called Virginia's Resting-place. At the foot of the rock which bore
the name of the Discovery of Friendship is a nook, from whence issues
a fountain, forming, near its source, a little spot of marshy soil in
the midst of a field of rich grass. At the time Margaret brought Paul
into the world, I made her a present of an Indian cocoa which had been
given me, and which she planted on the border of this fenny ground, in
order that the tree might one day serve to mark the epoch of her son's
birth. Madame de la Tour planted another cocoa, with the same view,
at the birth of Virginia. These nuts produced two cocoa-trees, which
formed the only records of the two families: one was called Paul's
tree; the other, Virginia's tree. They both grew in the same
proportion as their two owners, a little unequally; but they rose, at
the end of twelve years, above the cottages. Already their tender
stalks were interwoven, and their young clusters of cocoas hung over
the basin of the fountain. Except this little plantation, the nook of
the rock had been left as it was decorated by Nature. On its brown and
moist sides large plants of maidenhair glistened with their green and
dark stars; and tufts of wave-leaved hart's-tongue, suspended like
long ribbons of purpled green, floated on the winds. Near this grew a
chain of the Madagascar periwinkle, the flowers of which resemble the
red gillyflower; and the long-podded capsicum, the seed-vessels of
which are of the color of blood, and more glowing than coral. Hard by,
the herb of balm, with its leaves within the heart, and the sweet
basil, which has the odor of the gillyflower, exhaled the most
delicious perfumes. From the steep side of the mountain hung the
graceful lianas, like floating drapery, forming magnificent canopies
of verdure upon the sides of the rocks. The sea-birds, allured by the
stillness of those retreats, resorted thither to pass the night. At
the hour of sunset we could see the curlew and the stint skimming
along the sea-shore; the black frigate-bird poised high in air; and
the white bird of the tropic, which abandons, with the star of day,
the solitudes of the Indian Ocean. Virginia loved to rest upon the
border of this fountain, decorated with wild and sublime magnificence.
She often seated herself beneath the shade of the two cocoa-trees, and
there she sometimes led her goats to graze. While she was making
cheeses of their milk, she loved to see them browse on the maidenhair
which grew upon the steep sides of the rock, and hung suspended upon
one of its cornices, as on a pedestal. Paul, observing that Virginia
was fond of this spot, brought thither, from the neighboring forest, a
great variety of bird's-nests. The old birds, following their young,
established themselves in this new colony. Virginia, at certain
times, distributed among them grains of rice, millet, and maize. As
soon as she appeared, the whistling blackbird, the amadavid bird, the
note of which is so soft, the cardinal, with its plumage the color of
flame, forsook their bushes; the paroquet, green as an emerald,
descended from the neighboring fan-palms; the partridge ran along the
grass; all came running helter-skelter toward her, like a brood of
chickens, and she and Paul delighted to observe their sports, their
repasts, and their loves.
Amiable children! thus passed your early days in innocence, and in the
exercise of benevolence. How many times, on this very spot, have your
mothers, pressing you in their arms, blessed Heaven for the
consolations that you were preparing for their declining years, and
that they could see you begin life under such happy auspices! How many
times, beneath the shade of those rocks, have I partaken with them of
your rural repasts, which cost no animal its life! Gourds filled with
milk, fresh eggs, cakes of rice placed upon plantain leaves, baskets
loaded with mangoes, oranges, dates, pomegranates, pine-apples,
furnished at once the most wholesome food, the most beautiful colors,
and the most delicious juices.
The conversation was gentle and innocent as the repasts. Paul often
talked of the labors of the day and those of the morrow. He was
continually planning something useful for their little society. Here
he discovered that the paths were rough; there that the seats were
uncomfortable; sometimes the young arbors did not afford sufficient
shade, and Virginia might be better pleased elsewhere.
In the rainy season the two families met together in the cottage, and
employed themselves in weaving mats of grass and baskets of bamboo.
Rakes, spades, and hatchets were ranged along the walls in the most
perfect order; and near these instruments of agriculture were placed
its products,--sacks of rice, sheaves of corn, and baskets of
plantains. Some degree of luxury is usually united with plenty, and
Virginia was taught by her mother and Margaret to prepare sherbet and
cordials from the juice of the sugar-cane, the lemon, and the citron.
