1. CHAPTER I.
FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
It is a beautiful May morning, in the year 1774.
The sun is shining brightly, the oriole swings to and fro
on his lofty spray, and carols to the spring; the month of
flowers has dawned upon the world in all its loveliness, and
scattered daisies, violets and buttercups on the green expanse
of smiling meadows, and along the grassy banks of
streams.
Two children holding each other by the hand, take their
way through a forest stretching to the west of Williamsburg,
the old capital of Virginia.
They are a boy and a girl, apparently about ten years of
age.
The boy is a gallant looking urchin, clad in a richly embroidered
roundabout, drab shorts, and gayly colored stockings,
which disappear in high-quartered shoes, ornamented
with rosettes of ribbon; his curling hair, framing ruddy
cheeks, is surmounted by a little cocked hat with a jaunty
feather.
The girl's costume is in some points similar.
She wears a sort of frock coat, so to speak, of pink “calimanco,”
opening in front, and displaying a species of waistcoat,
laced across a ruffled stomacher. The frock falls only
to the knees, where it is met by white silk stockings, held
by velvet garters, ornamented with clocks at the instep,
and ending in small high-heeled shoes, with galoshes. Her
head, with its bright curls, is protected by a broad-rimmed
chip hat, secured with a blue ribbon tied beneath the
chin.
The boy is gay, mischievous, full of mirth and high spirits.
The girl gentle, sedate, with a pensive look in her mild eyes
which peer out from a number of stray ringlets. In one
hand she carries a checker-work satchel, holding a few
books—for they are going to the old field school; in the
other, a nosegay of violets and sweet-briar roses, the gift
of her cavalier, who disputes the possession of her hand
with the flowers.
They soon come in sight of the old field school. It is a
log building, with a broad, well-barred door, a log for a
step, a chimney of rough stone built outside, and heavy
oaken shutters on rusty hinges.
The rude old building sleeps beneath the lofty oaks very
tranquilly; but from the interior comes a busy hum which
indicates the presence of children.
The girl looks anxiously toward one of the windows and
says:
“Oh me, Paul! See the sun on the shutter! We're very
late, and I'm afraid Uncle Jimmy 'll keep us in!”
“Let him!” replies Mr. Paul with great gallantry, “who
cares? We've had a glorious time getting flowers, Blossom;
and I don't mind being kept in with you.”
Paul inserts one thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat
as he speaks, and bestows a devoted look upon his
companion.
“I don't mind myself,” says Blossom, hurrying on, “but
you love Prisoner's Base so, Paul!—and then you came in
time: for yonder is your pony tied to the oak, and you'll be
kept in, because you came to meet me.”
“Well, what if I did come?” says Paul, carelessly, “although
you wouldn't let me carry your satchel. Is Uncle
Jimmy to ride roughshod over me for that? Can't a Virginia
gentleman get flowers for a lady without being
brought to trial?”
And Paul looks proud and indignant.
“A lady, Paul!” says Blossom, with a low silvery laugh;
“why I'm only a child!”
“You're my sweetheart.”
“Pshaw, Paul! what a goose you are! how foolish you
do talk!”
And Blossom turns away her head, hastening on towards
the school-house. Paul gets before her, however, and in a
moment they are standing in presence of Uncle Jimmy
Doubleday, an old gentleman with a lengthy coat, huge
goggles, splatterdashes, and a gray queue, who presides
over a crowd of boys and girls—all rosy cheeks, curls,
freekles and health—busy studying at the long desks against
the walls.
Uncle Jimmy has just inflicted condign punishment upon
an urchin who was drawing individuals in a boxing attitude
upon his slate—the criminal having been posted in a corner
with the slate around his neck, and a huge dunce's cap upon
his head. Uncle Jimmy is therefore irate. He sternly demands
of Paul and Blossom why they are so late.
Paul, who still holds his companion's hand, declares, with
an easy air, that he is the cause of it: he thought he'd carry
Blossom off to get some flowers.
“Oh no, Uncle Jimmy!” says Blossom, with a timid look
into the old schoolmaster's face, “I was late before, and
Paul is not to blame. Papa came home last night, and I
love to talk with him so much.”
At the word papa, Uncle Jimmy seems suddenly mollified.
“Well, well,” he says, looking through his great goggles
at the child's face, and trying not to smile, “well, Blossom,
you are excused; you never do wrong purposely, my child;
and for your sake I excuse this youngster. But take care
sir!” added Uncle Jimmy, turning with a tremendous frown
to the urchin, “take care, in future, Mr. Paul Effingham! I
make the prediction, that the birch destined for you, is
growing.”
And Uncle Jimmy scowled ferociously at Paul, who sauntered
with a jaunty air toward his desk. For Paul was a
favorite too.
The old pedagogue fell into a reverie, caressed gently
Blossom's hair, heaved a sigh, and then awoke. Having
vigorously applied the birch to a youngster who had just
made his neighbor execute a terrible leap, by sticking a pin
into him, Uncle Jimmy called the next class, and so the old
field school went on its way as usual.
At last came “play time,” and the old schoolmaster closed
his books. To his profound astonishment the girls and urchins
did not move. Uncle Jimmy saw with incredulous
stupefaction that they did not snatch their hats with ardor,
and rush into the open air.
The worthy pedagogue rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming?
Had he made a mistake and forestalled the hour?
No: there was the rustic dial consisting of a nail driven
into the window seat, whose shadow, when it ran along a
certain line, marked noon; and now the shadow plainly indicated
twelve. Instead of rushing out, the boys and girls
had gathered around Blossom, and evidently desired to use
her favor with the pedagogue to obtain some boon.
Blossom seemed to resist; but the eloquent advocates redoubled
their entreaties, and at last the girl approached the
schoolmaster.
“If you please, Uncle Jimmy,” she said, timidly, “we
want you to give us a holiday to-day.”
“Holiday!” cried Uncle Jimmy, with a horrified expression,
“holiday! On what earthly ground?”
Blossom was a little abashed by the loud exclamation, and
faltered.
“There, my child—there, Blossom,” said Uncle Jimmy,
“don't mind my outcry. I'm not a httle forest bird like
you, that does nothing but cheep and twitter. I growl:
don't mind me; but say why you want a holiday. Can
any one explain such an unusual request?”
And the pedagogue addressed himself with dignity to
the crowd. He had cause to regret the movement. A
deafening explanation greeted his appeal, above whose uproar
were heard only the words, “They're coming! They're
coming! They're coming!”
The schoolmaster closed his ears with horror; and then
rising to his full height upon the rostrum, extended both his
hands in wrath above the youthful orators, and cried—
“Cease, ye young bulls of Bashan!—cease! Have you
no regard for my ears, unhappy reprobates that you are!
Let Blossom speak, and hold your clatter, or I'll birch
every mother's son of you!”
It seemed that even the little maidens were terrified by
this address to the boys. A deep silence followed, and
Blossom having again urged the general request, Uncle
Jimmy did what he had never for a moment hesitated about
—he gave the desired holiday.
“Go, go my children,” he said, “yes, go and see the vain
pageant of a poor mimic royalty! You are not an old fellow
like me; you are children, and love music, and bells
ringing, and fine dresses. Go see how gallant we can be in
old Virginia when we—pshaw! I'm not making an address!
Go, children, and come early in the morning.”
With these words Uncle Jimmy extended his hands paternally,
and in a minute and a half the old school-house
was deserted.
At the same moment the noise of chariots was heard upon
the forest road in front of the school-house—the rolling of
wheels, and the sound of the hoofs of horses.
