Hildegarde's Home

Because my mind
Is more inclined
To eat it than to glorify."

Anything will make people laugh at a picnic, especially on a day when the whole world is aglow with light and life and joy. One jest followed another, and the walls of the pie melted away to the sound of laughter, as did those of Jericho at the sound of the trumpet. Merlin, who had stayed behind to watch a woodchuck, came up just in time to consume the last fragments, which he did with right good will. Then, when they had eaten "a combination of Keats and sunset," as Mrs. Grahame called the peaches, the Colonel asked permission to light his cigar; and the soft fragrance of the Manilla mingled with odours of pine and fir, while delicate blue rings floated through the air, to the delight of Hugh and Merlin.

"This is the nose dinner," said the child. "It is almost better than the mouth dinner, isn't it?"

"Humph!" said the Colonel, puffing meditatively. "If you hadn't had the mouth dinner first, young man, I think we should hear from you shortly. Hest – a – Hildegarde, will you give us a song?"

So Hildegarde sang one song and another, the old songs that the Colonel loved: "Ben Bolt," and "The Arethusa," and "A-hunting we will go"; and then, for her own particular pleasure and her mother's, she sang an old ballad, to a strange, lovely old air that she had found in an Elizabethan song-book.

"When shaws been sheene, and shraddes full faire,
And leaves are large and long,
It is merry walking in the fair forest,
To hear the small birds' song.

"The woodwele sang, and would not cease,
Sitting upon the spray,
Soe loud, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay."

It was the ballad of Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne; and when she sang the second verse her mother's sweet alto chimed in; and when she sang the third verse, Jack began to whistle a soft, sweet accompaniment, the effect of which was almost magical; and when she sang the fourth verse, – wonder of wonders! here was the Colonel humming a bass, rather gruff, but in perfect tune.

When the ballad was over, there was a chorus of surprise and congratulation. "Colonel Ferrers! why didn't you tell us you sang?"

"I say, Uncle Tom, you've been regularly humbugging us. The idea of your turning out a basso profundo!"

The Colonel looked pleased and conscious.

"Saul among the prophets, eh?" he said. "This little rascal calls me Saul, you know, Mrs. Grahame; caught me in a temper the other day, and set Jack on me with his fiddle. Ha! hum! Why, I used to sing a little, duets and so forth, forty years ago. Always fond of singing; fond of anything that has a tune to it, though I can't abide your Dutch noises. Where's your fiddle, Jack?"

Jack had not brought his fiddle; but he whistled a Scotch reel that Colonel Ferrers had not heard since before the flood, he said; and then Hildegarde sang "Young Lochinvar," and so the pleasant moments went.

By and by, when the dishes were burned (such a convenience are the paper dishes, removing the only unpleasant feature of a picnic, the washing of dishes or carrying home of dirty ones), and everything neatly packed away, Hugh challenged Hildegarde to a race down the hill and across the long meadow to the sunk wall beyond. Jack claimed a place in the running, but the Colonel insisted that he and Merlin should give the others odds, as ostriches and quadrupeds had an unfair advantage over ordinary runners. Mrs. Grahame, after hunting in her reticule, produced a prize, a rouleau of chocolate; positions were taken, and Colonel Ferrers gave the signal – one, two, three, and away! Away went Hildegarde and the boy, Jack holding Merlin, who was frantic with impatience, and did not understand the theory of handicaps. As the first pair reached the bottom of the hill, the Colonel again gave the signal, and the second two darted in pursuit. "Away, away went Auster like an arrow from the bow!"

Hildegarde was running beautifully, her head thrown back, her arms close at her sides; just behind her Hugh's bright head bobbed up and down, as his little legs flew like a windmill. But Jack Ferrers really merited his name of the ostrich gentleman, as with head poked forward, arms flapping, and legs moving without apparent concert, he hurled himself down the hill at a most astonishing rate of speed. The Colonel and Mrs. Grahame looked on with delight, when suddenly both uttered an exclamation and rose to their feet.

What was it?

From behind a clump of trees at a little distance beyond Hildegarde, a large animal suddenly appeared. It had apparently been grazing, but now it stopped short, raised its head, and gazed at the two figures which came flying, all unconscious, towards it.

"John Bryan's bull!" cried Mrs. Grahame. "Oh! Colonel Ferrers, the children! Hildegarde!"

