Lo! here is Spring again, the dainty goddess come back to see what Winter
has been doing for so many months in forest and meadow, on the broad
hill-side and in the valley. The old ice-king has had a merry time of it,
playing with the long branches of the graceful maiden-like elm, and
wrestling with the gnarled and haughty oak. You might have heard him
roaring in the depths of the woods, had you been here, venerable DEIDRICH,
day and night for a sevennight, apparently just for the sake of making a
noise, and compelling the obeisance of the forest. Like any other
demagogue, he gains attention by his blusterings. How lowly that young
poplar bent before him, while the old hemlocks scarcely deigned a show of
reverence! When you were in your youth, and the world seemed larger than
now, did you not feel more of respect and awe for the _great man_ than you
now do? Ah! well-a-day! how little is the world's esteem worthy of care!
Ambition climbs the dizzy steeps of fame; the young and inexperienced,
whose admiration is not worth a straw, applaud; but the wise, for whose
good-will Ambition toils, look on with indifference; for they know the
emptiness of human greatness. But while we stop to moralize, the reader
grows a-weary; and even thou, DEIDRICH, who art so constitutionally
polite, compressest thy labial muscles, and thumpest nervously the floor
with thy gold-headed walking stick. What a pity that we cannot talk
nonsense gracefully!
There, now, all this time has the damsel Spring been awaiting our
commands, shivering mayhap in her scanty drapery, while we have been
prating. So it is the world over. The best intentioned forget the claims
of others, listening to the sweet music of their own sweet voices.
DEIDRICH, you ought to be here in the country to see what Hans and Peter
are doing 'at this present.'
Just back of the house, (we are at the old Homestead,) the snow has melted
away, and an impatient crocus is just peeping up to get a look at the warm
sun. The spruce, at whose foot it grows all the winter long, has kindly
extended one of its lower branches over it, to shield it from the frost,
and now straitens it up again to give the poor little plant a glimpse or
two of the warm blue sky and the golden sun. And here, on the southern
side of the house, the windows are thrown up, and the door of the wing
swung open for the first time in four long months. There, Peter, in the
side of the wing where you see the ends of two or three bricks protruding
from a circular hole in the clapboards, is the nest of a pair of wrens
that year after year come back to rear a new family, and chirp and chatter
away the summer, when their labors have ceased. If it were a few weeks
later, you might get acquainted with the comical little occupants, who are
as brisk and busy as if they were not in reality great grand-parents to a
whole republic of wrens. See! on the top of the wood-shed, how proudly the
old rooster struts along the weather-board, enjoying the discomfiture of
his wives, who have been trying for this half-hour from the corn-house
steps to reach the same desirable elevation. And ever and anon he crows to
answer the tumultuous cackle of the plebeian fowl in the barn-yard, with
whom he never mingles, save when a hawk threatens them with common danger;
and then, forgetting all his aristocracy, he seeks the same sheltering
apple-tree or clump of briars in the fence-corner, where the enemy cannot
penetrate. Friend Peter, just buckle on your over-shoes and come with me
through the back gates which have stood open all winter to allow ingress
to huge sled-loads of fire-wood. Tread carefully over the soft snow which
'slumps' at every step, and let us take a look at the barn-yard down
yonder, across the way from the farm-house.
Now is there not some poetry here? That yoke of brindle-oxen standing
under the dripping eaves chewing their cud; can you not see gladness in
their broad faces? There is old Line-back, the cow that fifteen years ago
used to have the same corner. I wonder if she recognizes me? She is graver
than the other cows; red and black, around her butt; the tuft of wool on
her horns shows that she retains her old spirit, and does not allow the
dainty sheep that crowd around us, to pick out the most savory portions of
her hay, without asserting her rights of priority. There, flocking in the
hay-loft door, over the cow-house, are the cackling multitude which we
heard awhile ago. They were probably instigated to their clamor by the
'cut-cut-ca-da-cut' of some young hen who had laid the first egg of the
season. The rest replying, no doubt, that they severally had done the same
at some spring-time anterior, but now for the first time thought of
mentioning so trifling a circumstance. Peter sagely opines that they are
holding a tea party! Let us drop into the 'grain-barn' and see what Hans'
little brothers are raising such a children's noise about. There goes Jim
from the highest scaffold into the straw at the bottom of the 'deep bay.'
