the bridge, thence pursuing a cross-road through the woods, parallel with
the river, which I crossed again at Dedham. Most of the road lay through
a growth of young oaks principally. They still retain their verdure,
though, looking closely in among them, one perceives the broken sunshine
falling on a few sere or bright-hued tufts of shrubbery. In low, marshy
spots, on the verge of the meadows or along the river-side, there is a
much more marked autumnal change. Whole ranges of bushes are there
painted with many variegated lines, not of the brightest tint, but of a
sober cheerfulness. I suppose this is owing more to the late rains than
to the frost; for a heavy rain changes the foliage somewhat at this
season. The first marked frost was seen last Saturday morning. Soon
after sunrise it lay, white as snow, over all the grass, and on the tops
of the fences, and in the yard, on the heap of firewood. On Sunday, I
think, there was a fall of snow, which, however, did not lie on the
ground a moment.
There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on,
and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October.
The sunshine is peculiarly genial; and in sheltered places, as on the
side of a bank, or of a barn or house, one becomes acquainted and
friendly with the sunshine. It seems to be of a kindly and homely
nature. And the green grass, strewn with a few withered leaves, looks
the more green and beautiful for them. In summer or spring, Nature is
farther from one's sympathies.
October 8th.--Another gloomy day, lowering with portents of rain close at
hand. I have walked up into the pastures this morning, and looked about
me a little. The woods present a very diversified appearance just now,
with perhaps more varieties of tint than they are destined to wear at a
somewhat later period. There are some strong yellow hues, and some deep
red; there are innumerable shades of green, some few having the depth of
summer; others, partially changed towards yellow, look freshly verdant
with the delicate tinge of early summer or of May. Then there is the
solemn and dark green of the pines. The effect is, that every tree in
the wood and every bush among the shrubbery has a separate existence,
since, confusedly intermingled, each wears its peculiar color, instead of
being lost in the universal emerald of summer. And yet there is a
oneness of effect likewise, when we choose to look at a whole sweep of
woodland instead of analyzing its component trees. Scattered over the
pasture, which the late rains have kept tolerably green, there are spots
or islands of dusky red,--a deep, substantial line, very well fit to be
close to the ground,--while the yellow, and light, fantastic shades of
green soar upward to the sky. These red spots are the blueberry and
whortleberry bushes. The sweetfern is changed mostly to russet, but
still retains its wild and delightful fragrance when pressed in the hand.
Wild China-asters are scattered about, but beginning to wither. A little
while ago, mushrooms or toadstools were very numerous along the
wood-paths and by the roadsides, especially after rain. Some were of
spotless white, some yellow, and some scarlet. They are always mysteries
and objects of interest to me, springing as they do so suddenly from no
root or seed, and growing one wonders why. I think, too, that some
varieties are pretty objects, little fairy tables, centre-tables,
standing on one leg. But their growth appears to be checked now, and
they are of a brown tint and decayed.
The farm business to-day is to dig potatoes. I worked a little at it.
The process is to grasp all the stems of a hill and pull them up. A
great many of the potatoes are thus pulled, clinging to the stems and to
one another in curious shapes,--long red things, and little round ones,
imbedded in the earth which clings to the roots. These being plucked
off, the rest of the potatoes are dug out of the hill with a hoe, the
tops being flung into a heap for the cow-yard. On my way home, I paused
to inspect the squash-field. Some of the squashes lay in heaps as they
were gathered, presenting much variety of shape and hue,--as golden
yellow, like great lumps of gold, dark green, striped and variegated; and
some were round, and some lay curling their long necks, nestling, as it
were, and seeming as if they had life.
In my walk yesterday forenoon I passed an old house which seemed
to be quite deserted. It was a two-story, wooden house, dark and
weather-beaten. The front windows, some of them, were shattered and
open, and others were boarded up. Trees and shrubbery were growing
neglected, so as quite to block up the lower part. There was an aged
barn near at hand, so ruinous that it had been necessary to prop it up.
There were two old carts, both of which had lost a wheel. Everything was
in keeping. At first I supposed that there would be no inhabitants in
such a dilapidated place; but, passing on, I looked back, and saw a
decrepit and infirm old man at the angle of the house, its fit occupant.
The grass, however, was very green and beautiful around this dwelling,
and, the sunshine falling brightly on it, the whole effect was cheerful
and pleasant. It seemed as if the world was so glad that this desolate
old place, where there was never to be any more hope and happiness, could
not at all lessen the general effect of joy.
I found a small turtle by the roadside, where he had crept to warm
himself in the genial sunshine. He had a sable back, and underneath his
shell was yellow, and at the edges bright scarlet. His head, tail, and
claws were striped yellow, black, and red. He withdrew himself as far as
he possibly could into his shell, and absolutely refused to peep out,
even when I put him into the water. Finally, I threw him into a deep
pool and left him. These mailed gentlemen, from the size of a foot or
more down to an inch, were very numerous in the spring; and now the
smaller kind appear again.
Saturday, October 9th.--Still dismal weather. Our household, being
composed in great measure of children and young people, is generally a
cheerful one enough, even in gloomy weather. For a week past we have
been especially gladdened with a little seamstress from Boston, about
seventeen years old; but of such a petite figure, that, at first view,
one would take her to be hardly in her teens. She is very vivacious and
smart, laughing and singing and talking all the time,--talking sensibly;
but still taking the view of matters that a city girl naturally would.
