 | CHAPTER V.
A GOLDEN WEDDING. Moods |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
A GOLDEN WEDDING.
Hitherto they had been a most decorous crew, but the
next morning something in the air seemed to cause a general
overflow of spirits, and they went up the river like a party
of children on a merry-making. Sylvia decorated herself
with garlands till she looked like a mermaid; Mark, as
skipper, issued his orders with the true Marblehead twang;
Moor kept up a fire of pun-provoking raillery; Warwick
sung like a jovial giant; while the Kelpie danced over the
water as if inspired with the universal gayety, and the very
ripples seemed to laugh as they hurried by.
“Mark, there is a boat coming up behind us with three
gentlemen in it, who evidently intend to pass us with a
great display of skill. Of course you won't let it,” said
Sylvia, welcoming the prospect of a race.
Her brother looked over his shoulder, took a critical survey,
and nodded approvingly.
“They are worth a lesson, and shall have it. Easy, now,
till they pass; then hard all, and give them a specimen of
high art.”
A sudden lull ensued on board the Kelpie while the blue
shirts approached, caught, and passed with a great display
of science, as Sylvia had prophesied, and as good an imitation
of the demeanor of experienced watermen as could be
teens. As the foam of their wake broke against the other
boat's side, Mark hailed them —
“Good morning, gentlemen! We 'll wait for you above
there, at the bend.”
“All serene,” returned the rival helmsman, with a bow
in honor of Sylvia, while the other two caused a perceptible
increase in the speed of the “Juanita,” whose
sentimental name was not at all in keeping with its rakish
appearance.
“Short-sighted infants, to waste their wind in that style;
but they pull well for their years,” observed Mark, paternally,
as he waited till the others had gained sufficient
advantage to make the race a more equal one. “Now,
then!” he whispered a moment after; and, as if suddenly
endowed with life, the Kelpie shot away with the smooth
speed given by strength and skill. Sylvia watched both
boats, yearning to take an oar herself, yet full of admiration
for the well-trained rowers, whose swift strokes set the
river in a foam and made the moment one of pleasure and
excitement. The blue shirts did their best against competitors
who had rowed in many crafts and many waters.
They kept the advantage till near the bend, then Mark's
crew lent their reserved strength to a final effort, and bending
to their oars with a will, gained steadily, till, with a
triumphant stroke, they swept far ahead, and with oars at
rest waited in magnanimous silence till the Juanita came
up, gracefully confessing her defeat by a good-humored
cheer from her panting crew.
For a moment the two boats floated side by side, while
the young men interchanged compliments and jokes, for a
river is a highway where all travellers may salute each
all the world.
Sylvia sat watching the lads, and one among them struck
her fancy. The helmsman who had bowed to her was slight
and swarthy, with Southern eyes, vivacious manners, and a
singularly melodious voice. A Spaniard, she thought, and
pleased herself with this picturesque figure till a traitorous
smile about the young man's mouth betrayed that he was
not unconscious of her regard. She colored as she met the
glance of mingled mirth and admiration that he gave her,
and hastily began to pull off the weedy decorations which
she had forgotten. But she paused presently, for she heard
a surprised voice exclaim —
“Why, Warwick! is that you or your ghost?”
Looking up Sylvia saw Adam lift the hat he had pulled
over his brows, and take a slender brown hand extended over
the boat-side with something like reluctance, as he answered
the question in Spanish. A short conversation ensued, in
which the dark stranger seemed to ask innumerable questions,
Warwick to give curt replies, and the names Gabriel
and Ottila to occur with familiar frequency. Sylvia knew
nothing of the language, but received an impression that
Warwick was not overjoyed at the meeting; that the youth
was both pleased and perplexed by finding him there; and
that neither parted with much regret as the distance slowly
widened between the boats, and with a farewell salute parted
company, each taking a different branch of the river, which
divided just there.
For the first time Warwick allowed Mark to take his
place at the oar, and sat looking into the clear depths below
as if some scene lay there which other eyes could not discover.
“Who was the olive-colored party with the fine eyes and
foreign accent?” asked Mark, lazily rowing.
“Gabriel André.”
