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PASTORAL DAYS
PASTORAL DAYS
OR
MEMORIES OF A NEW ENGLAND YEAR
BY
W. HAMILTON GIBSON
Illustrated
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1881
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
_All rights reserved._
TO
ONE WHOSE CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP
HAS WROUGHT THAT HARMONY AND PEACE OF MIND FROM WHICH THIS
BOOK HAS SPRUNG, AND TO WHOM ITS EVERY PAGE RECALLS
A REMINISCENCE OF THE PAST IDENTIFIED
WITH MEMORIES OF MY OWN
This Memoir is Lovingly Inscribed
OUR SOUVENIR
[Illustration]
THE CYCLE.
SPRING: PAGE
_The Awakening_.....19
SUMMER:
_The Consummation_.....51
AUTUMN:
_The Waning_.....91
WINTER:
_The Sleep_.....125
ILLUSTRATIONS.
DESIGNED BY W. HAMILTON GIBSON.
TITLE. ENGRAVER.....PAGE
THE KINDLED FLAME W. H. CLARK.....18
THE AWAKENING H. GRAY.....19
A SPRING MORNING F. S. KING.....21
CATKINS JOHN FILMER.....23
PUSSIES ” ”.....23
EARLY PLOUGHING H. WOLF.....25
THE RETURN FROM THE FIELDS GEORGE SMITH.....26
VOICES OF THE NIGHT JOHN FILMER.....27
A RAINY DAY J. HELLAWELL.....29
A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS H. GRAY.....32
AFTER ARBUTUS J. TINKEY.....34
THE FAIRY FROND J. P. DAVIS.....35
AN APRIL DAY GEORGE SMITH.....36
AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....37
THE COLUMBINE R. HOSKIN.....38
THE MEADOW BROOK ” ”.....40
THE PHŒBE’S NEST W. H. MORSE.....41
BUILDING THE NEST HENRY MARSH.....42
IN THE APPLE ORCHARD R. HOSKIN.....43
LITTLE PLUNDERERS A. HAYMAN.....45
ONE OF NATURE’S MARVELS H. MARSH.....46
BLUE-FLAGS R. HOSKIN.....47
THE CONSUMING FLAME W. H. CLARK.....50
THE CONSUMMATION N. ORR.....51
DOLCE FAR NIENTE F. S. KING.....55
THE OLD GARRET F. JUENGLING.....56
AMID THE GRASSES F. S. KING.....58
EVEN-TIDE G. KRUELL.....60
THROUGH THE SEDGES R. HOSKIN.....62
AMONG THE BOGS J. TINKEY.....63
SOME ART CONNOISSEURS R. HOSKIN.....64
PROFESSOR WIGGLER J. FILMER.....65
THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS H. E. SCHULTZ.....67
FAMILIAR FACES AT THE
VILLAGE STORE R. A. MULLER.....70
A SOUVENIR SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....72
ALONG THE HOUSATONIC GEORGE SMITH.....74
JUDD’S BRIDGE P. ANNIN.....78
THE HAUNTED MILL J. HELLAWELL.....79
PURSUERS AND PURSUED GEORGE ANDREW.....81
TOLLING FOR THE DEAD R. SCHELLING.....83
WRECKS OF THE TORNADO J. FILMER.....84
PASSING THOUGHTS H. GRAY.....86
THE SMOULDERING FLAME ” ”.....90
THE WANING A. HAYMAN.....91
“EVERY BREEZE A SIGH” F. S. KING.....93
AN OCTOBER DAY SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....96
A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL J. HELLAWELL.....97
WAIFS HENRY MARSH.....100
IN THE CORNFIELD W. MILLER.....102
THE ROAD TO THE MILL E. HELD.....105
THE CIDER-MILL J. P. DAVIS.....107
THE “LINE STORM” R. HOSKIN.....109
A POINTED REMINDER J. FILMER.....111
AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS GEORGE SMITH.....113
A CORNER OF THE FARM J. TINKEY.....115
BEECH-NUTTING W. H. MORSE.....118
THE NORTH WIND MORSE and HOSKIN.....120
DESERTED HENRY DEIS.....121
THE FLAME EXTINGUISHED H. GRAY.....124
THE SLEEP J. TINKEY.....125
THE TOMB J. P. DAVIS.....127
SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY GEORGE SMITH.....129
THE OLD MILL-POND H. GRAY.....131
THE FIRST SNOW GEORGE SMITH.....133
MUTE PROPHECIES H. E. SCHULTZ.....135
THE TWITCH-UP F. S. KING.....137
THE WINTER’S DARLING HENRY MARSH.....139
WHO’S THAT? H. WOLF.....140
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE
WOODS R. HOSKIN.....141
A SUNNY CORNER W. H. MORSE.....143
WINTER BROWSING SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....144
A JANUARY THAW J. FILMER.....145
THE MOONLIGHT RIDE J. HELLAWELL.....147
THE SHADOWED PAGE J. TINKEY.....149
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN R. SCHELLING.....151
THE FULFILMENT SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....153
SPRING.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE AWAKENING]
[Illustration]
As far as the eye can reach, the snow lies in a deep mantle over the
cheerless landscape. I look out upon a dreary moor, where the horizon
melts into the cold gray of a heavy sky. The restless wind sweeps with
pitiless blast through shivering trees and over bleak hills, from whose
crests, like a great white veil, the clouds of hoary flakes are lifted
and drawn along by the gale. Down the upland slope, across the
undulating field, the blinding drift, like a thing of life, speeds in
its wild caprice, now swirling in fantastic eddies around some isolated
stack, half hidden in its chill embrace, now winding away over
bare-blown wall and scraggy fence, and through the sighing willows near
the frozen stream; now with a wild whirl it flies aloft, and the dark
pines and hemlocks on the mountain-side fade away in its icy mist.
