Hildegarde's Holiday Part 5

Hildegarde went softly downstairs, and stood in the doorway for a few minutes, looking about her. The house was very still; nothing seemed to be stirring, or even awake, except herself. She peeped into the parlor, and saw Cousin Wealthy placidly sleeping in her easy-chair. At her feet, on a round ha.s.sock, lay Dr. Johnson, also sleeping soundly. "It is the enchanted palace," said Hildegarde to herself; "only the princess has grown old in the hundred years,--but so prettily old!--and the prince would have to be a stately old gentleman to match her." She went out on the lawn; still there was no sound, save the chirping of gra.s.shoppers and crickets. It was still the golden prime of a perfect June day; what would be the most beautiful thing to do where all was beauty? Read, or write letters? No! that she could do when the glory had begun to fade.

She walked about here and there,--"just enjoying herself," she said. She touched the white heads of the daisies; but did not pick them, because they looked so happy. She put her arms round the most beautiful elm-tree, and gave it a little hug, just to thank it for being so stately and graceful, and for bending its branches over her so lovingly.

Then a b.u.t.terfly came fluttering by. It was a Camberwell Beauty, and Hildegarde followed it about a little as it hovered lazily from one daisy to another.

"Last year at this time," she said, thinking aloud, "I didn't know what a Camberwell Beauty was. I didn't know any b.u.t.terflies at all; and if any one had said 'Fritillary' to me, I should have thought it was something to eat." This disgraceful confession was more than the Beauty could endure, and he fluttered away indignant.

"I don't wonder!" said the girl. "But you'd better take care, my dear. I know you now, and I don't _think_ Bubble has more than two of your kind in his collection. I promised to get all the b.u.t.terflies and moths I could for the dear lad, and if you are too superior, I may begin with you."

At this moment a faint creak fell on her ear, coming from the direction of the garden. "As of a wheelbarrow!" she said.

"Jeremiah!--boat!--river!--_now_ I know what I was wanting to do." She ran round to the garden; and there, to be sure, was Jeremiah, wheeling off a huge load of weeds.

"Oh, Jeremiah!" said Hildegarde, eagerly, "is the--do you think the boat is safe?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'DO SAY IT'S ALL RIGHT, JEREMIAH!'"]

Jeremiah put down his load and looked at her with sad surprise. "The boat?" he repeated. "She's all safe! I was down to the wharf this mornin'. n.o.body's had her out, 's I know of."

"Oh, I didn't mean that!" said Hildegarde, laughing. "I mean, is she safe for me to go in? Miss Bond said that I could go out on the river, if _you_ said it was all right. _Do_ say it's all right, Jeremiah!"

Jeremiah never smiled, but his melancholy lightened several shades.

"She's right enough," he said,--"the boat. She isn't hahnsome, but she's stiddy 's a rock. _She_ don't like boats, any way o' the world, but I'll take ye down and get her out for ye."

Rightly conjecturing that the last "her" referred to the boat, Hildegarde gladly followed the Ancient Mariner down the path that sloped from the garden, through a green pasture, round to the river-bank. Here she found the boat-house, whose roof she had seen from her window, and a gray wharf with moss-grown piers. The tide was high, and it took Jeremiah only a few minutes to pull the little green boat out, and set her rocking on the smooth water.

"Oh, thank you!" said Hildegarde. "I am so much obliged!"

"No need ter!" responded Jeremiah, politely. "Ye've handled a boat before, have ye?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "I don't think I shall have any trouble." And as she spoke, she stepped lightly in, and seating herself, took the oars that he handed her. "And which is the prettiest way to row, Jeremiah,--up river, or down?"

Jeremiah meditated. "Well," he said, "I don't hardly know as I can rightly tell. Some thinks one way's pooty; some thinks t' other. Both of 'em 's sightly, to my mind."

"Then I shall try both," said Hildegarde, laughing. "Good-by, Jeremiah!

I will bring the boat back safe."

The oars dipped, and the boat shot off into midstream. Jeremiah looked after it a few minutes, and then turned back toward the house. "_She_ knows what she's about!" he said to himself.

Near the bank the water had been a clear, shining brown, with the pebbles showing white and yellow through it; but out here in the middle of the river it was all a blaze and ripple and sparkle of blue and gold.

Hildegarde rested on her oars, and sat still for a few minutes, basking in the light and warmth; but soon she found the glory too strong, and pulled over to the other side, where high steep banks threw a shadow on the water. Here the water was very deep, and the rocks showed as clear and sharp beneath it as over it. Hildegarde rowed slowly along, sometimes touching the warm stone with her hand. She looked down, and saw little minnows and dace darting about, here and there, up and down.