Billy is just preparing to jump too; and Sid, a little more lazy, is but
half up the upper ladder. Sid sees us, and without saying a word, begins
to climb down again. This draws Billy's attention, and crying 'Hans has
come home! Hans has come!' springs off, half smothering poor Jim in his
descent. There, now, Peter, after seeing me kiss my brothers, don't accuse
me of possessing a cold heart, merely because I don't happen to love the
women. What is a woman, but flesh and blood after all? Do you think those
black, flashing eyes and rosy cheeks and swelling bosom, and those warm
lips which breathe soft deceit the while you press them, are any thing
more than 'common clay?' I have seen many lovely ones, yet as Byron hath
it:
'Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.'
I wish, friend Peter, that we could stay a fortnight to enjoy the opening
of spring, but as we must wend our way eastward day after tomorrow, we
will resign ourselves to fate, and make the best of it. Look down into the
valley where Green Brook comes singing and bubbling out from the deep
shade of the hemlocks into the open meadows! The snow has melted away from
its margin, and the brown sward is smiling in the cheerful afternoon sun.
There, on that tall stump, on the other side, sits a sentinel crow, while
his companions are strolling about catching up dainties which the frost
and snow have hid from their vision the winter long. Hurra! hurra! see
over the edge of Pine Hill come the first pigeons of the season from the
warm south! Look how they rise and fall again in their easy flight, as
they pass up the valley and go whirring in among the dense evergreens. I
told you we should see pigeons soon, but you thought it too early. We will
have sport to-morrow, if it is warm. For the present, let us see whether
Hans' old fowling-piece is still safe from rust. Here it stands behind his
bed-room door, dressed up like an old maid for a sailing party, all in
flannels. There, Peter, is a true 'stubb-and-twist,' and the locks,
although rather out of fashion, are still as elastic as ever. This Hans
himself will use to-morrow; for it is an old friend and might feel hurt to
be entrusted to the care of a stranger. Here, Jim, run down to Colonel
Hyde's and borrow his long double-barrel; but don't tell him that pigeons
have been seen, or he will want to use it himself. Get a cannister of
Dupont, and half a dozen pounds of No. 4 shot. None of the fine
mustard-seed or robin, but the heavy duck-shot, that will enter at twenty
rods. That is the kind for pigeons, their feathers are so compact; for if
you fire at them flying, you might as well toss turnip-seed at them as to
shoot fine shot that will glance from their sleek feathers like drops of
rain.
Here comes Jim, with the colonel's gun. Is it not a grand one? Now for
cleaning the pieces, and filling the flasks and shot-belts. Look out, or
you will scald your fingers with the hot water. A little more soap, and
the barrels are as clean as a silver thimble. Snap! These are fine caps:
put this box into your pocket, or we shall forget it. Let us look out at
the sunset before tea, and then go to bed early, that we may be up in
season for to-morrow's sport.
How broadly and slowly the sun sinks behind the forest! The glowing points
of his diadem reach to the zenith, and the purple clouds that float around
the west, dazzle the eye as they lie in contrast with the soft blue sky.
How bland the air is, like that of summer! We can almost drink it.
