THE HOME OF WEBSTER.
The days that followed were halcyon days to Ned and Dolly. Skipper Joe
supplied them with an old punt to paddle about in; and as Mrs. Park
insisted upon Dolly's learning to swim, if she and Ned were going about
in a boat by themselves, Skipper Joe volunteered to teach her with
Ned's help; for Ned was a perfect duck in the water, and could not have
been a better swimmer even if he had had a Polynesian mother who had
tossed him into the water when a baby, and so taught him to swim once
for all by making him swim for his life.
Ned was slightly offended because his mother thought it best for
Skipper Joe to superintend Dolly's swimming lessons.
"Just as if I couldn't teach Dolly to swim, mother! Just look here!"
and he turned a somersault into the water and swam off, floating,
plashing, leaping, and making as much commotion as a school of
gambolling blue-fish.
"Yes, you are a fine swimmer, Ned," said his mother, consolingly;
"but I shall feel safer about Dolly to have two with her when she is
learning."
Dolly proved to be an apt pupil, and a very few lessons gave her
confidence in her own powers; and when Mrs. Park saw her going
through the water, looking in her flannel bathing-dress like a blue,
brown-haired mermaid fresh from the "caverns of the deep," and as much
at home, apparently, as the most accomplished mermaid could possibly
be, she bade good-by to all anxiety, and saw with perfect equanimity
the two paddle away day after day in the old punt, to which they had
given the somewhat incongruous name of the _Daisy_.
The _Daisy_ was a shallow, flat-bottomed boat, looking like nothing
so much as a dripping-pan with one end pointed. But these two could
not have got more fun out of her if she had been a thorough-rigged,
well-victualled steam-yacht; not so much, in fact, for a steam-yacht
could never have penetrated the narrow inlets and tiny streams that
threaded these marshes like net-work.
So Dolly and Ned paddled about in great content, spearing crabs,
catching cunners, dredging for shell-fish and sea-weed; sometimes
sitting upon the edge of the _Daisy_, with their feet in the water, and
disembarking now and then, when driven by hunger, to get up a private
clam-bake. This was before the epoch of the Rhode Island clam-bake
with which so many of us are familiar. But Dolly and Ned had read
that delightful old book, "Robin's Journal among the Arabs," and knew
the value of hot stones; so, with drift-wood they made a fire in a
hole in the sand and heated their stones therein; then packed their
clams and covered them with sea-weed, if not scientifically, yet with
satisfactory results. And years after, when the grown-up Ned and Dolly
did eat for the first time a real Rhode Island clam-bake, Ned paused
as he was conveying his first clam to his mouth, and smiling roguishly
said, "D' you remember, Dolly, our clam-bakes on the Marshfield
'ma'shes?'"
One day a couple of men came down from inland with a cart for menhaden.
These are small fish that are often driven up into shallow water by
sharks. Dolly watched the men as they hauled them in by the hundreds.
"Are they to eat?" she ventured to ask.
"Bless y'r soul, no," was the grinning reply. "We use 'em f'r manure.
They're chock-full o' ile--tew greasy t' eat."
"The squire told 'em 'bout 'em. _They'd_ never 'a found out," said
Skipper Joe, contemptuously. (Dolly had learned by this time that the
"squire" was Daniel Webster, whose farm lay near the marshes.) "They're
fust-rate t' enrich the sile," he continued; "but the wust o' 'em is,
they breed a swarm o' pesky green flies, 'n the folks call 'em 'Webster
flies.' He [meaning Webster] is a master-hand f'r knowin' everything.
Knows 'bout everything that's wuth knowin', I reckon."
It was one of these men who told Dolly the name of a queer-looking
fish she saw one day prowling about in the shallow water, stirring up
other tiny fish and swallowing them. It had a pair of wing-like fins
attached just below its big head, and it ran about, apparently, on
something that looked like orange-colored claws.
"Them?" said the man; "them's grunters; 'n some folks calls 'em
sea-robins, 'n some Cape Cod ministers."
Dolly thought he was poking fun at her, though he spoke with the utmost
gravity, but Skipper Joe assured her he was not.
