“I—Hang it! it was only a dream!”[[1] ] said Joe, unconsciously feeling in his empty pocket.
“But what has that dream to do with the fish?” pursued Glenn.
“I’ll tell you,” said Joe. “When I got up in the morning and discovered it was a dream, I slipped on my clothes as quickly as possible and set off for the wharf. When I got there, I walked along slowly with my head down till at length my toe struck against an oyster-shell. I picked it up, and while I was looking at it, the captain of a schooner invited me on board of his vessel to look at his cargo of oysters, just stolen from Deep Creek, Virginia. He gave me at least six dozen to eat!”
“And this makes you have faith in such dreams?” asked Glenn, striving in vain to repress his laughter.
“I got something by the dream,” said Joe. “I had a first rate oyster-breakfast.”
“But what has all this to do with the fish?” continued Glenn; “perhaps, instead of the fish, you expect to catch a frog this time. You will still be an Irishman, Joe. Go and try your luck.”
“St. Patrick forbid that I should be any thing else but an Irishman! I should like to know if an Irishman ain’t as good as anybody else, particularly when he’s born in America, as I was? But the dream in Philadelphia did have something to do with a fish. Didn’t I catch a fish? Isn’t an oyster a fish? And it had something to do with this fish, too. I’ve been bothering my head ever since I got up about what kind of bait to catch him with, and I’m sure I never would have thought of the right kind if you hadn’t mentioned that frog just now. I recollect they say that’s the very best thing in the world to bait with for a catfish. I’ll go straight to the brook and hunt up a frog!” Saying this, Joe set out to execute his purpose, while Glenn proceeded to Roughgrove’s house to see how William progressed in his studies.
The intelligent youth, under the guidance of Roughgrove, Glenn, and his unwearying and affectionate sister, was now rapidly making amends for the long neglect of his education while abiding with the unlettered Indians. He had already gone through the English grammar, and was entering the higher branches of study. The great poets of his own country, and the most approved novelists were his companions during the hours of relaxation; for when the illimitable fields of intellect were opened to his vision, he would scarce for a moment consent to withdraw his admiring gaze. Thus, when it was necessary for a season to cease his toil in the path of learning, he delighted to recline in some cool shade with a pleasing book in his hand, and regale his senses with the flowers and refreshing streams of imaginative authors. And thus sweetly glided his days. Could such halcyon moments last, it were worse than madness to seek the wealth and honours of this world! In that secluded retreat, though far from the land of his nativity, with no community but the companionship of his three or four friends and the joyous myriads of birds—no palaces but the eternal hills of nature, and no pageantry but the rays of the rising and setting sun streaming in prismatic dies upon them, the smiling youth was far happier than he would have been in the princely halls of his fathers, where the sycophant only bent the knee to receive a load of gold, and the friend that might protect him on the throne would be the first to stab him on the highway.
A spreading elm stood near the door of Roughgrove’s house, and beneath its clustering boughs William and Mary were seated on a rude bench, entirely screened from the glaring light of the sun. A few paces distant the brook glided in low murmurs between the green flags and water violets over its pebbly bed. The morning dew yet rested on the grass in the shade. The soft sigh of the fresh breeze, as it passed through the motionless branches of the towering elm, could scarce be heard, but yet sufficed ever and anon to lift aside the glossy ringlets that hung pendent to the maiden’s shoulders. The paroquet and the thrush, the bluebird and goldfinch, fluttered among the thick foliage and trilled their melodies in sweetest cadence. Both the brother and sister wore a happy smile. Happy, because the innocence of angels dwelt in the bosom of the one, and the memory of his guileless and blissful days of childhood possessed the other. Occasionally they read some passages in a book that lay open on Mary’s lap, describing the last days of Charles I., and then the bright smile would be dimmed for a moment by a shade of sadness.
“Oh! poor man!” exclaimed Mary, when William read of the axe of the executioner descending on the neck of the prostrate monarch.