Forest life :: :: University of Virginia Library

De jouer de la clarinette... C'est une vérité incontestable—mais,
malheureusement, il n'est pas loisible à tout humain de
ne pas en entendre jouer—c'est en cela que la nature est injuste.

Eugene Sue.

We had agreed to make a twelve-mile stage before
breakfast in company with the city people,
whose way lay with ours so far. When the morning
came and our mutual arrangements were to be
made, the Margolds were so prodigiously sulky
under the consciousness of last night's disagreeables,
that I felt rather ashamed of the companionship,
and would have preferred waiting to breakfast on
sage-tea with poor Mrs. Gaston, who was evidently
very uncomfortable between the recollection of the
affronts put upon herself, and the fear that her husband
had gone too far in resenting them. The die
was cast however, and we were obliged to seem to
belong to the offending side, who carried their
wounded dignity very high at parting. Mr. Margold
asked for Mr. Gaston's “bill;” our host declined
making any charge. Mr. Margold insisted
on his receiving payment, and finished by placing
a bank-note on the table as he left the house without
saying farewell, in which latter civility he was

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closely imitated by Mrs. Margold and Miss Angelica.

“You didn't think I was oncivil, did ye?” said
Gaston, somewhat anxiously, as we prepared to
follow.

“Not in the least! You were quite right,” was
the very sincere reply, for we thought the poor
blind man had borne more than enough.

“Well! you've had a pretty mean time, I reckon!”
said Mr. Butts, who stepped in to bid good
by, just as we were departing: and I heard him
add, “You larnt 'em a good lesson any how! I
wouldn't ha' missed of it for a cow!”

Mr. Margold was to be my husband's companion
as far as Wellington, where we were to take our
coffee, and I was exalted to the back seat of the
jingling barouche, which I shared with Mrs. Margold,
leaving the front for Miss Angelica and her
guitar.

The morning was a charming one, and a strong
breeze from the west came as if on purpose to refresh
the spirits and cool the temper of the party
after the contretemps of the night. But this breeze,
bearing on its fresh pinions some of the balmy
moisture of last night's shower, blew Miss Angelica's
long ringlets about most intolerably, and her
little forehead became quilted with very unbecoming
wrinkles, when, as we drove through a narrow
way where the bushes almost met above our heads,
a provoking puff sent down a copious shower from

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the leaves, demolishing the small remnant of curl
and the smaller remnant of patience, and the young
lady scolded outright.

“I never did see such an odious country as this
is!” she exclaimed; “it is impossible to look decent
for an hour!”

“Well! one comfort is,” said Mr. Butts consolingly,
“that there a'n't many folks to see how bad
you look, here in the woods! We a'n't used to
seein' folks look dreadful slick nother—so it don't
matter.”

Double-distilled scorn curled Miss Margold's lip,
and she maintained an indignant silence, as the
only shield against the impertinence of the driver,
who found consolation in an unceasing whistle.
They had picked up this youth at a neighboring
village, supposing, from his pleasant countenance
and obliging manner, that they had gained a treasure
of civility. It had been at Miss Angelica's especial
instance that the party had quitted the usual road
and taken to the woods. She wished to be a little
romantic, but she had not counted the cost. Butts
was indeed all they had supposed from his address,
smart, good-tempered and kind-hearted, yet, as we
have seen, he was not the less lacking in the kind
of knowledge which was requisite for the part
he had undertaken. He had never lived with
any but those who considered him quite equal
to themselves. He was the son of a respectable
farmer, whose ample lands would cut up well

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among his heirs; and when our friend Dan engaged
to “drive team” for Mr. Margold, he had no idea
but that he was to be, to all intents and purposes,
one of the party, saving and excepting his duty
towards the horses, which he performed with scrupulous
fidelity and no small skill. All this seemed
so evident, that I almost wondered that Miss Margold
could not have passed over his intrusiveness
more good-humoredly, setting it to the account of
sheer ignorance, and not evil intention. But unfortunately
the young lady seemed to fear that her
dignity would be irrevocably compromised if she did
not resent each and every instance of impertinence,
and as Butts was one of those who cannot take the
broadest hint—even an Irish one—he only talked
the more, thinking he had not yet hit upon the
right way to make himself agreeable.

By and by, finding it impossible to extort a reply
from the thready lips of the fair Angelica, he hailed
a young man whom we overtook on the road.

“Hilloa! Steve! where are you a stavin' to?
If you're for Wellington, scale up here and I'll give
ye a ride. I swan! I'm as lonesome as a catamount!
You won't have no objection, I suppose?”
turning slightly to Mrs. Margold. The lady did
not forbid, and the traveller was soon on the box,
much to Mr. Butts's relief, as he now had an interlocutor.

