University of Virginia Library

47. CHAPTER XLVII.
DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

“Oh!” cried Fanny, as they were again walking upon the
smooth meadow, in the afternoon, “I think we ought to go and
get some apples!”

“And so do I,” said Ralph.

“Of course, I expected you to agree with me, sir.”

“Naturally; I always do.”

This observation was remotely satirical, and Miss Fanny resented
it.

“You are the most contentious person I ever knew,” she said.

“Am I?” asked Ralph.

“Yes, sir.”

“That is fortunate.”

“Why?”

“Because, difference of opinion is the soul of conversation,
and as you never disagree with anybody, we could not converse.
Observe how the syllogism comes out?”

“Fine logician!”

“Lovely damsel!”

“Mr. College-Graduate!”

“Miss School-Girl!”

“School-girl!”

“College-graduate!”

And after this exchange of compliments, the parties walked on,
mutually pleased with each other.

Redbud and Verty followed them, and they soon arrived at
the old orchard.

Behind the party followed Longears, whose presence, throughout
the day, we have very improperly neglected to mention; but
as that inquisitive animal was, during the whole morning, roaming,
at his own wild will, the neighboring field—prying into the
holes of various wild animals, and exchanging silent commentaries
with the Apple Orchard dogs—this omission will not appear
very heinous.

Longears had now regaled himself with a comfortable dinner,
the last bone of which he had licked—and having thus, like a
regular and respectable citizen, taken care of the material, was
busily engaged again in the intellectual pursuit of his enemies, the
squirrels, butterflies and bees, at which he barked and dashed at
times with great vigor and enthusiasm.

“Look at him,” said Redbud; “why does he dislike the
butterflies?”

“Only fun,” said Verty; “he often does that. Here, Longears!”

Longears approached, and Verty pointed to the ground.

Longears laid down.

“Stay there!” said Verty.

And smiling, he walked on.

Redbud laughed, and turning round made signs to the dog to
follow them. Longears, however, only moved his head uneasily,
and wagged his tail with eloquent remonstrance.

“Let him come, Verty,” said the girl.

Verty smiled, and made a movement of the hand, which, from
the distance of a hundred yards, raised Longears three feet into
the air. Returning from this elevation to the earth again, he
darted off over the fields after the bees and swallows.

The young men and their companions smiled, and strolled on.
They reached the old orchard, and ran about among the trees
picking up apples—now the little soft yellow crab apples—then

the huge, round, ruddy pippins—next the golden-coat bell apples,
oblong and mellow, which had dropped from pure ripeness from
the autumn boughs.

Verty had often climbed into the old trees, and filled his cap
with the speckled eggs of black-birds, or found upon the fence
here, embowered in the foliage, the slight nests of doves, each
with its two eggs, white and transparent almost; and the recollection
made him smile.

They gathered a number of the apples, and then strolled on,
and eat a moment with the pleasant overseer's wife.

A number of little curly-headed boys had been rolling like
apples on the grass as they approached; fat-armed and chubby-legged,
and making devoted advances to Longears, who, descending
from his dignity, rolled with them in the sunshine.
These now approached, and the young girls patted their heads,
and Mr. Ralph gave them some paternal advice, and the good
housewife, spinning in her cane-bottom chair with straight tall
back, smiled pleasantly, and curtsied.

The baby (there always was a baby at the overseer's) soon
made his appearance, as babies will do everywhere; and then
the unfortunate young curly-heads of riper age were forced to
return once more to the grass and play with Longears—they
were forgotten.

To describe the goings on of the two young ladies with that
baby is wholly out of the question. They quarreled for it,
chucked it in their arms, examined its toes with critical attention,
and conversed with it in barbarous baby language, which
was enough, Ralph said, to drive a man distracted. They asked
it various questions—were delighted with its replies—called its
attention to the chickens—and evidently labored under the impression
that it understood. They addressed the baby uniformly
in the neuter gender, and requested to know whether it was not
their darling. To all which the baby replied with thoughtful
stares, only occasionally condescending to laugh. The feet

having been examined again—there is much in babies' feet—the
party smiled and went away, calling after baby to the last.

“Now, that's all affectation,” said Ralph; “you young ladies—”

“You're a barbarian, sir!” replied Fanny, with great candor.

“I know I am.”

“I'm glad you do.

“But,” continued Ralph, “tell me now, really, do you young
girls admire babies?”

