THE WIDOW O’WARTY’S RECEPTION.
The hour for the Widow O’Warty’s reception was approaching, and
everything seemed favorable for a happy evening. The sun disappeared in
the west, and the golden and red-tinted clouds reflected his parting
rays. These deepened into a violet hue, as twilight stole gradually
on, and then a soft gray light fell over all.
This is the hour dear to all the little animals that inhabit the woods
and fields. They seem to fear the brilliant daylight, and their timid
natures grow bolder as night steals on.
At this hour the cheerful crickets sing out more cheerfully and boldly,
the shy tree-toads pipe their shrill song, and from every ditch and
pond arise the melancholy tones of the emotional frog, the far-reaching
tenor and the resounding bass.
In the depths of the wood rings out more often the cheerful chirrup of
the shy squirrel; the hedge-hog squeaks, and the little mice scurry
along the ground. All of these sounds were heard on the evening of the
Widow O’Warty’s reception, and as night came on these voices increased.
Then, when the twilight disappeared and all grew dark, out came the
fireflies, floating over the meadow, and often soaring over the
tallest trees, every motion of their gauzy wings displaying the
brilliant strips of greenish light on their little bodies.
The glow-worms, too, wriggled their shining bodies through the grass,
doing their best to light on their way the Widow O’Warty’s guests.
The hostess herself sat in front of her dwelling, her affable
countenance wreathed in smiles, as she welcomed each guest. A
lawn-party it must be, for the widow’s house was too dark and cramped
to contain the hosts of friends her hospitality included.
Johnny the basso was one of the first to arrive, and, as he sat beside
the hostess, she found time, between the arrivals, to acquaint him with
the characters of her guests.
“It’s a furriner ye are, an’ it’s meself that will acquaint ye wid the
ways of me fri’nds,” she explained.
A light green katydid, accompanied by her pale and delicate looking
son, were seen approaching.
“Sure, an’ if me two eyes do not dec’ave me, that swate cratur Katrina
Diddo an’ her remarkable son are appearing to me view. Good evening,
Ma’arm,” continued the hostess, as the two approached. “It’s proud I
account meself to rec’ave yees.”
“Thanks,” murmured the katydid, with her head poised on one side,
and her full eyes gazing with a rapt expression far over the Widow
O’Warty’s head into vacancy. “How extremely kind of you to draw us out
this marvellous evening, when each slender blade of grass and each tiny
leaflet is bathed in translucent dew, and the spirit of inspiration
hovers above us, earth creatures as we are;” and the speaker heaved a
sigh as she closed her eyes dreamily.
“It’s _intinse_ Katrina is,” whispered the widow to the basso; “an’
how is the swate b’y, ma’am,” she added, to the poetic katydid, whose
dreamy eyes still looked far away into space.
“Well, my dear Widow. Excelsior is as well as one can be, who hears
the voice of genius forever calling him to higher things, and to
deeds where we, poor earth-worms as we are, cannot follow him,--that
ceaseless call, as the ocean beats his great heart out against a giant
wall. Ah me! what is life!”
“Ye may well remark it,” answered the widow; “it’s a mystery, is life,
an’ that’s the troot.”
“You know it? You feel it too?” exclaimed Katrina, with a sudden burst
of intensity. “Oh! the crushing weight of that thought to a soaring
human soul!”
With a deep sigh the poetess passed on, followed closely by her
talented son.
“Zis grande poetess, I perceive she have one foreign name; I taught
she was American,” remarked the basso, as the pair disappeared.
“It’s American hersilf is,” replied the widow, confidentially, “an’
it’s Katy Did her name is; but whin it’s famous she became, she changed
the name of her, Katy did, as was r’asonable. It’s one of the ‘tin
million’ Katy is,” added the widow, in a whisper.
The poetess’s son, Excelsior, had not spoken a word, but had gazed
about him in an abstracted manner during the conversation between his
mother and the Widow O’Warty, not evincing by a look or sign that he
had understood the conversation.
“What’s zee matter wiz zat _garçon_?” asked the basso, who had been a
silent observer.
“Ye may will ask fwhat’s the matter wid the gossoon; an’ it’s mesilf
that’s not able to acquaint you wid his complaint,” replied the widow;
“but I suspicion that it’s on account of the head of him being too
large for the body of him.”