"When you catch 'em they grunt," explained Skipper Joe, "'n that's why
they call 'em grunters; 'n it's easy 'nough t' see why some folks call
'em sea-robins; but _why_ they're called Cape Cod ministers 's more 'n
I know. Some folks eat 'em, but some folks c'n eat anything," he added.
Meanwhile the haymakers cut the salt grass and carried it in gundalows
to the high lands to be cured. These gundalows were clumsy boats or
barges, as unlike the graceful gondola in appearance as in name. Dolly
and Ned occasionally took a sail in one of these gundalows on top of
the salt grass, from which expedition they always went back with fresh
pleasure to their beloved dripping-pan of a _Daisy_.
Mrs. Park improved this bit of leisure out of her busy life with
reading and sketching, and so the still sunny, early September days
drifted by all too swiftly; and just two days before the end of the
haying season an adventure which seemed a fitting close to this golden
period, this cluster of red-letter days, befell our hero and heroine.
These marshes consisted in part of vast level plains, over which the
damp sea-breezes swept and the shrieking sea-gulls flew to and fro.
These salt plains were inhabited by the kingfisher, the quawk, and the
heron. The quawk, a bird with slender yellow legs and a long beak,
fished at low tide for minnows and tiny crabs. He scarcely moved as the
_Daisy_ paddled noisily by, only looking up with reproach in his fishy
eyes as the waves made by the passing boat swept out of his reach some
dainty bit of garbage.
These plains were varied with mounds, the work of the ocean in past
ages, when these marshes were sandy beaches and fierce winds piled the
sand in heaps. These heaps gradually hardened, and were held together
by the roots of marine plants, and so in time became round, grassy
hills. And while it might seem almost impossible for any one to be lost
in the intricacies of the small streams which threaded these marshes,
it was, after all, the easiest thing in the world, for they really
formed a labyrinth as bewildering as the famous one of Crete. The tide
ebbed and flowed in these narrow streams, and not a few times the
_Daisy_ was stranded on a muddy bottom and had to wait for the incoming
tide. At such times, however, Mrs. Park felt no anxiety at their
prolonged absence, for, as 'Zekle sensibly remarked, "Nobody c'd git
drownded where there wa'n't no water."
Well, as I was saying, two days before the time fixed for their return
to Byfield, Dolly and Ned went off after an early dinner for a row--a
long afternoon row. "We must make the most of the time now, Dolly,"
said Ned, as they moved slowly along, Ned sculling, "for we shall have
to go away day after to-morrow."
"How I wish we could take the _Daisy_ with us!" said Dolly, patting the
dingy old punt affectionately.
"'Twould be no good if we did," replied Ned. "Mother wouldn't let us
go on the pond, an' she's too big for the brook. I say, Dolly, I'll
make a raft when we get back. A raft 'll sail in the brook first-rate,
for I've tried it. I sailed down once 'most to the saw-mill, an' came
mighty near going over the dam. 'Most wish I had."
"Oh, there's an eel!" shrieked Dolly, and seizing the spear which they
always carried in the boat, she made a lunge, lost her balance, and
went over into the tide mud, much to the discomfiture of the eel, which
squirmed off in company with a dozen spider-crabs, that, like itself,
were feeding on a dead quawk. It was not an unusual thing to happen
to Dolly, and Ned promptly helped her back into the boat, wiped off
the mud with his pocket-handkerchief, and then, in an absent-minded
fit, wiped his perspiring face on the same. Dolly's hat had tumbled
off, and a fresh layer of mud was added to the accumulations of the
previous ten days. The hat was originally white straw, trimmed with a
pink ribbon, but the combined influences of sea-air and water, sun and
mud, had sadly marred its pristine splendor. Dolly herself was as brown
as a Marshpee Indian, and the clothes of the two were interesting as
geological specimens with their daily deposits of varied dirt. Truly,
an exceedingly grimy but very happy pair they looked.
As they sculled they came within view of the sea. It was of a pale
blue, a tint so exquisite that Ned dropped his oar and let the _Daisy_
drift while they looked. The blue water seemed a long way off, and just
above the water-line, silhouetted against the silvery horizon, a ship
sailed slowly along with every sail set, even to the graceful sky-sails.
