University of Virginia Library

AMBUSCADES.

J. Sheridan Knowles.

Tom Oliver is the hero of my story, and there is almost
enough of him to make two drawing-room heroes. Tom is long,
and strong, and lithe enough to stand for a Kentucky Apollo; and
in his fringed hunting-shirt, with rifle in hand, and a dashing
'coon-skin cap overshadowing his dark eyes, he is no bad personification
of the Genius of the West. And this is paying the West
a great compliment; for there is a wild grace and beauty about
Tom's whole appearance that is not to be found everywhere.

I know not whether it would be safe to say that Tom has made
his “hands hard with labour,” for he is not particularly fond of
work; but I may say he has made his “heart soft with pity,” for
a gentler nature lives not. Daring hunter as he is, he has found
time to be the most dutiful of sons; and from his boyhood he was
the sole support and comfort of a widowed mother. She depended
upon him as if their relation had been reversed, and when the
poor soul came to die, she could bear no hand near her but his.
Night and day did he watch by her bedside, and the kind offices
of the neighbouring matrons came no nearer than the preparation
of such things as Tom required for his nursing. His hand administered
the remedies, and offered the draught to the parched lip,
and smoothed the pillows, and fanned the fainting brow. And
when the last dread moment came, the same kind and dear hand
was clasped in the chill embrace of the dying, and afterwards

closed with pious care the eyes that had so long looked upon him
with more than a mother's love. Then and long afterwards,
Tom mourned for his poor old mother as if she had been a youthful
bride. He has a kind heart.

Tom's passion was hunting; and although this had been dutifully
restrained while his mother required his services, when she
was gone he found relief in indulging it to the uttermost. Whole
weeks would he be absent, and at length return with only the
skins of the deer and other animals that he had killed, and perhaps
a small supply of food for an interval of rest. So expert was he
in woodcraft that this course secured him all that his simple mode
of life required. The cottage that had been his mother's home
continued to be his; and the “forty” on which it stood was called
his farm, though I believe the deer roamed as freely there as any
where else in the forest. He has shot foxes and raccoons from
his window. Yet he was accounted rich, for his log house was a
good one and better furnished than most; and he had planted fruit
and made various improvements for his mother's sake, which he
would have been slow in making for his own; and, besides, he was
known for so able and ingenious a “hand” that his services were
much in request, and always commanded the highest price in the
market. Such is our primitive estimate of the elements of worldly
success, that Tom, take him all in all, was considered quite a
speculation in the matrimonial way.

But a roving hunter is no mark for “the blind boy's butt-shaft.”
Our damsels might have saved themselves the trouble
of curling their beau-killers, and slipping off their aprons as he
approached. He never seemed to see them; but inquired, “Polly,
where's your father?” or “Abby, does your mother want
some venison?” without taking off his cap or putting down his
rifle. The girls had well nigh given him up as a hopeless case
before he announced his intention of travelling to see the world;
and, when this was known, it was guessed by shrewd mothers
that Tom meant to bring home a more “stylish” bride than any
which our humble bounds afforded.

Tom went first to “York State”—that being the natural bent
and limit of our travels—and after having been absent only
about three weeks, he came back to his own house very composedly

during a violent storm, and got ready to go hunting again.
Neighbours felt a good deal of curiosity to learn what had sent
him back so soon, but he only said the East was not what it was
cracked up to be, and went on his old course. Ere long he was
missing again, and no one could tell anything of his intentions,
or of the probable length of his absence. His nearest neighbour
took care of his cow and pigs, for every one liked to do Tom a good
turn; and nobody broke his windows or pulled the shingles off his
roof to make fishing-lights or quail-traps, because he might come
back any day, and would not be likely to “impeticos” such gratuities
very kindly. The whole long winter passed, and nothing
was seen or heard of Tom Oliver.

During this time, an event of unwonted importance gave a stir
to our village—nothing less than the addition of two new families,
and those not of a stamp likely to slip unnoticed into so small a
community. Widows guided them both, and each boasted a
young lady; but if the mistresses might be cited in proof that
the genus “vidder” has many varieties, so no less might we
quote damsels as specimens of the distinct orders that are observable
in young ladyhood.

Mrs. Levering was a thrifty dame, with one grown up son and
ever so many little ones, and one only daughter, a lovely girl of
seventeen or so, who wrought day and night with the patience of
the gentle Griselidis, and seemed to feel that she was but labouring
in her vocation. Her mother, a most devout believer in the lawful
supremacy of the stronger sex, had brought up Emma to
think that she was born to work for “the boys;” and so potent is
habit, that the young girl, fair as she was, and worthy of a softer
lot, had never learned to wish it otherwise. A plain house plainly
furnished, and a moderate farm moderately stocked, formed
the little all of the Leverings; and so completely were their time
and attention absorbed by the cares of life, that Emma and her
mother did not join the sewing society, nor the young man the
hunting parties which alone constituted the winter's gayety. Yet
everybody liked Emma, and many a wish was expressed that she
would let her rosy cheeks be seen “somewhere else besides in
the meetin'-house.”

The other lady was a more marked person than any of the

Leverings. Mrs. Purfle, widow of the celebrated Doctor Purfle,
who performed so many cures—time and place not specified—of
diseases both before and since considered incurable—was somewhat
past her prime, indeed had probably for some time been so.
Yet she maintained much splendour of appearance; and having
flourished as a milliner at the South, she had the advantage of
possessing, in the remnants of her professional stores, more unmatched
and unmatchable articles of finery than often find their
way to this utilitarian West. She had also, as we may suppose,
profited by the Doctor's professional researches; since she assured
those of the young ladies whom she especially favoured, that
washing spoils the complexion, and that her own somewhat shadowy
hue was owing to her having discovered this cosmetic secret
late in life. Add to all this that Mrs. Purfle is a woman of
property, having a clear income of an hundred and fifty dollars
per annum, (so says Rumour,) and a marriageable niece who is
her decided heiress, and it will readily be imagined that the little
green-blinded tenement which shelters Mrs. Purfle and her fair
charge, was an object of no small interest in the eyes of the village.

