A lover of the picturesque, whether poet, painter, or simply an enjoyer of Nature’s works, may be justified, perhaps, in extending his quest after the sublime and beautiful beyond the rich and varied landscapes of New England. Yet it is in this unpretending region that we are about to lay the opening incidents of our tale, rather than amid the cloud-capt rocks of Niagara, or upon the indented shores of our romantic lakes.

In the early days of our pilgrim forefathers, ere luxury and fashion had tarnished with their deceptive but defacing touch the primitive customs of the land—and, at the crisis referred to, neat but unpretending villages were beginning to dot at intervals the surface of the adopted country.

It is to the heart of one of these models of rural beauty that we now invite the attention of the reader. The immediate location of the village was in a sort of valley, close within the verge of an immense forest, and surrounded by an intervening underwood, which Nature had fashioned as a sort of defensive barrier. The cottages were without the underwood, and thickly distributed on that side of the forest which skirted the open country, forming, as it were, a slight chain of protection against the inroads of the Indians. So much in the light of a defensive fortress had these indeed come to be regarded by the dusky tribes, that latterly their invasions in the place had been few and far between. Even these occasional attacks had at length seemed completely repressed through the energetic measures of one of the colonists, who had acted on each occasion of surprise with a firmness and self-possession that at once overpowered and dispelled the savages.

This man, Deacon Winthrop, had, however, by the strenuous efforts referred to, incurred the revengeful feelings of the adjacent tribes, and an impending evil at this moment hung over him, unsuspected by himself or any of the villagers.

The beautiful English custom of celebrating the first of May, by a festival of roses, had been preserved in the colonies. To the morning of as lovely a day as ever ushered in that month of flowers, we now revert. It was a day of days—not a cloud to alarm even the most fearful, and holyday dresses were donned without the slightest dread lest they should be spoiled. The weather was neither too hot nor too cold; the old failed to anticipate coughs, and the young anticipated pleasures innumerable. A poetic fancy might have deemed that the trees, the flowers, the grass, were endowed with a brighter beauty in honor of the day. This festival, though nominally and by custom given to children, was witnessed and enjoyed, we may say fairly participated in, by those of older growth. At almost every cottage door might be seen some grandmother singing to the crowing infant in her lap, and old men leaning on their sticks peering out to catch a share of the general joy.

Opposite the pastor’s dwelling was reared the May-pole, gay with flowers and streaming with ribbons, while around it was collecting the limited juvenile population of the little place.

The lively ceremonies of the occasion formed no pompous pageant nor idle mockery—the smiles of the children alone shed a glow over the spot, and their merry peals of laughter rendered their sports hilarious and exhilarating to the more sober and advanced inhabitants, who acted only as spectators of this portion of the festivities.

Several hours passed thus in sportive amusements and in the crowning of the May Queen, Grace Bartlett, the pastor’s only child, who was elected by the unanimous voice of her companions to the honors of the occasion.

A banquet followed, spread upon the grass, and composed of contributions from every cottage matron. When this was ended, the long train of youthful forms, each garlanded with a trimming of flowers, swept up a vast avenue of beech to the village church. There the oration of the day was pronounced by one of their number robed in white. It was a simple and heart-touching sentence that last came from those childish lips—a word of faith to be preserved when all the bright twisted garlands of the day should be withered; when that last tribute, a chaplet bound by cypress leaves, should be laid upon each bier.

Hark! now from the young circle before the low pulpit arise the simple tones of a psalm, swelling on the air in rich gradations, interrupted only by the throbbing of those tender hearts, in the fullness of their innocent joy. Their rosy cheeks and glistening eyes at that moment, what need have these of record? Are they not written still in the memories of the surviving throng? The gushing melody from those infantile voices at length ceased, and the assemblage dispersed from the building.

Again out in the open air, again on the broad common, again scattered hitherward and thitherward, the children sought their homes, many of them possibly regretting that the festival of roses had not to begin again, but all solaced by the thought that it had become for once more an event in their personal history. And so to all intents the events of the day seemed ended. Several of the children had lingered in the meeting-house, after the general crowd had left it. By degrees, however, these few loiterers all departed, either singly or by pairs, excepting young Frank Winthrop and Grace Bartlett, who lingered to collect and garner up a few of those perishable wreaths that garlanded and adorned the modest sanctuary.

The platform in front of the pulpit, erected for the accommodation of the children, was completely hidden in leaves and flowers. Laurel branches as graceful as stooping seraphims swept over the surface of the clerk’s desk; the supporters of the pulpit lifted to its floor long, slender lines of jessamine; while from the rafters of the roof hung rich festoons of daffodil—making altogether a completely new interior; the high-backed chair of the clerk beneath was so richly adorned with roses that one kneeling before it might, without any great effort of imagination, have been mistaken for a votary of Flora.

