WALKS AND TALKS.
It was one of the mild, warm days that, even in the midst of winter,
come to our New England coast towns. The snow had all melted, and
the mud had dried away, while here and there patches of grass showed
a green almost like that of summer. Over the leafless trees the sun
shone warm and bright.
Bess Carter slowly came down the steps of her home with Fuzz before
her, tugging at his lead. Half-way to the gate she raised her eyes
from a refractory glove button, and saw her little cousin coming
towards her. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, his hands
plunged deep into his pockets, and his very walk expressive of some
deep determination. Absorbed in his meditation, he did not notice
his cousin until Fuzz gave a shrill bark of recognition. Then he
looked up, saw her, and took off his hat, but scowled vindictively
the while. Bess saw that something was wrong, and, as Rob had
started to spend the afternoon with Fred, she surmised that there had
been another quarrel.
"Well, Robin, my boy, is anything the matter?" she asked cheerfully.
"No, only I'm not going to see Fred again in a hurry, and I guess he
knows it," Rob replied, stopping and putting both elbows on the
fence, preparatory to a conversation.
"What has happened, Rob? I don't see why you boys always come to
grief. Fred is pleasant enough to me."
"Maybe he is," said Rob half sulkily. "I s'pose I'm the one to
blame."
"Tell me all about it, Robin," said Bess. "I know Fred is cross
sometimes, but just think how hard it all is for him, this being shut
up by himself."
"He needn't be shut up if he doesn't want to," said Rob impatiently.
"It's his own fault, if he won't see the boys."
"Oh, Rob, don't be so hard on him!"
"Well, I know, but he needn't be so uncommonly cross, then. I'm
sorry for him, but I just won't go there any more."
"What was the trouble to-day?" asked Bess, leaving the question of
future visits to be settled later.
"Why, nothing, only Fred asked something about Bert, and I said
something or other about the polo game. Fred began to ask all about
it, and so I told him. He seemed so interested, but all of a sudden
he stopped and said, 'Bob Atkinson, I wish you'd keep away from
here!' And I didn't know what the matter was, so I asked him. He
said, 'You always do say the meanest things, and I wish you wouldn't
come any more. You're always round in the way.' And then I flared
up. I didn't mean to, cousin Bess, but I'd stayed home from the polo
game just to go to see him, and I was awful mad. A fellow can't
stand everything, and I'd only just answered his questions."
"I know, Rob. But, you see, only a year ago Fred was in all these
good times, and I suppose it was more than he could bear, to hear
about them, when he knew he couldn't have any of the fun."
"What did he ask about it for, then?"
"He probably did want to hear it all, only it was too much for him.
He ought not to be so irritable, I know, Rob; but I want you to go
round in a day or two and 'make up.' You can afford to be forgiving,
when you think how much more you have than he does. And then, Fred
does deserve a great deal of credit, for he rarely complains."
"Yes," assented Rob, "but he's no end cross. But I'll go, cousin
Bess. Where are you going now?"
"Just for a walk. It is so pleasant I couldn't stay in the house.
Come with me if you've nothing else on hand."
"May I?" Rob's face brightened.
"Take Fuzz while I button my gloves, please. Where shall we go?"
"Let's take the woods road to the shore," said Rob eagerly. "There's
lots more things to see that way."
The "woods road" was a charming walk, that mild January day. On one
side rose, tall and straight, the glorious old oaks and chestnuts,
and through their branches capered whole families of red squirrels,
whose antics and chattering nearly drove Fuzz to frenzy. On the
other side lay the pretty, open fields, with their bunches of corn
stalks, and their low, irregular fences. It was a favorite drive,
but footpath there was none, so Rob and Bess were forced to wander
along the middle of the road, turning aside occasionally to let a
carriage pass them, while Fuzz barked defiance at its occupants.
"Cousin Bess," asked Rob, "you know when birds fly south in winter,
they go straight; how do you s'pose they know the way?"
"I don't know, I am sure, Rob. Perhaps they remember from year to
year."
"I don't believe they do. How fast do you suppose they fly? I've
watched them lots of times, and they go so fast-- Here, Fuzz!" as
the dog made a dash towards a dignified goat that was lunching on a
dead blackberry vine by the wayside.
"Sha'n't I lead him, Rob? He must tire you."
"Not a bit. He's strong, though. How much could he pull, I wonder?
My teacher told me the other day that no animal could pull more than
its own weight. Do you believe that, cousin Bess?"
