University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
HOW VERTY SHOT A WHITE PIGEON.

Mr. Roundjacket's illusions were all dissipated—the attentive
listener was a sleeping listener—his poem, dreadful to think of,
had absolntely lulled Verty to slumber.

We may understand the mortification of the great writer;
the irritable genus had in him no unfit representative, thus far at
least. He caught Verty by the shoulder and shook him.

“Wake up, you young savage!” he cried, “sleeping when I
am reading to you; rouse! or by the immortal gods I'll
commit an assault and battery upon your barbarous person!
Savage! barbarian! monster!”

Suddenly Mr. Roundjacket heard a hoarse growl, and something
like a row of glittering steel knives attracted his attention
in the direction of his legs. This phenomenon was caused by
the opening of Longear's huge mouth—that intelligent animal
having espoused the cause of his master, so rudely assaulted, and
prepared for instant battle.

Fortunately, Verty woke up before the combat commenced;
and seeing the hound standing in a threatening attitude, he
ordered him to lie down. Longears obeyed with great alacrity,
and was soon dozing again.

Then commenced, on the part of Mr. Roundjacket, an eloquent
and animated remonstrance with Verty on the impropriety of
that proceeding which he had just been guilty of. It was unfeeling,
and barbarous, and unheard of, the poet observed, and

but one thing induced him to pardon it—the wild bringing up
of the young man, which naturally rendered him incapable of
appreciating a great work of art.

Verty explained that he had been hunting throughout the preceding
night—setting traps, and tramping over hill and through
dale—and thus he had been overcome by drowsiness. He smiled
with great good nature upon Mr. Roundjacket, as he uttered this
simple excuse, and so winning was the careless sunshine of his
countenance, that honest Roundjacket, uttering an expiring
grumble, declared that nothing was more natural than his drowsiness.
In future, he said, he would select those seasons when
his—Verty's—senses were bright and wide-awake; and he
begged the young man not to fear a repetition of what he might
have heard—there were fifteen more cantos, all of which he
would read, slowly and carefully explaining, as he went along,
any difficulties.

Verty received this announcement with great good humor, and
then began tracing over his paper, listlessly, the word “Redbud.”
That word had been the key-note of his mind throughout the
morning—that was the real secret of his abstraction.

Miss Lavinia had informed him on that morning, when she
had dismissed him from Apple Orchard, that Redbud was going
away for the purpose of being educated; and that he, Verty,
would act very incorrectly if he asked any one whither Redbud
was going. Thus the boy had been rendered gloomy and sad—
he had wandered about Apple Orchard, never daring to ask
whither the young girl had gone—and so, in one of his wanderings,
had encountered Mr. Rushton, who indeed was seeking him.
He had easily yielded to the representations of that gentleman,
when he assured him that he ought to apply his mind to something
in order to provide for all the wants of his Indian mother—
and this scheme was all the more attractive, as the neighborhood
of Apple Orchard, to which his steps ever wandered, occasioned
him more sadness than he had ever felt before. Redbud was

gone—why should he go near the place again? The sunshine
had left it—he had better seek new scenes, and try what effect
they would have.

Therefore was it that Verty had become a lawyer's clerk; and
it was the recollection of these causes of sadness which had made
the boy so dull and languid.

Without Redbud, everything seemed dim to him; and he could
not ask whither she had flown.

This was his sad predicament.

After receiving the assurance of Roundjacket's pardon, Verty,
as we have said, began serawling over the copy of the deed he
was making the name of Redbud. This persevering and thoughtful
occupation at last attracted the attention of his companion.

“Redbud!” asked the poet, “who is Redbud, my young
friend? I should conjecture that she was a young lady, from the
name.—Stay, is there not a Miss Redbud Summers, daughter of
the Squire of said name?”

Verty nodded.

“A friend of yours?”

“Yes,” sighed Verty.

Mr. Roundjacket smiled.

“Perhaps you are making love to her?” he said.

“Making love?” asked Verty, “what is that?”

“How!” cried the poet, “you don't mean to say you are
ignorant of the nature of that divine sentiment which elevates
and ennobles in so remarkable a degree—hem!—all humanity!”

“Anan!” said Verty, with an inquiring look.

Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving
a profound silence.

“My young friend,” he said at last, “how old are you?”

Eighteen, ma mere says.”

“Who's mommer, pray?

“Mother.”

“Oh,” said the poet, with some confusion, “the fact is, your

pronunciation—but don't let us discuss that. I was going to
say, that it is impossible for you to have reached your present
period of life without making love to some lady.

Verty looked bewildered, but smiled.