Miss Celestina Pye, (called Teeny by her aunt, except on
solemn occasions,) was scarcely taller than Mrs. Purfle's high-backed
rocking-chair, but of a most bewitching embonpoint.
Her complexion was of that kind which reminds one of a
fat stewed oyster—white, soft, and unmeaning—probably a monument
of the success of her aunt's hydrophobic plan. Her eyes
were blue, what there was of them; her cheeks boasted each a
spot of pink which looked like hectic; and her mouth was so
pursed up that it seemed at first glance as if she must always
have been fed with a quill. Yet upon proper inducement Miss
Celestina could draw out her lips to a becoming simper, beyond
which she never ventured, not having good teeth. She wore the
longest bodice and the largest bustle that had ever been seen west
of Detroit; and her curls were so innumerable that certain of
the ruder beaux compared her to “an owl in an ivy-bush.” In
short the young lady had been brought up for a belle and a
beauty, and both herself and Mrs. Purfle considered the work
crowned in the result.

We have among us so few people that “live on their money,”
that we look up to such with an instinctive reverence. Whether
Mrs. Purfle's income had been exaggerated (as many were inclined
to suspect,) was a matter of frequent discussion; but all
the world joined in paying her the same attention and deference
as if its amount had been ascertained beyond a doubt. She was
considered as a leader of the ton on all occasions, and being naturally
of a gay as well as of a sentimental turn, she helped to enliven
the village not a little.

One little peculiarity of Mrs. Purfle, only worth telling as it
develops the tenderer elements of her character, has not yet been
mentioned. Her morning-room—indeed, her only parlour—was
fitted up in a style so unique that the visitor was naturally led to
inquire as to the casue of Mrs. Purfle's partiality for a colour not
usually much in favour with the ladies. To begin with the principal
ornament, the lady herself—she sat always in a tall yellow
rocking-chair, dressed in a buff gown and a cap trimmed with
paradise ribbons. Nankeen slippers graced her feet, and these,
by way of contrast, bore a meandering embroidery in straw-coloured
worsteds. Her windows were draped with orange moreen;
the cover of her work-table was a monument of her housewifely
ingenuity, having been dyed with turmeric by her own
thrifty fingers. Her pincushion, founded on a brick, and of
course of respectable dimensions, was covered with well-saved
triangles of yellow flannel, and edged with a tarnished gold lace.
Yellow tissue-paper clothed the frames of the numerous coloured
engravings which adorned the walls; and a splendid apron of the
same hid the fire-place all summer, and was pinned before the
book-shelf in winter. Upon Mrs. Purfle and all these golden
accompaniments waited a little yellow boy, whom she had
brought from the South with her, and whose name she had changed
from Belzy to Brimstone, that he might be in keeping with the
rest of the furniture.

The widow's preference for the colour of jealousy was not
without a reason and a pertinent one, although her deceased lord
had been a person of unsuspected constancy during the six months
of their married life. There are some sentiments which can give
tenderness even to yellow. Doctor Purfle had been settled in the

city of New Orleans and his wife's comfortable house only a single
season, when he fell a victim to the prevailing fever. From
this time forward did his faithful relict vow herself to the most
odious of hues. “He was all yaller,” she would pensively observe,
“and I'll be yaller too!” “And, besides,” she had been
known to add, when speaking to a confidential friend, “it came
very handy, for my yaller things hadn't sold as well as I expected.”

Having been so happy in her married life, we shall excite no
surprise when we confess that Mrs. Purfle's darling object was to
secure a husband for her niece. Her own individual objects in
life were answered; she had been married, she had changed her
name, (very advantageously too, for her own used to be Bore—
she always insists that those long tippets the ladies used to wind
round their necks were named after her,) she had kept her property,
and also acquired in addition the Doctor's cupping-glasses,
his saddle-bags, and many other useful articles; and now her sole
care was the fortunate disposal of the fair Celestina. Some years
had passed since the commencement of her efforts, and Miss Pye
did not seem any nearer to the goal than at first; but Mrs. Purfle
was not discouraged, for she had, as she said, almost given up,
herself, when the Doctor came along, all in a minute like, and she
was married without any trouble at all. Hoping for some such
windfall, she and Miss Teeny persevered, and, meanwhile, amused
themselves as well as they could.

In the interest excited by these two new families—one so busy,
and the other so independent—we had almost forgotten Tom Oliver,
when some observant eye espied a smoke issuing from his
chimney as calmly as if no interval had occurred in its owner's
housekeeping; and the neighbour who peeped in to ascertain
whether there was a mortal and an honest tenant, found Tom
boiling his venison with potatoes, as usual, in a huge pot which
held at least a week's provision, and sent forth a savoury steam.

“Why, Tom! is that you?” said neighbour Brumbleback.

“Flesh and blood, and blue veins,” was the laconic reply.

“When did you get home?” pursued the inquirer.

“Just as the east was cracking for daylight.”

“Where in the world have you been this time?”

“In the world! Why, bless your soul! I've been to Saint
Peter's.”

“You don't! was he to hum?”

Tom looked up and laughed.

“Brumbleback,” said he, “there ain't many saints in the army.
They call a fort after Saint Peter, away off on the Mississippi
river.”

“What notion sent you there?”

“I went after my cousin, John Hanford.”

“Do tell! was he a goin' to help you any?”

“I don't want any help. I only went to see him. He was at
Kalamazoo, and he wrote me it was rather a busy place, and I
thought I'd go out there and take a hand with the rest. You
know I tried York State a while last summer?”

“Yes,” said Brumbleback, “I know you did, and I expected
you'd come back so big that a man couldn't touch you with a ten
foot pole. But you didn't stay long enough to get uppish. What
sent you back so soon? I've always wanted to know.”