"Look, look, Ned!" exclaimed Dolly. "It sails in the air! What is it?
Is it the _Flying Dutchman_? Is it a ghost of a ship?"
"I think," replied Ned, slowly, "it must be a mirage. I've heard
Skipper Joe talk about 'em, and don't you remember Robins saw 'em in
the desert?--not ships, but palms and springs, where there weren't no
palms or springs. It's only a reflection, that's what it is. The real
ship!--look quick, Dolly!" and Dolly, following the direction of Ned's
finger, saw suspended high up in the air a big square-rigged vessel,
and just above it another exactly like it, only inverted, the top-masts
of the one touching the top-masts of the other.
"Oh, it's like the enchanted horse in the 'Arabian Nights!' only it
would be ever so much nicer to sail than to ride," said Dolly.
"I think I'd rather sail in the _Daisy_," said Ned, picking up his oar;
and then they waited till the mirage had faded, and nothing was to be
seen but the pale-blue sea and the silvery horizon.
Fleetest-footed of all those perfect days seemed this one, and before
they were aware the sun was low in the west and it was time to go
home. But when they began to take their bearings, and tried to decide
in which direction the old Marchant House lay, they were completely
puzzled. Ned went up on a mound to look, but he could see nothing save
what appeared to be an endless reach of similar mounds. They hallooed,
but nothing replied. Only the screams of the sea-gulls could be heard,
and even these grew faint as the sun sank and they flew swiftly past to
their nesting-place on some distant island. The two looked blankly at
each other.
"Well, this is a jolly go!" was Ned's remark.
"Do you think we shall have to stay all night on the marsh?" asked
Dolly, trying to look anxious, but really thinking it would not be such
a bad thing, after all.
"It looks like it," replied Ned, "unless Skipper Joe finds us: an' I
don't see how he can find us any better than we can find him."
"The sand is nice and soft, and it won't hurt our clothes to sleep on
it," said Dolly, looking herself over critically.
"And I say, Dolly," put in Ned, "I can turn the _Daisy_ over you bottom
side up, to keep you warm, you know."
"Oh, wouldn't that be fun!" exclaimed Dolly, clapping her hands, brown
with tan and grimy with the experiences of the day.
But it wasn't her destiny to spend the night on the "ma'sh," with
the _Daisy_ for a blanket. Even while they were talking they heard
footsteps. A hat was seen rising over a sand-hill near by--a big
slouched hat--and this was followed by a tall man bearing a gun on his
shoulder, and carrying a pouch of game at his side, while an English
pointer followed close by his heels.
At the same instant Dolly whispered, "It's the man with the head like
the State-house dome;" and Ned, in a still more subdued tone with a
shade of awe in it, "Halloo, Dolly, it's Daniel Webster!" Webster
stopped as he caught sight of the pair. It was a queer group to
come upon at dusk in these lonely marshes--the old punt, the tall,
frank-faced, blue-eyed boy, the slender, girlish figure, with the
clustering brown hair, nut-brown cheeks, and hazel eyes--queer but
picturesque, flushed with the rosy hues of the after-glow.
Webster looked an instant and then spoke. "Good-evening," he said. "May
I ask who you are, and can I do anything for you? Have you lost your
way?"
"I am Edward Park, sir," replied Ned, manfully, "and this is my cousin,
Dorothea Winslow."
"Ah!"--and a sunny smile beamed forth from the cavernous black
eyes--"then you are the son of my friend Park, of Byfield, and
this"--turning to Dolly, and raising his old slouched hat with the
same graceful deference he might have shown to a Russian princess or
an English court lady--"and this is the little lady who attended our
convention, and who so bravely frightened off the thieves. But may I
ask how you chance to be here?"
"We've got lost," replied Ned. "We're at the old Marchant House with my
father and mother and the haymakers. Dolly and I are out with the boat.
We've been out every day, but we never got lost before. Can you tell us
which way to go and how far it is?"