“Certainly I do—”

“And I.” said Redbud.

“They're the sweetest, dearest things in all the world,”
continued Fanny, “and the man who don't like babies—”

“Is a monster, eh?”

“Far worse, sir!”

And Fanny laughed.

“That is pleasant to know,” said Ralph; “then I'm a
monster.”

Having arrived at which highly encouraging conclusion, the
young man whistled.

“I say,” he said, suddenly, “I wanted to ask—”

“Well, sir?” said Fanny.

“Before we leave the subject—”

“What subject?”

“Babies.”

“Well, ask on.”

“I wish to know whether babies talk.”

“Certainly!”

“Really, now?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand them?”

“I do,” said Fanny.

“What does `um, um,' mean? I heard that baby say `um,
um,' distinctly.”

Fanny burst out laughing.

“Oh, I know!” she said, “when I gave him an apple.”

“Yes.”

“It meant, `that is a very nice apple, and I would like to
have some.' ”

“Did it?”

“Of course.”

“Suppose, then, it had been a crab-apple, and the baby had
still said `um, um,' what would it then have meant?”

“Plainly this: `that is not a nice apple and I would not like
to have any.' ”

“That is perfectly satisfactory,” said Ralph; “ `um, um,' expresses
either the desire to possess a sweet apple, or the objection
to a sour one. I have heard of delicate shades of language
before, but this is the sublimity thereof.”

And Ralph laughed.

“I never saw such a person,” said Fanny, pouting.

“By the bye,” said Ralph.

“Well, sir?”

“What was there so interesting in the toes?”

“They were lovely.”

“Anything else?”

“Beautiful.”

“That all? Come, now, tell me the charm in those feet
which you young ladies designated, I remember, as `teensy,' and
expressed your desire to `tiss.' Shocking perversion of the
king's English—and in honer of nothing but two dirty little
feet!” said Ralph.

The storm which was visited upon Ralph's unhappy head for
this barbarous criticism was dreadful. Fanny declared, in express
terms, that he was a monster, an ogre, and with a stone in his
breast instead of a heart. To which Mr. Ralph replied, that the
best writers of ancient and modern times had nowhere designated
as a monster the man who was not in raptures at the sight of

babies;—whereupon Miss Fanny declared her disregard of writers
in general, and her preference for babies—at which stage of the
discussion Ralph began to whistle.

Why not catch the laughter of those youthful lips, and tell how
the young men and maidens amused themselves that fine autumn
day? Everything innocent and fresh is beautiful—and there
are eyes which shine more brightly than the sun, voices which
make a softer music than the breezes of October in the laughing
trees. Redbud's face and voice had this innocence and joy in it
—there was pleasure in the very sound of it; and such a delicate
kind of light in the soft eyes, that as they went, the young men
felt more pure, and bowed to her, as something better than themselves—of
higher nature.

The light of Fanny's eyes was more brilliant; but Redbud's
were of such softness that you forgot all else in gazing at
them—lost your heart, looking into their lucid depths of liquid
light.

One heart was irremediably lost long since, and gone away
into the possession of the young lady. This was Verty's; and as
they went along he gazed so tenderly at the young girl, that more
than once she blushed, and suffered the long lashes to fall down
upon her rosy cheek.

Fanny was talking with Ralph;—for these young gentlemen
had made the simple and admirable arrangement, without in the
least consulting the ladies, that Verty should always entertain
and be entertained by Redbud, Ralph quarrel with, and be
quarreled with, by Fanny.

Each, on the present occasion, was carrying out his portion of
the contract; that is to say, Verty and Redbud were quietly
smiling at each other; Ralph and Fanny were exchanging repartees.

They came thus to the knoll which they had stopped upon in
the forenoon.

The fine kite—tied to a root, as we have said—was hovering

far up among the clouds, swaying and fluttering its streamers in
the wind: the various colors of the paper, and the flowers almost
wholly indiscernible, so high had it ascended.

“Look!” said Fanny, “there it is up among the swallows,
which are flying around it as if they never saw a kite before.”

“Female swallows, doubtless,” observed Ralph, carelessly.

“Female? Pray, why?”

“Because they have so much curiosity; see, you have made
me utter what is not common with me.”

“What, sir?”

“A bad witticism.”