“Oh! I found it was no place for me. I went to see my uncle
in Jefferson County, and he wanted me to stay with him in
place of a son he'd lost; but when I came to try the woods, I gave
it up at once. You never saw such mean hunting. I might
walk all day without a sight. And there's no room to shoot
when you do see any thing. I came within one of shooting the
prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on. She was out in the woods looking
for wintergreens. I never shall forget how she looked. I
thought she was dead, but she had only fainted away, and when I
saw she was coming to life, I ran like a painter.[1] I would not have
met her eyes for the world. I sent some one else to see to her.”

“And didn't you see her again?”

“Not I! I thought I had discovered that the East was no place
for me, so I just gathered myself together, shook hands with my
uncle, and made tracks westward. I wouldn't have taken the
old man's stony farm for a gift. I can make five dollars here
where I can one there.”

“Well! and what took you to Kalamazoo?” said Brumble
back, who had never before found Tom so communicative.

“Why, John Hanford wrote me that they were going to have
a bear-hunt out there, and that, besides, there was a good deal to
do, so I thought I'd try my luck. When I got there I found a
heavy rain had spoiled the bear-hunt, and my cousin had gone to
St. Joseph's to keep a boarding-house. I went on to St. Joseph's,
and there found that John had changed his mind, and started three
days before for Chicago. I had got into the humour of travelling
now, so I thought I'd go too and not give up since I'd come so far
to see John. So off I went, but would you believe it! John had
just started with a party to Rock River to see what was doing
there. I was determined not to be distanced, so I gave chase
again. At Rock River I missed him just as I had done before.
He had had a better offer to go to Galena and work among the
lead mines. I felt sure of him now, so I stayed a few days at
Rock River to see what I could, and rest myself a little, and then
started for Galena. Lo and behold! John was off to Wheat-Diggins,
because he wanted to see a place where they never cut
their corn, but turned in their hogs to fat themselves according to
their own notion. I'd half a mind to give up, but I thought I'd
like to see such curious work too, so off I streaked to Wheat-Diggins.
Do you believe, John was off before I got there!”

“Well, perhaps; but you warn't fool enough to follow him any
further?”

“Wasn't I! By that time I'd got so gritty, I'd have followed
him to the Pacific, rather than have given up. He had gone
over the prairies with a party of young men, and there was another
party just ready to start, so I was glad of the chance to go
with them—for I had never seen a real prairie—and a fine hearty
set of fellows they were.”

“How did you like the prairies?”

“Right well! There were seventy miles of the way without
a house, so we camped out. One prairie that we crossed was
twenty-six miles long, sometimes level as a floor, and then again
rolling. At times we could see neither tree nor bush, but just a
great lake like, frozen over and covered with snow—for it began
to be cold by that time. There would be timber-patches that
looked at first no bigger than your hand, but when you'd come
up to 'em, you'd find they covered four or five acres, and some

times fifty or an hundred. These patches looked exactly like
islands. We camped in these for the sake of shelter and firewood.
After supper we lay down and slept with our feet to the
fire; but we did not dare to sleep long, for fear of getting numb
with the cold. So every hour or so we'd get up and wrestle a
spell, and then lie down and take another nap. Oh! we had
grand times!”

“But what did you do for money?”

“I didn't need much, for generally I couldn't get people to take
pay for my lodging. They were glad to see any body from the
settlements, and they would ask a great many questions; and by
talking round we generally found that I knew somebody they
knew, and then they would never take a cent. They would give
me a bit of paper with their name and where they lived, to give
to their acquaintance when I went back. Once they did that
when I did not know the man they asked about, but had only
heard him preach. Yet when I reached St. Peter's, two thousand
miles from home, I had only two dollars in my pocket. But I
found my cousin!”

“Shy game, I tell ye!” said Brumbleback; “but how did
you get home?”

“Oh, they were building a saw mill not far from there, and
John engaged as a hand, and they offered me twenty dollars a
month and my board, if I'd stay too. I did not let them know
how low I was in pocket, but kept a stiff upper lip, and made as
if I didn't care whether I worked or no. At length I told 'em if
they'd give me thirty dollars, I'd stay. So they agreed, and I got
enough to pay my passage home, buy a new suit of clothes at
Chicago, and leave a nest-egg in my pocket after all.”[2]

When Tom had finished his recital he inquired in his turn as
to the course of things at home during their absence. He was
duly informed of the accession to our population and many other
interesting particulars. Brumbleback's account of the two new
belles was not very fascinating. “The chunky one,” said he,
“is fixed off like a poppy-show, and never lets the draw-strings

out of her lips. T'other gal is likely enough, but the mother's a
blazer! Whoever marries Emmy, had better look out for his
ears. The mill-clack is nothing to the old woman's tongue.”

Tom stayed at home long enough to clean his rifle and eat his
dinner, and then went out hunting to rest himself after his journey.
He was passing by a cranberry-marsh about half a mile
from the village, when he heard, quite near him, the sound of
feminine distress, loud and real. He dashed in among the tangled
bushes, and found a young lady sticking in the half-frozen
mud. It was Miss Celestina Pye, and she certainly had no draw-strings
in her lips just then. Tom observed afterwards, (with
less than his usual gallantry,) “that nothing but a pig in a gate
ever beat her.” He extricated her very ably—a lamentable
figure—her dress torn by the inconsiderate briers, and her prim
face unshaped by the agony of her terror. She had been searching
for those choicest of cranberries which are found still on the
bushes after the winter is past. The water in which they chiefly
grow is often frozen over, deceptively enough, so that a plunge
is not unusual. But Miss Pye's eastern fears of rattlesnakes
were still in full force, and as soon as she found herself in the
marsh, she jumped to the conclusion that she was bitten to death
as a matter of course.

After her rescue occurred the difficulty of presenting such a
figure on her walk through the village. Here Tom's natural
politeness suggested a short cut, to facilitate which he took down
a part of the rail-fence and pointed out to the young lady a path
by which she might reach the back of her aunt's domain without
betraying her disaster to the public.

During all this, it is not to be supposed that Miss Celestina,
though her eyes were small and somewhat obscured by mud, had
not managed to perceive that her deliverer was a young man, a
stranger, and one whose splendid proportions and fine face would
have commanded notice any where. She looked through her
torn green veil and her multitudinous curl-papers (for she was
cranberrying incog.) at our hero's dark eyes, and found herself
very much in love, as was quite natural and proper under the
circumstances.

