CHAPTER VIII.
FLOWER-DAY.
"Cousin Wealthy," said Hildegarde at breakfast the next morning, "may Itell you what it was that made me so rude as to interrupt you lastnight?"
"Certainly, my dear," said Miss Wealthy; "you may tell me, and then youmay forget the little accident, as I had already done."
"Well," said Hildegarde, "you spoke of the time when Mamma was a'harum-scarum girl;' and the idea of her ever having been anything ofthe sort was so utterly amazing that--that was why I cried out. Is itpossible that Mammy was not always quiet and blessed and peaceful?"
"Mildred!" exclaimed Miss Wealthy. "Mildred peaceful! My _dear_ Hilda!"
An impressive pause followed, and Hildegarde's eyes began to twinkle."Tell us!" she murmured, in a tone that would have persuaded an oysterto open his shell. Then she stroked Miss Wealthy's arm gently, and wassilent, for she saw that speech was coming in due time.
Miss Wealthy looked at her teacup, and shook her head slowly, smiled,and then sighed. "Mildred!" she said again. "My dear, your mother is nowforty years old, and I am seventy. When she came to visit me for thefirst time, _I_ was forty years old, and she was ten. She had on, whenshe arrived, a gray stuff frock, trimmed with many rows of narrow greenbraid, and a little gray straw bonnet, with rows of quilled satinribbon, green and pink." The girls exchanged glances of horror andamazement at the thought of this headgear, but made no sound. "I shallnever forget that bonnet," continued Miss Wealthy, pensively, "nor thatdress. In getting out of the carriage her skirt caught on the step, andpart of a row of braid was ripped; this made a loop, in which she caughther foot, and tumbled headlong to the ground. I mended it in theevening, after she was in bed, as it was the frock she was to wear everymorning. My dears, I mended that frock every day for a month. It is thetruth! the braid caught on everything,--on latches, on brambles, onpump-handles, on posts, on chairs. There was always a loop of ithanging, and the child was always putting her foot through it andtumbling down. She never cried, though sometimes, when she felldownstairs, she must have hurt herself. A very brave little girl shewas. At last I took all the braid off, and then things went a littlebetter."
Miss Wealthy paused to sip her coffee, and Hildegarde tried not to lookas if she begrudged her the sip. "Then," she went on, "Mildred wasalways running away,--not intentionally, you understand, but just goingoff and forgetting to come back. Once--dear, dear! it gives me a turn tothink of it!--she had been reading 'Neighbor Jackwood,' and was muchdelighted with the idea of the heroine's hiding in the haystack toescape her cruel pursuers. So she went out to the great haystack in thebarnyard, pulled out a quantity of hay, crept into the hole, and foundit so comfortable that she fell fast asleep. You may imagine, my dears,what my feelings were when dinner-time came, and Mildred was not to befound. The house was searched from garret to cellar. Martha andI--Martha had just come to me then--went down to the wharf and throughthe orchard and round by the pasture, calling and calling, till ourthroats were sore. At last, as no trace of the child could be found, Imade up my mind that she must have wandered away into the woods and gotlost. It was a terrible thought, my dears! I called Enoch, the man, andbade him saddle the horse and ride round to call out the neighbors, thatthey might all search together. As he was leading the horse out, henoticed a quantity of hay on the ground, and wondered how it had comethere. Coming nearer, he saw the hole in the stack, looked in,and--there was the child, fast asleep!"
"Oh! naughty little mother!" cried Hildegarde. "What did you do to her,Cousin Wealthy?"
"Nothing, my dear," replied the good lady. "I was quite ill for severaldays from the fright, and that was enough punishment for the poor child.She never _meant_ to be naughty, you know. But my heart was in my mouthall the time. Once, coming home from a walk, I heard a cheery littlevoice crying, 'Cousin Wealthy! Cousin! see where I am!' I looked up.Hilda, she was sitting on the ridge-pole of the house, waving her bonnetby a loop of the pink quilled ribbon,--it was almost as bad as the greenbraid about coming off,--and smiling like a cherub. 'I came through theskylight,' she said, 'and the air up here is _so_ fresh and nice! I wishyou would come up, Cousin!'
