University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
A RACE FOR A SWEETHEART.

Hardly any event creates a stronger sensation in a
thinly settled New England village, especially among
the young folks, than the arrival of a fresh and blooming
miss, who comes to make her abode in the neighborhood.
When, therefore, Squire Johnson, the only
lawyer in the place, and a very respectable man of
course, told Farmer Jones one afternoon that his
wife's sister, a smart girl of eighteen, was coming in
a few days to reside in his family, the news flew like
wildfire through Pond Village, and was the principal
topic of conversation for a week. Pond Village is
situated upon the margin of one of those numerous
and beautiful sheets of water that gem the whole surface
of New England, like the bright stars in an evening
sky, and received its appellation to distinguish
it from two or three other villages in the same town,
which could not boast of a similar location. When
Farmer Jones came in to his supper, about sunset that

afternoon, and took his seat at the table, the eyes of
the whole family were upon him, for there was a
peculiar working about his mouth, and a knowing
glance of his eye, that always told them when he had
anything of interest to communicate. But Farmer
Jones' secretiveness was large, and his temperament
not the most active, and he would probably have
rolled the important secret as a sweet morsel under his
tongue for a long time, had not Mrs. Jones, who was
rather of an impatient and prying turn of mind, contrived
to draw it from him.

“Now, Mr. Jones,” said she, as she handed him his
cup of tea, “what is it you are going to say? Do out
with it; for you've been chawing something or other
over in your mind ever since you came into the
house.”

“It's my tobacher, I s'spose,” said Mr. Jones, with
another knowing glance of his eye.

“Now, father, what is the use?” said Susan; “we
all know you've got something or other you want to
say, and why can't you tell us what 'tis.”

“La, who cares what 'tis?” said Mrs. Jones; “if it
was anything worth telling, we shouldn't have to wait
for it, I dare say.”

Hereupon Mrs. Joues assumed an air of the most

perfect indifference, as the surest way of conquering
what she was pleased to call Mr. Jones's obstinacy,
which, by the way, was a very improper term to apply
in the case; for it was purely the working of secretiveness,
without the least particle of obstinacy
attached to it.

There was a pause of two or three minutes in the
conversation, till Mr. Jones passed his cup to be filled
a second time, when, with a couple of preparatory
hems, he began to let out the secret.

“We are to have a new neighbor here in a few
days,” said Mr. Jones, stopping short when he had
uttered thus much, and sipping his tea and filling his
mouth with food.

Mrs. Jones, who was perfect in her tactics, said not
a word, but attended to the affairs of her table, as
though she had not noticed what was said. The farmer's
secretiveness had at last worked itself out, and
he began again.

“Squire Johnson's wife's sister is coming here in a
few days, and is going to live with 'em.”

The news being thus fairly divulged, it left free
scope for conversation.

“Well, I wonder if she is a proud, stuck-up piece,”
said Mrs. Jones.

“I should n't think she would be,” said Susan, “for
there aint a more sociabler woman in the neighborhood
than Miss Johnson. So if she is at all like her
sister, I think we shall like her.”

“I wonder how old she is?” said Stephen, who was
just verging toward the close of his twenty-first year.

“The squire called her eighteen,” said Mr. Jones,
giving a wink to his wife, as much as to say, that's
about the right age for Stephen.

“I wonder if she is handsome,” said Susan, who
was somewhat vain of her own looks, and having
been a sort of reigning belle in Pond Village, for
some time, she felt a little alarm at the idea of a rival.

“I dare be bound she's handsome,” said Mrs. Jones,
“if she's a sister to Miss Johnson, for where'll you find
a handsomer woman than Miss Johnson, go the town
through?”

After supper, Stephen went down to Mr. Robinson's
store, and told the news to young Charles Robinson,
and all the young fellows, who were gathered there for
a game at quoits, and a ring at wrestling. And Susan
went directly over to Mr. Bean's and told Patty, and
Patty went round to the Widow Davis' and told Sally,
and before nine o'clock, the matter was pretty well
understood in about every house in the village.

