study hour, and as we look through the windows we see the little groups
of studious lads bending over their books. Turning a corner on the
piazza, we are confronted with a tall hexagonal structure at its farther
end. This is the Tower, the lower room of which is consecrated to the
cosy retirement of Mr. and Mrs. Snug. The door leading to the porch is
open, and, as if awakening from a nap in which the past fifteen years
have been a dream, I listen to the same dear voice. I approach nearer.
Under the glow of a student’s lamp I look upon the beloved face, the
flowing hair and beard now silvered with the lapse of years--a face of
unusual firmness, but whose every line marks the expression of a tender,
loving nature, and of a large and noble heart. Near him another sits--a
helpmeet kind and true, cherished companion in a happy, useful life.
Into her lap a nestling lad has climbed; and as she strokes the curly
head and looks into the chubby face, I see the same expression as of
old, the same motherly tenderness and love beaming from the large gray
eyes.
Mr. Snug is leaning back in his easy-chair, and two boys are standing up
before him; one of them is speaking, evidently in answer to a question.
“I called him a galoot, sir.”
“You called George a galoot, and then he threw the base-ball club at
you--is that it?”
“Yes, sir,” interrupted George; “but I was only playing, sir.”
“Yes,” resumed the voice of Mr. Snug, “but that club went with
considerable force, and landed over the fence, and made havoc in Deacon
Farish’s onion-bed; and that reminds me that the deacon’s onion-bed is
overrun with weeds. Now, Willie,” continued Mr. Snug, after a moment’s
hesitation, with eyes closed, and head thrown back against the chair,
“Saturday morning--to-morrow, that is--directly after breakfast, you go
out into the grove and call names to the big rock for half an hour.
Don’t stop to take breath; and don’t call the same name twice. Your
vocabulary will easily stand the drain. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, George,” continued Mr. Snug, with deliberate, easy intonation,
“to-morrow morning, at the same time, you present yourself politely to
Deacon Farish, tell him that I sent you, and ask him to escort you to
his onion-bed. After which you will go carefully to work and pull out
all the weeds. You understand, sir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then you will both report to me as usual.” And with a pleasant
smile, which was reflected in both their faces, the erring youngsters
were dismissed. Before the door has closed behind them we are standing
in the door-way. Here I draw the curtain; for who but one of its own
household could understand a welcome at the Snuggery?
Those of my old school-mates who read this meagre sketch will know the
happiness of such a meeting; but others less fortunate in the
recollections of school-life can only look for its counterpart in an
affectionate welcome in their own homes, for the Snuggery _is_ a home to
all who ever dwelt within its gates. Seated in the familiar cosiness,
and surrounded by the friends of my school-days, the hours fly fast and
pleasantly. There is plenty to talk about. Here is a village full of
good people of whom I wish to learn, and there are many far-off chums of
whom I carry tidings. A bell rings in the cupola as one by one, from the
buzz in the outer rooms, boys large and small seek our seclusion for the
accustomed good-night adieu; and ere another hour has passed forty
sleepy urchins are packed away in their snug quarters. The evening runs
on into midnight, as with stories of the past, its pains and penalties,
its remembrances, now humorous now sad by turns, we recall the good old
times; and the “wee sma’ hours” are already upon us as we reluctantly
retire from the goodly company to our rooms across the way.
[Illustration: TOLLING FOR THE DEAD.]
The next morning finds us in the midst of a merry load, with Mr. Snug as
a driver; and many and varied were the beauties that opened up before us
on that charming ride! Snug Hamlet, once called Judea, in the qualities
of its landscape as well as in everything else, is unique. Stripped of
all its old associations, it presents to the artistic eye a combination
of attractions scarcely to be equalled in the boundaries of New England.
Situated itself on the brow of an abrupt hill, where its picturesque
homes cluster about a broad open green, a few minutes’ drive in any
direction reveals a surrounding panorama of the rarest loveliness. Five
hundred feet below us, winding in and out, now beneath leafy tangles,
now under quaint little bridges, and again reposing placidly in broad
mill-ponds, the happy Shepaug lends to a lovely valley its usefulness
and beauty. Turning in another direction, we pass the Snuggery
ball-ground, animated with the shouts of victory; and descending into a
vale of almost primeval wildness, we continue our way up the ascent of
“Artist’s Hill,” from whose summit on every side, as far as the eye can
reach, the landscape softens into the hazy horizon. Returning, we pass
through a ruined waste, where, three months before, the fierce tornado
swooped down in its fiendish fury. On every side we see its awful
evidences. Huge oaks, like brittle pipe-stems, snapped from their
moorings; sturdy hickories, mere play-things in the gale, twisted into
shreds.
