OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.
"When smale foules maken melodie,
That sleepen alle night with open eye,
Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages."
_Chaucer, Prologue to "Canterbury Tales."_
[Illustration: {Drawing of landscape.}]
It must not be imagined that our entire summer was given over to works
of charity and mercy. There were times when we quite forgot the Home of
the Elder Brother in merry romping and girlish enjoyment; and one of the
pleasantest experiences of that season was an excursion in two
tin-peddler's carts, or rather, in two carts belonging to one
tin-peddler; a pilgrimage which was undertaken solely and simply as a
lark, and most successfully realized its aims.
Toward the end of June, while Miss Prillwitz was still with us, father
fell into a state of body or mind which he called "the malary." It was
the fashion for everyone in our region to dub every disease with which
they might be afflicted, from indigestion to inherited insanity,
malaria; and the prescription given by our wise old physician for this
disease of many manifestations was always the same.
"I don't know exactly what has caused this trouble," he would say, "but
I know what will cure it. You need a change. If you've been living high,
diet. If you've been starving yourself, have Thanksgiving dinner every
day. Take a change of air and a change of scene, a change of occupation,
and, above all, a change of habits, and somewhere we'll hit the nail on
the head that has done the mischief."
The prescription pleased my father. He decided that he needed a change
from the coast to the interior, and from exercise to a sedentary life.
"Instead of tramping around this farm," he said, "I would like to be
driving over the western Massachusetts hills. I am as sick of this
eternal pound, pound of the surf on the shore as of the sea-fog in my
throat."
"Take the horses, father," said mother, cheerfully, "and drive through
Connecticut up to your brother Asahel's farm in Hawley. I can run this
household well enough without you."
"It would be a rather lonesome drive," father demurred, though his eyes
shone with longing.
"Zen why not to take us wiz you, Mr. Smiss?" asked Miss Prillwitz. "We
would each stand her share of ze expenses, and such a tour of
_diligence_ would be most delightful."
Upon this the matter was thoroughly canvassed, and it was finally
decided that mother should remain at home with the five little boys,
whom Ethel Stanley and the Helpful Ten had agreed to amuse during our
absence; and that Miss Prillwitz, Miss Sartoris, Winnie, Mr. Stillman,
and I should accompany father. Mr. Stillman was a summer-boarder from
New York, who came to us every season to fish and hunt. Hearing that
Miss Prillwitz was fond of ornithology, and that the lighthouse-keeper
sent her dead birds, he tried to please her by shooting others and
bringing them to her, but she soon made him understand that she
preferred studying them alive and at liberty.
"Zese poor leetle tears zat haf cast zemself on ze lighthouse," she
explained, "zey have not been kill for me, zey could not else, but I
wish I could hinder zem of it."
"It is not much fun to shoot birds, after all," Mr. Stillman admitted,
"only the exultation in hitting a difficult mark. I hate to pick them up
afterward."
"If it is only ze chase and ze difficulty which make you admiration,"
said Miss Prillwitz, "why do you not buy to yourself a camera of
detective for ze instantaneousness, whereby you can photograph ze bird
on his wing? Zey tell me it shall be much more difficult to do zat zan
to shoot him dead."
And so Mr. Stillman had sent to New York for an amateur photographer's
outfit, and had fitted up a dark-room in the old smoke-house, where he
developed his negatives. He was a man to whom almost everything he tried
was easy, and he tried his hand at many things. He had traveled much,
and assured us that wherever he went he tried to learn some new
accomplishment. In China he had learned the art of making fireworks,
and earlier in the season the smoke-house had served as a chemical
laboratory for the manufacture of rockets. Before Miss Prillwitz had
suggested amateur photography, Mr. Stillman had amused us by setting off
fireworks on the beach at night, but the new craze seemed destined to
supersede every other; pyrotechnics were neglected, and the shot-gun and
rifle rusted from lack of use.
A tin-peddler lived not far from us--an enterprising man, the proprietor
of two carts, one of which his wife was accustomed to conduct, following
him in caravan style on his summer journeyings; but this season the man
was sick, his wife busied in his care, and the great carts, piled with
wares, stood waiting in the sheds.
"I've a notion," said father, "to buy Eben Ware's stock and hire one of
his carts. I can hitch my span of horses to it, and I will make enough
selling tinware, as we go, to pay the expenses of the whole trip."
This plan did not strike me pleasantly at first, but before I had time
to object Mr. Stillman joined in enthusiastically.
"A capital idea, Mr. Smith, but you know our board is to be paid
regularly to Mrs. Smith during our absence. Miss Sartoris, Miss
Prillwitz, and I all insist upon that. I will take the peddler's horses
and his second cart, which I will load up with my photographic outfit,
the ladies' baggage, camp supplies, etc., and I will fill in any spare
space with fireworks, which I will offer for sale along the route, all
profits to be devoted to the charity in which the ladies are interested.
The Fourth of July is so near that I fancy the rockets will meet with a
ready sale."
All joined in the plan with zest. Our wardrobe was reduced to a minimum.
It was discovered that the two carts were arranged to turn into
ambulances for camping at night, and would furnish comfortable
accommodation for the feminine portion of the party, while a small tent
was provided for father and Mr. Stillman. In reality we camped but one
night, preferring to stop at wayside inns, but it was pleasant to know
that we could do so whenever we wished. A roll of army blankets and
comfortables, a few kitchen utensils, and some canned goods were stored
away in Mr. Stillman's cart, with Miss Prillwitz's botanizing
equipments, Miss Sartoris's sketching materials, his own belongings, and
all the fireworks which he could manufacture in time; and still there
was room in the capacious interior. The rifle was added at Winnie's
urgent request, as a defense against wild beasts, though we all joined
in ridiculing her fears that bears might be found in the Massachusetts
woods, little thinking that we should have a thrilling adventure with a
grizzly bear. At the last moment Mr. Stillman added another camera and
more chemicals.
"This means," he replied, in answer to our questions, "that I have
rented a tintype outfit of a photographer over at the Corners, and
propose to add to our resources by taking tintypes as we go."
Mr. Stillman's ready invention, so fertile in expedients, received
hearty applause, and the gypsy caravan set out in high feather. We took
the steamboat with the carts to New Haven, and from that point struck
into the interior by turnpikes and country roads, father leading the way
with his jingling coach, Miss Prillwitz and Winnie perched high beside
him, and Miss Sartoris, Mr. Stillman, and I, who called ourselves the
Art Contingent, bringing up the rear. How beautiful the roads were,
shaded by willows or arched by elms! Often fascinating lanes led off
from the highway toward comfortable farm-houses, or grass-grown,
deserted roads mounted through shady gorges to the lonely hills,
tempting us from the beaten track. But the highway was beautiful enough.
