sweet-scented hay? and was ever an interior so truly picturesque, so
full of quiet harmony?
The lofty hay-mows piled nearly to the roof, the jagged axe-notched
beams overhung with cobwebs flecked with dust of hay-seed, with perhaps
a downy feather here and there. The rude, quaint hen boxes, with the
lone nest-egg in little nooks and corners. How vividly, how lovingly, I
recall each one!
In those snow-bound days, when the white flakes shut in the earth down
deep beneath, and the drifts obstructed the highways, and we heard the
noisy teamsters, with snap of whip and exciting shouts, urge their
straining oxen through the solid barricade; when all the fences and
stone walls were almost lost to sight in the universal avalanche; and,
best of all, when the little district school-house upon the hill stood
in an impassable sea of snow--then we assembled in the old barn to play,
sought out every hidden corner in our game of hide-and-seek, or jumped
and frolicked in the hay, now stopping quietly to listen to the tiny
squeak of some rustling mouse near by, or, it may be, creeping
cautiously to the little hole up near the eaves in search of the
big-eyed owl we once caught napping there. In a hundred ways we passed
the fleeting hours. The general features of New England barns are all
alike; and the barn of memory is a garner full of treasure sweet as
new-mown hay. You remember the great broad double doors, which made
their sweeping circuit in the snow; the ruddy pumpkins, piled up in the
corner near the bins, and the wistful whinny of the old farm-horse, as
with pricked-up ears and eager pull of chain he urged your prompt
attention to your chores; the cows, too, in the manger stalls--how
pleasant their low breathing--how sweet their perfumed breath! Outside
the corn-crib stands, its golden stores gleaming through the open laths,
and the oxen, reaching with lapping upturned tongues, yearn for the
tempting feast, “so near and yet so far.” The party-colored hens group
themselves in rich contrast against the sunny boards of the
weather-beaten shed, and the ducks and geese, with rattling croak and
husky hiss, and quick vibrating tails (that strange contagion), waddle
across the slushy snow, and sail out upon the barn-yard pond.
Here is the pile of husks from whose bleached and rustling sheaths you
picked the little ravellings of brown for your corn-silk cigarettes. Did
ever “pure Havana” taste as sweet?
[Illustration: THE MOONLIGHT RIDE.]
Near by we see the barracks stored with yellow sheaves of wheat. Soon we
shall hear the intermittent music of the beating flail on the old barn
floor, now chinking soft on the broken sheaf, now loud and clear on the
sounding boards. Upon the roof above we see the cooing doves, with
nodding heads and necks gleaming with iridescent sheen. Turning, in
another corner we look upon a miscellaneous group of ploughs and rakes
and all the farm utensils, and harness hanging on the wooden pegs.
There, too, is the little sleigh we love so well. Could it but speak,
how sweet a story it could tell of lovely drives through romantic glens
and moonlit woods, of tender squeezes of the little hand beneath the
covering robe, of whispered vows, and of the encircling arm--a shelter
from the cold and cruel wind! But no--I’ll say no more: these are
memories too sacred for the common ear. And there’s the carry-all sleigh
just by its side. How well you’ll remember the merry loads it carried,
its three wide seats and space between packed full of jolly company! How
the hard-pressed snow squeaked beneath the gliding runners, as with
prancing span and jingling bells you sped down through the village
street, with waving handkerchiefs and cheerful greetings right and left!
How with “ducking” heads and muffled screams you ran the gauntlet past
the school-house mob; saw them scrambling for “a hitch,” and with
tantalizing beckonings tipped your horses with the whip. Away you go
through the deep ravine, with a _jing, jing, jing_ on the frosty air,
with voices high in merry laughs, amid loud hurrahs from the
“boysterous” crowd now far behind. Now you speed through a mist of
drifting snow, and the rosy cheeks tingle with the stinging icy flakes
flying before the wind. Now comes another chorus of piercing screams, as
the laden hemlock bough, tapped with mischievous whip, hurls down its
fleecy avalanche on coat and robe, on jaunty little hat--yes, and on a
small pink ear, and even down a pretty neck. Ah me! How is it possible
that a shriek like that could come from a throat so fair? But so you go,
with a _jing, jing, jing_, now past the mill-pond with its game, now up
the hill, now through the woods and far away, now farther still, the
silvery bells now scarcely heard, now fainter yet, till lost to sight
and sound--but not to memory dear; for all through life we shall hear
those happy jingling bells.