“What does he do, this _spirituel garçon_? Does he make poetry like his
talented mamma?”
“Indade an’ he does no sich a thing,” replied the widow, in a tone that
expressed resentment at the question. “There is not body enough to
contain the brain av him in the furst place; an’ thin it’s such a d’ale
of thinking the cratur kapes up that there’s no vint for the same, an’
the thoughts they kape revolving trou’ the brain av him, till I’m tauld
there’s great danger av an ixplosion.”
“I am sorry for zis _pauvre garçon_,” replied the basso; and he once
more watched with interest the poetess and her remarkable son, who was
unable to give expression to the great thoughts that seethed through
his gigantic brain.
“Della bella Wartyo,” cried a high tenor voice, as a tree-toad appeared.
“Is it yourself, Signor Trillo?” answered the widow, cordially. “It’s
rej’iced to see ye I am. I was afeard we should lose the pl’isure of
your company this evening.”
“A million thanks,” replied the tenor, effusively; “Madame is too
gracious.”
“I take pl’isure, Signor, in presinting to ye Johnny the basso, the
swatest of singers, yourself ixcipted,” said the widow, graciously.
Johnny the basso darted a scrutinizing glance at the tenor, for a
secret misgiving seized him. Could this tenor be the identical one
who had stolen from him the affection of the little brown frog? It
might be so,--that this foreigner, said to be of noble birth, so much
courted and feted by the “ten million” on account of the high position
he was supposed to hold in his native land, had won the fancy of the
fair brown frog. But he would not be precipitate, he would watch this
tenor; and if his suspicions were verified, then let the tenor look to
his safety!
The tenor evidently was not disturbed by any such emotions as agitated
the great basso, and he greeted the latter in so unembarrassed a
manner, that the basso felt obliged to conceal his suspicions as well
as possible, and wait for future developments.
“It’s a po’me Katrina Diddo will be afther reciting to us,” said the
widow, as the poetess came forward, and fixing her eyes on the full
moon that stood overhead, gazed at it awhile in silence. Then, while
the other guests waited breathlessly for the inspiration that she
seemed invoking from that brilliant orb, Katrina, still gazing upward,
recited the following lines:--
“Sunflower of the sky,
Oh! why
Floatest thou
On high?
“The lily lovest thou?
Now, now,
To her descends
Thy vow.
“Clothed in celestial light,
Bright, bright,
Into her flower-heart,
It flows at night.”
“How exquisite!” murmured an ecstatic young grasshopper, who had gazed
enraptured on the ardent poetess; “methinks I faint with the sweet
oppression.”
“Ye may will faint, that’s a fact!” replied the Widow O’Warty. “Will
ye recite that iligant thing, ‘Among the Daffodils’? I’m tauld it’s
accounted the finest po’me ye’ve proju’ced yit.”
Whereupon the poetess, fixing her eyes on vacancy, recited the
following verses:--
“Among the daffodils,
Ah me! so lonesome!
Bending toward flowing rills,
Ah me! so lonesome!
Heart, cease thy beating,
Ah me! so lonesome!
Hear lambkin bleating,
Ah me! so lonesome!
“Lambkin and daffodils,
Lonesome, so lonesome!
Ye flowerets, ye wandering rills,
Lonesome, so lonesome!
Lamb, to thy mother flee,
No longer lonesome,
Mated my heart shall be,
No longer lonesome.”
“An’ now will ye give us the pl’isure of a song, Signor Trillo?” asked
the hostess, when the enthusiasm that followed the poem had died away.
The tenor, in his high voice, responded with the following ditty:--
“Oh! say, have you heard,
From yonder bog,
The merry refrain
Of the little brown frog?
“When the moon shineth down
On streamlet and rill,
You may hear in the fields,
The brown frog’s trill.
“And all the night long.
And through the day,
The little brown frog
Is singing away.
“Till my heart has grown sad
From the love I bring her,
And all for the sake
Of the little brown singer.”
During the song, the basso felt his emotion overpowering him, and at
its conclusion he hopped up to the singer and exclaimed fiercely,--
“I wish to know, sair, who is zis leetle brown frog of whom you sing?”
The tenor turned, and gazed in astonishment on the excited countenance
of the disturbed basso.
[Illustration: “I don’t fancy fat bassos, replied the saucy Brownella,
hopping to the tenor’s side.”]