AMONG THE PALISADES.
After an hour Ernest met me on the porch; he was very pale.
"Frank," said he, kindly, "To-morrow you will leave us forever. Would
you not like to see once more the place yonder,"--he pointed across
the river to the Palisades--"where we spent so many happy hours last
summer?"
He spoke of that dear nook, high up among the rocks, encircled by
trees, and canopied by vines, where, we had indeed spent many a happy
hour.
I made no reply, but put on my sun-bonnet and took his arm, and in a
little while we were crossing the river, he rowing, while I sat in the
stern. It was a beautiful day. We arrived at the opposite shore, at
a point where the perpendicular wall of the Palisades, is for a mile
or more, broken by a huge and sloping hill, covered with giant forest
trees. Together we took the serpentine path, which, winding toward all
points of the compass, led to the top of the Palisades. The birds were
singing, the broad forest leaves and hanging vines quivered in the sun,
the air was balmy, and the day the very embodiment of the freshness
and fragrance of June. As we wound up the road (whose brown graveled
surface contrasted with the foliage), we saw the sunlight streaming
in upon the deep shadows of the wood, and heard from afar the lulling
music of a waterfall. Departing from the beaten road, we wandered among
the forest trees, and talked together as gladly and as familiarly as
in other days. There we wandered for hours, now in sunlight, now in
shadow, now resting upon the brow of some moss-covered rock, and now
stopping beside a spring of clear cold water, half hidden by thick
green leaves. As noon drew near, we ascended to the top of the forest
hill, and passing through a wilderness of tangled vines, came suddenly
upon a rude farmhouse, one story high, built of logs, whose dark
surface contrasted with the verdure of the garden and the foliage of
the overshadowing tree. It was the same as in the year before. There
was the well-pole rising above its roof and the well-bucket moist with
clear cold water, and in the doorway stood the farmer's dame, who had
often welcomed us to her quiet home.
"Bless me! how handsome my children have grown!" she cried, "and how's
the good Domine? Come in, come in; the folks are all away in the
fields; come in and rest you, and have some pie and milk, and"--she
paused for breath--"and some dinner."
The good dame would take no denial, and we sat down to dinner with
her--I can see the scene before me now--the carefully sanded floor, the
old clock in the corner, the cupboard glistering with the burnished
pewter, the neatly spread table, the broad hearth, covered with green
boughs, and the open windows, with the sunbeams playing through the
encircling vines. And then the good dame with her high cap, round,
good-humored face, and spectacles resting on the bridge of her hooked
nose. As we broke the home-made bread with her, we were as gay as larks.
"Well, I do like to see young folks enjoy themselves," said the
dame.--"You don't know how often I've thought of you since you were
here last summer. I have said, and I will say it, that a handsomer
brother and sister I never yet did see."
"But you mistake," said Ernest, "We're not brother and sister."
"Only cousins," responded the dame, surveying us attentively, "Well,
I'm glad of it, for there's no law ag'in cousins marryin', and you'd
make such a handsome couple." And she laughed until her sides shook.