Sometimes it followed the curves of some vagrant stream, or wound around
gently undulating hills. Miss Sartoris pointed out the fact that it was
most frequently a succession of curves, while French highways are laid
out as straight as the surveyor can make them, and do not compose as
well in landscape paintings. The Connecticut roads we found easy to
travel, well kept, and for the most part level or of easy grade. It was
not until we reached western Massachusetts that we walked up the hills
to lighten the load, or that the driver pressed his foot hard on the
brake as the cart coasted down the steep inclines like a toboggan.
Winnie was delighted with a bit of gorge road which played at hide and
seek with a wayward brook. "It seems to me," she said, "that the wood is
a matter-of-fact business man, and the brook is his sweet but willful
little wife. See how he tries to adapt himself to her whims and pranks,
keeping as close to her as he can, while the side which she does not
touch is stern with rock and shadow! And she, coquettish little thing,
wanders away from him into the deepest part of the ravine, where he
cannot follow, and hides herself in a tangle of fern and wild-flowers,
till, just as the lonely old road, quite in despair at having lost her,
crosses the ravine on a bridge of logs, apparently for the sole purpose
of seeking her, the merry little brook flies under the mossy bridge and
is close beside him on the side which he thought farthest from her."
"That is a very good parable," said father. "You've struck the nail
pretty fairly. That's the way it has always been with my wife and me. My
daughter, too, is one of the brook kind, but you needn't conclude that
the old road doesn't enjoy all the company of blackberry vines and
laurel and ferns that the brook attracts to itself, and which never
would have come near the road but for the brook. I mean you and Miss
Sartoris and the rest."
"And sometimes," Winnie added, "the road has its grains of corn or wheat
dropped from a passing cart, you know, to give to the sparrows, and the
brook likes that ever so much."
Father always called the boys from the Home "the sparrows," and he was
pleased by this allusion to his generosity.
We found ourselves following the circus at one stage of our journey, and
we pitched our tent and made camp not far from the fair-grounds. We
chose for our camp a site which had once been occupied by a house that
had been burned to the ground. The only out-building which had escaped
the conflagration was a root-house, or cellar, excavated, cave-like, in
the side of a hill. It struck Mr. Stillman as a particularly good
"dark-room," and we at once pre-empted it. Miss Sartoris painted a
sign-board for the photographic studio, and Winnie and I arranged a
bower with a flowery background for Mr. Stillman's sitters. We had a
rich harvest that day, Winnie acting as cashier, and Miss Sartoris, as
assistant, posing the groups. Mr. Stillman was quite exhausted when
evening fell. He said he had never done such a day's work in his life,
and his tintype material was nearly used up. We were patronized not only
by the country people who came to see the show, sheepish lovers who
wished to have their portraits taken together, and parties of merry
young people, but also by the showmen themselves. The living skeleton
and the fat lady, the strong man supporting a great weight by his teeth,
the lion tamer with his pets, and the snake charmer, were all among Mr.
Stillman's patrons. When it was understood that he had an instantaneous
camera with him, the equestrienne desired him to take a photograph of
her while performing her famous feat of riding five horses at once, and
the acrobats challenged him to catch their rapid evolutions. He
surprised them by his remarkable success in obtaining a perfect
negative. It was our most successful day, from a financial point of
view, for we realized over twenty dollars.
Father had a rather annoying experience which made him desire to avoid
the circus in the future. Among the articles which the tin-peddler had
given him was a soldering furnace and irons, for mending old tinware.
Father made his first attempt to use these tools on this afternoon. The
door-keeper of one of the tents brought him his japanned tin strong-box
to mend, and father attacked the task laboriously, succeeding in making
it firm by a rather too plentiful application of solder. He was so
interested in his task that he did not notice that an organ-grinder,
one of the followers of the circus, had pressed quite near and was
regarding the coins, which the door-keeper had temporarily turned into
his handkerchief, with hungry eyes. Suddenly the monkey, which had been
tied to the organ, became loose, and springing straight to the little
furnace, seized and brandished the heated soldering-iron. A great
excitement ensued, for no one dared to take the formidable weapon from
the mischievous creature. The owner of the monkey seemed at his wits'
end. He raged, stamped, tore his hair, commanded and entreated the
monkey to bring back the iron, all to no avail. The monkey, having
burned himself, finally dropped it, but, frightened by the pain or by
his master's threats, continued his flight into the woods, followed by
the organ-grinder. When the excitement occasioned by this event had
subsided, a still greater one ensued on the discovery that the
door-keeper's handkerchief and money had disappeared. The man angrily
charged father with its theft, but Mr. Stillman came running from his
dark-room with a negative which he had just developed. He had been
standing at the door, with his detective camera in his hand, and, quite
unintentionally, had done real detective work, for, intending only to
catch the monkey with the soldering-iron, he had focused upon it at the
very first, and the unerring eye of the camera had seen and recorded
what every one else had been too preoccupied to discover--the
organ-grinder snatching the gate-keeper's money. The negative was a
sufficient witness, and the organ-grinder was at once sought for, but
the earth seemed to have swallowed him. The monkey was found nursing his
burned paw in a tree, but his master and the money were not to be found.
There was such a train of beggars and questionable characters in the
wake of the circus that it was decided not to pursue our moneyed
advantage by following with them; and the next day we stood back from
the road to let the heavy, shambling elephants and long train of gaudily
decorated wagons pass by. Mr. Stillman had his detective camera out, and
took some interesting views of the procession. Father had taken a
dislike to the soldering outfit, and congratulated himself that the
monkey had lost the iron, but the last in the procession, a gypsy
fortune-teller, handed it to him, saying that it was a lodestone, which
would bring evil fortune to the person who possessed it, and advising
him to give it to his worst enemy. "I am a witch," Winnie laughed, "and
can reverse all omens--so we need not fear." Turning from the highway,
we now struck across the country, through chestnut woods, where Miss
Prillwitz taught us to recognize the song of the thrush, the sweetest of
New England songsters, and cousin of the mocking-bird. Mr. Stillman was
vexed that he could not obtain a single photograph of a thrush, but she
is a shy bird, and keeps hidden in leafy thickets, and though we heard
her song frequently, we never saw her. Mr. Stillman became very skillful
in photographing other birds, even fixing the agile little fly-catchers
in their eccentric movements, the watchful bobolink atilt on a
mullein-stalk, the swallows skimming the river's surface, and the
sagacious crows, who, having proved that a very natural scarecrow was
harmless, were less suspicious of him. The withered limbs on certain old
apple-trees were favorite perches for the birds, for there was no
foliage here to impede their flight, and outlined against the sky they
were capital targets for the camera. Mr. Stillman secured a gentlemanly
king-bird in such a position, his white breast and black back and tail
feathers reminding Winnie of a dandy in full evening dress.