When night came, they all supped together by the light of a lamp;
after which Madame de la Tour or Margaret told stories of travellers
lost during the night in forests of Europe infested by banditti; or of
some shipwrecked vessel, thrown by the tempest upon the rocks of a
desert island. To these recitals their children listened with eager
sensibility, and earnestly begged that Heaven would grant they might
one day have the joy of showing their hospitality towards such
unfortunate persons. At length the two families would separate and
retire to rest, impatient to meet again the next morning. Sometimes
they were lulled to repose by the beating rains which fell in torrents
upon the roofs of their cottages, and sometimes by the hollow winds,
which brought to their ear the distant murmur of the waves breaking
upon the shore. They blessed God for their own safety, of which their
feeling became stronger from the idea of remote danger.
_Bernardin de Saint Pierre._
[Illustration]
OEYVIND AND MARIT.
[Illustration]
Oeyvind was his name. A low barren cliff overhung the house in which
he was born; fir and birch looked down on the roof, and wild-cherry
strewed flowers over it. Upon this roof there walked about a little
goat, which belonged to Oeyvind. He was kept there that he might not
go astray; and Oeyvind carried leaves and grass up to him. One fine
day the goat leaped down, and--away to the cliff; he went straight up,
and came where he never had been before. Oeyvind did not see him when
he came out after dinner, and thought immediately of the fox. He grew
hot all over, looked around about, and called, "Killy-killy-killy-goat!"
"Bay-ay-ay," said the goat, from the brow of the hill, as he cocked
his head on one side and looked down.
But at the side of the goat there kneeled a little girl.
"Is it yours, this goat?" she asked.
Oeyvind stood with eyes and mouth wide open, thrust both hands into
the breeches he had on, and asked, "Who are you?"
"I am Marit, mother's little one, father's fiddle, the elf in the
house, grand-daughter of Ole Nordistuen of the Heide farms, four years
old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights, I!"
"Are you really?" he said, and drew a long breath, which he had not
dared to do so long as she was speaking.
"Is it yours, this goat?" asked the girl again.
"Ye-es," he said, and looked up.
"I have taken such a fancy to the goat. You will not give it to me?"
"No, that I won't."
She lay kicking her legs, and looking down at him, and then she said,
"But if I give you a butter-cake for the goat, can I have him then?"
Oeyvind came of poor people, and had eaten butter-cake only once in
his life, that was when grandpapa came there, and anything like it he
had never eaten before nor since. He looked up at the girl. "Let me
see the butter-cake first," said he.
She was not long about it, took out a large cake, which she held in
her hand. "Here it is," she said, and threw it down.
"Ow, it went to pieces," said the boy. He gathered up every bit with
the utmost care; he could not help tasting the very smallest, and that
was so good, he had to taste another, and, before he knew it himself,
he had eaten up the whole cake.
"Now the goat is mine," said the girl. The boy stopped with the last
bit in his mouth, the girl lay and laughed, and the goat stood by her
side, with white breast and dark brown hair, looking sideways down.
"Could you not wait a little while?" begged the boy; his heart began
to beat. Then the girl laughed still more, and got up quickly on her
knees.
"No, the goat is mine," she said, and threw her arms round its neck,
loosened one of her garters, and fastened it round. Oeyvind looked up.
She got up, and began pulling at the goat; it would not follow, and
twisted its neck downwards to where Oeyvind stood. "Bay-ay-ay," it
said. But she took hold of its hair with one hand, pulled the string
with the other, and said gently, "Come, goat, and you shall go into
the room and eat out of mother's dish and my apron." And then she
sung,--
"Come, boy's goat,
Come, mother's calf,
Come, mewing cat
In snow-white shoes.
Come, yellow ducks,
Come out of your hiding-place;
Come, little chickens,
Who can hardly go;
Come, my doves
With soft feathers;
See, the grass is wet,
But the sun does you good;
And early, early is it in summer,
But call for the autumn, and it will come."
There stood the boy.
He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, when it was
born, and he had never imagined he could lose it; but now it was done
in a moment, and he should never see it again.
His mother came up humming from the beach, with wooden pans which she
had scoured: she saw the boy sitting with his legs crossed under him
on the grass, crying, and she went up to him.
"What are you crying about?"
"O, the goat, the goat!"
"Yes; where is the goat?" asked his mother, looking up at the roof.
"It will never come back again," said the boy.
"Dear me! how could that happen?"