That evening at sunset Tom presented himself at Mrs. Purfle's

door with a buck nicely dressed, inquiring whether the lady
wished to purchase.

“How much?” asked Mrs. Purfle.

“A dollar,” said the hunter.

“That's too much,” observed Mrs. Purfle. “It's more than
you ought to ask, young man,” she said, very solemnly, and with
an air of reproof.

The deer weighed some sixty or seventy pounds—perhaps more.
Tom moved onward.

“Can you let me have half of it for fifty cents?”

“Never cut,” said Tom, who seldom wasted words in such
cases.

Just then Miss Pye made her appearance. She was very
smart, and her head quivered with subdivided ringlets. When
she saw Tom with the venison at his feet, she took it for granted
that he had called to inquire after her health, and that the game
was an offering to her charms. What wonder that the advancing
smile was a gracious one! Or what wonder that the corners
of her mouth took a downward curve when Tom flung his buck
upon his shoulder and walked off without looking at her!

“Why, aunt!” said Miss Teeny, dolefully, “that's the very
one!”

“What one?” said Mrs. Purfle.

“Why the one that helped me out of the marsh! I dare say
he came to see me. If I had had my other frock on he would
have known me.”

Now it was so well understood between Mrs. Purfle and her
niece that a beau for the latter, (technically speaking,) was the
one thing needful, that it was no longer ranked among subjects
debateable. There was nothing to be said about it, even by Mrs.
Purfle. So she stood and looked after Tom in silence, musing
upon the ill-timed thriftiness that had driven so fine a young man
from the vicinity of Miss Pye's attractions.

“Teeny!” she said at length, with her eyes still travelling
down the street.—“Teeny! it is a long while since you called
upon Emma Levering. Get your things, quick! and go down
there!”

This speech began moderato, but the crescendo was so rapid

that the close was prestissimo. Miss Pye, following the direction
of her aunt's eye, saw that Tom had stopped at Mrs. Levering's,
and she lost not a breath in getting her bonnet.

At Mrs. Levering's gate stood Mrs. Levering herself, her cap
border blown back by the chill wind, and her tongue in full activity,
enlightening the young hunter's mind as to the true and
proper value of venison “out here in the woods.”

“It costs you nothing at all,” she said, “but just the powder
and ball it takes to shoot 'em, and that can't be much, for powder's
only six shillings a pound, and as for shot, you can put in
old buttons or any thing.”

Tom was looking at the speaker with an eye that said as plainly
as eye could speak, “Have you almost done?” But he waited,
for he was too civil to walk off while a lady was speaking, and it was
difficult to catch a moment when Mrs. Levering was not speaking.

Miss Pye, with the first breath she could command, asked for
Emma, and Mrs. Levering called her. Tom was taking the opportunity
to move off, but ere he had shouldered his burthen he
caught sight of a face that charmed him to the spot. Had he indeed
seen it before? Miss Teeny, scarce greeting Emma, turned
at once to the handsome hunter, and in her choicest terms thanked
him for his assistance in extricating her from her perilous situation.

Tom could with difficulty be induced to comprehend what she
meant, for it was not easy to recognize in the rainbow-tinted
speaker the muddy heroine of the morning. And then he seemed
to feel himself in “a scrape,” and to be puzzled for a suitable
reply to so much gratitude.

“I thought I never should have got out!” said Miss Teeny,
rolling up her little eyes with a pathetic expression of self-pity.

“Oh!” said Tom, “I've got a cow out of there before now.”

Tom meant simply that he had done a much more difficult
thing than the helping of a young lady out of the marsh—but the
illustration was not fortunately chosen. Yet Miss Celestina forbore
to notice the error, and only said very graciously that her
aunt would take the venison.

“Vension!” said Emma; “oh, mother, poor Jack said he
thought he could eat some venison if he could get it.”

“He shall have it and welcome,” said Tom, throwing the deer

saddlewise on the rail of the little porch, and turning away
quickly. In vain did the widow and Miss Teeny call after our
retreating hero. He barely raised his cap from his brow as he
passed, and then, clearing the ground with a hunter's stride, disappeared
round the first corner, before the trio had recovered
from their astonishment.

“Very odd!” exclaimed Miss Celestina Pye, “when aunt said
she would take it.”

“Odd, indeed!” responded Mrs. Levering, “when he wouldn't
look at anything less than a dollar just now!”

Emma said nothing, but busied herself in preparing some of
the venison for her sick brother, with possibly an occasional
recollection of the gallant hunstman.

From the period of Tom's return from the expedition to the
Mississippi, all his friends remarked a change in his appearance
and habits. Not only was his dress more cared for, but his way
of living was essentially civilized; and his manner lost that tinge
of untameableness which had formerly characterized it. He
attended the singing-school regularly, and often escorted home
some of the fair ones who brightened these evening gatherings.
He never indeed went so far as to volunteer a call, but he would
sometimes accept an invitation to a tea party, though he generally
amused himself on such occasions by playing with the dog, or
with the baby if there was no dog. He was seldom caught looking
at a young lady; but if he did look at any one, it was at
Miss Celestina Pye. She even thought that she had discovered
the costume which best pleased him, for he never looked at her
so much as when she was dressed in her buff calico with large
purple sprigs. So she used to put on this dress very frequently,
with a suitable accompaniment of thready curls and gay ribbons.

Emma Levering all this time, the mere drudge of the most
thrifty and exacting of mothers, was in a manner forgotten by
all. She was the only pretty girl in the village circle that Tom
Oliver never was seen to look at, although he was unceasing in
his attentions to her sick brother, whom he supplied with the
choicest game the woods afforded. Tom was an odd fellow,
and everybody but Miss Pye and Mrs. Purfle thought that he was
resolved to be an old bachelor.

