A Spring Day—The Sky—The Mountains—The Streams—The Woods—The Open
Fields—Domestic Animals—Poetry—The Poultry-yard.
Plauterkill Clove. May.
May is near its close, and I am still in the valley of the Hudson.
Spring is indeed come again, and this, for the present year, has been
its day of triumph. The moment I awoke at dawn, this morning, I knew by
intuition that it would be so, and I bounded from my couch like a
startled deer, impatient for the cool delicious air. Spring is upon the
earth once more, and a new life is given me of enjoyment and hope. The
year is in its childhood, and my heart clings to it with a sympathy,
that I feel must be immortal and divine. What I have done to-day, I
cannot tell: I only know that my body has been tremulous with feeling,
and my eyes almost blinded with seeing. Every hour has been fraught with
a new emotion of delight, and presented to my vision numberless pictures
of surpassing beauty. I have held communion with the sky, the mountains,
the streams, the woods, and the fields; and these, if you please, shall
be themes of my present chapter.
The sky! It has been of as deep an azure, and as serene, as ever
canopied the world. It seemed as if you could look through it, into the
illimitable home of the angels—could almost behold the glory which
surrounds the Invisible. Three clouds alone have attracted my attention.
One was the offspring of the dawn, and encircled by a rim of gold; the
next was the daughter of noon, and white as the driven snow; and the
last of evening, and robed in deepest crimson. Wayward and coquettish
creatures were these clouds! Their chief ambition seemed to be to
display their charms to the best advantage, as if conscious of their
loveliness; and, at sunset, when the light lay pillowed on the
mountains, it was a joyous sight to see them, side by side, like three
sweet sisters, as they were, going home. Each one was anxious to favour
the world with its own last smile, and by their changing places so
often, you would have thought they were all unwilling to depart. But
they were the ministers of the Sun, and he would not tarry for them;
and, while he beckoned them to follow on, the Evening Star took his
station in the sky, and bade them depart: and when I looked again, they
were gone. Never more, thought I, will those clouds be a source of joy
to a human heart. And in this respect, also, they seemed to me to be the
emblems of those beautiful but thoughtless maidens, who spend the flower
of youth trifling with the affections of all whom they have the power to
fascinate.
The mountains! In honour of the season which has just clothed them in
the richest green, they have this day displayed every one of their
varied and interesting charms. At noon, as I lay under the shadow of a
tree, watching them “with a look made of all sweet accord,” my face was
freshened by a breeze. It appeared to come from the summit of South
Peak, and to be the voice of the Catskills I listened, and these were
the words which echoed through my ear:
“Of all the seasons, oh, Spring! thou art the most beloved, and to us,
always the most welcome. Joy and gladness ever attend thy coming, for we
know that the ‘winter is past, the rains are over and gone, the time of
the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in
our land.’ And we know, too, that from thy hands flow unnumbered
blessings. Thou softenest the earth, that the husbandman may sow his
seed, which shall yield him a thousand fold at the harvest. Thou
releasest the rivers from their icy fetters, that the wings of commerce
may be unfurled once more. Thou givest food to the cattle upon a
thousand hills, that they, in their turn, may furnish man with necessary
food, and also assist him in his domestic labours. Thou coverest the
earth with a garniture of freshest loveliness, that the senses of man
may be gratified, and his thoughts directed to Him who hath created all
things, and pronounced them good. And, finally, thou art the hope of the
year, and thine admonitions, which are of the future, have a tendency to
emancipate the thoughts of man from this world, and the troubles which
may surround him here, and fix them upon that clime where an eternal
spring abides.” “The voice in my dreaming ear melted away,” and I heard
the roaring of the streams as they fretted their way down the rocky
steeps.
The streams! Such “trumpets” as they have blown to-day, would, I am
afraid, have caused Mr. Wordsworth to exclaim:
“The cataracts—_make a devilish noise up yonder_.”
The fact is, as “all the earth is gay,” and all the springs among the
mountains are “giving themselves up to jollity,” the streams are full to
overflowing, and rush along with a “vindictive looseness,” because of
the burden they have to bear. The falls and cascades, which make such
exquisite pictures in the summer months, are now fearful to behold, for,
in their anger, every now and then they toss some giant tree into an
abyss of foam, which makes one tremble with fear. But after the streams
have left the mountains, and are running through the bottom-lands, they
still appear to be displeased with something, and at every turn they
take, delve into the “bowels of the harmless earth,” making it dangerous
for the angler to approach too near, but rendering the haunt of the
trout more spacious and commodious than before. The streams are about
the only things I cannot praise to-day, and I hope it will not rain for
a month to come, if this is the way they intend to act whenever we have
a number of delightful showers.