"I'm afraid it's a long way to the old Marchant House, too far for you
to go at this late hour, and I doubt, with the evening coming on, if
you could find it. The best thing for you to do will be to leave your
boat here and go home with me. My house is not far, and I will send a
man to Mrs. Park to let her know you are safe. Then you shall spend
the night with me, and I count myself happy to have the opportunity of
entertaining the son and niece of my old friend," he added, with that
cordial hospitality which always put every one, old and young, at their
ease.
"Thank you," replied Ned, with a shade of hesitation in his voice. He
was not quite sure it was the thing to do, but what else could he do?
And as to Dolly, she glanced distressfully at her soiled frock, and was
painfully conscious of her battered hat. But Webster did not wait.
"This is the way," he said, walking on, "and, as I said, it is only a
short distance."
As they walked away, Dolly turned to look at the _Daisy_, where she lay
high and dry, as the tide had left her while they were trying to find
the direction of the Marchant House. It was like saying "farewell" to
an old friend, for Dolly had a presentiment that she would never see
the _Daisy_ again.
"Good-by, dear old _Daisy_," she whispered to herself, as she hurried
on after the two, who had got in advance of her while she lingered.
They entered the house by a side door, and Dolly was at once consigned
to a maid, who took her to a bedroom and assisted her in her toilet.
She bathed her face and hands, brushed out her tangled curls into a
fluffy mass of ringlets, and after having her shoes brushed and her
dusty frock well shaken, she contemplated with much satisfaction her
renovated figure in the tall pier-glass which enabled her to see
herself from top to toe. The fresh lace in her frock, which Mrs. Park
always insisted should go in every morning, whether Dolly was to pass
the day in the parlor or in the woods, gave a lady-like finish to her
dress.
"Yes, I think I'll do, after all," she said to herself, with a sigh of
relief.
Ned had passed through very much the same experience in the hands of
the personal attendant of his host, and the two, as they met in the
parlor, exchanged smiles of congratulation.
"You look first-rate," whispered Ned to Dolly, as they bent their heads
together above a group of Japanese figures in ivory. "How did you
manage it? girls have such a knack!"
"I don't look a bit nicer than you," replied Dolly. "It must be the
brushing."
"And the soap and water," added Ned, and then they followed their host
out to dinner.
The dining-room was long and low-ceiled, with a circular sideboard of
mahogany inlaid with holly. There were a few guests besides the family.
Webster was very merry all through dinner. He had had a good day's
shooting, and gave the history of his shots in detail, and told how
he had met with two salt-haymakers with whom he had conversed a short
time, and after he had turned away he heard one of them say, "Quite a
sensible old fellow, ain't he?" The speaker had evidently not known
him, and was struck by so much intelligence combined with such shabby
clothes. Ned tried to imagine what his surprise might be should he
ever learn that the "sensible old fellow" was the "great Webster."
Just before helping to the joint of mutton which he had himself carved,
Webster looked inquiringly at Ned's right-hand neighbor, a young man
addressed as "Port."
"Yes, _my_ name is Leathers," said Port, promptly sending up his plate.
"And so is mine," said his opposite neighbor, Jackson.
Webster, catching Ned's look of surprise, laughed as heartily as a boy,
and then told the story which has since grown so familiar through his
biographies: how a family named Leathers, living in New Hampshire, for
some good office rendered to the town, were each to have a pound of
tobacco and a pint of rum by calling for them. The family was a very
large one, but at last, so great was the number of applicants for the
tobacco and rum, it was thought best to put the question, "Is your name
Leathers?" to each fresh applicant. The phrase had been adopted as a
favorite byword with the Webster family and their familiar guests.
After dinner Ned and Dolly, with the younger guests, went through the
numerous rooms, looking at the choice bits of bric-à-brac and the
pictures on the walls. The Webster mansion was--we speak of it in the
past tense, as unhappily it was burned a few years ago--a rambling
house, put together piecemeal, the fine library having been built by
Webster and planned with the help of his daughter Julia. On the crowded
walls Dolly espied a silhouette portrait in a small plain frame. This
kind of portrait was made by cutting the outlines of the head and face
from paper, and framing the paper so cut over a bit of black silk.
These portraits were of an era preceding that of daguerreotypes and
photographs. Under this silhouette was written, "My dear Mother. D. W."
