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It will be remembered that Honora was even then a coquette, and as she sat in her new baby-carriage under the pear tree, flirted outrageously with Peter, who stood on one foot from embarrassment. "Why, Peter," Uncle Tom had said slyly, "why don't you kiss her?" That kiss had been Peter's seal of service. And he became, on Sunday afternoons, a sort of understudy for Catherine.
Interested advisers then crowded round him. It was seriously proposed that he should restore the ancient titles, as being more in harmony with the new power which the people had confided to him than the republican forms. He was still of opinion, however, according to his phrase, that "the pear was not yet ripe," and would not hear this project spoken of for a moment.
I inquired for my mining companion, W.M. Stockton who worked with Bennett and myself near Georgetown in 1850, and found he lived near the old mission of San Gabriel nine miles away, whither I walked and found him and family well and glad to see me. He had jumped an old pear orchard which was not claimed by the Mission Fathers, although it was only three-fourths of a mile away.
The sun gets in her face; and, every time a pear comes down it is a surprise, like having a tooth out, she says. "If I could n't hold an apron better than that!" But the sentence is not finished: it is useless to finish that sort of a sentence in this delicious weather. Besides, conversation is dangerous.
At that moment there came a burst of song from the top of the pear- tree in the garden, and we saw the head of the little household greeting the day. Almost as sweetly and musically my companion's laugh trilled out: "So it wasn't the day of fate after all."
"They carve pear wood because it is so soft, and dye it brown, and call it ME!" said an old oak cabinet, with a chuckle. "That is not so painful; it does not vulgarize you so much as the cups they paint to-day and christen after ME!" said a Carl Theodor cup subdued in hue, yet gorgeous as a jewel.
She said she'd got kinder use' ter her noo home; but she didn' hab no mo' ter say 'bout comin' dan she did 'bout goin'. Howsomedever, she went down ter de swamp fer ter git roots fer her mist'ess up ter de las' day she wuz dere. "Wen Cindy got back home, she wuz might'ly put out 'ca'se Skundus wuz gone, en' hit didn' 'pear ez ef anythin' anybody said ter 'er 'ud comfort 'er.
I will now cede the privilege of speech to a letter which lies before me, a letter written five and twenty years ago by an old pupil, now Madame la Duchesse de one of the most elegant women in Paris. I quote literally: "One hides one's pear or one's apple as best one may.
But who is that? what that thick pursy man in the loose, snuff-coloured greatcoat, with the white stockings, drab breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes? that man with the bull neck, and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws, but tapering upward like a pear; the man with the bushy brows, small grey eyes, replete with cat-like expression, whose grizzled hair is cut close, and whose ear-lobes are pierced with small golden rings?
When he has to paint a human being, he has to represent truth of action, the particular character of an individual; but he must do the latter when he paints a pear. No two pears are alike." I fear at the time I hardly understood the importance of the lesson which I then received; certainly not to the degree with which experience has confirmed it.
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