He would not confess immediately.
"Has the fox taken it?"
"Ah, if it only were the fox!"
"Are you crazy?" said his mother; "what has become of the goat?"
"Oh-h-h--I happened to--to--to sell it for a cake!"
As soon as he had uttered the word, he understood what it was to sell
the goat for a cake; he had not thought of it before. His mother
said,--
"What do you suppose the little goat thinks of you, when you could
sell him for a cake?"
And the boy thought about it, and felt sure that he could never again
be happy in this world, and not even in heaven, he thought afterwards.
He felt so sorry, that he promised himself never again to do anything
wrong, never to cut the thread on the spinning-wheel, nor let the
goats out, nor go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep where he lay,
and dreamed about the goat, that it had gone to Heaven; our Lord sat
there with a great beard as in the catechism, and the goat stood
eating the leaves off a shining tree; but Oeyvind sat alone on the
roof, and could not come up.
Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear, and he started
up. "Bay-ay-ay!" it said; and it was the goat, who had come back
again.
"What! have you got back?" He jumped up, took it by the two fore-legs,
and danced with it as if it were a brother; he pulled its beard, and
he was just going in to his mother with it, when he heard some one
behind him, and, looking, saw the girl sitting on the greensward by
his side. Now he understood it all, and let go the goat.
"Is it you, who have come with it?"
She sat, tearing the grass up with her hands, and said,--
"They would not let me keep it; grandfather is sitting up there,
waiting."
While the boy stood looking at her, he heard a sharp voice from the
road above call out, "Now!"
Then she remembered what she was to do; she rose, went over to
Oeyvind, put one of her muddy hands into his, and, turning her face
away, said,--
"I beg your pardon!"
But then her courage was all gone; she threw herself over the goat,
and wept.
"I think you had better keep the goat," said Oeyvind, looking the
other way.
"Come, make haste!" said grandpapa, up on the hill; and Marit rose,
and walked with reluctant feet upwards.
"You are forgetting your garter," Oeyvind called after her. She turned
round, and looked first at the garter and then at him. At last she
came to a great resolution, and said, in a choked voice,--
"You may keep that."
He went over to her, and, taking her hand, said,--
"Thank you!"
"O, nothing to thank for!" she answered, but drew a long sigh, and
walked on.
He sat down on the grass again. The goat walked about near him, but he
was no longer so pleased with it as before.
* * * * *
The goat was fastened to the wall; but Oeyvind walked about, looking
up at the cliff. His mother came out, and sat down by his side; he
wanted to hear stories about what was far away, for now the goat no
longer satisfied him. So she told him how once every thing could talk:
the mountain talked to the stream, and the stream to the river, the
river to the sea, and the sea to the sky; but then he asked if the sky
did not talk to any one; and the sky talked to the clouds, the clouds
to the trees, the trees to the grass, the grass to the flies, the
flies to the animals, the animals to the children, the children to the
grown-up people; and so it went on, until it had gone round, and no
one could tell where it had begun. Oeyvind looked at the mountain, the
trees, the sky, and had never really seen them before. The cat came
out at that moment, and lay down on the stone before the door in the
sunshine.
"What does the cat say?" asked Oeyvind, pointing. His mother sang,--
"At evening softly shines the sun,
The cat lies lazy on the stone.
Two small mice,
Cream thick and nice,
Four bits of fish,
I stole behind a dish,
And am so lazy and tired,
Because so well I have fared,"
says the cat.
But then came the cock, with all the hens. "What does the cock say?"
asked Oeyvind, clapping his hands together. His mother sang,--
"The mother-hen her wings doth sink,
The cock stands on one leg to think:
That gray goose
Steers high her course;
But sure am I that never she
As clever as a cock can be.
Run in, you hens, keep under the roof to-day,
For the sun has got leave to stay away,"
says the cock.
But the little birds were sitting on the ridge-pole, singing. "What do
the birds say?" asked Oeyvind, laughing.
"Dear Lord, how pleasant is life,
For those who have neither toil nor strife,"
say the birds.
And she told him what they all said, down to the ant, who crawled in
the moss, and the worm who worked in the bark.
