I.
There are some strange summer mornings in the country,
when he who is but a sojourner from the city shall early walk
forth into the fields, and be wonder-smitten with the trance-like
aspect of the green and golden world. Not a flower stirs; the
trees forget to wave; the grass itself seems to have ceased to
grow; and all Nature, as if suddenly become conscious of her
own profound mystery, and feeling no refuge from it but silence,
sinks into this wonderful and indescribable repose.
Such was the morning in June, when, issuing from the embowered
and high-gabled old home of his fathers, Pierre, dewily
refreshed and spiritualized by sleep, gayly entered the long,
wide, elm-arched street of the village, and half unconsciously
bent his steps toward a cottage, which peeped into view near
the end of the vista.
The verdant trance lay far and wide; and through it nothing
came but the brindled kine, dreamily wandering to their pastures,
followed, not driven, by ruddy-cheeked, white-footed boys.
As touched and bewitched by the loveliness of this silence,
Pierre neared the cottage, and lifted his eyes, he swiftly paused,
fixing his glance upon one upper, open casement there. Why
now this impassioned, youthful pause? Why this enkindled
cheek and eye? Upon the sill of the casement, a snow-white
glossy pillow reposes, and a trailing shrub has softly rested a
rich, crimson flower against it.
Well mayst thou seek that pillow, thou odoriferous flower,
thought Pierre; not an hour ago, her own cheek must have
rested there. “Lucy!”
“Pierre!”
As heart rings to heart those voices rang, and for a moment,
in the bright hush of the morning, the two stood silently but
ardently eying each other, beholding mutual reflections of a
boundless admiration and love.
“Nothing but Pierre,” laughed the youth, at last; “thou
hast forgotten to bid me good-morning.”
“That would be little. Good-mornings, good-evenings, good
days, weeks, months, and years to thee, Pierre;—bright Pierre!
—Pierre!”
Truly, thought the youth, with a still gaze of inexpressible
fondness; truly the skies do ope, and this invoking angel looks
down.—“I would return thee thy manifold good-mornings,
Lucy, did not that presume thou had'st lived through a night;
and by Heaven, thou belong'st to the regions of an infinite
day!”
“Fie, now, Pierre; why should ye youths always swear
when ye love?”
“Because in us love is profane, since it mortally reaches toward
the heaven in ye!”
“There thou fly'st again, Pierre; thou art always circumventing
me so. Tell me, why should ye youths ever show so
sweet an expertness in turning all trifles of ours into trophies
of yours?”
“I know not how that is, but ever was it our fashion to do.”
And shaking the casement shrub, he dislodged the flower, and
conspicuously fastened it in his bosom.—“I must away now,
Lucy; see! under these colors I march.”
“Bravissimo! oh, my only recruit!”