At the close of the fourth day, a little before sunset,
a chaise was seen to drive up to Squire Johnson's
door. Of course the eyes of the whole village were
turned in that direction. Sally Davis, who was just
coming in from milking, set her pail down on the
grass by the side of the road, as soon as the chaise
came in sight, and watched it till it reached the squire's
door, and the gentleman and lady had got out and
gone into the house. Patty Bean was doing up the
ironing that afternoon, and she had just taken a hot
iron from the fire as the chaise passed the door, and
she ran with it in her hand, and stood on the door-steps
till the whole ceremony of alighting, greeting, and
entering the house was over. Old Mrs. Bean stood
with her head out of the window, her iron-bowed
spectacles resting up on the top of her forehead, her
shriveled hand placed across her eyebrows, to defend
her red eyes from the rays of the setting sun, and her
skinny chin protruding about three inches in advance
of a couple of stubs of teeth, which her open mouth
exposed fairly to view.

“It seems to me, they are dreadful loving,” said old
Mrs. Bean, as she saw Mrs. Johnson descend the steps
and welcome her sister with a kiss.

“La me, if there is n't the squire kissing of her tu,”

said Patty; “well, I declare, I would a-waited till I
got into the house, I'll die if I would n't. It looks so
vulgar to be kissing afore folks, and out of doors tu;
I should think Squire Johnson would be ashamed of
himself.”

“Well, I should n't,” said young John Bean, who
came up at the moment, and who had passed the
chaise just as the young lady alighted from it. “I
should n't be ashamed to kiss sich a pretty gal as that
anyhow; I'd kiss her wherever I could catch her, if
it was in the meetin-house.”

“Why, is she handsome, Jack?” said Patty.

“Yes, she's got the prettiest little puckery mouth
I've seen these six months. Her cheeks are red, and
her eyes shine like new buttons.”

“Well,” replied Patty, “if she'll only take the shine
off Susan Jones when she goes to meetin', Sunday, I
sha'nt care.”

While these observations were going on at old Mr.
Bean's, Charles Robinson, and a group of young fellows
with him, where standing in front of Robinson's
store, a little farther down the road, and watching the
scenes that was passing at Squire Johnson's. They
witnessed the whole with becoming decorum, now and
then making a remark upon the fine horse and the

handsome chaise, till they saw the tall squire bend his
head down, and give the young lady a kiss, when they
all burst out into a loud laugh. In a moment, being
conscious that their laugh must be heard and noticed
at the squire's, they, in order to do away the impression
it must necessarily make, at once turned their
heads the other way, and, Charles Robinson who was
quick at an expedient, knocked off the hat of the lad
who was standing next to him, and then they all
laughed louder than before.

“Here comes Jack Bean,” said Charles, “now we
shall hear something about her, for Jack was coming
by the squire's when she got out of the chaise. How
does she look, Jack?”

“Handsome as a pictur,” said Jack. “I haint seen
a prettier gal since last Thanksgiving Day, when Jane
Ford was here to visit Susan Jones.”

“Black eyes or blue?” said Charles.

“Blue,” said Jack, “but all-fired bright.”

“Tall or short?” said Stephen Jones, who was rather
short himself, and therefore felt a particular
interest on that point.

“Rather short,” said Jack, “but straight and round
as a young colt.”

“Do you know what her name is?” said Charles.

“They called her Lucy when she got out of the
chaise,” said Jack, “and as Miss Johnson's name was
Brown before she was married, I s'pose her name
must be Lucy Brown.”

“Just such a name as I like,” said Charles Robinson;
“Lucy Brown sounds well. Now suppose in
order to get acquainted with her, we all hands take a
sail to-morrow night, about this time, on the pond,
and invite her to go with us.”

“Agreed,” said Stephen Jones. “Agreed,” said
Jack Bean. “Agreed,” said all hands.