“Is he an Italian?”
“No; a Cuban.”
“I forgot you had tried that mixture of Spain and Alabama.
How was it?”
“As such climates always are to me, — intoxicating to-day,
enervating to-morrow.”
“How long were you there?”
“Three months.”
“I feel tropically inclined, so tell us about it.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“I'll prove that by a catechism. Where did you stay?”
“In Havana.”
“Of course, but with whom?”
“Gabriel André.”
“The father of the saffron youth?”
“Yes.”
“Of whom did the family consist?”
“Four persons.”
“Mark, leave Mr. Warwick alone.”
“As long as he answers I shall question. Name the
four persons, Adam.”
“Gabriel, sen., Dolores his wife, Gabriel, jun., Catalina,
his sister.”
“Ah! now we progress. Was señorita Catalina as
comely as her brother?”
“More so.”
“You adored her, of course?”
“I loved her.”
“Great heavens! what discoveries we make. He likes
continue. She adored you, of course?”
“She loved me.”
“You will return and marry her?”
“No.”
“Your depravity appals me.”
“Did I volunteer its discovery?”
“I demand it now. You left this girl believing that you
adored her?”
“She knew I was fond of her.”
“The parting was tender?”
“On her part.”
“Iceberg! she wept in your arms?”
“And gave me an orange.”
“You cherished it, of course?”
“I ate it immediately.”
“What want of sentiment! You promised to return?”
“Yes.”
“But will never keep the promise?”
“I never break one.”
“Yet will not marry her?”
“By no means.”
“Ask how old the lady was, Mark?”
“Age, Warwick?”
“Seven.”
Mark caught a crab of the largest size at this reply, and
remained where he fell, among the ruins of the castle in
Spain, which he had erected with the scanty materials
vouchsafed to him, while Warwick went back to his meditations.
A drop of rain roused Sylvia from the contemplation of
an imaginary portrait of the little Cuban girl, and looking
practical joke for them in the shape of a thunder-shower.
A consultation was held, and it was decided to row on till a
house appeared, in which they would take refuge till the
storm was over. On they went, but the rain was in greater
haste than they, and a summary drenching was effected
before the toot of a dinner-horn guided them to shelter.
Landing they marched over the fields, a moist and mirthful
company, toward a red farm-house standing under venerable
elms, with a patriarchal air which promised hospitable
treatment and good cheer. A promise speedily fulfilled by
the lively old woman, who appeared with an energetic
“Shoo!” for the speckled hens congregated in the porch,
and a hearty welcome for the weather-beaten strangers.
“Sakes alive!” she exclaimed; “you be in a mess, aint
you? Come right in and make yourselves to home. Abel,
take the men folks up chamber, and fit 'em out with anything
dry you kin lay hands on. Phebe, see to this poor
little creeter, and bring her down lookin' less like a drownded
kitten. Nat, clear up your wittlin's, so 's't they kin toast
their feet when they come down; and, Cinthy, don't dish
up dinner jest yet.”
These directions were given with such vigorous illustration,
and the old face shone with such friendly zeal, that
the four submitted at once, sure that the kind soul was
pleasing herself in serving them, and finding something
very attractive in the place, the people, and their own position.
Abel, a staid farmer of forty, obeyed his mother's
order regarding the “men folks;” and Phebe, a buxom
girl of sixteen, led Sylvia to her own room, eagerly offering
her best.
As shed dried and redressed herself, Sylvia made sundry
of the adventure. A smart gown lay on the bed in the low
chamber, also various decorations upon chair and table,
suggesting that some festival was afloat; and a few questions
elicited the facts. Grandpa had seven sons and three
daughters, all living, all married, and all blessed with flocks
of children. Grandpa's birthday was always celebrated by
a family gathering; but to-day, being the fiftieth anniversary
of his wedding, the various households had resolved
to keep it with unusual pomp; and all were coming for a
supper, a dance, and a “sing” at the end. Upon receipt
of which intelligence Sylvia proposed an immediate departure;
but the grandmother and daughter cried out at this,
pointed to the still falling rain, the lowering sky, the wet
hcap on the floor, and insisted on the strangers all remaining
to enjoy the festival, and give an added interest by their
presence.