Miss Prillwitz remarked on the brilliant plumage of the New England
birds, and said that it was a mistake to imagine that those of the South
were more beautiful. She pointed out the black and gold orioles, the
lovely bluebird, the scarlet tanagers, as brilliant as flamingoes, the
beautiful rose-breasted grosbeaks, with a rich crimson heart upon their
breasts, and the red-winged blackbirds, with their scarlet epaulets,
reminding one of brisk artillerymen. It was the last of June--the most
perfect of all the months--and as we rode we repeated all of the poets'
praises of the month that we could remember. We agreed that Lowell had
sung the season best:
"The bobolink has come, and, like the soul
Of the sweet season vocal in a bird,
Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what,
Save June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June."
But Margaret Deland pleased us nearly as well in her homage to the queen
month:
"The dark laburnum's chains of gold
She twists about her throat;
Perched on her shoulder, blithe and bold,
The brown thrush sounds his note!
"And blue of the far dappled sky,
That shows at warm, still noon,
Shines in her softly smiling eye--
Oh who's so sweet as June?"
Father was not a very successful tin-peddler. The thrifty New England
housewives were not pleased because he was unwilling to exchange his
wares for rags, after the manner of other itinerant venders. He was
uncertain as to the prices which he ought to charge; asking so little
for his brooms that one patron purchased all his stock, at a decided
loss to himself, as he afterwards learned, and demanding so much for
nutmeg graters that a sagacious purchaser showed him the door with
scorn. The soldering outfit, too, caused him much woe. It seemed that
the original peddler was a clever tinker; and all sorts of broken
articles, from clocks to umbrellas, were brought out for father to mend.
At first father good humoredly tried his best, but having burned holes
in his clothing, as well as blistered his hands, and succeeding in no
instance in satisfying his patrons, he was tempted to throw the little
furnace away, but his sense of economy would not allow him to do this,
and he stowed it away vindictively in the depths of his cart.
Shortly after this we spent two very interesting days in visiting Mt.
Holyoke and Smith colleges. They gave both to Winnie and me a desire for
a higher education than that which we were receiving at Madame's. Miss
Sartoris wandered slowly through the Art Building of Smith, looking
longingly at its superb equipment. The college is charmingly situated in
the old town of Northampton. We were told that the students had just
acted a Greek play, the "Electra" of Sophocles, very successfully, and
we looked at one another in envy as we thought how impossible it would
have been to present such a drama at Madame's.
We passed the Holyoke range on July 1. This barrier marks as distinct a
climatic change as Cape Cod in the Atlantic currents, for, just as,
south of the Cape, and apparently threatened by her bent arm, the Gulf
Stream sweeps to the north the tropic sea-weeds, and north of it, and
gathered close in its embrace, the Arctic mosses cling to the cold
heart of New England; so, south of the Holyoke range the air may be
tepid and lifeless, while beyond it invigorating breezes from the
Northland are dancing cheerily.
We had eaten the last native Connecticut strawberries, but they were
just in their glory north of the barrier, and though the almanac said
July, it was June weather still.
Mount Tom and Mount Holyoke stand as sentinels at the entrance of a
lovely region, through whose elm-covered villages we drove at leisurely
pace, resting over a Sabbath at old Hadley, one of the most charming
places, with its principal street a double cloister of elms and maples,
and where a Sabbath peace and stillness brooded even on week-days. Mr.
Stillman found, for the next few days, a ready sale for his fireworks,
exhausting his stock and adding twenty-five dollars to the treasury.
About twelve miles north of Mount Holyoke rises Mount Toby, a noble
mountain, which assumes, from certain directions, the shape of a
crouching camel. The resemblance is even more marked than that of the
Rock of Gibraltar to a lion. It dominates the country round about, and
from its summit nearly a score of nestling towns and villages are
visible. Among these Mr. Stillman sold his rockets, and proposed that we
should spend Fourth of July night on its summit, and there watch the
little fire-fountains on the plain below. It was an attractive plan, but
Mr. Stillman had not counted the weather into his reckoning. It had been
a sultry day. As we stopped at a farm-house on our way from Sunderland
to Mount Toby, the good woman told us to look out for rain. "The grass
has been waiting two days to be cut," she said, "but it looks kinder
lowry, and the men-folks daresn't begin haying."
There were two superb cumulus clouds in the west, shaped like elm-trees,
or wine-glasses touching rims, and there was a blue rain-cloud in the
southeast, with fringes trailing the landscape, and blurring it from our
view.
"The rain may not reach Mount Toby at all," father said; "showers travel
about among those hills in a curious fashion. I have seen it raining
hard on one side of Sugar-Loaf, while the other was dry and dusty. There
is a deserted railway station at the foot of Toby, where we can spend
the night. There were picnic grounds laid out on the mountain at one
time, but the enterprise failed, and trains no longer stop there."
A view of the station, which we reached early in the afternoon,
confirmed father's recommendation of it. The roof was weather tight, and
it was a roomy, comfortable building, a good refuge should a shower
overtake us. We picnicked beside a beautiful cascade, and leaving the
horses picketed beside the carts, proceeded to climb the mountain on
foot. It was glorious with masses of white and pink laurel, which I had
never before seen in its perfection, and Miss Prillwitz introduced me to
many other plants and flowers new to me. The Amherst basket-fern, shaped
like a Corinthian capital, grew in perfection, the Columbine blew her
flame-colored trumpets, and the harebell rang her inaudible chimes from
mossy clefts in the gray rocks. Miss Prillwitz said she had last picked
harebells in Austria.
"You know," said Miss Sartoris, "that Mary Howitt calls the harebell
'The very flower to take
Into the heart, and make
The cherished memory of all pleasant places;
Name but the light harebell,
And straight is pictured well
Where'er of fallen state lie lonely traces.
Old slopes of pasture ground,
Old fosse and moat and mound,
Where the mailed warrior and crusader came;
Old walls of crumbling stone
With ivy overgrown,
Rise at the mention of the harebell's name.'"
Miss Prillwitz pointed out more obscure plants, and gave us interesting
bits of information in regard to them. Some had strangely human
characteristics. The cassia, a shrinking sensitive-plant with yellow
blossoms, was one of these, while the poison-ivy in its unctuous growth
had an evil and malignant appearance which seemed to hint at its
inimical nature. She told us how to tell the poisonous sumac from the
harmless variety, the poisonous kind being the only one that has pendant
fruit. She gave us also a little chat about parasitic plants, suggested
by a _gerardia_, a little thief which draws its nutriment from the roots
of huckleberry.
"I did not know that plants had so little conscience," said Winnie. "It
reminds me of a guest a Southern gentleman had, who remained twelve
years, and after the death of the host married his widow."