The question then arose who should carry the invitation
to her; and the young men being rather bashful
on that score, it was finally settled that Susan
Jones should bear the invitation, and accompany her
to the boat, where they should all be in waiting to receive
her. The next day was a very long day, at
least to most of the young men of Pond village;
and promptly an hour before sunset, most of them
were assembled, with a half a score of their sisters
and female cousins, by a little stone wharf on the
margin of the pond, for the proposed sail. All the
girls in the village of a suitable age were there,
except Patty Bean. She had undergone a good deal
of fidgeting and fussing during the day, to prepare

for the sail, but had been disappointed. Her new
bonnet was not done; and as to wearing her old flapsided
bonnet, she declared she would not, if she never
went. Presently Susan Jones and Miss Lucy Brown
were seen coming down the road.

In a moment, all was quiet, the laugh and joke were
hushed, and each one put on his best looks. When
they arrived, Susan went through the ceremony of
introducing Miss Brown to each of the ladies and
gentlemen present.

“But how in the world are you going to sail?” said
Miss Brown, “for there isn't a breath of wind; and I
don't see any sail-boat, neither.”

“Oh, the less wind we have, the better, when we
sail here,” said Charles Robinson, “and there is our
sail-boat,” pointing to a flat-bottomed scow-boat, some
twenty feet long by ten wide.

“We don't use no sails,” said Jack Bean; “sometimes,
when the wind is fair, we put up a bush to
help pull along a little, and when 'tis n't, we row.”

The party were soon embarked on board the scow,
and a couple of oars were set in motion, and they glided
slowly and pleasantly over as lovely a sheet of
water as ever glowed in the sunsetting ray. In one
hour's time, the whole party felt perfectly acquainted

with Miss Lucy Brown. She had talked in the most
lively and fascinating manner; she had told stories and
sung songs. Among others, she had given Moore's
boat song with the sweetest possible effect; and by
the time they returned to the landing, it would hardly
be too much to say that half the young men in the
party were decidedly in love with her.

A stern regard to truth requires a remark to be
made here, not altogether favorable to Susan Jones,
which is the more to be regretted, as she was in the
main an excellent hearted girl, and highly esteemed
by the whole village. It was observed that as the
company grew more and more pleased with Miss
Lucy Brown, Susan Jones was less and less animated,
till at last she became quite reserved, and apparently
sad. She, however, on landing, treated Miss Brown
with respectful attention, accompanied her home to
Squire Johnson's door, and cordially bade her good
night.

The casual glimpses which the young men of Pond
village had of Miss Brown during the remainder of the
week, as she occasionally stood at the door, or looked
out at the window, or once or twice when she walked
out with Susan Jones, and the fair view they all had
of her at meeting on the Sabbath, served but to

increase their admiration, and to render her more and
more an object of attraction. She was regarded by
all as a prize, and several of them were already planning
what steps it was best to take in order to win
her. The two most prominent candidates, however,
for Miss Brown's favor, were Charles Robinson and
Stephen Jones. Their position and standing among
the young men of the village seemed to put all others
in the back-ground. Charles, whose father was
wealthy, had every advantage which money could
procure. But Stephen, though poor, had decidedly
the advantage of Charles in personal recommendations.
He had more talent, was more sprightly and
intelligent, and more pleasing in his address. From
the evening of the sail on the pond, they had both
watched every movement of Miss Brown with the
most intense interest; and, as nothing can deceive a
lover, each had, with an interest no less intense,
watched every movement of the other. They had
ceased to speak to each other about her, and if her
name was mentioned in their presence, both were
always observed to color.

