IN THE HIGH VALLEY - Katy Karr Chronicles (Beloved Children's Books Series). Susan Coolidge

the tomahawks at their girdles, and we felt that all hope was over. I caught hold of papa’s lasso, which was looped round the saddle, and cocked my revolving rifle—all the New York girls wear revolving rifles strapped round their waists,” continued Miss Opdyke, coolly, interrogating Imogen with her eyes as she spoke for signs of disbelief, but finding none—“and I resolved to sell my life and scalp as dearly as possible. Just then, when all seemed lost, we heard a shout which sounded like music to our ears. A company of mounted Rangers were galloping out from the city. They had seen our peril from one of the watch-towers, and had hurried to our rescue.”

      “How fortunate!” said Imogen, drawing a long breath. “Well, go on—do go on.”

      “There is little more to tell,” said Miss Opdyke, controlling with difficulty her inclination to laugh. “The Head Ranger attacked the Tammany chief, whose name was Day Vidbehill,—a queer name, isn’t it?—and slew him after a bloody conflict. He gave me his brush, I mean his scalp-lock, afterward, and it now adorns—” Here her amusement became ungovernable, and she went into fits of laughter, which Imogen’s astonished look only served to increase.

      “Oh!” she cried, between her paroxysms, “you believed it all! it is too absurd, but you really believed it! I thought till just now that you were only pretending, to amuse me.”

      “Wasn’t it true, then?” said Imogen, her tardy wits waking slowly up to the conclusion.

      “True! why, my dear child, New York is the third city of the world in size,—not quite so large as London, but approaching it. It is a great, brilliant, gay place, where everything under the sun can be bought and seen and done. Did you really think we had Indians and buffaloes close by us?”

      “And haven’t you?”

      “Dear me, no. There never was a buffalo within a thousand miles of us, and not an Indian has come within shooting distance for half a century, unless he came by train to take part in a show. You mustn’t be so easily taken in. People will impose upon you no end over in America, unless you are on your guard. What has your brother been about, not to explain things better?”

      “Well, he has tried,” said Imogen, candidly, “but I didn’t half believe what he said, because it was so different from the things in the books. And then he is so in love with America that it seemed as if he must be exaggerating. He did say that the cities were just like our cities, only more so, and that though the West wasn’t like England at all, it was very interesting to live in; but I didn’t half listen to him, it sounded so impossible.”

      “Live and learn. You’ll have a great many surprises when you get across, but some of them will be pleasant ones, and I think you’ll like it. Good-by,” as Imogen rose to go; “I hope we shall meet again some time, and then you will tell me how you like Colorado, and the Piutes, and—waffles. I hope to live yet to see you stirring an egg in a glass with pepper and a ‘messy’ lump of butter in true Western fashion. It’s awfully good, I’ve always been told. Do forgive me for hoaxing you. I never thought you could believe me, and when I found that you did, it was irresistible to go on.”

      “I can’t make out at all about Americans,” said Imogen, plaintively, as after an effusive farewell from Mrs. Page and a languid bow from Madame de Conflans they were at last suffered to escape into the street. “There seem to be so many different kinds. Mrs. Page and her daughter are not a bit like each other, and Miss Opdyke is quite different from either of them, and none of the three resembles Mrs. Geoffrey Templestowe in the least.”

      “And neither does Buffalo Bill and your phrenological lecturer. Courage, Moggy. I told you America was a sizable place. You’ll begin to take in and understand the meaning of the variety show after you once get over there.”

      “It was queer, but do you know I couldn’t help rather liking that girl;” confessed Imogen later to Isabel Templestowe. “She was odd, of course, and not a bit English, but you couldn’t say she was bad form, and she was so remarkably quick and bright. It seemed as if she had seen all sorts of things and tried her hand on almost everything, and wasn’t a bit afraid to say what she thought, or to praise and find fault. I told you what she said about English bread, and she was just as rude about our vegetables; she said they were only flavored with hot water. What do you suppose she meant?”

      “I believe they cook them quite differently in America. Geoff likes their way, and found a great deal of fault when he was at home with the cauliflower and the Brussels sprouts. He declared that they had no taste, and that mint in green-peas killed the flavor. Clover was too polite to say anything, but I could see that she thought the same. Mamma was quite put about with Geoff’s new notions.”

      “I must say that it seems rather impertinent and forth-putting for a new nation like that to be setting up opinions of its own, and finding fault with the good old English customs,” said Imogen, petulantly.

      “Well, I don’t know,” replied Isabel; “we have made some changes ourselves. John of Gaunt or Harry Hotspur might find fault with us for the same reason, giving up the ‘good old customs’ of rushes on the floor, for instance, and flagons of ale for breakfast. There were the stocks and the pillory too, and hanging for theft, and the torture of prisoners. Those were all in use more or less when the Pilgrims went to America, and I’m sure we’re all glad that they were given up. The world must move, and I suppose it’s but natural that the new nations should give it its impulse.”

      “England is good enough for me,” replied the practical Imogen. “I don’t want to be instructed by new countries. It’s like a child in a pinafore trying to teach its grandmother how to do things. Now, dear Isabel, let me hear about your mother’s parcels.”

      Mrs. Templestowe had wisely put her gifts into small compass. There were two dainty little frocks for her grandson, and a jacket of her own knitting, two pairs of knickerbocker stockings for Geoff, and for Clover a bit of old silver which had belonged to a Templestowe in the time of the Tudors,—a double-handled porringer with a coat of arms engraved on its somewhat dented sides. Clover, like most Americans, had a passion for the antique; so this present was sure to please.

      “And you are really off to-morrow,” said Isabel at the gate. “How I wish I were going too.”

      “And how I wish I were not going at all, but staying on with you,” responded Imogen. “Mother says if Lionel isn’t married by the end of three years she’ll send Beatrice out to take my place. She’ll be turned twenty then, and would like to come. Isabel, you’ll be married before I get back, I know you will.”

      “It’s most improbable. Girls don’t marry in England half so easily as in America. It will be you who will marry, and settle over there permanently.”

      “Never!” cried Imogen.

      Then the two friends exchanged a last kiss and parted.

      “My love to Clover,” Isabel called back.

      “Always Clover,” thought Imogen; but she smiled, and answered, “Yes.”