Well, mother, I am glad to be at home again at the tea-table. Here, Peter,
don't look sad now because you are not at your own home. We will go up in
the summer and view Lake Erie in its beauty and vastness, and stroll along
the beach, beneath the overhanging cedars and larches, and the
broad-leafed chestnuts. Whose voice is that in the entry? Why, Kate, how
do you do! Never mind, if you _are_ married, you needn't start so. I'm an
old friend, you know, and your lips are as tempting as ever! Ah! I forgot
there were strangers by. Madam Von Rosenbacker: Herr von Geist, a man
after my own heart. Well, Kate, you haven't altered much from what you
were when we used to pick blackberries together. Indeed, I have lost the
bottle of wine; you only escaped though by three days over the six months
that I limited your marriage to. You shall have the champaigne, and I will
come up in the summer to bring it, and will buy an indulgence from the
tee-total society long enough to drink it with you. Now that she is gone,
Peter, let me ask if you don't think her a glorious woman? Her large blue
eyes, her soft flaxen hair and rosy cheeks, and tall graceful figure, make
her 'splendid.' Peter, she was the first girl that I ever 'set my face
against,' as poor POWER used to say; and now, old bachelor as I am, I envy
her husband.
To bed we go, and Somnus touches our eyes with his wand of poppies. Ye
gods! how sweet and soft a bed at home is, after travelling till one's
bones ache with jolting stages and jarring rail-cars!
* * * * *
Up! up! friend Peter; here we are abed, while daylight is glimmering
through the blinds. Just put your head out here at this window and snuff
the fresh spring air. Hear the roaring of Fish Creek as it comes up over
the wooded hills. By no means! Don't suppose for the sixtieth part of a
minute that I intend to hurry you away without breakfast; but you must
step down into the kitchen, where the girl has prepared us a strong cup of
coffee; as good, no doubt, as Mother Bee used to provide for our matin
meal on College Hill. Here, Dancer, you must have some breakfast too.
Well, are we all ready? Powder, shot, and caps enough, and every thing in
order? Eh! Peter, what are you twisting your mouth about? Ah, yes, indeed,
I forgot. Here's a dozen Principes to use as occasion may offer, and
especially after dinner; which is to be sent up with the rest into the
sugar-bush, where we will rendezvous about one o'clock, and in the
afternoon help 'sugar off.' See the sunlight on the barns yonder; how warm
it looks! Look off on that hill-side, where the snow lies so deep! How
like a speck of gold it shimmers to the eye! and there goes Dancer on the
crust, as if he enjoyed the freshness of the air, and the warm sunlight.
Let us try the crust too, and if it will bear us, we shall save time by
going across lots. Here we go, with our heels crunching the glittering
pavement, leaving scarcely a vestige of our tread, the frost of last night
has so effectually congealed it. Yonder across this valley which the hills
prevent our seeing from the house, is the sugar-bush, sloping to the
south. The canal we first crossed leads to the old mills down to the right
yonder, where you see that grove of black-cherry trees, and the little
house on the knoll. The mist that you see to the left, rises from the
mill-dam, the monotonous hum of whose falling waters you have heard for
some time. This is Furnace Creek, whose swift current harbors the most
beautiful trout. That crow yonder on the dry hemlock is calling to his
mate, and the speckled wood-pecker is tapping away at that old beech, that
the nice insects within its decayed interior may come out to make him a
breakfast. Hark! do you not hear the drum of that partridge? He is up
there in that thicket of young beeches and hemlocks, on the other side of
the road. As you hear the slow, measured drum which he gives at first, and
which he hastens into a whirr like distant thunder, does not 'The old
Man's Counsel' come fresh to your memory, and almost ringing in your ear?
Ah! this is the glory of true poetry, that it clothes the commonest things
with a new interest, and forever after they become objects of love, at
least of meditation. Who that has read the same author's 'Lines to a
Waterfowl,' does not gaze with other than a sportsman's pleasure upon even
a wild duck, if it flies past him after sunset. But there goes a flock of
pigeons, and here over our heads; one! two! three! more than a hundred in
each! What a rushing sound their wings make! They fly too high for us just
now: but wait till we get on the cleared hill yonder to the right of the
sugar-bush, and we shall have rare sport as they emerge from the trees and
skim along the edge of the 'clearing.'
Here we are in the sugar-bush. Are these not noble trees? For how many
years have they stood thus interlocking their strong boughs like brethren!
While Columbus was asking a supper for his boy at the convent door, three
centuries and a half ago, these same trees were here, scarcely younger
than now. Yonder is the hill we saw from the rude bridge below the
mill-dam. Let us clamber over the log-fence and get into the clearing.