The second week after her arrival, through the
influence of Squire Johnson, the district school was
offered to Miss Brown on the other side of the pond,

avoid observation, he took a back route across the
field, intending to come into the road by the pond, a
little out of the village. As ill-luck would have it,
Charles Robinson had been out in the same direction,
and was returning with an armful of green boughs
and wild flowers, to ornament the parlor for the evening.
He saw Stephen, and noticed his dress, and the
direction he was going, and he at once smoked the
whole business. His first impulse was to rush upon
him and collar him, and demand that he should
return back. But then he recollected that in the last
scratch he had with Stephen, two or three years
before, he had a little the worst of it, and he instinctively
stood still, while Stephen passed on without
seeing him. It flashed upon his mind at once that
the question must now be reduced to a game of speed.
If he could by any means gain the school-house first,
and engage Miss Lucy to walk home with him, he
should consider himself safe. But if Stephen should
reach the school-house first, he should feel a good deal
of uneasiness for the consequences. Stephen was
walking, very leisurely, and unconscious that he was
in any danger of a competitor on the course, and it
was important that his suspicions should not be
awakened. Charles therefore remained perfectly
of inviting Miss Brown; and then, of course, he
should walk home with her in the evening; and then,
of course, would be a good opportunity to break the
ice, and make known to her his feelings and his wishes.
Stephen Jones, however, was more prompt in his
movements. He had got wind of the proposed tea
party, although himself and sister, for obvious reasons,
had not been invited, and he resolved not to risk the
arrival of Miss Brown and her visit to Mr. Robinson's
before he should see her. She would dismiss her
school at noon, and come the distance of a mile and
a half round the pond home. His mind was at once
made up. He would go round and meet her at the
school-house, and accompany her on her walk. There,
in that winding road, around those delightful waters,
with the tall and shady trees over-head, and the wild
grape-vines twining round their trunks, and climbing
to the branches, while the wild birds were singing
through the woods, and the wild ducks playing in the
coves along the shore, surely there, if anywhere in
the world, could a man bring his mind up to the point
of speaking of love.

Accordingly, a little before noon, Stephen washed
and brushed himself up, and put on his Sunday
clothes, and started on his expedition. In order to

which offer was accepted, and she went immediately
to take charge of it. This announcement at first threw
something of a damper upon the spirits of the young
people of Pond village. But when it was understood
that the school would continue but a few weeks, and
being but a mile and a half distant, Miss Brown would
come home every Saturday afternoon, and spend the
Sabbath, it was not very difficult to be reconciled to
the temporary arrangement. The week wore away
heavily, especially to Charles Robinson and Stephen
Jones. They counted the days impatiently till Saturday,
and on Saturday they counted the long and lagging
hours till noon. They had both made up their
minds that it would be dangerous to wait longer, and
they had both resolved not to let another Sabbath pass
without making direct proposals to Miss Brown.

Stephen Jones was too early a riser for Charles
Robinson, and, in any enterprize where both were
concerned, was pretty sure to take the lead, except
where money could carry the palm, and then, of
course, it was always borne away by Charles. As
Miss Lucy had been absent most of the week, and was
to be at home that afternoon, Charles Robinson had
made an arrangement with his mother and sister to
have a little tea party in the evening, for the purpose

quiet till Stephen had got a little out of hearing, and
then threw down his bushes and flowers, and ran to
the wharf below the store with his utmost speed. He
had one advantage over Stephen. He was ready at a
moment's warning to start on an expedition of this
kind, for Sunday clothes was an every day affair with
him.

There was a light canoe belonging to his father
lying at the wharf, and a couple of stout boys were
there fishing. Charles hailed them, and told them if
they would row him across the pond as quick as they
possibly could, he would give them a quarter of a
dollar a-piece. This, in their view, was a splendid
offer for their services, and they jumped on board
with alacrity and manned the oars. Charles took a
paddle and stood in the stern to steer the boat, and
help propel her ahead. The distance by water was a
little less than by land, and although Stephen had
considerably the start of him, he believed he should
be able to reach the school-house first, especially if
Stephen should not see him and quicken his pace. In
one minute after he arrived at the wharf, the boat
was under full way. The boys laid down to the oars
with right good will, and Charles put out all his
strength upon the paddle. They were shooting over

