# A Wonder Book/The Chimæra/After the Story

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BALD-SUMMIT
AFTER THE STORY
Eustace Bright told the legend of Bellerophon with as much fervour and animation as if he had really been taking a gallop on the winged horse. At the conclusion, he was gratified to discern, by the glowing countenances of his auditors, how greatly they had been interested. All their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of Primrose. In her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough to feel. Child’s story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe through it the ardour, the generous hope, and the imaginative enterprise of youth.
‘I forgive you now, Primrose,’ said he, ‘for all your ridicule of myself and my stories. One tear pays for a great deal of laughter.’
‘Well, Mr. Bright,’ answered Primrose, wiping her eyes, and giving him another of her mischievous smiles, ‘it certainly does elevate your ideas, to get your head ​above the clouds. I advise you never to tell another story, unless it be, as at present, from the top of a mountain.’
‘Or from the back of Pegasus,’ replied Eustace, laughing. ‘Don’t you think that I succeeded pretty well in catching that wonderful pony?’
‘It was so like one of your madcap pranks!’ cried Primrose, clapping her hands. ‘I think I see you now on his back, two miles high; and with your head downward! It is well that you have not really an opportunity of trying your horsemanship on any wilder steed than our sober Davy, or Old Hundred.’
‘For my part, I wish I had Pegasus here, at this moment,’ said the student. ‘I would mount him forthwith, and gallop about the country, within a circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on my brother-authors. Dr. Dewey would be within my reach, at the foot of Taconic. In Stockbridge, yonder, is Mr. James, conspicuous to all the world on his mountain-pile of history and romance. Longfellow, I believe, is not yet at the Ox-bow, else the winged horse would neigh at the sight of him. But, here in Lenox, I should find our most truthful novelist, who has made the scenery and life of Berkshire all her own. On the hither side of Pittsfield sits Herman Melville, shaping out the gigantic conception of his “White Whale,” while the gigantic shape of Graylock looms upon him from his study-window. Another bound of my flying steed would bring me to the door of Holmes, whom I mention last, because Pegasus would certainly unseat me, the next minute, and claim the poet as his rider.’
‘Have we not an author for our next neighbour?’ asked ​Primrose. ‘That silent man, who lives in the old red house, near Tanglewood Avenue, and whom we sometimes meet, with two children at his side, in the woods or at the lake. I think I have heard of his having written a poem, or a romance, or an arithmetic, or a school-history, or some other kind of a book.’
‘Hush, Primrose, hush!’ exclaimed Eustace, in a thrilling whisper, and putting his finger on his lip. ‘Not a word about that man, even on a hill-top! If our babble were to reach his ears, and happen not to please him, he has but to fling a quire or two of paper into the stove, and you, Primrose, and I, and Periwinkle, Sweet Fern, Squash-Blossom, Blue Eye, Huckleberry, Clover, Cowslip, Plantain, Milkweed, Dandelion, and Buttercup,–yes, and wise Mr. Pringle, with his unfavourable criticisms on my legends, and poor Mrs. Pringle, too,–would all turn to smoke, and go whisking up the funnel! Our neighbour in the red house is a harmless sort of person enough, for aught I know, as concerns the rest of the world; but something whispers to me that he has a terrible power over ourselves, extending to nothing short of annihilation.’
‘And would Tanglewood turn to smoke, as well as we?’ asked Periwinkle, quite appalled at the threatened destruction. ‘And what would become of Ben and Bruin?’
‘Tanglewood would remain,’ replied the student, ‘looking just as it does now, but occupied by an entirely different family. And Ben and Bruin would be still alive, and would make themselves very comfortable with the bones from the dinner-table, without ever thinking of the good times which they and we have had together!’
​‘What nonsense you are talking!’ exclaimed Primrose.
With idle chat of this kind, the party had already begun to descend the hill, and were now within the shadow of the woods. Primrose gathered some mountain-laurel, the leaf of which, though of last year’s growth, was still as verdant and elastic as if the frost and thaw had not alternately tried their force upon its texture. Of these twigs of laurel she twined a wreath, and took off the student’s cap, in order to place it on his brow.
‘Nobody else is likely to crown you for your stories,’ observed saucy Primrose, ‘so take this from me.’
‘Do not be too sure,’ answered Eustace, looking really like a youthful poet, with the laurel among his glossy curls, ‘that I shall not win other wreaths by these wonderful and admirable stories. I mean to spend all my leisure, during the rest of the vacation, and throughout the summer term at college, in writing them out for the press. Mr. J. T. Fields (with whom I became acquainted when he was in Berkshire, last summer, and who is a poet, as well as a publisher) will see their uncommon merit at a glance. He will get them illustrated, I hope, by Billings, and will bring them before the world under the very best of auspices, through the eminent house of Ticknor & Co. In about five months from this moment, I make no doubt of being reckoned among the lights of the age!’
‘Poor boy!’ said Primrose, half aside. ‘What a disappointment awaits him!’
Descending a little lower, Bruin began to bark, and was answered by the graver bow-wow of the respectable Ben. They soon saw the good old dog, keeping careful watch over Dandelion, Sweet Fern, Cowslip, and ​Squash-Blossom. These little people, quite recovered from their fatigue, had set about gathering checkerberries, and now came clambering to meet their playfellows. Thus reunited, the whole party went down through Luther Butler’s orchard, and made the best of their way home to Tanglewood.
THE END.
Printed in Great Britain by T. and A. Constable Ltd. at the Edinburgh Univeristy Press