University of Virginia Library

46. CHAPTER XLVI.
THE HAPPY AUTUMN FIELDS.

The rolling ground beyong the meadow, where the oaks rustled,
was the point of departure of the kite—the post from which
it sailed forth on its ærial voyage.

The whole affair was a success, and never did merrier hearts
watch a kite.

It was beautifully made—of beautiful paper, all red, and blue
and yellow—and the young girls had completely surrounded it
with figures of silver paper, and decorated it, from head to foot,
with flowers.

Thus, when it ascended slowly into the cerulean heavens, as
said the poetical Ralph, its long, flower-decorated streamers rippling
in the wind, it was greeted with loud cries of joy and admiration—thunders
of applause and enthusiastic encouragement to
“go on!” from Ralph, who had grown very young again—from
Fanny, even more exaggerated cries.

That young lady seemed to be on the point of flying after it—
the breeze seemed about to bear her away, and she clapped her
hands and followed the high sailing paper-bird with such delight,
that Ralph suggested she should be sent up as a messenger.

“No,” said Fanny, growing a little calmer, but laughing still,
“I'm afraid I should grow dizzy.”

And looking at the kite, which soared far up, and seemed to be
peeping from side to side, around the small white clouds, Fanny
laughed more than ever.

But why should we waste our time in saying that the gay
party were pleased with everything, and laughed out loudly for
that reason?

Perhaps a merrier company never made the golden days of
autumn ring with laughter, either at Apple Orchard, where
hill and meadow echoed to the joyous carol, or in any other
place. Sitting beneath the oaks, and looking to the old house
buried in its beautiful golden trees, the girls sang with their
pure, melodious voices, songs which made the fresh, yet dreamy
autumn dearer still, and wrapped the hearts of those who listened
in a smiling, calm delight. Give youth only skies and pure fresh
breezes, and the ready laughter shows how happy these things,
simple as they are, can make it. It wants no present beyond
this; for has it not what is greater still, the radiant and rosy
future, with its splendid tints of joy and rapture?

Youth! youth! Erect in the beautiful frail skiff, he dares the
tide, gazing with glorious brow upon the palace in the cloud,
which hovers overhead, a fairy spectacle of dreamland—real still
to him! Beautiful youth! As he stands thus with his outstretched
arms, the light upon his noble face, and the young lips
illumined by their tender smile, who can help loving him, and
feeling that more of the light of Heaven lingers on his countenance,
than on the man's? Youth! youth! beautiful youth!—
who, at times, does not look back to it with joyful wonder, long
for it with passionate regret—for its inexperience and weakness!
—its illusions and romance!—its fond trust, and April smiles
and tears! Who does not long to laugh again, and, leaning over
the bark's side, play with the foaming waves again, as in the old
days! Beautiful youth! sailing for Beulah, the land of flowers,
and landing there in dreams—how can we look upon your radiant
brow and eyes, without such regret as nothing taking root
in this world can console us for completely! Ah! after all,
there is no philosophy like ignorance—there is no joy like youth
and innocence!

The shouts and laughter ringing through the merry fields, on
the fine autumn morning, may have led us into this discourse
upon youth: the very air was full of laughter, and when Fanny
let the kite string go by accident, the rapture grew intense.

Verty and Redbud sitting quietly, at the distance of some
paces, under the oaks, looked on, laughing and talking.

“How bright Fanny is,” said Redbud, laughing—“Look! I
think she is lovely; and then she is as good as she can be.”

“I like her,” said Verty, tenderly, “because she likes you,
Redbud. I like Ralph, too—don't you?”

“Oh, yes—I think he is very pleasant and agreeable; he has
just come from college, and Fanny says, has greatly improved—
though,” whispered Redbud, bending toward Verty, and smiling,
“she says, when he is present, that he has not improved; just
the opposite.”

Verty sighed.

The delicate little face of Redbud was turned toward him
inquiringly.

“Verty, you sighed,” she said.

“Did I?” said Verty.

“Yes.”

Verty sighed again.

“Tell me what troubles you,” said Redbud, softly.

“Nothing—nothing,” replied Verty; “I was only thinking
about college, you know.”

“About college?”

“Yes.”

And Verty repeated the sigh.

“Tell me your thoughts,” said Redbud, earnestly.

“I was only thinking,” returned her companion, “that there
was no chance of my ever going to college, and I should like
to know how I am to be a learned man without having an
education.”

Redbud sighed too.

“But perhaps,” she said, “you might make yourself learned
without going to college.”

Verty shook his head.

“You are not so ignorant as you think,” Redbud said, softly.

“I know many persons as old as you are, who—who--are not
half as—intelligent.”

