Autumn Leaves | Page 7

my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will stay."
Aunt Molly's asides were often amusing. She was so very deaf that she could not hear her own voice, and often imagined she was whispering, when she could be heard across the room.
On one occasion she saw a gentleman who was a stranger to her, in the parlor, when she went to visit one of the ladies who were kind and attentive to her. She sat a few minutes looking keenly at him, and then whispered, "Who's that?" "Mr. Jay." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Oh-o-oh! Mr. Jay. Well, what does he do for a living?" "He's a tutor, Ma'am." "What?" "A TUTOR." "What?" "A TUTOR." "Oh-o-oh! I thought you said a suitor!"
Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage, where her widowed mother, she said, had lived, and there she died. As soon as she was laid in her grave, it was torn down, and the precious damson-tree was felled. I was rather glad that the school-house was so ugly, that I might have a double reason for hating the usurper. If Nemesis cared for school-boys, she doubtless looks on with a grin, now, to see them scampering at their will round the precincts of the former enemy of their race, and listens with pleasure while they "make day hideous" where once the bee and the humming-bird only broke the quiet of the little garden.
Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind, and a strong, tenacious memory; and her love of the departed grandeur and Toryism of Court Row, as she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash Street to Mount Auburn, was pleasant and entertaining to those who listened to her tales of other times.
Peace to her memory!
THE SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE.
I sing the melodies of early morn.?Hark!--'t is the distant roar of iron wheels,?First sound of busy life, and the shrill neigh?Of vapor-steed, the vale of Brighton threading,?Region of lowing kine and perfumed breeze.?Echoes the shore of blue meandering Charles.?Straightway the chorus of glad chanticleers?Proclaims the dawn. First comes one clarion note,?Loud, clear, and long drawn out; and hark! again?Rises the jocund song, distinct, though distant;?Now faint and far, like plaintive cry for help?Piercing the ear of Sleep. Each knight o' the spur,?Watchful as brave, and emulous in noise,?With mighty pinions beats a glad reveille.?All feathered nature wakes. Man's drowsy sense?Heeds not the trilling band, but slumbrous waits?The tardy god of day. Ah! sluggard, wake!?Open thy blind, and rub thy heavy eyes!?For once behold a sunrise. Is there aught?In thy dream-world more splendid, or more fair??With crimson glory the horizon streams,?And ghostly Dian hides her face ashamed.?Now to the ear of him who lingers long?On downy couch, "falsely luxurious,"?Comes the unwelcome din of college-bell?Fast tolling. . . . . .?"'T is but the earliest, the warning peal!"?He sleeps again. Happy if bustling chum,?Footsteps along the entry, or perchance,?In the home bower, maternal knock and halloo,?Shall break the treacherous slumber. For behold?The youth collegiate sniff the morning zephyrs,?Breezes of brisk December, frosty and keen,?With nose incarnadine, peering above?Each graceful shepherd's plaid the chin enfolding.?See how the purple hue of youth and health?Glows in each cheek; how the sharp wind brings pearls?From every eye, brightening those dimmed with study,?And waste of midnight oil, o'er classic page?Long poring. Boreas in merry mood?Plays with each unkempt lock, and vainly strives?To make a football of the Freshman's beaver,?Or the sage Sophomore's indented felt.?Behold the foremost, with deliberate stride?And slow, approach the chapel, tree-embowered,?Entering composedly its gaping portal;?Then, as the iron tongue goes on to rouse?The mocking echoes with its call, arrive?Others, with hastier step and heaving chest.?Anon, some bound along divergent paths?Which scar the grassy plain, and, with no pause?For breath, press up the rocky stair. Straightway,?A desperate few, with headlong, frantic speed,?Swifter than arrow-flight or Medford whirlwind,?Sparks flying from iron-shod heels at every footfall,?Over stone causeway and tessellated pavement,--?They come--they come--they leap--they scamper in,?Ere, grating on its hinges, slams the door?Inexorable. . . . . .?Pauses the sluggard, at Wood and Hall's just crossing,?The chime melodious dying on his ear.?Embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold?Upon his feet, shuffling, with heel exposed,?And 'neath his upper garment just appears?A many-colored robe; about his throat?No comfortable scarf, but crumpled gills?Shrink from the scanning eye of passenger?The omnibus o'erhauling. List! 't was the last,?Last stroke! it dies away, like murmuring wave.?Bootless he came,--and bootless wends he back,?Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow.?Bright eyes might gaze on him, compassionate,?But that yon rosy maiden, early afoot,?Is o'er her shoulder watching, with wild fear,?A horned host that rushes by amain,?Bellowing bassoon-like music. Angry shouts?Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse,?Shrill scream of imitative boy, and crack?Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet?Are hurrying on:--but now, with instinct sure,?Madly those doomed ones bolt from the