The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1872-09-13
BASHFUL BOOTS.

BASHFUL BOOTS.
"Tell me, Bashful Boots" 1 sid,
chow far it is to Whitby ?''
"Please, thir, my name ithn't
Bathful Booth" answered the child;
Pth Mary Cumru."
I was just eighteen, and, after hav-
ing taken my degree in the tim mehon-
ored University of Pennsylvania,
was making a pedestrian tour
through the eastern countries of my
native State. For several hours 1
had been traversing 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, pic
turesque district, with small farms
scattered through the valleys, while
the hillseon either side were densely
clothed with the originatforestt trees.
There were so many little lateral
valleys, and so many cross roads,
that at last I began to fear 1 had
lost my way.
Suddenly there arose before me,
over the crest of low hill, the Chin
ney and roof of q time-worn, stone
farm house. The fences were messy
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 water-howers
that blossomed In the little brook
near by. A scientific agriculturist
would have turned from the scene
in disgust. But a poet or a painter
would have been charmed by it. The
| tangled, luxuriant growth carried
the imagination back for q century
to the landscapes that Fielding
describedand Ganesborough painted.
Crossing the field between me and
tho house, advancing in my direc-
ton, was 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-
stively coarse accessories there was
bright, intelligent look in her eyes
and an air almost of refinement in
her face. Observing a stranger, she
stopped sbyly, with her finger in her
mouth. 1t was then I 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 ?" She
lived with her maternal uncle, who
owned the farm house, which had
been her grandfather's 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 sbyly if l wouldn't like a
drink of milk. She was going to the
spring house. she added. l assented
most gladly, and she tripod gaily
before me, fitting along like free,
happy bird.
Have you ever, my dear reader,
seen a real, old fashioned Pennsyl-
vania spring house-a one storied,
one roomed stone edi6ce, built over
natural spring, generally shaded
by weeping willow or some ancient
forest tree, and foored with brick or
stone? My little hostess, kneeling
down, dipped some milk up from a
pan that foated 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 l sat down on the low
turfy bank outside, and chatted with
my little friend.
"Do you know," she said, artless.
", 81 like country better than town.
You hear the birds at daylight; YOU
can hunt for the wild flowers. Oh
such violets, and blue bells, and
quaker ladies we have here"
And butter cups, too, [ hope
Eyes, yes, buttercups. Do you
know bow TO tell if you like butter
she asked gleefully.
Don't Il You hold the buttercuE
to your chin"
She clasped her handr, and laugh
ing said
How do you know that p
" know more than you think"
Said coolly, but feeling young mans
pride, nevertheless, in her admira
tion.
"Can you tell me, for instance
what is this
I had been as my habit was, pok
ing with my stick INTO the turf, anC
now I had lAOsened a heavy, rusty
looking bit of stone that rolled at my
feet.
"Ho," she said, with some con-
tempt; "I don't care for the dirty
rocks; / care for the flowers and
trees
But this dirty bit of rock, +" I an
swered, els hemaIic ore, quite will
! ing to show off my geological know