University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

As I have said already, the adventure on the river made
a good deal of noise, in that simple community; and it had
the effect to render Guert and myself a sort of heroes, in a
small way; bringing me much more into notice, than would
otherwise have been the case. I thought that Guert, in particular,
would be likely to reap its benefit; for, various
elderly persons, who were in the habit of frowning, whenever
his name was mentioned, I was given to understand,
could now smile; and two or three of the most severe among
the Albany moralists, were heard to say that, “after all,
there was some good about that Guert Ten Eyck.” The
reader will not require to be told, that a high-school moralist,
in a place as retired and insulated as Albany, must
necessarily be a being that became subject to a very severe

code. Morality, as I understand the matter, has a good
deal of convention about it. There is town-morality and
country-morality, all over the world, as they tell me. But,
in America, our morals were, and long have been, separated
into three great and very distinct classes; viz.—New England,
or puritan-morals; middle colonies, or liberal morals;
and southern colonies, or latitudinarian morals. I shall not
pretend to point out all the shades of difference in these several
schools; though that in which I had myself been taught,
was necessarily the most in conformity with my own tastes.
There were minor shades to be found in the same school;
Guert and myself belonging to different classes. His morals
were of the Dutch class; while mine more properly belonged
to the English. The great characteristic of the
Dutch school, was the tendency to excess that prevailed,
when indulgencies were sought. With them, it did not rain
often; but, when it did rain, it was pretty certain to pour.
Old Col. Follock was a case in point, on this score; nor
was his son Dirck, young and diffident as he was, altogether
an exception to the rule. There was not a more respectable
man in the colony, in the main, than Col. Van Valkenburgh.
He was well connected; had a handsome unencumbered
estate; and money at interest;—was a principal prop, in the
church of his neighbourhood; was esteemed as a good husband;
a good father; a true friend; a kind neighbour; an
excellent, and loyal subject, and a thoroughly honest man.
Nevertheless, Col. Van Valkenburgh had his weak times
and seasons. He would have a frolic; and the Dominie
was obliged to wink at this propensity. Mr. Worden often
nicknamed him Col. Frolic. His frolics might be divided
into two classes; viz. the moderate and immoderate. Of
the first, he had two or three turns a year; and these were
the occasions on which he commonly visited Satanstoe,
or had my father with him at Rockrockarock, as his
own place, in Rockland, was called. On these visits,
whether to or from, there was a large consumption of tobacco,
beer, cider, wine, rum, lemons, sugar, and the other ingredients
of punch, toddy and flip; but no outrageously durable
excesses. There was much laughing, a great deal of good
feeling, many stories, and regular repetitions of old adventures,
in the way of traditional narrations; but nothing that
could be called decided excesses. It is true, that my grandfather,
and my father, and the Rev. Mr. Worden, and Col.
Follock, were much in the habit of retiring to their beds a
little confused in their brains; the consequence of so much
tobacco-smoke, as Mr. Worden always maintained; but
everything was decent, and in order. The parson, for instance,
invariably pulled up on a Friday; and did not take
his place in the circle until Monday evening, again; which
gave him fully twenty-four hours, to cool off in, before he
ascended the pulpit. I will say this, for Mr. Worden, that
he was very systematic and methodical in the observance of
all his duties; and I have known him, when he happened
to be late at dinner, on discovering that my father had
omitted to say grace, insist on everybody's laying down
their knives and forks, while he asked a blessing; even
though it were after the fish was actually eaten. No, no;
Mr. Worden was a particular person, about all such things;
and it was generally admitted, that he had been the means
of causing grace to be introduced into several families, in
Westchester; in which it had never been the practice to
have it, before his examples and precepts were known to
them.