About these days, Mrs. Purfle, who was of an active and enterprising
turn of mind, and something of a diplomatist withal,
thought proper to give a large party—no unusual expedient to
enhance one's importance, and to make one's acquaintance
coveted. Everybody was invited and great preparation made,
though there was unfortunately no possibility of enlarging the
small parlour, nor any of the suite of apartments of which that
capped the climax. But if our good lady had been initiated into
the fashionable notion of a “feed,” she could not have provided
more bounteously for those who were to be squeezed within her
walls. Tom had a note of course; and he was further favoured
with a P. S., asking if he could “as well as not” provide Mrs.
Purfle with game for the occasion. What he sent would have
made the fortune of a city supper; and, in addition to this, there
were days' works of cake, and pies, and custards, not to speak of
an unspeakable variety of minor adjuncts. The very gathering
of the cups and saucers, and plates, and knives, and spoons, was
a serious business. In the country it is still customary to provide
for as many guests as you invite—another proof that we are
behind the age.

Two o'clock came, and with it a good portion of the company.
Even from the neighbouring settlements whole wagon-loads were
imported, whose bustling Sunday clothes filled Mrs. Purfle's yellow
parlour, borrowed chairs and all. At first the silence was
prodigious; then would be heard an occasional burst of giggle,
quickly smothered; but gradually rose a continuous hum, which
swelled ere long into an undistinguishable clatter, enlivened ever
and anon by such explosions of laughter as are heard only at the
West. During all this time Tom Oliver did not make his appearance.
It grew dusk—three candles were lighted on the mantelpiece,
in front of a great many black profiles; the tea (secretly
put back) was at length made—Miss Pye's eyes were anything
but auspicious—when in came Tom, dressed in his Chicago suit,
and looking handsomer than ever. Oh, how the room brightened
in Miss Celestina's eyes! It was as if all three of the candles
had been snuffed at once!

Our bashful hero had scarcely time to cast a glance about him
(over the heads of most of the company) when he was called

upon by Mrs. Purfle to lead the way into “the other room,” as
the kitchen was modestly denominated. Tom had not ascertained
who was and who was not present, so he gave his hand, at a venture,
to Miss Polly Troome, the blacksmith's tall daughter, gallantly
handing her to the long tea-table, and seating her opposite
to a promising bowl of apple-sauce. Other ladies were soon
seated, and when every corner of the board (and they were many,
since no two tables in the neighbourhood matched in size or
shape,) was filled, it became the duty of the beaux to play the
part of waiters, which devoir was performed with various grace
by the various youths concerned. A roast pig was to be carved
and a huge chicken-pie distributed; bowls of pickles, and plates
of hot biscuits were to be handed about; and, worse than all, a
ceaseless succession of cups of tea required all the skill and
discretion of the preux chevaliers. Some scalding there was, but
not serious; much pretty shrieking, and not a little unrefined
laughter. Miss Pye's new blue silk apron was the recipient of a
saucer of pudding; old Mrs. Spindle made her usual disparaging
remarks about the strength of tea, in an audible whisper; poor
little Brim was trodden upon and tumbled over by everybody
—but upon the whole, the party presented the true party aspect,
saving and excepting some few conventional prejudices as to the
dress of the company and the nature of the refreshments.

But in the midst of the feast a blank occurred—felt more particularly
by one of the gay assemblage, yet perceived by numerous
others. Tom Oliver was missing. What could this mean?
Was he preparing something characteristically odd, to help along
the general hilarity? This was thought of, but conjectures died
away after a while, for the young hunter appeared no more.
The usual amusements went on; all sorts of forfeits were played
—“scorn” and “criminal,” and whatever gives an excuse for
some little romping and kissing, but all was begun and finished
without Tom. This was like a sprinkling of cold water, for Tom
had become a general favourite with the young people.

But it is time to account for our hero. It had been whispered
about that Emma Levering could not come, on account of the illness
of her brother, but no one thought of the circumstance in
connection with Tom's disappearance. Yet it was to the busy

widow's that he had gone from the gay assembly, and there, while
all was gayety at Mrs. Purfle's grand party, he was already established
as a watcher for the night, while the weary family had gone
quietly to bed, trusting to his well-known reputation as a nurse.
This was the last thing his young companions would have guessed,
yet it was the most natural thing in the world for Tom to
think of. We hardly think that the fair face of Emma had any
share in originating the benevolent impulse—at least there is no
testimony to this effect—but we doubt not there was a sympathy
for her overtasked condition. Tom was a practical man, and
Mrs. Levering's exactions were notorious. If he had but known
what pity is akin to, we think he might perhaps have eschewed
it; but Tom read no poetry.

This generosity, however, was like much that passes for such
—it was at the cost of another. Tom cared nothing about the
party, but poor Miss Teeny felt that all her pains had been
thrown away, since the handsome hunter had slighted the occasion
so cruelly. When she had heard what called him away, she
was disposed to be vexed with her unpretending neighbour; but
she very soon ascertained that Emma had been sent to bed immediately
on Tom's arrival, so that they had scarcely even met.
So she was encouraged again, feeling sure that her own attractions
must be victorious in fair field. Much did she walk for her
health during that rainy spring, and numerous were the errands
which took her to Mrs. Brumbleback's, the way to whose house
lay directly past Tom's gate. Yet she found the huntsman very
hard to encourage. If he was standing by his door when she
passed, he was very apt to go in and shut it without waiting to
bow to her; and if he happened to be at his well, he would go on
drawing water without once turning his head. It was very odd
that he should be so bashful.

Tom's well was a model of a well—for a new country we
mean. It was curbed at the top with a cut from a hollow buttonwood
tree, about four feet in diameter on the inside, and perfectly
smooth, inside and out. This curb rested on a layer of plank
some two feet within the ground, and from this floor downward
the well was built of brick in the neatest manner, and the clear
water filled it almost to the platform. It was partly roofed over,

and provided with a great trough of white wood au naturel, well
befitting the beauty of the whole structure.[3]

This was an object of just pride to the owner, for it was the
work of his own hands, and he had been the fortunate finder of
the tree which had afforded curbs for several wells in the neighbourhood.
It was placed near his cottage under the shadow of
an elm which chanced to grow just in the right place.

