“Who’s this, Ryerson?” he asked.
“That’s Margey—my sister, you know. It’s not good of her.”
“You look alike, all of you,” said John, returning the picture slowly to its place. “You’re a good-looking lot, you Ryersons.”
“They say my mother was the handsomest woman in our county when she married,” answered Phillip with pride. “And father was handsome, too, I think. But Margey and I aren’t much on looks; I reckon we’re just powerful good,” he added, laughing.
“Well, I won’t throw compliments at you,” said John, “but your sister’s a beauty, in my opinion. All ready?”
They descended the stairs, preceded by Tudor Maid, who took the flight in four hilarious bounds and waited for them at the gate wriggling from nose to tail with delight. It was an ideal autumn day, with a clear sky and just enough breeze to bring the golden and bronze and crimson leaves fluttering down from the trees that lined Mount Auburn Street, and enough sparkle in the air to lend spring to the tread of the two as they paced briskly along. John was a veritable bureau of information, and Phillip had a boy’s healthy curiosity regarding everything that hinted of interest. In front of Longfellow Park they crossed the little border of turf and shrubbery and stood upon a narrow beach left by the receding tide. Phillip tossed bits of stone into the river and Maid barked wildly and was always on the point of plunging in after them, but never did. To their right the stream began its long curve, its surface agleam with flecks and points of sunlight that dazzled the eyes. Across, the broad meadow stretched before them, a bare expanse of golden russet. Beyond that was the river again, and then the wooded promontory crowned with its tower and sprinkled with marble monuments that glistened snow-white in the sunlight.
“That’s the cemetery, isn’t it?” asked Phillip.
“Yes, Mount Auburn. If Davy was with us—Davy’s my roommate—he’d drag us up there and lead us about amongst tombstones and vaults and be utterly happy. When Davy visits Mount Auburn I know that he is feeling unusually cheerful. I don’t trust him up there alone any more, though, because he went one day last spring and fell asleep on somebody’s grave and came near being arrested. It got into the papers and we called him The Ghoul for some time. The Traveler got hold of it and printed a funny story of it with a startling heading in big, black letters; ‘Harvard Student’s Grave Offense.’ I don’t believe Davy has been up there since.”
They left the river and passed upward through the park to Brattle Street, Phillip turning again and again for another view of the winding river.
“Cambridge is beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked softly.
“Yes, I think so,” answered John, “although there are those who pretend to think otherwise. At least, it is full of beautiful spots, and one can forgive the squalidness of other portions of the city because of them. To my mind Brattle Street is one of the loveliest streets in the world, and it’s never as lovely as it is at this season.”
They crossed the road and peered in through the gate at the poet’s house, and John, in the rôle of guide, recited the customary catalogue of dates and facts.
“I shan’t repeat ‘The Day is Done,’ however,” he said, “although it is really the proper thing to do. I wonder how many persons have stood here and murmured soulfully!
“ ‘I see the lights of the village
Break through the rain and the mist.’ ”
“But that isn’t right!” protested Phillip. And so he recited the poem himself, prompted here and there by John, and ended to find the latter observing him quizzically.
“One more, Ryerson,” he said. “Don’t blush; you did it well, with just the right amount of repressed feeling. And besides, you couldn’t help it; everybody does it; it’s a—a sort of fatality. I went by here one day and found five Radcliffe girls murmuring it in unison, their eyes fixed mournfully upon the river and meadow.”
But Phillip was embarrassed by the other’s good-natured raillery and turned away and stared at the dignified old mansion sunning its well-preserved timbers up there on the terrace. Presently he said with something of awe in his voice:
“Just think! Washington himself may have walked down this graveled path and through this gate!”
“Yes,” answered John, “he probably did. I’ve always thought I’d like to have known Washington. I don’t believe he was the straight-laced old prig that the school histories try to make out. Between you and me, Ryerson, I fancy he was a regular old sport. Look at the way he could swear! Why, he could give cards and spades to a Nantucket skipper! The only really reprehensible thing that I can lay at his door,” continued John, as they turned and took up their walk, “is the way in which he established headquarters. I believe that if it hadn’t been for that weakness of his we’d have licked England long before we did. Consider the time he must have wasted. He was as bad as that old English queen—was it Bess?—that used to go through the country sleeping in people’s beds for them.”
“There are a lot of Washington’s headquarters,” acknowledged Phillip.
“I should say so. I can imagine the Trenton Patriot coming out with something like this: ‘Word has been received from Philadelphia that Gen. George Washington will arrive in our midst on Thursday of next week for the purpose of establishing headquarters here. It will be a gala occasion in the history of our prosperous town and it is anticipated that all patriotic citizens for miles around will attend. The Stage Line will make extra trips and has offered a special rate of one and one-third regular fare. During the afternoon the ladies of the Front Street Methodist Church will serve refreshments in the old Armory Building on Main Street. Come one, come all.’ ”
Phillip laughed, but doubtfully; John’s humour seemed to him to smack of irreverence.
“George Washington,” summed up John, “was the Andrew Carnegie of his day.”
“He was a great man,” said Phillip, his loyalty to the Greatest Virginian overcoming his awe of his companion.
“He was indeed,” answered John, realizing that Phillip’s sense of humour did not extend to sacred ground. “He was great and good and human, and that’s a combination of virtues that you don’t often find. I know of only one other American who approached him in goodness and humanity, while perhaps lacking his greatness.”
Phillip looked an inquiry.
“And that was Lincoln,” said John.
“Oh.” Phillip dropped his gaze gravely to the ground. John observed him smilingly.
“You’re still a bit of a rebel, eh, Ryerson?”
“I reckon so,” answered Phillip. “But I’ve heard my father say that Abraham Lincoln was a good man and a brave one, and that if he could have had his way the North and South would never have gone to war. But you can’t hardly expect us to—to think about Lincoln just the way you do up here, can you?”
“No,” answered John gravely. “Only don’t be behind us in forgiveness, Ryerson.”
“Do you think we are?” asked Phillip in surprise.
“A little, maybe.”
“But, sir, we lost!”
“True.”
“And not only that,” continued Phillip earnestly, “but we suffered the most. The war left us almost ruined and mighty discouraged. I reckon if we had it to do over we’d do it differently; I mean we’d look