Half promising what she wholly desired, Sylvia put on
Phebe's second best blue gingham gown for the preservation
of which she added a white apron, and completing the
whole with a pair of capacious shoes, went down to find her
party and reveal the state of affairs. They were bestowed
in the prim, best parlor, and greeted her with a peal of
laughter, for all were en costume. Abel was a stout man,
and his garments hung upon Moor with a melancholy air;
Mark had disdained them, and with an eye to effect laid
hands on an old uniform, in which he looked like a volunteer
of 1812; while Warwick's superior height placed
Abel's wardrobe out of the question; and grandpa, taller
than any of his seven goodly sons, supplied him with a sober
suit, — roomy, square-flapped, and venerable, — which became
him, and with his beard produced the curious effect
decided to remain, trusting to their own penetration
to discover the most agreeable method of returning the
favor; and regarding the adventure as a welcome change,
after two days' solitude, all went out to dinner prepared to
enact their parts with spirit.
The meal being despatched, Mark and Warwick went to
help Abel with some out-door arrangements; and begging
grandma to consider him one of her own boys, Moor tied
on an apron and fell to work with Sylvia, laying the long
table which was to receive the coming stores. True breeding
is often as soon felt by the uncultivated as by the
cultivated; and the zeal with which the strangers threw
themselves into the business of the hour won the family,
and placed them all in friendly relations at once. The old
lady let them do what they would, admiring everything, and
declaring over and over again that her new assistants “beat
her boys and girls to nothin' with their tastiness and smartness.”
Sylvia trimmed the table with common flowers till
it was an inviting sight before a viand appeared upon it,
and hung green boughs about the room, with candles here
and there to lend a festal light. Moor trundled a great
cheese in from the dairy, brought milk-pans without mishap,
disposed dishes, and caused Nat to cleave to him by
the administration of surreptitious titbits and jocular suggestions;
while Phebe tumbled about in every one's way,
quite wild with excitement; and grandma stood in her
pantry like a culinary general, swaying a big knife for a
baton, as she issued orders and marshalled her forces, the
busiest and merriest of them all.
When the last touch was given, Moor discarded his apron
and went to join Mark. Sylvia presided over Phebe's
the trying half hour before, as he expressed it, “the party
came in.” The twelve years' boy was a cripple, one of
those household blessings which, in the guise of an affliction,
keep many hearts tenderly united by a common love
and pity. A cheerful creature, always chirping like a
cricket on the hearth as he sat carving or turning bits
of wood into useful or ornamental shapes for such as cared
to buy them of him, and hoarding up the proceeds like a
little miser for one more helpless than himself.
“What are these, Nat?” asked Sylvia, with the interest
that always won small people, because their quick instincts
felt that it was sincere.
“Them are spoons — 'postle spoons, they call 'em. You
see I 've got a cousin what reads a sight, and one day he
says to me, `Nat, in a book I see somethin' about a set of
spoons with a 'postle's head on each of 'em; you make
some and they 'll sell, I bet.' So I got gramper's Bible,
found the picters of the 'postles, and worked and worked
till I got the faces good; and now it 's fun, for they do sell,
and I 'm savin' up a lot. It ain't for me, you know, but
mother, 'cause she 's wuss 'n I be.”
“Is she sick, Nat?”
“Oh, ain't she! Why she has n't stood up this nine
year. We was smashed in a wagon that tipped over when
I was three years old. It done somethin' to my legs, but it
broke her back, and made her no use, only jest to pet me,
and keep us all kind of stiddy, you know. Ain't you seen
her? Don't you want to?”
“Would she like it?”
“She admires to see folks, and asked about you at dinner;
so I guess you 'd better go see her. Look ahere, you
give you all on 'em if they wasn't promised. I can make
one more in time, so you jest take your pick, 'cause I like
you, and want you not to forgit me.”
