Brenda's Ward Part 24

"Only five minutes!" complained George; "I don't think that's long enough. I didn't understand what the first was."

Patiently Mrs. Danforth read the first two lines, then the second, and finally, at Lucy's request, the last.

"I have it," cried Marcus, before three minutes had pa.s.sed.

"Can't we have five minutes more? I know I could guess it, if we had time enough."

"You never guess anything, George, no matter how much time there is,"

exclaimed Marcus.

"Neither does Priscilla," rejoined George; "but if we had more time--"

"Six minutes have pa.s.sed; you see I have given more than the allotted time," called Mrs. Danforth at last.

"What did you make it, Marcus?"

"s...o...b..a.l.l.s!" cried Marcus, triumphantly.

"Oh, no!" protested Lucy; "how could it be 's...o...b..a.l.l.s?' What is yours, Miss Martine?"

Martine handed a slip of paper to Lucy on which she had written a word.

"Yes, yes, that is it. Snowdrops, that is right, isn't it, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear; it is almost too simple a charade to set before our guest. It would have been harder to guess if we had tried to act it.

Perhaps to-morrow we can act charades."

When the younger children had gone to bed, Martine enjoyed the quiet hour with Priscilla and Mrs. Danforth and Mr. Stacy.

"I had no idea Plymouth could be so interesting," she said. "I feel that my two or three more days will not be enough for all that I wish to see."

Nevertheless, Martine spent less time in actual sight-seeing than at first she had planned. The second day of her stay was so warm and springlike, that all voted for a mayflower picnic in the beautiful Plymouth woods. The next day was rainy--a genuine southerly storm, and no one cared to venture out.

"In town neither of us would think of staying in simply on account of a storm," protested Martine.

"I know it," responded Priscilla, lazily curling herself up in a corner of the big settle before the open fire. "But this is vacation, and home," she concluded, "and we can't behave just as we would in the city."

Finally, on the fourth day of their stay, under the guidance of Mr.

Stacy, the two went up to Burial Hill.

"You won't care if I do not pretend to be awfully interested in the epitaphs," said Martine, frankly. "I wish that Amy were here. She loves old graveyards and inscriptions and everything that has a sc.r.a.p of history. Now I am fond of funny epitaphs, and I love--oh, what a beautiful view!"

"I am glad that Burial Hill has something of interest to offer you. Even in Plymouth we call this a fine view. Generally, we try to be modest about our possessions, but this really is worth praising."

"It is wonderful!" and Martine gazed in admiration at the expanse of blue water that stretched far, far to the East, with only the tiny Clark's Island to break its continuity.

"It looks almost like a toy town," she added, gazing down at the houses and spires of the old town seeming to nestle at the foot of the hill.

"Those woods toward the West are where the Indians used to lurk, and you can see how wise our forefathers were in placing their fort here near the summit of the hill. You remember, probably, that it was a wooden building made of sawed planks, but the six cannon mounted for its defence made it really formidable to the Indians. From this point the defenders of the town could quickly discover the approach of the enemy.

For a time, too, the fort was used as a church."

"That is why they used the hill as a burying-place, I suppose."

"Well, oddly enough, the founders of Plymouth were not buried here.

Undoubtedly, the first settlers buried their dead near their dwellings.

No stones mark the resting-place of most of the Mayflower pa.s.sengers.

There are memorials to many of them put up in later generations here on Burial Hill by their descendants, and two or three who lived to an advanced age, like John Howland, are buried here. But the earliest gravestone on the hill is that of Edward Gray, who died in 1681."

Priscilla, browsing among the stones, returned to Martine with a shade of disappointment on her face.

"I am really sorry, but I cannot find a single absurd stone. Some are rather quaint, but there are no amusing epitaphs, at least, of the kind you like, Martine. Often as I've been here, I have never looked for that special kind of thing before, but now that I have made you a true report, we might as well turn down toward Memorial Hall."

"Thank you, Priscilla, I hope Mr. Stacy will not think that I care only for entertaining things that make one laugh. I have been more impressed by this old burying-ground than by any other I have ever visited. There is certainly something in the atmosphere that carries one back to the past. If there were anything here to laugh at I couldn't laugh." And silently and reverently Martine followed her friends down the hill into the quiet streets of the little town.

"Now for Pilgrim Hall," said Mr. Stacy, as they walked along the Main Street.

"And what shall we see there?" asked Martine.

"Oh, relics of all kinds--driftwood of the past--some things that will move you to tears, and others that may make you smile."

"Old furniture, I suppose. There are several s.h.i.+ploads of Mayflower furniture scattered through the country, and naturally I would look for a little of it here in Plymouth."

"It would almost seem as if you had been reading my favorite Holmes,"

rejoined Mr. Stacy. "You perhaps recall his verses about the old punch-bowl that--

"'--Left the Dutchman's sh.o.r.e With those that in the Mayflower came--a hundred souls and more Along with all the furniture to fill their new abodes-- To judge by what is still on hand--at least a hundred loads.'"

"I am not sure," replied Martine, "whether I have heard those particular lines, though the poet's sentiments are mine. Sometimes I wonder if the Pilgrims brought any furniture with them. Or if the things they brought could have lasted through the centuries."

"You will soon be able to judge for yourself. I think you can safely believe in most of the specimens that you see here. At any rate, we people of Plymouth have believed in them so long that they have acquired a certain sanct.i.ty."

When they were at last within the dignified hall, Priscilla and Martine flitted about from object to object, the latter asking questions, the former answering them, while Mr. Stacy in one or two instances had to act as umpire.

A chair once owned by Governor Carver, and another brought by William Brewster in the Mayflower, were accepted by Martine without question, and she was equally interested in a cabinet also brought over in the Mayflower by the father of Peregrine White.

"Priscilla," she cried, "your ancestor, John Alden, was particularly generous in his bequests. Here's his Bible, and an autograph of his that must be genuine because it is so hard to read. It seems to me that the Aldens and the Winslows have done well by this exhibition. Isn't this an odd ring, and do you really imagine it was once worn by Governor Edward Winslow?"

"Why, yes," replied Priscilla, "I believe it, if that is what the placard says." And she drew nearer to read the card that was placed beside the ring.

"The sword of Myles Standis.h.!.+ What a story it could tell! Really, Priscilla, these things have a wonderful power of calling up the past--and this little piece of embroidery, just look at the date. It is more than three hundred and fifty years old, and some of the silk threads have kept their colors."

"Please read the verse in the corner," urged Priscilla. "Even when I was a very small girl I used to stand here, and call up pictures of the little Lorena."

As Priscilla finished her sentence, Martine began to repeat the lines embroidered in the old sampler--for such the bit of work must have been.

"'Lorena Standish is my name, Lord, guide my heart that I may do Thy will, Also fill my hands with such convenient skill As will conduce to virtue devoid of shame, And I will give the glory to Thy name.'

"It is touching," said Martine.