At the Sign of the Cygnet

"At the Sign of the Cygnet" by Charles Battell Loomis is a charming and whimsical novel that explores the life and adventures of a group of young friends in a small town. Through their interactions and escapades, the story captures the innocence of youth, the beauty of friendship, and the allure of dreams and aspirations. Loomis's vivid storytelling and engaging characters create a nostalgic atmosphere, inviting readers to reflect on the joys and challenges of growing up. The book combines humor, romance, and a touch of melancholy, making it a delightful read that resonates with both young adults and the young at heart.

• Short story

								
A COSMOPOLITAN ROMANCE

I

It was late spring in New England. Buttercups bespangled the grass
and nodded and smiled at the apple-blossoms in the trees. And the
apple-blossoms nodded in return, and in a few days fluttered down to
the buttercups.

On the front stoop of an old baronial castle in the south of France
stood Armand Maria Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre. He had
been standing there all the morning, he knew not why. True, he looked
well, but he would have looked as well anywhere else, and he might
have been doing something. Still, there is time. It is but the first
chapter.

Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on
Baddecumb, the only daughter of her widowed mother and widowered
father, cantered slowly down the roadway that led to Churchill Hall,
the home of the Churchills for seven centuries. Her right cheek was
overflushed, and ever and anon she bit her chin. England could boast
of no prettier girl than Godiva, nor did England boast of it as much
as Godiva did.

II

It is summer in New England. The as yet colorless spears of goldenrod
give warning that the year is speeding speedily. The buttercups fled
long ago with the apple-blossoms, and from the verdant limbs of the
apple-trees hang bullet-like apples.

Armand Maria Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre is still in
the south of France. My French map is mislaid, and I cannot spell
the name of the place he is at, but it is on bottles, I think. He
has left the front stoop, and passes his time gazing at the goldfish
in the fountain and waiting to be drawn into the plot of my story.
Patient man!

Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on
Baddecumb, is still in the saddle, filled with vague longings.

III

Purple asters fringe the highways of New England, and rosy apples
depend from the boughs in countless orchards. (I think that scenery
is my strong point.)

Armand Maria Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre is chafing at
my delay, but continues to reside in the south of France from sheer
inertia.

Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on
Baddecumb, has worn out the left fore foot of her horse by her
incessant cantering upon the graveled paths of Churchill Hall. She is
beginning to feel resentment at me for the enforced monotony of her
existence, but heavens! how can I help it? I’m trying my level best
to evolve a plot.

IV

The flowers that gladdened the meads and highways and shady lanes of
New England are gone. Winter’s robes of office are thrown carelessly
over the landscape, and apples in innumerable barrels stand in the
cellars, waiting for better prices.

The reason why I have so faithfully described New England scenery is
because that’s the only kind of scenery I know anything about.

I am ashamed to confess it, but this is the last chapter, and blamed
if I can think of any good reason for the departure of Armand Maria
Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre from the south of France. He
can’t speak a word of English, and if you’re thinking of Godiva, she
can’t speak a syllable of French.

Poor Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on
Baddecumb! She is quite lame from her long-continued exercise in
the saddle, but still canters aimlessly about. She has become the
laughing-stock of all the tenants of Churchill Wolde, and it’s all my
fault.

If she saw Armand she’d fall in love with him, but I can’t think of a
way to bring about their meeting. That’s what it is to lack invention.

Just imagine me trying to write a novel!

Anyhow, I’ve got a good title for the story.

THE END
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