Again, yonder it appears trailing along the meadow, until, flying like
some fugitive spirit chased from earth by the howling wind, it vanishes
in the sky. On every side these winged phantoms lead their flying chase
across the dreary landscape, and fence and barn and house upon the hill
in turn are dimmed or lost to sight.
Who has not watched the strange antics of the drifting snow whirling
past the window on a blustering winter’s day? But this is not a winter’s
day. This is the advent of a New England spring.
Fortunate are we that its promises are not fulfilled, for the ides of
March might as oft betoken the approach of a tempestuous winter as of a
balmy spring. Consecrated to Mars and Tantalus, it is a month of
contradictions and disappointments, of broken promises and incessant
warfare. It is the struggle of tender awakening life against the
buffetings of rude and blighting elements. No man can tell what a day
may bring forth. Now we look out verily upon bleak December;
to-morrow--who knows?--we may be transported into May, and, with
aspirations high, feel our ardor cooled by a blast of ice and a blinding
fall of snow. But this cannot always last, for soon the southern breezes
come and hold their sway for days, and the north wind, angry in its
defeat, is driven back in lowering clouds to the region of eternal ice
and snow. Then comes a lovely day, without even a cloud--all blue above,
all dazzling white below. The sun shines with a glowing warmth, and we
say unto ourselves, “This is, indeed, a harbinger of spring.” The
sugar-maples throb and trickle with the flowing sap, and the lumbering
ox-team and sled wind through the woods from tree to tree to relieve the
overflowing buckets. The boiling caldron in the sugar-house near by
receives the continual supply, and gives forth that sweet-scented steam
that issues from the open door, and comes to us in occasional welcome
whiffs across the snow. Long “wedges” of wild-geese are seen cleaving
the sky in their northward flight. The little pussies on the willows
are coaxed from their winter nest, and creep out upon the stem. The
solitary bluebird makes his appearance, flitting along the thickets and
stone walls with little hesitating warble, as if it were not yet the
appointed time to sing; and down among the bogs, that cautious little
pioneer, the swamp-cabbage flower, peers above the ground beneath his
purple-spotted hood. He knows the fickle month which gives him birth,
and keeps well under cover.
[Illustration: CATKINS.]
[Illustration: PUSSIES.]
Such days in March are too perfect to endure, and at night the sky is
overcast and dark. Then follows a long warm rain that unlocks the ice in
all the streams. The whiteness of the hills and meadows melts into broad
contracting strips and patches. One by one, as mere specks upon the
landscape, these vanish in turn, until the last vestige of winter is
washed from the face of the earth to swell the tide of the rushing
stream. Even now, from the distant valley, we hear a continuous muffled
roar, as the mighty freshet, impelled by an irresistible force, ploughs
its tortuous channel through the lowlands and ravines. The quiet town is
filled with an unusual commotion. Excited groups of towns-people crowd
the village store, and eager voices tell of the havoc wrought by the
fearful flood. We hear how the old toll-bridge, with tollman’s house and
all, was lifted from its piers like a pile of straw, and whirled away
upon the current. How its floating timbers, in a great blockade, crushed
into the old mill-pond; how the dam had burst, and the rickety red
saw-mill gone to pieces down the stream. Farmer Nathan’s barn had gone,
and his flat meadows were like a whirling sea, strewn with floating
rails and driftwood. Every hour records its new disaster as some eager
messenger returns from the excited crowds which line the river-bank. How
well I remember the fascinating excitement of the spring freshet as I
watched the rising water in the big swamp lot, anxious lest it might
creep up and undermine the wall foundations of the barn! And what a
royal raft I made from the drifting logs and beams, and with the spirit
of an adventurous explorer sailed out on the deep gliding current,
floating high among the branches of the half submerged willow-trees, and
scraping over the tips of the tallest alder-bushes, whose highest twigs
now hardly reached the surface! How deep and dark the water looked as I
lay upon the raft and peered into the depths below! But this jolly fun
was of but short duration. The flood soon subsided, and on the following
morning nothing was seen excepting the settlings of _débris_ strewn
helter-skelter over the meadow, and hanging on all the bushes.
The tepid rain has penetrated deep into the yielding ground, and with
the winter’s frost now coming to the surface, the roads are well-nigh
impassable with their plethora of mud. For a full appreciation of _mud_
in all its glory, and in its superlative degree, one should see a New
England highway “when the frost comes out of the ground.” The roads are
furrowed with deep grimy ruts, in which the bedabbled wheels sink to
their hubs as in a quicksand, and the hoofs of the floundering horse are
held in the swampy depths as if in a vise. For a week or more this state
of things continues, until at length, after warm winds and sunny days,
the ground once more packs firm beneath the tread. This marks the close
of idle days. The junk pile in the barn is invaded, and the rusty plough
abstracted from the midst of rakes and scythes and other farming tools.
The old white horse thrusts his long head from the stall near by, and
whinnies at the memories it revives, and with pricked-up ears and
whisking tail tells plainly of the eagerness he feels.
[Illustration: EARLY PLOUGHING.]