That same summer, his mother began to teach him to read. He had owned
books a long time, and often wondered how it would seem when they also
began to talk. Now the letters turned into animals, birds, and
everything else; but soon they began to walk together, two and two;
_a_ stood and rested under a tree, which was called _b_; then came
_c_, and did the same; but when three or four came together, it seemed
as if they were angry with each other, for it would not go right. And
the farther along he came, the more he forgot what they were: he
remembered longest _a_, which he liked best; it was a little black
lamb, and was friends with everybody; but soon he forgot _a_ also: the
book had no more stories, nothing but lessons.
One day his mother came in, and said to him,--
"To-morrow school begins, and then you are going up to the farm with
me."
Oeyvind had heard that school was a place where many boys played
together; and he had no objection. Indeed, he was much pleased. He had
often been at the farm, but never when there was school there; and now
he was so anxious to get there, he walked faster than his mother up
over the hills. As they came up to the neighboring house, a tremendous
buzzing, like that from the water-mill at home, met their ears; and he
asked his mother what it was.
"That is the children reading," she answered; and he was much pleased,
for that was the way he used to read, before he knew the letters. When
he came in, there sat as many children round a table as he had ever
seen at church; others were sitting on their luncheon-boxes, which
were ranged round the walls; some stood in small groups round a large
printed card; the schoolmaster, an old gray-haired man, was sitting on
a stool by the chimney-corner, filling his pipe. They all looked up as
Oeyvind and his mother entered, and the mill-hum ceased as if the
water had suddenly been turned off. All looked at the new-comers; the
mother bowed to the schoolmaster, who returned her greeting.
"Here I bring a little boy who wants to learn to read," said his
mother.
"What is the fellow's name?" said the schoolmaster, diving down into
his pouch after tobacco.
"Oeyvind," said his mother; "he knows his letters, and can put them
together."
"Is it possible!" said the schoolmaster; "come here, you Whitehead!"
Oeyvind went over to him: the schoolmaster took him on his lap, and
raised his cap.
"What a nice little boy!" said he, and stroked his hair. Oeyvind
looked up into his eyes, and laughed.
"Is it at me you are laughing?" asked he, with a frown.
"Yes, it is," answered Oeyvind, and roared with laughter. At that the
schoolmaster laughed, Oeyvind's mother laughed; the children
understood that they also were allowed to laugh, and so they all
laughed together.
So Oeyvind became one of the scholars.
As he was going to find his seat, they all wanted to make room for
him. He looked round a long time, while they whispered and pointed; he
turned round on all sides, with his cap in his hand and his book under
his arm.
"Now, what are you going to do?" asked the schoolmaster, who was busy
with his pipe again. Just as the boy is going to turn round to the
schoolmaster, he sees close beside him, sitting down by the
hearthstone on a little red painted tub, Marit, of the many names; she
had covered her face with both hands, and sat peeping at him through
her fingers.
"I shall sit here," said Oeyvind, quickly, taking a tub and seating
himself at her side. Then she raised a little the arm nearest him, and
looked at him from under her elbow; immediately he also hid his face
with both hands, and looked at her from under his elbow. So they sat,
keeping up the sport, until she laughed, then he laughed too; the
children had seen it, and laughed with them; at that, there rung out
in a fearfully strong voice, which, however, grew milder at every
pause,--
"Silence! you young scoundrels, you rascals, you little
good-for-nothings! keep still, and be good to me, you sugar-pigs."
That was the schoolmaster, whose custom it was to boil up, but calm
down again before he had finished. It grew quiet immediately in the
school, until the water-wheels again began to go; every one read aloud
from his book, the sharpest trebles piped up, the rougher voices
drummed louder and louder to get the preponderance; here and there
one shouted in above the others, and Oeyvind had never had such fun in
all his life.
"Is it always like this here?" whispered he to Marit.
"Yes, just like this," she said.
Afterwards, they had to go up to the schoolmaster, and read; and then
a little boy was called to read, so that they were allowed to go and
sit down quietly again.
"I have got a goat now, too," said she.
"Have you?"
"Yes; but it is not so pretty as yours."
"Why don't you come oftener up on the cliff?"
"Grandpapa is afraid I shall fall over."
"But it is not so very high."
"Grandpapa won't let me, for all that."
"Mother knows so many songs," said he.
"Grandpapa does, too, you can believe."
"Yes; but he does not know what mother does."
"Grandpapa knows one about a dance. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes, very much."
"Well, then, you must come farther over here, so that the schoolmaster
may not hear."
