39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
UP THE HILL-SIDE AND UNDER THE CHESTNUTS.
Thus leaving the sedgy stream behind, with all its brilliant
ripples, silver sands, and swaying waterflags, which made their
merry music for it, as it went along toward the far Potomac,—
our joyful party ascended the fine hill which rose beyond,
mounting with every step, above the little town of Winchester,
which before long looked more like a lark's nest hidden in a
field of wheat, than what it was—an honest border town, with
many memories.
Verty and Redbud, as we have said, went first.
We have few artists in Virginia—only one great humorist with
the pencil. This true history has not yet been submitted to him.
Yet we doubt whether ever the fine pencil of Monsignor Andante
Strozzi could transfer to canvas, or the engraver's block, the
figures of the maiden and the young man.
Beauty, grace, and picturesqueness might be in the design, but
the indefinable and subtle poetry—the atmosphere of youth, and
joy, and innocence, which seemed to wrap them round, and go
with them wherever they moved—could not be reproduced.
Yet in the mere material outline there was much to attract.
Redbud, with her simple little costume, full of grace and
elegance—her slender figure, golden hair, and perfect grace of
movement, was a pure embodiment of beauty—that all-powerful
beauty, which exists alone in woman when she passes from the
fairy land of childhood, or toward the real world, pausing with
reluctant feet upon the line which separates them.
Her golden hair was secured by a bow of scarlet ribbon, her
dress was azure, the little chip hat, with its floating streamer,
just fell over her fine brow, and gave a shadowy softness to her
tender smile: she looked like some young shepherdness of Arcady,
from out the old romances, fresh, and beautiful, and happy,
Poor, cold words! If even our friend the Signor, before mentioned,
could not do her justice, how can we, with nothing but
our pen!
This little pastoral queen leant on the arm of the young Leather-stocking
whom we have described so often. Verty's costume,
by dint of these outlined descriptions, must be familiar to the
reader. He had secured his rifle, which he carried beneath his
arm, and his eye dwelt on the autumn forest, with the old dreamy
look which we have spoken of. As he thus went on, clad in his
wild forest costume, placing his moccasined feet with caution
upon the sod, and bending his head forward, as is the wont of
hunters, Verty resembled nothing so much as some wild tenant
of the American backwoods, taken back to Arcady, and in love
with some fair Daphne, who had wiled him from the deer.
All the old doubt and embarrassment had now disappeared
from Redbud's face; and Verty, too, was happy.
They went on talking very quietly and pleasantly—the fresh
little face of Redbud lit up by her tender smile.
“What are you gazing at?” said the young girl, smiling, as
Verty's eye fixed itself upon the blue sky intently; “I don't see
anything—do you?”
“Yes,” said Verty, smiling too.
“What?”
“A pigeon.”
“Where?”
“Up yonder!—and I declare! It is yours, Redbud.”
“Mine?”
“Yes—see! he is sweeping nearer—pretty pigeon!”
“Oh—now I see him—but it is a mere speck; what clear
sight you have!”
Verty smiled.
“The fact is, I was brought up in the woods,” he said.
“I know; but can you recognize—?”
“Your pigeon, Reddie? oh, yes! It is the one I shot that day,
and followed.”
“Yes—”
“And found you by—I'm very much obliged to him,” said
Verty, smiling; “there he goes, sweeping back to the Bower of
Nature.”
“How prettily he flies,” Redbud said, looking at the bird,—
“and now he is gone.”
“I see him yet—another has joined him—there they go—
dying, dying, dying in the distance—there! they are gone!”
And Verty turned to his companion.
“I always liked pigeons and doves,” he said, “but doves the
best; I never shoot them now.”
“I love them, too.”
“They are so pretty!”
“Oh, yes!” said Redbud; “and they coo so sweetly. Did you
never hear them in the woods, Verty—moaning in their nests.”
“Often—very often, Reddie.”
“Then the dove was the bird sent out of the ark, you know.”
“Yes,” said Verty, “and came back with the olive branch. I
love to read that
“What a long, weary flight the poor bird must have had!”
“And how tired it must have been.”
“But God sustained it.”
“I know,” said Verty; “I wish I had been there when it
flew back. How the children—if there were any children—
must have smoothed its wings, and petted it, and clapped their
hands at the sight of the olive branch!”
The simple Verty laughed, as he thought of the glee of the
little ark-children—“if there were any.”
“There are no olives here,” he said, when they had gone a little
further; “but just look at that hickory! It's growing as yellow
as a buttercup.”
“Yes, and see the maples!”
“Poor fellows!” said Verty.
“Why pity them?
“I always did; see how they are burning away. And the
chestnuts—oh! I think we will get some chestnuts: here is a
tree—and we are at the top of the hill.”
Verty thereupon let go Redbud's arm, and busied himself in
gathering a pile of the chestnuts which had fallen. This ceremony
was attentively watched by Longears, who, lying with his front
paws stretched out straight, his head bent knowingly on one side,
and an expression of thoughtful dignity upon his countenance,
seemed to be revelling in the calm delights of a good conscience
and a mild digestion.
Fanny and her eavalier came up just as Verty had collected
a pile of the chestnuts, and prepared some stones for the purpose
of mashing them out.
The party thereupon, with much laughter, betook themselves
to the task, talking gaily, and admiring the landscape as they
munched—for even young ladies munch—the chestnuts.
One accident only happened, and that was not of an important
nature. Longears, full of curiosity, like most intellectual characters,
had approached very near Verty as he was mashing the
chestnuts upon the stone selected for the purpose, and even in
the excess of his interest, had protruded his nose in the vicinity
of the young man's left hand, which held the nuts, while he prepared
to strike it with the mass of limestone which he held in
his right.
It chanced that Verty was talking to Fanny when Longears
made this demonstration of curiosity, and did not observe him.
Longears sniffed.
Verty raised his stone.
Longears smelt at the chestnut in his master's grasp, his cold
muzzle nearly touching it.
The stone crashed down.
Longears made a terrific spring backwards, and retiring to
some distance rubbed his nose vigorously with his paws, looking
all the while with dignified reproach at his master.
The nose had not suffered, however, and Longears was soon
appeased and in a good humor again. The incident caused a
great accession of laughter, and after this the chestnuts having
been eaten, the party rose to walk on.
