MISS VAN WINKLE'S NAP.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
Chapter II.
"Now, nurse, what is it?" cried Quillie and Fred and Will and Artie, as they rushed from the deck of their odd craft, and after a hasty brushing, and a dip into the clear spring water, they made their way to the breakfast table.
"Yes, nurse chérie," echoed gypsy Julie, "please be so good as to inform—describe— Oh, what is the word?"
"Tell, tell—that is the word, little Frenchie," said Fred.
"Thanks, monsieur," said Julie, gravely.
Quillie whispered softly to Fred that his manner was rude, whereupon Fred, with a nonsensical bow, turned to Julie.
"My sister 'informs, describes' me as rude; am I?"
"A little, I think," said Julie; but she turned eagerly to hear what nurse had to say.
"Mr. Brown says that he will bring in his first load of hay to-day, and as many as choose can go to the 'Look-out' field and help him, and afterward he will give you all a ride."
"Splendid!" "Glorious!" said the boys.
"Won't it be nice?" said Quillie to Julie.
"Charming!" replied Julie; "but why is it called the Look-out field?"
"Because there is so fine a view from it of the mountains."
"The Catskills?"
"Yes, where old Rip Van Winkle slept for twenty years."
"Did he, truly?"
"So the story goes. Every time it thunders, we think the queer old mountain men are playing nine-pins."
"Do you?" said Julie, with eyes still wider open. "I should like to see them."
"The Indians used to say that an old squaw lived on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of Day and Night. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars."
"Oh, Quillie, would it not be lovely to seek her, and find out more about the moon and stars?"
"Pshaw!" said Quillie, with scorn. "Do you believe such nonsense, Julie?"
"I don't know," said Julie, "but I think I should like to believe it."
Then they all concluded that they wanted no more breakfast, and there was another rush; for the trunks had come, and each desired some particular treasure—a garden tool, an old hat, a sun-bonnet, a tin pail, or a fishing-rod.
Nurse was too good-natured to refuse, and so the trunks were opened, and ransacked very thoroughly, until Mr. Brown summoned them; then, like swallows at twilight, they were again all on the wing, darting hither and thither. But in one little brain was a thought like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.
To Julie this jaunt from the city to the country had been the realization of a dream, or as if she had walked into a page of her story-books, and found the things and people all living and true. The scent of the sweet clover, the twittering of the birds, the deep blue of the sky and the deeper blue of the mountains, the snow-white daisies and the yellow buttercups, were things she had read about in the many lonely moments she had spent while her mother was out giving lessons; but in all her little life she had no actual experience of these things; and now here they were, and in addition it was the land of romance—a place where people could sleep for twenty years, a place where queer hobgoblin people played nine-pins. That squaw Quillie had told her about was fascinating; perhaps it was true that she still was living, and oh! how she should like to see her! Perhaps if she walked all day, she might reach the top of that great blue peak, and find in some strange little wigwam that old creature who cut up the old moons into stars, and then what a wonderful tale Julie would have to tell! It would be like visiting the old woman who swept the cobwebs from the sky. There would be no harm in trying. She had often been on errands alone in the great city, where everything was so confusing. Perhaps the squaw would be pleased, and give her some wonderful talisman; or she might relate to her stories of Indian life, which she (Julie) would write down and make into a book; and then no one, not even nurse, would be angry with her for daring to do so courageous a thing.
RIDING HOME FROM THE HAY FIELD.—Drawn by W. M. Cary.
Who would have imagined that, as the children tossed about the heaps of fragrant hay, this wild scheme was brewing beneath the brim of a tiny straw hat wreathed with daisies? And who thought to count the merry ones on the top of the wagon-load as it turned homeward? Not nurse, who was sewing beneath a tree, and who gathered up her work and went after her charge in blissful ignorance that one lamb had strayed from the fold.
With eager, hurrying steps Julie had left the meadow and sought a clump of trees; from these she emerged upon a road which seemed much travelled. It was very steep and dusty where it was not rocky, but she was not to be daunted at the outset; so on she went as rapidly as possible, for fear that, being missed, she might be over-taken, and prevented from accomplishing this great feat. At first she could hear the voices in the field beneath her, but as she hastened on all became silent but the stirring of the summer breeze in the tree-tops, and the far-away cackle of an industrious hen. The road, at first very sunny, had now wound itself beside huge crags, which made a welcome shade, and Julie saw with delight a little water-fall come tumbling down a narrow fissure, plunging into a pool below, and crossing the path. Warm and thirsty, she stopped to refresh herself and listen to the gurgling of the brook. But she must not dawdle, or night might come on, and then it would be hard to find the old squaw, who was perhaps at this moment cutting glittering stars out of the old moons. The difficulty of hanging them up did not once occur to her. Possibly the moon and the stars were not like tinsel, but she had no doubt of the squaw. She had heard that squaws made baskets: would it not be a nice thing to buy a little one for Quillie, and a great big one for nurse?—she would pick out the very prettiest. And so she scrambled on, getting very much heated and soiled, catching her clothes on the briers, getting bits of stone in her shoes, but neither frightened nor concerned about those from whom she had wandered.
Meanwhile Quillie, from her high perch on the hay, began wondering why her little companion was so silent. She supposed Julie was behind her, but, fearful of tumbling, she had been still as a mouse. She twisted about now, a little uneasily, and called Julie, but there was no response. Then Mr. Brown helped her to dismount, and still no Julie was to be seen. So she went into the house, procured a book, and sat on the piazza. Presently nurse came in.
"Where's Julie?" cried Quillie.
"Where?—was she not with you?"
"No, she was not on the hay-cart."
"Then she must be with the boys."
"No; they are in the barn."
"Then she is hiding. Go and look for her. I must get your rooms in order now." So nurse went in.
Quillie tried to read, but her thoughts were like thistle-down. Where could Julie be? She sought her all about the house; peeped into all sorts of corners. Then she went to the barn. Had the boys seen Julie? No; and they were whittling, making a boat, and couldn't be bothered.
"I wish, Fred, that you had not been so rude to Julie."
Fred looked up, surprised. "Rude! when was I rude?"
"You called her 'little Frenchy,' and imitated her."
"Did I? Oh yes, I remember something of that sort. But she isn't huffy, you know; she's a bright little chick."
Quillie thought so too, and was getting very lonely.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened, and the great conch shell was blown for the men to come in to their early supper, nurse came down to summon the children in to tidy themselves; and when she found Quillie crying in a corner, and no Julie yet to be seen, she too became uneasy. Where could the child have gone? She questioned everybody. No one had seen her. All remembered the little brown hat with its wreath of daisies. Fortunately the farm was a safe place; there was no water to fear. Perhaps she had fallen asleep somewhere. All would hunt for her after supper. And all did hunt, but no one found her.
The moon, like a silver sickle, hung in the sky; the frogs croaked; the soft sweet air puffed out the muslin curtains, and brought in the fragrance of the new-mown hay. The children, too tired to be much alarmed, went to their beds without their usual gambols. Mr. Brown hitched his weary horses, and declared his intention of remaining out all night unless he found Julie. Poor nurse was in a fever of anxiety. She reproached herself in many quite unnecessary ways. She had talked the matter over with Mrs. Brown until both were exhausted, and now she was pacing the piazza in weary restlessness.
Quillie, unable to sleep, came trotting out in her night-gown, and seeing poor nurse's sad face, went up to her, and whispered something about "God being able to take care of little Julie wherever she might be," when far away came the sound of wheels.
"Hark!" said nurse, "is that wagon coming here?"
"Yes," said Quillie, listening, "it is coming here."