Verty repeated the shake of his head.

“I may know as much as the next one about hunting,” he
said; “and ma mere says that none of her tribe had as much
knowledge of the habits of the deer. Yes! yes! that is something—to
know all about life in the autumn woods, the grand
life which, some day, will be told about in great poetry, or ought
to be. But what good is there in only knowing how to follow
the deer, or watch for the turkeys, or kill bears, as I used to
before the neighborhood was filled up? I want to be a learned
man. I don't think anybody would, or ought to, marry me,”
added Verty, sighing.

Redbud laughed, and colored.

“Perhaps you can go to college, though,” she said.

“I'm afraid not,” said Verty; “but I won't complain. Why
should I? Besides, I would have to leave you all here, and I
never could make up my mind to that.”

(“Let it go, Ralph!” from Fanny.

To which the individual addressed, replies:

“Oh, certainly, by all means, darling of my heart!”)

Redbud smiled.

“I think we are very happy here,” she said; “there cannot
be anything in the Lowlands prettier than the mountains—”

“Oh! I know there is not!” exclaimed Verty, with the enthusiasm
of the true mountaineer.

“Besides,” said Redbud, taking advantage of this return to
brighter thoughts, “I don't think learning is so important, Verty.

It often makes us forget simple things, and think we are better
than the rest of the world—”

“Yes,” said Verty.

“That is wrong, you know. I think that it would be dearly
bought, if we lost charity by getting it,” said the girl, earnestly.

Verty looked thoughtful, and leaning his head on his hand,
said:

“I don't know but I prefer the mountains, then. Redbud, I
think if I saw a great deal of you, you would make me good—”

“Oh! I'm afraid—”

“I'd read my Bible, and think about God,” Verty said.

“Don't you now, Verty?”

“Yes; I read.”

“But don't you think?”

“Verty shook his head.

“I can't remember it often,” he replied. “I know I ought.”

Redbud looked at him with her soft, kind eyes, and said:

“But you pray?”

“Sometimes.”

“Not every night?”

“No.”

Redbud looked pained.

“Oh! you ought to,” she said.

“I know I ought, and I'm going to,” said the young man;
“the fact is, Redbud, we have a great deal to be thankful for.”

“Oh, indeed we have!” said Redbud, earnestly—“all this
beautiful world: the sunshine, the singing of the birds, the health
of our dear friends and relatives, and everything—”

“Yes, yes,” said Verty, “I ought to be thankful more than
anybody else.”

“Why?”

“You know I'm an Indian.”

Redbud looked dubious.

“At least ma mere is my mother,” said Verty; and if I am not
an Indian, I don't know what I am. You know,” he added, “I
can't be like a deer in the woods, that nobody known anything
about.”

Redbud smiled; then, after a moment's thought, said:

“I don't think you are an Indian, Verty.”

And as she spoke, the young girl absently passed the coral
necklace, we have spoken of, backward and forward between
her lips.

Verty pondered.

“I don't know,” he said, at last; “but I know it was very
good in God to give me such a kind mother as ma mere; and
such friends as you all. I'm afraid I am not good myself.”

Redbud passed the necklace through her fingers thoughtfully.

“That is pretty,” said Verty, looking at it. “I think I have
seen it somewhere before.”

Redbud replied with a smile:

“Yes, I generally wear it; but I was thinking how strange
your life was, Verty.”

And she looked kindly and softly with her frank eyes at the
young man, who was playing with the beads of the necklace.

“Yes,” he replied, “and that is just why I ought to be
thankful. If I was somebody's son, you know, everybody would
know me—but I aint, and yet, everybody is kind. I often try
to be thankful, and I believe I am,” he added; “but then I'm
often sinful. The other day, I believe I would have shot Mr.
Jinks—that was very wrong; yes, I know that was very wrong.”

And Verty shook his head sadly.

“Then I am angry sometimes,” he said, “though not often.”

“Not very often, I know,” said Redbud, softly; “you are
very sweet tempered and amiable.”

“Do you think so, Redbud?”

“Yes, indeed,” smiled Redbud.

“I'm glad you think so; I thought I was not enough; but I

have been talking about myself too much, which, Miss Lavinia
says, is wrong. But, indeed, Redbud, I'll try and be good in
future—look! there is Fanny quarreling with Ralph!”

They rose, and approached the parties indicated, who were,
however, not more quarrelsome than usual: Fanny was only
struggling with Ralph for the string of the kite. The contention
ended in mutual laughter; and as a horn at that moment sounded
for the servants to stop work for dinner, the party determined to
return to Apple Orchard.

The kite was tied to a root, and they returned homeward.