CHAPTER VII MINERVA’S PASTORAL.

NEXT morning was a pleasant one, and as soon as breakfast was over I went out into the kitchen and told Minerva that if her friend did not delay, her musical instrument ought to arrive by Friday. I found her in her usual state of good temper.

“That little place where you were sewing, out there in the woods, will be a very good spot in which to play it,” said I suggestively.

“Oh, I kin play it anywheys,” said she with a kindling glance, that bespoke the artist of temperament, absolute master of his instrument. So Paderewski might speak of his ability to play a piano in a drawing-room car.

That morning I had a notion to go fishing, and I asked Ethel to join me, but she said she was tired, and laughed as she said it. Of course Minerva was the real reason.

“I wish that houses were automatic,” said I, “so that they could run themselves. Just think how nice it would be to have a house fitted to run by steam all day long, by simply dropping a five dollar gold piece in the slot in the morning.”

“How expensive,” said the economical Ethel.

“I don’t think so,” said I, “there’s many a housekeeper who would be willing to give up many things if five dollars a day would bring relief from household sorrows. ‘No servants needed. A child can run it. Can be fitted to any house. Gas or electric or steam motive power. Not half the danger from explosions that went with the old system when servants were liable to go off at any moment. Come to our warerooms and see a large house running by itself.’ There’s a fortune in the idea.”

“Well, you have the idea,” said Ethel. “Go sell it.”

“No, I’m going fishing.”

The great advantage that fishing has over some sports is that one does not need ability or paraphernalia of any sort beyond those of the most primitive type. Your hammer-thrower needs brawn, your chess player brains, your golf player a caddy—and a vocabulary, but anyone can go fishing. Of course there is a great difference between going fishing and catching fish, and I am one of that large army that goes fishing and returns from fishing as innocent of fish as at the moment of departure.

But to the man with eyes, there are many things besides fish that he can catch, and, although no hint of a nibble came to my patient fingers, I reveled in the day and would have stayed longer if I had not felt anxious about Ethel and Minerva. What could they do to amuse each other, with me away?

I made my pleasant way back up the hills, so reminiscent of Scotch scenery, and knew very well the sarcasms that would greet me when I acknowledged that I had possessed no magnetism over the fish. Ethel always has a store of amiable causticisms for me when I come back from a fishless expedition.

When I returned I found the house empty and the gluey Miss Pussy shut up and miaowing in the kitchen. I was startled at first. I had come up by way of the pine grove, and there was no one there. I called my loudest and no one answered. Had Minerva obliged Ethel to get a horse and wagon and take her to the station in my absence? It looked like it. The fire was nearly out, the dishes all washed, the floor freshly mopped. That was it. Minerva had swept and garnished the house and had then left it, and in a short time Ethel would come back disconsolate, and then—why, then we would pack up and go back ourselves.

The only thing that did not fit in with my conjecture was the presence of Miss Pussy. It did not seem as if Minerva would go away and leave her precious cat.

I heard a rattle of wheels. Bert Dalton was going to the village. I would go down with him and ride back with Ethel. She had probably hired the Stevens’ horse. I hurried out and hailed Bert, and he stopped.

“Going to the village?”

“Yes, sir, want anything got?”

I explained the situation, and joined him, and we were soon out of sight of the house. I looked at my watch. If we hurried I could yet get to the station before the train for New York came in. I told Bert so, and he quickened the horse’s pace.

About half a mile on our way I heard some one calling for help. Bert heard the call, too, and just as I was going to say “stop,” he stopped of his own accord. We both jumped out. The noise came from a field on our right, mostly given over to blueberry bushes, but with a little timber on its farther edge.

“Help! Murder!” It was a high-keyed woman’s voice.

“Tramps,” said Bert, as we hurried on.

“Hysterics,” said I, for I was sure I heard laughter alternating with the screams. And the laughter had a strangely familiar sound.

On we ran, the screams continuing, and at last the sounds were located, that is, the screams were. They came from a low growing chestnut. Perched in its branches sat Minerva, her face the image of horror, and below on a fallen trunk sat Ethel, laughing, with the tears rolling down her cheeks. By her side were two tin pails, nearly full of blueberries.

