her happy, healthful country life the
girlish form that had seemed so fragile when she first came to them was
taking on the rounded lines of womanhood. Why should she not be wooed
like other girls at her age? Burt was further astray than any one else,
and was even inclined to complain mentally that her nature was cold and
unresponsive. And yet her very reserve and elusiveness increased his
passion, which daily acquired a stronger mastery. Webb alone half guessed
the truth in regard to her. As time passed, and he saw the increasing
evidences of Burt's feeling, he was careful that his manner should be
strictly fraternal toward Amy, for his impetuous brother was not always
disposed to be reasonable even in his normal condition, and now he was
afflicted with a malady that has often brought to shame the wisdom of the
wisest. The elder brother saw how easily Burt's jealousy could be
aroused, and therefore denied himself many an hour of the young girl's
society, although it caused him a strange little heartache to do so. But
he was very observant, for Amy was becoming a deeply interesting study.
He saw and appreciated her delicate fence with Burt, in which tact,
kindness, and a little girlish brusqueness were almost equally blended.
Was it the natural coyness of a high-spirited girl, who could be won only
by long and patient effort? or was it an instinctive self-defence from a
suit that she could not repulse decisively without giving pain to those
she loved? Why was she so averse? Their home-life, even at that busy
season, gave him opportunities to see her often, and glimmerings of the
truth began to dawn upon him. He saw that she enjoyed the society of Alf
and Johnnie almost as much as that of the other members of the family,
that her delight at every new manifestation of spring was as unforced as
that of the children, while at the same time it was an intelligent and
questioning interest. The beauty of the world without impressed her
deeply, as it did Johnnie, but to the latter it was a matter of course,
while to Amy it was becoming an inviting mystery. The little girl would
bring some new flower from the woods or garden, the first of the season,
in contented triumph, but to Amy the flower had a stronger interest. It
represented something unknown, a phase of life which it was the impulse
of her developing mind to explore. Her botany was not altogether
satisfactory, for analysis and classification do not reveal to us a
flower or plant any more than the mention of a name and family connection
makes known individual character. Her love for natural objects was too
real to be satisfied with a few scientific facts about them. If a plant,
tree, or bird, interested her she would look at it with a loving,
lingering glance until she felt that she was learning to know it somewhat
as she would recognize a friend. The rapid changes which each day brought
were like new chapters in a story, or new verses in a poem. She watched
with admiring wonder the transition of buds into blossoms; and their
changes of form and color. She shared in Alf's excitement over the
arrival of every new bird from the South, and, having a good ear for
music, found absorbing pleasure in learning and estimating the quality
and characteristics of their various songs. Their little oddities
appealed to her sense of humor. A pair of cat-birds that had begun their
nest near the house received from her more ridicule than admiration.
"They seem to be regular society birds and gossips," she said, "and I can
never step out-of-doors but I feel that they are watching me, and trying
to attract my attention. They have a pretty song, but they seem to have
learned it by heart, and as soon as they are through they make that
horrid noise, as if in their own natural tone they were saying something
disagreeable about you."
But on the morning of Johnnie's coronation she was wakened by songs as
entrancing as they were unfamiliar. Running to the window, she saw
darting through the trees birds of such a brilliant flame color that they
seemed direct from the tropics, and their notes were almost as varied as
their colors. She speedily ceased to heed them, however, for from the
edge of the nearest grove came a melody so ethereal and sustained that it
thrilled her with the delight that one experiences when some great singer
lifts up her voice with a power and sweetness that we feel to be divine.
At the same moment she saw Alf running toward the house. Seeing her at
the window, he shouted, "Amy, the orioles and the wood-thrushes--the
finest birds of the year--have come. Hurry up and go with me to the grove
yonder."
Soon after Webb, returning from a distant field to breakfast, met her
near the grove. She was almost as breathless and excited as the boy, and
passed him with a bright hurried smile, while she pressed on after her
guide with noiseless steps lest the shy songster should be frightened. He
looked after her and listened, feeling that eye and ear could ask for no
fuller enchantment. At last she came back to him with the fresh loveliness
of the morning in her face, and exclaimed, "I have seen an ideal bird, and
he wears his plumage like a quiet-toned elegant costume that simply
suggests a perfect form. He was superbly indifferent, and scarcely looked
at us until we came too near, and then, with a reserved dignity, flew away.
He is the true poet of the woods, and would sing just as sweetly if there
was never a listener."
"I knew he would not disappoint you. Yes, he is a poet, and your true
aristocrat, who commands admiration without seeking it," Webb replied.
"I am sure he justifies all your praises, past and present. Oh, isn't the
morning lovely--so fresh, dewy, and fragrant? and the world looks so
young and glad!"
"You also look young and glad this morning, Amy."
"How can one help it? This May beauty makes me feel as young as Alf," she
replied, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder.
Her face was flushed with exercise; her step buoyant; her eyes were
roaming over the landscape tinted with fruit blossoms and the expanding
foliage. Webb saw in what deep accord her spirit was with the season, and
he thought, "She _is_ young--in the very May of her life. She is scarcely
more ready for the words that Burt would speak than little Johnnie. I
wish he would wait till the girl becomes a woman;" and then for some
reason he sighed deeply. Amy gave him an arch look, and said:
"Then came from the depths, Webb. What secret sorrow can you have on a
day like this?"
He laughed, but made no reply.