"Plants seem also to be cruel," said Miss Prillwitz. "Zere is ze
_apocynum_, a carnivorous plant which eat ze insect. You should read of
him by Darwin. He set a trap for ze fly wiz some honey, and when Mr. Fly
tickle ze plant, quick he is caught, and Mr. Apocynum he eat him, and
digest him at his leisures."
"Miss Prillwitz, you should write a book for young people, and call it
'Near Nature's Heart,'" I suggested.
"I would so like," replied Miss Prillwitz, "but if I waste my time to
write, how should I earn my lifes? I have know many author, and very few
do make their wealths by--by their authority."
Miss Prillwitz brought out the last word triumphantly, quite sure that
she had achieved a success in our difficult language. I turned aside to
Mr. Stillman, that she might not see my smile. "How interesting she
makes our climb," I said, "and all these wayside weeds! 'She illustrates
the landscape.'"
"In my humble opinion it is Miss Sartoris who 'illustrates the
landscape,'" he replied. "See what a picture she makes reaching after
those sweet-briar blossoms! I wish I had not left my detective at the
station."
Miss Sartoris was indeed very pretty. It seemed to me that she grew
younger and more bewitching with every day of our trip. Each changing
pose as she leisurely picked the wild roses was full of grace, but I
could hardly understand why Mr. Stillman should greatly regret not
securing this particular view, when she had figured in at least half of
the photographs which he had taken.
We reached the top of the mountain just at sunset. The west glowed with
a yellow-green color. The strange clouds, which had been as white as
curds in the afternoon, were now dark blue, lighted by flashes of heat
lightning. They moved forward like the pillar which led the Israelites,
great billowy masses piled one on the other and toppling at the summit,
while they melted at the base into a mist of rain. Behind them was the
background of the sunset, like a plate of hammered gold dashed with that
sinister green. There were threatening rumblings in the east also, and
Amherst and its college buildings were blotted out by the rain clouds,
which resembled the petals of a fringed gentian, and seemed to be
traveling rapidly in our direction.
Father took a rapid view of the horizon. "There will be no fireworks
display for us to-night," he said. "There are two showers which will
meet in an hour's time, and Toby will be just about in the centre of the
fracas. We had better hurry down the mountain if we want to escape a
wetting."
Miss Sartoris gave a longing look at the beautiful panorama of nestling
villages, forest and winding river (a view unsurpassed in
Massachusetts), and now glorified by the magnificent cloud effects. "Can
we not rest for half an hour?" she asked.
"I think not," father replied, and we reluctantly retraced our steps.
When half-way down the mountain the wind, which preceded the march of
the cloud battalion, caught up with us. The chestnuts crouched low and
moaned, the poplars shivered and shook their white palms, and the
hemlocks writhed and tossed their gaunt arms as though in agony. Then
there was a hush, when they seemed to stand still from very fear, and a
minute later the storm burst upon us. We were but a short distance from
the station when this occurred, and the foliage which roofed the road
was so dense that we were not very wet when we reached our shelter.
There was an invigorating scent of ozone in the air, and a certain
exhilaration in being out in a storm, and in hearing the crash of
falling limbs far back in the woods. We noticed the gentleness of the
rain, which, though apparently fierce, did not break a single fragile
wild-flower. Each leaf, sponged free from dust, brightened as though
freshly varnished, and each blade of grass threaded its necklace of
crystal beads. The cascade, swollen and turbid, roared angrily at our
side, and a shallower rivulet made the path slippery as we hurried on;
but a few moments of laughing scramble brought us panting into the dry
station, safely housed for the night from the storm.
Father and Mr. Stillman arranged shelter for the horses by spreading the
tent between the two carts, and we ate our supper at what had formerly
been a refreshment counter. Then the ticket-office was assigned to the
gentlemen as their dormitory, and hammocks were hung for the rest of us
in the ladies' waiting-room. We told ghost stories for a time by the
light of a spirit-lamp and a few candles, but retired early, as we were
thoroughly tired from our long walk, and were soon asleep, lulled by the
monotone of the falling rain. We were not destined, however, to enjoy a
night of undisturbed repose, for the principal adventure of our journey
occurred that night.
I do not know how long we had slept when we were all suddenly awakened
by a startling scream.
"What is it? Oh, what is it?" gasped Winnie.
"Is it a catamount?" asked Miss Sartoris.
I thought of the railroad track, which ran close beside us, and
suggested that it might be the shriek of a passing engine, when suddenly
it came again on the side of the station opposite to the track. Father
sprang up, exclaiming, "Something is the matter with the horses!"
The rain was still pouring, and a dim light from the swinging lantern
illumined the room. As father spoke, one of the windows, which had been
left open for ventilation, was suddenly filled by an uncouth form,
which, with much scrambling and snorting, was proceeding to force an
entrance.
"It is a bear!" shrieked Winnie; and so it was. Mr. Stillman rushed
forward with his rifle. There was a loud report, and a heavy fall on the
outside.
"Horses can scent bears at a distance," said father, as he took down the
lantern; "but who would have thought there were any such creatures in
these woods?"
"Perhaps it has broken away from the circus," suggested Mr. Stillman,
reloading his rifle; for there was an ominous growling outside. Human
voices were presently heard whose intonations were almost as harsh as
those of the brute. Father unbarred the door, and we saw two men bending
over the wounded bear, which he now saw was muzzled, and the property of
the men, who had evidently heard of the old station, and had thought to
take refuge in it from the storm.
"Here's a pretty state of things!" father exclaimed, with a whistle.
"You have shot a performing bear, Stillman, and these showmen will
probably make us pay dearly for the mistake."
We had all been terribly frightened; but we recovered instantly on this
announcement, and hurriedly dressing, we peered out at the men as they
stood about the wounded animal and discussed the situation. One of the
showmen was a foreigner, who swore and grumbled in some strange
language, which Miss Prillwitz afterward told us was Russian. The other
was unmistakably a Jew, and he took a Jewish advantage of the accident.
"You haf ruined our pizness--dot bear he wort one, two hundert dollar!"
"Nonsense!" replied father, as confidently as if he were accustomed to
trade in that species of live-stock; "he's dear at fifty. Besides, he
isn't dead, nor anything like it. Hold him with this halter, you two,
and I'll examine him. There! I told you so; it's only a flesh wound in
the right foreleg. There are no bones broken. He will be ready for
travel in a week. All you've got to do is to stay here for a few
days--and where could you be better off? We leave in the morning, and no
one will dispute your possession of this house. I will leave you enough
provisions to keep you until you are ready for the road again."
The men talked it over in Russian, and seemed far from satisfied, though
Mr. Stillman offered to give them twenty dollars as an equivalent for
what they would have gained during the next week, and father added his
remaining stock of small tinware, which, he explained, they could easily
sell from door to door at the farm-houses and villages in the vicinity.