"Another time--oh, that was the worst time of all! I really thought Ishould die that time." Miss Wealthy paused, and shook her head.
"Oh, do go on, dear!" cried Hildegarde; "unless you are tired, that is.It is so delightful!"
"It was anything but delightful for me, my dear, I can assure you,"rejoined Miss Wealthy. "This happened several years later, when Mildredwas thirteen or fourteen. She came to me for a winter visit, and I wasdelighted to find how womanly she had grown. We had a great deal of badweather, and she was with me in the house a good deal, and was mostsweet and helpful; and as I did not go out much, I did not see what shedid out of doors, and she _always_ came home in time for dinner and tea.Well, one day--it was in March, and the river was just breaking up, aswe had had some mild weather--the minister came to see me, and I beganto tell him about Mildred, and how she had developed, and how muchcomfort I took in her womanly ways. He was sitting on the sofa, fromwhich, you know, one can see the river very well. Suddenly he said,'Dear me! what is that? Some one on the river at this time! Veryimprudent! Very--' Then he broke off short, and gave me a strange look.I sprang up and went to the window. What did I see, my dear girls? Theriver was full of great cakes of ice, all pressed and jumbled together;the current was running very swiftly; and there, in the middle of theriver, jumping from one cake to another like a chamois, or some suchwild creature, was Mildred Bond."
"Oh!" cried Rose, "how dreadful! Dear Miss Bond, what did you do?"
Hildegarde was silent. It was certainly very naughty, she thought; butoh, what fun it must have been!
"Fortunately," said Miss Wealthy, "I became quite faint at the sight.Fortunately, I say; for I might have screamed and startled the child,and made her lose her footing. As it was, the minister went and calledMartha, and she, like the sensible girl she is, simply blew thedinner-horn as loud as she possibly could. It was the middle of theafternoon; but as she rightly conjectured, the sound, without startlingMildred, gave her to understand that she was wanted. The ministerwatched her making her way to the shore, leaping the dark spaces ofrushing water between the cakes, apparently as unconcerned as if shewere walking along the highway; and when he saw her safe on shore, hewas very glad to sit down and drink a glass of the wine that Martha hadbrought to revive me. 'My dear madam,' he said,--I was lying on the sofain dreadful suspense, and could not trust myself to look,--'the younglady is safe on the bank, and will be here in a moment. I fear she isnot so sedate as you fancied; and as she is too old to be spanked andput to bed, I should recommend your sending her home by the coachto-morrow morning. That girl, madam, needs the curb, and you have beenguiding her with the snaffle.' He was very fond of horses, good man,and always drove a good one himself."
"And did you send her home?" asked Hildegarde, anxiously, thinking whata dreadful thing it would be to be sent back in disgrace.
"Oh, no!" said Miss Wealthy, "I could not do that, of course. Mildredwas my god-child, and I loved her dearly. But she was not allowed to seeme for twenty-four hours, and I fancy those were very sad hours for her.Dear Mildred! that was her last prank; for the next time she came hereshe was a woman grown, and all the hoyden ways had been put off like agarment. And now, dears," added Miss Wealthy, rising, "we must letMartha take these dishes, or she will be late with her work, and thatalways distresses her extremely."
They went into the parlor, and Hildegarde, as she patted and "plumped"the cushions of the old lady's chair, reminded her that she had promisedthem some work for the morning, but had not told them what it was.
"True!" said Miss Wealthy. "You are right, dear. This is my Flower-day.I send flowers once a week to the sick children in the hospital atFairtown, and I thought you might like to pick them and make up thenosegays."
"Oh, how delightful that will be!" cried Hildegarde. "And is that whatyou call work, Cousin Wealthy? I call it pl
ay, and the best kind. Wemust go at once, so as to have them all picked before the sun is hot.Come, Rosebud!"