Sylvia chose Saint John, because it resembled Moor, she
thought; bespoke and paid for a whole set, and privately
resolved to send tools and rare woods to the little artist that
he might serve his mother in his own pretty way. Then
Nat took up his crutches and hopped nimbly before her to
the room, where a plain, serene-faced woman lay knitting,
with her best cap on, her clean handkerchief and large
green fan laid out upon the coverlet. This was evidently the
best room of the house; and as Sylvia sat talking to the invalid
her eye discovered many traces of that refinement
which comes through the affections. Nothing seemed too
good for “daughter Patience;” birds, books, flowers, and
pictures were plentiful here though visible nowhere else.
Two easy-chairs beside the bed showed where the old
folks oftenest sat; Abel's home corner was there by the
antique desk covered with farmers' literature and samples
of seeds; Phebe's work-basket stood in the window; Nat's
lathe in the sunniest corner; and from the speckless carpet
to the canary's clear water-glass all was exquisitely neat,
for love and labor were the handmaids who served the helpless
woman and asked no wages but her comfort.
Sylvia amused her new friends mightily, for finding that
neither mother nor son had any complaints to make, any
sympathy to ask, she exerted herself to give them what
both needed, and kept them laughing by a lively recital of
her voyage and its mishaps.
“Aint she prime, mother?” was Nat's candid commentary
when the story ended, and he emerged red and shiny
of delight.
“She's very kind, dear, to amuse two stay-at-home folks
like you and me, who seldom see what's going on outside
four walls. You have a merry heart, miss, and I hope
will keep it all your days, for it's a blessed thing to own.”
“I think you have something better, a contented one,”
said Sylvia, as the woman regarded her with no sign of
envy or regret.
“I ought to have; nine years on a body's back can
teach a sight of things that are wuth knowin'. I've learnt
patience pretty well I guess, and contentedness aint fur
away, for though it sometimes seems ruther long to look
forward to, perhaps nine more years layin' here, I jest
remember it might have been wuss, and if I don't do
much now there's all eternity to come.”
Something in the woman's manner struck Sylvia as she
watched her softly beating some tune on the sheet with her
quiet eyes turned toward the light. Many sermons had
been less eloquent to the girl than the look, the tone, the
cheerful resignation of that plain face. She stooped and
kissed it, saying gently —
“I shall remember this.”
“Hooray! there they be; I hear Ben!”
And away clattered Nat to be immediately absorbed into
the embraces of a swarm of relatives who now began to
arrive in a steady stream. Old and young, large and
small, rich and poor, with overflowing hands or trifles humbly
given, all were received alike, all hugged by grandpa,
kissed by grandma, shaken half breathless by Uncle Abel,
welcomed by Aunt Patience, and danced round by Phebe
and Nat till the house seemed a great hive of hilarious and
Phebe spread their story with such complimentary additions
of her own that the family circle opened wide and took
them in at once.
Sylvia was enraptured with the wilderness of babies, and
leaving the others to their own devices followed the matrons
to “Patience's room,” and gave herself up to the pleasant
tyranny of the small potentates, who swarmed over her as
she sat on the floor, tugging at her hair, exploring her
eyes, covering her with moist kisses, and keeping up a
babble of little voices more delightful to her than the discourse
of the flattered mammas who benignly surveyed her
admiration and their offspring's prowess.
The young people went to romp in the barn; the men,
armed with umbrellas, turned out en masse to inspect the
farm and stock, and compare notes over pig pens and garden
gates. But Sylvia lingered where she was, enjoying a
scene which filled her with a tender pain and pleasure, for
each baby was laid on grandma's knee, its small virtues,
vices, ailments, and accomplishments rehearsed, its beauties
examined, its strength tested, and the verdict of the family
oracle pronounced upon it as it was cradled, kissed, and
blessed on the kind old heart which had room for every
care and joy of those who called her mother. It was a
sight the girl never forgot, because just then she was ready
to receive it. Her best lessons did not come from books,
and she learned one then as she saw the fairest success of
a woman's life while watching this happy grandmother with
fresh faces framing her withered one, daughterly voices
chorusing good wishes, and the harvest of half a century of
wedded life beautifully garnered in her arms.