Well, Peter, this hill that we are on is just one mile from home, though
it looks not half the distance. Is this not a glorious view? Hill and
valley spread out like a map before us! The snow lies in patches upon the
fields, and the sun is lighting up the tinned spire of the village church,
which, as the stage passed it yesterday, you thought looked like a
superannuated old man with a martin-cage upon his crooked back. There is
the old homestead looking at us through the locusts that surround it, and
there are the orchards off to the right, which in a few weeks will be
white with blossoms. Now, steady, my boys! Do you see that flock of
pigeons? Wait till they pass us, that our shot may take effect on their
backs. Whang! hack!! bang!!! What! three barrels off and only a handful of
tail-feathers! How they opened as we fired, as if to let the shot go
through. Hist! don't stir! Look up softly into the dry top of this
hemlock, right over our heads: four, five, six! all in a huddle. I'll
fetch some of them with my last barrel. Snap! fiz! confound the cap! Hold
still, they see us. I've got a fresh cap on: bang! Here comes one,
tumbling through the limbs on to the snow. Is he not a handsome bird; with
his glossy purple breast and slender blue neck! Load quickly, and let us
be ready for the next flock.
Hear them scream and coo in the wood to the right. Hear the leaves crackle
down on that slope where the snow is off under those tall beeches. The
ground is fairly blue with them. Softly there over the dry brush! See them
turning up the leaves for beech-nuts: they are all moving this way. Down,
behind this log: they are not twenty yards off. Cock both barrels; and now
fire! What a stunning sound they make, like the roaring of a tornado!
Look, they have settled down again on the other side of the ravine. Well,
here, Peter, what do you think of the fun now?--fourteen cock pigeons and
one hen, to be divided between us. This is what _I_ call sport: none of
your reed-birds and meadow-larks, such as cockney sportsmen frighten away
from the fields of Jersey or Long-Island. Here they come again by scores.
Now let us see how good a shot you are. Two cocks on the topmost branch of
that old maple, full forty yards to the trunk. No, no! don't get any
nearer, for they see you. Well done! Hear him thump on the leaves; and
here comes the other, fluttering round and round like a shuttlecock. Ten
to one that you shot him through the head. There! I told you so! His wings
are not hurt, but a shot has cut away his bill. Here, Dancer, don't bite
him so, but bring him here! Chick, chick, churr! Mister Red-squirrel,
we'll 'give you a few,' as Jared used to say. On that knot in the green
hemlock, he sits with his tail spread out over his head, for all the world
like a young miss in a high-backed, old-fashined easy-chair. Well, we wont
harm him, for the sake of the associations his comical appearance awakens.
Dancer is barking down in the ravine. There he comes! as if he were crazy;
he is on the track of a hare! Do you see that pair of slender ears pricked
up behind the roots of that fallen tree? Let me try my skill at a long
shot. I've hit them, that's poz! No, I haven't either; for the
nimble-footed thing is scudding away round the hill as safe as if I had
not wasted my loading on her.
This sunken cask down here where the water wells up through the white
sand, used to be the father of the cool spring water for the uses of the
Homestead, and was conveyed the whole distance in 'pump-logs.' You can see
the end of one, with an iron band sunk into it, sticking out of the earth.
This spring, however, has been long exchanged for one on higher ground,
and the wooden logs for lead pipe, half as expensive, and not half so
healthy. Just pop over that chip-munk, whose head is peeping out of the
ground at the foot of the maple sapling. Too cruel! Well done! you are
growing compassionate all at once. Look out for your head! I declare, you
escaped narrowly! That dead limb would have dispersed all your theology,
had it struck your head. Well, Dancer, what are you staring at? Do you
think the old tree dropped one of its limbs on purpose? Ah, ha! I see!
Peter, do you see that tuft of dark moss in the crotch of that largest
maple: well, I am going to shoot at it for sport, so here goes! I
_thought_ it was a black squirrel; how he leaps from the top boughs.
