XLVII. A Fur Cloak on a Journey XLIX. Montepoole becomes a Point of Interest L. The House on "the Hill" once more LI. The First One that left Queechy "COME, dear grandpa !—the old mare and the wagon are at the gate-all ready." "Well, dear!"-responded a cheerful, hearty voice, “they must wait a bit; I haven't got my hat yet." "O, I'll get that." And the little speaker, a girl of some ten or eleven years old, dashed past the old gentleman, and running along the narrow passage which led to his room soon returned with the hat in her hand. "Yes, dear, but that ain't all. I must put on my great-coat -and I must look and see if I can find any money "O, yes-for the post-office. It's a beautiful day, grandpa. Cynthy!-won't you come and help grandpa on with his greatcoat?—And I'll go out and keep watch of the old mare till you're ready." A needless caution. For the old mare, though spirited enough for her years, had seen some fourteen or fifteen of them, and was in no sort of danger of running away. She stood in what was called the back meadow, just without the little paling fence that enclosed a small courtyard round the house. Around this courtyard rich pasture-fields lay on every side, the high road cutting through them not more than a hundred or two feet from the house. The little girl planted herself on the outside of the paling, and setting her back to it, eyed the old mare with great contentment; for besides other grounds for security as to her quiet behaviour, one of the men employed about the farm, who had harnessed the equipage, was at the moment busied in putting some clean straw in the bottom of the vehicle. "Watkins," said the child presently to this person, “here is a strap that is just ready to come unbuckled." "What do you know about straps and buckles ?" said the man rather grumly. But he came round, however, to see what she meant; and while he drew the one and fastened the other, took special good care not to let Fleda know that her watchful eyes had probably saved the whole riding party from ruin; as the loosing of the strap would of necessity have brought on a trial of the old mare's nerves, which not all her philosophy could have been expected to meet. Fleda was satisfied to see the buckle made fast, and that Watkins, roused by her hint, or by the cause of it, afterwards took a somewhat careful look over the whole establishment. In high glee then she climbed to her seat in the little wagon, and her grandfather coming out coated and hatted, with some difficulty mounted to his place beside her. "I think Watkins might have taken the trouble to wash the wagon, without hurting himself," said Fleda; "it is all speckled with mud since last time." "Ha'n't he washed it!" said the old gentleman in a tone of displeasure. "Watkins!" "Well." "Why didn't you wash the wagon as I told you?" 66 I did." "It's all over slosh." "That's Mr. Didenhover's work-he had it out day 'fore yesterday; and if you want it cleaned, Mr. Ringgan, you must speak to him about it. Mr. Didenhover may file his own doings; it's more than I'm a going to." The old gentleman made no answer, except to acquaint the mare with the fact of his being in readiness to set out. A shade of annoyance and displeasure for a moment was upon his face; but the gate opening from the meadow upon the high road had hardly swung back upon its hinges after letting them out, when he recovered the calm sweetness of demeanour that was habitual with him, and seemed as well as his little granddaughter to have given care the go-by for the time. Fleda had before this found out another fault in the harness, or rather in Mr. Didenhover, which like a wise little child she kept to herself. A broken place which her grandfather had ordered to be properly mended, was still tied up with the piece of rope which had offended her eyes the last time they had driven out. But she said not a word of it, because "it would only worry grandpa for nothing;" and forgetting it almost immediately, she moved on with him in a state of joyous happiness that no mud-stained wagon nor untidy rope-bound harness could stir for an instant. Her spirit was like a clear still-running stream, which quietly and surely deposits every defiling and obscuring admixture it may receive from its contact with the grosser elements around; the stream might for a moment be clouded; but a little while, and it would run as clear as ever. Neither Fleda nor her grandfather cared a jot for the want of elegancies which one despised, and the other, if she had ever known, had well nigh forgotten. What mattered it to her that the little old green wagon was rusty and worn, or that years and service had robbed the old mare of all the jauntiness she had ever possessed, so long as the sun shone and the birds sang? And Mr. Ringgan, in any imaginary comparison, might be pardoned for thinking that he was the proud man, and that his poor little equipage carried such a treasure as many a coach and four went without. "Where are we going first, grandpa ? to the post-office?" Just there!" "How pleasant it is to go there always, isn't it, grandpa? You have the paper to get, and I-I don't very often get a letter, but I have always the hope of getting one; and that's something. May be I'll have one to-day, grandpa ?" "We'll see. It's time those cousins of yours wrote to you." "O they don't write to me it's only Aunt Lucy; I never had a letter from a single one of them, except once from little Hugh, -don't you remember, grandpa ? I should think he must be a very nice little boy, shouldn't you?" "Little boy? why I guess he is about as big as you are, Fleda -he is eleven years old, ain't he?" 66 'Yes, but I am past eleven, you know, grandpa, and I am a little girl." This reasoning being unanswerable, Mr. Ringgan only bade the old mare trot on. It was a pleasant day in autumn. Fleda thought it particularly pleasant for riding, for the sun was veiled with thin, hazy clouds. The air was mild and still, and the woods, like brave men, putting the best face upon falling fortunes. Some trees were already dropping their leaves; the greater part standing in all the varied splendour which the late frosts had given them. The road, an excellent one, sloped gently up and down across a wide arable country, in a state of high cultivation, and now showing all the rich variety of autumn. The reddish buckwheat patches, and fine wood-tints of the fields where other grain had been; the bright green of young rye or winter wheat, then soberer-coloured pasture or meadow lands, and ever and anon a tuft of gay woods crowning a rising ground, or a knot of the everlasting pines looking sedately and steadfastly upon the fleeting glories of the world around them; these were mingled and interchanged, and succeeded each other in ever-varying fresh combinations. With its high picturesque beauty, the whole scene had a look of thrift, and plenty, and promise, which made it eminently cheerful. So Mr. Ringgan and his little granddaughter both felt it to be. For some distance, the grounds on either hand the road were part of the old gentleman's farm; and many a remark was exchanged between him and Fleda as to the excellence or hopefulness of this or that crop or piece of soil; Fleda entering into all his enthusiasm, and reasoning of clover leys and cockle, and the proper harvesting of Indian corn, and other like matters, with no lack of interest or intelligence. "O grandpa," she exclaimed, suddenly, "won't you stop a minute and let me get out. I want to get some of that beautiful bittersweet." 66 very What do you want that for?" said he. "You can't get out 66 O yes, I can-please, grandpa! I want some of it very much-just one minute!" He stopped, and Fleda got out and went to the roadside, where a bittersweet vine had climbed into a young pine tree, and hung it, as it were, with red coral. But her one minute was at least four before she had succeeded in breaking off as much as she could carry of the splendid creeper; for not until then could Fleda persuade herself to leave it. She came back, and worked her way up into the wagon with one hand full as it could hold of her brilliant trophies. "Now, what good'll that do you?" inquired Mr. Ringgan, good-humouredly, as he lent Fleda what help he could to her seat. "Why, grandpa, I want it to put with cedar and pine in a jar at home; it will keep for ever so long, and look beautiful. Isn't that handsome?-only it was a pity to break it." "Why, yes, it's handsome enough," said Mr. Ringgan; "but you've got something just by the front door there, at home, that would do just as well-what do you call it—that flaming thing there?" “What, my burning bush? O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for anything in the world! It's the only pretty thing about the house: and, besides," said Fleda, looking up with a softened mien, "you said that it was planted by my mother. O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for anything.” |