And now of course you are anxious to hear what took place when papa jumped into the landau by the side of poor little mamma, propped up by her pillows. “I am come to your part of the story, my dear,” says I, looking over to my wife as she is plying her needles.
“To what, pray?” says my lady. “You should skip all that part, and come to the grand battles, and your heroic defence of——”
“Of Fort Fiddlededee in the year 1778, when I pulled off Mr. Washington's epaulet, gouged General Gates's eye, cut off Charles Lee's head, and pasted it on again!”
“Let us hear all about the fighting,” say the boys. Even the Captain condescends to own he will listen to any military details, though only from a militia officer.
“Fair and softly, young people! Everything in its turn. I am not yet arrived at the war. I am only a young gentleman, just stepping into a landau, by the side of a young lady whom I promised to avoid. I am taking her hand, which, after a little ado, she leaves in mine. Do you remember how hot it was, the little thing, how it trembled, and how it throbbed and jumped a hundred and twenty in a minute? And as we trot on towards Hampstead, I address Miss Lambert in the following terms——”
“Ah, ah, ah!” say the girls in a chorus with mademoiselle, their French governess, who cries, “Nous ecoutons maintenant. La parole est a vous, Monsieur le Chevalier!”
Here we have them all in a circle: mamma is at her side of the fire, papa at his; Mademoiselle Eleonore, at whom the Captain looks rather sweetly (eyes off, Captain!); the two girls, listening like—like nymphas discentes to Apollo, let us say; and John and Tummas (with obtuse ears), who are bringing in the tea-trays and urns.
“Very good,” says the Squire, pulling out the MS., and waving it before him. “We are going to tell your mother's secrets and mine.”
“I am sure you may, papa,” cries the house matron. “There's nothing to be ashamed of.” And a blush rises over her kind face.
“But before I begin, young folks, permit me two or three questions.”