To this well came Tom one afternoon just as the sun was setting,
driving a pair of “two-year-olds,” and singing very audibly
and in no bad taste, “Some love to roam,” which he had caught
from Mr. Russell's own lips as that “vocalist” passed, like a
musical meteor, through our far-away state. He was just executing
“A life in the woods for me!” with an attempt at the
original cadenza, when he looked over his beautiful well-curb
and saw—

Mercy on me—what an exclamation, Tom! How would that
sound at “the East?”

It was Miss Celestina Pye, standing on the planks, and looking
upward with a piteous glance.

“Oh, Mr. Oliver! I'm so scar't! I'm almost out of my
senses!”

And in her distraction she adjusted her curls, and threw back
her green veil.

“What's scar't you this time?” said Tom, with odious coolness.

“Why, I thought I heard a bull! I'm sure I thought I did;
and if you only knew how 'fraid I am of a bull! Aunt says I
ought never to walk out alone, I'm so timid!”

“I should think she was right,” observed Tom, drily.

“And now,” continued Miss Celestina Pye, “how I am to get
out of this place—I'm sure I don't know.”

“How did you get in?”

“Oh! I was so frightened, you see, that I climbed over that
low place by the trough. I'm afraid you'll have to lift me out!
I feel so very weak.”

“Wait a moment,” said Tom; and Miss Pye waited a good

many moments, expecting the return of her squire. By and bye,
when she had begun to find the well rather chilly, she heard a
footstep.

“Oh! here you are at last,” said she.

“Yes, here I be!” answered Brumbleback's gruff voice, “and
here's my ox-chain for you to climb up by,” and he lowered the
ox-chain, looped, having the ends fastened outside. “There!
you can climb up by that, easy enough!” observed this squire of
dames; “you needn't be afeared, for it would bear five ton.”

“But where's Mr. Oliver?” asked the doleful Celestina.

“He's off! he thought he heard something in the wheat field,
and he told me to help you out.”

Miss Pye's walk homeward was not a pleasant one; she was a
little damp and dreadfully crestfallen; but Mrs. Purfle assured
her that she was certain Tom “felt so” he could not venture to
take her out, for fear of letting her down the well.

The oil of her aunt's flattery served once more to trim the
lamp of hope in Miss Teeny's heart; aunt had gone through it
all, and surely she ought to know. So Miss Pye refreshed her
array, and sat down to her knitting, Mrs. Purfle thinking it probable,
“considering all things,” that Tom would call.

Miss Teeny had picked up the lamp-wick with a pin several
times, and begun to yawn pretty frequently, when she heard
Tom's ringing laugh as he passed the window. He was coming,
after all!

Alas! he had only been to carry a brace of prairie-hens to
Jack Levering. Miss Celestina Pye put her curls in twenty-two
papers, and then went desperately to bed.

With the morning light, however, came a ray of mental illumination.
That song! the gallant hunter was fond of music!
Miss Teeny had something called a piano, which, though lacking
several important strings, still was capable of an atrocious noise
which passed with some for music. This had never yet been
brought to bear upon Tom; but the summer was coming and such a
resource must no longer be neglected. Among the poetical scraps
in Miss Pye's album was the following—

How much more then one who only hunted such animals! So
the tinkling torment was put in requisition, and Mons Meg herself
could scarcely have been more noisy. “Oh! come with
me!” “Meet me by moonlight!” “Leave me not!” were the
pathetic adjurations which now arrested the attention of the passers-by;
but, as ill-luck would have it, just about that time Tom
got a habit of going to town by the back street. However, the
weather had now become pleasant, and Mrs. Purfle happening to
be in the garden at the time he usually passed, politely invited
him in, saying that Celestina had been tuning up the piano quite
nice. Tom could not refuse, and once in, he underwent the
whole without flinching. Miss Pye's voice was not exactly a
contralto, indeed it was puzzling to determine the class; since
what there was of it was so strained and filtered through a very
small mouth, and a most miserably pinched nose, that it resembled
the chirping of a mouse in a cheese. But the accompaniment
was loud enough to make up for that. This was extemporaneous
entirely, but when she confined her bass to the key-note, she made
out pretty well for uninstructed ears. It was only when she became
enthusiastic and branched out into involuntary chromatics,
that it grew absolutely unendurable. This pass had been nearly
attained when Tom asked for “Fare thee well!” This not being
on Miss Teeny's list, he was about taking his leave when she
volunteered “Faithless Emma.” Tom sat down again, heard
the song through, asked a repetition, and then seized his cap resolutely.

“Are you going to singing-school to night? I am,” said Miss
Teeny, all in a breath.

“I don't know whether I shall or no,” said stony-hearted Tom,
and he bolted rather unceremoniously.

“Well, I declare!” said Mrs. Purfle, “that fellow is the hardest
to manage!”

The fact is, that the tactics of Mrs. Purfle and Miss Pye ought
to have brought Tom down long before; but he was like Wellington
at Waterloo, and did not know when he was beaten. He
must have borne a charmed life, to walk unharmed within pointblank
range of such formidable artillery; but we are unable to
furnish our readers with the recipe. Gay's sweet ballad says,

But Tom had as yet paid Love no homage, and we well know
that wicked power does nothing for nothing. Our conjectures as
to Tom's safeguard point indeed toward that bewitching face
which his rifle had so nearly marred, but would a roving hunter
remember one look so long?

But Miss Pye's ammunition was not yet exhausted. The very
next Sunday saw her, laced almost to extinction, on her way to
meeting, arrayed in her most seducing paraphernalia, her face
white and her hands shining purple through their lace gloves,
from the energy with which she had striven to be delicate. She
had seen a belle faint in public at “the East;” she had observed
the solicitude of her attendant knight; and she did not know why
such things might not be done by some people as well as others.
So she took her seat on the women's side of the narrow passage
which divides the two rows of benches in our school-room, determined
to find the vulnerable part in Tom's heart, if indeed there
was one—which she began to doubt.