Hurrah! here we go over logs and through bushes; the squirrel still ahead
of us, springing from tree top to tree top. How he rattles down the dry
splinters as he scratches up that dead hemlock. Now we've got him! Go
round on the other side of the tree and he will dodge back this way, and I
shall get a crack at him. But he don't though! He must have a hole up
there. Sure enough, there is one! Let me get this old bough broken in two,
and I will start him. Now be ready, and shoot him as he comes out. The old
tree is hollow all the way up; it sounds as I strike like an old
bass-drum. There! he's out! blaze away! Not that time did you hit him.
That's better! see him hang by one leg! here he comes! 'dead as a door
nail!' Thump! how he struck the ground. What a tail he has!
* * * * *
And now we are at the 'boiling place.' Two strong beech crotches are
driven into the ground, about twelve feet apart, and a strong pole is laid
over them, some five feet from the ground. The huge back-log was the butt
of that tremendous beech you see lying just at the top of the knoll. The
cauldron you see is filled with the fresh sap two or three times a day,
and before filling each time, the boiling liquid is dipped out into the
largest kettle alongside of it, and that in turn is emptied into a smaller
one, that no time may be lost in boiling it away. Taste the syrup in this
smaller kettle; it is almost molasses. Try on that 'neck-yoke' and come,
let us help carry sap before dinner. The spiles you see sticking from
augur-holes in every maple are made of young sumacs, which are sawed off
the right length, and then the pith is punched out with a wire. The clean
white-pine buckets, without bails, into which the sap drips from the
spiles, are made expressly for this use, and so is that enormous hogshead
where the sap is poured before it is strained for the cauldron. For the
present let us to dinner. Well, Herr Peter, although our dinner was laid
on a beech log, and our table-cloth nothing but a piece of coarse linen,
and our knives and forks such as Adam and Eve used before us! was it not
excellent! Wie schmackt es! _How smacked it!_ as it passed through our
devouring jaws; and how sweet was the pure spring water from the bright
tin dipper! Now for a quiet smoke on the plank settle in the bough-house,
while Joe and Hiram are getting ready to 'sugar off.' Here, if there comes
up a storm, they sit and watch the kettles; and sometimes when the weather
is clear they sit up all night. So at last you _do_ love a cigar better
than a meerschaum? I confess it is the same with me! How old DEIDRICH
would frown, if he heard such an admission from those who boast as we do
the pure _Deutchen-blut_, the true Dutch blood!
What! two o'clock so soon! They have hung the ten-pail kettle that
contains the thick syrup upon a pole between two slender crotches, and
have already kindled a fire. How it bubbles and 'blubbers' up, like thick
hasty-pudding, with a dignified slowness that is inimitable. Now it rises
to the top of the kettle and will boil over! O, you needn't turn up your
nose at the slice of clean fat pork that Joe has just thrown in, for that
has saved our sugar. See, it gradually subsides till it rests a third way
down. You have heard that oil will still the surface of the sea; and the
oily part of the pork answers the same purpose with the boiling syrup. Now
it begins to granulate, swing it off. Here, drop some of it into this
bucket of cold water, and then poke it out with that pine stick, while I
run up on the side-hill yonder and get a pail of snow, which will cool it
faster. Ha, ha, ha! you do look handsome; suppose Meeta could see you with
your jaws stuck fast together with the candy, and your face looking like
the head of Medusa. While you are getting over the lock-jaw, I will trail
some on this snow to take home to little Sue, who begged me to bring her
back some maple candy. Now let us ride down home on the ox-sled, with the
huge tin pails full of the hot syrup, which wont get half cold before it
is safe in the farm-house pantry, in a half dozen well-buttered milk-pans
to harden for future use.
Once more in bed after a hearty supper; and once more out of it, too, for
the stage horn is blown. We must hurry or we are left; for it stops only
fifteen or twenty minutes to change the mail.
* * * * *
Yes, Peter, this Brookline _is_ a little cleaner than Broadway.