The path-way from the rectory to the farm-house of John Wilson and his
dame, was a pleasant and dry gravelly lane, on the skirts of a wood,
which formed the back ground of Mr. Monson’s comfortable dwelling, the
front windows of which commanded a delightful view of a richly-cultivated
country, in which a high moral interest was given, by the many neat and
pleasant cottages and small farm-houses that spotted the landscape.
It may with truth be said, there is no weariness in the contemplation of
nature, on the contrary, a relish for her simple delights and beauties
formed in early life, remains with us to the latest hours of our
existence; and even if the world have engrossed the advancing years of
life, the mind naturally reverts with pleasure and tender satisfaction
to those early days when the country walk was anticipated as a high
gratification, and enjoyed with a relish which belongs only to those
which are innocent. As the happy party passed down the lane, Harry
observed the broom (now hanging its yellow riches as it were to tempt
the passenger), covered with the gossamer. “Dear grandpapa, how thick
the cobwebs cover the broom,” he observed; “how can it be done?” “That
fine filmy substance, my dear, is called gossamer; it is formed by the
flying spider, which in traversing the air for food shoots out those fine
filmy threads, which are made to look so thick by being borne down by the
dew.” “Well may we say,” remarked Mrs. Monson “that the study of nature’s
works is delightful, as well as the subjects inexhaustible, the more we
examine, the further we search, so much the more shall we have reason to
admire and adore the Divine artist.” “True, my dear,” replied Mr. Elmer,
“nor is the power and wisdom of the Creator manifested more strongly in
any thing than in the formation of those countless myriads of living
creatures we call insects; though diminutive in point of size, in regard
to numbers they are unquestionably the most distinguished of the works of
nature, for they pervade every situation, the water, the air, the bowels
of the earth; they exist in wood, upon animals, decayed vegetables,
all kinds of flesh, in every stage of its health and decay. Of these,
multitudes
——‘Escape
The grosser eye of man: for if the worlds
In worlds inclos’d, should on his senses burst,
From cates ambrosial, and the nectar’d bowl,
He would abhorrent turn.’
“But, my little Ellen,” added Mr. Elmer, calling his favorite pet, “look
at that pretty Red-breast sitting on that fallen tree. I dare say he is
waiting for his companion the fagot-maker.” “Oh I wish he would go home
with me,” said the little girl, “I would so love him, and feed him so
nicely.” “Let him alone, and he will pay your window a visit when the
weather gets a great deal colder, and the snow is on the ground. Then
you may give him some crumbs, and he will repay you with a sweet song.”
“Yes,” said Joanna, “we all love Robin Red-breast; mamma has given us
several sweet descriptions of this dear little bird. But, grandpapa, I
never saw a nest of Red-breasts.” “It generally builds near the roots
of trees, my dear, in some concealed spot near the ground. The little
nest is composed of dried leaves, mixed with hair and moss, and lined
throughout with feathers. In order more effectually to conceal it, the
bird is said to cover it with leaves, suffering only a narrow winding
entrance under the heap to be left. Its pleasing familiarity has caused
the pretty little bird to have some peculiar denomination, indicative
of its social habits, in several countries. The inhabitants of Bornholm
(in Denmark), call it Tommi Siden; the Norwegians, Peter Rosmad; the
Germans, Thomas Gierdel; and we, as you know, Robin Red-breast.” “And
by far the prettiest name, too,” said Harry, as he trudged by the side
of his grandpapa, every now and then looking up, with a countenance
fraught with curiosity and pleasure, to that of his mild and intelligent
grandfather. Thus conversing, they reached the end of the lane, and
turning a corner, the farm of honest John Wilson was seen just peeping
through the trees of a large orchard, the fruit of which hung in rich
abundance on some remarkably fine and handsome trees. The grass of the
orchard was green and fresh as the spring, a fine sow and a numerous
litter of nice little white pigs seemed to be in the full enjoyment of a
stolen ramble in this land of plenty, while a rough little pony, a fine
milch ass, and a frolicsome little foal seemed equally pleased with their
quarters. The orchard was divided from the road by a narrow ditch and
luxuriant quickset hedge, clipped with the utmost neatness, and so thick
as to be impervious to man or beast. Having passed this promising part
of the farmer’s domain, our party came in front of the building. It was
one of those ancient mansions, a few of which now exist, that from having
been the residence of the opulent country gentlemen of the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries, have been converted into substantial farm-houses.
