II

The musings of this dreamer in a tree-top were interrupted by the peremptory notes of a tin horn from the farmhouse below.  The boy recognized this not only as a signal of declining day and the withdrawal of the sun behind the mountains, but as a personal and urgent notification to him that a certain amount of disenchanting drudgery called chores lay between him and supper and the lamp-illumined pages of The Last of the Mohicans.  It was difficult, even in his own estimation, to continue to be a hero at the summons of a tin horn—­a silver clarion and castle walls would have been so different—­and Phil slid swiftly down from his perch, envying the squirrels who were under no such bondage of duty.

Recalled to the world that now is, the lad hastily gathered a bouquet of columbine and a bunch of the tender leaves and the red berries of the wintergreen, called to “Turk,” who had been all these hours watching a woodchuck hole, and ran down the hill by leaps and circuits as fast as his little legs could carry him, and, with every appearance of a lad who puts duty before pleasure, arrived breathless at the kitchen door, where Alice stood waiting for him.  Alice, the somewhat feeble performer on the horn, who had been watching for the boy with her hand shading her eyes, called out upon his approach: 

“Why, Phil, what in the world—­”

“Oh, Alice!” cried the boy, eagerly, having in a moment changed in his mind the destination of the flowers; “I’ve found a place where the checker-berries are thick as spatter.”  And Phil put the flowers and the berries in his cousin’s hand.  Alice looked very much pleased with this simple tribute, but, as she admired it, unfortunately asked—­women always ask such questions: 

“And you picked them for me?”

This was a cruel dilemma.  Phil was more devoted to his sweet cousin than to any one else in the world, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and he hated to tell a lie.  So he only looked a lie, out of his affectionate, truthful eyes, and said: 

“I love to bring you flowers.  Has uncle come home yet?”

“Yes, long ago.  He called and looked all around for you to unharness the horse, and he wanted you to go an errand over the river to Gibson’s.  I guess he was put out.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He asked if you had weeded the beets.  And he said that you were the master boy to dream and moon around he ever saw.”  And she added, with a confidential and mischievous smile:  “I think you’d better brought a switch along; it would save time.”