on the old mill-pond! I see the two opposing forces on the field of ice,
the wooden ball placed ready for the fray. The starter lifts his stick.
I hear a whizzing sweep. Then comes that liquid, twittering ditty of the
hard-wood ball skimming over the ice, that quick succession of bird-like
notes, first distinct and clear, now fainter and more blended, now
fainter still, until at last it melts into a whispered, quivering
whistle, and dies away amidst the scraping sound of the close-pursuing
skates. With a sharp crack I see the ball returned singing over the
polished surface, and met half-way by the advance-guard of the leading
side. The holder of the ball with rapid onward flight hugs close upon
his charge, keeping it at the end of his stick. Past one and another of
his adversaries he flies on winged skates, followed by a score of his
companions, until, seeing his golden opportunity, with one tremendous
effort he gives a powerful blow. To be sure, one of his own men
interposes the back of his head and takes half the force of his stroke;
but what does that matter, it was all in fun? besides, he had no
business to be in the way. The ball thus retarded in such a trivial
manner instantly meets a barricade of the excited opponents, who have
hurried thither to save their game; but before any one can gain the time
to strike the ball, the starters rush pell-mell upon them. Now comes the
tug of war. Strange fun! What a spectacle! The would-be striker, with
stick uplifted, jammed in the centre of a boisterous throng; the
hill-sides echo with ringing shouts, and an anxious circle with ready
sticks forms about the swaying, gesticulating mob. Meanwhile the ball
is beating round beneath their feet, their skates are clashing steel on
steel. I hear the shuffling kicks, the battling strokes of clubs, the
husky mutterings of passion half suppressed; I hear the panting breath
and the impetuous whisperings between the teeth, as they push and
wrestle and jam. A lucky hit now sends the ball a few feet from the
fray. A ready hand improves the chance; but as he lifts his stick a
youngster’s nose gets in the way and spoils his stroke; he slips, and
falls upon the ball; another and another plunge headlong over him. The
crowd surround the prostrate pile, and punch among them for the ball.
When found, the same riotous scene ensues; another falls, and all are
trampled under foot by the enthusiastic crowd. Ye gods! will any one
come out alive? I hear the old familiar sounds vibrating on the air:
whack! whack! “Ouch!” “Get out of the way, then!” “Now I’ve got it!”
“Shinney on yer own side!” and now a heavy thud! which means a sudden
damper on some one’s wild enthusiasm. And so it goes until the game is
won. The mob disperses, and the riotous spectacle gives place to
uproarious jollity.
There are other more tranquil reflections from that old mill-pond. Do
you not remember the little pair of dainty skates whose straps you
clasped on daintier feet; the quiet, gliding strolls through the
secluded nooks; the small, refractory buckle which you so often stooped
to conquer; and the sidelong grimaces of less fortunate swains--sneers
that brought the color tingling to your cheeks with mingled pride and
anger? Ah! things so near the heart as these can never freeze.
Yonder, just below that clustered group of pines, where the water-weeds
and lily-pads are frozen in the ice, we chopped our fishing holes, and
with baited lines and tip-ups set, we waited, wondering what our luck
would be. With eager eyes we watched the line play out, or saw the
tip-up give the warning sign. And as with anxious pull we neared the end
of the tightening cord, who shall describe that tingling sense of joy at
the first glimpse of the gaping pickerel?
Near by I see the yellow-fringed witch-hazel bending in graceful spray
over the flaky, bordering ice, that mystic shrub whose feathery winter
blooms we gathered as a token for the little one with dainty skates.
Still farther up the pond the marbled button-wood-tree, with spreading
limbs and knotty brooms of branchlets, rises clear against the sky, its
little pendulums swinging away the winter moments. At its very roots the
dam spreads into a tufted swamp, thick-set with alders. How often have I
picked my way through that wheezing, soggy marsh in quest of the rare
Cecropia cocoons; treading among glazed air-chambers, whose roof of ice,
like a pane of brittle glass, falls in at my approach--a crystal fairy
grotto, set with diamonds and frost ferns, annihilated at a step.
Here, too, the sagacious musk-rat built his cemented dome, and along the
neighboring shore we set the chained steel-traps, or made the ponderous
dead-fall from nature’s rude materials. Yonder, in the side-hill woods,
I set the big box rabbit-traps; with keen-edged jack-knife trimmed the
slender hickory poles, and on the ground near by, with sharpened,
branching sticks, I built the little pens for my twitch-up snares. Can
I ever forget the fascinating excitement which sped me on from snare to
snare in those tramps through the snowy woods, the exhilarating buoyancy
of that delicious suspense, every nerve and every muscle on the _qui
vive_ in my eagerness for the captured game! Even the memory of it acts
like a tonic, and almost creates an appetite like that of old.