On one side of the heavy porch grew a huge bay-tree, throwing its dark
shadow even round the corner in which it stood, as if to screen from
observation the dilapidation of a building, with which it seemed coeval;
on the other side was a pyracantha rising with vigorous shoot even to
the chamber windows, its bright red berries contrasting with its sober
foliage and the variegated leaves of a vine, which also was trained over
the front of the building. By the opening on each side of the porch,
stood two heavy carved stone jars, containing each a myrtle, apparently
cut down every season, and studiously kept as round as possible, scarcely
one twig advancing before another, and in perfect consistency with the
solid and substantial nature of the vases which contained them, as well
as every thing around. Before this substantial building, was no lawn or
sweep, no clumps, no shrubberies, but a spacious garden cut into regular
walks; some gravelled, edged with box, others grass. A few enormous
espalier trees were seen, on which blushed in the noon-day sun some
remarkably fine apples; and in a narrow border, surrounding two square
grass plats before the house, were rosemary, rue, sweet-brier, marigolds,
China asters, hollyhocks, and other varieties of late blowing flowers,
mingling their bright hues. On the grass plat was spread a sail-cloth,
with seeds drying in the sun, and a little cottager’s child sat near,
shelling kidney-beans. Within the open casement of one of the windows
a fine tortoise-shell cat reposed in state, the heat of the sun making
her variegated coat almost to emit sparks of fire. Before the porch,
full in the path, lay stretched at his length, a very large greyhound,
who seemed too much to enjoy his slumbers to think of giving way to
the visitants, as, opening the white gate from the green bordering the
road, they proceeded up the path to this abode of apparent substantial
comfort. Not a creature but the little girl shelling the beans was to
be seen, and on inquiring of her, they found the poor child was dumb. A
pretty loud knock at the door however soon brought the mistress of the
mansion to the open window, and as quickly to the door when her guests
were perceived. “Bless you, madam, I ask your pardon, I hope you have not
been waiting long, but we be all so busy to-day, the gipsies might have
ran away with the house, and we never the wiser.” While dame Wilson was
apologizing, Mr. Elmer was observing that she presented a model which
was daily becoming more rare, and the loss of which, like every other
good, will perhaps not be appreciated at its full value, until it is
not to be redeemed. Mrs. Wilson appeared about forty-five, comely, but
not too stout for activity. Her dear blue eye, healthful bloom, active
step, and kindly manner, almost instantly prepossessed in her favour,
and every observation of her judicious management, and perfect propriety
in her station, soon ripened that involuntary favour into esteem for her
useful character. “We are come to inquire, if you can let us have some
of your nice honey this season, Mrs. Wilson?” said Mrs. Monson. “I dare
say you may, ma’am,” replied the good dame, “but don’t stand here,—and
you, sir, [to Mr. Elmer,] and these darlings,” as she severally kissed
the children, “pray walk into the house; you will excuse its not being
in order, for as I was saying, we have been mighty busy this morning. If
you will sit down a bit, I will get the little dears some cakes.” “Do
not trouble yourself to do that, I pray,” said Mrs. Monson, “they really
do not require any refreshment.” “Oh! but they must try my cakes, I have
just been baking, as you may see,—I am all over flour:” and she brushed
a little flour off her neckkerchief as she spoke, the extreme neatness
and cleanness of her dress little indicating she had been employed in
the manner she mentioned. Every thing in the house, or keeping-room,
denoted comfort and neatness; a dresser covered with a cloth white as a
curd,—beneath it a goodly sight of copper and brass utensils, above as
fair a show of pewter, tin, and earthenware: an immense fire-place, the
open part of it so far modernized as to have, instead of dog’s, a range
bright as a drawing-room stove, above the mantel-board a fowling-piece,
two pistols, and a hanger were suspended in awful array; in the front
ground four old-fashioned brass candlesticks, a modern japanned chamber
candlestick, with snuffers and tray, and in the middle a large brown
earthen jar, filled with hollyhock and Michaelmas daisies. The floor
of this apartment was of stone, remarkably white, and at the bottom
of it a large dining-table, polished by the labour of the damsels of
the farm, attracted the attention, as it literally reflected the form
that passed before it. To make up the furniture of this _living room_