“How do you stan' it nowadays?” was the
salutation of Mr. Butts to his friend.

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“O, so as to be a crawlin' most of the time.
Be you pretty hearty this summer?”

“Why, I'm middlin' tough. I manage to make
pork ache when I get hold on't.”

“Are you hired with any one now, or do you
go on your own hook?”

“I've been teamin' on't some for old Pendleton
that built them mills at Wellington. I come on to
drive a spell for this here old feller,” (jerking his
thumb backward,) “but I guess we sha'n't hitch
long.”

“Why not? Don't he pay?”

“Pay! O, no danger o' that! money's the
thing he's got most of. But he wants a servant,
and that, you know, Steve, is a berry that don't
grow on these bushes.”

“So he hired you for a servant, eh!” and at
the thought “Steve” laughed loud and long.

“Why! a body would think you had found a
haw-haw's nest with a te-he's eggs in't!” said
Mr. Butts, who seemed a little nettled by his
friend's ridicule.

“Well, but it's too funny, any how,” was the
rejoinder; and the two friends branched off into
various discussions, and regaled each other with
sundry pieces of intelligence referring to the fortunes
and characters of the Toms, Dicks and Harries of
their acquaintance; leaving my attention at liberty
to profit by many parallel passages from the lips of
Mrs. Margold, who was well acquainted with the

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latest improvements in the choice and quality of
refreshments at parties, the newest style of French
embroidery, and the shape and trimmings of the
bonnets by the last packet. I had become quite
absorbed in these matters, and had fallen into a sort
of doze, such as I suppose to be the only sleep needed
by a French milliner, when I was aroused by a
clear, manly voice, with just enough of a nasal
twang to make me remember that I was still in the
woods, singing an air that recalled “young Lochinvar,”
and which had doubtless originally been intended
for none other. The words were those of
a Western song which refers to that interesting
period in our local history—the admission of Michigan
into the Union,—on which occasion our
General Government decided that between the
States at least, “might makes right;”—the era
of the Toledo war, which cost us so much inkshed,
and the unfortunate borderers such numbers
of water-melons and pumpkins. This song is not,
I believe, the one written by Mrs. Sigourney on
the occasion.

I.

Oh! dashing young Mick is the pride of the West!
Of all its bold hunters the boldest and best,
He has town-house and villa, and water-craft fair,
And parks full of red-deer, enough and to spare.
He has meadow and woodland, lake, river, and lick,
And prairie-land plenty, has dashing young Mick.

II.

Now Mick, while a minor, was under control
Of his loving mamma, a good careful old soul.

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And to all her long lectures, so prudent and sage,
His pithy response was—“But, ma'am, I'm of age!”
Says she, “You must share with poor Philo and Dick.”
“But a'n't I of age, ma'am?” cried dashing young Mick.

III.

One time, when a party of gentlemen came
To prose with his mother, Mick sent in his claim:
Says he, “Here's the record—my nonage is o'er;
In this year thirty-five I've exceeded my score;
Make o'er my estate, ma'am, and please to be quick!
I can shear my own wolves, now!” quoth dashing young Mick.

IV.

“But, my dear, there's your brothers—they worry my life—
And you know 'tis my duty to smother all strife!
They will have that farm—and—we'll pay on demand
Ten miles of good ice for an acre of land;
Of the pine-barrens north you the choicest may pick.”
“I'll be blam'd if I do, ma'am!” growled dashing young Mick.

V.

The dame, with a sigh, put her spectacles on;
“Now tell me, grave counsellers, what's to be done!”
“Oh! let it lie by till we taste your good cheer;
A twelvemonth's discussion will make it more clear.
You know what stout fellows are Philo and Dick,
And they'll nibble, if we don't, from dashing young Mick!”

VI.

Poor Mick! he talked big, and most roundly he swore
He'd at least have his own, if he couldn't get more:
But his ma' kept the farm and the money to stock it,
And quietly buttoned her purse in her pocket,
While the gentlemen argued through thin and through thick—
“Oh! I'll share and be thankful!” quoth dashing young Mick.

The ditty might have extended to the length of
Chevy Chase for aught I can tell, in spite of many

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signs of indignation on the part of Mrs. Margold
and her daughter, if we had not at that moment
come in sight of the tavern at Wellington, which
caused Mr. Butts to interrupt his vocal efforts, and
give a rousing touch to his horses to insure “a trot
for the avenue.”