This mode of parting the rougher from the gentler sex in public,
prevails wherever seats are common property—the why is not
so easy to determine. If designed to prevent stray thoughts, it is
quite a mistake, for by this arrangement eyes are left at full
liberty, nay, are placed under a sort of necessity for encountering.
If to secure attention to the speaker, it is still more unfortunate,
for the deadly cross-fire from the sides is far more effective
than the scattering fire from the platform. But it suited Miss
Teeny's purpose, for it brought her face to face with her indomitable
enemy.

She had done her work so effectually at home that there was
little to be done in meeting. The fainting had very nearly come
off in earnest, and her face began to look deadly blue very soon
after the commencement of the sermon. At length she fell back
on the desk before which she was sitting.

All was now confusion and dismay, for we are not accustomed
to such things. Mrs. Purfle bustled about, and called upon Mr.
Oliver to help her take her niece in the open air. But the minister,

with a solemn air of reproof, just then requested the congregation
to sit down, adding, in an authoritative and awful manner,

“Deacon Grinderson! will you help that young woman out?”

So poor Teeny was carried out, not very gracefully, by Deacon
Grinderson and a young clodpole whom he summoned to his aid;
and it required but very little water dashed in her face to bring
her to her senses, and particularly to the sense that it was “no
go,” as Tom would have said if he had understood the affair.

“Now cut her binder, and she'll do,” said Deacon Grinderson's
assistant, borrowing a figure from the wheat field, as was quite
natural, seeing that Miss Teeny's contour, exclusive of the supplementary
bustle, was not unlike that of a stout sheaf. But
there was very little spirit in her just now.

We know not that Miss Teeny could ever have been inspired,
even by the powerful afflatus of her aunt's flattery, to make
another attempt at so inaccessible a heart; but, ere long, fate
threw in her way an opportunity which skill could scarcely have
commanded. She had succeeded in reducing herself by sighing,
pickles, and silk braid, to something nearer a sentimental outline,
when our part of the country was enlightened by a visit from a
nephew of Dr. Purfle's, whom his lady had known at the South
—a decided genius, and one of the universal kind. This individual
had had the misfortune to lose both his feet by exposure at
the North, and he would have been at his wits' end for a living
if those wits had been only as comprehensive as the wits of common
people. But he managed to live very much at his ease,
having a man to wait on him and supply the only deficiency of
which he had ever been conscious. Mr. Ashdod Cockles came
among us in the character of an artist, having his wagon loaded
with wax-figures, puppets, magic-lanterns, and all those temptations
which the pockets of western people, lank as they are,
always find irresistible—including a hand-organ of course; and
he put up at Mrs. Purfle's.

Most exhilarating were the preparations, which now filled everybody's
mouth. The village ball-room was to be the scene of
the grand exhibition of Mr. Cockles' glory; and the stairs which
led to that honoured chamber were well worn during that day of
ceaseless bustle and excitement. Not that the common eye was

permitted to get even a glimpse of the mysteries within, for a
thick curtain was suspended inside, so that the assistants could
pass in and out a hundred times without one's getting a single
peep. But the boys and idlers still thought they should see something;
so there they stayed from morning till night—scarcely
taking time to eat.

But while all promised so fair for the multitude, what was the
surprise and grief of Mr. Ashdod Cockles to find that one of his
wax figures, nay, the one of all others that he could worst spare,
had been completely crushed by the superincumbent weight of
the hand-organ. The Sleeping Beauty! That she should have
been lost! What is a wax-work without a Sleeping Beauty!
Dire was the disappointment of Mr. Cockles, and loud his lamentations,
(in private,) and much did he try to make his factotum
acknowledge that he had erred in the packing. Nick
knew his business too well for that; but he nevertheless condescended
to suggest a remedy—viz.: that Mr. Cockles should induce
some pretty girl of the village to be dressed in the glittering
drapery of the crushed nymph, and perform the part for that
night only. This seemed the more feasible that the figure was
to be covered up in bed, and the performance would thus involve
no fatigue. So it only remained to obtain the handsome face,
and touching this delicate point Mr. Cockles consulted Mrs.
Purfle.

“Miss Emmy's the prettiest!” said Brim, who stood by grinning
from ear to ear.

“Get out, Brim!” said Mrs. Purfle, accompanying the hint
with a resounding box on the ear; “get out! you're a fool!”

Then turning to the artist with a bland smile, she communicated
to him in a whisper her belief that Celestina would undertake
the part, if she was properly requested.

“Ahem!” said Mr. Ashdod Cockles, who was troubled with a
cold; “ahem! yes, ma'am—but it would be asking quite too
much of your niece. I think we had better—”

“Not at all, not at all!” insisted the lady; “Teeny is so
obliging she'll not think anything of it. I'll ask her at once.”

“But,” persisted Mr. Cockles, fidgeting a good deal, “she is
really quite too short for the character. A taller figure—”

“Oh! you forget she is to be conveyed under the quilt! I'll
manage all that,” said the zealous diplomatist, “I'll dress her,
and everything.”

And she left the room and returned in a very short time with
Miss Pye's unhesitating consent. So Mr. Cockles could not but
be very much obliged; and Mrs. Purfle, in the highest spirits,
sent Brim off at once to Mr. Oliver's, to tell him he must be sure
to come to the exhibition. “And Brim,” she added, “if you tell
him a word about you know what, I'll skin ye!” A favourite
figure of speech of Mrs. Purfle's.

“What exhibition?” said Tom, who had but just returned
from the woods.

“Oh, every thing in the world!” said Brim, who was as much
excited as any body; “and Miss Teeny—” but here he thought
of his skin, and no persuasions of Tom could extort another word
on that point, though he was fluent on the main subject.

