Macon beacon. [volume] (Macon, Miss.) 1859-1995, 1872-09-14
BASHFUL BOOTS.

BASHFUL BOOTS.
"Tell me, Bashful Boots | said,
chow far it is to Whitby?
"Plcaso, thir, my name ithnt
Bcthful Booth, answered the child;
Ith Mary Cumru.'
was just eighteen and, after bay.
ing taken my degree in the time-hon-
ored University of Pennsylvania,
was making pedestrian tour
through the eastern countries of my
native State. For several hours |
had been trayersing a wild, wooded
region, that the inhabitants called
"the forest," and which stretches for
nearly thirty miles, from the north
east to the southwest, back to the
Blue Ridge between Whitby and
Heidelberg. 1t was primitive, pie
turesque district, with small farms
scattered through the valleys, while
the hills on either side were deusely
clothed with the orlglna'forest trees.
There were so many little lateral
valleys, and so many cross roads,
that at last began to fear | had
lost my way.
Suddenly there arose before me,
over the crest OF a low hill, the CHM
ney aud roof of n time-worn, stone
farm house. The fences were mossy
grown, the woods around were bush
and wild; lush grasses grew in the
meadows, and the whole air WAS fra
grant with the scent OF waterHowers
that blossomcd in the little brook
near by. A scientific agricultwrist
would have turned from the scene
in disgust, But Il poet or painter
would have been charmed by it. The
tangled, luxuriant growth carried
the Imagination back for century
to the landscapes that Fielding
describedand Ganesborough painted.
Crossing the field between me and
tho house, advancing in my direc-
tion, was a little girl. She wore an
old sun-bonnet and loose sack, and
carried an earthenware pitcher in her
hand; yet in spite of these compar-
atlvely coarse accessories there WAS
bright, intelligent look in her oyc'
and an air almost Of refinement i'll
her face. Observing stranger, Sbo
stopped slyly, with her finger in her
mouth. 1t was then | addressed
her.
We soon managed to get quite
we'll acquainted. Whitby, she told
me, was "just over the mountain,
not more than an hours walk y She
lived with her material uncle, who
owned the farm houc, which had
been her grandfathers before. "Pa.
pa was minister" she said, {" We
lived in the city till he and mara
died.
| was about to walk on, when she
asked me shyly if | wouldn't like Il
drink of milk. She was going to the
spring house. she added. ! assented
most gladly, and she trlpPed goily
before me, fitting along like II free,
happy bird.
Have YOU ever, my dear reader,
seen a real, old fashioned Penusyl-
vania spring house, one storied,
one roomed stone edihce, built over
a natural spring, generally shaded
by a weeping willow or some ancient
forest tree, and hoored with brick or
stone? Ny httlo hostess, kneeling
down, dipped some milk up from Il
pan that hoated in the ever run
ming stream which made the CIR
cult of the spring house inside.
Never, before or since, have L had a
draught so delicious.
Afterward sat down on the low,
turfy bank outside, and chatted with
my little friend.
ado you know" she said, ortless-
", 81 like country better than town?
You hear the birds at daylight; you
can hunt for the wild flowers. Oh !
such violeta, and blue bells, and
quaker ladies we have here.
"And hntter. cupS, too, | hope.
eyes, yes, buttercups. Do yon
know bow to tell if you like butter?
she asked gleefully.
"Don't | You hold the buttercup
to your chin"
She clasped her hands, and laugh
ing said
"How do you know that ?"
al know moro than you think, l
said coolly, but feeling ayoung man $
pride, nevertheless, in her Ndmlra-
ton.
"Can you tell me, for instance,
what is this?'
| had been rs my habit wns, rok-,
ing with my stick INTO the turf, and
now / had loosened heavy, rusty
looking bit of stone that rolled at my
feet.
"No," sho said, with some con-
tempt; "I don't care for the dirty
rocks; l care for the flowers and
trees
"But this dirty bit of rock, an
swered, dis hemalic ore" quito will
ing to show OIL my geological know