"Ah, listen!" she cried, "what bird is that? Oh, isn't it
beautiful?--almost equal to the thrush's song. He seems to sing as if
his notes were written for him in couplets." She spoke at intervals,
looking toward the grove they had just left, and when the bird paused
Webb replied:
"That is the wood-thrush's own cousin, and a distinguished member of the
thrush family, the brown-thrasher. Well, Johnnie," he added, to the
little girl who had come to meet them, "you are honored to-day. Three of
our most noted minstrels have arrived just in time to furnish music for
the May Queen."
But Johnnie was not surprised, only pleased, as Webb and others
congratulated her. She would be queen that day with scarcely more
self-consciousness than one of the flowers that decked her. It was the
occasion, the carnival of spring, that occupied her thoughts, and, since
the fairest blossoms of the season were to be gathered, why should not
the finest birds be present also?
Feeling that he had lost an opportunity in the improvised festival of the
maple-sugar grove, Burt resolved to make the most of this occasion, and
he had the wisdom to decide upon a course that relieved Amy of not a
little foreboding. He determined to show his devotion by thoughtful
considerateness, by making the day so charming and satisfactory as to
prove that he could be a companion after her own heart. And he succeeded
fairly well for a time, only the girl's intuition divined his motive and
guessed his sentiments. She was ever in fear that his restraint would
give way. And yet she felt that she ought to reward him for what she
mentally termed his "sensible behavior" and indicate that such should be
his course in the future. But this was a delicate and difficult task. In
spite of all the accumulated beauty of the season the day was less
bright, less full of the restful, happy _abandon_ of the previous one in
March, when Webb had been her undemonstrative attendant. He, with
Leonard, at that busy period found time to look in upon the revellers in
the woods but once. Mr. Clifford spent more time with them, but the old
gentleman was governed by his habit of promptness, and the time called
for despatch.
For the children, however, it was a revel that left nothing to be
desired. They had decided that it should be a congress of flowers, from
the earliest that had bloomed to those now opening in the sunniest
haunts. Alf, with one or two other adventurous boys, had climbed the
northern face of old Storm King, and brought away the last hepaticas,
fragrant clusters of arbutus, and dicentras, for "pattykers, arbuties,
and Dutcher's breeches," as Ned called them, were favorites that could
not be spared. On a sunny slope dogwood, well advanced, was found. There
were banks white with the rue-anemone, and they were marked, that some of
the little tuber-like roots might be taken up in the fall for forcing in
the house. Myriads of violets gave a purple tinge to parts of a low
meadow near, and chubby hands were stained with the last of the star-like
bloodroot blossoms, many of which dropped white petals on their way to
Johnnie's throne. Some brought handfuls of columbine from rocky nooks,
and others the purple trillium, that is near of kin to Burroughs's white
"wake-robin." There were so many Jacks-in-the-pulpit that one might fear
a controversy, but the innumerable dandelions and dogtooth violets which
carpeted the ground around the throne diffused so mellow a light that all
the blossoms felt that they looked well and were amiable. But it would
require pages even to mention all the flowers that were brought from
gardens, orchards, meadows, groves, and rugged mountain slopes. Each
delegation of blossoms and young tinted foliage was received by Amy, as
mistress of ceremonies, and arranged in harmonious positions; while
Johnnie, quite forgetful of her royalty, was as ready to help at anything
as the humblest maid of honor. All the flowers were treated tenderly
except the poor purple violets, and these were slaughtered by hundreds,
for the projecting spur under the curved stem at the base of the flower
enabled the boys to hook them together, and "fight roosters," as they
termed it. Now and then some tough-stemmed violet would "hook-off" a
dozen blue heads before losing its own, and it became the temporary hero.
At last the little queen asserted her power by saying, with a sudden
flash in her dark blue eyes, that she "wouldn't have any more fighting
roosters. She didn't think it was nice."
By one o'clock the queen had been crowned, the lunch had met the capacity
of even the boys, and the children, circling round the throne, were
singing: "Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows," and kindred rhymes, their
voices rising and falling with the breeze, the birds warbling an
accompaniment. Webb and Leonard, at work in a field not far away, often
paused to listen, the former never failing to catch Amy's clear notes as
she sat on a rock, the gentle power behind the throne, that had maintained
peace and good-will among all the little fractious subjects.
The day had grown almost sultry, and early in the afternoon there was a
distant jar of thunder. Burt, who from a bed of dry leaves had been
watching Amy, started up and saw that there was an ominous cloud in the
west. She agreed with him that it would be prudent to return at once, for
she was growing weary and depressed. Burt, with all his effort to be
quietly and unobtrusively devoted, had never permitted her to become
unconscious of his presence and feeling. Therefore her experience had
been a divided one. She could not abandon herself to her hearty sympathy
with the children and their pleasure, for he, by manner at least, ever
insisted that she was a young lady, and the object of thoughts all too
warm. Her nature was so fine that it was wounded and annoyed by an
unwelcome admiration. She did not wish to think about it, but was not
permitted to forget it. She had been genial, merry, yet guarded toward
him all day, and now had begun to long for the rest and refuge of her own
room. He felt that he had not made progress, and was also depressed, and
he showed this so plainly on their way home that she was still more
perplexed and troubled. "If he would only be sensible, and treat me as
Webb does!" she exclaimed, as she threw herself on the lounge in her
room, exhausted rather than exhilarated by the experience of the day.