The Last of the Foresters | Page 6

a mania on the subject of marrying, and he runs me nearly crazy. Then, there's his confounded poem, which he persists in reading to himself nearly aloud."
"His poem?" asked the Squire.
"Yes, sir! his abominable, trashy, revolting poem, called--'The Rise and Progress of the Certiorari.' The consequence of all which, is--here's my horse; find the martingale, you black cub!--the consequence is, that my office work is not done as it should be, and I shall be compelled to get another clerk in addition to that villain, Roundjacket."
"Why not exchange with some one?"
"How?"
"Roundjacket going elsewhere--to Hall's, say."
Mr. Rushton scowled.
"Because he is no common clerk; would not live elsewhere, and because I can't get along without him," he said. "Hang him, he's the greatest pest in Christendom!"
"I have heard of a young gentleman called Jinks," the Squire said, with a sly laugh, "what say you to him for number two?"
"Burn Jinks!" cried Mr. Rushton, "he's a jack-a-napes, and if he comes within the reach of my cane, I'll break it over his rascally shoulders! I'd rather have this Indian cub who has just left us."
"That's all very well; but you can't get him."
"Can't get him?" asked Rushton, grimly, as he got into the saddle.
"He would never consent to coop himself up in Winchester. True, my little Redbud, who is a great friend of his, has taught him to read, and even to write in a measure, but he's a true Indian, whether such by descent or not. He would die of the confinement. Remember what I said about character just now, and acknowledge the blunder you committed when you took the position that there was no such thing."
Rushton growled, and bent his brows on the laughing Squire.
"I said," he replied, grimly, "that there was no character to be found anywhere; and you may take it as you choose, you'll try and extract an argument out of it either way. I don't mean to take part in it. As to this cub of the woods, you say I couldn't make anything of him--see if I don't! You have provoked me into the thing--defied me--and I accept the challenge."
"What! you will capture Verty, that roving bird?"
"Yes; and make of this roving swallow another bird called a secretary. I suppose you've read some natural history, and know there's such a feathered thing."
"Yes."
"Very well," said Mr. Rushton, kicking his horse, and cramming his cocked hat down on his forehead. "I'll show you how little you know of human nature and character. I'll take this wild Indian boy, brought up in the woods, and as free and careless as a deer, and in six months I'll change him into a canting, crop-eared, whining pen-machine, with quills behind his ears, and a back always bending humbly. I'll take this honest barbarian and make a civilized and enlightened individual out of him--that is to say, I'll change him into a rascal and a hypocrite."
With which misanthropic words Mr. Rushton nodded in a surly way to the smiling Squire, and took his way down the road toward Winchester.
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, looking after him, "Rushton seems to be growing rougher than ever;--what a pity that so noble a heart should have such a husk. His was a hard trial, however--we should not be surprised. Rough-headed fellow! he thinks he can do everything with that resolute will of his;--but the idea of chaining to a writing-desk that wild boy, Verty!"
And the old gentleman re-entered the house smiling cheerfully, as was his wont.

CHAPTER IV.
HOW VERTY THOUGHT, AND PLAYED, AND DREAMED.
Verty took his weary way westward through the splendid autumn woods, gazing with his dreamy Indian expression on the variegated leaves, listening to the far cries of birds, and speaking at times to Longears and Wolf, his two deer hounds.
Then his head would droop--a dim smile would glimmer upon his lips, and his long, curling hair would fall in disordered masses around his burnt face, almost hiding it from view. At such moments Verty dreamed--the real world had disappeared--perforce of that imagination given him by heaven, he entered calm and happy into the boundless universe of reverie and fancy.
For a time he would go along thus, his arms hanging down, his head bent upon his breast, his body swinging from side to side with every movement of his shaggy little horse. Then he would rouse himself, and perhaps fit an arrow to his bow, and aim at some bird, or some wild turkey disappearing in the glades. Happy birds! the arrow never left the string. Verty's hand would fall--the bow would drop at his side--he would fix his eyes upon the autumn woods, and smile.
He went on thus through the glades of the forest, over the hills, and along the banks of little streams towards the west. The autumn reigned in golden