The fragrance of coffee and recollections of Cynthia's
the maternal conclave. The babies were borne away to
simmer between blankets until called for. The women
unpacked baskets, brooded over teapots, and kept up an
harmonious clack as the table was spread with pyramids of
cake, regiments of pies, quagmires of jelly, snow-banks of
bread, and gold mines of butter; every possible article of
food, from baked beans to wedding cake, finding a place on
that sacrificial altar.
Fearing to be in the way, Sylvia departed to the barn,
where she found her party in a chaotic Babel; for the offshoots
had been as fruitful as the parent tree, and some
four dozen young immortals were in full riot. The bashful
roosting with the hens on remote lofts and beams; the bold
flirting or playing in the full light of day; the boys whooping,
the girls screaming, all effervescing as if their spirits
had reached the explosive point and must find vent in noise.
Mark was in his element, introducing all manner of new
games, the liveliest of the old and keeping the revel at its
height; for rosy, bright-eyed girls were plenty, and the
ancient uniform universally approved. Warwick had a
flock of lads about him absorbed in the marvels he was
producing with knife, stick, and string; and Moor a rival
flock of little lasses breathless with interest in the tales he
told. One on each knee, two at each side, four in a row
on the hay at his feet, and the boldest of all with an arm
about his neck and a curly head upon his shoulder, for
Uncle Abel's clothes seemed to invest the wearer with a
passport to their confidence at once. Sylvia joined this
group and partook of a quiet entertainment with as childlike
a relish as any of them, while the merry tumult went
on about her.
The toot of the horn sent the whole barnful streaming
into the house like a flock of hungry chickens, where, by
some process known only to the mothers of large families,
every one was wedged close about the table, and the feast
began. This was none of your stand-up, wafery, bread and
butter teas, but a thorough-going, sit-down supper, and
all settled themselves with a smiling satisfaction, prophetic
of great powers and an equal willingness to employ them.
A detachment of half-grown girls was drawn up behind
grandma, as waiters; Sylvia insisted on being one of them,
and proved herself a neat-handed Phillis, though for a time
slightly bewildered by the gastronomic performances she
beheld. Babies ate pickles, small boys sequestered pie with
a velocity that made her wink, women swam in the tea, and
the men, metaphorically speaking, swept over the table like
a swarm of locusts, while the host and hostess beamed upon
one another and their robust descendants with an honest
pride, which was beautiful to see.
“That Mr. Wackett ain't eat scursely nothin', he jest
sets lookin' round kinder 'mazed like. Do go and make
him fall to on somethin', or I shan't take a mite of comfort
in my vittles,” said grandma, as the girl came with an
empty cup.
“He is enjoying it with all his heart and eyes, ma'am,
for we don't see such fine spectacles every day. I'll take
him something that he likes and make him eat it.”
“Sakes alive! be you to be Mis' Wackett? I'd no idee
of it, you look so young.”
“Nor I; we are only friends, ma'am.”
“Oh!” and the monosyllable was immensely expressive,
as the old lady confided a knowing nod to the teapot, into
whose depths she was just then peering. Sylvia walked
such things.
As she paused behind Warwick's chair with a glass of
cream and a round of brown bread, he looked up at her
with his blandest expression, though a touch of something
like regret was in his voice.
“This is a sight worth living eighty hard years to see, and
I envy that old couple as I never envied any one before.
To rear ten virtuous children, put ten useful men and
women into the world, and give them health and courage to
work out their own salvation as these honest souls will do,
is a better job done for the Lord, than winning a battle, or
ruling a State. Here is all honor to them. Drink it with
me.”
He put the glass to her lips, drank what she left, and
rising, placed her in his seat with the decisive air which
few resisted.
“You take no thought for yourself and are doing too
much; sit here a little, and let me take a few steps where
you have taken many.”
He served her, and standing at her back, bent now and
then to speak, still with that softened look upon the face
so seldom stirred by the gentler emotions that lay far
down in that deep heart of his; for never had he felt so
solitary.