I had not been acquainted with Guert Ten Eyck a fortnight,
before I saw he had a tendency to the same sort of
excesses as those to which Col. Van Valkenburgh was addicted.
There was an old French Huguenot living near
Satanstoe—or rather, the son of one, who still spoke his
father's language — and who used to call Col. Follock's
frolics his “grands couchers,” and his “petit couchers;”[1]

inasmuch as he usually got to bed at the last, without assistance;
while at the first, it was indispensable that some aid
should be proffered. It was these “grands couchers” at
which my father never assisted. On these occasions, the
colonel invariably held his orgies over in Rockland, in the
society of men of purely Dutch extraction; there being
something exclusive in the enjoyment. I have heard it said
that these last frolics sometimes lasted a week, on really important
occasions; during the whole of which time the
colonel and all near him were as happy as lords. These
“grands couchers,” however, occurred but rarely—coming
round, as it might be, like leap-years, just to regulate the
calendar, and adjust the time.

As for my new friend, Guert, he made no manifestation
towards a “grand coucher” during the time I remained at
Albany—this his attachment to Mary Wallace forbade—but,
I discovered by means of hints and allusions, that he had
been engaged in one or two such affairs, and that there was
still a longing for them in his bones. It was owing to her
consciousness of the existence of such weaknesses, and her
own strong aversion to anything of the sort, that, I am persuaded,
Mary Wallace was alone induced to hesitate about
accepting Guert's weekly offer of his hand. The tenderness
she evidently felt for him, now shone too obviously in her
eyes, to leave any doubt in my mind of Guert's final success;
for what woman ever refused long to surrender, when the
image of the besieger had taken its place in the citadel of
her heart! Even Anneke received Guert with much favour,
after his excellent behaviour on the river; and I fancied that
everything was going on most flatteringly for my friend,
while it seemed to me that I made no advances in my own
suit. Such, at least, were my notions on the subject, at the
very moment when my new friend, as it appeared, was
nearly driven to desperation.

It was near the end of April, or about a month after our
perilous adventure on the ice, that Guert came to seek me,
one fine spring morning, with something very like despair
depicted in his fine, manly face. During the whole of that
month, it ought to be premised, I had not dared to speak of

love to Anneke. My attentions and visits were incessant
and pointed, but my tongue had been silent. The diffidence of
real admiration had held me tongue-tied; and I foolishly fancied
there would be something like presuming on the services
I had so lately rendered, in urging my suit so soon after the
occurrence of the events I have described. I had even the
romance to think it might be taking an undue advantage
of Bulstrode, to wish to press my claims at a moment when
the common object of our suit might be supposed to feel the
influence of a lively gratitude. These were the notions and
sentiments of a very young man, it must be confessed; but
I do not know that I ought to feel ashamed of them. At
all events, they existed; and they had produced the effect I
have mentioned, leaving me to fall, each day, more desperately
in love, while I made no sensible advances in preferring
my suit. Guert was very much in the same situation,
with this difference, however; he made it a point to offer
himself, distinctly, each Monday morning, invariably receiving
for an answer “no;” if the lady were to be pressed for
a definite reply; but leaving some glimmering of hope,
should time be given for her to make up her mind. The
visit of Guert's, to which I have just alluded, was after one
of the customary offers, and usual replies; the offer direct,
and the “no,” tempered by the doubting and thoughtful
brow, the affectionate smile, and the tearful eye.

“Corny,” said my friend, throwing down his hat with a
most rueful aspect; for, winter having departed, and spring
come, we had all laid aside our fur-caps—“Corny, I have
just been refused again! That word, `no,' has got to be so
common with Mary Wallace, that I am afraid her tongue will
never know how to utter a `yes!' Do you know, Corny, I
have a great mind to consult Mother Doortje!”

“Mother who? — You do not mean Mr. Mayor's cook,
surely!”

“No; Mother Doortje. She is said to be the best fortune-teller
that has ever lived in Albany. But, perhaps, you do
not believe in fortune-tellers; some people I know do not?”

“I cannot say that I have much belief, or unbelief, on
the subject, never having seen anything of that sort.”

“Have they, then, no fortune-teller, no person who has
the dark art, in New York?”