And then the lovely woods. How few there are who ever seek their winter
solitude: and of these how fewer still are they who find anything but
drear and cold monotony!
We read the literature of our time, and find it rich in story of the
home aspects of winter; of Christmas joys and festivals, of holiday
festivities, and all the various phases of cosy domestic life; but not
often are we tempted from the glowing hearth into the wilds of the bare
and leafless forest. We read of the “drear and lonely waste, the
cheerless desolation of the howling wilderness,” and we look out upon
the naked, shivering trees and draw our cushioned rockers closer to the
grateful fire.
[Illustration: THE FIRST SNOW.]
Not I; bitter were the winds and high the piled-up drifts that shut me
in from out-of-doors in those glorious days; and whether on my animated
trapping tours, or hunting on the crusted snow, with powder-horn and
game-bag swinging at my side, or perhaps pressing through the tangled
thickets in my impetuous search for those pendulous cocoons, now
stopping to tear away the loosening bark on moss-grown stump, now
looking beneath some prostrate board for the little “woolly bears”
curled up in their dormant sleep: no matter what my purpose, always I
was sure to find the winter full of interest and beauty. How distinctly
I recall the thrilling spectacle of that glad morning when, awakening
early, and jumping from the little cot so snug and warm, I tripped
across the chilly floor and scratched a peep-hole on the frosted
window-pane; looked out upon a world so changed, so strangely beautiful,
that at first it seemed like a lingering vision in half-awakened
eyes--still looking into dream-land. All the world is dressed in purest
white, as soft and light as down from seraphs’ wings. The orchard trees,
the elms, and all the leafless shrubs, as if by magic spell, transformed
to shadowy plumes of spotless purity, and the interlacing boughs
o’erhead vanishing in a canopy of glistening, feathery spray. I look
upon a realm celestial in its beauty, unprofaned by earthly sign or
sound. A strange, supernal stillness fills the air; and save where some
unseen spirit-wing tips the slender twig and lets fall the scintillating
shower, no slightest movement mars the enchanted vision. Above, in the
far-off blue, I see the circling flock of doves, their snowy wings
glittering in their upward flight--apt emblems in a scene so like a
glimpse of spirit-land. A single vision such as this should wed the
heart to winter’s loveliness, a loveliness inspiring and immaculate, for
never in the cycle of the year does nature wear a face so void of
earthly impress, so spirit-like, so near the heavenly ideal.
One of the most striking features of the winter ramble in the woods is
their impressive stillness. But stop awhile and listen. That very
silence will give emphasis to every sound that soon shall vibrate on the
clear atmosphere, for “little pitchers have big ears,” and wide-open
eyes too. They will first be sure that the stick you hold is only a
cane, and not the small boy’s gun which they have so learned to dread.
Hark! even from the hollow maple at your side there comes a scraping
sound, and in an instant more two black and shining eyes are peering
down at us from the bulging hole above. Tut! don’t strike the little
fellow. Had you only waited a moment longer, we would have seen him
emerge from his concealment, and with frisky, bushy tail laid flat upon
the bark, he would have hung head downward on the trunk, and watched our
every movement; but now you’ve startled him, he thinks you mean
mischief, and you’ll see his sparkling eyes no more at that knot-hole.
Listen! Now we hear a rustling in the sere and snow-tipped weeds
somewhere near by, and presently a little feathery form flits past, and
settles yonder on the swaying rush. With feathers ruffled into a little
fuzzy ball, he bustles around among the downy seeds, now prying in their
midst, now hanging underneath, head up, head down, no matter which,
it’s all the same to him. Now he stops short in his busy search, turns
his little head jauntily from side to side, lifts his tufted crest, and
sets free his pent-up glee--“See! see! see me sing! Chickadee-dee-dee!”
Who has not heard that wee small voice ringing in the frosty air? and
who, having heard it, has not longed to catch and cuddle that little
feathery puff, the winter’s own darling, whose little warm heart and
sprightly song temper the chill and enliven the cheerless days?
[Illustration: MUTE PROPHECIES.]
The bending rush but lightly feels the dainty form, and, if at all, it
must delight to bear so sweet a burden. How dearly have I learned to
love this little fellow, perhaps my special favorite among the birds;
for while the others one by one desert us with the dying year for scenes
more bright and sunny, the chickadee is content to share our lot; he is
constant, always with us, ever full of sprightliness and cheer. No
winter is known in his warm heart, no piercing blast can freeze the
fountain of his song.