Back and forth through the sloping lot the ploughman slowly turns the
dingy sward, and in the rich brown furrow, following in his track, we
see the cackling troop of hens, and the lordly rooster, with great ado,
searches out the dainty tidbits for his motley crowd of favorites. The
whole landscape has become infused with human life and motion. Wherever
the eye may turn it sees the evidences of varied and hopeful industry.
Yonder we notice an oft-recurring little puff of mist, like a burlesque
snow-drift, ever and anon bursting into view, and softly vanishing
against the sward; another glance detects the slow progress of horse and
cart, as the farmer sows his load of plaster across the whitening field.
Farther up, where the brow of the hill stands clear against the sky, a
pacing figure, with measured sweep of arm, scatters the handfuls of
wheat, and team and harrow soon are in his path, combing and crumbling
the dark-brown mould. High curling wreaths of smoke wind upward from the
flat swamp lot beyond, where hilarious boys enjoy both work and play in
burning off the brush. Here we shall see the first welcome nibble of
fresh grass for the poor bereaved cow, whose lamenting bleat now echoes
through the barn near by; and for those oxen, too, that with swaying,
clumsy gait lug the huge roller across the neighboring field. And what
strange yells and exclamations guide them in their labored progress! “Ho
back! Gee up, ahoy! Ho haw!” From every direction, in voices near, and
others faint with distance, we hear this same queer jargon. Who could
believe that so much good work hung upon the incessant reiteration of
that brief and monotonous vocabulary? Rather would we listen to the
musical ring of the laughing children riding on the big “brush harrow”
down through that barn-yard lane beyond. Now they are out upon the
broken ground where John has strewn the “compost” to be “brushed in.” A
broad flat wake follows them around the field, and that same troop of
hens and turkeys revel in the lively feast spread out before them in the
loose upturning.
[Illustration: RETURN FROM THE FIELDS.]
[Illustration: VOICES OF THE NIGHT.]
So runs the record of a busy day in the early New England springtime,
and with its all-absorbing industry it is a day that passes quickly. The
afternoon runs into evening. Cool shadows creep across the landscape as
the glowing sun sinks through the still bare and leafless trees and
disappears behind the wooded hills. The fields are now deserted, and
through the uncertain twilight we see the little knots of workmen with
their swinging pails, and hear their tramp along the homeward road. In
the dim shadows of the evergreens beyond, a faint gray object steals
into view. Now it stops at the old watering-trough, and I hear the sip
of the eager horse and the splash of overflowing water. Some belated
ploughman, fresh, perhaps, from a half-hour’s gossip at the village
store. I hear the sound of hoofs upon the stones as they renew their
way, the dragging of the chain upon the gravelly bed, and the receding
form is lost in the darkening road. One by one the scattered barns and
houses have disappeared in the gathering dusk, marked only by the faint
columns of blue smoke that rise above the trees, and melt away against
the twilight sky. I look out upon a wilderness of gloom, where all above
is still and clear, and all below is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. A
plaintive piping trill now breaks the impressive stillness. Again and
again I hear the little lonely voice vibrating through the low-lying
mist. It is only a little frog in some far-off marsh; but what a sweet
sense of sadness is awakened by that lowly melody! How its weird minor
key, with its magic touch, unlocks the treasures of the heart. Only the
peeping of a frog; but where in all the varied voices of the night,
where, even among the great chorus of nature’s sweetest music, is there
another song so lulling in its dreamy melody, so full of that emotive
charm which quickens the human heart? How often in the vague spring
twilight have I yielded to the strange, fascinating melancholy awakened
by the frog’s low murmur at the water’s edge! How many times have I
lingered near some swampy roadside bog, and let these little wizards
weave their mystic spell about my willing senses, while the very air
seemed to quiver in the fulness of their song! I remember the tangle of
tall and withered rushes, through whose mysterious depths the eye in
vain would strive to penetrate at the sound of some faint splash or
ripple, or perhaps at the quaint, high-keyed note of some little
isolated hermit, piping in his sombre solitude. I recall the first
glimpse of the rising moon, as its great golden face peered out at me
from over the distant hill, enclosing half the summit against its broad
and luminous surface. Slowly and steadily it seemed to steal into view,
until, risen in all its fulness, I caught its image in the trembling
ripples at the edge of the soggy pool, where the palpitating water
responded to the frog’s low, tremulous monotone. Higher and higher it
sails across the inky sky, its glow now changed to a silvery pallor,
across whose white halo, in a floating film, the ghostly clouds glide in
their silent flight. A dull tinkling of some distant cow-bell breaks
the spell, and recalls my wandering thoughts, and as I again take up my
way along the moonlit road, the glimmering windows on right and left
betray the hiding-places of a score of humble homes. Not far beyond I
see the swinging motion of a flickering lantern, as some tardy farmer’s
boy, whistling about his work, clears up his nightly chores. Now he
enters the old barn-door. I see the light glinting through the open
cracks, and hear the lowing of the cows, the bleating of the baby-calf,
and rattling chains of oxen in the stanchion rows. Now again I catch the
gleam at the open door; the swinging light flits across the yard, and
the old corn-crib starts from its obscurity. I see the boyish figure
relieved against the glow within as a basketful of yellow ears are
gathered for the impatient mouths in the noisy manger stalls. Sing on,
my boy, enjoy it while you may! That venerable barn will yield a
fragrance to you in after-life that will conjure up in your heart a
throng of memories as countless as the shining grains that glimmer in
the light you hold, and as golden, too, as they. I wonder if those
soft-winged bats squeak among the clapboards, or make their fluttering
zigzag swoops about your lantern as they were wont to do in olden times.