“I have heard of such people, but have never had an
opportunity of seeing or hearing for myself. If you do go
to see this Mother Dorrichy, or whatever you call her, I
should like amazingly to be of the party.”[2]

Guert was delighted to hear this, and he caught cagerly
at the offer. If I would stand his friend he would go at
once; but he confessed he did not like to trust himself all
alone in the old woman's company.

“I am, perhaps, the only man of my time of life, in
Albany, who has not, sooner or later, consulted Mother
Doortje;” he added. “I do not know how it is, but, somehow,
I have never liked to tempt fortune by going to question
her! One never can tell what such a being may say;
and should it be evil, why it might make a man very miserable.
I am sure I want no more trouble, as it is, than to
find Mary Wallace so undetermined about having me!”

“Then you do not mean to go, after all! I am not only
ready, but anxious to accompany you.”

“You mistake me, Corny. Go I will, now, though she
tell me that which will cause me to cut my throat—but, we
must not go as we are; we must disguise ourselves, in order
that she may not know us. Everybody goes disguised; and
then they have an opportunity of learning if she is in a good
vein, or not, by seeing if she can tell anything about their
business, or habits, in the first place. If she fail in that, I
should not care a straw for any of the rest. So, go to work,
Corny, and dress yourself for the occasion—borrow some
clothes of the people in the house, here, and come round to
me, as soon as you please; I shall be ready, for I often go
disguised to frolics—yes, unlucky devil that I am, and come
back disguised, too!”

Everything was done, as desired. By means of a servant
in the tavern, I was soon equipped in a way that satisfied
me was very successful; inasmuch as I passed Dirck, in
quitting the house, and my old, confidential friend did not
recognise me. Guert was in as good luck, as I actually
asked himself for himself, when he opened the door for my

admission. The laugh, and the handsome face, however,
soon let me into the secret, and we sallied forth in high
spirits; almost forgetting our misgivings concerning the
future, in the fun of passing our acquaintances in the street,
without being known.

Guert was much more artistically and knowingly disguised,
than I was myself. We both had put on the clothes
of labourers; Guert wearing a smock-frock that he happened
to own for his fishing occupations in summer — but I
had my usual linen in view, and wore all the ordinary minor
articles of my daily attire. My friend pointed out some of
these defects, as we went along, and an attempt was made
to remedy them. Mr. Worden coming in view, I determined
to stop him, and speak to him in a disguised voice, in order
to ascertain if it were possible to deceive him.

“Your sarvant, Tominie,” I said, making an awkward
bow, as soon as we got near enough to the parson to address
him; “be you ter Tominie, that marries folk on a
pinch?”

“Ay, or on a handful, liking the last best.—Why, Corny,
thou rogue, what does all this mean?”

It was necessary to let Mr. Worden into the secret; and
he no sooner learned the business we were on, than he expressed
a wish to be of the party. As there was no declining,
we now went to the inn, and gave him time to assume
a suitable disguise. As the divine was a rigid observer of
the costume of his profession, and was most strictly a man
of his cloth, it was a very easy matter for him to make such
a change in his exterior, as completely to render him incognito.
When all was ready, we went finally forth, on our
errand.

“I go with you, Corny, on this foolish business,” said the
Rev. Mr. Worden, as soon as we were fairly on our way,
“to comply with a promise made your excellent mother, not
to let you stray into any questionable company, without
keeping a fatherly eye over you. Now, I regard a fortune-teller's,
as a doubtful sort of society; therefore, I feel it to
be a duty, to make one of this party.”

I do not know whether the Rev. Mr. Worden succeeded
in deceiving himself; but, I very well know, he did not succeed
in deceiving me. The fact was, he loved a frolic; and

nothing made him happier, than to have an opportunity of
joining in just such an adventure as that we were on.
Judging from the position of her house, and the appearance
of things in and around it, the business of Mother Doortje
was not of the most lucrative sort. Dirt and poverty were
two things not easily encountered, in Albany; and, I do not
say, that we found very positive evidence of either, here;
but there was less neatness than was usual in that ultra-tidy
community; and, as for any great display of abundance,
it was certainly not to be met with.