[Illustration: WRECKS OF THE TORNADO.]
Every morning saw me on some new drive, either with a wagon full of
merry company, or as alone with Mr. Snug we held our quiet _tête-à-tête_
on wheels, living over the olden times. In the afternoon I strolled by
myself through the old and eloquent scenes. A volume could not hold the
memories they revived--no, not even those of yonder barn alone. Even as
I sit making my pencil-sketch, its reminiscences seem to float across
the vision. Distinctly it recalls the events of one evening years ago.
It was at about the sunset hour one Friday. I was quietly sitting on a
lounge in the parlor talking to Cuthbert Harding, who was standing in
front of me. Presently the door opens, and the tall figure of Dick Shin
enters. Dick and I were antipodes in every sense of the word. Physically
we were as a match and a billiard ball, he being the lucifer. He was
also my _bête noire_, and he never missed an opportunity to vent his
spite. Accordingly he stalked toward us, and with a violent push sent
Cuthbert pell-mell on to me. In falling, he stepped heavily on my foot,
and hurt me severely, which accounted for my excited expression as I
threw him from me.
Of course Mr. Snug had to come in just at this time, and seeing us in
what looked to him very like a fight, he took us firmly by the ears and
stood us side by side, while I ventured to explain.
“Not a word!” exclaimed he, in a tone there was no mistaking. “You two
boys may cool off on a trip to Moody Barn, after which you will report
to me in the Tower. Now go.”
Whatever may have been the state of my mind a few moments before, I was
now mad in earnest, and with every bit of my latent obstinacy aroused, I
sauntered out on to the porch.
“Cool off, old boy,” whispered a grating voice at my side, as I turned
and met the gaze of Dick Shin, motioning with his thumb in the direction
of Moody Barn--“cool off; you need it;” and his ample mouth stretched
into a sneering grin.
I had already formed an intention, but now it was a resolve.
“Cuthbert,” said I to my quiet and less choleric companion, when some
distance down the road, “I am not going on that trip.”
“Not going!” replied he, with surprise; “why, you’ll _have_ to go.”
“But I _won’t_ go, and that settles it. It’s confounded unjust that
we’re sent, anyhow, and I don’t propose to stand it.”
“I think so too,” answered Cuthbert, with hesitating emphasis; “but
what’ll we do? We’ll have to report to Mr. Snug, you know; that’s the
_worst_ of it.”
“Well, I’ll be spokesman, and I’ll _lie_ before I’ll go on that trip.”
I was boiling over with righteous wrath, but Cuthbert never was known to
boil; he only simmered a little, but readily seconded my plan. We
stopped at Kirby Corners, and there, secluded from view in the bushes,
we spent the interval. Cuthbert had a watch, and by the light of the
rising moon we were enabled to fix the full period for the trip. One
hour and a half we allowed--an abundant limit. During this time I had
completely “cooled off,” and had schooled myself to that point where I
could tell a lie with a smooth face and a clear conscience.
Accordingly, when the time came, we appeared at the door of the Tower.
Mr. Snug was sitting in his accustomed place, and we entered and stood
before him.
[Illustration: PASSING THOUGHTS.]
“Well, sir,” said he, with a polite bow of the head, dropping his paper
and looking up at us.
“Mr. Snug, we have come to report,” said I, fearlessly. “We have been to
Moody Barn.”
Instantly Mr. Snug straightened himself up in his chair, pushed back
the gray locks from his high forehead, and, with an expression that I
never shall forget, glared at me from under the frowning eyebrows.
“_You lie, sir!_” he exclaimed, in thundering tones that fairly made my
hair stand on end, while Cuthbert trembled from head to foot; then
followed a brief moment of consternation that seemed an age. “Now go!”
continued he, as with an emphatic nod of the head he motioned toward the
door. Sheepish and crest-fallen, we slunk away from the room. It is
needless to say that we went this time. Through the darkness, by the aid
of a lantern, we picked our way, as with theories numerous and ingenious
we strove to account for that vociferous reception.