were, beside the usual chairs of wainscot, two caned, and armed for the
elders of the family, and whose ample seats were rendered comfortable
by soft leather cushions; they were curiously carved, as was also the
foot of a small round table, which appeared to be the accompaniment of
the farmer’s chair. Having remained in this spacious apartment a few
minutes, Mrs. Wilson returned to the party laden with good cheer for
the children, which she soon arranged on a table near the large cheerful
window. Fresh-made butter, cream cheese, baked fruit, and beautiful
little loaves, as well as light cakes, presently invited the visitants
to do honour to her housewifery skill; milk, whey, and mead forming
the beverage to the feast. “And how are your daughters, Mrs. Wilson? I
have not seen them; I hope they are well, and yet with you.” “Oh yes,
ma’am, Susan is gone with the butter and poultry to market this morning,
and Betty, poor girl, has been up all night with Jenny.” “What, have
you a servant ill then?” inquired Mrs. Monson, in a sympathizing tone.
“No, thank God, not so, ma’am; Jenny is our best cow, poor beast, but I
forgot, you did not know that when I spoke. She has been very bad, and
Betty never leaves the poor dumb animals to the men alone, but sits up
to see they are properly attended to; I think she has saved many a poor
beast by her care,—and they cost so much money, it is very necessary to
attend to them.” “Will you have a good season with your bees, think you?”
inquired Mr. Elmer. “I think we shall, sir, but we have not examined the
weight of the hives yet.” “You do not destroy your bees to obtain their
riches, do you, Mrs. Wilson?” said Mrs. Monson. “No, indeed, ma’am, if
that were necessary, I would not keep them, if I gained ever so much by
them.” “But you are obliged to rob them of their harvest, are you not?”
“Why, yes, sir, that we certainly must do in some degree, but yet we
attend to and feed them, and they soon recover their loss; but will you
walk and look at the hives?” “With pleasure, if not interrupting you
too much?” “My baking is all over, therefore I can readily attend you,”
replied the good-humoured woman; and they proceeded to the apiary,—Ellen
having attached herself to nice Mrs. Wilson.
The apiary was judiciously chosen, a little nook in a southern aspect,
quite open to the sun, but sheltered from the wind, and in the vicinity
abundance of flowers and sweet herbs; every spot around clear and free
from weeds, decayed vegetables, or any thing in which insects might
harbour, or noisome smells be produced. The spot was sufficiently
near to the house to give constant opportunity of attending to them
in the feeding time, and yet so sheltered as not to be subjected to
interruption of noises or passengers, which greatly inconvenience these
industrious insects. Mrs. Wilson was particularly successful with her
bees, although, except in not destroying them, she had not adopted any of
the improved methods of management. The children longed to ask a thousand
questions, but so much time had been taken up by this feast and Mrs.
Wilson’s caresses, that Mr. Elmer could only order his winter store of
honey, and thank Mrs. Wilson for her kindness, before he was obliged to
summon his young companions to return. After many invitations on the part
of the hospitable dame, and many promises from Mr. Elmer, they bade Mrs.
Wilson farewell, and proceeded by the open road to the rectory, Mr. Elmer
having ordered his phaeton to be in readiness by the time of his return.
The discourse during the walk home naturally turned upon the bees, and
Harry inquired what his mamma meant about destroying the bees. “It has
hitherto been usual, my dear,” she replied, “when taking the honey
collected from the flowers by these little busy insects, to take their
lives also, reserving first a few to keep up the stock.” “And how do
they do this, mamma; are they not afraid of being stung?” “The common
method is, my dear, to dig a hole in the ground near the hive or hives to
be taken, and put a stick with a piece of rag tied to it into the place,
the rag having been dipped in melted brimstone as the ends of matches
are; this rag is set fire to, and the hive is immediately placed over
the hole, the earth being instantly thrown up all round, so that none
of the smoke may pass away. In less than a quarter of an hour the poor
bees are seemingly all dead, but if they are not, they are soon rendered
so by being buried in the earth that is returned into the hole. It is
indeed by this last unnecessary act that they are absolutely killed,
for it has been ascertained by experience, that most of the bees would
have recovered from the effects of the fume, and that a careful mode of
conducting the operation would prevent any further injury.”