the water twice as fast as a man could walk, and
Charles already felt sure of the victory. But when
they had gone about half a mile, they came in the
range of a little opening in the trees on the shore,
where the road was exposed to view, and there, at
that critical moment, was Stephen pursuing his easy
walk. Charles's heart was in his mouth. Still it was
possible Stephen might not see them, for he had not
yet looked around. Lest the sound of the oars might
attract his attention, Charles had instantly, on coming
in sight, ordered the boys to stop rowing, and he
grasped his paddle with breathless anxiety, and
waited for Stephen again to disappear. But just as
he was upon the point of passing behind some trees,
where the boat would be out of his sight, Stephen
turned his head and looked round. He stopped
short, turned square round, and stood for the space of
a minute looking steadily at the boat. Then lifting
his hand, and shaking his fist resolutely at Charles, as
much as to say, I understand you, he started into a
quick run.

“Now, boys,” said Charles, “buckle to your oars
for your lives, and if you get to the shore so I can
reach the school-house before Stephen does, I'll give
you a half a dollar a-piece.”

This, of course, added new life to the boys, and
increased speed to the boat. Their little canoe flew
over the water almost like a bird, carrying a white bone
in her mouth, and leaving a long ripple on the glassy
wave behind her. Charles' hands trembled, but still
he did good execution with his paddle. Although Stephen
upon the run was a very different thing from
Stephen at a slow walk, Charles still had strong hopes
of winning the race, and gaining his point. He
several times caught glimpses of Stephen through the
trees, and, as well as he could judge, the boat had
a little the best of it. But when they came out into
the last opening, where for a little way they had a
fair view of each other—Charles thought Stephen ran
faster than ever; and although he was now considerably
nearer the school-house than Stephen was, he
still trembled for the result. They were now within
fifty rods of the shore, and Charles appealed again to
the boys' love of money.

“Now,” said he, “we have not a minute to spare.
If we gain the point, I'll give you a dollar a-piece.”

The boys strained every nerve, and Charles' paddle
made the water fly like the tail of a wounded shark.
When within half a dozen rods of the shore, Charles
urged them again to spring with all their might, and

one of the boys making a desperate plunge upon his
oar, snapped it in two. The first pull of the other
oar headed the boat from land. Charles saw at once
that the delay must be fatal, if he depended on the
boat to carry him ashore. The water was but two
feet deep, and the bottom was sandy. He sprang
from the boat, and rushed toward the shore as fast as
he was able to press through the water. He flew up
the bank, and along the road, till he reached the
school-house. The door was open, but he could see
no one within. Several children were at play round
the door, who, having seen Charles approach with
such haste, stood with mouths and eyes wide open,
staring at him.

“Where's the schoolma'am?” said Charles, hastily,
to one of the largest boys.

“Why,” said the boy, opening his eyes still wider,
“is any of the folks dead?”

“You little rascal, I say, where's the school ma'am?”

“She just went down that road,” said the boy,
“two or three minutes ago.”

“Was she alone?” said Charles.

“She started alone,” said the boy, “and a man
met her out there a little ways, and turned about and
went with her.”

Charles felt that his cake was all dough again, and
that he might as well give it up for a bad job, and go
home. Stephen Jones and Lucy Brown walked very
leisurely home through the woods, and Charles and
the boys went very leisurely in the boat across the
pond. They even stopped by the way, and caught a
mess of fish, since the boys had thrown their lines
into the boat when they started. And when they
reached the wharf, Charles, in order to show that he
had been a fishing, took a large string of the fish in
his hand, and carried them up to the house. Miss
Lucy Brown, on her way home through the woods,
had undoubtedly been informed of the proposed teaparty
for the evening, to which she was to be invited,
and to which Stephen Jones and Susan Jones were
not invited; and when Miss Lucy's invitation came,
she sent word back that she was engaged.