Near by was the pump, a never-failing wonder to us when we were little. The well over which it stood was very deep, and it took a long time to bring the bucket up. It was a chain-pump, and the chain went rattlety-clank! rattlety-clank! round and round; and the handle creaked and groaned,—“Ah-ho! ah-ho!” When you had turned a good while there came out of the spout a stream of—water? No! of daddy-long-legses! They lived, apparently, in the spout, and they did not like the water; so when they heard the bucket coming up, with the water going “lip! lap!” as it swung to and fro, they came running out, dozens and dozens of them, probably thinking what unreasonable people we were to disturb them. When the water did finally come, it was wonderfully cold, and clear as crystal.
The hill behind the house was perhaps our favorite play-room. It was a low, rocky hill, covered with “prostrate juniper” bushes, which bore blue berries very useful in our housekeeping. At the top of the rise the bare rock cropped out, dark gray, covered with flat, dry lichens. This was our house. It had several rooms: the drawing-room was really palatial,—a broad floor of rock, with flights of steps leading up to it. The state stairway was used for kings and queens, conquerors, and the like; the smaller was really more convenient, as the steps were more sharply defined, and you were not so apt to fall down them. Then there was the dining-room rock, where meals were served,—daisy pudding and similar delicacies; and the kitchen rock, which had a real oven, and the most charming cupboards imaginable. Here were stored hollyhock cheeses, and sorrel leaves, and twigs of black birch, fragrant and spicy, and many other good things.
On this hill was celebrated, on the first of August, the annual festival of “Yeller’s Day.” This custom was begun by Flossy, and adhered to for many years. Immediately after breakfast on the appointed day, all the children assembled on the top of the hill and yelled. Oh, how we yelled! It was a point of honor to make as much noise as possible. We roared and shrieked and howled, till we were too hoarse to make a sound; then we rested, and played something else, perhaps, till our voices were restored, and then—yelled again! Yeller’s Day was regarded as one of the great days of the summer. By afternoon we were generally quite exhausted, and we were hoarse for several days afterward. I cannot recommend this practice. In fact, I sincerely hope that no child will attempt to introduce it; for it is very bad for the voice, and might in some cases do real injury.
Almost every morning we went down to the bay to bathe. It was a walk of nearly a mile through the fields,—such a pleasant walk! The fields were not green, but of a soft russet, the grass being thin and dry, with great quantities of a little pinkish fuzzy plant whose name we never knew.[1] They were divided by stone walls, which we were skilful in climbing. In some places there were bars which must be let down, or climbed over, or crawled through, as fancy suggested. There were many blackberries, of the lowbush variety, bearing great clusters of berries, glossy, beautiful, delicious. We were not allowed to eat them on the way down, but only when coming home. Some of these fields belonged to the Cross Farmer, who had once been rude to us. We regarded him as a manner of devil, and were always looking round to see if his round-shouldered, blue-shirted figure were in sight. At last the shore was reached, and soon we were all in the clear water, shrieking with delight, paddling about, puffing and blowing like a school of young porpoises.
At high-tide the beach was pebbled; at low-tide we went far out, the ground sloping very gradually, to a delightful place where the bottom was of fine white sand, sparkling as if mixed with diamond dust. Starfish crawled about on it, and other creatures,—crabs, too, sometimes, that would nip an unwary toe if they got a chance. Sometimes the water was full of jelly-fish, which we did not like, in spite of their beauty. Beyond the white sand was a bed of eel-grass, very dreadful, not to be approached. If a person went into it, he was instantly seized and entangled, and drowned before the eyes of his companions. This was our firm belief. It was probably partly due to Andersen’s story of the “Little Sea-Maid,” which had made a deep impression on us all, with its clutching polyps and other submarine terrors.
We all learned to swim more or less, but Flossy was the best swimmer.
Sometimes we went to bathe in the afternoon instead of the morning, if the tide suited better. I remember one such time when we came delightfully near having an adventure. It was full moon, and the tide was very high. We had loitered along the beach after our bath, gathering mussels to boil for tea, picking up gold-shells or scallop-shells, and punching seaweed bladders, which pop charmingly if you do them right.
German Mary, the good, stupid nurse who was supposed to be taking care of us, knew nothing about tides; and when we came back to the little creek which we must cross on leaving the beach, lo! the creek was a deep, broad stream, the like of which we had never seen. What was to be done? Valiant Flossy proposed to swim across and get help, but Mary shrieked and would not hear of it, and we all protested that it was impossible. Then we perceived that we must spend the night on the beach; and when we were once accustomed to the idea, it was not without attraction for us. The sand was warm and dry, and full of shells and pleasant things; it was August, and the night would be just cool enough for comfort after the hot day; we had a pailful of blackberries which we had picked on the way down, meaning to eat them during our homeward walk; Julia could tell us stories. Altogether it would be a very pleasant occasion. And then to think of the romance of it! “The Deserted Children!” “Alone on a Sandbank!” “The Watchers of the Tide!” There was no end to the things that could be made out of it. So, though poor Mary wept and wrung her hands, mindful (which I cannot remember that we were) of our mother waiting for us at home, we were all very happy.
The sun went down in golden state. Then, turning to the land, we watched the moon rising, in softer radiance, but no less wonderful and glorious. Slowly the great orb rose, turning from pale gold to purest silver. The sea darkened, and presently a little wind came up, and began to sing with the murmuring waves. We sang, too, some of the old German student-songs which our mother had taught us, and which were our favorite ditties. They rang out merrily over the water:—
Die Binschgauer wollten wallfahrten geh’n!
(The Binschgauer would on a pilgrimage go!)