The girls put on their broad-brimmed hats and went out into the garden,which was still cool and dewy. Jeremiah was there, of course, with hiswheelbarrow; and as they stood looking about them, Martha appeared witha tray in one hand and a large shallow tin box in the other. Waving thetray as a signal to the girls to follow, she led the way to a shadycorner, where, under a drooping laburnum-tree, was a table and a rusticseat. She set the tray and box on the table, and then, diving into hercapacious pocket, produced a ball of string, two pairs offlower-scissors, and a roll of tissue paper.
"There!" she said, in a tone of satisfaction, "I think that's all.Pretty work you'll find it, Miss Hilda, and it's right glad I am to haveyou do it; for it is too much for Miss Bond, stooping over the beds, soit is. But do it she will; and I almost think she hardly liked to giveit up, even to you."
"Indeed, I don't wonder!" said Hildegarde. "There cannot be anythingelse so pleasant to do. And thank you, Martha, for making everything socomfortable for us. You are a dear, as I may have said before."
Martha chuckled and withdrew, after telling the girls that the flowersmust be ready in an hour.
"Now, Rose," said Hildegarde, "you will sit there and arrange the prettydears as I bring them to you. The question is now, where to begin. Inever, in all my life, saw so many flowers!"
"Begin with those that will not crush easily," said Rose, "and I willlay them at the bottom. Some of those splendid sweet-williams overthere, and mignonette, and calendula, and sweet alyssum, and--"
"Oh, certainly!" cried Hildegarde. "All at once, of course, picking withall my hundred hands at the same moment. Couldn't you name a few more,Miss?"
"I beg pardon!" said Rose, laughing. "I will confine my attention to thelaburnum here. 'Allee same,' I don't believe you see that beautifulmourning-bride behind you."
"Why mourning, and why bride?" asked Hildegarde, plucking some of thedark, rich blossoms. "It doesn't strike me as a melancholy flower."
"I don't know!" said Rose. "I used to play that she was a princess, andso wore crimson instead of black for mourning. She is so beautiful, itis a pity she has no fragrance. She is of the teasel family, you know."
"Lady Teazle?" asked Hildegarde, laughing.
"A different branch!" replied Rose, "but just as prickly. The fuller'steasel,--do you know about it, dear?"
"No, Miss Encyclopaedia, I do not!" replied Hildegarde, with someasperity. "You know I _never_ know anything of that kind; tell me aboutit!"
"Well, it is very curious," said Rose, taking the great bunch ofmourning-bride that her friend handed her, and separating the flowersdaintily. "The flower-heads of this teasel, when they are dried, arecovered with sharp curved hooks, and are used to raise the nap onwoollen cloth. No machine or instrument that can be invented does ithalf so well as this dead and withered blossom. Isn't that interesting?"
"Very!" said Hildegarde. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"What _is_ the matter?" cried Rose, in alarm. "Has something stung you?Let me--"
"Oh, no!" said Hildegarde, quickly. "I was only thinking of theappalling number of things there are to know. They overwhelm me! Theybury me! A mountain weighs me down, and on its top grows a--a teasel.Why, I never heard of the thing! I am not sure that I am clear what afuller is, except that his earth is advertised in the Pears'soap-boxes."
They both laughed at this, and then Hildegarde bent with renewed energyover a bed of feathered pinks of all shades of crimson and rose-color.
"A mountain!" said Rose, slowly and thoughtfully, as she laid theblossoms together and tied them up in small posies. "Yes, Hilda, so itis! but a mountain to climb, not to be buried under. To think that wecan go on climbing, learning, all our lives, and always with higher andhigher peaks above us, soaring up and up,--oh, it is glorious! Whatmight be the matter with you to-day, my lamb?" she added; for Hildegardegroaned, and plunged her face into a great white lily, withdrawing it toshow a nose powdered with virgin gold. "Does your head ache?"