Then there was that big-eyed owl, too, that perched upon the maple-tree
outside my window, and cried as if its heart would break at the doleful
tidings it foretold. What a world of kind solicitude that dolorous bird
awakened in our superstitious neighbor across the road! How she
overwhelmed us with her sympathy, aroused by that sepulchral omen! But I
still live, and so does the owl, for aught I know; and I sometimes think
that this aged, stooping dame over the way has never fully recovered
from her disappointment, for she always greets me with a sigh and an
injured expression, as she says, in her high and tremulous voice, “Well!
well! back agin ez hale ’n hearty ’s ever; an’ arter the way thet ar
witch bird yewst teu call ye, too, night arter night. Jest teu _think_
on’t! an’ we’d all a’ gi’n ye up fer sartin. Well! well! I never see the
beat on’t. Yen deu seem teu hang on _paowerful_;” and, after a moment’s
hesitation, seemingly in which to swallow the bitter pill, she usually
adds, with sad solicitude, “Feelin’ perty _tol’ble teu_, I spose?” But
the “witch bird” never roused my serious apprehensions. I remember its
plaintive cry only as a tender bit of pathos in the pages of my early
history.
[Illustration: A RAINY DAY.]
I recall, too, the pleasant sound upon the shingles overhead as the
dark-clouded sky let fall its tell-tale drops to warn us of the coming
rain. How many times have I glided into dream-land under the drowsy
influence of the patter on the roof, and the ever varying tattoo upon
the tin beneath the dripping eaves! Who can forget those rainy days,
with their games of hide-and-seek in the old dark garret! How we looked
out upon the muddy puddled road, and laughed at the great drifting
sheets of water that ever and anon poured down from some bursting cloud,
and roared upon the roof! And as the driving rain beat against the
blurred window-panes, what strange capers the squirming tree-trunks
outside seemed to play for our amusement: the dark door-way of the barn,
too--now swelling out to twice its size, now stretching long and thin,
or dividing in the middle in its queer contortions. Out in the dismal
barn-yard we saw the forlorn row of hens huddled together on the
hay-rick, under the drizzling straw-thatched shed; and the gabled coop
near by, in whose dry retreat the motherly old hen spread her tawny
wings, and yielded the warmth of her ruffled breast to the tender needs
of her little family, peeping so contentedly beneath her. The rain-proof
ducks dabble in the neighboring puddles, and chew the muddy water in
search of floating dainties, or gulp with nodding heads the unlucky
angle-worms which come struggling to the surface--drowned out of their
subterranean tunnels.
Now we hear the snapping of the latch at the foot of the garret stairs,
and we are called to come and see a little outcast that John has brought
in from the wood-pile. Close beside the kitchen-stove a doubled piece of
blanket lies upon the floor, and within its folds we find what once was
a downy little chicken, now drenched and dying from exposure. He was a
naughty, wayward child, and would persist in thinking that he knew more
than his mother. At least so I was told--indeed, it was impressed upon
me. But the little fellow was rescued just in time. The warmth will soon
revive him, and by-and-by we shall hear his little chirp and see him
trot around the kitchen-floor, pecking at that everlasting fly, perhaps,
or at some tiny red-hot coal that snaps out from the stove.
Little did we suspect the mission of those rainy days, so drear and
dismal without, or the sweet surprise preparing for us in the myriad
mysteries of life beneath the sod, where every root and thread-like
rootlet in the thirsty earth was drinking in that welcome moisture, and
numberless sleeping germs, dwelling in darkness, were awakening into
life to seek the light of day, waiting only for the glory of a sunny
dawn to burst forth from their hiding-places! That sunny morn does come
at last, and in its beams it sheds abroad a power that stirs the deepest
root. It is, indeed, a glorious day. The clustered buds upon the
silver-maples burst in their exuberance, and fringe the graceful
branches with their silken tassels. The restless crocus, for months an
unwilling captive in its winter prison, can contain itself no longer,
and with its little overflowing cup lifts up its face to the blue
heaven. Golden daffodils burst into bloom on drooping stems, and
exchange their little nods on right and left. The air is filled with a
faint perfume, in which the very earth mould yields its fragrance--that
wild aroma only known to spring. Our little feathered friends, so few
and far between as yet, are full of song. The bluebird wooes his mate
with a loving warble, full of tender sweetness, as they flit among the
swaying twigs, or pry with diligent search for some snug nesting-place
among the hollow crannies of the orchard trees. The noisy blackbirds
hold high carnival in the top of the old pine-tree, the woodpecker taps
upon the hollow limb his resonant tattoo, and the hungry crows, like a
posse of tramps, hang around the great oak-tree upon the knoll, and
watch to see what they can steal. Down through the meadow the gurgling
stream babbles as of old, and along its fretted banks the alder thickets
are hanging full with drooping catkins swinging at every breeze. The
glossy willow-buds throw off their coat of fur, and plume themselves in
their wealth of inflorescence, lighting up the brook-side with a yellow
glow, and exhaling a fresh, delicious perfume. Here, too, we hear the
rattling screech of the swooping kingfisher, as with quick beats of wing
he skims along the surface of the stream, and with an ascending glide
settles upon the overhanging branch above the ripples. All these and a
thousand more I vividly recall from the memory of that New England
spring; but sweetest of all its manifold surprises was that crowning
consummation, that miracle of a single night, bringing on countless
wings through the early morning mist the welcome chorus of the returning
flocks of birds. How they swarmed the orchard and the elms, where but
yesterday the bluebird held his sway! Now we see the fiery oriole in his
gold and jetty velvet flashing in the morning sun, and robins without
number swell their ruddy throats in a continuous roundelay of song. The
pert cat-bird in his Quaker garb is here, and with flippant jerk of tail
and impertinent mew bustles about among the arbor-vitæs, where even now
are remnants of his last year’s nest. The puffy wrens, too, what saucy,
sputtering little bursts of glee are theirs as they strut upon the
rustic boxes in the maples! The fields are vocal with their sweet spring
medley, in which the happy carols of the linnets and the song sparrows
form a continuous pastoral. Now we hear the mellow bell of the wood
thrush echoing from some neighboring tree, and all intermingled with the
chatter and the gossip of the martens on their lofty house. Birds in the
sky, birds in the trees and on the ground, birds everywhere, and not a
silent throat among them; but from far and near, from mountain-side and
meadow, from earth and sky, uniting in a happy choral of perpetual
jubilee.