We were admitted by a young woman, who gave us to
understand that Mother Doortje had a couple of customers,
already; but she invited us to sit down in an outer room,
promising that our turn should be the next. We did so, accordingly,
listening, through a door that was a little ajar,
with no small degree of curiosity, to what was passing
within. I accidentally took a seat in a place that enabled
me to see the legs of one of the fortune-teller's customers;
and, I thought, immediately, that the striped stockings were
familiar to me; when the nasal, and very peculiar intonation
of Jason, put the matter out of all doubt. He spoke in
an earnest manner; which rendered him a little incautious;
while the woman's tones were low and mumbled. Notwithstanding,
we all overheard the following discourse—

“Well, now, Mother Dorrichay,” said Jason, in a very
confiding sort of way, “I 've paid you well, for this here
business, and I want to know if there is any chance, for a
poor man, in this colony, who doesn't want for friends, or,
for that matter, merit?”

“That 's yourself,” mumbled the female voice — in the
way one announces a discovery—“yes, I see, by the cards,
that your question applies to yourself. You are a young
man, that wants not for friends; and you have merit! You
have friends that you deserve; the cards tells me that!”

“Well, I 'll not deny the truth of what you assert; and, I
must say, Dirck, it is a little strange, this woman, who
never saw me before, should know me so well — my very
natur', as it might be. But, do you think, I shall do well
to follow up the affair I am now on, or that I had best give
it up?”

“Give up nothing,” answered the oracle, in a very oracular

manner, shuffling the cards as she spoke; “no, give
up nothing, but keep all you can. That is the way to
thrive, in this world.”

“By the Hokey, Dirck, she gives good advice, and I think
I shall follow it! But how about the land, and the mill-seat—or,
rather, how about the particular things I 'm thinking
about?”

“You are thinking of purchasing — yes, the cards say
purchasing; or is it `disposing—”'

“Why, as I 've got none to sell, it can't very well be
disposing, Mother.”

“Yes, I 'm right—this Jack of Clubs settles the matter—
you are thinking of buying some land—Ah! there 's water
running down-hill; and here I see a pond—Why, you are
thinking of buying a mill-seat.”

“By the Hokey!—Who would have thought this, Dirck!”

“Not a mill; no, there is no mill built; but a mill-seat.
Six, king, three and an ace; yes, I see how it is—and you
wish to get this mill-seat at much less than its real value.
Much less; not less, but much less.”

“Well, this is wonderful! I 'll never gainsay fortin-tellin'
ag'in!” exclaimed Jason. “Dirck, you are to say
nothin' of this, or think nothin' of this—as it 's all in confidence,
you know. Now, jist put in a last word, about the
end of life, Mother, and I 'll be satisfied. What you have
told me about my fortin and earnin's must be true, I think, for
my whole heart is in them; but I should like to know, after
enjoying so much wealth and happiness as you 've foretold,
what sort of an end I am to make of it?”

“An excellent end—full of grace, and hope, and christian
faith. I see here, something that looks like a clergyman's
gown—white sleeves—book under the arm—”

“That can't be me, Mother, as I 'm no lover of forms,
but belong to the platform.”

“Oh! I see how it is, now; you dislike Church of England
people, and could throw dirt at them. Yes, yes—here
you are—a presbyterian deacon, and one that can lead in a
private meeting, on an occasion.”

“Come, Dirck, I 'm satisfied—let us go; we have kept
Mother Doorichaise long enough, and I heard some visiters
come in, just now. Thank you, mother—thank you, with

all my heart; I think there must be some truth in this fortin-tellin'
after all!”

Jason now arose, and walked out of the house, without
even deigning to look at us—and consequently without our
being recognised. But Dirck lingered a minute, not yet
satisfied with what had been already told him.

