University of Virginia Library

58. CHAPTER LVIII.
THE SECOND WARNING.

The young man was in an idle mood, and attracted by
the fresh faces of the children, always favorites with him,
halted, and turning in his saddle, followed their gay gambols
with a pleased smile.

It was not long before a figure detached itself from the
merry flock of boys and girls, and this little figure approached
the fence, and made Mr. St. John a smiling curtesey.

It was Blossom, and the young lady seemed to experience
much pleasure in again meeting with her friend.

The man and the child had scarcely exchanged greetings
when Uncle Jimmy Doubleday himself made his appearance,
framed, like a gigantic pedagogue, in the doorway of the
old field school. Seeing Mr. St. John, Uncle Jimmy came
toward that gentleman, walking, with the dignity of a patriarch,
in the midst of his family and tribe.

“You behold a pleasing sight, my dear Mr. St. John,”
said Uncle Jimmy, taking off his great goggles, and extending
the hand holding them toward the flocks of children.
“I hold not with the heathen philosophers that children are
as ciphers in the state; to my mind, they are meadow flowers
which gladden the hearts of those who look upon them,

and in all the various relations of our life, wield mighty influences.”

Uncle Jimmy stooped, in a dignified way, to button a
negligent “point” of his splatterdashes as he spoke, and
then pulled his long waistcoat again carefully to his knees.

“I think with you, Mr. Doubleday,” replied the young
man smiling, “that they are great blessings; their affection
often outweighs that of older persons.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Uncle Jimmy, placing a fatherly
hand on the sunny curls of little Blossom, who stood demurely
by him, one foot based firmly on the ground, the
other poised upon the toe of her slipper—the neat stockings,
without crease or fold, beneath the short skirt; “that is
true, Mr. St. John, and in my little friend, Blossom, here,
who seems to know you, I recognize a treasure of goodness
and affection. Nay, do n't blush, my child; I like to praise
you for your dutiful and obedient conduct. I only wish you
would give a little of your character to that young scamp,
Paul, who narrowly escaped the birch this morning.”

And Uncle Jimmy smiled.

Before Blossom could defend her sweetheart, Uncle Jimmy
felt a hand on the skirt of his long coat, and turning
round, beheld the smiling physiognomy of Master Paul.

“I say, Uncle Jimmy,” said that young man, “I did n't
mean to hit you on the nose, shooting that pea. I was only
trying Bob Dandridge's popgun, and I did n't mean for it to
go off.”

“Behold, Mr. St. John, the depravity of the character of
children,” said Uncle Jimmy, with philosophic severity;
“this youth is really incorrigible; reproving does not affect
him in the least; he always begs off in a way which indicates
a natural genius for the forum.”

And Uncle Jimmy frowned at Paul, after which he turned
away his head to smile.

Whether Master Paul saw the smile or not, we can not
say, but he uttered the observation, “Uncle Jimmy, me and
Blossom like you very much,” after which the youngster

ran to his pony, and putting Blossom up behind him, galloped
off toward “Roseland,” her father's cottage.

“Such is the nature of children,” said Uncle Jimmy,
smiling and taking a pinch of rapparee, which he offered to
his friend, “they laugh at every thing.”

“I think 't is a better philosophy than groaning,” said
St. John.

“Doubtless, but many disappointments await them; life
is a hard enemy. A decade from this moment and they will
change their merriment to sorrow, their smiles to sighing.”

St. John smiled.

“Then your theory questions the possibility of perfect
happiness to adults,” he said.

“Almost,” replied Uncle Jimmy.

“Suppose a grown man, as this child will be in the decade
you speak of; suppose such a man is loved devotedly
by a woman, all purity and truth,” said the young man,
smiling with his happy secret; “suppose the whole treasure
of a beautiful and noble nature is his own; is not that something
like the happiness you deny men?”

Uncle Jimmy shook his head.

“Time is uncertain,” he said; “woman more uncertain
than time.”

“Some are,” said St. John, laughing at his companion's
ignorance; “others are the pole stars of the earth.”

Uncle Jimmy shook his head again.

“It is well to look keenly to see whether the star we have
taken for the polar light, is not in the constellation of the
Serpent—Scorpio, my friend. Truly hath it been said by
Horatius,

meaning, as you doubtless comprehend, that women are oft
swayed by worldly considerations. But let me not seem
uncharitable. Perhaps grief has soured me and clouded my
eyes. It is the old who chant the
and beating their breasts cry, `Oh, Postumus! Postumus!
how the flying years glide away:

And Uncle Jimmy sighed and was silent, betaking himself,
for consolation, to his snuff again.

In taking the box from his pocket, he dropped a letter,
which came out with it, and as this circumstance did not attract
his attention, St. John pointed to it.

Uncle Jimmy stooped to pick it up rather hastily, and the
young man's eye chanced to fall upon the direction. He
smiled, for it was in a lady's handwriting.

“That seems to be from a fair friend—is it not?” he said,
laughing.

“Y-es,” observed Uncle Jimmy, rather shyly, “it is from
a friend of mine.”

“A lady?”

“Well, yes, my dear Mr. St. John, but the affair is simply—Platonic—simply
that, upon my word, sir.”

And Uncle Jimmy put the letter in his pocket. St. John
did not say that the preaching and practicing of the philosopher
badly agreed, but he thought so, and thus triumphed.

After a little more friendly conversation, they parted, and
Uncle Jimmy returned toward the old field school house,
now deserted. Mr. St. John continued his way back to
Williamsburg, smiling.

“What an amusing illustration of human philosophy that
was!” he said, “but how strange that thus, for the second
time in three or four days, I have listened to a voice unconsciously
bidding me distrust my happiness, and prepare for
a change, for misery. The other day it was, `Heaven will
not permit you to rust in the sloth of happiness at such a
crisis;' to-day it is, `Woman are scorpions!' What sad

philosophy! Ah, they do not know that the gift of this noble
love comes straight from heaven, and will purify me;
they do not know that whatever other women may be, this
one is nearly an angel in faithfulness and truth. A change
in her love! I should sooner look to see the star of evening
yonder dart from its orbit, and fade into nothing. How
unhappy must these poor hearts have been, to doubt the
certainty of my happiness!”

And smiling tranquilly, the young man went upon his
way.