"How pleasant to be a fish!" she thought. "There comes one up out of the water. Plop! Did you get the fly, old fellow?

"'They wriggled their tails; In the sun glanced their scales.'"

Then she tried to repeat "Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes," of which she was very fond.

"Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius.

No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified."

Presently something waved in the shadow,--something moving, among the still reflections of the rocks. Hildegarde looked up. There, growing in a cranny of the rock above her, was a cl.u.s.ter of purple bells, nodding and swaying on slender thread-like stems. They were so beautiful that she could only sit still and look at them at first, with eyes of delight. But they were so friendly, and nodded in such a cheerful way, that she soon felt acquainted with them.

"You dears!" she cried; "have you been waiting there, just for me to come and see you?"

The harebells nodded, as if there were no doubt about it.

"Well, here I am!" Hildegarde continued; "and it was very nice of you to come. How do you like living on the rock there? He must be very proud of you, the old brown giant, and I dare say you enjoy the water and the lights and shadows, and would not stay in the woods if you could. If I were a flower, I should like to be one of you, I think. Good-by, dear pretties! I should like to take you home to Rose, but it would be a wickedness to pick you."

She kissed her hand to the friendly blossoms, and they nodded a pleasant good-by, as she floated slowly down stream. A little farther on, she came to a point of rock that jutted out into the river; on it a single pine stood leaning aslant, throwing a perfect double of itself on the gla.s.sy water. Hildegarde rested in the shadow. "To be in a boat and in a tree at the same moment," she thought, "is a thing that does not happen to every one. Rose will not believe me when I tell her; yet here are the branches all around me, perfect, even to the smallest twig. Query, am I a bird or a fish? Here is actually a nest in the crotch of these branches, but I fear I shall find no eggs in it." Turning the point of rock, she found on the other side a fairy cove, with a tiny patch of silver sand, and banks of fern coming to the water's edge on either side. Some of the ferns dipped their fronds in the clear water, while taller ones peeped over their heads, trying to catch a glimpse of their own reflection.

Hildegarde's keen eyes roved among the green ma.s.ses, seeking the different varieties,--botrychium, lady-fern, delicate hart's-tongue; behind these, great nodding ostrich-ferns, bending their stately plumes over their lowlier sisters; beyond these again a tangle of brake running up into the woods. "Why, it is a fern show!" she thought. "This must be the exhibition room for the whole forest. Visitors will please not touch the specimens!"

She pulled close to the bank. Instantly there was a rustle and a flutter among the ferns; a little brown bird flew out, and perching on the nearest tree, scolded most violently. Very carefully Hildegarde drew the ferns aside, and lo! a wonderful thing,--a round nest, neatly built of moss and tiny twigs; and in it four white eggs spotted with brown.

"It is too good to be true," thought the girl. "I am asleep, and I shall wake in a moment. I haven't done anything to deserve seeing this. Rose is good enough; I wish she were here."

But the little brown bird was by this time in a perfect frenzy of maternal alarm; and very reluctantly, with an apology to the angry matron, Hildegarde let the ferns swing back into place, and pulled the boat away from the bank. On the whole, it seemed the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; but everything was so beautiful!

The girl's heart was very full of joy and thankfulness as she rowed along. Life was so full, so wonderful, with new wonders, new beauties, opening for her every day. "Let all that hath life praise the Lord!" she murmured softly; and the very silence seemed to fill with love and praise. Then her thoughts went back to the time, a little more than a year ago, when she neither knew nor cared about any of these things; when "the country" meant to her a summer watering-place, where one went for two or three months, to wear the prettiest of light dresses, and to ride and drive and walk on the beach. Her one idea of life was the life of cities,--of _one_ city, New York. A country-girl, if she ever thought of such a thing, meant simply an ignorant, coa.r.s.e, common girl, who had no advantages. No advantages! and she herself, all the time, did not know one tree from another. She had been the cleverest girl in school, and she could not tell a robin's note from a vireo's; as for the wood-thrush, she had never heard of it. A flower to her meant a hot-house rose; a bird was a bird; a b.u.t.terfly was a b.u.t.terfly. All other insects, the whole winged host that fills the summer air with life and sound, were included under two heads, "millers" and "bugs."

"No, not _quite_ so bad as that!" she cried aloud, laughing, though her cheeks burned at her own thoughts. "I _did_ know bees and wasps, and I _think_ I knew a dragon-fly when I saw him."

But for the rest, there seemed little to say in her defence. She was just like Peter Bell, she thought; and she repeated Wordsworth's lines,--

"A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more."