"What an idea, Rob! You must have misunderstood Miss Witherspoon.
Just think of the loads of coal that horses draw, and the crowded
street cars."
"Yes, but she doesn't know much, anyhow," said Rob, with a lofty
scorn that amused his cousin, who secretly shared his opinion. "But
do you know what lots of turtles grow up in there?" and Rob pointed
in among the trees. "I had six all at once last summer, and we used
to set them to running races. It was hard work to make them go
straight ahead, though."
"Rob," asked Bess, "why don't you be a naturalist? I think you might
be a good one."
"Would you?" And Rob waited for his cousin's reply as anxiously as
if his choice of profession must be made on the spot.
"You are too young yet to tell; but you seem to like such things, and
you keep your eyes wide open when you are out of doors. I don't know
why you couldn't be trained for it."
"I like birds and things, and I've watched them a good deal, and then
I like to be round out of doors. But I don't care much to read about
them; I'd rather just look at pictures, and then see for myself."
"But a good naturalist must study and read, as well as watch."
As Bess spoke they stepped out on the smooth, dry sand of the beach
that stretched beyond them to the right and left in the form of a
crescent, one of whose horns bore the white lighthouse, while the
other ended in a pine grove. Before them, the little waves danced up
and down in the sun, that was turning their green water to a living,
moving gold, while here and there the white gulls rode smoothly on
the water, or whirled above it in their flight. Across the harbor
lay the crowded, fantastic cottages and the large hotel of the summer
colony, now deserted and forlorn; while close at hand rose three or
four rough, jagged rocks, with a narrow strip of sand connecting them
with the beach.
"Let's go out to the Black Rocks," suggested Rob. "Maybe we can find
some starfish. I want to get a live one and watch him crawl with his
little sucker feet."
Bess followed the boy's lead, and soon they were scrambling over the
rough, slippery surface of the rocks, that, at high tide, were nearly
covered with water. Fuzz dashed through all the little pools left by
the last tide, and was soon absorbed in worrying a large snail that
had injudiciously poked its head out of its shell.
Rob had vanished from sight, but he soon reappeared with scratched
hands, and triumphantly asked,--
"Like raw oysters, cousin Bess?" as he threw half a dozen shells at
her feet.
"What fun, Robin! Where did you get them?" asked Bess, as, unmindful
of her years and dignity, she sat down on the slimy rock, and with a
small stone tried to pry open the shells.
"You'll have to smash them," said Rob, as with one scientific blow he
crushed the shell, removed the fragments, and offered the oyster to
his cousin.
"What an original idea!" she said, laughing, as she took it. "I
didn't know we were going to have an oyster supper, Rob."
As a frolic, it was a great success; but as a meal it would hardly
have satisfied a ravenous appetite. Oysters were small and scarce,
though Rob succeeded in finding quite a number. Then, too, the
operation of opening them was attended with some difficulty, which
was increased by Fuzz, who persisted in running away with the oysters
that were laid by in reserve. But the rapidly sinking sun and the
rising tide warned Bess that it was high time to think of a return;
so Rob was forced to abandon his search for more food, and they
turned their faces homeward.
As they came into the village again, Bess said,--
"I must just stop a moment at Fred's. Will you come too? He is
coming up to-morrow to stay till Monday, and I want to tell him what
time I'll go down after him."
"Whew!" Rob vented his feelings in a long whistle. "However'd you
get him started? I'll go with you, though."
"He didn't want to come, when I first proposed it; but now he quite
likes the idea. You must come up and help entertain him, for I have
no idea what I shall do with him for three days."
"What'll you do with Fuzz, take him in?" queried Rob, as they turned
in at the Allens' gate.
"No, I will just tie him to the piazza rail," answered Bess. "He
would only trouble Fred."
So Fuzz was left to wail his heart out on the front steps, while
Bess, according to her usual custom, went directly in, without the
formality of ringing the bell.
Fred was sitting alone by the fire, moodily pulling to pieces a
tea-rose bud. At Bessie's step he rose and came to meet her, with
his usual eager smile; but as he heard the sound of another person,
he drew back again and waited.
"It's me, Fred," said Rob's voice. "I came to tell you I was sorry I
made you mad."
"Oh, Bob, I'm glad you've come back! I was horrid."
And the reconciliation was complete.