Mr. Roundjacket was astounded at finding such savage ignorance
in his companion;—he revolved in his mind the means of
enlightening Verty, in vain.

At last he placed the end of his ruler upon his waistcoat, and
said, mysteriously:

“Do you see me?”

“Yes,” replied Verty.

“Well, sir, I made love to a young woman when I was six.”

Verty looked interested.

“At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times,”
continued Mr. Roundjacket; “and now, sir, I make it a point
to pay my addresses—yes, to proceed to the last word, the `will
you,' namely,—once, at least, a year.”

Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and
then rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow.

“I feel very tired,” he said, “I wish I was in the woods.”

And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to
the door, and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the
busy street.

He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the
dingy office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town. He
seemed to have been translated thither, from the far forest wilds,
by the wave of some magician's wand, so little did he appear to
be a portion of the seene. Verty looked even wilder than ever,
from the contrast, and his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping
hat of fur, would have induced the passers-by to take him for
an Indian, but for the curling hair and the un-Indian face.

Verty gazed up into the sky and mused—the full sunlight of
the bright October morning falling in a flood upon his wild
accountrements.

By gazing at the blue heavens, over which passed white clouds,
ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the
uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;—and passing perforce
of his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was
again on the hills, breathing the pure air, and following the
deer.

Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud
often, while gazing on them; and now he smiled, and felt
brighter as he looked.

His forest instincts returned, and, bending his bow, he carelessly
fitted an arrow upon the leather string. What should he
shoot at?

There was a very handsome fish upon a neighboring belfry,
which was veering in the wind; and this glittering object seemed
to Verty an excellent mark. As he was about to take aim, however,
his quick eye caught sight of a far speck in the blue sky;
and he lowered his bow again.

Placing one hand above his eyes, he raised his head, and fixed
his penetrating gaze upon the white speck, which rapidly increased
in size as it drew nearer. It was a bird with white wings, clearly
defined against the azure.

Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string,
waited until the air-sailer came within striking distance. Then
drawing the arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose
ruffled breast presented an excellent mark.

The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air—
struck the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl
fell toward Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched
arms, ran to catch it.

It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated
and lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its
onward career, like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with
canvas, snaps in a sudden gust.

Verty caught the pigeon, and drew the arrow from its wing,
which was all stained with blood.

“Oh, what large eyes you have!” he said, smiling; “you're
a handsome pigeon. I will not kill you. I will take you home
and cure your wing, and then, if ever I again see Redbud, I will
give you to her, my pretty bird.”

Poor Verty sighed, and his eyes drooped as he thought of the
girl.

Suddenly, however, a small scroll of yellow paper encircling
the pigeon's neck, and concealed before by the rufiled plumage,
caught his eye.

“Paper! and writing on it!” he said; “why, this is somebody's
pet-pigeon I have shot!”

And tearing off the scroll, Verty read these words, written in
a delicate, running-hand:

“I am Miss Redbud's pigeon; and Fanny gave me to her!”

Verty remained for a moment motionless—his eyes expanded
till they resembled two rising moons;—“I am Miss Redbud's
pigeon!” Then Redbud was somewhere in the neighborhood of
the town—she had not gone far out into the wide, unknown
world—this pigeon might direct him;—Verty found a thousand
thoughts rushing through his mind, like so many deer in a herd,
jostling each other, and entangling their horns.

Surely, it would not be wrong for him to embrace this chance
of discovering Redbud's residence—a chance which seemed to
have been afforded him by some unseen power. Why should he
not keep the bird until its wing was healed, and then observe the
direction of its flight? Why not thus find the abode of one in
whose society so much of his happiness consisted? Was there
any thing wrong in it—would any one blame him?

These were the questions which Verty asked himself, standing
in the October sunshine, and holding the wounded pigeon to his
breast. And the conelusion was ere long reached. He decided,
to his own perfect satisfaction, that he had the full right to do
as he wished; and then he re-entered the office.

Mr. Roundjacket was busy at some more law papers, and did

not observe the object which he carried. Verty sat down at his
desk; betook himself to copying, having rejected the sketch-ornamented
sheet; and by evening had done a very fair day's work.

Then he put on his hat, placed the wounded pigeon in his
bosom, and, mounting his horse, set forward toward the hills.

“In three days,” he said, “you will be cured, pretty pigeon,
and then I will let you go; and it will be hard if I don't follow
your flight, and find out where your mistress lives. Oh, me! I
must see Redbud—I can't tell why, but I know I must see her!”

And Verty smiled, and went on with a lighter heart than he
had possessed for many a day.