[Illustration: A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS.]
Down in the moist green swamp lot the yellow cowslips bloom along the
shallow ditch, and the eager farmer’s wife fills her basket with the
succulent leaves she has been watching for so long; for they’ll tell you
in New England that “they ain’t noth’n’ like caowslips for a mess o’
greens.” Near by we see the frog pond, with lush growth of arrow leaves
and pickerel weed, and flat blades of blue-flag just starting from the
boggy earth. Half submerged upon a lily pad, close by the water’s edge,
an ugly toad sits watching for some winged morsel for that ample mouth
of his.
Who could believe that so much poetic inspiration could emerge from such
a mouth as that; for verily it is this miserable-looking toad that lifts
his little voice in the dreamy, drowsy chorus of the twilight. All sorts
of odium have been heaped upon the innocent toad; but he only returns
good for evil. He is the farmer’s faithful friend. He guards his garden
by day, and lulls him to sleep by night. Yonder, near those withered
cat-tails, we see the village boys among the calamus-beds, pulling up
the long white roots tipped with pink and fringed with trickling
rootlets. What visions of candied flag-root stimulate them in their
zeal! I can almost see the tender, juicy leaf-bud screened beneath that
smooth pink sheath, and its aromatic pungency is as fresh and real to me
as this appetizing fragrance that comes to us from the green tufts of
spearmint we crush beneath our feet at every step. Bevies of swallows
all around us skim through the air, like feathered darts, in their
twittering flight; and the restless starling, like a field-marshal, with
his scarlet epaulets, keeps sharp lookout for the enemy, and “flutes his
O-ka-lee” from the high alder-bush at the slightest approach upon his
chosen ground. Yonder on the wooded slope the feathery shad-tree blooms,
like a suspended cloud of drifting snow lingering among the gray twigs
and branches; and chasing across the matted leaves beneath, a lively
troop of youngsters, girls and boys, make the woods resound with their
boisterous jubilee. A jolly band of fugitives fresh from the stormy
week’s captivity--spring buds bursting with life, with a pent-up store
of spirits that finds escape in an effervescence of ringing laughs and
in a din of incessant jabber. Well I know the buoyant exhilaration that
impels them on in their reckless frolic, as they skip from stone to
stone across the rippling stream, or “stump” each other on the
treacherous crossing-pole which spans the deep still current! Now I see
them huddle around the trickling grotto among the mossy bowlders in the
steep gully yonder, where the mountain spring bubbles into a crystal
pool. Alas! how quickly its faint blue border of hepaticas is rifled by
the ruthless mob! Now they clamber up the great gray rocks beneath the
drooping hemlocks, stopping in their headlong zeal to snatch some
trembling cluster of anemone, nodding from its velvety bed of moss; now
plunging down on hands and knees, shedding innocent blood among an
unsuspecting colony of fragile bloom--those glowing blossoms so welcome
in the early spring! Who does not know the bloodroot--that shy recluse
hiding away among the mountain nooks, that emblem of chaste purity with
its bridal ring of purest gold? Who has not seen its tender leaf-wrapped
buds lifting the matted leaves, and spreading their galaxy of snowy
stars along the woodland path?
Then there was the shy arbutus, too. Where in all the world’s bouquet is
there another such a darling of a flower? And where in all New England
does that darling show so full and sweet a face as in its home upon that
sunny slope I have in mind, and know so well? Was ever such a fragrant
tufted carpet spread beneath a hesitating foot? Even now, along the
lichen-dappled wall upon the summit, I see the lingering strip of snow,
gritty and speckled, and at its very edge, hiding beneath the covering
leaves, those modest little faces looking out at me--faces which seemed
to blush a deeper pink at their rude discovery. No other flower can
breathe the perfume of the arbutus, that earthy, spicy fragrance, which
seems as though distilled from the very leaf-mould at its roots. Often
on this sunny slope, so sheltered by dense pines and hemlocks, have
these charming clusters, pink and white, burst into bloom beneath the
snow in March; and even on a certain late February day, we discovered a
little, solitary clump, fully spread, and fairly ruddy with the cold.
Here, too, we found the earliest sprays of the slender maidenhair; that
fairy frond and loveliest among ferns, with black and lustrous stems,
and graceful spread of tender gauzy green.
[Illustration: AFTER ARBUTUS.]