“Mrs. Wilson told you, grandpapa, that bees are very much troubled by
the insects, did she not?” “Yes, my dear, their enemies are many and
various; vermin, insects, and birds are among them. It is said that
the earwigs steal into the hives at night, and drag out bee after bee,
sucking out their vitals and leaving nothing but their skins or scalps,
like so many trophies of their butchery. Wasps and hornets are however
the most formidable enemies the bee has to encounter. But, my dear
Harry,” continued Mr. Elmer, “what will you say, if I tell you I knew a
boy who was a great destroyer of bees, from being so fond of them as to
eat them.” “Oh no, grandpapa, that is impossible, you are laughing at me
now because I am so inquisitive.” “No, indeed, I am not, Harry. This poor
boy, of whom I speak was an ideot from his birth, and from his earliest
childhood showed a great propensity to bees. They were in fact his food,
his amusement, and apparently the sole objects which excited him. In
the winter season he dozed away his time by the fire-side, in an almost
torpid state, seldom leaving the chimney corner; but in the summer he was
all alert, and in quest of his game. He had no apprehensions from their
stings, but would seize them with naked hands, and at once disarm them of
their weapons, and suck their bodies for the sake of their honey bags.
Sometimes he would fill his bosom with these animals, and sometimes he
attempted to confine them in bottles. He was very injurious to those who
kept bees, for he would glide unperceived into their bee-gardens, and
sitting down before the stools would rap with his fingers, and catch the
bees as they came out. He has even been known to overturn the hives for
the sake of the honey, of which he was passionately fond. Where mead was
making, he would linger round the tubs and vessels, begging a draught of
what he called bee-wine. As he ran about, he used to make a humming noise
with his lips resembling the buzzing of bees. This lad was in person
and appearance lean and sallow, and except in his favorite pursuit, in
which he was wonderfully adroit, discovered not any understanding. He
fortunately died while a youth.”
“That is a more curious story, grandpapa, than the serpent charmers,”
remarked Harry; “I shall never taste honey, or see a bee on a flower, but
I shall think of the poor ideot bee-boy.” “And thank the Almighty, my
dear boy, that ‘thy presiding star doth more propitious shine.’ But here
we are at home, and there is Alan all ready; now I must bid farewell!”
“Oh, that is what none of us like, grandpapa!” said Joanna, “but yet
we are very much obliged to you for sparing us so much of your time.”
“If grandpapa could but have staid another day, we should have heard
all about the bees, and the honey, and the wax,” said Harry. “We must
reserve that till the time when we can watch them, my dear; I think I
shall procure some of Mrs. Wilson, and get a glass hive: we will think
of it.” “You are always thinking of something to make them happy,” said
Mrs. Monson, as she kissed the venerable cheek of her beloved father,—and
the tear of affection started in her eye. “Well, best friends must part
sometimes,” said the good old man as he returned her salute, imprinted
a kiss on the fat cheek of the babe she held in her arms, shook Harry
heartily by the hand, and, inquiring for the other young ones, found they
had all gathered round Alan, who was promising them various pleasures
when they were allowed again to visit the villa, having won the hearts of
all by presenting each with a garden implement of his own manufacture,
to one a hoe, to another a rake, to another a cart, and to his favorite
little Ellen a beautiful little garden roll, of which she was not a
little proud, as the gift of dear old Alan; of whom she artlessly
inquired, if the white part of the roll was not ivory, taken from the
great elephant?
“O life! how pleasant is thy morning,
Young fancy’s rays the hills adorning!
It is enchanted fairy land,
Where pleasure is the magic wand
_That wielded right_,
Makes hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by full light!”
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