How often in the woods and by-ways have I stopped and chatted with this
diminutive friend as he nestled in some oscillating spray of golden-rod,
or perhaps with jaunty strut shook down the new-fallen snow from some
drooping branch of hemlock. I say “chatted,” for he is a talkative and
entertaining little fellow, always ready to tell people “all about it,”
if they will only ask him. He is generally too busy searching amid the
dead and crumpled leaves for the indispensable _bug_ to intrude himself
on any one; but once draw him into conversation and he will do his share
of the talking--only, mind you, remove those big fur gloves and tippet,
or he will put you to shame by crying, “See! see!” and showing you his
little, bare feet. This pert atom can be saucy and cross if things don’t
exactly suit his fancy; and, for whatever reason, he always seems out of
patience at the sight of a _man_ all bundled up and mittened. I have
noticed this repeatedly. “Take off some of those things,” he seems to
say, “and let me see who you are, and then I’ll talk with you,” and with
feathers puffed up like an indignant hen in miniature, he scolds and
scolds.
Then there are the little snow-birds, too. When the sad autumn days are
upon us, when the dying leaves with ominous flush yield up their hold on
life, and are borne to earth on wailing winds, and all nature seems
filled with mocking phantoms of the summer’s life and loveliness; when
we listen for the robin’s song and hear it not, or the thrush’s
bell-like trill, and listen in vain; when we look into the southern sky
and see the winged flocks departing behind the faded hills--it is at
such a time, while the very air seems weighed with melancholy, that the
snow-birds come with their welcome, twittering voices. All winter long
these sprightly little fellows swarm the thickets and sheltering
evergreens, frolicking in the new-fallen snow like sparrows in a summer
pool. Sometimes they unite in flocks with the chickadees and invade the
orchard, and even the kitchen door-yard, with their ceaseless chatter.
If you open the window and scatter a few crumbs upon the porch, they
are soon hopping among the grateful morsels with twittering
thankfulness. And on a very cold day, should you leave the kitchen
window standing open, they will perch upon the sill and preen their
ruffled feathers. Always trusting and confiding when appreciated, but
often coy and distant for want of just such kindness.
[Illustration: THE TWITCH-UP.]
Although loving the cold, and choosing the winter season to be with us,
the snow-birds cannot hold their own against the little hardy chickadee.
Indeed, I sometimes think that this little frost-proof puff is happier
and more sprightly in proportion as the cold increases, and that even
the sight of a frozen thermometer would be, perhaps, an especial
inspiration for his song. Not so the little snow-birds. When those raw
and bitter winds sweep like a blight over the face of nature, their
little song is frozen, and their familiar forms are seen no more. You
hunt amid the evergreens and hedge-rows, but they are not there. But
when the shingle-vane on the old barn-gable veers and points toward the
south or west, should you chance to be in the neighborhood of the
barrack mow, you would hear the muffled twittering of the little thawing
voices underneath the conical roof. Here they have assembled among the
wheat-sheaves still unthreshed, finding a warm and cosy shelter--“a
pavilion till the storm is overpast.”
The winter woods are full of life and beauty, if we will only look for
them. We do as much for the summer woods, why not for the winter? Were
we to seclude ourselves in-doors in June, and shut our eyes to all its
loveliness, it would be only what so many do from November till the
budding spring. In one respect, at least, the woods are even more
beautiful in winter than in summer; for in their height of leafy
splendor--sometimes to me almost oppressive in its universal
greenness--the true and living tree is hidden from sight, its exquisite
anatomy is concealed, and, to a certain degree, all the different trees
melt into a mass of “nothing but leaves.”