Where was the nook in all that hill-side woods that we left unsearched
in our April ramblings? I recall the “tat,” “tat” upon the dry carpet of
beech leaves, as the delicate anemone in my hand is dashed by a falling
drop! Lost in eager occupation, we had not observed the shadow that had
stolen through the forest; and now, as we look out through the trees, we
see the steel-blue warning of the coming shower, and feel the first gust
of the tell-tale breeze--how the willows wave and gleam against the deep
gray clouds, so weirdly reflected in the gliding stream beneath, like an
open seam to another sky! See the silvery flashes of that flock of
pigeons circling against the lurid background. No, we cannot stop to
see them, for the rain-drops begin to patter thick and fast. Away we
scamper to the shelter of the overhanging rocks. The lowering sky rolls
above us through the branches. The glassy surface of the brook takes on
a leaden hue as the rain-cloud drags its misty veil across the distant
meadows. The brown leaves jump and spatter at my feet, and the blue
liverwort flowers on right and left duck their heads like little living
things dodging the pelting rain-drops.
[Illustration: THE FAIRY FROND.]
Oh, the lovely fickleness an April day! Even now the distant hill is lit
up by the bursting sun. Nearer and nearer the gleam creeps across the
landscape, chasing the shower away, and in a moment more the meadows
glow with a freshened green, and the trees stand transfigured in
glistening beads flashing in the sunbeams. The quickened earth gives
forth its grateful incense, and even an enthusiastic frog down in the
lily-pond sends up his little vote of thanks.
[Illustration: AN APRIL DAY.]
April’s woods are teeming with all forms of life, if one will only look
for them. On every side the ferns, curled up all winter in their dormant
sleep, unroll their spiral sprays, and reach out for the welcome sun.
The spicy colt’s-foot, or wild ginger, lifts its downy leaves among the
mossy rocks and crevices, and its homely flower just peeps above the
ground, and, with a lingering glance at the blushing _Rue anemone_ close
by, hangs its humble head, never to look up again. High above us the
eccentric cottonwood-tree dangles its long speckled plumes, so silvery
white. Now we hear a mellow drumming sound, as some unsuspecting grouse,
concealed among the undergrowth near by, beats his resonant breast.
Could we but get a glimpse of him, we would see him simulate the
barn-yard gobbler, as with proud strut and spreading tail he disports
himself upon some fallen log or mossy rock. Perhaps, too, that coy mate
is near, admiring his show of gallantry, and holding a sly flirtation.
[Illustration: AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS.]
Look at this craggy precipice of rock, lost above among the
green-tasselled evergreens, and trickling with crystal drops from every
drooping sprig of moss. How its rugged surface is painted with the
mottled lichens of every hue, here like a faint tinge of cool
sage-green, and there in large brown blotches of rich color! See the
fringe of ferns that bursts from the fissure across its surface. There
the trillium hangs its three-cleft flower of rich maroon; and later we
shall see the fern-like spray of Solomon’s-seal swinging its little row
of straw-colored bells from the ledge above. Airy columbines, too, shall
float their scarlet pendants on fragile stems, and with their graceful
nod tell of the slightest breeze, when all else is still. What is that
cinnamon-brown bird that hops along the stone wall yonder? Now he
alights upon the tulip-tree, and swells his speckled breast in a series
of short experiments--a broken song, in which every note or call has
its twin echo. A “mocking-thrush” he is, indeed, for he mimics his own
song from morn till night in all the thickets and pasture-lands. Take
care there! why, you almost trod upon that feathery tuft of “Dutchman’s
breeches.” Oh, who is he that dared to clothe this sweet blossom in such
an ignominious title? Where is the Dutchman that ever wore
unmentionables of such exquisite pink satin as that pale _dicentra_
wears? No wonder their little broken hearts droop at the insult!
[Illustration: THE COLUMBINE.]
The grotesque Jack-in-the-pulpit, rising above that crumbling log, is
named more to my mind. There he stands beneath his striped canopy, and
preaches to me a sermon on the well-remembered rashness of my youth in
trifling with that subterranean bulb from which he grows. But I ignored
his warning in those early days. I only knew that a real nice boy across
the way seemed very fond of those little Indian turnips, called them
“sugar-roots,” and said that they were full of honey. And as he bit off
his eager mouthful, and refused to let me taste, I sought one for
myself, and, generous boy that he was, he showed me where to find the
buried treasure. It was like a small turnip, an innocent-looking affair
(and so was the nice boy’s modelled piece of apple, by-the-way). But oh!
the sudden revelation of the red-hot reservoir of chain-lightning that
crammed that innocent bulb! Even as I think of it, how I long once more
to interview that real nice boy who opened up the mysteries of the
“sugar-root” to my tempted curiosity. Let boys beware of this wild,
red-hot coal; and should they be impelled by a desire to test the
unknown flavor, let them solace themselves with a less dangerous mixture
of four papers of cambric needles and a spoonful of pounded glass. This
will give a faint suggestion of the racy pungency of the Indian turnip.
Were some kind friend at the present day to seek to kill me off with
poisoned food, I should forthwith have him arrested on a charge of
attempted murder, and incarcerated in the county jail. But what would be
wilful homicide in the man is only a guileless proof of friendship in
the boy, and his affections and their symptoms present a living paradox;
and those boisterous days, with all their fond caresses in the way of
fights and bruises and black eyes, and even Indian turnips, we all agree
were full of fun the like of which we never shall see again.
[Illustration: MEADOW BROOK.]
How well we remember those tramps along the meadow brook: the dark,
still holes beneath the overhanging rocks, where, with golden slipping
loop and pole and cautious creep, we wired those lazy, unsuspecting
“suckers” on the gravelly bed below! Ah! what scientific angling with
the rod and reel in later years has ever brought back the keen tingle of
that primitive sport? The great green bull-frogs, too, in the lily-pond,
disclosing their cavernous resources as they jumped and splashed and
sprawled after the tantalizing bit of red flannel on that dangling hook!