"I think the sturgeon is at the bottom of it," was the reply. "I havenot yet recovered fully from the humiliation of having been sofrightened by a sturgeon, when I had been brought up, so to speak, onthe 'Culprit Fay.' I have eaten caviare too," she addedgloomily,--"odious stuff!"
"But, my _dear_ Hilda!" cried Rose, in amused perplexity, "this is tooabsurd. Why shouldn't one be frightened at a monstrous creature leapingout of the water just before one's nose, and how should you know he wasa sturgeon? You couldn't expect him to say 'I am a sturgeon!' or tocarry a placard hung round his neck, with 'Fresh Caviare!' on it."Hildegarde laughed. "You remind me," added Rose, "that my own ignorancelist is getting pretty long. Get me some sweet-peas, that's a dear; andI can ask you the things while you are picking them." Hildegarde movedto the long rows of sweet-peas, which grew near the laburnum bower; andRose drew a little brown note-book from her pocket, and laid it open onthe table beside her. "What is 'Marlowe's mighty line'?" she demandedbravely. "I keep coming across the quotation in different things, and Idon't know who Marlowe was. Yet you see I am cheerful."
"Kit Marlowe!" said Hildegarde. "Poor Kit! he was a great dramatist; thenext greatest after Shakspeare, I think,--at least, well, leaving outthe Greeks, you know. He was a year younger than Shakspeare, and diedwhen he was only twenty-eight, killed in a tavern brawl."
"Oh, how dreadful!" cried gentle Rose. "Then he had only begun towrite."
"Oh, no!" said Hildegarde. "He had written a great deal,--'Faustus' and'Edward II.,' and 'Tamburlaine,' and--oh! I don't know all. But onething of his _you_ know, 'The Passionate Shepherd,'--'Come live with meand be my love;' you remember?"
"Oh!" cried Rose. "Did he write that? I love him, then."
"And so many, many lovely things!" continued Hildegarde, warming to hersubject, and snipping sweet-peas vigorously. "Mamma has read me a gooddeal here and there,--all of 'Edward II.,' and bits from 'Faustus.'There is one place, where he sees Helen--oh, I must remember it!--
"'Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?'
Isn't that full of pictures? I see them! I see the ships, and the white,royal city, and the beautiful, beautiful face looking down from a towerwindow."
Both girls were silent a moment; then Rose asked timidly, "And who spokeof the 'mighty line,' dear? It must have been another great poet. Onlythree words, and such a roll and ring and brightness in them."
"Oh! Ben Jonson!" said Hildegarde. "He was another great dramatist, youknow; a little younger, but of the same time with Shakspeare andMarlowe. He lived to be quite old, and he wrote a very famous poem onShakspeare, 'all full of quotations,' as somebody said about 'Hamlet.'It is in that that he says 'Marlowe's mighty line,' and 'Sweet Swan ofAvon,' and 'Soul of the Age,' and all sorts of pleasant things. So niceof him!"
"And--and was he an ancestor of Dr. Samuel's?" asked Rose, humbly.
"Why, darling, you are really quite ignorant!" cried Hildegarde,laughing. "How delightful to find things that you don't know! No, he hadno _h_ in his name,--at least, it had been left out; but he cameoriginally from the Johnstones of Annandale. Think of it! he may havebeen a cousin of Jock Johnstone the Tinkler, without knowing it. Well,his father died when he was little, and his mother married abrick-layer; and Ben used to carry hods of mortar up ladders,--oh me!what a strange world it is! By-and-by he was made Laureate,--the firstLaureate,--and he was very great and glorious, and wrote masques andplays and poems, and quarrelled with Inigo Jones--no! I can't stop totell you who he was," seeing the question in Rose's eyes,--"and grewvery fat. But when he was old they neglected him, poor dear! and when hedied he was buried standing up straight, in Westminster Abbey; and hisfriend Jack Young paid a workman eighteenpence to carve on a stone 'ORare Ben Jonson!' and there it is to this day."
