A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,18
with Lem Wainwright. The pretty pair passed Rachel Dudley, newly arrived, who stood watching with her children Winthrop and Anne. As yet, all three seemed uncertain about what to do with their rare holiday. Considering what he knew of their daily lives, Longfellow was sure they richly deserved a reprieve.
It occurred to him that this winter scene resembled a Flemish village he'd enjoyed while on a visit to the Continent—one painted by the Elder Brueghel, who'd lived two centuries before. Not a great deal seemed to have changed, though Richard believed his own countrymen to be more sober and attractive than old Peter's peasants. Yet to be fair, he had to take into account some of the least fastidious members of the village—for instance, Jack Pennywort and his friends.
Where was Jack? Hadn't word reached him of an exciting tale awaiting his perusal, offering him employment? Longfellow patted his pocket to make sure he still had the wretched book, then looked back along the road. He could see several figures climbing the long slope—and there was the pair he sought, one weaving, one with a foot dragging a little behind. Longfellow presumed Dick Craft had tested the cold that morning, and had then taken several nips before venturing out. At least he would make some honest effort on the ice, if pocket silver performed its usual magic. After that, Longfellow supposed, Dick and his club-footed companion would enjoy the evening hours the more, on returning as usual to Phineas Wise's snug tavern across the river.
Deciding their approach would take some time, Richard ambled over to a trio of older men who sat beside the blazing fire, deep in conversation with a lad.
“What is the news today, gentlemen?” Longfellow asked, bowing generously to age.
“Nothing of great interest, sir,” Thaddeus Flint assured him. A regular patron of the Blue Boar, he'd come up early with a friend named Tyndall, long known as Tinder. Between this quail-like pair sat another elder of somewhat smaller stomach, though he had a chest shaped like a barrel. Jonah Bigelow gave a gap-toothed grin. He attempted to stand so that he might return the courtesy of one of their selectmen, newly reelected. The effort caused him to wheeze, and he sat down again. The ancient complaint in his lungs was one well known to the village; none grew alarmed, nor did they think to ask particularly after his health. Still, it seemed to Longfellow that Jonah Bigelow's grandson, who stood listening, gave a worried look at his grandsire.
“Are we to have music, Ned?” Longfellow asked, eying a battered wooden box at the young man's feet. This sat next to an open canvas seed bag from which peeped a wooden handle, and a brown scarf with white snowflakes. He realized the latter was Mrs. Willett's work, for he'd watched her knit it the year before.
“Music it shall be, sir, if my fingers cooperate.” With a slow smile sometimes called charming, sometimes roguish, and often enough both, Ned bent to open the box's brass latch. Inside, on well-rubbed velvet, lay a softly glowing violin, and a horsehair bow. He lifted both, and set the instrument against his chin and shoulder. His knowing fingers drew the bow slowly across the strings. The resulting tone caught the attention of many; after a curious pause, pleased voices and laughter arose.
“Music,” Longfellow commented, “is useful in lifting both heart and load—as I believe Hesiod once remarked, did he not, Ned?” He smiled as he received a rivulet of joyous notes in reply.
Ned now began to bend and saw in earnest, producing a popular tune. For the amusement of those near the fire and to return feeling to his toes, Mr. Tinder got on his feet and jigged about. He was joined for a moment in a jesting gavotte by Mr. Flint; Jonah Bigelow slapped his knees and cried out his approval until a fit of coughing stopped him. Then all three, quite winded, resumed their neat row, like so many kegs on a tavern shelf.
Turning to leave, Longfellow caught sight of something in the snow. He stooped to retrieve it. Moments earlier, it seemed, a shilling had been dropped.
“I assume this belongs to one of you?” he asked. Their response was curious. Each stared at the thing, and then back to his inquiring face. They next glanced furtively toward one another.
“Come, now—it must belong to one of you?” he tried again.
“I came out with none today, sir,” said Tinder, “thinking I'd not need money.”