Late that night we held an experience meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Snug in
the Tower, and if I remember right there were a few tears that fell, and
many apologies and good resolves, and as the true state of the case
dawned on Mr. Snug there was an evident twinge of regret on his kind
face.
On the following morning (Saturday) there was a jolly party of youths
leaving the Snuggery for a day’s boating at the lake. Dick Shin was
among them; and just as he was passing out the gate, a youngster
approaches him and taps him on the shoulder. “You are hereby arrested,
sir, on the orders of Mr. Snug.”
With an anxious and innocent expression Dick follows his juvenile
constable into the Tower, and his companions stroll along after to
ascertain the cause of the detention. We pass over the brief but amusing
trial, in which the prisoner, with the innocence of a little lamb,
pleaded his cause.
“You _stumbled_, did you?” said Mr. Snug. “Well, you ought to know, sir,
by this time that I don’t allow young men to stumble in that way in my
house. These two boys have suffered through your admitted clumsiness.”
Here Mr. Snug paused in a moment’s thought. “Dick Shin,” he continued,
“I sent these innocent young gentlemen on two trips to Moody Barn--that
makes four miles for Bigson and four miles for Harding, together making
eight that they walked on your account. Now you may put down your
fishing-pole, and ‘stumble’ along on the road to Judd’s Bridge, which
will give you two extra miles in which to think over your sins. And to
make sure”--here Mr. Snug arose and went to the closet--“you may take
this hatchet along with you, and bring me back a good big chip from the
end of the long bridge beam. I shall ride over that way to-morrow and
see whether it fits. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the injured voice of Dick Shin. “But, Mr. Snug,
can’t I put off that penance until Monday?”
“No, sir,” replied Mr. Snug, with a beaming smile and a bow of the head.
“This is a lovely morning for contrite meditation. Go--_instantly_.”
Two hours later saw a demonstrative individual threatening to chop down
the whole side of a bridge, while ten miles to the northward the placid
surface of Waramaug rippled to the oars, and the lofty mountain-sides
echoed with the shouts of a merry holiday.
* * * * *
But all things must have an end. The school-days ended, and so did this
memorable vacation. A letter breaks the charm: insatiate publisher! Once
more through the winding paths of the Housatonic, and I leave the
loveliness of Hometown for the metropolis of brick and stone, there to
resume the old routine.
AUTUMN.
[Illustration: THE WANING]
[Illustration]
I am sitting alone upon a wooded knoll at our old farm at Hometown.
Above me a venerable oak holds aloft its dome of bronze-green verdure,
and on either side the gnarled and knotty branches bend low, and trail
their rustling leaves among the tufts of waving grass that fringe the
slope around me.
It is a spot endeared to me from earliest memory, a loved retreat whose
every glimpse beneath the overhanging boughs has left its impress, whose
every feature of undulating field, of wooded mountain, and winding
meadow-brook I have long been able to summon up at will before my closed
eyes, as though a mirror of the living picture now before me. And what
is this picture?
It is an enchanted vision of nature’s autumn loveliness--a vision of
peace and tranquil resignation that lingers like a poem in the memory.
It is a glorious October day, one of those rarest and loveliest of days
when all nature seems transfigured, when a golden, misty veil swings
from the heavens in a charmed haze, through which the commonest and most
prosaic thing seems spiritualized and glorified. The summer’s full
fruition is past and gone, the dross has been consumed; and in the
lingering life, whose yielding flush now lends its sweet expression to
the declining year, we see the type of perfect trust and hope that finds
a fitting emblem in the dim horizon, where heaven and earth are wedded
in a golden haze, where purple hills melt softly in the sky. It is a day
when one may dream with open eyes, and whose day-dreams haunt the memory
as sweet realities. The sky is filled with rolling, fleecy clouds, whose
flat receding bases seem to float upon a transparent amber sea, from
whose depths I look through into the blue air beyond.
