University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
HOW VERTY THOUGHT, AND PLAYED, AND DREAMED.

Verty took his weary way westward through the splendid
autumn woods, gazing with his dreamy Indian expression on the
variegated leaves, listening to the far cries of birds, and speaking
at times to Longears and Wolf, his two deer hounds.

Then his head would droop—a dim smile would glimmer upon
his lips, and his long, curling hair would fall in disordered masses
around his burnt face, almost hiding it from view. At such
moments Verty dreamed—the real world had disappeared—
perforce of that imagination given him by heaven, he entered
calm and happy into the boundless universe of reverie and fancy.

For a time he would go along thus, his arms hanging down,
his head bent upon his breast, his body swinging from side to
side with every movement of his shaggy little horse. Then he
would rouse himself, and perhaps fit an arrow to his bow, and
aim at some bird, or some wild turkey disappearing in the glades.
Happy birds! the arrow never left the string. Verty's hand
would fall—the bow would drop at his side—he would fix his
eyes upon the autumn woods, and smile.

He went on thus through the glades of the forest, over the
hills, and along the banks of little streams towards the west.
The autumn reigned in golden splendor—and not alone in gold:
in purple, and azure and crimson, with a wealth of slowly
falling leaves which soon would pass away, the poor perished
glories of the fair golden year. The wild geese flying South sent
their faint carol from the clouds—the swamp sparrow twittered,

and the still copse was stirred by the silent croak of some wandering
wild turkey, or the far forest made most musical with that
sound which the master of Wharncliffe Lodge delighted in, the
“belling of the hart.”

Verty drank in these forest sounds, and the full glories of the
Autumn, rapturously—while he looked and listened, all his sadness
passed away, and his wild Indian nature made him happy
there, in the heart of the woods. Ever and anon, however, the
events of the morning would occur to him, sweeping over his
upraised brow like the shadow of a cloud, and dimming the
brightness of his dreamy smiles.

“How red the maples grow!” he said, “they are burning
away—and the dogwood! Poor oaks! I'm sorry for you; you
are going, and I think you look like kings—going? That was
what Redbud said! She was going away—going away!”

And a sigh issued from Verty's lips, which betrayed the importance
he attached to Redbud's departure. Then his head
drooped; and he murmured—“going away!”

Poor Verty! It does not require any very profound acuteness
to divine your condition. You are one more added to the
list which Leander heads in the old Grecian fable. Your speech
betrays you.

“Wild geese! They are early this year. Ho, there! good
companions that you are, come down and let me shoot at you.
`Crake! crake!' that is all you say—away up there in the
white clouds, laughing at me, I suppose, and making fun of my
bow. Listen! they are answering me from the clouds! I
wish I could fly up in the clouds! Travelling, as I live, away
off to the south!—leaving us to go and join their fellows.
They are wild birds; I've shot many of em'. Hark, Longears!
see up there! There they go—`crake! crake! crake!' I can see
their long necks stretched out toward the South—they are almost
gone—going away from me—like Redbud!”

And Verty sighed piteously.

“I wonder what makes my breast feel as if there was a weight
upon it,” he said, “I'll ask ma mere.”

And putting spurs to Cloud, Verty scoured through the pine
hills, and in an hour drew near his home.

It was one of those mountain huts which are frequently met
with to this day in our Virginian uplands. Embowered in pines,
it rather resembled, seen from a distance, the eyrie of some huge
eagle, than the abode of human beings, though eagles' eyries are
not generally roofed in, with poles and clapboards.

The hut was very small, but not as low pitched as usual, and
the place had about it an air of wild comfort, which made it a
pleasant object in the otherwise unbroken landscape of pines, and
huge rocks, and browling streams which stretched around it.
The door was approached by a path which wound up the hill;
and a small shed behind a clump of firs was visible—apparently
the residence of Cloud.

Verty carefully attended to his horse, and then ascended the
hill toward the hut, from whose chimney a delicate smoke
ascended.

He was met at the door by an old Indian woman, who seemed
to have reached the age of three-score at least. She was clad in
the ordinary linsey of the period; and the long hair falling upon
her shoulders was scarcely touched with grey. She wore beads
and other simple trinkets, and the expression of her countenance
was very calm and collected.

Verty approached her with a bright smile, and taking her hand
in his own, placed it upon his head; then saying something in
the Delaware tongue, he entered the hut.

Within, the mountain dwelling was as wild as without. From
the brown beams over-head were suspended strings of onions,
tin vessels, bridles, dried venison, and a thousand other things,
mingled in inextricable confusion. In the wide fire-place, which
was supplied with stones for and-irons, a portion of the lately
slaughtered deer was broiling on an impromptu and primitive

species of gridiron, which would have disgusted Soyer and
astonished Vatel. This had caused the smoke; and as Verty
entered, the old woman had been turning the slices. Longears
and Wolf were already stretched before the fire, their eyes fixed
upon the venison with admiring attention and profound seriousness.