No one ever sees the full charm of the forest who turns his back upon it
in the winter, for its clear-cut tree-forms are an unceasing delight and
wonder. Look at the exquisite lines of that drooping birch, the
intricate interlacing tracery of the minute branching twigs! Could
anything be more graceful or more chaste? could any covering of leaves
enhance its beauty? And so the apple-tree by the old stone wall--how
different its various angles! how individual in its character! how
beautiful its silhouette against the sky! Thus every separate tree
affords a perfect study, of infinite design. See that mottled beech
trunk yonder. What! never noticed it before? That was because its
drooping leaf-clad branches concealed its beauty; but now not only does
it emerge from its wonted obscurity, but the whiteness of the snowy
ground beyond gives added value to every subtle tint upon its dappled
surface. Step nearer. With what variety of exquisite tender grays has
nature painted the clean smooth bark! See those marbled variegations,
each spot with a distinct tint of its own, and each tint composed of a
multitude of microscopic points of color. Here we see a fimbriated
blotch of dark olive moss, spreading its intertwining rootlets in all
directions, and further up a spongy tuft of rich brown lichen tipped
with snow. Who could pass by unnoticed such a refined and exquisite bit
of painting as this? And yet they abound on every side. See the shingly
shagbark, with its mottlings of pale green lichen and orange spots, its
jagged outline so perfectly relieved against the snow, and, beyond, that
group of rock-maples, with its bold contrasts of deep green moss, and
striped tints of most varied shades, from lightest drab to deepest
brown. And there is the yellow birch with its tight-wound bark, fringed
with ravellings of buff-colored satin. Here we come upon a clump of
chestnuts, their cool trunks set off in bold relief against a background
of dark hemlocks, whose outer branches, clothed in snow, like tufted
mittens, hang low upon the ground.
[Illustration: THE WINTER’S DARLING.]
Passing from the wood, we now pick our way through a neglected by-path
shut in on either side with birches, whose brown and slender branches
spring from a trunk so white as to be almost lost in the background tint
of snow. At every step we dislodge the glistening wreaths of snowy
flakes from the bluish raspberry canes. The little withered nests on the
tips of the wild-carrot stems hurl their fleecy burden to the ground;
and each in turn the phantom shapes give place to homely yarrows,
golden-rods, or thistles. Further on we see a wild-rose branch with
scarlet berries, and further st--What’s that? A fleet-footed little
creature darts out almost from under our very feet, and bounds away into
the dark recess. That little cotton tail! what a tempting target it
always was for me! Lucky for you, my dear little fellow, that I am not a
boy again, or I’d set a snare for you in about ten minutes. This always
was a favorite haunt for hares, and if we had only kept our eyes open we
might have known it, for, see! all around us the snow is dotted with
hollows from their four little jumping foot-pads.
[Illustration: “WHO’S THAT?”]
Now we enter the old swamp lot, thick-set with bristling bulrushes and
bare and spindling brooms of iron-weed. Here is the little turtle pond,
from whose animated mud we fished the bugs and polly-wogs for our
aquarium. Now it is shrunken and cold with crackling ice. Around its
borders a thicket of black alder grows, its close-clinging scarlet
berries, half hid in summer by the overhanging foliage, now seen in all
their brilliancy and profusion, the brightest touches of color in
nature’s winter landscape.
Soon we are walking over the soft and silent carpet in the pine grove’s
sombre shelter, stopping for one brief moment to listen to the sighing
wind overhead, and to inhale one long and lasting whiff of the delicious
invigorating aroma of the trees.
Once more out in the open, our attention is arrested by a little stain
of blood upon the snow. Leading to the spot we see a row of tiny
imprints of some little field-mouse, and the white surface in close
vicinity is ruffled and disturbed. A cruel tragedy has been committed
here, and its evidence is plain, for there is but one line of wee
footprints from the little hole beneath the stump near by--no return.
Poor little fellow! I wish I had beneath my foot the sharp-eyed owl that
surprised you in your little antics on the snow.
[Illustration: SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE WOODS.]
A deserted nest now hangs across our pathway, and as I look upon the
cold heap within its hollow, I wonder where are the little birds that
nestled beneath the mother’s wings in the cosy warmth of that cradled
home only a few short months ago. And now I am reminded that nearly all
this land through which we have been strolling belongs to Nathan Beers;
for there’s his house right across the road, only a few rods in front of
us. I cannot help but laugh as I look over into that old door-yard at
the incident it recalls.
I remember how, about fifteen years ago, I came up through these very
woods into the clearing where we stand, and saw old Nathan, with
slouched straw hat and stoga boots, entering his front gate. He was
muttering and gesticulating to himself; and on the gravel behind him he
trailed along a huge steel trap and clinking chain. He evidently had a
strong opinion on _some_ subject, and I knew pretty well what that
subject _was_.
“Hello, Nathan!” I ask, “what’s up?”
He turns quickly, and I observe that his usually good-natured Yankee
face now wears a troubled expression.
“My dander’s up--that’s what’s up,” he replies, a little sullenly.
“They tell me you’ve been after a fox, Nathan; did you catch him?”
“No, ’n I don’t cal’late to try agin nuther, he’s _airnt his livi’_ fer
all _me_;” and with an impetuous fling he sent the old trap into a
corner of the wood-shed.