Below me an ancient orchard skirts the borders of the knoll. Its boughs
are crimson studded, and the ground beneath is strewn with the bright
red fruit. They mark the minutes as they fall, running the gauntlet of
the craggy twigs and bounding upon the slope beneath. Beyond the orchard
stretch the low, flat meadow lands, set with alders and swamp-maples,
with swaying willows, now enclosing, now revealing the graceful curves
of the quiet stream as it winds in and out among the overhanging
foliage. Soon it is lost beneath a wooded hill, where an old square
tower and factory-bell betray the hiding-place of the glassy pond that
sends its splashing water-fall across the rocks beneath the old town
bridge. Looking down upon this bridge, Mount Pisgah, with its rugged
cliff, is seen rising bold and stern against the sky, above a broad and
bright mosaic of elms and maples, spreading from the grove of oaks near
by in an unbroken expanse, to the very foot of the precipice, with here
and there a sunny cupola or gable peering out among the branches, or a
snowy steeple lifting high its golden cross or weather-vane glittering
in the sun. The mountain-side is lit up with its autumn glow of
intermingled maples, oaks, and beeches, with its changeless ledges of
jutting rock, and dense, defiant pines standing like veteran bearded
sentinels in perpetual vigilance.
All this comes to me in a single glimpse beneath the branches. But there
are others, where undulating meadows, with their flowing lines of walls
and fences, lead the eye through soft gradations to distant purple
hills, through thrifty farms, with barns and barracks and rowen fields
with browsing cattle, and ruddy buckwheat patches, where the flocks of
village pigeons congregate among the cradle marks, in quest of scattered
kernels shaken from the sheaves.
There is a tiny lake near by that nestles among the hill-side farms,
where sloping pastures and fields of yellow, rustling corn glide almost
to the water’s edge. So sensitive and sympathetic is this little sheet
of water that I christened it one day Chameleon Lake, for it wears a
different expression for every phase of season or freak of weather, and
always dwells in harmony with the landscape which encloses it. In cloudy
days it frowns as cold as steel. In days of sunshine it is as bright and
blue as the sky itself, or shimmers like a shield of burnished silver.
And now it is a flood of autumn gold, carrying from shore to shore a
maze of ripples laden with opaline reflections of intermingled glints
from cloud and sky, and of the gold and ruby colored foliage along its
banks.
But this knoll and all these farms are not mine alone. They are such as
I should hope might lurk in the memory of almost any one who looks back
to early days among New England hills.
[Illustration: AN OCTOBER DAY.]
This old oak-tree, whose furrowed bark I lean upon, was a hardy
patriarch when first I sought its shade. Its added years have scarcely
changed a feature or modified a line in its old-time noble expression.
As I look up, its great open arms spread out against the sky exactly as
they did when I lolled beneath their shelter and watched the drifting
clouds of twenty years ago sail through them in the blue above. Even the
jagged furrows in the bark I seem to recognize. Here, too, is that same
spreading scale of greenish lichen that fain will grow upon the trunk,
as if I had not often picked it all to pieces in my early idling. The
same round oak-gall rests on the bed of leaves in the hollow between the
rocks near by, as though it had forgotten how a dozen years ago I
cracked its polished shell and sent its spongy contents to the winds.
And here comes that veritable ant creeping through the grass at my
elbow--now on the root, now on the bark, exploring every crack and
crevice in his hurried search. I wonder if the little fellow will ever
find what he has been looking for so long. And here’s a friend of his
coming down. They stop and wag their antennæ in a moment’s conversation.
I wonder what they said. I always _did_ wonder when I watched them do
the same thing on this very spot a score of years ago. The soft waving
grass whispers about my ears as it did then, and I hear the low trumpet
of the nuthatch as he creeps about in the tree o’erhead. Easily may one
forget the lapse of time in such a place as this, where every leaf, and
twig, and blade of grass conspire to breed forgetfulness of later years.
Hark! that shrill tattoo again! The tree-toad. Yes, that same recluse in
his mysterious hiding-place, seeking by his tantalizing trill to renew
that game of hide-and-seek we left off so long ago--in those eager days
when every stick and stone upon the knoll was overturned in my zeal to
find his whereabouts. There he goes again! louder and more shrill. But
now I realize the effect of time, for I only sit and listen to his
oft-repeated call. Formerly that sound was like a galvanic thrill that
electrified every nerve and muscle in my physiology. No, I’ll not hunt
for you again, my musical young friend; besides, the odds would be
against you now, for I know more about tree-toads than I once did, and
you wouldn’t see me hunting on the ground as in the olden days. Besides,
you’re getting bold; there is no need of hunting, for in that last toot
you gave yourself away. Even now my eyes are fixed upon the hole in
yonder hollow limb, and I see your tiny form clinging to the rotten wood
within the opening. What _would_ I not have given _once_ to have thought
of that soggy hole!
[Illustration: A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL.]