He was tired of his occupation as a tin-peddler, and glad to get rid of
the obnoxious soldering furnace, as well as the patty-pans and
muffin-rings. A settlement was finally effected when, in addition to
this, Mr. Stillman agreed to their demand for fifty dollars cash
indemnity.
There was no more sleep for us that night, and it was with rueful
countenances that we discussed the adventure among ourselves.
"To think," lamented Winnie, "that, just as we were congratulating
ourselves on gaining so much money for the Home, we should be obliged to
pay it all out, and more besides, to these wretched men, and all for
nothing too!"
"Yes," replied Mr. Stillman, "that is the provoking part. If I had only
killed the creature we might have bear-steak for breakfast (though it
would have been pretty expensive meat), and I could have had his hide
mounted as a rug, and have exhibited it to my friends with truthful
braggadocio as one of my hunting trophies."
I sympathized with Winnie in regard to the depleted condition of our
treasury; but Miss Prillwitz remarked, enigmatically, that the adventure
might not prove to be such a losing one as we imagined. We begged her
to explain; but she bade us wait until we were at least ten miles from
our encampment.
We relinquished the station to the showmen after a very early breakfast,
and drove away with lightened carts and subdued spirits.
The rain had ceased, but was likely to begin again at any moment, for
the sky was thickly overcast, and father suggested that, as this was a
famous trout region, we might do well to spend the morning in fishing.
This plan pleased all but Miss Prillwitz, who whispered to father that
she had particular reasons for reaching a telegraph station as soon as
possible, and we accordingly directed our course at a rattling pace
toward the shire town of Greenfield. On the way Miss Prillwitz confided
to us her suspicions; and in order that the reader may understand them,
I must anticipate the events which are to be related in the next
chapter, and explain that, after the explosion at Rickett's Court,
Solomon Meyer and one of the anarchists had disappeared from New York,
and Mr. Armstrong had offered a reward for their apprehension.
The anarchist was known to be a Russian, and though Miss Prillwitz had
never seen Solomon Meyer, she felt sure, from Lovey Trimble's
description of him, that he had decided to avoid the ordinary routes of
travel, and to journey toward Canada on foot, disguised as an itinerant
showman. She had more proofs of his identity than these suspicions. The
men had conversed very freely with each other in Russian, never dreaming
that there was any one present who could understand the language. The
Russian had complained bitterly that this accident would delay their
journey to Canada, and the Jew had replied that it might be as well to
lie hidden until the search was over.
Arrived at Greenfield, Miss Prillwitz telegraphed to Mr. Armstrong, and
in two hours received the following reply: "Have the local authorities
arrest the parties and detain them until I can reach Greenfield."
Accordingly Mr. Stillman and father, with a sheriff and a constable,
drove back toward Mount Toby in a sort of picnic wagon. Father advised
us to await him at Deerfield, one of the most interesting villages in
the Connecticut Valley--both from its intrinsic beauty and its historic
associations. We engaged lodgings at the small hotel, where we found
but one other traveler, a dejected book-agent. It was nearly
dinner-time, and the landlord looked rather alarmed by the unexpected
arrival of so many hungry-looking guests, but he soon set before us a
capital dinner of broiled chicken, and after a little rest we took a
stroll through the beautiful old town. We were informed that the
Memorial Hall, a museum of antique furniture, books, costumes, and other
curiosities, was well worth visiting; and so, indeed, we found it. One
object which greatly interested me was an old spinnet, with a quaint
collection of music, both sacred and secular. Here was a great bass-viol
which formerly groaned out an accompaniment to the male voices of the
choir as they took their part in such strange, metrical arrangements as
"Come, my beloved, haste away,
Cut short the hours of thy delay;
Fly like a youthful hart or roe,
Over the hills where spices grow."
The Library, too, a collection of "the (literary) remains" of many
celebrated doctors of divinity, was a fascinating room, and one in which
we would have enjoyed prowling for a long time. Hawthorne has given
such an admirable description, in his "Old Manse," of just such a
library, that I cannot forbear quoting it here.
"The old books would (for the most part) have been worth nothing at an
auction. They possessed an interest quite apart from their literary
value; many of them had been transmitted down through a series of
consecrated hands from the days of the mighty Puritan divines. A few of
the books were Latin folios written by Catholic authors; others
demolished papistry as with a sledgehammer, in plain English. A
dissertation on the book of Job, which only Job himself could have had
the patience to read, filled at least a score of small, thick-set
quartos, at the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter. Then there
was a vast folio 'Body of Divinity.' Volumes of this form dated back two
hundred years and more, and were generally bound in black leather,
exhibiting precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books
of enchantment. Others equally antique were of a size proper to be
carried in the large waistcoat pockets of old times: diminutive, but as
black as their bulkier brethren. These little old volumes impressed me
as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had been,
unfortunately, blighted at an early stage of their growth. Then there
were old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced the
epochs when they had issued from the press with a distinctness that was
altogether unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits of magic
looking-glass among the books, with the images of a vanished century in
them."
We lingered long in the Library, and in the Indian Room, where stands an
old door gashed by the tomahawks of the Indians who, with a company of
French, in 1704, surprised Deerfield, massacred a great part of the
inhabitants, and carried a hundred and twelve as prisoners to Canada.
Yellow and crumbling letters, uncertainly spelled and quaintly phrased,
hung around the room, telling how perilous such a driving-tour as we had
just taken would have been in those pioneer days. One, dated 1756 and
written to Captain John Burt in the Crown Point Army, read as follows:
"Dear Husband.
"It is a Crasie time in this place. There is but little Traviling
by the Massachusetts Fort which makes it more difficult to send
letters. Capt. Chapin and Chidester and his Son were killed and
scalpt by the Enemy near the new foort at Hoosack."
Sarah Williams, of Roxbury, in 1714 announces to her friends at
Deerfield the expected return of many of their friends who had been
carried off in different raids--"We have had news that Unkel is Coming
with one hundred and fifty Captives."
The number dwindled, and many who were carried away on that dreary march
through the winter snow never returned, but among the relics preserved
in the archives of Memorial Hall is a pathetic little red shoe which
walked all the way from Hatfield to Canada and back, on the foot of
little Sally Colman. It is hardly more than a tiny sole, with a rag of
the scarlet upper clinging to it, but it tells the story of the cruel
march, and the heroic efforts of the noble men who effected the rescue
of their friends, better than many a page of print.
We were so much interested in Memorial Hall that it was long past
supper-time before we thought of leaving. The book-agent advised us to
visit the old burying-ground, and, after supper, offered to show us the
way. We found it grass-grown and neglected; in some portions, a thicket
of climbing vines and tangling briers. Indeed, the entire God's acre was
so given over to nature that the birds built undismayed, while the
squirrel frisked impudently on the headstones, and the woodchuck
burrowed beside the tombs. It had not been used for many years; a newer
cemetery raised its white monuments on the hillside, while here lichens
nearly filled the carving, and the stones leaned at tipsy angles,
proving that grief for any buried here had been long assuaged, that the
very mourners had passed away, and it was doubtful whether a single aged
man still lingered in the town of whom it could be said that
"These mossy marbles rest
On the lips which he has pressed
In their bloom.