For some time our young pair amused themselves tripping from spot to spot, their sweet, childish voices waking the echoes of the humble building. At length, tired of the day’s exertion, little Grace Bartlett threw herself into the huge arm-chair behind the desk. She was a lovely child, with large, soft eyes, and fair hair, which fell in light waves, rather than curls, nearly to her waist. Although the special pet of the whole settlement, she was not spoiled, owing to the remarkable sweetness of her disposition, which caused her to receive indulgence as the flower drinks dew, only to become more light and fragrant from the rich overflow of nutriment. Oh! if you could have seen her sitting in that old chair, raised some three feet above the floor, her petite figure vainly endeavoring to accommodate itself to the stiff, high back, one bare arm dimpling its dark covering, as if like some pleasant old gentleman, it could not help laughing at so dainty a thing, and the tips of her tiny fingers finding themselves an agreeable resting-place upon the soft coloring of her cheek.

Her male companion, Frank Winthrop, was a laughing boy, who was two years her senior. He was a plump urchin, welcome to the hearts and arms of all. His life was one long holyday of fun and frolick. He was ever fain to chat with the old, laugh with the young, nor was there even a dog in the village that did not wag its ears knowingly as the pretty fellow drew near.

From under a rude, arched porch outside, the clear laugh and ringing shout of a troop of happy children, who still loitered near, might be heard. One was romping in baby-frock and pinafore among the trees, now thrusting his arm in the leaves to grasp the bared shoulder of a little sister, then, creeping away under the green shadows, as a hare will hide itself, and raising his ringing voice to challenge pursuit, clapping his hands and laughing—scampering off finally on his chubby little feet, to plunge headlong in the fragrant grass, with a happy joyousness truly refreshing. At the farthest extremity of this rustic shed, three or four were playing, with noise enough for Christmas holydays; two boys at football, while the rest were testifying their feelings by sporting around them with the extremest merriment. One of the girls, at a little distance, was going through the A, B, C-dom of a mimic school, now kissing one, patting another, coaxing a third, crying “Oh, for shame!” to a fourth, and then dismissing with gravity the geography and history classes. Although some of the young rebels were larger than she was, and though they did mischievously contrive to loosen the comb with which she had tucked up her tresses, until the whole glittering mass came sweeping round her dimpled shoulders; and though some of the lesser girls would pelt her with clover tops, yet for all that she was as demure as a kitten—not a muscle moved. Ah, childhood! beautiful spring-time of the heart, when deception and suspicion are alike unknown, while yet the flowers of trustfulness bloom side by side with budding hope and fancy—ere the germs of envy and selfishness have come to shadow this bright little Eden of life’s imaginings—how lovely thou art in thy freshness and purity!

Little dreamed the guileless young gambolers at this moment that a savage eye was peering upon them from behind the eves of the meeting-house. An enemy was lurking near, unknown to those innocent hearts, who, ere the village clock should have pointed to the hour of nightly repose succeeding that day of glee, was destined to shed a gloom over the late happy region.

The pretty May Queen, Grace Bartlett, tired at length of her seat in the tall chair under the pulpit and jumping down with a bound and a run, was soon out upon the green amidst the merry group we have described. Frank Winthrop, the other little loiterer, had fallen asleep in one of the high pews, with a large Psalm-book for his pillow, and consequently he took no heed of her departure. There he lay in the calm, beautiful sleep of his young time of life, a model fit for the painter’s or the sculptor’s hand. How beautiful that boyish dreamer looked!—the round, fair outline, the fresh bloom of the features—his dark hair falling aside from his forehead, leaving its surface visible, and bland and fair.

Meantime, the shades of evening drew on, and the pennon of the hour began to bestar the heavens. A signal from the parents now brought the truant children to their homes—all but this reposing boy. It was the moment looked for by the lurking foe. Stealthily emerging from his retreat, he gazed around a moment to convince himself that his way was clear, and then advanced softly to the door of the meeting-house. From his late place of secretion he had caught a glimpse, through the window, of the sleeper, thus opportunely for his purpose, left alone in the building, and he deemed that his moment of revenge had come.

An instant he stood at the threshold—then advanced with measured tread along the aisles. So light were his footsteps, that the very scattered garlands and stray flowers of the late pageant rebounded unharmed beneath his moccason tread.

The space which divided him from the slumberer was soon past, and he stood before the child’s smiling and outstretched form. For a moment a compunctious feeling stole over the warrior. He held his breath as he gazed, and his heart swelled with love and pity. It was an evanescent feeling, however, for in another instant he had raised the boy in his arms, and bearing him gently away, he retraced his steps to the green sward. Another moment, and his retreating feet pressed an opening in the underwood bordering the forest, and in a moment more he was lost in the densely-wooded scenery.

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