"Oh, take care!" exclaimed Redbud, hastening to her friend's a.s.sistance.

"It is nothing!" f.a.n.n.y said; "I can hold it."

And to prove this, she let go the string, which was cutting her hand in two.

The poor kite! loosed from the sustaining hand, from the earth, which, so to speak, held it up--it sees its hopes of elevation in the world all dashed with disappointment and obscured. It is doomed!

But no! A new friend comes to its rescue--deserted by the lords and ladies of creation, the lesser creature takes it under his protection.

Longears is the rescuer. Longears has watched the messenger we have mentioned with deep interest, as it lays upon the string and flutters; Longears imagines that it is a bee of the species called yellow-jacket challenging him to combat. Consequently, Longears no sooner sees the string dart from f.a.n.n.y's hand, than believing the enemy about to escape him, he springs toward it and catches it in his mouth.

Longears catches a tartar; but too brave to yield without a struggle, rolls upon the ground, grinding the yellow enemy, and the string beneath his teeth.

His evolutions on the gra.s.s wrap the string around his feet and neck; Longears is taken prisoner, and finds himself dragged violently over the ground.

Brave and resolute before a common enemy, Longears fears this unknown adversary. Overcome with superst.i.tious awe, he howls; endeavoring to howl again, he finds his windpipe grasped by his enemy. The howl turns into a wheeze. His eyes start from his head; his jaws open; he rolls on the gra.s.s; leaps in the air; puts forth the strength of a giant, but in vain.

It is at this juncture that Verty runs up and severs the string with his hunting-knive; whereat Longears, finding himself released, rubs his nose vigorously with his paws, sneezes, and lies down with an unconscious air, as if nothing had happened. He is saved.

The kite, however, is sacrified. Justly punished for wounding Redbud's hand, throwing Miss f.a.n.n.y on her face, and periling the life of Longears, the unfortunate kite struggles a moment in the clouds, staggers from side to side, like a drunken man, and then caught by a sudden gust, sweeps like a streaming comet down into the autumn forest, and is gone.

f.a.n.n.y is wiping her hands, which are somewhat soiled; the rest of the company are laughing merrily at the disappearance of the kite; Longears is gravely and seriously contemplating the yellow enemy with whom he has struggled so violently, and whose conqueror he believes himself to be.

This was the incident so frequently spoken of by Mr. Ralph Ashley afterwards, as the Bucolic of the kite.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE HARVEST MOON.

The day was nearly gone now, dying over fir-clad hills; but yet, before it went, poured a last flood of rich, red light, such as only the mountains and the valley boast, upon the beautiful sloping meadow, stretching its green and dewy sea in front of Apple Orchard.

As the sun went away in royal splendor, bounding over the rim of evening, like a red-striped tiger--on the eastern horizon a light rose gradually, as though a great conflagration raged there. Then the trees were kindled; then the broad, yellow moon--call it the harvest moon!--soared slowly up, dragging its captive stars, and mixing its fresh radiance with the waning glories of the crimson west.

And as the happy party--grouped upon the gra.s.sy knoll, like some party of shepherds and shepherdesses, in the old days of Arcady--gazed on the beautiful spectacle, the voices of the negroes coming from their work were heard, driving their slow teams in, and sending on the air the clear melodious songs, which, rude and ludicrous as they seem, have yet so marvellous an effect, borne on the airs of night.

Those evening songs and sounds! Not long ago, one says, I stood, just at sunset, on the summit of a pretty knoll, and, looking eastward, saw the harvesters cutting into the tall, brown-headed, rippling wheat.

I heard the merry whistle of the whirling scythes; I heard their songs--they were so sweet! And why are these harvest melodies so soft-sounding, and so grateful to the ear? Simply because they discourse of the long buried past; and, like some magical spell, arouse from its sleep all the beauteous and gay splendor of those hours. As the clear, measured sound floated to my ear, I heard also, again, the vanished music of happy childhood--that elysian time which cannot last for any of us. I do not know what the song was--whether some slow, sad negro melody, or loud-sounding hymn, such as the forests ring with at camp-meetings; but I know what the murmuring and dying sound brought to me again, living, splendid, instinct with a thoughtful but perfect joy. Fairyland never, with its silver-twisted, trumpet-flower-like bugles, rolled such a merry-mournful music to the friendly stars! I love to have the old days back again--back, with their very tints, and atmosphere, and sounds and odors--now no more the same. Thus I love to hear the young girl's low, merry song, floating from the window of a country-house, half-broken by the cicala, the swallow's twitter, or the rustling leaves;--I love to hear the joyous ripple of the harpsichord, bringing back, with some old music, times when that merry music stamped the hours, and took possession of them--in the heart--forever more! I love a ringing horn, even the stage-horn--now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only memory!--the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far, clear cry of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle; every sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering plains of youth. And that is why, standing on this round knoll, beneath the merrily-rustling cherry-trees, and listening to the murmurous song, I heard my boyhood speak to me, and felt again the old breath on my brow. The sun died away across the old swaying woods; the rattling hone upon the scythe; the measured sweep; the mellow music--all were gone away. The day was done, and the long twilight came--twilight, which mixes the crimson of the darkling west, the yellow moonlight in the azure east, and the red glimmering starlight overhead, into one magic light. And so we went home merrily, with pleasant thoughts and talk; such pleasant thoughts I wish to all. Thus wrote one who ever delighted in the rural evenings and their sounds;--and thus listened the young persons, whose conversation, light and trivial though it seem, we have not thought it a loss of time to chronicle, from morn till eve.