All things must have an end, even a family feast, and
by the time the last boys buttons peremptorily announced,
`Thus far shalt thou go and no farther,' all professed themselves
satisfied, and a general uprising took place. The
surplus population were herded in parlor and chambers,
while a few energetic hands cleared away, and with much
clattering of dishes and wafting of towels, left grandma's
when all was done, so the kitchen was cleared, the candles
lighted, Patience's door set open, and little Nat established
in an impromptu orchestra, composed of a table and a
chair, whence the first squeak of his fiddle proclaimed that
the ball had begun.
Everybody danced; the babies stacked on Patience's bed,
or penned behind chairs, sprawled and pranced in unsteady
mimicry of their elders. Ungainly farmers, stiff with labor,
recalled their early days and tramped briskly as they swung
their wives about with a kindly pressure of the hard hands
that had worked so long together. Little pairs toddled
gravely through the figures, or frisked promiscuously in a
grand conglomeration of arms and legs. Gallant cousins
kissed pretty cousins at exciting periods, and were not rebuked.
Mark wrought several of these incipient lovers to a
pitch of despair, by his devotion to the comeliest damsels,
and the skill with which he executed unheard-of evolutions
before their admiring eyes; Moor led out the poorest and
the plainest with a respect that caused their homely faces
to shine, and their scant skirts to be forgotten. Warwick
skimmed his five years partner through the air in a way
that rendered her speechless with delight; and Sylvia danced
as she never danced before. With sticky-fingered boys,
sleepy with repletion, but bound to last it out; with rough-faced
men who paid her paternal compliments; with smart
youths who turned sheepish with that white lady's hand in
their big brown ones, and one ambitious lad who confided
to her his burning desire to work a sawmill, and marry a
girl with black eyes and yellow hair. While, perched aloft,
Nat bowed away till his pale face glowed, till all hearts
warmed, all feet beat responsive to the good old tunes which
happiness into human souls.
At the stroke of nine the last dance came. All down the
long kitchen stretched two breathless rows; grandpa and
grandma at the top, the youngest pair of grandchildren at
the bottom, and all between fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts,
and cousins, while such of the babies as were still extant,
bobbed with unabated vigor, as Nat struck up the Virginia
Reel, and the sturdy old couple led off as gallantly as the
young one who came tearing up to meet them. Away they
went, grandpa's white hair flying in the wind, grandma's
impressive cap awry with excitement, as they ambled down
the middle, and finished with a kiss when their tuneful
journey was done, amid immense applause from those who
regarded this as the crowning event of the day.
When all had had their turn, and twirled till they were
dizzy, a short lull took place, with refreshments for such as
still possessed the power of enjoying them. Then Phebe
appeared with an armful of books, and all settled themselves
for the family “sing.”
Sylvia had heard much fine music, but never any that
touched her like this, for, though often discordant, it was
hearty, with that under-current of feeling which adds sweetness
to the rudest lay, and is often more attractive than the
most florid ornament or faultless execution. Every one
sang as every one had danced, with all their might; shrill
children, soft-voiced girls, lullaby-singing mothers, gruff
boys, and strong-lunged men; the old pair quavered, and
still a few indefatigable babies crowed behind their little
coops. Songs, ballads, comic airs, popular melodies, and
hymns, came in rapid succession. And when they ended
with that song which should be classed with sacred music
room with the golden bride and bridegroom in their midst,
sang “Home,” Sylvia leaned against her brother with dim
eyes and a heart too full to sing.
Still standing thus when the last note had soared up and
died, the old man folded his hands and began to pray. It
was an old-fashioned prayer, such as the girl had never
heard from the Bishop's lips; ungrammatical, inelegant, and
long. A quiet talk with God, manly in its straightforward
confession of short-comings, childlike in its appeal for
guidance, fervent in its gratitude for all good gifts, and the
crowning one of loving children. As if close intercourse
had made the two familiar, this human father turned to the
Divine, as these sons and daughters turned to him, as free
to ask, as confident of a reply, as all afflictions, blessings,
cares, and crosses, were laid down before him, and the work
of eighty years submitted to his hand. There were no
sounds in the room but the one voice often tremulous with
emotion and with age, the coo of some dreaming baby, or the
low sob of some mother whose arms were empty, as the old
man stood there, rugged and white atop as the granite hills,
with the old wife at his side, a circle of sons and daughters
girdling them round, and in all hearts the thought that as
the former wedding had been made for time, this golden
one at eighty must be for eternity.
