Arnold. There's a smoke from that chimney; are those houses inhabited, my boy?
Boy. Part of them, Sir. Some of our people went oft to-day. That white house by the orchard—the old parsonage there? Ay, there are ladies there Sir, but I heard Colonel Leslie saying this morning 'twas a sin and a shame for them to stay another hour.
Arnold. Ay, Ay. I fancied the Colonel was not dealing in abstractions just now.
[Exeunt.
DIALOGUE IV.
SCENE. A room in the Parsonage,—an old-fashioned summer parlor.—-On the side a door and windows opening into an orchard, in front, a yard filled with shade trees. The view beyond bounded by a hill partly wooded. A young girl, in the picturesque costume of the time, lies sleeping on the antique sofa. Annie sits by a table, covered with coarse needlework, humming snatches of songs as she works.
Annie, (singing.)
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
And flies weeping away.
The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling,
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling,
Already they eagerly snuff out their prey—
The red cloud of war—the red cloud of war—
Yes, let me see now,—with a little plotting this might make two—two, at least,—and then—
The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling,
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away,
The infants affrighted cling close to their mothers,
The youths grasp their swords, and for combat prepare;
While beauty weeps fathers, and lovers, and brothers,
Who are gone to defend—
—Alas! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing without there, wasting for ever; and never a glimpse of it. Delicate work this! Here's a needle might serve for a genuine stiletto! No matter,—it is the cause,—it is the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of the bravest lance that brave knight ever won.
(Singing)
The brooks are talking in the dell,
Tul la lul, tul la lul,
The brooks are talking low, and sweet,
Under the boughs where th' arches meet;
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come.
The birds are singing in the dell,
Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo;
The birds are singing wild and free,
In every bough of the forest tree,
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come.
And there the idle breezes lie,
Whispering, whispering,
Whispering with the laughing leaves.
And nothing says each idle breeze,
But come, come, come, O lady come,
Come to th' dell.