General Washington seemed to understand all this perfectly, for he gave his great lumbering head a toss which signified plainer than words that he understood the value of that saddle quite as well as his mistress, and knew how to keep his peace, if it came to that, without being lectured about it. He whinnied out his satisfaction, in answer to Aunt Polly’s caresses, and trotted off with great dignity toward a little rivulet on the bank, where the grass was green as emeralds, and the violets blue as a baby’s eyes.
“There,” said Aunt Polly, looking after him as he rolled heavily along, with the flesh quivering like a jelly under his sleek hide, “isn’t he a picterful sight? Why, Mary dear, that hoss knows more than two-thirds of the men in Wyoming. Now, that saddle is jest as safe on his back as if it was hung up by the stirrup in my kitchen—he’s a wonderful critter, is Gineral Washington.”
With her head half turned back, in proud admiration of her steed, Aunt Polly let herself down the bank, talking all the time, and at last sat down in the bottom of the canoe, gathering her scarlet cloak around her, and covering her ankles decorously with the skirt of her striped dress. Then, with a gentle dip of the oars, Mary headed her little craft for the island.
Mother Derwent was both pleased at and annoyed by the sight of her visitor—pleased, because Aunt Polly Carter was born in the same old Connecticut town with herself; and annoyed, that she, the very best cook and housekeeper in Wyoming, should find a spoiled breakfast on the hearth—potatoes browned into chips, venison steaks with all the gravy dried up, and the johnnycake overdone. It was a terrible humiliation, and Mother Derwent felt as if she had been detected in some shameful act of negligence by her old friend of the Elm-tree tavern.
“Just in time,” exclaimed Aunt Polly, taking off her cloak and untying her bonnet; “I was afraid breakfast ’ed be over afore I got here. Gracious goodness! Miss Derwent, don’t you see that johnnycake’s burnt to a crisp?—here, give it to me—half cold too, dear, dear—never mind, good soul! it might a-been worse—there, take it this way, and beat it between both hands a trifle—oh, that tea smells something like, oh, ha—you haven’t forgot to cook a meal of victuals yet; you and I can give these Pennsylvanians a lesson any day, Miss Derwent.”
Grandma explained how the breakfast had been kept waiting till it was quite spoiled; but Aunt Polly would listen to nothing of the kind—everything was excellent, the tea drawn beautifully, and the butter perfection. As for the preserved plums and crab-apples, she had tasted nothing equal to them in years; they had the real Connecticut flavor—quite put her in mind of old times.
They had all been seated at the table some minutes before Jane made her appearance. She was still moody, and received Aunt Polly with distrustful reserve, which the good lady did not seem to regard in the least, but went on with her breakfast, tranquil as a summer’s day.
After they arose from the table there was a world of questions to ask, and experiments to try. Aunt Polly took pride in exhibiting all her accomplishments before the young girls. She sat down at the flax-wheel, arranged the threads in the flyers, and directly the whole cabin was filled with their hum.
“Look here, girls, and see how an old housekeeper can spin. Why, long before I was your age I had yards and yards of homespun linen out in father’s spring meadow, whitening for my setting out. I’ve got a great chest full of that ’ere identical linen in my house this minute, that’s never been used, and never will be till I’m settled for life.”
Now, as Aunt Polly was a middle-aged woman when she left Connecticut, and had lived at the Elm-tree tavern twenty-five years, this idea of settling for life-which, of course, comprised a husband, who might also be landlord to that establishment—struck the young girls at once as so improbable that they both smiled.