He changed his place, and then she recited a little piece of a song
three or four times over, so that the boy learned it, and that was the
first he learned at school.
"Up with you, youngsters!" called out the schoolmaster. "This is the
first day, so you shall be dismissed early; but first we must say a
prayer, and sing."
Instantly, all was life in the school; they jumped down from the
benches, sprung over the floor, and talked into each other's mouths.
"Silence! you young torments, you little beggars, you noisy boys! be
quiet, and walk softly across the floor, little children," said the
schoolmaster; and now they walked quietly, and took their places;
after which the schoolmaster went in front of them, and made a short
prayer. Then they sung. The schoolmaster began in a deep bass; all the
children stood with folded hands, and joined in. Oeyvind stood
farthest down by the door with Marit, and looked on; they also folded
their hands, but they could not sing.
That was the first day at school.
"_The Happy Boy._"
[Illustration]
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
Before the days of railways, and in the time of the old Great North
Road, I was once snowed up at the Holly-Tree Inn. Beguiling the days
of my imprisonment there by talking at one time or other with the
whole establishment, I one day talked with the Boots, when he lingered
in my room.
Where had he been in his time? Boots repeated, when I asked him the
question. Lord, he had been everywhere! And what had he been? Bless
you, everything you could mention, a'most.
Seen a good deal? Why, of course he had. I should say so, he could
assure me, if I only knew about a twentieth part of what had come in
_his_ way. Why, it would be easier for him, he expected, to tell what
he hadn't seen than what he had. Ah! a deal it would.
What was the curiousest thing he had seen? Well! He didn't know. He
couldn't momently name what was the curiousest thing he had
seen,--unless it was a Unicorn,--and he see _him_ once at a Fair. But
supposing a young gentleman not eight year old was to run away with a
fine young woman of seven, might I think _that_ a queer start?
Certainly! Then that was a start as he himself had had his blessed
eyes on,--and he had cleaned the shoes they run away in,--and they was
so little that he couldn't get his hand into 'em.
Master Harry Walmers's father, you see, he lived at the Elmses, down
away by Shooter's Hill there, six or seven miles from Lunnon. He was a
gentleman of spirit, and good-looking, and held his head up when he
walked, and had what you may call Fire about him. He wrote poetry, and
he rode, and he ran, and he cricketed, and he danced, and he acted,
and he done it all equally beautiful. He was uncommon proud of Master
Harry as was his only child; but he didn't spoil him, neither. He was
a gentleman that had a will of his own, and a eye of his own, and that
would be minded. Consequently, though he made quite a companion of the
fine bright boy, and was delighted to see him so fond of reading his
fairy books, and was never tired of hearing him say my name is Norval,
or hearing him sing his songs about Young May Moons is beaming love,
and When he as adores thee has left but the name, and that,--still he
kept the command over the child, and the child _was_ a child, and it's
very much to be wished more of 'em was!
How did Boots happen to know all this? Why, sir, through being
under-gardener. Of course I couldn't be under-gardener, and be always
about, in the summer time, near the windows on the lawn, a mowing and
sweeping, and weeding and pruning, and this and that, without getting
acquainted with the ways of the family. Even supposing Master Harry
hadn't come to me one morning early, and said, "Cobbs, how should you
spell Norah, if you was asked?" and when I give him my views, sir,
respectin' the spelling o' that name, he took out his little knife,
and he begun a cutting it in print, all over the fence.
And the courage of the boy! Bless your soul, he'd have throwed off his
little hat, and tucked up his little sleeves, and gone in at a Lion,
he would. One day he stops, along with her (where I was hoeing weeds
in the gravel), and says, speaking up, "Cobbs," he says, "I like
_you_." "Do you, sir? I'm proud to hear it." "Yes, I do, Cobbs. Why do
I like you, do you think, Cobbs?" "Don't know, Master Harry, I am
sure." "Because Norah likes you, Cobbs." "Indeed, sir? That's very
gratifying." "Gratifying, Cobbs? It's better than millions of the
brightest diamonds, to be liked by Norah." "Certainly, sir." "You're
going away, ain't you, Cobbs?" "Yes, sir." "Would you like another
situation, Cobbs?" "Well, sir, I shouldn't object, if it was a good
'un." "Then, Cobbs," says that mite, "you shall be our Head Gardener
when we are married." And he tucks her, in her little sky-blue mantle,
under his arm, and walks away.