"Indeed," answered Madeline, "I am always glad to hear as many tales of the old war as I possibly can, provided that there is nothing in them shocking or disgusting, and no particulars of the killing; and my father says that no person of good feelings or good manners will ever detail the horrors, the real sickening horrors of a battle, in presence of females. But I will go with you, if my mother will give me permission."
Mrs. Ormsby's leave was asked and obtained, and Mr. Ormsby cautioned his children to be absent but a short time.
Frederick took his sister toward the woods that stretched down to the water's edge, a little beyond the cottage, and they were soon out of sight.
In a short time, the little party that remained on the sands, were alarmed by a succession of violent shrieks, accompanied by another voice laughing loudly; and looking up the river, they perceived Madeline alone in a little boat, drifting out from behind a projecting point of rock, and evidently in great terror, while Frederick stood on the shore leaning against a tree, and ridiculing her fears. They all ran to her assistance, Gustavus foremost, and Mr. Ormsby supporting the trembling steps of his wife.
Suddenly a steam-boat, on her way down from Albany, came round the stupendous head-land absurdly called Butter Hill, and emerged into sight with thick clouds of smoke issuing from her chimneys, her wheels throwing up volumes of foam, and her prow dashing aside the water with a velocity that seemed irresistible. The shrieks of poor Madeline redoubled when she saw this tremendous machine coming on with a force that apparently nothing could stop, and threatening, in a few minutes, to overwhelm her little boat, unnoticed and unseen. Frederick was now terrified himself, and he called out to his sister, "Oh! Madeline, what have I done! The steam-boat will run over you. She will be upon you in three minutes."
"No, no," exclaimed Gustavus, "do not be frightened, Madeline. The boat is too far off; there is no danger." "We will get you immediately out of the way," cried her father, "but they will see you from the steam-boat, and avoid passing too near you." "Where is the rope," asked Gustavus, "by which this little boat was fastened?" "Here, here," said Frederick, "round the stump of this old tree. I proposed to Madeline that we should go and sit in the boat which we found at the water's edge. And as soon as I got her in, I thought that just for fun, and to set her to screaming, I would cut the rope with my knife and let her float off. I supposed she would drift down to the place where you were all sitting, and I only meant to frighten her. I knew that somehow she could be got out of the boat."
In the mean time, having lengthened the rope by fastening to it all their pocket handkerchiefs and Mrs. Ormsby's long shawl, Gustavus took one end in his hand, (the other being fast to the tree,) and jumping into the river, swam to the boat, by which means it was immediately hauled in to the shore, and in a few moments the affrighted little girl was safe in the arms of her parents, mingling her tears with those of her mother.
Mr. Ormsby's indignation was so much excited, that he declared if there was time to reach the wharf before the arrival of the steam-boat, Frederick should be put on board, and sent immediately down to New York. This, however, was impossible, the boat being now close at hand; and as Frederick appeared very penitent, and made fair promises of never again being guilty of similar conduct, his father, at the intercession of Gustavus and Madeline, consented to pardon him, and for the remainder of the day he behaved perfectly well.
On the following afternoon, they set out on a walk in another direction, and Frederick, who had been very good all the morning, was allowed to accompany them.
They went first to the Moss House, constructed, at his leisure hours, by the French cook at the hotel, and entirely the work of his own hands. He had opened a path through the thick woods, (hitherto in this place an impassable wilderness,) and carried it down the declivity of a craggy hill that descends to the river. This path, though narrow, steep, and winding, was neither rugged nor dangerous, and the trees interlacing their branches, formed an impervious shade across it. At its termination was a little garden, surrounded on all sides by a high wall of rough stones piled one on another, the interstices filled up with earth from which various wild plants were growing. This wall was overhung with masses of the forest grape-vine and other woodland shrubbery. The miniature garden was laid out in walks and heart-shaped beds, and planted with flowers, among which were lady-slippers, pinks, and convolvuluses. In one corner stood the moss-house, made of cedar branches, trimmed and cut of even length, filled in between with earth, and covered all over with a thick coat of the rich and beautiful moss that abounds in the woods and on the rocks of West Point. The door was open, and inside was a sort of settee, also of moss, and a little table made of twisted vine branches. In the garden near the house, was another rustic seat, or bench, the back formed of small boughs, curiously interwoven. Innumerable birds had taken up their residence near this charming retreat, and enlivened its dark shades with their brilliant colours. The oriole darted from tree to tree with his splendid plumage of orange and black, the blue-bird fluttered about in azure and purple, the yellow-hammer far surpassed the tints of the brightest canary, and the cedar-bird displayed his beautiful pinions of the richest brown, delicately pencilled at the edges with lines of fine scarlet, while the little humming-bird hovered over the flowers, and looked like a flying gem.