“I suppose you are not going out riding to-day?”
said Rosamond, lingering a little after her mamma
was gone.
“No; why?”
“Papa says I may have the chestnut to ride now.”
“You can go with me to-morrow, if you like.
Only I am going to Stone Court, remember.”
“I want to ride so much, it is indifferent to
me where we go.” Rosamond really wished
to go to Stone Court, of all other places.
“Oh, I say, Rosy,” said Fred, as she was
passing out of the room, “if you are going to
the piano, let me come and play some airs with you.”
“Pray do not ask me this morning.”
“Why not this morning?”
“Really, Fred, I wish you would leave off playing
the flute. A man looks very silly playing the
flute. And you play so out of tune.”
“When next any one makes love to you, Miss Rosamond,
I will tell him how obliging you are.”
“Why should you expect me to oblige you by hearing
you play the flute, any more than I should expect
you to oblige me by not playing it?”
“And why should you expect me to take you out
riding?”
This question led to an adjustment, for Rosamond had
set her mind on that particular ride.
So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour’s
practice of “Ar hyd y nos,” “Ye
banks and braes,” and other favorite airs from
his “Instructor on the Flute;” a wheezy
performance, into which he threw much ambition and
an irrepressible hopefulness.
“He had more tow on his distaffe
Than Gerveis knew.”
—CHAUCER.
The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took
the next morning, lay through a pretty bit of midland
landscape, almost all meadows and pastures, with hedgerows
still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and to spread
out coral fruit for the birds. Little details
gave each field a particular physiognomy, dear to
the eyes that have looked on them from childhood:
the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank
and trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing
a bare place in mid-pasture; the high bank where the
ash-trees grew; the sudden slope of the old marl-pit
making a red background for the burdock; the huddled
roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable
way of approach; the gray gate and fences against
the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovel,
its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and valleys
with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such
as we travel far to see in later life, and see larger,
but not more beautiful. These are the things
that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred
souls—the things they toddled among, or
perhaps learned by heart standing between their father’s
knees while he drove leisurely.