Fanny laughed, and replied, gazing at the kite:

“Your witticisms are, of course, always fine—no doubt very
classic; now I will send up a messenger on the string. Redbud,
have you a piece of paper?”

Redbud drew the paper from her apron pocket, and gave it to
Fanny, with a smile.

Fanny tore the yellow scrap into a cricle, and in the centre of
this circle made a hole as large as her finger.

“Now, Mr. Ralph, please untie the string from the root.”

“With pleasure,” said the young man; “for you, my heart's
delight, I would—”

“Come, come, sir! you make an oration upon every occasion!”

With many remonstrances at being thus unceremoniously suppressed,
Mr. Ralph knelt down, and untied the string.

“Does it pull strongly, Mr. Ralph?” said Redbud, smiling.

“Oh, yes! you know it was nearly as tall as myself—just
try.”

“The messenger first!” cried Fanny.

And she slipped it over the string.

“Now, Miss Redbud, just try!” said Ralph.

Redbud wrapped the string around her hand, and Ralph let it
go.

“How do you like it!” he said.

“Oh!” cried Redbud, “it is so strong!—there must be a
great wind in the clouds!—Oh!” added the girl, laughing, “it is
cutting my hand in two!”

And she caught the string with her left hand to relieve the
afflicted member.

“Give it to me!' cried Fanny.

“Yes, give it to her; she has the arm of an Amazon,” said
Ralph, enthusiastically.

“Humph!”

And having entered this, her standing protest, Fanny laughed,
and unwound the string from Redbud's hand, on whose white
surface two crimson circles were visible.

“I can hold it!” cried the young girl, “easily!”

And to display her indifference, Fanny knelt on one knee to
pick up her gloves.

The consequence of this movement was, that the heavy
kite, struck, doubtless, at the moment by a gust of wind,
jerked the lady with the Amazonian arm so violently, that,
unable to retain her position, she fell upon her left hand, then
upon her face, and was dragged a pace or two by the heavy
weight.

“By Jove!” cried Ralph, running to her, “did anybody—”

“Oh, take care!” exclaimed Redbud, hastening to her friend's
assistance.

“It is nothing!” Fanny said; “I can hold it.”

And to prove this, she let go the string, which was cutting her
hand in two.

The poor kite! loosed from the sustaining hand, from the
earth, which, so to speak, held it up—it sees its hopes of elevation
in the world all dashed with disappointment and obscured.
It is doomed!

But no! A new friend comes to its rescue—deserted by the
lords and ladies of creation, the lesser creature takes it under his
protection.

Longears is the rescuer. Longears has watched the messenger
we have mentioned with deep interest, as it lays upon
the string and flutters; Longears imagines that it is a bee of
the species called yellow-jacket challenging him to combat.
Consequently, Longears no sooner sees the string dart from
Fanny's hand, than believing the enemy about to escape him,
he springs toward it and catches it in his mouth.

Longears catches a tartar; but too brave to yield without a
struggle, rolls upon the ground, grinding the yellow enemy, and
the string beneath his teeth.

His evolutions on the grass wrap the string around his feet
and neck; Longears is taken prisoner, and finds himself dragged
violently over the ground.

Brave and resolute before a common enemy, Longears fears
this unknown adversary. Overcome with superstitious awe, he
howls; endeavoring to howl again, he finds his windpipe
grasped by his enemy. The howl turns into a wheeze. His
eyes start from his head; his jaws open; he rolls on the grass;
leaps in the air; puts forth the strength of a giant, but in
vain.

It is at this juncture that Verty runs up and severs the string
with his hunting-knive; whereat Longears, finding himself released,
rubs his nose vigorously with his paws, sneezes, and lies
down with an unconscious air, as if nothing had happened. He
is saved.

The kite, however, is sacrified. Justly punished for wounding
Redbud's hand, throwing Miss Fanny on her face, and periling
the life of Longears, the unfortunate kite struggles a moment in
the clouds, staggers from side to side, like a drunken man, and
then caught by a sudden gust, sweeps like a streaming comet
down into the autumn forest, and is gone.

Fanny is wiping her hands, which are somewhat soiled; the
rest of the company are laughing merrily at the disappearance
of the kite; Longears is gravely and seriously contemplating
the yellow enemy with whom he has struggled so violently, and
whose conqueror he believes himself to be.

This was the incident so frequently spoken of by Mr. Ralph
Ashley afterwards, as the Bucolic of the kite.