“Do you really think I shall never be married, Mother?”
he asked, in a tone that sufficiently betrayed the importance
he attached to the answer. “I wish to know that particularly,
before I go away!”

“Young man,” answered the fortune-teller in an oracular
manner; “what has been said, has been said! I cannot
make fortunes, but only reveal them. You have heard that
Dutch blood is in your veins; but you live in an English
colony. Your king is her king; while she is your queen—
and you are not her master. If you can find a woman of
English blood that has a Dutch heart, and has no English
suitors, go forward, and you will succeed; but, if you do
not, remain as you are until time shall end. These are my
words, and these are my thoughts; I can say no more.”

I heard Dirck sigh — poor fellow! he was thinking of
Anneke — and he passed through the outer room without
once raising his eyes from the floor. He left Mother Doortje,
as much depressed in spirits, as Jason had left her elated;
the one looking forward to the future with a selfish and
niggardly hope, while the other regarded it with a feeling as
forlorn as the destruction of all his youthful fancies could
render any view of his after-life. The reader may feel disposed
to smile at the idea of Dirck Van Valkenburgh's
possessing youthful fancies—regarding the young man in
the quiet, unassuming manner in which he has hitherto been
portrayed by me; but it would be doing great injustice to
his heart and feelings, to figure him to the mind, as a being
without deep sensibilities. I have always supposed that this
interview with Mother Doortje had a lasting influence on the
fortunes of poor Dirck; nor am I at all certain its effects
did not long linger in the temperament of some others that
might be named.

As our turns had now come, we were summoned to the
presence of this female soothsayer. It is unnecessary to describe
the apartment in which we found Mother Doortje.

It had nothing unusual in it, with the exception of a raven,
that was hopping about the floor, and which appeared to be
on the most familiar terms with its mistress. Doortje, herself,
was a woman of quite sixty, wrinkled, lean, and haglike;
and, I thought, some care had been taken, in her dress,
to increase the effect of this, certainly her natural appearance.
Her cap was entirely of black muslin; though her
dress itself, was grey. The eye of this woman was of the
colour of her gown; and it was penetrating, restless, and
deep-seated. Altogether, she looked the character well.

On our entrance, after saluting the fortune-teller, each of
us laid a French crown on the table at which she was
seated. This coin had become quite current among us,
since the French troops had penetrated into our colony; and
it was even said they purchased supplies with it, from certain
of our own people. As we had paid the highest price
ever given, for these glimpses into futurity, we thought ourselves
entitled to have the pages of the sealed book freely
opened to us.

“Do you wish to see me together; or shall I communicate
with one at a time?” demanded Doortje, in her husky,
sepulchral voice; which, it struck me, obtained its peculiar
tones partly from nature, and partly from art.

It was settled that she should commence with Mr. Worden;
but, that all might remain in the room the whole time.
While we were talking over this point, Doortje's eyes were
by no means fixed; but, I remarked, that they wandered
from person to person; like those of one who was gathering
information. Many persons do not believe, at all, in the
art of the fortune-teller; but insist that there is nothing more
in it than trick and management; pretending that this very
woman kept the blacks of the town in pay, to bring her
information; and that she never told anything of the past,
which was true, that had not been previously communicated to
herself. I shall not pretend to affirm that the art goes as far as
many imagine; but, it strikes me, that it is very presuming, to
deny that there is some truth in these matters. I do not
wish to appear credulous; though, at the same time, I hold
it to be wrong to deny our testimony to facts that we are
convinced are true.[3]

Doortje commenced by shuffling an exceedingly dirty
pack of cards; which had probably been used five hundred
times, on similar duty. She next caused Mr. Worden to
cut these cards; when a close and musing examination succeeded.
All this time, not a syllable was said; though we
were startled by a low whistle, from the woman; which
brought the raven upon her shoulder.

