ON THE ROAD.
Melody went singing down the road. She walked quickly, with a light
swaying motion, graceful as a bird. Her hands were held before her,
not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out
its delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goes
from flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers were like
butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch the
hanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowers
that sprang up along the footpath. She sang, too, as she went, a song
the doctor had taught her:--
"Who is Silvia, and what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heavens such grace did lend her,
That adored she might be."
One might have thought that Silvia was not far to seek, on looking
into the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for a
moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended.
"Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? the
dear. I must find it for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light,
quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was a
familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving
their names into her song in childish fashion,--
"Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating,
Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting."
Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will make songs, too,"
she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "I will make the
words, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the
village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:--
Meadow-sweet is a treat;
Columbine's a fairy;
Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,--
What rhymes with fairy, I wonder. Dairy; but that won't come right.
Airy, hairy,--yes, now I have it!--
Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,
To feed my pet canary.
I'll sing that to Neddy," said Melody, laughing to herself as she went
along. "I can sing it to the tune of 'Lightly Row.' Dear little boy!"
she added, after a silence. "Think, if he had been blind, how dreadful
it would have been! Of course it doesn't matter when you have never
seen at all, because you know how to get on all right; but to have it,
and then lose it--oh dear! but then,"--and her face brightened
again,--"he _isn't_ going to be blind, you see, so what's the use of
worrying about it?
The worry cow
Might have lived till now,
If she'd only saved her breath.
She thought the hay
Wouldn't last all day,
So she choked herself to death."
Presently the child stopped again, and listened. The sound of wheels
was faintly audible. No one else could have heard it but Melody, whose
ears were like those of a fox. "Whose wagon squeaks like that?" she
said, as she listened. "The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course; it's
Eben Loomis. He'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won't
take so long." She walked along, turning back every now and then, as
the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. At last, "Good-morning,
Eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me on
a piece, please?"
"Wal, I might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, "if I was
sure you was all right, Mel'dy. How d'you know't was me comin', I'd
like to know? I never said a word, nor so much as whistled, since I
come in sight of ye." The man, a wiry, yellow-haired Yankee, bent down
as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the
seat beside him.
Melody laughed joyously. "I should know your wagon if I heard it in
Russia, Eben," she said. "Besides, poor old Jerry knocks his hind feet
together so, I heard him clicking along even before I heard the wagon
squeak. How's Mandy, Eben?"
"Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "She's ben
havin' them weakly spells right along lately. Seems though she was
failin' up sometimes, but I dono."
"Oh, no, she isn't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. "You said that
six years ago, do you know it? and Mandy isn't a bit worse than she
was then."
"Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "That
is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Come
to think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six
years ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know
that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I shouldn't, seein'
her every day and all day? How do you account for that, now, hey?" He
turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half
expecting her to meet his gaze.
"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's just
because you see her so much, Eben, that you can't tell. Besides, I can
tell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stopped
speaking, like this, 'How do you _do_?' [with a falling inflection
which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up
cheerfully, at the end, 'How do you do?' Don't you see the difference,
Eben?--so of course I know she must be a great deal better."
"I swan!" replied Eben Loomis, simply. "'How do you _do_?' '_How_ do
you do?' so that's the way you find out things, is it, Mel'dy? Well,
you're a curus child, that's what's the matter with you.--Where d'you
say you was goin'?" he added, after a pause.
"I didn't say," said Melody. "But I'm going to Mrs. Jackson's, to see
Neddy."
"Want to know," said her companion. "Goin'--Hevin' some kind o'
trouble with his eyes, ain't he?" He stopped short, with a glance at
the child's clear eyes. It was impossible not to expect to find some
answering look in them.
"They thought he was going blind," said Melody; "but it is all right
now. I do wish people wouldn't tell Mrs. Jackson to keep putting
things in his eyes. Why can't they let her do what the doctor tells
her, and not keep wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense?"
"Wal, that's so," assented Eben,--"that's so, every time. I was down
there a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe,' I says, 'don't you do a
thing folks tells you,' says I. 'Dr. Brown knows what he's about, and
don't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet his
eyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says I. 'There's nothin' like
tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course I knew
Doctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. Wal, here we
be to Jackson's now," added the good man, pulling up his horse. "Hold
on a minute, and I'll help ye down. Wal, there!" as Melody sprang
lightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting as
she went, "if you ain't the spryest ever I see!"
"Good-by, Eben, and thank you ever so much," said the child. "Good-by,
Jerry."
"Come down an' see us, Mel'dy!" Eben called after her, as she turned
toward-the house with unfaltering step. "T'would do Mandy a sight o'
good. Come down and stop to supper. You ain't took a meal o' victuals
with us I don't know when."
Melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the grassy path,
while the countryman gazed after her with a look of wondering
admiration.
"That child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" he
soliloquized. "What's she doin' now? Oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, for
the child, likely. Now they'll all swaller her alive. Yes; thar they
come. Look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? He's e'en
a'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten times
over, from the way she handles him. Look at her set down on the
doorstep, tellin' him a story, I'll bet. I tell ye! hear that little
feller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, Mandy says. I wouldn't
mind hearin' that story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the name
for it, sir. Git up, Jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and with
many a glance over his shoulder, the good man drove on.