Wych Hazel | Page 7

sofa. 'Mr. Falkirk, all my previous acquaintance
with cushions was superficial!--And could you just open the window,
sir, and throw back the blinds? last November is in this room, apples
and all.'
Mr. Falkirk obeyed directions, remarking that people who travel in
search of their fortune must expect to meet with November in
unexpected places; and then went off into the general eating-room, and
by and by, from there or some other insalubrious region came a servant,
with half of an imperfectly broiled fowl and muddy dish of coffee,
flanked by a watery pickled cucumbers. Mr. Falkirk himself presently
returned.
'How does it go?' he said.
'What, Mr. Falkirk?' the young lady was curled down in one corner of
the sofa, much like a kitten; a small specimen of which animal purred
complacently on her shoulder.

'Could you eat, Miss Hazel?'
'Truly, sir, I could. Mr. Falkirk--what a lovely kitten! Do you remark
her length of tail?'
Mr. Falkirk thought he had heard of "puss in boots" before, but never
had the full realization thereof till now.
'You have tasted nothing,' he said. 'What shall I get you? We shall be
off in a few minutes, and you will not have another chance till we reach
Hadyn's Dam.'
'Thank you, sir. A few minutes of undisturbed repose--with the removal
of those cucumbers--and the restoration of that chicken to its other and
I hope better half, is all that I require.'
'You will have rest at Hadyn's Dam,' said Mr. Falkirk with a face more
expressive than his words.--'The bridge there is broken.'
'Queer place to rest, sir! Mr. Falkirk--there is Mr. Kingsland wondering
why you keep me here.'
'He's eating his dinner.'
'Is he? I am afraid there will be crumbs in the piazza,' said Wych Hazel,
closing her eyes. 'He says he don't wonder you are kept.'
'What shall I get you, Wych? You cannot go from here to the next
stopping place without anything,' Mr. Falkirk said kindly.
'If you could find me, sir, a basket that would just hold this kitten'--
Mr. Falkirk wasted no more words, but went off, and came back with a
glass of milk and a plate of doubtful 'chunks' of cake. The room was
empty. Bonnet and veil were gone, and even the kitten had disappeared.
Meanwhile the stage coach rattled and swung up to the piazza steps,
where were presently gathered the various travellers, one by one. 'Mr.
Falkirk,' said Mr. Kingsland, as that gentleman came out rather hastily
to see if his charge might be there, too, 'you are not surely--agoing on

alone?'
Back went Mr. Falkirk into the house again to look for his missing
ward, who had plainly been foraging. On the table was a paper of
crackers; two blue-eyed and blue-aproned youngsters stood watching
every motion as she swallowed the glass of milk, and in her hand was a
suspicious looking basket. Wych Hazel set down her empty tumbler.
'My dear Mr. Falkirk, I was beginning to be concerned about you!'
'What are you going to do with that basket, Miss Hazel?'
'Take it along, sir.'
'On your lap, I suppose!'
'Mr. Falkirk, the accuracy of your judgment is unparalleled. Is that our
coach at the door?'
'My dear, you will find plenty of cats at Chickaree,' said her guardian,
looking annoyed.
'Yes, sir--' said the young lady meekly, dropping her veil and fitting on
her gloves.
'All right, sir,' said the landlord appearing at the door. 'Roughish road,
Mr. Falkirk--and t'other gents not enough patience to divide among 'em
and go half round--'
How much patience Mr. Falkirk carried to the general stock does not
appear. But presently, lifting one corner of her basket lid, Wych Hazel
drew forth a radiant spray of roses, and laid them penitently upon the
averted line of her guardian's coatsleeve.
'Where did you get that?' he said. 'You had better put it in the basket,
my dear; it will stand a better chance to keep fresh.'
'Do you prefer pinks, sir?--or here are bachelor's buttons--'

'They seem rather common things to me,' said Mr. Falkirk slowly, yet
with a somewhat pacified brow. There was no kitten in the basket!
'I hadn't the heart to bring puss, as we are going to Catskill,' whispered
Miss Hazel.
'We!' ejaculated Mr. Falkirk.
'Nominative case, first person plural, sir.'
'And what's the definition of an adverb?'
'Something which qualifies your suffering--n'est-ce pas, Mr. Falkirk?'
'Certainly, by its primary action upon your doing, Miss Hazel. We are
going to Chickaree.'
To which statement Miss Hazel for the present made no reply. She
retreated to the depths of her own corner and the brown veil; fingering
her roses now and then, and (apparently) making endless mental
'studies' of the wayside. The coach jogged lumberingly on: there was no
relief