Bessie's errand was quickly accomplished, for Fuzz was testing the
hardness of the front door, and it seemed prudent to withdraw before
he forced a passage through one of the panels. So, promising to come
down again the next afternoon, to superintend the moving, the two
cousins took their departure.
The next afternoon saw Fred settled in the Carters' parlor, with Fuzz
asleep at his feet. The little animal, after his first resentment of
this intrusion on the family circle, seemed to realize that Fred
needed his especial care and protection. He attached himself to the
boy's side, whining gently for attention, and occasionally giving a
pleading scratch with his little paw, when the desired petting failed
to be given. His snappish ways were laid aside, and he even allowed
Dominie Sampson, the collie, to come and rub against Fred, without
giving vent to a single snarl.
When the carriage stopped at the door, and Bess had led the boy into
the house, Mrs. Carter had met him with a motherly kindness that made
him feel at home with her at once. Fred could not see the tears that
came into her eyes at sight of the change in him, but the warm kiss
on his cheek, and the gentle "We are so glad to have you here," told
the story.
Those three days were the beginning of a new life to Fred. At home,
he had moped and meditated. His parents, by their every word,
reminded him of his trouble, and made him feel in countless little
ways, well meant though they were, that he was not like other boys,
not what he used to be. Here it was all so different. Beyond the
little necessary help that Bess gave him so easily and pleasantly,
there was nothing to suggest to him his blindness. Bess read to him,
played simple memory games with him, or, with his hand drawn through
her arm, they walked up and down the long hall, talking and laughing
gayly, while Fuzz tagged at their heels. He held Mrs. Carter's skein
of yarn while she wound it, and in many little ways began to live
more like a natural boy, less like a wax doll.
The evenings were the pleasantest times. Then Mr. and Mrs. Carter
were deep in their cribbage, by the lamp; and Bess sat in a low chair
in front of the crackling fire, with Fred on the rug at her feet, one
arm in her lap, and his head on his arm, while she stroked his hair,
and told him all sorts of bright, merry stories about the places and
people that she had seen. For Bess had travelled through nearly
every State in the Union, and had observed and remembered much that
she had seen, so, with the flashes of fun and bits of pathos that she
knew so well how to give to her descriptions, she was no mean
story-teller.
But the three days were soon over, and on Sunday, the last day of
Fred's visit, the gathering twilight found him pacing up and down the
room with Bess, now talking, now taking a few turns in silence.
Suddenly Bess said,--
"Fred, you are going to church with me to-night."
"Oh, no, Miss Bess! Please not!"
"Yes, Fred, I want you to escort me down. It is ever so long since
you have heard the boys sing, and you have no idea how they have
improved. We will go early, if you say so, and get all settled
before many people get there, but I want you to go with me. The
service is short and won't tire you, and it will be a good ending for
our pleasant little visit together."
"Must I go, Miss Bessie? Well, I will," replied the boy with
unwonted meekness. Then he suddenly added, "Oh, how I hate to go
away to-morrow!"
"Has the visit been a success?" asked Bess, as they went into the
parlor and she guided Fred to his favorite chair.
"Yes, I've had such a good time, and you've all been so kind to me!
Time doesn't seem half so long, and I don't feel near so cross and
tired here, as I do at home. I wish mother liked to do things with
me half as well as you do." And Fred's face looked worn and troubled.
"She has so many other things to see to," said Bess soothingly, "and
I shall be down often. But, Fred, are you cross every time you feel
like it?"
Fred blushed.
"I'm afraid I am, Miss Bess. I am sorry afterwards, but, in the time
of it, I don't think. You see, I can't do anything at all, and when
things go wrong, it seems worse than ever, and the first I know, I've
said it."
"Just like Fuzz," said Bess, as the dog raised his head from his
basket, and gave a low, angry growl at the Dominie, who entered the
room. "I know it is hard for you, Fred, when things go wrong, to be
good-natured, but I want you to try as much as you can. I think you
would be better off if you had some regular occupation, something to
do with yourself."
"What is there?" asked the boy hopelessly.
"I am not quite sure; let me think it over. But come, we must have
our dinner, and be ready for church."
As the procession of surpliced boys advanced up the middle aisle,
Rob, who always came in with one eye on his cousin's seat, nearly
dropped his book in astonishment, for at her side stood Fred,
motionless and rather pale, his great brown eyes turned towards the
chancel, his whole air and attitude suggestive of patient, anxious
waiting. With a comically expressive glance at Bess, Rob passed on.