The woods! A goodly portion of the day have I spent in one of their most
secret recesses. I went with Shakspeare under my arm, but could not
read, any more than fly, so I stretched myself at full length on a huge
log, and kept a sharp look-out for anything that might send me a waking
dream. The brotherhood of trees clustered around me, laden with leaves
just bursting into full maturity, and possessing that delicate and
peculiar green, which lasts but a single day, and never returns. A
fitful breeze swept through them, so that ever and anon I fancied a
gushing fountain to be near, or that a company of ladies fair were come
to visit me, and that I heard the rustle of their silken kirtles. And
now my eyes rested on a tree, that was entirely leafless, and almost
without a limb. Instead of grass at its foot, was a heap of dry leaves,
and not a bush or vine grew anywhere near it, but around its neighbours
they grew in great abundance. It seemed branded with a curse, alone,
forsaken of its own, and despised by all. Can this, thought I, be an
emblem of any human being? Strange that it should be, but it is
nevertheless too true. Only one week ago I saw a poor miserable maniac
bound hand and foot, driven from “home and all its treasures,” and
carried to a dark, damp prison-house in a neighbouring town. I can be
reconciled to the mystery of a poisonous reptile’s existence, but it is
very hard to understand for what good purpose a maniac is created.
Another object I noticed, was a little tree about five feet high,
completely covered with blossoms of a gaudy hue. At first, I tried to
gather something poetical out of this thing, but with all my endeavours,
I could not. It caused me a real hearty laugh as the idea expanded, for
it reminded me of a certain maiden lady of my acquaintance, who is old,
stunted, very fond of tall men and always strutting round under a weight
of jewelry. But oh! what beautiful flowers did I notice in that shady
grove, whose whispering thrilled me with delight! Their names? I cannot
tell them to you, fair reader; they ought to have no names, any more
than a cloud or a foam-bell on the river. Some were blue, some white,
some purple, and some scarlet. There were little parties of them on
every side; and as the wind swayed their delicate stems, I could not but
fancy they were living creatures, the personified thoughts perhaps of
happy and innocent children. Occasionally, too, I noticed a sort of
straggler peeping at me from beside a hillock of moss, or from under the
branches of a fallen tree, as if surprised at my temerity in entering
its secluded haunt. Birds also were around me in that greenwood
sanctuary, singing their hymns of praise to the Father of mercies for
the return of spring. The nests of the females being already built, they
had nothing to do but be happy, anticipating the time when they
themselves should be the “dealers-out of some small blessings” to their
helpless broods. As to their mates, they were about as independent,
restless and noisy as might be expected, very much as any rational man
would be who was the husband of a young and beautiful wife.
But the open fields to-day have superabounded with pictures to please
and instruct the mind. I know not where to begin to describe them. Shall
it be at the very threshold of our farm-house? Well, then, only look at
those lilac trees in the garden, actually top-heavy with purple and
white flowering pyramids. The old farmer has just cut a number of large
branches, and given them to his little daughter to carry to her mother,
who will distribute them between the mantel-piece, the table, and the
fire-place of the family sitting-room. But what ambrosial odour is that
which now salutes the senses? It comes not from the variegated corner of
the garden, where the tulip, the violet, the hyacinth, the blue bell,
and the lily of the valley are vieing to outstrip each other in their
attire; nor, from that clover-covered lawn, besprinkled with
butter-cups, strawberry blossoms, and honey-suckles; but from the
orchard, every one of whose trees are completely covered with snow-white
blossoms. And from their numberless petals emanates the murmur of bees,
as they are busy extracting the luscious honey.
What an abundance of fruit—of apples, cherries, peaches and pears, do
these sweet blossoms promise! But next week there may be a bitter frost;
and this is the lesson which my heart learns. Now that I am in the
spring-time of life, my hopes, in number and beauty, are like the
blossoms of trees, and I know not but they may even on the morrow be
withered by the chilly breath of the grave. But let us loiter farther
on. The western slope of this gentle hill is equally divided, and of two
different shades of green; one is planted with rye, and the other with
wheat. The eastern slope of the hill has lately been loosened by the
plough, and is of a sombre colour, but to my eye not less pleasing than
the green. And this view is enlivened with figures besides—for a farmer
and two boys are planting corn, the latter opening the bed with their
hoes, and the former dropping in the seed (which he carries in a bag
slung at his side), and covering it with his foot. And now, fluttering
over their heads is a roguish bob-o-link, scolding about something in
their wake; at a respectful distance, and hopping along the ground are a
number of robins; and on the nearest fence a meadow-lark and bluebird
are “holding on for a bite.” But there is no end to these rural
pictures, so I will just take my reader into this neighbouring
meadow-pasture, thence into the poultry-yard at home, and conclude my
present rhapsody.