And when, with ruddy faces and stamping feet, we all rush in and crowd
the old fireplace, how welcome the glowing warmth, how keen the relish
for the appetizing spread upon the snow-white table-cloth: the smoking
dish of beans, with crisp accompaniment of luscious pork; the hot brown
bread so sweet; and, last of all, the far-famed Indian pudding, fresh
and steaming from the old brick oven!
How distinctly I recall those long and happy evenings around that
radiant hearth, the games, the stories read from welcome magazines!
Little we cared for the howling storm without. I hear the tick of the
ancient clock in the corner shadowed by the old arm-chair; I see the
glimmer on the whitewashed wall, the festooned strings of apples, sliced
and hung above the fire to dry; I hear the patient, expectant stroke of
hammer on the upturned log, and now the crackling burst of the
rough-shelled butternut, yielding up its long and filmy kernel; I hear
the apples sizzling on the hearth, the puffy snap of pop-corn jumping in
its fiery cage, the kettle singing on the pendent hook--a thousand
things; and what a precious living picture of sweet home-life they all
bring back to me!
But look! there is another hidden picture in the book of life--a
shadowed page, which we had well-nigh forgotten. See that crouching
figure in the dark, deserted street--that spurned and wretched outcast,
without a home, without a friend! Perhaps if that broken heart has not
already ceased to yearn, if the last spark has not yet been smothered by
the driving, covering snow, we might still hear the faint and stifled
sobs:
[Illustration: THE SHADOWED PAGE.]
“Once I was loved for my innocent grace,
Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.
Father, mother, sisters, all,
God, and myself, I have lost in my fall.
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by
Will take a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh,
For of all that is on or about me, I know,
There is nothing that’s pure but the beautiful snow.
How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it would be, when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain,
Fainting, freezing, dying alone!”
Life’s book is full of shadowed pages such as this; and it were well if
in the midst of our contented homes, around our cheerful fires, we
stopped to think and give a silent, heart-felt prayer for those who, by
some strange, inexplicable fatality, seem doomed to walk with cruel
burdens and with bleeding feet the path of life: no helping hand, no
friend, no hope, no God.
What a terrible night! Hark how the wind moans, like a long wail from
some despairing soul shut out in the awful storm! The air is filled with
dense clouds of flying snow and sleet chased along by the gale. The
trees bend and writhe, and, as if in fear, scratch their boughs upon the
roof; the driving flakes beat with an angry, hissing sound upon the
window-panes, and for a moment there is a muffled, ominous silence. Now
comes a wild and furious gust, and a great white whirlwind sweeps with
serpentine contortions past the window and disappears in the thick
darkness of the night. Our very walls sway and tremble to their
foundation. The clap-boards snap, and some loosened blind is torn from
its hinges and hurled as a feather before the raging wind. We hear a
crash of breaking glass, the shaking of the old barn doors, and now a
frightened neigh, half smothered in the storm.
Who would venture out in such a night as this? We shudder at the
thought, and yet there is one whose holy sense of duty will see no
barrier even in this fierce tempest. Even now he is urging his faithful
horse onward through the lonely road, cold and benumbed, but thinking
only of the suffering he hopes to relieve.
How well I remember the welcome stamping at the front door, the chinking
rattle of the tin box sounding nearer and nearer up the stairs, the tall
and stately figure entering the room, clad in great-coat reaching nearly
to the floor, the genial smile bringing both hope and comfort with its
very presence! And what a noble face! the shapely forehead, the snowy
tufts of close-cut hair, the magnetic, penetrating eyes, so deep and
dark, looking out from beneath the heavy jet-black brows, and the
clean-shaven cheeks and chin, of almost child-like bloom, relieved
against the whiteness of the stock about the throat! Never before were
winter and summer so strangely and beautifully blended in a human face.
