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I could have whipped the little elf; but small blame could be attached to a child of two years old, who had never heard a preacher, especially such a preacher as the old back woodsman, in her life. Poor man! he was perfectly unconscious of the cause of the disturbance, and remarked to us, after the service was over, "Well, ma'am, did not we get on famously? Now, worn't that a bootiful discourse?"
"No, sir! it was not intended for you," she said, mockingly. "By the demons, I know that! Hand it here!" "Don't swear nor get angry! Both are unbecoming professor!" said the elf, with mocking gravity. "Perdition! will you give it up?" stamped the doctor, in fury. "'Perdition, no;" mocked the fairy.
To drive away the last elf of ill-humor, and make us thenceforth agree to regard the box as an ornamental appendage which we were good-natured enough to let each other enjoy by turns. Pitt River, the last fork of the Upper Sacramento, came glancing into our landscape, the very perfection of fluent freedom and gladness. Every rod of the journey along its west bank disclosed a new picture.
My grandfather entered; I was dressed as genteelly as every effort of the village taylor could contrive; an appearance so different from that of the beaten, bruised, and wounded poor elf he first had seen, with clouted shoes, torn stockings, and coarse coating, dripping with water, and clotted with blood, was so great as scarcely to be credible.
"Now, you mustn't do that," said Toinette, in a motherly tone, "else you'll tear it yourself, you know." She broke off the thorn as she spoke, and gently drew it out. The elf anxiously examined the stuff. A tiny puncture only was visible and his face brightened. "You're a good child," he said. "I'll do as much for you some day, perhaps."
There's a vain elf in you somewhere, Pem, that sleeps in the shadow of the Wise Woman." "Maybe maybe, there's a nickum! That's Andrew's word, Andrew's word for an imp, a tomboy. He's the Grosvenors' Scotch chauffeur, you know, who talks with a thistle under his tongue. Well! nickum, or not!" the girl was a rosy weathercock again.
Then he climbed back once more, and away they flew down the hillside and out of sight, the lady fairy weeping all the time as though her heart would break. "I wonder what she was crying about," said the gamblesome elf to himself, as he stared after them. "I can tell you that easily enough," said a little voice so close to his elbow that it made him jump.
There was something at the back of the drawer, a picture, apparently an old photograph, lying face downward. He drew it out, and looked at it. He beheld a young and rather pretty woman, with a curiously flat head, staring black eyes, and sharp chin. She had a child on her knee of about a year old, an elf with delicately proud features, and a frowning, passionate look. Who were they?
It may be the result of unconscious idealisation, but his Gypsies have nothing more sordid about them than wild birds have. Mrs. Herne is diabolical, but in a manner that would not be unbecoming to a duchess. Leonora is treacherous, but as an elf is permitted to be. As for Jasper and Mrs. Petulengro, they are as radiant as Mercutio and Rosalind.
Some one has blond tresses, while she has black. This arouses her envy. She is envious because another's eyes are blue, while hers are brown; another is tall, while she is small; etc., etc. There is nothing, indeed, that she cannot weep and worry over: There is a certain girl I know, a pretty little elf, Who spends almost her entire thoughts in pity for herself.
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