Here was this little brown bird, for example. Bird and song and eggs, all together could not tell her its name. She drew from her pocket a little brown leather note-book, and wrote in it, "Four white eggs, speckled with brown; brown bird, small, nest of fine twigs, on river-bank;" slipped it in her pocket again, and rowed on, feeling better. After all, it was so _very_ much better to know that one had been a goose, than not to know it! Now that her eyes were once open, was she not learning something new every day, almost every hour?

She rowed on now with long strokes, for the bank was steep and rocky again, and there were no more fairy coves. Soon, however, she came to an island,--a little round island in the middle of the river, thickly covered with trees. This was a good place to turn back at, for Rose would be awake by this time and looking for her. First, however, she would row around the island, and consider it from all sides.

The farther side showed an opening in the trees, and a pretty little dell, shaded by silver birches,--a perfect place for a picnic, thought Hildegarde. She would bring Rose here some day, if good Martha would make them another chicken-pie; perhaps Cousin Wealthy would come too.

Dear Cousin Wealthy! how good and kind and pretty she was! One would not mind growing old, if one could be sure of being good and pretty, and having everybody love one.

At this moment, as Hildegarde turned her boat up river, something very astonishing happened. Not ten yards away from her, a huge body shot up out of the water, described a glittering arc, and fell again, disappearing with a splash which sent the spray flying in all directions and made the rocks echo. Hildegarde sat quite still for several minutes, petrified with amazement, and, it must be confessed, with fear. Who ever heard of such a thing as this? A fish? Why, it was as big as a young whale! Only whales didn't come up rivers, and she had never heard of their jumping out of water in this insane way. Suppose the creature should take it into his head to leap again, and should fall into the boat? At this thought our heroine began to row as fast as she could, taking long strokes, and making the boat fairly fly through the water; though, as she said to herself, it would not make any difference, if her enemy were swimming in the same direction.

Presently, however, she heard a second splash behind her, and turning, saw the huge fish just disappearing, at some distance down river. She recovered her composure, and in a few minutes was ready to laugh at her own terrors.

Homeward now, following the west bank, as she had gone down along the east. This side was pretty, too, though there were no rocks nor ferny coves. On the contrary, the water was quite shallow, and full of brown weeds, which brushed softly against the boat. Not far from the bank she saw the highway, looking white and dusty, with the afternoon sun lying on it. "No dust on my road!" she said exultingly; "and no hills!" she added, as she saw a wagon, at some distance, climbing an almost perpendicular ascent. "I wonder what these water-plants are! Rose would know, of course."

Now came the willows that she had seen from the window,--the "margin willow-veiled" that had reminded her of the Lady of Shalott. It was pleasant to row under them, letting the cool, fragrant leaves brush against her face. Here, too, were sweet-scented rushes, of which she gathered an armful for Rose, who loved them; and in this place she made the acquaintance of a magnificent blue dragon-fly, which alighted on her oar as she lifted it from the water, and showed no disposition to depart. His azure mail glittered in the sunlight; his gauzy wings, as he furled and unfurled them deliberately, were like cobwebs powdered with snow. He evidently expected to be admired, and Hildegarde could not disappoint him.

"Fair sir," she said courteously, "I doubt not that you are the Lancelot of dragon-flies. Your armor is the finest I ever saw; doubtless, it has been polished by some lily maid of a white b.u.t.terfly, or she might be a peach-blossom moth,--daintiest of all winged creatures. The sight of you fills my heart with rapture, and I fain would gaze on you for hours.

Natheless, fair knight, time presses, and if you _would_ remove your chivalrous self from my unworthy oar,--really not a fit place for your knighthood,--I should get on faster."

Sir Lancelot deigning no attention to this very civil speech, she splashed her other oar in the water, and exclaimed, "Hi!" sharply, whereupon the gallant knight spread his shining wings and departed in wrath.

And now the boat-house was near, and the beautiful, beautiful time was over. Hildegarde took two or three quick strokes, and then let the boat drift on toward the wharf, while she leaned idly back and trailed her hand in the clear water. It had been so perfect, so lovely, she was very loath to go on sh.o.r.e again. But the thought of Rose came,--sweet, patient Rose, wondering where her Hilda was; and then she rowed quickly on, and moored the boat, and clambered lightly up the wharf.

"Good-by, good boat!" she cried. "Good-by, dear beautiful river! I shall see you to-morrow, the day after, every other day while I am here. I have been happy, happy, happy with you. Good-by!" And with a final wave of her hand, Hildegarde ran lightly up the path that led to the house.