We recall that rickety bridge among the willows, and the mossy nest of
mud so firmly fixed upon the beam beneath. How could we be so deaf to
the pleading of those little phoebe-birds that fluttered so beseechingly
about us? Then there was that deep hole in the sand-bank near the
brook, where the burrowing kingfisher hid away his nest, where we
watched in the twilight to see him enter, and, with big round stone in
readiness, “plugged” him in his den! What fun it was to dig him out, and
ventilate his musty nest of fish-bones! The starling in the thicket of
the swamp circled through the air with angry “Quit! quit!” as we picked
our way through the bristling bogs so close upon her nest. We’ll not
forget that false step that sent us sprawling in the green slimy mud, at
the first electrifying glimpse of those brown spotted eggs. The
high-holer, too, whose golden gleam of wing upon the bare dead tree
betrayed his nesting-place in the hollow limb--was ever such a stimulus
offered to the eagerness of youth? Who would give a second thought to
his tender shins at the prospect of such a prize as a nest of
high-hole’s eggs? How round and white they were! how the pale golden
yolk floated beneath the pearly shell! Those were jolly days for us; but
the poor birds had to suffer, and few, indeed, were the nests that
escaped our prying search. There was the cat-bird in the evergreens,
with lovely eggs of peacock blue; the pure white treasures of the
swallows in the mud nests under the barn-yard eaves; the sky-blue
beauties of the robin; the brown speckled eggs in the sheltered nest of
song-sparrows on the grassy slope; the dear little eggs of chippies in
their horse-hair bed, and in their midst the insinuated specimen of the
cheeky cow-blackbird: there were eggs of every shape and hue, and we
knew too well where to put our hand on them.
[Illustration: THE PHŒBE’S NEST.]
[Illustration: BUILDING THE NEST.]
In a flowering hawthorn outside our window we watched a loving pair
building their pensile nest among the thorns and blossoms. How incessant
was their solicitude for that fragile framework until its strength was
fully assured against the tossing breeze! Tenderly and eagerly they
helped each other in the disposition of those ravellings of string and
strips of bark! he stopping every now and then to whisper sweetly to his
mate, as she, with drooping, trembling wings, put up her little open
bill to kiss. Yes, we often saw this little tender episode, as we
watched them through the shutters of the half-closed blinds! Now he
flies away; and the little spouse, thus left alone, jumps into the nest,
and we see its mossy meshes swell as she fits the deep hollow to her
feathery breast. Presently her consort returns, trailing along a
gossamer of cobweb, which he throws around the supporting thorn, and
leaves for her to spread and tuck among the crevices. Again he appears,
with his tiny bill concealed in a silvery puff of cotton from the willow
catkins in the swamp; next he brings a wisp of long gray moss; now a
curly flake of rich brown lichen, or a jagged square of birch bark, all
of which are laid against the nest, and half covered with films of
cobweb. Once more we see his tiny form among the hawthorn blossoms as he
tugs a papery piece of hornets’ nest through the pink barricade. This is
arranged to hang beneath as a pendant to their floating fabric, and the
happy little couple sit together upon a neighboring twig in twittering
admiration. And well they may, for a prettier nest than theirs never
hung upon a thorn. Not perfect yet, it seems, however, for that little
feminine eye has seen the need of one more touch. Away she flies, and in
a minute more a downy feather, tipped with iridescent green, is adjusted
in the cobwebs.
[Illustration: IN THE APPLE ORCHARD.]
This dainty little work of art is only one of the thousands that
everywhere are building in the blooming trees and thickets. These are
the supreme moments of the spring, consecrated to the loves of bird and
blossom. Every little winged form that scarcely bends the twig has its
all-consuming passion, and every tree its wedding of the flower. Out in
the orchard the apple-trees are laden in veritable domes of pink-white
bloom, as if by the rare spectacle of a rosy fall of snow, and from
among the dewy petals the army of bees give forth their low, continuous
drone--that sympathetic chord in the universal harmony of spring. How
they revel in that rich harvest! Who knows what sweet messages are borne
from flower to flower upon those filmy wings?
On the green slope beneath, the scattered dandelions gleam like drops of
molten gold upon the velvety sward, and a lounging family group, intent
upon that savory noonday relish, gather the basketfuls of the dainty
plants for that appetizing “mess of greens.” Often, while thus engaged,
have I stopped to watch the antics of the festive bumblebee, tumbling
around in the tufted blossom--always an amusing sight. See how he rolls
and wallows in the golden fringe, even standing on his head and kicking
in his glee! Presently, with his long black nose thrust deep into the
yellow puff, he stops to enjoy a quiet snooze in the luxurious bed--an
endless sleep, for I generally took this chance to put him out of his
misery, preferring, perhaps, to watch the robin hopping across the lawn.
Now he stops, and seems to listen; runs a yard or so, and listens again,
and without a sign of warning dips his head, and pulls upon an unlucky
angle-worm that much prefers to go the other way. It is a well-known
fact that angle-worms approach the surface of their burrows at the sound
of rain-drops on the earth above. I sometimes wonder if the robin in its
quick running stroke of foot intends to simulate that sound, and thus
decoy its prey.