She paused for breath; but Rose said nothing, seeing that more wascoming. "But the best of all," continued Hilde
garde, "was his visit toDrummond of Hawthornden. Oh, Rose, that was so delightful!"
"Tell me about it!" said Rose, softly. "Not that I know who _he_ was;but his name is a poem in itself."
"Isn't it?" cried Hildegarde. "He was a poet too, a Scottish poet,living in a wonderful old house--"
"Not 'caverned Hawthornden,' in 'Lovely Rosabelle'?" cried Rose, hereyes lighting up with new interest.
"Yes!" replied Hildegarde, "just that. Do you know why it is 'caverned'?That must be another story. Remind me to tell you when we are doing ourhair to-night. But now you must hear about Ben. Well, he went on awalking tour to Scotland, and one of his first visits was to WilliamDrummond, with whom he had corresponded a good deal. Drummond wassitting under his great sycamore-tree, waiting for him, and at last hesaw a great ponderous figure coming down the avenue, flourishing a hugewalking-stick. Of course he knew who it was; so he went forward to meethim, and called out, 'Welcome, welcome, royal Ben!' 'Thank ye, thank ye,Hawthornden!' answered Jonson; and then they both laughed and werefriends at once."
"Hildegarde, where do you find all these wonderful things?" cried Rose,in amazement. "That is delightful, enchanting. And for you to callyourself ignorant! Oh!"
"There is a life of Drummond at home," said Hildegarde, simply. "Ofcourse one reads lovely things,--there is no merit in that; and theteasel still flaunts. But I _do_ feel better. That is just my baseness,to be glad when you don't know things, you dearest! But do just look atthese sweet-peas! I have picked all these,--pecks! bushels!--and thereare as many as ever. Don't you think we have enough flowers, Rosy?"
"I do indeed!" answered Rose. "Enough for a hundred children at least.Besides, it must be time for them to go. The lovely things! Think of allthe pleasure they will give! A sick child, and a bunch of flowers likethese!" She took up a posy of velvet pansies and sweet-peas, set roundwith mignonette, and put it lovingly to her lips. "I remember--" Shepaused, and sighed, and then smiled.
"Yes, dear!" said Hildegarde, interrogatively. "The house where you wereborn?"
"'DON'T YOU THINK WE HAVE ENOUGH FLOWERS, ROSY?'"]
"One day I was in dreadful pain," said Rose,--"pain that seemed as if itwould never end,--and a little child from a neighbor's house brought abunch of Ragged Robin, and laid it on my pillow, and said, 'PoorPinky! make she better!' I think I have never loved any other flowerquite so much as Ragged Robin, since then. It is the only one I misshere. Do you want to hear the little rhyme I made about it, when I wasold enough?"
Hildegarde answered by sitting down on the arm of the rustic seat, andthrowing her arm round her friend's shoulder in her favorite fashion."Such a pleasant Rosebud!" she murmured. "Tell now!"
And Rose told about--
RAGGED ROBIN.
O Robin, ragged Robin, That stands beside the door, The sweetheart of the country child, The flower of the poor,
I love to see your cheery face, Your straggling bravery; Than many a stately garden bloom You're dearer far to me.
For you it needs no sheltered nook, No well-kept flower-bed; By cottage porch, by roadside ditch, You raise your honest head.
The small hedge-sparrow knows you well, The blackbird is your friend; With clustering bees and butterflies Your pink-fringed blossoms bend.
O Robin, ragged Robin, The dearest flower that grows, Why don't you patch your tattered cloak? Why don't you mend your hose?
Would you not like to prank it there Within the border bright, Among the roses and the pinks, A courtly dame's delight?
"Ah no!" says jolly Robin, "'T would never do for me; The friend of bird and butterfly, Like them I must be free.
"The garden is for stately folk, The lily and the rose; They'd scorn my coat of ragged pink, Would flout my broken hose.
"Then let me bloom in wayside ditch, And by the cottage door, The sweetheart of the country child, The flower of the poor."