They gazed with quiet pleasure upon the lovely landscape, and listened to the negroes as they sang their old, rude, touching madrigals, shouting, at times, to the horses of their teams, and not seldom sending on the air the loud rejoiceful outburst of their laughter.

The moonlight slept upon the wains piled up with yellow sheaves--and plainly revealed the little monkey-like black, seated on the summit of the foremost; and this young gentleman had managed to procure a banjo, and was playing.

As he played he sang; and, as he sang, kept time--not with the head alone, and foot, but with his whole body, arms, and legs and shoulders--all agitated with the ecstacy of mirth, as--singing "c.o.o.ny up the holler," and executing it with grand effect moreover--the merry minstrel went upon his way. Various diminutive individuals of a similar description, were observed in the road behind, executing an impromptu "break down," to the inspiring melody; and so the great piled-up wagon came on in the moonlight, creaking in unison with the music, and strewing on the road its long trail of golden wheat.

The moon soared higher, bidding defiance now to sunset, which it drove completely from the field; and in the window of Apple Orchard a light began to twinkle; and Redbud rose. She should not stay out, she said, as she had been sick; and so they took their way, as says our friend, "in pleasant talk," across the emerald meadow to the cheerful home.

The low of cattle went with them, and all the birds of night waked up and sang.

The beautiful moon--the very moon of all the harvest-homes since the earth was made--shone on them as they went; and by the time they had reached the portico of the old comfortable mansion, evening had cast such shadows, far and near, that only the outlines of the forms were seen, as they pa.s.sed in through the deep shadow.

They did not see that Verty's hand held little Redbud's; and that he looked her with a tenderness which could not be mistaken. But Redbud saw it, and a flush pa.s.sed over her delicate cheek, on which the maiden moon looked down and smiled.

So the day ended.

CHAPTER XLIX.

BACK TO WINCHESTER, WHERE EDITORIAL INIQUITY IS DISCOURSED OF.

Busy with the various fortunes of our other personages, we have not been able of late to give much attention to the n.o.ble poet, Roundjacket, with whose ambition and great thoughts, this history has heretofore somewhat concerned itself.

Following the old, fine chivalric mansion, "_Place aux dames_!" we have necessarily been compelled to elbow the cavaliers from the stage, and pa.s.s by in silence, without listening to them. Now, however, when we have written our pastoral canto, and duly spoken of the sayings and doings of Miss Redbud and Miss f.a.n.n.y--used our best efforts to place upon record what they amused themselves with, laughed at, and took pleasure in, under the golden trees of the beautiful woods, and in the happy autumn fields--now we are at liberty to return to our good old border town, and those other personages of the history, whose merits have not been adequately recognized.

When Verty entered Winchester, on the morning after the events, or rather idle country scenes, which we have related, he was smiling and joyous; and the very clatter of Cloud's hoofs made Longears merry.

Verty dismounted, and turned the k.n.o.b of the office-door.

In opening, it struck against the back of Mr. Roundjacket, who, pacing hastily up and down the apartment, seemed to be laboring under much excitement.

In his left hand, Roundjacket carried a small brown newspaper, with heavy straggling type, and much dilapidated from its contact with the equestrian mail-bag, which it had evidently issued from only a short time before. In his right hand, the poet held a ruler, which described eccentric circles in the air, and threatened imaginary foes with torture and extermination.

The poet's hair stood up; his breath came and went; his coat-skirts moved from side to side, with indignation; and he evidently regarded something in the paper with a mixture of horror and despair.

Verty paused for a moment on the threshold; then took off his hat and went in.

Round jacket turned round.

Verty gazed at him for a moment in silence; then smiling:

"What is the matter, sir?" he said.

"Matter, sir!" cried Roundjacket--"everything is the matter, sir!"

Verty shook his head, as much as to say, that this was a dreadful state of things, and echoed the word "everything!"

"Yes, sir! everything!--folly is the matter!--crime is the matter!--statutory misdemeanor is the matter!"

And Roundjacket, overcome with indignation, struck the newspaper a savage blow with his ruler.

"I am the victim, sir, of editorial iniquity, and typographical abomination!"