While Sylvia looked and listened a sense of genuine devotion
stole over her; the beauty and the worth of prayer
grew clear to her through the earnest speech of that unlettered
man, and for the first time she fully felt the nearness
and the dearness of the Universal Father, whom she had
been taught to fear, yet longed to love.
“Now, my children, you must go before the little folks
me can't say enough toe thank you for the presents you
have fetched us, the dutiful wishes you have give us, the
pride and comfort you have allers ben toe us. I aint no
hand at speeches, so I shan't make none, but jest say ef
any 'fliction falls on any on you, remember mother's here
toe help you bear it; ef any worldly loss comes toe you,
remember father's house is yourn while it stans, and so the
Lord bless and keep us all.”
“Three cheers for gramper and grammer!” roared a
six-foot scion as a safety valve for sundry unmasculine
emotions, and three rousing hurras made the rafters ring,
struck terror to the heart of the oldest inhabitant of the
rat-haunted garret, and summarily woke all the babies.
Then the good-byes began, the flurry of wrong baskets,
pails and bundles in wrong places; the sorting out of small
folk too sleepy to know or care what became of them; the
maternal cluckings, and paternal shouts for Kitty, Cy,
Ben, Bill, or Mary Ann; the piling into vehicles with
much ramping of indignant horses unused to such late
hours; the last farewells, the roll of wheels, as one by one
the happy loads departed, and peace fell upon the household
for another year.
“I declare for't, I never had sech an out an out good
time sense I was born intoe the world. Ab'ram, you are
fit to drop, and so be I; now let's set and talk it over along
of Patience fore we go toe bed.”
The old couple got into their chairs, and as they sat there
side by side, remembering that she had given no gift, Sylvia
crept behind them, and lending the magic of her voice
to the simple air, sang the fittest song for time and place—
“John Anderson my Jo.” It was too much for grandma,
she laid her head on her “John's” shoulder, exclaiming
through her tears —
“That's the cap shcaf of the hull, and I can't bear no
more to-night. Ab'ram, lend me your hankchif, for I dunno
where mine is, and my face is all of a drip.”
Before the red bandana had gently performed its work
in grandpa's hand, Sylvia beckoned her party from the
room, and showing them the clear moonlight night which
followed the storm, suggested that they should both save
appearances and enjoy a novel pleasure by floating homeward
instead of sleeping. The tide against which they had
pulled in coming up would sweep them rapidly along, and
make it easy to retrace in a few hours the way they had
loitered over for three days.
The pleasant excitement of the evening had not yet subsided,
and all applauded the plan as a fit finale to their
voyage. The old lady strongly objected, but the young
people overruled her, and being re-equipped in their damaged
garments they bade the friendly family a grateful
adieu, left their more solid thanks under Nat's pillow, and
re-embarked upon their shining road.
All night Sylvia lay under the canopy of boughs her
brother made to shield her from the dew, listening to the
soft sounds about her, the twitter of a restless bird, the
bleat of some belated lamb, the ripple of a brook babbling
like a baby in its sleep. All night she watched the changing
shores, silvery green or dark with slumberous shadow,
and followed the moon in its tranquil journey through the
sky. When it set, she drew her cloak about her, and, pillowing
her head upon her arm, exchanged the waking for a
sleeping dream.
A thick mist encompassed her when she awoke. Above
the sun shone dimly, below rose and fell the billows of the
sea, before her sounded the city's fitful hum, and far behind
her lay the green wilderness where she had lived and
learned so much. Slowly the fog lifted, the sun came dazzling
down upon the sea, and out into the open bay they
sailed with the pennon streaming in the morning wind.
But still with backward glance the girl watched the misty
wall that rose between her and the charmed river, and still
with yearning heart confessed how sweet that brief experience
had been, for though she had not yet discovered it,
like
She had left the web and left the loom,
Had seen the water lilies bloom,
Had seen the helmet and the plume,
And had looked down to Camelot.”
| CHAPTER V.
A GOLDEN WEDDING. Moods | |