“Well, Mother,” cried Mr. Worden, with a little impatience,
at what he fancied mummery, “I am dying to hear
what has happened, that I may put the more faith in what
is to happen. Tell me something of the crop of wheat, I
put into the ground, last autumn; how many bushels I
sowed, and on how many acres; whether on new land, or
on old?”

“Ay, ay, you have sowed! — and you have sowed!”
answered the woman, on a high key, for her; “but your
seed fell among tares, and on the flinty ground; and you 'll
never reap a soul among 'em all! Broadcast may you sow
—but narrow will be your harvest.”

The Rev. Mr. Worden gave a loud hem—placed his arms
akimbo—and seemed determined to brazen it out; though, I
could easily perceive, that he felt excessively awkward.

“How is it, with my cattle? and shall I send much mutton
to market, this season?”

“A wolf, in sheep's clothing!” muttered Doortje. “No—
no—you like hot suppers, and ducks, and lectures to cooks,
more than gathering in the harvest of the Lord!”

“Come, this is folly, woman!” exclaimed the parson,
angrily. “Give me some common sense, for my good
French crown. What do you see, in that knave of diamonds,
that you study its face so closely?”

“A loping Dominie!—a loping Dominie!” screamed the
hag, several times, rather than exclaiming aloud. “See!—
he runs, for life; but Beelzebub will overtake him!”

There was a sudden, and dead pause; for the Rev. Mr.
Worden had caught up his hat, and darted from the room;
quitting the house, as if already busily engaged in the race
alluded to. Guert shook his head, and looked serious; but,
perceiving that the woman was already tranquil, and was
actually shuffling the cards anew, in his behalf, he advanced
to learn his fate. I saw the eyes of Doortje fastened keenly
on him, as he took his stand near the table, and the corners
of her mouth curled in a significant smile. What that
meant, exactly, I have never been able to ascertain.

“I suppose, you wish to know something of the past, like
all the rest of them,” mumbled the woman, “so that you
may have faith in what you hear about the future?”

“Why, Mother,” answered Guert, passing his hand
through his own fine head of natural curls, and speaking a
little hastily, “I do not know that it is any great matter
about the past. What is done, is done; and there is an end
of it. A young man may not wish to hear of such things,
at the moment, perhaps, when he is earnestly bent on doing
better. We are all young, once in our lives, and we can
grow old only after having been so.”

“Yes—yes—I see how it is!” muttered Doortje. “So—
so—turkeys—turkeys; ducks—ducks—quaack—quaack—
quaack—gobble, gobble, gobble—” Here, the old hag set
up such an imitation of ducks, geese, turkeys, game-cocks,
and other birds, that one who was in an outer room, might
well have imagined he heard the cries of a regular poultry-yard.
I was startled, myself, for the imitation was very
admirable—but Guert was obliged to wipe the perspiration
from his face.

“That will do—that will do, Mother!” the young man
exclaimed. “I see, you know all about it; and there is no
use in attempting disguises with you. Now, tell me, if I
am ever to be a married man, or not. My errand here, is
to learn that fact; and I may as well own it, at once.”

“The world has many women in it — and fair faces are
plenty, in Albany,” once more mumbled the woman, ex

amining her cards, with great attention. “A youth, like
you, might marry twice, even.”

“No, that is impossible; if I do not marry a particular
lady, I shall never marry at all.”

“Yes—yes—I see how it is!—You are in love, young
man.”

“D'ye hear that, Corny! Isn't it wonderful, how these
creatures can tell? I admit the truth of what you say; but,
describe to me the lady that I love.”

Guert had forgotten, altogether, that the use of the word
lady, completely betrayed the fact of his disguise; since no
man, truly of his dress and air, would think of applying
such a word to his sweetheart.[4] I could not prevent these
little betrayals of himself, however; for, by this time, my
companion was too much excited, to hear reason.

“The lady that you love,” answered the fortune-teller,
deliberately, and with the manner of one that proceeded with
great confidence, “is very handsome, in the first place.”

“True as the sun in the heavens, Mother!”