A few steps back of him, leading the men, Bess noticed a new
chorister whose boyish face, under a mass of curly brown hair, was
striking from its delicate outlines, and told of a refined, happy
nature.
The service went on much like all services. Fred mechanically rose
and sat down with the rest, but Bess could see that the familiar
words were making no impression on his mind. She had been glad that
he could not see the expressive nudges and glances exchanged as,
drawing his hand through her arm, she led him up the aisle to her
usual seat. Once there, he shrank into a corner, just as some too
audible words met his ear:--
"What's the matter with that boy in front?"
"Blind, and always will be. A peculiar case, started from St.
Vitus's Dance. Isn't it too bad? One of our best families."
"Who's the girl? His sister?"
"No, only a friend. She's perfectly devoted to him, they say."
Bess looked anxiously down at him, to see how he bore these comments.
He pressed his lips tightly together, and the hot blood rushed to his
face and then back, leaving it white and still. She put her hand on
his reassuringly, and felt the answering pressure. That was all, but
for the first time Fred had heard himself talked over by strangers as
a case likely to attract attention on all sides, wherever he went.
In time it would not hurt him so much, but now--it was a bitter
thought that his infirmity could not pass unnoticed. He wondered if
all the people around him were watching him. Perhaps they were all
whispering about him, only more softly. And they would look to see
how he acted, whether he was awkward, and if he seemed sad. If he
could only know just how many eyes were turned on him! Miss Bess had
no idea how hard it was for him, or she would never have asked him to
come. And Rob and Phil and the other boys, had they looked surprised
to see him there?
Poor Fred! Had he but known that, except for Bess and Rob, who was
watching in pity his friend's white, sad face, not a person in the
church had a thought of him, now the service had begun! But what was
the rector saying?--"The words of the anthem will be found"--And
there was to be an anthem, then; Rob did say something about it.
"Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth." What was that
whisper? Some one calling attention to "poor Fred Allen"? But Miss
Bess was rising, and he must too. He felt her small gloved hand rest
lightly on his, as it lay on the rail in front of him, and he drew
closer to her side--one friend who would not talk him over and wonder
about him.
But the few notes on the organ were over, and then a voice filled the
church, a rich, mellow tenor, now rising till the arches rang with
its clear, high tones, now falling to a dreamy quiet, half covered by
the sound of the organ. It was the new chorister. Standing there in
the full glare of the gas that shone down on his innocent, boyish
face, he seemed to be singing from very love of it, so simply and
easily, as if the truth and dignified beauty of the words were
filling his soul and insisting on utterance. "In the days of thy
youth, when the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh." Fred
stood as if in a trance, listening to the wonderful voice, forgetful
of the faces about him, forgetful even of his blindness. "While the
sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars be not darkened." Then
the voice grew low and sad: "And fears shall be in the way;" but
again it rose triumphant, at the last hopeful burst: "And the spirit
shall return unto God who gave it."
"Just look at Fred Allen!" whispered Rob to his neighbor, as they sat
down, and the congregation drew a long breath after their eager
listening, and turned to congratulate each other on the rich musical
treat.
The boy seemed transfigured. With his head thrown up, his lips
parted, and his cheeks flushed, he seemed held by the singer's
intense feeling. But the voice died away, and he came back to a
consciousness of the place where he was, and of the cloud that
darkened for him the sun and the light.
"Who was it?" asked Bess, as Rob came up to where they still sat,
waiting for him.
"Who? That tenor? He's a friend of Mr. Washburn, and sings in one
of the large churches in New York. He just knows how to sing, too!
Coming home now?"
Rob was looking unusually handsome as he stood there. His love of
music, and the hearty way he joined in the singing, seemed to excite
him, and it brought a bright color to his cheeks and a glow into his
brown eyes. As the two boys stood together, they made a strong
contrast; Rob so delicately, nervously alive, quick, active, and full
of quiet, happy fun; and Fred slower in his motions, now more than
ever, and with a solid, sturdy strength that was little suggestive of
his helplessness, while his face and manner were so sad and subdued.
With a quick glance as she rose, Bess noted the difference in the
faces, and rejoiced at the tact beyond his years that Rob showed as
he guided his friend down the aisle and out into the starry night.
"How good the boys are for each other," she thought. "I wish they
might be together more than they are. Fred brings out all Rob's
chivalry and unselfishness, while Rob stirs him up and keeps him
alive."