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb."
As Miss Sartoris remarked, the place did not suggest sadness, but gentle
retrospection, while curiosity provoked the fancy to fill out the
histories so provokingly suggested in the inscriptions. Here was buried
Mrs. Williams, whom her epitaph declares to be "the virtuous and
desirable consort of Mr. John Williams," and Mr. Mehuman Hinsdale, who
was "twice captivated by the barbarous savages."
The book-agent read us another epitaph, copied in Vernon, Vt., which
suggested a three-volume novel in the history which it gave of early
Indian times. Our imaginations sank exhausted as we attempted to follow
the heroine through all her matrimonial complications, I give it as it
was dictated to me:
MRS. JEMIMA TUTE,
SUCCESSIVELY RELICT OF MESSRS. WILLIAM PHIPS,
CALEB HOWE, AND AMOS TUTE.
THE TWO FIRST WERE KILLED BY THE INDIANS,
PHIPS, JULY 5, 1743; HOWE, JUNE 27, 1755.
WHEN HOWE WAS KILLED, SHE AND HER CHILDREN,
THEN SEVEN IN NUMBER, WERE CARRIED INTO CAPTIVITY.
THE OLDEST DAUGHTER WENT TO FRANCE, AND WAS
MARRIED TO A FRENCH GENTLEMAN. THE YOUNGEST WAS
TORN FROM HER BREAST, AND PERISHED WITH HUNGER.
BY THE AID OF SOME BENEVOLENT GENTLEMEN, AND HER
OWN PERSONAL HEROISM, SHE RECOVERED THE REST.
SHE DIED MARCH 7, 1805, HAVING PASSED THROUGH
MORE VICISSITUDES AND ENDURED MORE HARDSHIPS THAN
ANY OF HER CONTEMPORARIES.
"'No more can savage foe annoy,
Nor aught her widespread fame destroy.'"
It was dark when we wandered back to the hotel, past the old manse built
for the Reverend John Williams by his parishioners after his return from
captivity. We were told that some one residing in the house of late had
occasion to move a tall piece of furniture in one of the chambers, and
discovered a door. Opening this, a secret staircase was found leading
from the cellar to the attic. No one living had known of its existence,
and many were the wild guesses made as to its object.
When we returned to the hotel we found that father and Mr. Stillman had
not yet arrived. Miss Sartoris seemed very anxious, and feared that
there might have been trouble in arresting the tramps. Winnie cheered us
by suggesting the trout fishing, which Mr. Stillman had reluctantly
abandoned when we left Mt. Toby. It would be a good night for fishing,
the landlord said; perhaps they had remained for it, since the distance
to Toby was too long to be comfortably made three times in one day.
After breakfast the next morning, as our travelers were still absent,
Miss Sartoris and I unpacked our sketch-boxes and began to make a study
of the street from the north end, just at the point where the French
and Indians, "swarming over the palisades on the drifted snow, surprised
and sacked the sleeping town."
Miss Prillwitz and Winnie, with their botanists' cans, followed a little
brook that ran at the back of the hotel, and came back laden with blue
German forget-me-nots. Father and Mr. Stillman arrived just before
dinner, Mr. Stillman carrying in one hand a string of beautiful speckled
trout, and in the other something which looked like a buffalo-robe. He
looked very triumphant and happy, while father followed, carrying in a
rather sheepish manner--what but the old soldering furnace! We greeted
them with so much laughter and so many questions that it was some time
before they could give an account of their adventures.
Arrived at the Mount Toby railroad station, they had found it deserted.
The men having evidently decided that it was not safe to await the
recovery of the bear, had accordingly killed it, and secreted it in a
cave at the foot of the mountain. The sheriff knew of this cave, and in
examining it in search of the men, found the carcass of the bear.
"And so," exclaimed Mr. Stillman, exhibiting the skin, "I secured my
rug, after all, but we concluded that the meat looked rather tough, and
we would not take it. I shall express this skin straight to a
taxidermist that I know, and have it handsomely mounted."
"But the men!" I asked; "you don't mean to tell me that they escaped?"
"No," replied father; "but if you can't keep quiet I shall not be able
to tell you how they were caught. It was this very ill-luck-bringing
soldering outfit that did it. When we found that they had left, I
suspected that they had taken the morning train for Canada at the
Montague station, for no trains stopped at Toby; and in case they had
done that, there was hardly a chance of our reaching the station and
ascertaining the fact in time to telegraph and effect their arrest
before they could leave the country. We had driven from Greenfield
pretty rapidly, and our horses were tired; then we took a wrong turning,
and got off into Leverett, or some other unhappy wilderness; but after a
while we found a farmer who provided us with fresh beasts, and we
reached the Montague station toward evening. It was shut up, and the
station-master had gone home, but after another half-hour we found him.
Yes, our men had bought tickets for Montreal that morning. Then you
should have seen our hurry to telegraph; but the station-master advised
us to keep cool, and wait a little. 'They bought their tickets,' he
said, 'but they didn't go there.' So that was a feint, I thought, to
throw us off the track. But no; on their way from Toby they had decided
that they would have a cup of coffee, and they had sat down behind a
barn to make it on my soldering furnace, and as they were doubtless as
tired of carrying the old thing as I was, they left it there. The wind
blew the coals into the hay, and in a few minutes the barn was on fire.
Someone had seen them leave the yard, and before the train came along
for which they were waiting, they were arrested as incendiaries, and
taken to the Greenfield jail. As this was precisely where the sheriff
wished to take them, there was nothing for him to do but to return and
notify the authorities that the men would be wanted soon on more serious
charges. And as the station-master informed us that there was some good
trout-fishing nearby, we decided to spend the night in Montague. So we
let the sheriff and constable drive back to Greenfield without us, and
telegraphed Mr. Armstrong that his birds were caught."
"If they only turn out to be his birds!" said Winnie.
"I haf no doubtfuls of zat," said Miss Prillwitz.
"But why did you bring back that wretched little furnace and iron?" I
asked.
"Why, the curious part of it is that the farmer who drove us over this
morning had found them in the ruins of his barn, and he brought them
along, thinking that we might like them to help in identifying the
rascals. I couldn't refuse his kindness, but I certainly shall not carry
them away from this place. I don't believe in such nonsense, but the
gypsy's prediction has come true so far, and they brought bad fortune to
the gentlemen to whom I presented them."