Here we are, then, in the midst of various domestic animals. Yonder, a
couple of black colts are chasing each other in play, while their
venerable mother (for they are brothers, though not twins) is standing a
little way off, watching their antics, and twisting about her ears, as
she remembers the happy days of her own colthood. Here are some half
dozen hearty cows, lying down and grazing, each one with a “pledge of
affection” sporting about her. There are six or eight oxen, eating away
as fast as they can, while one, who seems to be a sentinel, occasionally
rolls up his eye to see if the farmer is coming to renew his song of
“haw! gee! gee! haw!” Under the shadow of that old oak is a flock of
sheep, with their lambs bounding beside them, as to the “tabor’s sound;”
but to me there comes no “thought of grief” at the sight, wherein I must
be suffered to disagree with Wordsworth, to whom I have already alluded
once or twice, and whose celebrated and most wonderful Ode has been
echoing in my heart all the day long. Some of the lines in it are
appropriate to the day, the charms of which I am attempting to make you
feel, reader, and you will oblige me by reading and inwardly digesting,
the following fragments of a whole, and yet really complete poems:—
“The sunshine is a glorious birth”
“The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.”
“And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm.”
“Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.”
“Full soon thy soul shalt have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as fate, and deep almost as life.”
“O joy, that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive.”
“To me, the meanest flower that blows, can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
Strange, that a rational man, after dwelling upon such poetry, should be
willing to go into a poultry-yard. But why not? I would rather do this
willingly than be compelled, as I have been, and may be again, to hear a
man say, after reading to him Wordsworth’s great Ode—“Why! of what use
is such stuff? what does it prove? will it furnish a man with bread and
butter? will it make the pot boil?” The people of the poultry-yard have
been in such glee to-day, and contributed so much to the gladness of the
day, that I must pay them a passing tribute.
In the first place, our old gobbler, with his retinue of turkey wives,
has been on the point of bursting with pride ever since sunrise. If the
Grand Sultan of Turkey (who must be the father of all turkeys) cuts the
same kind of capers in the presence of his hundred ladies, Turkey must
be a great country for lean people to “laugh and grow fat in.” Our
gobbler is a feathered personification of Jack Falstaff, possessing his
prominent trait of cowardice to perfection. I flourished a red
handkerchief in his face this morning, and, by the way he strutted round
and gobbled, you would have thought he was going to devour you. About
ten minutes after this, I threw down a handful of corn, which was
intended for his particular palate. While he was busy picking it up, a
certain cock stepped alongside and commenced picking too: the intruder,
having got in the way of the gobbler, was suddenly pushed aside;
whereupon the gentleman with spurs chuckled and “showed fight,” but the
gobbler for a moment heeded him not. This the cock could not bear, so he
pounced upon his enemy, and whipped him without mercy, until the coward
and fool ran away, with his long train of affectionate wives following
behind.
The cocks, hens and chickens, which have figured in the yard to-day,
would more than number a hundred, and such cackling, crowing, chuckling,
and crying as they have made, was anything but a “concord of sweet
sounds.” But the creatures have been happy, and it was therefore a
pleasure to look at them. A young hen this morning made her first
appearance with a large brood of chickens, yellow as gold, and this
caused quite a sensation among the feathered husbands generally. The
mother, as she rambled about, seemed to say by her pompous air, to her
daughterless friends—“ar’nt they beautiful? don’t you wish you had a
few?” It was also very funny to see with what looks of astonishment the
youthful cocks surveyed these “infant phenomenons.” As to our ducks, and
geese, and guinea hens, they have minded their business pretty well—the
two former paddling about the creek and mud-puddles, and the latter
“between meals” roaming at large through the orchard and garden,
altogether the most beautiful and rational of the feathered tribes.
A mountaineer, who is to take this queer record to the post-office, is
waiting for me, and I must close,—hoping that the country pictures I
have endeavoured to sketch may have a tendency to make my reader feel a
portion of that joy, which has characterized this delightful Spring Day.