The evening came at last, and the weather chanced to be
pleasanter than it generally is on great occasions. The ball-room
was elegantly fitted up with suspended crosses of wood stuck
with tallow candles,—rather drippy, but you must keep out of their
way,—(I have seen gentlemen's coats completely iced with spermaceti,
which, if more genteel, is also more destructive.) Instead
of glass cases, a screen or medium of dark-coloured gauze was
interposed between the eye and the wax figures, in order to produce
the requisite illusion. The puppets and the magic-lantern
came first in order, and so great was the delight of the spectators
that it would seem that any after-show must have been an anti-climax;
but the experienced Mr. Cockles knew better. It was
not until all this was done, that he ordered Nick to draw aside
the baize which had veiled the grand attraction. Great clapping
and rapping ensued, and it was some time before Mr. Cockles
could venture to begin, this being a part of the exhibition in which
he expected to shine personally.

“This, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, at the upper end of
the room, “this is the New Orleans beauty; she was engaged
to be married to two gentlemen at once, and to avoid the torments
of jealousy, they settled it between 'em, and first shot her and

then each other through the heart! and they're all buried in one
tomb; and I should have had the tomb too, only it was rather
heavy to carry.”

Every body crowded to this interesting sight.

“This,” continued the exhibiter, in a high-toned and theatrical
voice, waving at the same time a gilded wand, which excited
much admiration, “is the celebrated Miss M`Crea and her murderers,
from likenesses taken on the spot by an eye-witness.”

A shudder ran through the throng at this announcement, and
the grinning Indians were closely scrutinized, and the fierceness
and many evil qualities of their race commented on in an under
tone.

“Here is a revolutionary character, ladies and gentlemen,”
Mr. Cockles went on, as his familiar edged him along on his
wheel-chair; and he pointed to a stumpy old man in a blue coat
faced with red, who brandished a wooden sword as high as the
ceiling would allow.

“This was one of my forefathers,” observed the orator, with
no little swell; “my great-great-grandfather, or some such relation.
He was a man by the name of Horatio Cockles, that cut
away the bridge at Rome just as the British was coming across
it. You've all heard of Rome, I suppose?”

A murmur of assent went round; and one man observed, “I
was born and brought up within five mile of it, but I never heard
tell o' that 'ere feller!”

“Ay, yes! maybe not,” said Mr. Cockles, quite undisturbed,
“but do you understand history?”

The objector was posed, and the orator proceeded.

“This is Lay Fyett, and this is Bonypart, with a man's head
that he has just cut off with his sword. He used to do that whenever
he got mad.”

A shudder, with various exclamations.

“But here,” said Mr. Cockles, drawing aside with a flourishing
air, a mysterious-looking curtain, which had excited a good
deal of curiosity during the evening, “this here is the Sleeping
Beauty. Her infant daughter got broke a-coming.”

And there lay a female figure, in whose well-rouged cheeks
and dyed ringlets no one recognized the heiress of Mrs. Purfle's

worldly substance. Even the eyebrows, which nature had left
white, were entirely altered by the experienced skill of the artist,
who had felt himself at liberty to put them on where he thought
they would look best, the original ones being invisible by candlelight.
A very elegant cap, full trimmed with artificial flowers,
had been arranged by Mrs. Purfle; and the sky-blue pillow
fringed with gold, and the purple quilt which belonged to the
character, made altogether a very magnificent affair, though Mr.
Ashdod Cockles had not thought it prudent to suspend more than
a single candle within the chintz curtains and the gauze blind.

Just as the concealing screen had been withdrawn, and while
a buzz of admiration was still in circulation, Tom Oliver, who
had been in no haste to obey Mrs. Purfle's hint, made his way
into the room. He took a momentary glance at the attractions
which lined the walls, and then sought the object which now fixed
the eager crowd. It took a good look to satisfy him; but with
the help of Brim's hint and certain potent recollections, the truth
came upon him at once; and with a very audible “pshaw!” he
turned on his heel and made for the door. The string by which
the Sleeping Beauty's candle was suspended passing along near
the ceiling, caught Tom's cap in his hasty retreat, and ruin ensued.
In an instant Miss Teeny's gay head-dress was all in a
blaze, and one whole side of her curls was burnt off before the
cruel flames could be smothered. Tom was among the most active
in endeavouring to repair the mischief he had done, and then,
much mortified, darted out of the room. As his evil stars must
have decreed, he met Emma Levering at the top of the stairs,
and if ours were of the fashionable single-flight order, broken
bones would have certainly ensued. But most fortunately there
was a saving platform, which received Tom and his victim, in
time to prevent so serious a catastrophe. As it was, however,
the pretty Emma was a good deal hurt, and to Tom's eager questions
she could only answer with a burst of tears. So Tom, without
ceremony, caught her up in his arms, and ran with her to her
mother's, which was not far distant; and then, after more apologies
than he ever made before in the whole course of his life,
he took his leave, and hid his head beneath his own roof.

Before Emma's bruises got well, it was all over with Tom.

The barriers about his heart seemed to have been fractured by
the fall; and Cupid is not slow in making the most of such advantages.
Tom Oliver forgot to hunt, but occupied his time instead,
in building an addition to his house, and putting a new fence
about his door-yard. What arguments he may have found necessary
to overcome Emma's resentment against him, we are not
informed; but we are assured that it was not until he was obliged
to own she had wounded his heart that he mustered courage to
tell her that he came very near being beforehand with her, away
off in Jefferson County. The fact of their betrothment became
known in due time by the lamentations of Mrs. Levering, who
thought it very unkind in Emma to be willing to leave her for
any body else. Few of the neighbours could conscientiously
agree with her in this view of Emma's choice. Most people
thought it very natural; and Emma succeeded in reconciling her
mother to the change by the suggestion that Tom could fill the
place which Jack's ill-health prevented him from taking.

Miss Pye's ringlets were a long time growing, during which
interval she remained much at home, in rather low spirits. Emma
is benevolently waiting until the fair Celestina is presentable,
in order that she may stand bridesmaid, at her own urgent request.
Mrs. Purfle is understood to have been so much discouraged
by the ill success of her efforts in behalf of her niece,
that she declares it her fixed determination to let her take her
chance in future. This resolve, if adhered to, gives hopes that
history may yet record a happy termination of all Miss Pye's
anxieties; since, whether in town or country, no labour is more
apt to defeat itself than that which has for its object the acquisition
of the grand desideratum—a husband.