“Minerva, stop that screaming. I tell you she won’t hurt you,” said Ethel, and then went off into another fit of laughter, and Minerva yelled blue murder again.

Neither had seen us.

“Come up here, Mis. Vernon. He’ll kill you, shu’s you’ bawn.”

“She’s gone away. You’ve frightened her. Come down.”

“Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! Lawdy! Why’d I come? He’ll shu’ly kill us.”

When we saw that the danger was imaginary, I signalled to Bert, and we both stepped out of sight of Minerva and Mrs. Vernon, in order to see the comedy. Ethel’s perfect calmness and her amusement, but slightly tinged with sympathy, formed such a striking contrast to Minerva’s abject fear. Who was this he-she that was threatening Minerva’s existence?

There was a rustling in the bushes, Minerva’s screams redoubled, and in spite of her 180 pounds she climbed still higher into the tree.

And then the cause of all the commotion showed “himself.” A mild-looking Jersey cow, all unconscious of the agony she was causing, came into view and advanced toward Ethel, sniffing.

“Don’t you overturn our berries,” said my wife, walking toward the creature. The cow was evidently a pet, for as Ethel put out her hand to shoo her away she sniffed expectantly and put out her tongue in hope of receiving some little delicacy.

This so terrified Minerva that she took another step upward, put her faith in a recreant limb, and, just as Bert and I discovered ourselves to Ethel, our “cook lady” fell out of the tree and landed smack on the cow, who kindly broke her fall and then broke into a run, kicking her heels and waving her tail, after the manner of her species.

Minerva was not hurt, thanks to the cow, but she was much agitated, and it was some time before we could make her listen to the words of wisdom that all three poured forth with generous ease.

“It was such a lovely day, we thought we’d go berrying,” said Ethel. “You got my note, I suppose.”

“No, I did not. I made up my mind that you were taking Minerva to the train, and as Bert passed by just then, I came down with him in order to go back with you.”

“Then how came you here?” asked Ethel.

“How came we here? How came we here? Why those screams went beyond Mount Nebo. You’ll see people pouring over the edge of it in a few minutes. Such shrieks I never heard outside of a mad house. I thought it was Indians.”

Minerva’s agitation had now taken the form of sobbing, and as she mopped her face with her apron it began to dawn upon her that she had not been in danger until she took to the tree. She helped herself to a handful of berries, and they seemed to do her good, for she listened to Ethel’s account of what had happened and punctuated it with what at first were chuckles, and when the humour of the thing had soaked in far enough were her irresistible guffaws, so provocative of laughter in others.

“We were picking berries and enjoying ourselves very much when I heard a rustling and looked up, and there was a cow. I said rather hastily, ‘Oh, look,’ and Minerva looked and screamed out, ‘It’s a bear,’ and before I could tell her what it was she had gone up that tree as if she had lived in the country all her life. She begged of me to come up with her, but I got over my fear of cows some time ago.” This with a conscious blush, for Ethel knew that in times past she, too, had fled from a cow.

I turned to Minerva. “Do you mean to tell me that you never saw a cow before? There are cows in the city.”

“I never saw one.”

“Haven’t you seen pictures of them on groceries?”

“I spec I have, but comin’ thataway at me it looked like a bear.”

“Very like a bear,” said I. “Well, it’s lucky you weren’t hurt. You can thank the cow that you didn’t break your back. I hope you didn’t break hers.”

She went off into yells of laughter at this mild bit of humour, and cheerfulness now being restored, I thanked Bert for giving me a lift and told him I didn’t care to go any farther.

He left us and we went on picking berries, and before the pail was full Minerva had a chance to pat the fearsome beast that had so nearly frightened her to death. Now that she knew it was merely a cow, the source of the milk and cream of which she was so fond, she had no fear at all, being in that respect different from Ethel, who in the beginning had feared cows because they were cows, just as certain other women fear mice because they are mice, and as Lord Roberts fears a cat because it is a cat and not “the enemy.”

The whistle at the Wharton Paper Mill told us it was twelve o’clock, and like hungry mill hands we started for home. Minerva walked ahead with both pails, and Ethel and I followed.

Half way up Minerva burst into song.

“How volatile!” said I.

“The worst is over. We’ll have no more trouble with her,” said Ethel.

So lightly do we attempt to read the future.