Narcissa, or the Road to Rome; In Verona

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

Aposy laid on the fence; then an apple, polished on the coat-sleeve till it shone again; then two more apples and a posy beside them, to show that there could be no mistake about it.

Betsy was only eighteen, and if life was dull at Miss Duty's, it was not exciting at Miss Resigned Elizabeth's. She, too, had been cautioned to have nothing to do with "that bold-lookin' boy over t' the other house!" But Betsy did not think the boy was bold-looking. Anyhow, she hoped (but her hopes were not expressed aloud) she had manners enough to say thank you, when any one was pretty-behaved. So she said thank you, first with her eyes (because Miss Resigned Elizabeth was close by, watering the flower-beds), then with her lips; and it became evident to Bije that she had the sweetest voice that ever was heard in the world. The flowers were real pretty! Betsy thought a sight o' flowers. They had lots of pansies to home, and she did miss 'em, so these seemed real homelike. Did Mr.—well, there! some might think 'twas queer for her to be talkin' to him, and never knowin' what his name was! Bijah Green? Betsy wanted to know! Why, she had an uncle named Green, over to South Beulah. Not her own uncle—he married her aunt Phrony; real nice man, he was. She wondered if he was any relation. But what she was goin' to say? She didn't suppose Mr. Green cared for southernwood. There was a great root of it round by the back-door here; 'twas dretful sweet, and she had to set it over, Miss Bute said. He could have a piece off the root, just as well as not; only she didn't s'pose he cared for such common doin's as southernwood.

It appeared that southernwood had been Mr. Green's favorite plant from his cradle, as one might say. If there was one thing he did hanker after, it was southernwood; but he couldn't see her grubbin' up things that way. If he knew where the bush was, he could get it himself, just as easy—

Betsy would not hear of that! Besides, she was dretful pernickety about folks comin' into the yard. There! Betsy didn't know what she'd say this minute, if she was to see her talkin' to him; but for her, Betsy's, part, she had allers been brought up to be neighborly. Bije chimed in eagerly. 'Twas dretful lonesome, specially come evenin's. To see her ("her" in this case meant Miss Duty) settin' there, knittin' for dear life, and never a word to say to any one—'twas enough to make any one feel homesick. Not but what she was good, in her way, only 'twas a tormentin', up-stiff kind o' way. Drivin' the cow, too! It did seem as though he should fly, sometimes, drivin' that critter all alone from pasture. His sister allers went with him, to home; he s'posed that's why it seemed so lonesome now. Where did she (oh, New England! oh, poor little hard-worked pronouns! this "she" was Miss Resigned Elizabeth),—where did she keep her cow? Seem's though—

Seems, Bijah? Nay, it is!

What are cows and country roads made for, I should like to know, save for the pleasure of youths and maidens? Miss Duty's cow was kept in the humplety field, as the children called it, a mile and more from Cuttyhunk, the pasture where Miss Resigned Elizabeth's good Brindle spent her peaceful days; yet it was strange to see the intimacy that sprung up between these two creatures in the next few weeks.

At a certain turn of the road, Brindle would stop and fall to cropping the grass by the road-side, swinging her body about and switching the flies off comfortably; while her driver, loitering a few steps behind, pulled the early golden-rod or plaited sweet rushes together, apparently absorbed in her task, and only from time to time casting shy glances down the other road, which led off, over hill and dale, to Cuttyhunk. But, by-and-by, down this other road would come another cow,—not a happy, leisurely cow like Brindle, but a breathless and much-tormented beast who had been hurried out of all nature ever since she left the pasture, absolutely goaded along the way by urgent word and gesture, by shakings of her tail, and apostrophes most unreasonable.

"Go lang, you old snail! what you gormin' all over the road for? Want to sleep here, do ye? Of all slow critters ever I see, you're the beat 'em; cold molasses kin gallop, 'longside o' you."

Poor Molly did not understand this kind of thing from one with whom she had been so friendly-intimate as Bije. She made such haste as she could, poor beast, and it was a great relief when she saw Brindle's horns round the corner; for now, she had already learned from experience, the hurry was over. Now she and her bovine friend could take their way along the grassy road, as slowly as any cow could wish. Bijah, who had come panting along the road, breathless with haste and repeated adjurations, became suddenly compassionate. The poor beasts were tired, likely. 'Twouldn't do to hurry them; anyhow, 'twas bad for the cream. Oh, Bijah! Bijah! what would your pious grandmother say, if she were witness of your barefaced duplicity on these occasions?

But what occasions they were! It was a pretty sight, if one had been there to see. The road was pretty, to begin with,—the Indiana road, with its overhanging birches and elms, and the fringe of daisies and golden-rod along the sides. The evening light was soft and sweet, as if the sun had put on his tenderest gleam to smile on Betsy; and as the twilight deepened, in rosy gray softening into amethyst, did not the moon come up, all clear and silver, just to look at Betsy? The white light shimmered on the girl's soft hair, and deepened the dimples in her round cheek, and cast strange gleams into her lovely eyes. Was the other Juliet fairer, I wonder? Possibly; but, on the other hand, she could not drive cows, nor milk them, either. Surely the other Romeo was not more passionate than this dark-eyed boy in his brown jean overalls, walking so sedately by Juliet's—I should say, by Betsy's—side. Bije felt as if the whole world were light and fire; the fire within him, the light without. He thought that Betsy gave light to the moon, not the moon to Betsy. He did not wish he were a glove upon that hand, for the little brown hand had never worn a glove, except once, at the wedding of a friend. The gloves were at home now, wrapped in silver paper; she meant to wear them at her own wedding. He did not swear by yonder blessed moon, because he was not in the habit of swearing. "By gosh!" was the only expletive Bije ever used, and he would not have thought of using that in a lady's presence. The fire within burned him; but what sweet pain it was! If he had only had the gift of language, this poor, dear Bije, what floods of glowing words he would have poured out! How he would have praised her, the beloved one, and praised the night, and blessed the moon, and the stars, and the old cows, and everything that came near him and his happiness! But if he had spoken, Bije could only have said that it was a sightly night, and Betsy would have responded that it was so.