MISS VAN WINKLE'S NAP.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
Chapter III.
"Au printemps Poiseau nait et chante,
N'avez-vous pas oui sa voix?
Elle est pure, simple, et touchante,
La voix de Poiseau dans les bois."
So sang Julie Garnier, as she trudged with weary little feet up the mountain-side, listening to the birds, and in search of the squaw in charge of the doors of Day and Night. The pretty Indian legend had bewitched her. Here she was wandering away from all who cared for her, to see an old woman who cut up the old moons into stars; and already twilight was making the woods more dusky. The slanting sunbeams made a golden green in the young underbrush; the birds were seeking their nests; night would soon wrap the world in darkness; then what would become of Julie? The good God would protect her, she felt sure. But she was undoubtedly hungry, and yonder, where the road turned, was a great flat stone; on it she might rest, and eat a little ginger cake she happened to have in her pocket. To it she hastened, and what a world of beauty lay before her! It was at the head of a ravine, one of those deep mountain gorges lined with pines and cedars, through which rushed a rapid stream, but beyond this and over it were the dark defiles of the mountain range sweeping away to the north in purple shadows, while the sun tipped the tops of the nearer forest with gold and crimson. Here Julie paused, overcome with the grandeur and beauty her young eyes beheld. She sat down and listened to the noise of the stream beneath, and she watched the birds skimming over the ravine. Then remembering her cake, she took it from her pocket and nibbled it daintily, for it was all the food she had, and she must make it last until she came to the old squaw's wig-wam, where, of course, she would be hospitably regaled. She pushed her daisy-wreathed hat from her head, and leaned against a pine-tree; the soft breeze fanned her hot little head, and played with her brown curls; she drew her knees up and clasped her hands about them, watching the sky change from one bright hue to another. The stream's voice was a lullaby, and slowly, softly fell the fringes of her eyelids; till the bright eyes were closed, and Julie was asleep.
She was so wearied and in so deep a slumber that the approaching stage-coach with its freight of tourists did not disturb her; and so eager was every one to see the famous view, that no one apparently noticed the little sleeping wayfarer, but behind the stage came in a more leisurely manner a private conveyance with only four occupants—a lady and gentleman and two children, all evidently foreigners. The elders were indeed occupied in gazing at the glorious picture Nature here displayed, but the eyes of the children were equally sensitive to smaller objects, and when they beheld a sleeping child, they at once drew the attention of their parents to this interesting incident.
The gentleman bade the driver halt, and assisted his pretty little wife from the carriage. She went hastily forward toward Julie, but as she neared her she stopped, clasped her hands, and turned toward her husband. Her face grew so white that he became alarmed, and asked,
"What is it, ma chère? Are you ill?"
"No, I am not ill; but look at this child—quick! Who is she like?"
The gentleman glanced at Julie, nodded his head, pulled his mustache, and said, briefly, "Yes, I see a resemblance."
"To whom, Max?—say, to whom?"
"To your poor little sister, Marie."
"Yes; is it not strange? Oh, how marvellously like Julie! I must waken her. Is she not lovely, the dear little creature, sleeping so innocently? Oh, Max, perhaps—perhaps—"
"Waken her, Marie. Ask her name."
The lady touched Julie gently, but the tired child slept too soundly for the light touch to arouse her, and it was not until she had kissed her on the cheek—the little red and brown cheek—that Julie opened her eyes. Then the lady gave a hysterical scream, not very loud, but enough to frighten Julie, whose eyes grew bigger and browner every moment.
"Oh, those eyes are Julie's!" said the lady.
"Of course they are, madame," replied Julie. "And are you the squaw?"
"Am I what? Is the child dreaming? What is your name, mon enfant?"
"My name is— But why do you ask, madame? and where am I? Oh, I know: I am on my way to see the old Indian squaw who lives up here in the mountains, and it is getting late. I was very weary, and I fell asleep."
"Your name, my child—tell me your name, that I may know if you are Julie Garnier's child."
"Yes, madame, I am Julie Garnier." With that the little lady embraced her so warmly, and gave her so many kisses, that Julie strove to get away from her.
"Children," said the lady, "come here; this is your cousin, little Julie Garnier, whose mother is my dear sister, from whom I have long been separated. Max, we must take the child home."
"Where are you staying, little one?" asked the gentleman, in a heavy voice, which made Julie shrink toward the lady.
"I am staying with Quillie Coit at Mr. Brown's," was Julie's answer, for she dared not now urge her errand, and was much perplexed by all this agitation. The children were standing beside her, gazing curiously, but not unkindly; the little lady was wiping her eyes; the gentleman was holding a consultation with the driver. It ended by their all getting again into the vehicle, Madame Von Boden taking Julie in her arms, and pouring into her astonished ears sweet caressing words, in her own beloved language, about Julie's own dear mother; their home in France; her marriage to a Prussian; the marriage of Julie's mother to a Frenchman; the dreadful war; a separation; a long silence, in which they had heard nothing about Madame Garnier, who was so proud in her poverty; fears that she was dead; the certain knowledge that her husband, Julie's father, was really dead; and now this happy discovery. It was almost too much for Julie, coming as it did in the midst of her own strange adventure, and she could hardly believe it to be all true; but she submitted with a good grace, stifling her regret at not accomplishing her purpose, since this kind little aunt seemed to be so overjoyed. The driver knew where Mr. Brown lived, and just as Mr. Brown's tired horses were being harnessed, and nurse in weariful anxiety was listening to the comfort which Quillie was trying to whisper to her, this strange vehicle was heard coming down the lane. Every one rushed to the gate—Mr. and Mrs. Brown, the farm hands, the kitchen folk, nurse, and even Quillie in her night-gown; for there was Julie at last—poor tired little Julie—drooping, faint, and tearful.
No one scolded, not even nurse, who had been most sorely tried; and Madame Von Boden, with many mistakes in her use of English, and with much excitement, related her adventure. Of course it was considered wonderful, and the travellers were prevailed upon to remain at Mr. Brown's overnight.
A GOOD TIME IN THE BARN.
You would not have supposed that following day, when all the children were having a good time in the barn—swinging, feeding the horses, gathering eggs, giving the hens a double supply of corn, and in every way making the most of a barn's generous resources—that one little maiden among them was a heroine of romance, a very tired little heroine, quite contented to watch the swallows and pigeons, and gaze at the far-away mountain-tops. But so it was, and so it often is; for, as the French say, "'tis the unexpected that happens;" and when Madame Garnier heard that her little Julie had found her aunt Marie, and that the little cousins were all housed under one roof, and having much happiness together, her own joy was great.
Julie promised faithfully never to undertake any more expeditions without the consent of her guardians, and she begged Quillie never to say anything more about the squaw; but Fred was allowed, by special grace, to call her Miss Van Winkle; for Fred had a funny way peculiar to himself which seldom excited wrath.
Later in the season, when Madame Garnier was able to join Julie, and Mr. and Mrs. Coit came up from the city, the Von Bodens gave a pretty fête to all the children, and at the conclusion of it Quillie was invited to accompany Julie and her cousins, and spend the winter in Paris, which was so nice an opportunity for Quillie to acquire a good French accent that her father and mother felt obliged to accept.
Artie and Will had a great talk about this, and Fred said he wished Miss Van Winkle would just take another nap in the woods, to see what else might happen; possibly next time he would get an invitation from the Prince of Wales to go yachting.
But Miss Van Winkle took her naps at home after that, though she still thinks of the old squaw every time she looks at the moon.