“Then, she is virtuous, and amiable, and wise, and witty,
and good.”

“The Gospel is not more certain! Corny, this surpasses
belief!”

“Then, she is young. Yes, she is young, and fair, and
good; three things that make her much sought after.”

“Why is she so long reflecting on my offers, Mother;
tell me that, I beg of you; or, will she ever consent to have
me?”

“I see—I see — it is all here, on the cards. The lady
cannot make up her mind.”

“Listen to that, now, Corny; and do not tell me there is
nothing in this art. Why does she not make up her mind?
For Heaven's sake, let me know that? A man may tire
of offering to marry an angel, and getting no answer. I wish
to know the reason of her doubts.”

“A woman's mind is not easily read. Some are in haste,
while some are not. I am of opinion you wish to get an

answer before the lady is ready to give it. Men must learn
to wait.”

“She really seems to know all about it, Corny! Much
as I have heard of this woman, she exceeds it all! Good
Mother, can you tell me how I can gain the consent of the
woman I love?”

“That is only to be had by asking. Ask once, ask twice,
ask thrice.”

“By St. Nicholas! I have asked, already, twenty times!
If asking would do it, she would have been my wife a month
since. What do you think, Corny—no, I 'll not do it—it is
not manly to get the secrets of a woman's heart, by means
like these—I 'll not ask her!”

“The crown is paid, and the truth must be said. The
lady you love, loves you, and she does not love you; she
will have you, and she won't have you; she thinks yes, and
she says no.”

Guert now trembled all over, like an aspen-leaf.

“I do not believe there is any harm, Corny, in asking
whether I gained or lost by the affair of the river? I will
ask her that much, of a certainty. Tell me, Mother, am I
better or worse, for a certain thing that happened about a
month ago—about the time that the ice went, and that we
had a great freshet?”

“Guert Ten Eyck, why do you try me thus?” demanded
the fortune-teller, solemnly. “I knew your father, and I
knew your mother; I knew your ancestors in Holland, and
their children in America. Generations on generations have
I known your people, and you are the first that I have seen
so ill-clad! Do you suppose, boy, that old Doortje's eyes
are getting dim, and that she cannot tell her own nation?
I saw you on the river—ha! ha! 't was a pleasant sight—
Jack and and Moses, too; how they snorted, and how they
gallopedl Crack—crack—that 's the ice—there comes the
water!—See, that bridge may hit you on the head! Do you
take care of this bird, and do you take care of that—and
all will come round with the seasons. Answer me one thing,
Guert Ten Eyck, and answer me truly. Know you ever a
young man who goes quickly into the bush?”

“I do, Mother; this young man, my friend, intends to go
in a few days, or as soon as the weather is settled.”

“Good! go you with him — absence makes a young
woman know her own mind, when asking will gain nothing.
Go you with him, I say; and if you hear muskets fired,
go near them; fear will sometimes make a young woman
speak. You have your answer, and I will tell no more.
Come hither, young owner of many half-joes, and touch that
card.”

“I did as ordered; when the woman began to mumble to
herself, and to run over the pack as rapidly as she could.
Kings, aces, and knaves were examined, one after another,
until she had got the Queen of Hearts in her hand, which
she held up to me in triumph.

“That is your lady. She is a queen of too many hearts!
The Hudson did that for you, that it has done for many a
poor man before you. Yes, yes; the river did you good;
but water will drown, as well as make tears. Do you beware
of Knights Barrownights!”[5]

Here Mother Doortje came to a dead stand in her communications,
and not another syllable of any sort could
either of us get from her; though, between us, as many as
twenty questions were asked. Signs were made for us to
depart; and when the woman found our reluctance, she laid
a crown for each of us, on the table, with a dignified air,
and went into a corner, seated herself, and began to rock
her body, like one impatient of our presence. After so unequivocal
a sign that she considered her work as done, we
could not well do less than return; leaving the money behind
us, as a matter of course.