In ten minutes the venison was done, and Verty and his
mother ate in silence—Verty not forgetting his dogs, who growlėd
and contended for the pieces, and then slept upon the rude pine
floor.

The boy then went to some shelves in the corner, just by the
narrow flight of steps which led to the old woman's room above,
and taking down a long Indian pipe, filled it with tobacco, and
lit it. This having been accomplished, he took his seat on a sort
of wicker-work bench, just outside of the door, and began to
smoke with all the gravity and seriousness of a Sachem of the
Delawares.

In a moment he felt the hand of the old woman on his
shoulder.

“Verty has been asleep and dreamed something,” she said,
calmly, in the Delaware tongue.

“No, ma mere, Verty has been wide awake,” said the boy, in
the same language.

“Then the winds have been talking to him.”

“Hum,” said Verty.

“Something is on my son's mind, and he has tied his heart up
—mal!”

“No, no,” said Verty, “I assure you, ma mere, I'm quite
happy.”

And having made this declaration, Verty stopped smoking and
sighed.

The old woman heard this sigh, slight as it was, with the quick
ear of the Indian, and was evidently troubled by it.

“Has Verty seen the dove?” she said.

The young man nodded with a smile.

“Did they laugh?”

“They laughed.”

“Did he come away singing?”

Verty hesitated, then said, with an overshadowed brow—
“No, no, ma mere—I really believe he did not.”

The old woman pressed his hand between her own.

“Speak,” she said, “the dove is not sick?”

Verty sighed.

“No; but she is going away,” he said, “and Miss Lavinia
would not tell me where. What a hawk she is—oh! she shall
not harm my dove!”

And Verty betook himself to gazing with shadowy eyes upon
the sky. The old Indian was silent for some time. Then she
said—

“Trust in the Good Spirit, my son. We are not enough for
ourselves. We think we are strong and mighty, and can do
everything; but a wind blows us away. Listen, there is the
wind in the pines, and look how it is scattering the leaves. Men
are like leaves—the breath of the Great Spirit is the wind which
scatters them.”

And the old Indian woman gazed with much affection on the
boy.

“What you say is worthy to be written on bark, mother,” he
said, returning her affectionate glance; “the Great Spirit holds
everything in the hollow of his hand, and we are nothing.
Going away!” added Verty after a pause—“Going away!”

And he sighed.

“What did my son say?” asked the old woman.

“Nothing, ma mere. Ah le bon temp que ce triste jour!” he
murmured.

The old woman's head drooped.

“My son does not speak with a straight tongue,” she said;
“his words are crooked.”

“Non non,” said Verty, smiling; “but I am a little unwell,
ma mere. All the way coming along, I felt my breast weighed
down—my heart was oppressed. Look! even Longears knows
I'm not the Verty of the old time.”

Longears, who was standing at the door in a contemplative
attitude, fancied that his master called him, and, coming up,
licked Verty's hand affectionately.

“Good Longears!” said Verty, caressing him, “lie down at
my feet.”

Longears obeyed with much dignity, and was soon basking in
the sunlight before the door.

“Now, ma mere,” Verty said, with his habitual smile, “we
have been calling for the clouds to come up, and shut out the
sun; let us call for the sunlight next. You know I am your
Verty, and every day as I grow, I get able to do more for you.
I shall, some day, make a number of pistoles—who knows?—and
then think how much I could buy for you. Good mother!—
happy Verty!”

And taking the old woman's hand, Verty kissed it.

Then, leaning back, he reached through the window, and took
down a rude violin, and began to play an old air of the border,
accompanying the tune with a low chant, in the Indian fashion.

The old woman looked at him for some moments with great
affection, a sad smile lighting up her aged features; then saying
in a low tone, as if to herself, “good Verty!” went into the
house.

Verty played for some time longer. Tired at last of his violin,
he laid it down, and with his eyes fixed upon the sand at his feet,
began to dream. As he mused, his large twilight eyes slowly
drooped their long lashes, which rested finally on the ruddy
cheek.

For some moments, Verty amused himself tracing figures on
the sand near Longears' nose, causing that intelligent animal to
growl in his sleep, and fight imaginary foes with his paws.

From the window, the old Indian woman watched the young
man with great affection, her lips moving, and her eyes, at times,
raised toward the sky.

Verty reclined more and more in his wicker seat; the scenes
and images of the day were mingled together in his mind, and
became a dim wrack of cloud; his tangled hair shaded his face
from the sun; and, overcome by weariness, the boy sank back,
smiling even in his sleep. As he did so, the long-stemmed Indian
pipe fell from his hand across Longears' nose, half covering the
letters he had traced with it on the sand.

Those letters were, in rude tracing:

REDBUD.

And to these Verty had added, with melancholy and listless
smiles, the further letters:

GOING TO—

Unfortunately he was compelled to leave the remainder of the
sentence unwritten.