I am soon by his side, anxious to hear all about it. “What’s the fox
done?” I ask, eagerly.
“What _hain’t_ he done, yeu better say. I never see nuthin’ t’ beat it
since uz born, ’n I’ve ketched tew er three on ’em afore naow, teu. I’ve
heern tell o’ them critters’ cunnin’, but I swaiou I alliz thort ez haow
folks wuz _coddi’_; but _thar_, yeu can’t tell me nuthin’ ’baout
_foxes_. It’s nigh cum a fortnit thet I’ve been arter thet feller, ’n I
swar teu gosh all hemlock! I hain’t got so much’s one on his pesky red
hairs teu _show_ for’t, ’n I’m _sick_ on’t. I tell ye that ar feller is
_mischievouser than pizen_, ’n his hed’s as long as a horse’s.”
“Why, what’s he been doing, Nathan?”
[Illustration: A SUNNY CORNER.]
“_Doin’?_ why fer considerable of a spell back he’s bin hangin’ raoun’
my hen-roost an’ pickin’ off my brammys; thet’s what he’s bin doin’, ’n
the _fust_ time I sot the trap I stuck it under some chaff in the hole
yender in the hen-haouse jest arter the hens hed gone ter
roost--cal’latin’ as haow I’d wait a spell, ’n then go ’n take it away.
I thort that ’ud fetch him sure; but _thar_, deu yeu b’leeve, I heern
thet feller cum’ sneakin’ along putty soon, ’n he cum’ raoun’ to t’other
side ’n scairt all the hens aout the hole. I heern a great squawkin’, ’n
I put fer the place ez tight ez I cud, ’n thar I see my best dorkin’ hen
in the trap. Ef I’d only gyn the feller time, like’s not he’d a chawed
off her leg, ’n lugged her off to his hole in the rocks yender. I tell
ye, everybody araoun’ what’s got hens hez hed to take thet feller’s
sass, ’n they’d orter be an end on’t. There’s old Reuben Scales, so poor
he hain’t got a pa’r o’ pants teu his back, ’n dependin’ on his faowls
fer his meat vittles; why, they tell me daown t’ the store thet he’s bin
jest _cleaned right aout_, ’n hain’t got even a ha’r-backed pullet left.
They ain’t no _gunni’_ nuther. Thet red-haired thief hez knabbed every
tarnal pattridge ’n Bob White they iz.”
And so he went on for half an hour, telling me all the various
stratagems by which Reynard had outwitted him.
“I set it thar in the pine woods in a bed of pine needles, with the ded
rabbit hangin’ over it, ’n the next day I see by the scratched up dirt
haow the feller hed jumped clean over the trap at a _lick_, ’n taken his
rabbit on a fly. Yeu kin laff; but what I’m tellin’ ye is az true az
preachin’. So yest’d’y I lit aout on a new idee, ’n set the trap on top
a stump cluss teu a tree ’n covered it with leaves. I hung the bait on
the tree higher up, ’n sez I, old feller, I’ve got ye naow, sez I. I
left it thar. I went daown thar agin this mornin’, ’n I’ve _jest cum_
from thar. _No more fox fer me_; s’elp me gosh!”
“Why,” I ask, “what was the matter down there, Nathan?”
“Why, _blame my stogys_, ef the feller hadn’t gone ’n highsted the
clog-stick on the end o’ the chain, ’n shoved it agin the pan, ’n sprung
the trap on’t, ’n then stepped up and knabbed the bait. An’ I say thet
enny feller what’s got brains enuff fer thet, I swaiou he’d oughter
_live_ off’n um; ’n he _kin_ fer all _me_!”
[Illustration: WINTER BROWSING.]
It was too bad to have fooled old Nathan so; but then, you see, he had a
big farm, and was awfully stingy with us boys, and never would let us
set a rabbit snare on his place. He said it was “pesky _cruel_,” and
seemed to prefer the more humane way of wounding them with shot, and
breaking their necks afterward to end their sufferings. Nathan had kept
very quiet about his little game. There really was a very sly fox in the
neighborhood; but boys make good foxes too, sometimes.
[Illustration: A JANUARY THAW.]
Nathan’s house was a typical New England home, with slanting roof on one
side, and embowered in maples, and it had the most picturesque barn in
the neighborhood. Oh you good people far off in the country everywhere,
how I envy you these dear old barns! How much you ought to appreciate
their homely rustic beauty! But you never will, until, like me, you are
forced to live away from them, and to see them only through the golden
haze of memory. Then you will learn how great a part they took in
influencing your daily life and happiness.