And when, and where, do you think we find the children
next? No longer in the winter-time, but in the
merry month of May. No longer in Tauglewood
play-room, or at Tanglewood fireside, but more than
half-way up a monstrous hill, or a mountain, as perhaps
it would be better pleased to have us call it.
They had set out from home with the mighty purpose
of climbing this high hill, even to the very tiptop
of its bald head. To be sure, it was not quite
so high as Chimborazo, or Mont Blanc, and was even
a good deal lower than old Graylock. But, at
any rate, it was higher than a thousand ant-hillocks,
or a million of mole hills; and, when measured by
the short strides of little children, might be reckoned
a very respectable mountain.
And was Cousin Eustace with the party? Of that
you may be certain; else how could the book go on
a step further? He was now in the middle of
the spring vacation, and looked pretty much as we saw
him four or five months ago, except that, if you gazed
quite closely at his upper lip, you could discern
the funniest little bit of a mustache upon it.
Setting aside this mark of mature manhood, you might
have considered Cousin Eustace just as much a boy
as when you first became acquainted with him.
He was as merry, as playful, as good-humored, as light
of foot and of spirits, and equally a favorite with
the little folks, as he had always been. This
expedition up the mountain was entirely of his contrivance.
All the way up the steep ascent, he had encouraged
the elder children with his cheerful voice; and when
Dandelion, Cowslip, and Squash-blossom grew weary,
he had lugged them along, alternately, on his back.
In this manner, they had passed through the orchards
and pastures on the lower part of the hill, and had
reached the wood, which extends thence towards its
bare summit.
The month of May, thus far, had been more amiable
than it often is, and this was as sweet and genial
a day as the heart of man or child could wish.
In their progress up the hill, the small people had
found enough of violets, blue and white, and some
that were as golden as if they had the touch of Midas
on them. That sociablest of flowers, the little
Housatonia, was very abundant. It is a flower
that never lives alone, but which loves its own kind,
and is always fond of dwelling with a great many friends
and relatives around it. Sometimes you see a
family of them, covering a space no bigger than the
palm of your hand; and sometimes a large community,
whitening a whole tract of pasture, and all keeping
one another in cheerful heart and life.
Within the verge of the wood there were columbines,
looking more pale than red, because they were so modest,
and had thought proper to seclude themselves too anxiously
from the sun. There were wild geraniums, too,
and a thousand white blossoms of the strawberry.
The trailing arbutus was not yet quite out of bloom;
but it hid its precious flowers under the last year’s
withered forest-leaves, as carefully as a mother-bird
hides its little young ones. It knew, I suppose,
how beautiful and sweet-scented they were. So
cunning was their concealment, that the children sometimes
smelt the delicate richness of their perfume, before
they knew whence it proceeded.