Near by a spreading yew monopolizes a rocky bit of ground, its foliage
creeping above a silvery gray bed of branching moss, whose pillowy tufts
spread almost to my feet. This was my fairy forest of tiny trees. Here I
found the fairies’ cups and torches, and even now I can see their
scarlet tips scattered here and there among the gray; and fragile little
parasols, too--it were an insult, indeed, to designate such dainty
things as these by the name of toadstools. Beyond this bed of moss a
scrubby growth of whortleberry takes possession of the ground. The
bushes are now bare of fruit, but ruddy with their autumn blushes,
tingeing the surface of the knoll with a delicate coral pink. This
thicket extends far down upon the slope, even encroaching upon the
wheel-ruts of the lane, and across again, until cut short by an ancient
tumbling line of lichen-covered stones, a landmark which has long since
yielded up its claim as a barrier of protection to the old orchard it
encloses, now only a moss-grown pile, with every chink and crevice a
nestling-place of some searching tendril, fern, or clambering vine. For
rods and rods it creeps along beneath the laden apple-trees, skirting
the borders of this old farm lane, and finally hides away among a clump
of cedars a few hundred feet away.
Of all the picturesque in nature, what is there, after all, that so wins
one’s deeper sympathies as the ever-changing pictures of a rustic lane
or roadside, with its weather-beaten walls and fences, and their
rambling growth of weeds and creeping vines? How sweet the sense of near
companionship awakened by these charming way-side pastorals that
accompany you in your saunterings, and reach out to touch you as you
pass--a sense of friendly fellowship that breathes a silent greeting in
the most deserted paths or loneliest of by-ways!
Show me a ruined wall or a rutted zigzag fence, and I will show you a
string of pearls, or rather, if in these later months, a fringe of gems,
for the autumn fence is set in wreaths of rubies and glowing sapphires.
Follow its rambling course, now through the field, now skirting swampy
fallows, now by rustic lanes and cornfields and over rocky pastures, and
you will follow a lead that will take you through the rarest bits of
nature’s autumn landscape.
Even in this lane, at the foot of the knoll below us, see the brilliant
luxuriance of clustered bitter-sweet draping the side of that clump of
cedars! It is only an indication of the beauty that envelops this lane
for a full half mile beyond. Every angle of its rude rail fence encloses
a lovely pastoral, each a surprise and a contrast to its neighbor.
Right here before us, what a beginning! Hold up your hands on either
side, and shut out the surroundings. Such is the glimpse I always long
to paint from nature, and yet how almost maddening is the result! Rather
would I drink it all in and fix its every feature in my mind, and paint
it from its memory, when the presence of the living thing before me
shall not mock my efforts and put to shame the crude creations of oil
and pigment.
See how the cool gray rails are relieved against that rich dark
background of dense olive juniper, how they hide among the prickly
foliage! Look at that low-hanging branch which so exquisitely conceals
the lowest rail as it emerges from its other side, and spreads out among
the creeping briers that wreathe the ground with their shining leaves
of crimson and deep bronze! Could any art more daringly concentrate a
rhapsody of color than nature has here done in bringing up that gorgeous
spray of scarlet sumach, whose fern-like pinnate leaves are so richly
massed against that background of dark evergreens? And even in that
single branch see the wondrous gradation of color, from purest green to
purplish olive, and olive melting into crimson, and then to scarlet, and
through orange into yellow, and all sustaining in its midst the
clustered cone of berries of rich maroon! Verily, it were almost an
affront to sit down before such a shrine and attempt to match it in
material pigment. A passing sketch, perhaps, that shall serve to aid the
memory in the retirement of the studio, but a careful copy, _never!_
until we can have a tenfold lease of life, and paint with sunbeams. But
there is more still in this tantalizing ideal, for a luxuriant wild
grape-vine, that shuts in the fence near by, sends toward us an
adventurous branch that climbs the upright rail, and festoons itself
from fence to tree, and hangs its luminous canopy over the crest of the
yielding juniper. Even from where we stand we can see the pendant
clusters of tiny grapes clearly shadowed against the translucent golden
screen. Add to all this the charm of life and motion, with trembling
leaves and branches bending in the breeze, with here and there a
flitting shadow playing across the half hidden rails, and where can you
find another such picture, its counterpart in beauty--where? perhaps its
very neighbor, for all roadside pictures are “hung upon the line,” they
are all by the same great Master, and it is often difficult to choose.