In the days of chivalry, mail-clad knights, armed with shield and
spear, rode through the land to defend the right and to punish the
wrong. Whenever they were to meet each other in battle at the great
tournaments, a herald was first sent to announce the fight and give
fair warning to the opponents, that each might be in all things
prepared to meet the other, and defend or attack wisely and upon his
guard.
So, dear children, you must know that Winter, who is coming clad in
his icy armour, with his spear, the keen sleet, sends before him a
herald, that we may not be all unprepared for his approach.
It is an autumn night when this herald comes; all the warm September
noons have slipped away, and the red October sunsets are almost gone;
still the afternoon light, shining through the two maples, casts a
crimson and yellow glow on the white wall of my little room, and
on the paths is a delicate carpet of spotted leaves over the brown
groundwork.
It is past midnight when the herald is called; and although his
knight is so fierce, loud, and blustering, he moves noiselessly forth
and carries his warning to all the country round. Through the little
birch wood he comes, and whispers a single word to the golden leaves
that are hanging so slightly on the slender boughs; one little shiver
goes through them, sends them fluttering all to the ground, and the
next morning their brown, shriveled edges tell a sad story.
Through the birch wood he hurries and on to the bank of the brook
that runs through the long valley; for the muskrat, who has his home
under the shelving bank, must hear the news and make haste to arrange
his hole with winter comforts before the brook is frozen. While he
crosses the meadow the field mouse and the mole hear his warning and
lay their heads together to see what is best to be done. Indeed,
the mole, who himself can scarcely see at all, is always of opinion
that two heads are better than one in such cases.
Beyond the brook is Farmer Thompson’s field of squashes. “I will not
hurt you to-night,” says the herald as he creeps among them; “only a
little nip here and a bite there, that the farmer may see to-morrow
morning that it is time to take you into the barn.” The turnips stand
only on the other side of the fence and cannot fail to know also that
the herald has come.
But up in Lucy’s flower garden are the heliotropes and fuchsias,
tea roses and geraniums,--delicate, sensitive things, who cannot
bear a cold word, it must have been really quite terrible what he
said there; for before sunrise the beautiful plants hung black and
withered and no care from their mistress, no smiles or kind words,
could make them look up again. The ivy had borne it bravely, and
only showed on his lower leaves, which lay among the grass, a frosty
fringe, where the dew used to hang.
My two maples heard the summons and threw off their gay dresses,
which withered and faded as they fell in heaps on the sidewalk. The
next morning, children going to school scuffed ankle-deep among them
and laughed with delight. And the maples bravely answered the herald:
“Now let him come, your knight of the north wind and the storm and
the sleet; we have dropped the gay leaves which he might have torn
from us. Let him come; we have nothing to lose. His snows will only
keep our roots the warmer, and his winds cannot blow away the tiny
new buds which we cherish, thickly wrapped from the cold, to make new
leaves in the spring.” And the elm and the linden and horse-chestnut
sent also a like brave answer back by the herald.
Over the whole village green went the whisperer, leaving behind him a
white network upon the grass; and before the sun was up to tangle his
beams in its meshes and pull it all to pieces, old widow Blake has
seen it from her cottage window and said to herself: “Well, winter is
coming; I must set up some warm socks for the boys to-day, and begin
little Tommy’s mittens before the week is out.”
And Farmer Thompson stands at his great barn door, while yet the
eastern sky is red, and tells Jake and Ben that the squashes and
pumpkins and turnips must all be housed in cellar and barn before
night; for a frost like this is warning enough to any man to begin to
prepare for winter.
Mr. Winslow, the gardener, is working all day with matting and straw,
tying up and packing warmly his tender shrubs and trees; and the
climbing rose that is trained against the west end of the piazza must
be made safe from the cold winds that will soon be creeping round
there.
What will your mother do when she sees the white message that the
herald has left in his frosty writing all over the lawn? Will she put
away the muslin frocks and little pink or blue calicoes and ginghams,
the straw hats, and Frank’s white trousers and summer jackets, just
as the trees threw aside their summer leaves?
Not quite like the trees; for your clothes can’t be made new every
spring out of little brown buds, but must be put away in the great
drawers and trunks of the clothes-press, to wait for you through the
winter.
And see how your mother will bring out the woolen stockings, warm
hoods and caps, mittens, cloaks and plaided dresses; and try on and
make over, that all things may be ready. For it is with such things
as these that she arms her little boys and girls to meet the knight
who is coming with north wind and storm.
Old Margaret, who lives in the little brown house down at the corner,
although she cannot read a word from a book, reads the herald’s
message as well as your mother can. But here are her five boys,
barefooted and ragged, ever in summer clothes, and her husband lies
back with a fever.
She can’t send back so brave an answer as your mother does. But your
mother, and Cousin George’s mother, and Uncle James can help her to
make a good, brave answer; for here is Frank’s last winter’s jacket,
quite too small for him, just right for little Jim; and father’s old
overcoat will make warm little ones for two of the other boys. And
here are stout new shoes and woolen socks, and comfortable bedclothes
for the sick man. Margaret sends a brave answer now, although this
morning she was half ready to cry when she saw the message that
Winter had sent.
Look about you, children, when the herald comes, and see what answers
the people are giving him; I have told you a few. You can tell me
many, if you will, before another year goes by.