Mr. Armstrong, who had been telegraphed for, arrived with a police
officer that night; and Miss Prillwitz, father, and Mr. Stillman were
absent all the next morning making depositions to aid in the
identification of the prisoners.
It was finally decided to remove them to New York to await trial on Mr.
Armstrong's charges. We set out that afternoon for Ashfield, our route
leading us over beautiful hills, and affording us views of rare
loveliness. Ashfield is a village loved by literary men as Deerfield is
by artists. Deerfield nestles in a valley, while Ashfield lies on the
breezy hill-top; George William Curtis is the centre of the coterie of
rare minds who make Ashfield their summer home. Mr. Curtis gives a
lecture here once a year for the benefit of the Sanderson Academy. At
this time every manner of vehicle brings the country-people over the
winding roads, which converge in Ashfield like the spokes of a wheel in
their hub. We were not fortunate enough to light on this red-letter day,
and we accordingly rested over night at the long low inn, and started
early the next morning for uncle's home in Hawley. The distance was
short, as the crow flies, but it seemed to be all up-hill. The last mile
was through one of those gorges so common in this region, where the
fissure between the hills is so narrow that the sun only looks in for
two or three hours. Slowly climbing the long, green-vaulted stairway,
the dusky tapestry was at length looped back for us, and the road,
emerging from the wooded ravine, gleamed yellow-white between the
grassy mounds. Crowning one of these knolls stood a long, white
farm-house, spreading out wing after wing in hospitable effort to
shelter the entire hill-top. Beside the road stood a post with a
letter-box affixed, for the reception of the mail left by the daily
stage. We passed a huddle of old barns and out-buildings, among which I
recognized a carpenter's shop, a carriage-shed, a sugar-house in
convenient proximity to a grove of maples, a dairy through which ran the
brook, keeping cool and solid the eighty pounds of butter which my
cousins made each week, a cider-mill, and behind it an orchard of russet
apple-trees, and a long row of bee-hives fronting the flower-garden.
Uncle expected us, and it was delightful to see the meeting between the
two brothers, who had not seen each other in twelve years. There were
plenty of airy bedrooms, hung with pure white dimity, and after our
gypsy life it seemed very pleasant to find once more the comforts of a
home. We spent several days at the Maples, attending service in the dear
old-fashioned church with its high, square pews.
Aunt Prue had all of our travel-soiled clothing neatly washed, and
refilled the emptied hampers and lunch-baskets with abundant supplies
from the products of the farm and her own good cookery.
Uncle was a large, easy man, who dearly loved to tell a story to match
his own ample proportions, only the twinkle in his eye redeeming him
from the charge of deception. Aunt Prue's rigid conscience revolted at
uncle's romances. "Asahel Smith!" she would exclaim, "how can you lie
like that; and you a church-member?"
"Now, Prudence," Uncle Asahel would reply, "the catechism says a lie is
a story told with intention to deceive, and when I told these girls that
I drove the oxen home with the last load of hay so fast that I got it
into the barn before a drop of water fell, while it was raining so hard
behind me that Watch, who was following the wagon, actually _swam_ all
the way up from the medder--when I told 'em that, I cal'late I didn't
deceive 'em; I was only cultivating their imaginations."
Aunt Prue groaned in spirit, and began to sing, in a high, cracked
voice.
"False are the men of high degree,
The baser sort are vanity;
Weighed in the balance, both appear
Light as a puff of empty air."
While at The Maples we made an excursion to Cummington, formerly
Bryant's home. We sat in the library, shut in by a thick grove, where he
composed his translations of the Odyssey and Iliad, and we played with a
little pet dog of which he had been very fond. Not far from the estate
is a fine library, Bryant's gift to the little town. "Bryant's River" is
a brawling little stream which flows through a very picturesque region.
We amused ourselves by fancying that we recognized spots described in
several of his poems.
There was a grand old oak upon the place which might have inspired his
lines--
"This mighty oak--
By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated--not a prince
In all that proud Old World beyond the deep
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him."
The scenery about Cummington and Hawley tempted us to a frequent use of
our sketching-materials. Mr. Stillman, too, found several birds new to
him, and took some beautiful landscape photographs. Miss Sartoris gave
him new ideas about choosing views where mountain and cloud, trees and
reflections, composed well, and his photographs became much more
artistic. He began to talk about the importance of placing his darkest
dark here, and his highest light there, of balancing a steeple in this
part of his picture by a human interest in the foreground, of massing
his shadows, of angular composition, of tone and harmony, and the rest
of the cant of the studio. Nor was it all cant; Miss Sartoris had taught
him to see more in nature than he had ever seen before, and while his
ambition had hitherto been to secure sharp photographs of instantaneous
effects--mere feats of mechanical skill--his aim was now to produce
pictures satisfying to highly cultivated tastes. He acknowledged that
all this was due to Miss Sartoris, who had opened a new world to him,
though it seemed to me that he really owed quite as much to Miss
Prillwitz, but for whose influence he would never have taken up
photography. I was a little jealous for our princess, and felt that,
though Miss Sartoris was young and fair, and Miss Prillwitz old and
wrinkled, this was no reason why honor should not be rendered where
honor was due.
There was a pond with a bit of swamp land on uncle's farm, which he
considered the blot on the place, but which Miss Sartoris declared was a
real treasure-trove for a picture. One end was covered with lily-pads,
and great waxy pond-lilies were opening their alabaster lamps here and
there on the surface, while the yellow cow-lilies dotted the other end
with their butter-pats. Cat-tails and rushes grew in the shallower
portions, and here was to be found the rare moccasin-flower, a pink and
white orchid of exquisite shape. Miss Sartoris painted a beautiful
picture here. She said it reminded her of the pond which Ruskin
describes with an artist's insight and enthusiasm.
"A great painter sees beneath and behind the brown surface what will
take him a day's work to follow; and he follows it, cost what it will.
He sees it is not the dull, dirty, blank thing which he supposes it to
be; it has a heart as well as ourselves, and in the bottom of that there
are the boughs of the tall trees and their quivering leaves, and all the
hazy passages of sunshine, the blades of the shaking grass, with all
manner of hues of variable, pleasant light out of the sky; and the
bottom seen in the clear little bits at the edge, and the stones of it,
and all the sky. For the ugly gutter that stagnates over the drain-bars
in the heart of the foul city is not altogether base. It is at your will
that you see in that despised stream either the refuse of the street or
the image of the sky; so it is with many other things which we unkindly
despise."
We all regretted when our short visit at The Maples came to an end, but
Miss Prillwitz felt that she must be hastening back to the Home, and we
had already transgressed the bounds which we had set to our outing. We
decided to vary our journey by returning through Berkshire. We drove,
the first day, to Pittsfield, a flourishing little city, and now for the
first time we felt ourselves out of place in the peddler's carts.