Dolly wondered a little that so plain and simple a portrait should have
a place among such fine paintings, not having yet learned that our most
valued possessions are often the portraits, however simple, of those
who have loved us.
In the library a wood-fire burned in the open fireplace, and
through the window over the mantle Webster pointed out the ancient
burial-ground, or "God's acre," where, as he told them, Peregrine
White is buried--Peregrine White, the baby born on the _Mayflower_,
whose shivering little figure you may see to-day in the painting of
the Landing of the Pilgrims, in Pilgrim Hall, Plymouth. There, too,
lies Edward Winslow, one of the early governors of Plymouth, "who is my
ancestor," said Dolly, with pardonable pride. Webster smiled upon her
as she said it, and said himself that "a noble ancestry was a better
inheritance than priceless gems." He told her that he had caused the
trees to be cut and trimmed so as to give him this view of the distant
burial-ground, which Dolly thought a queer thing to do, though of
course she did not say so.
On either side the chimney hung life-size, full-length portraits of
Webster and Lord Ashburton. Lord Ashburton, one of the guests told
Dolly as he saw her looking at him attentively, was associated with
Webster in the defining of boundaries between Canada and the United
States, and Dolly "made a note of it," like Captain Cuttle, and
secretly resolved to read more history.
That was a marvellous evening, one never to be forgotten by our Dolly
and Ned. The firelight played over the walls of the spacious library,
making fantastic shadows, while the guests listened to the voice which
had held spellbound so many thousands. Webster talked a good deal about
the older English writers with one of his guests, a distinguished
literary gentleman, and recited in his wonderful voice almost the whole
of Goldsmith's "Deserted Village;" and Dolly dates from that evening
a love for those older writers which has proved a solace under many
adverse circumstances.
"And now," said Webster, the next morning after they had breakfasted,
"we'll go out to the barn and look at the cattle."
The night before, what with the dusk and the embarrassment of their
arrival, Dolly and Ned had scarcely noticed the outside of the house.
As they stepped out into the gravelled walk, and looked about them,
it seemed very pleasant and home-like in the morning sunlight, with
its many gables and cosey verandas. At one corner of the house stood a
magnificent elm of great girth and height, whose pendent branches swept
the green turf. In its shade was a rustic chair, a favorite seat of
Webster's.
Dolly uttered a cry of delight as they entered the breezy, hay-scented
barn, and Webster turned with a smile of pleasure as he heard her.
"So you like barns and cattle as well as I do," he said, and Dolly
blushed and dimpled to be placed in the same category with so
distinguished a man, if it were only as a lover of cattle.
The beautiful cattle, with their soft, beseeching eyes and sleek
coats, were standing patiently in their stalls. (The Greeks knew what
beautiful eyes were, and they called their great goddess the ox-eyed
Juno.) As Webster pulled down from the mows handfuls of succulent
corn-fodder and fed them, calling attention to their fine points, he
said to Ned, humorously, "As I tell Fletcher, they are the best of
company, a good deal better than any I find in the Senate Chamber." And
any one could see that he had a genuine love for the fine creatures.
They lingered long in the barn, for the master seemed loath to go,
although the young Jackson and Port waxed impatient to be gone on their
fishing trip to Cut River, for which the boat on the pond in the rear
of the house was being got ready. But Webster had to take a look at
his hens, and count the eggs laid during the morning. At last they went
out again into the sunshine, and Webster pointed out to Dolly the hill
where his favorite horses were buried--"with all the honors of war,"
he said, "standing upright, with halters and shoes on." One of these
horses was named "Wilmot Proviso."
When word had been sent to Mrs. Park of the whereabouts of Dolly and
Ned, a message had also been added that they would be returned the next
morning. So in due time the barouche, with its span of black horses,
was brought to the door, and the last glimpse of Webster, as they went
down the drive, showed him in the act of taking a flying leap over the
fence in competition with the young Port.
To this charming adventure there was just one drawback. As she had
feared, Dolly never saw the _Daisy_ again; but a water-color of it,
executed at a later day from memory, now hangs in her cosey of coseys.