8. VIII.
HOW GEORGE WAS LED BY PROVIDENCE.
LET us now return to George, who, as the reader
will find, met with more adventures in his ride
than he expected.
The boy stood watching Captain Wagner until
that worthy and his ebon steed were swallowed by the bright
October foliage; and then mounting his handsome sorrel,
left Greenway Court, and—happy, laughing, joyous with
that rare roseate joy of youth and inexperience, and confidence—went
forth toward the South, over the swaying,
splendid prairie, and through the brilliant forest.
Poor words!—for what words can describe the forests of
the Shenandoah Valley in October?—what painter, even,
though he stood in stature above Titian, and the masters of
all time, could place upon the canvas the resplendent glories
of this noble season? Not a mere thoughtless rhapsody is
this—for in the heart of him who writes, a thousand Autumn
scenes live, like memories of youth, beautiful and
brilliant with the glories of the “jocund prime” of existence!—so
beautiful that, remembering them now, in days
not so bright, he is thankful for the treasure given him, and
living in his recollections, cares not for the present.
George was still in that brilliant land of youth—with
senses open to its glories and delights; and so he went on
joyfully, and gladly, through the golden morning, drinking
in at every pore, the splendors of the Autumn.
It was one of those mornings which seem to come like a
blessing on the earth: when the azure sky, piled up with
snowy clouds, droops down upon a world of beauty; when
the cool breath of joyful winds sweeps across hill and valley,
with a murmurous laughter, as of myriads of merry
goblins, let loose for a holiday, and reveling in their freedom.
The variegated foliage of the waving forest, like the banners
of every nation met in leaguer around the battlements of
the noble mountains, shone in the clear sunlight, and the
rich prairie waved its gorgeous flowers from end to end of
the great valley.
To George, the Autumn did not present an aspect of
mournfulness or decay: rather of full-handed, ripe, and
matured beauty. His eye dwelt with delight upon the
forest, with its magical colors; his roving and bright glances
penetrated the white, delicate mist which, clearly relieved
against the mountain, lay, like a milky cloud along the winding
river:—the boy's heart filled with youthful joy and
romance.
As he approached the mountain, the blue gradually
changed to green; the undefined shadowy giants stood out
in bolder relief, with rocky shoulders, and belts of haughty
pines;—and then, after an hour's rapid riding straight on,
he had approached so near, that it seemed to him an easy
thing to push his horse up the slope, and gain the inviting
summit. George had, however, yet to learn that nothing is
more deceptive than the apparent distance between the
beholder and the great towering sentinel of Nature. He
was yet a considerable distance from the mountain, and in
his path lay an obstacle not to be despised—the tree-fringed
river.
As George drew near the river, and went along under the
bright foliage of the lofty trees, a thousand woodland sights
and sounds were around him. On the prairie the landscape
was wild and undisturbed; he had heard no sound,
but the far resounding cry of the crane as he rose from some
streamlet's bed; had seen nothing but such air-wanderers
as swept the blue sky on long stately wings, far up among
the clouds:—for the most part all was still, and calm, and
vast, as undisturbed as the landscape untouched as yet by
the foot of man.
But now all was changed; the forest seemed instinct with
life, and joy, and beauty. Long vines fell in bright festoons
from the trees, and if these vines did not exhale the delicate
perfume with which they flooded the forests in May mornings,
they still were beautiful with their flaunting garlands,
and fantastic outlines.
The pines were full of whisperings, as though the mountain
wind would never have done telling them its secrets.
The oaks, yellow and tall. The dogwood brilliant with its
crimson clustering berries. The alder-tree, like saffron.
and the hickory, yellow, but still strong, and graceful as a
youthful giant—all were full of life and motion, and the
voice of birds.
At distant openings the young man caught sight of more
than one flying deer, and on the far mountain-side he saw
distinctly a herd of huge elk galloping, as is their wont, into
the verdurous, undiscovered depths of the deep glens.
As he approached the sloping bank of the river, an otter
showed his brown nose, and bead-like eyes, then dived,
making circles as he disappeared in the bright water; and
at the noise a flock of wild geese, who had been feeding in
the tall flags, rose up with a shrill clanging scream, and
soared away, far into the bright clouds, on snowy wings,
toward the South.
George reined up his horse and gazed with delighted eyes
on the tranquil stream, whose surface, scarce broken into
ripples by the gentle wind, mirrored the drooping boughs
of the crimson and golden-leafed trees, and white floating
clouds. The woodland sights and sounds delighted him—
the freshness and wild grace of the fair nook with its green
grass, and tree-trunks and fresh water, charmed him;—never
had he seen so beautiful a landscape.
As he sat quietly in his saddle, gazing at the bright water,
from which, at intervals, the “fall fish” leaped into the air;
his attention was attracted by a figure upon the opposite
side of the river, which at this point was not very wide.
This figure was that of a girl of about fifteen, who was evidently
gathering flowers.
For the purpose of reaching the water-blossoms, growing
far down in the shady nooks, near the surface of the stream,
she stooped very carelessly over—so carelessly at times, that
George, who, unseen himself amid the foliage, was watching
her, feared every moment that her foot would slip, and she
would be precipitated into the stream. But the little
maiden took her way along the steep and dangerous bank
with the care and skill of one practiced in roadside wandering;
and her basket was soon full of fall flowers, which she
paused to gaze at with evident satisfaction.
The boy looked at her for a moment, as she stood in the
sunlight—glad to have seen this fresh woodland picture.
He then turned the head of his horse, dismissed the little
maiden from his mind with a careless conjecture as to her
presence in that wild scene, and gazing at the clouds, was
about to continue his way. As he touched his horse with
the spur, a cry suddenly resounded in his ears—a cry of
alarm and helplessness—and wheeling round, he saw at one
rapid glance that his fears had been realized.
The little maiden had boldly ventured out upon a large,
moss-covered log, at the end of which grew a magnificent
cluster of yellow primroses; and this log having turned, she
had lost her footing.
When George saw her she was just losing her balance;
and her cry of terror scarcely reached his ears, when she
dropped her basket, and fell into the stream.
George was one of those persons who never hesitate or
lose their presence of mind—whom no sudden surprise
affects.
The girl had scarcely touched the water before the boy,
with a violent stroke of the spur, had driven his horse into
the river, and was swimming vigorously and rapidly toward
her.