Nowhere else had we attracted any special attention. It was a common
thing for tin-peddlers to take their feminine relatives with them on
their jaunts, and as we dressed very plainly, and conducted ourselves
with gravity, no one gave us a second look.
At Pittsfield, however, we came in contact once more with "society," and
the loungers on the hotel veranda gave us a broadside of astonished
looks as we alighted. "It is very disagreeable to be stared at in this
way," Winnie remarked to Miss Prillwitz as we entered.
"My tear," replied the good lady, "it takes four eyes to make a
stare."[A]
[A] A remark once made by Professor Maria Mitchell to a student of
Vassar College who had made a similar complaint.
Winnie colored deeply, for she knew that if she had been less
self-conscious she would not have felt the curious and impertinent gaze.
We left Pittsfield so early the next morning that none of the hotel
loungers were on the piazza to comment on our appearance.
We drove, that day, over the lovely Lenox hills, once covered by stony
pastures, dotted here and there by lonely farm-houses, but now a
succession of beautiful parks and aristocratic villas and mansions. Mr.
Stillman had his camera out, and photographed a number of the handsome
residences as we passed, and one of the gay little village-carts driven
by a young woman dressed in the height of fashion, and presided over by
a footman in livery.
"That does not seem to me a sensible way of going into the country,"
said Winnie. "I don't believe she has half the fun that we have in this
old caravan."
"Perhaps not," I replied, "but I presume that Adelaide and Milly are
driving about in much the same style; and we know that better-hearted
girls never lived."
We picnicked near "Stockbridge Bowl," a lovely lake, blue as Geneva and
encircled by beautiful hills. As father brought out the lunch-hamper I
noticed a queer expression on his face. "What do you suppose I have
found stowed away in the back part of the cart?" he asked.
"Not the soldering furnace?" we all replied, in unison.
He smiled grimly, and, instead of replying, placed it before us. "That
Deerfield landlord must have packed it up without your knowledge," said
Miss Sartoris. "Its reappearance is becoming really amusing; let us make
one grand final effort to get rid of it by sinking it in the middle of
the lake."
"Will you do it?"
"Certainly."
Miss Sartoris took the furnace and ran down to the lake, whence she
presently returned empty-handed.
"Did you drown the creature?"
"Not exactly, but I gave an ancient fisherman whom I found there a
quarter to commit the crime for me. I told him that it was something
which we were tired of, and never wished to see again, and he promised
me, in rather a mixed manner, that 'human hand should never find hide
nor hair of it, nor human eye set foot on it again.'"
A general laugh followed this announcement. How should we know that the
man's suspicions were excited by Miss Sartoris's anxiety to get rid of
the object, and that instead of sinking it in the middle of "the Bowl"
he wrapped it carefully in brown paper, and labeling it "To be kept till
called for," hid it under the bank! "Somebody will come for that
object," he said to himself; "shouldn't wonder if it was wanted at court
as circumstantial evidence of somethin' or 'nother."
Another event occurred while we were resting at "the Bowl." Miss
Sartoris remarked that a view which she had obtained as she returned
from the lake was the most enchanting that she had seen on the trip.
"How I wish that I had time to sketch it!" she said.
"I will photograph it for you," Mr. Stillman exclaimed, with alacrity,
"if you will kindly show me just where you would like to have the view
taken."
They walked back together, a turn in the road hiding them from our view.
We waited for them a long time, and at length father became impatient
and drove on, leaving me to hold Mr. Stillman's horses. When they came
back there was an expression on their faces which told everything. I
should have known it even if Mr. Stillman had been able to keep the
words back, but he was too happy to be silent. "You were lamenting, this
morning," he said to me as he took the reins, "that we had only two more
days to journey together."
"That is all," I replied, "unless Miss Sartoris and you have decided to
make a longer trip."
"Yes," he replied, "you have guessed it exactly: Miss Sartoris has just
consented to journey on through life with me."
I was surprised, and yet, when I came to think of it, I saw that I ought
to have suspected it from the time they first met; and, all things
considered, they were admirably suited to each other. So I could only
rejoice in their happiness, though I wondered, a little selfishly, what
Madame's would be without Miss Sartoris, and whether I should ever have
a teacher whom I should love as well.
When we caught up with the other cart father asked whether he got a
successful negative.
"No," replied Mr. Stillman, "I didn't get a very decided negative, and I
confess I didn't want one."
There was a look of blank astonishment on all their faces, and then a
peal of laughter as his meaning dawned upon them. After the storm of
congratulations and exclamations had ceased, Miss Sartoris suddenly
exclaimed, "You left your detective camera!"
"That is so," Mr. Stillman replied, "Shall we drive back after it?"
"Not unless you want to catch that shower," father remarked, pointing to
a threatening cloud.
"I'll get you ladies under shelter first, and then I really think I must
look it up," said Mr. Stillman. But before we reached Stockbridge we met
a coaching-party conducted by a nattily dressed young man of slender
build, who managed his spirited four-in-hand with considerable skill,
and who reined them in as we approached, exclaiming, "Stillman! by all
that's odd!" Mr. Stillman introduced the gentleman as a Mr. Van Silver,
an old friend from the city, and mutual explanations followed. He was
now on his way to Lenox, and agreed to stop at the spot which Mr.
Stillman indicated, and if he could find the camera express it to Mr.
Stillman at Scup Harbor.
Very little more of interest to the reader occurred until we reached
home. We followed the Housatonic for the greater part of our way, and
when we had nearly reached its mouth, drove across to New Haven, from
which port, having completed our round-trip, we took the steamer for
home. Father found a letter from Mr. Armstrong in relation to the
thieves taken in Montague, who were proved to be the criminals of
Rickett's Court, whose retribution shall be related in the next chapter.
The little boys left in mother's care had conducted themselves in as
exemplary a manner as could be expected, there having been no cases of
really bad conduct, and only two slight accidents.
Miss Prillwitz took them under her wing and left with them for the Home,
all looking happier, browner, and rounder for their stay in the country.
Winnie regretted that our scheme for filling the treasury of the Home
had not been a success, since the aggregate of money made by peddling
tinware and rockets, and by taking tintypes, did not meet the expenses
of the trip. Mr. Stillman, however, insisted on presenting the
institution with a handsome check, "as an inadequate thank-offering," so
he said, for the great blessing which had come to him in our journeying
"over the hills and far away."
Miss Sartoris left almost immediately for her own home, and Mr. Stillman
followed her soon after. Two express packages came to him before he left
us. One was the bearskin, handsomely mounted, the other was preceded by
a note from his friend Mr. Van Silver, which said that he had overtaken
a venerable fisherman walking off with his camera, and that it required
considerable persuasion of a "sterling quality" to rescue it from him.
Mr. Stillman opened the package with grateful anticipation, and
found--the soldering furnace!