But we shall see that face no more. Physician, friend, companion, all
were laid away with him, and sad indeed was the day that bore him from
us. And now, as I look down upon that humble grave, I would that others,
with the reverence I feel, might read the sacred epitaph inscribed upon
my memory, of one whose only aim through life was the relief of
suffering and sorrow. In storm or calm, by day or night, he fulfilled
his holy mission. And when the fearful scourge swept o’er the town, and
filled its homes with woe; when friends deserted friends, and brothers
left their kin, this noble soul sought out the sick and dying, cared
tenderly for their sufferings until the end, and even laid the dead away
alone. A life of sacrifice, for rich or poor alike, without a thought of
self. Professing no religious faith--yea, _doubting_ even; but finding
in the precept of the “golden rule” an inspiration worthy the devotion
and the effort of his life: “By their _fruits_ ye shall know them.”
[Illustration: THE GOOD PHYSICIAN.]
And so the winter goes. It has its joys and its sorrows, its strong
contrasts of light and shadow. The bitter winds will freeze and rule the
earth, but the sun will shine again, and the very gloom transform to
glittering splendor. Soon we greet the lengthening days. The farmer
heeds the warning sign. The woods resound with the stroke of the axe and
crashing of falling trees; and the prostrate trunks are rolled upon the
sledge and hauled away “to mill;” the fields are strewn with compost,
and meadows sown with clover on the snow, fences are fixed, and hot-bed
started on the sunny slope; the cackling hens have felt the prophecy,
and steal away into snug little places among the hay-mows and the
mangers, and lay the foundation of their future brood; the climbing
bitter-sweet lets fall its scarlet seeds, and the little pussies on the
willows grow day by day. How eagerly I always watched these welcome
signs! for even though I loved the winter, I never sorrowed at its
departure in the face of coming spring, with its promises of the medleys
of the birds, of unfolding buds, and those sweet shy faces soon to peep
along the wood-path, and breathe their fragrance from among the withered
leaves.
I remember, too, the faded butterfly, flitting about the wood-shed roof.
His wings were torn and jagged at their edges, and their feathery beauty
had nearly all been left among last summer’s flowers. Warned by November
frosts, he had sought his winter shelter in some chink or crevice among
the loosened boards, where, benumbed and dormant, he had spent the
winter, awaiting the warmth of the returning sun to thaw him out, and
once more coax him into the outer world. As early as February, should
the day be mild, he would come out of his mysterious concealment and
bask in the warm sunshine. Presently he alights upon the end of a
birch-log in the wood-pile, and sips the sweet exuding sap. He is soon
joined by another, and another, until a swarm has gathered at the feast.
As the day declines, they retire again to the wood-shed, and there,
huddled together on the rafters, await their next opportunity of mild
and sunny weather. Even in a January thaw I have seen one of these faded
butterflies that had left his hiding-place to tantalize a troop of hens
around the barn-yard door.
I remember the torrent of rain and the freshet; the broken dams and
bridges washed away. The softened ground yielded up its subterranean
frosts; in all the trees the winter wounds bled with the quickened
pulse; the elder spigots in the sugar-maples trickled all the day; and
the neighboring farms echoed with the snap of whip and voice of eager
teamsters, as the busy plough turned the dark-brown furrows, or the
crushing harrow combed the crumbling mould. How welcome were the
evidences of returning life among the low meadow-lands, where
velvety-green tufts of sprouting grass circled the borders of the marshy
pools, and the golden willow twigs bathed the brook-side in a luminous
glow! Here, too, the alders hung their swinging tassels or trailed them
o’er the surface of the swollen stream.
One by one the feathered flocks returned, and the little snow-birds and
the buntings, seeing their place usurped, left for the northward
region, to lend their cheerful voices to another winter. Then came a
beautiful day, with mild, earth-scented breezes, like very spring. But
at night the north wind came again to reassert its power, and the earth
was once more subdued beneath the snow. And so for weeks the north wind
battled with the sun,
[Illustration:
Till at last the sweet Arbutus
Nestling close on Nature’s breast
Felt a throb · a warm pulsation
Rouse it from its dreamy rest·
Throwing wide its little portals
From its coverlet of snow
It peeped forth from the leafy shelter
Into a valley white below·
“Am I dreaming? · Shall the Winter
Stifle and freeze my early breath
Nay · hark! · I hear the Bluebird singing
’Spring has come’ he answereth·
“Ah! Frost-flower in thy grotto yonder
Crystal sun-gem white and clear
Thy reign must cease when I awaken
Farewell! pale bloom · thy fate draws near·
Bleak Winter is thine
Love’s Spring-time is mine·
]
End of Project Gutenberg's Pastoral Days, by William Hamilton Gibson