I remember the wild tumult of a troop of boys upon the hill-side,
tracking the swarming bees as they whirled along in a living tangle
against the sky, now loosening in their dizzy meshes, now contracting in
a murmuring hum around their queen, and finally settling on a branch in
a pendent bunch about her. So tame and docile, too! seeming utterly to
forget their fiery javelins as they hung in that brown filmy mass upon
the bending bough! “A swarm of bees in May iz wuth a load o’ hay.” So
said our neighbor, as with fresh clean hive he secured that prized
equivalent. Here they are soon at home again, and we see their steady
winged stream pouring out through the little door of their
treasure-house, and the continual arrival of the little dusty
plunderers, laden with their smuggled store of honey, and their
saddle-bags replete with stolen gold. Down near the brook they find a
land of plenty, literally flowing with honey, as the luxuriant drooping
clusters of the locust-trees yield their brimful nectaries to the
impetuous, murmuring swarm. But there is no lack now of flowery sweets
for this buzzing colony. On every hand the meadow-sweets and milkweeds,
the brambles, and the fragrant creeping-clover show their alluring
colors in the universal burst of bloom, and not one escapes its tender
pillaging.
[Illustration]
Up in the woods the gray has turned to tender green. The flowering
dog-wood has spread its layers of creamy blossoms, giving the signal for
the planting of the corn, and in the furrowed field we see that
dislocated “man of straw,” with old plug hat jammed down upon his face,
with wooden backbone sticking through his neck-band, and dirty thatch
for a shirt bosom--a mocking outrage on any crow’s sagacity. Those
glittering strips of tin, too! Could you but interpret the low croaking
of the leader of that sable gang in yonder tree, you might hear of the
appalling effect of these precautions. I heard him once as I sat quietly
beneath a forest tree, and in the light of later events I readily
recalled his remarks upon the occasion: “Say, fellers! look at that old
fool down there hanging out those tins to show us where his corn is
planted. Haw! haw! I swaw! cawn! cawn! we’ll go down thaw and take a
chaw!” And they did; and they perched upon that old plug hat, and looked
around for something to get scared about. A single look at a crow shows
that he has a long head, and it is not all mouth either.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BLUE-FLAGS.]
Every day now makes a transformation in the landscape. The golden stars
upon the lawn are nearly all burnt out: we see their downy ashes in the
grass. Their virgin flame is quenched, and naught remains but those
ethereal globes of smoke that rise up and float away with every breeze.
Where is there in all nature’s marvels a more exquisite creation than
this evanescent phœnix of the dandelion? Beautiful in life, it is
even more beautiful in death. And now the high-grown grass is cloudy
with its puffs, whose little fairy parachutes are sailing everywhere,
over mountain-top and field. Here the corn has appeared in little waving
plumes, and the horse and cultivator are seen breaking up the soil
between the rows. Great snowy piles of cloud throw their gliding shadows
across the patchwork of ploughed fields and meadows, fresh and green
with winter wheat, or tinged with newly sprouting grain. The sunbeams
glow with a summer warmth, and the evaporation of the morning dews lifts
the glistening diamonds from the gossamer films among the grass, and
sends a quivering haze all through the air, in which the distant trees
tremble in a softened glimmer. The woods are screened in dense foliage,
and through the leafy canopy the merry birds dart and sing.
The chickadees are here, and scarlet tanagers gleam like living bits of
fire among the tantalizing leaves. Pert little vireos hop inquisitively
about you, and the bell note of the wood-thrush echoes from the hidden
tree-top overhead. Perhaps, too, you may chance upon a downy brood of
quail cuddling among the dry leaves; but, even though you should, you
might pass them by unnoticed, except as a mildewed spot of fungus at the
edge of a fallen log or tree-stump, perhaps. The loamy ground is shaded
knee-deep with rank growth of wood plants. The mossy, speckled rock is
set in a fringe of ferns. Palmate sprays of ginseng spread in mid-air a
luxurious carpet of intermingled leaves, interspersed with yellow spikes
of loosestrife and pale lilac blooms of crane’s-bill; and the
poison-ivy, creeping like a snake around that marbled beech, has
screened its hairy trunk beneath its three-cleft shiny leaves. The
mountain-laurel, with its deep green foliage and showy clusters, peers
above that rocky crag; and in the bog near by a thicket of wild azalea
is crowned with a profusion of pink blossoms.
Out in the swamp meadow the tall clumps of boneset show their dull white
crests, and the blue flowers of the flag, the mint, and pickerel weed
deck the borders of the lily pond. The waddling geese let off their
shrieking calliopes as they sail out into the stream, or browse with
nodding twitch along the grassy bank. Swarms of yellow butterflies
disgrace their kind as they huddle around the greenish mud-holes, and we
hear on every side the “z-zip, z-zip,” amidst the din of a thousand
crickets and singing locusts among the reeds and rushes. The meadows
roll and swell in billowy waves, bearing like a white-speckled foam upon
their crests a sea of daisies, with here and there a floating patch of
crimson clover, or a golden haze of butter-cups. Rising suddenly from
the tall grass near by, the gushing brimful bobolink crowds a
half-hour’s song into a brief pell-mell rapture, beating time in mid-air
with his trembling wings, and alighting on the tall fence-rail to regain
his breath. A coy meadow-lark shows his yellow-breast and crescent above
the windrow yonder, and we hear the ringing beats of whetted scythes,
and see the mowers cut their circling swath.
Mowing! Why, how is this? This surely is not Spring. But even thus the
Springtime leads us into Summer. No eye can mark the soft transition,
and ere we are aware the sweet fragrance of the new-mown hay breathes
its perfumed whisper, “Behold, the Spring has fled!”
SUMMER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE CONSUMMATION]
[Illustration]