"Don't be alarmed, dear madam!" said the Colonel hastily, seizing his stick. "Remain where you are, I beg of you. I will have John Bryan hanged to-morrow! Meanwhile" – and he hastened down the hill, as rapidly as seventy years and a rheumatic knee would permit.

But it was clear that whatever was to be done must be done quickly. Hildegarde and Hugh had seen the bull, and stopped. He was well known as a dangerous animal, and had once before escaped from his owner, a neighbouring farmer. Mrs. Grahame, faint with terror, saw little Hugh, with a sudden movement, throw himself before Hildegarde, who clasped her arms round him, and slowly and quietly began to move backwards. The bull uttered a bellow, and advanced, pawing the ground; at first slowly, then more and more rapidly as Hildegarde increased her pace, till but a short distance intervened between him and the two helpless children. Colonel Ferrers was still a long way off. Oh! for help! help! The bull bellowed again, lowered his huge head, and rushed forward. In a moment he would be upon them. Suddenly – what was this? A strange object appeared, directly between the bull and his helpless victims. What was it? The bull stopped short, and glared at his new enemy. Two long legs, like those of a man, but no body; between the legs a face, looking at him with fiery eyes. Such a thing the bull had never seen. What was it? Men he knew, and women, and children; knew and hated them, for they were like his master, who kept him shut up, and sometimes beat him. But this thing! what was it? The strange figure advanced steadily towards him; the bull retreated – stopped – bellowed – retreated again, shaking his head. He did not like this. Suddenly the figure made a spring! turned upside down. The long legs waved threateningly in the air, and with an unearthly shriek the monster came whirling forward in the shape of a wheel. John Bryan's bull turned and fled, as never bull fled before. Snorting with terror, he went crashing through the woods, that wild shriek still sounding in his ears; and he never stopped till he reached his own barnyard, where John Bryan promptly beat him and tied him up.

Hildegarde, pale and trembling, held out her hand as Jack, assuming his normal posture, came forward. She tried to speak, but found no voice, and could only press his hand and look her gratitude.

Colonel Ferrers, much out of breath, came up, and gave the lad's hand a shake that might almost have loosened his arm in the socket. "Well done, lad!" he cried. "You are of the right stuff, after all, and you'll hear no more 'milksop' from me. Where did you learn that trick? Harry Monmouth! the beast was frightened out of his boots! Where did you learn it, boy?"

"An Englishman showed it to me," said Jack modestly. "It's nothing to do, but it always scares them. How are you now, Hildegarde? Sit down, and let me bring you some water!"

But Hugh Allen clasped the long legs of his deliverer, and cried joyously, "I knew he was a David! he is a double David now, isn't he, Beloved?"

"Yes," said Hildegarde, smiling again, as she turned to hasten up the hill to her mother, "but I shall call him 'Bonny Dundee,' for he has won the hero's name."

"It was the ostrich that won the day, though," said Jack, looking at his legs.

CHAPTER XIV

OVER THE JAM-POTS

One bright September morning Hildegarde was sitting in the dining-room, covering jam-pots. She had made the jam herself – peach marmalade it was, the best in the world, all golden-brown, like clear old amber – a day or two before, and now it was firm enough to cover. At her right hand was a pile of covers, thick white paper cut neatly in rounds, a saucer full of white of egg, another full of brandy, an inkstand and pen. At her left was an open book, and a large rosy apple. She worked away busily with deft fingers, only stopping now and then for a moment to nibble her apple. First a small cover wet in brandy, fitting neatly inside the jar; then a large cover brushed over with white of egg, which, when dry, would make the paper stiff, and at the same time fasten it securely round the jar. And all the time she was murmuring to herself, with an occasional glance at the volume beside her, —

"'Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting,
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!
Listen and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus.'"

Here she stopped to write on several jars the paper on which was dry and hard; a bite at her apple, and she continued, —

"'By the earth-shaking Neptune's crook' – "

"No," glancing at the book. "Why do I always get that wrong?

"'By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys' grave majestic pace;
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian' – "

At this moment a shadow fell on the table, as of some one passing by the window, and the next moment Jack entered.

"What are you doing?" he asked, after the morning greetings, sitting down and scowling at the unoffending jam-pots. "Can't you come out in the garden? It's no end of a day, you know!"

"No end?" said Hildegarde. "Then I shall have plenty of time, and I must finish my jam-pots in any case, and my poetry."

"Poetry? are you making it?"

"Only learning it. I like to learn bits when I am doing things of this sort.

"'By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands' —