If she were larger than she is, and of less pleasing aspect, I think she
might be intolerable; but being so small, and with a fair skin, and as
healthy as a wild-flower, she is really very agreeable; and to look at
her face is like being shone upon by a ray of the sun. She never walks,
but bounds and dances along, and this motion, in her diminutive person,
does not give the idea of violence. It is like a bird, hopping from twig
to twig, and chirping merrily all the time. Sometimes she is rather
vulgar, but even that works well enough into her character, and accords
with it. On continued observation, one discovers that she is not a
little girl, but really a little woman, with all the prerogatives and
liabilities of a woman. This gives a new aspect to her, while the
girlish impression still remains, and is strangely combined with the
sense that this frolicsome maiden has the material for the sober bearing
of a wife. She romps with the boys, runs races with them in the yard,
and up and down the stairs, and is heard scolding laughingly at their
rough play. She asks William Allen to place her "on top of that horse,"
whereupon he puts his large brown hands about her waist, and, swinging
her to and fro, lifts her on horseback. William threatens to rivet two
horseshoes round her neck, for having clambered, with the other girls and
boys, upon a load of hay, whereby the said load lost its balance and slid
off the cart. She strings the seed-berries of roses together, making a
scarlet necklace of them, which she fastens about her throat. She
gathers flowers of everlasting to wear in her bonnet, arranging them with
the skill of a dress-maker. In the evening, she sits singing by the
hour, with the musical part of the establishment, often breaking into
laughter, whereto she is incited by the tricks of the boys. The last
thing one hears of her, she is tripping up stairs to bed, talking
lightsomely or warbling; and one meets her in the morning, the very image
of bright morn itself, smiling briskly at you, so that one takes her for
a promise of cheerfulness through the day. Be it said, with all the
rest, that there is a perfect maiden modesty in her deportment. She has
just gone away, and the last I saw of her was her vivacious face peeping
through the curtain of the cariole, and nodding a gay farewell to the
family, who were shouting their adieus at the door. With her other
merits, she is an excellent daughter, and supports her mother by the
labor of her hands. It would be difficult to conceive beforehand how
much can be added to the enjoyment of a household by mere sunniness of
temper and liveliness of disposition; for her intellect is very ordinary,
and she never says anything worth hearing, or even laughing at, in
itself. But she herself is an expression well worth studying.
Brook Farm, October 9th.--A walk this afternoon to Cow Island. The
clouds had broken away towards noon, and let forth a few sunbeams, and
more and more blue sky ventured to appear, till at last it was really
warm and sunny,--indeed, rather too warm in the sheltered hollows, though
it is delightful to be too warm now, after so much stormy chillness. O
the beauty of grassy slopes, and the hollow ways of paths winding between
hills, and the intervals between the road and wood-lots, where Summer
lingers and sits down, strewing dandelions of gold, and blue asters, as
her parting gifts and memorials! I went to a grapevine, which I have
already visited several times, and found some clusters of grapes still
remaining, and now perfectly ripe. Coming within view of the river, I
saw several wild ducks under the shadow of the opposite shore, which was
high, and covered with a grove of pines. I should not have discovered
the ducks had they not risen and skimmed the surface of the glassy
stream, breaking its dark water with a bright streak, and, sweeping
round, gradually rose high enough to fly away. I likewise started a
partridge just within the verge of the woods, and in another place a
large squirrel ran across the wood-path from one shelter of trees to the
other. Small birds, in flocks, were flitting about the fields, seeking
and finding I know not what sort of food. There were little fish, also,
darting in shoals through the pools and depths of the brooks, which are
now replenished to their brims, and rush towards the river with a swift,
amber-colored current.
Cow Island is not an island,--at least, at this season,--though, I
believe, in the time of freshets, the marshy Charles floods the meadows
all round about it, and extends across its communication with the
mainland. The path to it is a very secluded one, threading a wood of
pines, and just wide enough to admit the loads of meadow hay which are
drawn from the splashy shore of the river. The island has a growth of
stately pines, with tall and ponderous stems, standing at distance enough
to admit the eve to travel far among them; and, as there is no
underbrush, the effect is somewhat like looking among the pillars of a
church.
I returned home by the high-road. On my right, separated from the road
by a level field, perhaps fifty yards across, was a range of young
forest-trees, dressed in their garb of autumnal glory. The sun shone
directly upon them; and sunlight is like the breath of life to the pomp
of autumn. In its absence, one doubts whether there be any truth in what
poets have told about the splendor of an American autumn; but when this
charm is added, one feels that the effect is beyond description. As I
beheld it to-day, there was nothing dazzling; it was gentle and mild,
though brilliant and diversified, and had a most quiet and pensive
influence. And yet there were some trees that seemed really made of
sunshine, and others were of a sunny red, and the whole picture was
painted with but little relief of darksome lines, only a few evergreens.
But there was nothing inharmonious; and, on closer examination, it
appeared that all the tints had a relationship among themselves. And
this, I suppose, is the reason that, while nature seems to scatter them
so carelessly, they still never shock the beholder by their contrasts,
nor disturb, but only soothe. The brilliant scarlet and the brilliant
yellow are different lines of the maple-leaves, and the first changes
into the last. I saw one maple-tree, its centre yellow as gold, set in a
framework of red. The native poplars have different shades of green,
verging towards yellow, and are very cheerful in the sunshine. Most of
the oak-leaves have still the deep verdure of summer; but where a change
has taken place, it is into a russet-red, warm, but sober. These colors,
infinitely varied by the progress which different trees have made in
their decay, constitute almost the whole glory of autumnal woods; but it
is impossible to conceive how much is done with such scanty materials.
In my whole walk I saw only one man, and he was at a distance, in the
obscurity of the trees. He had a horse and a wagon, and was getting a
load of dry brushwood.
Sunday, October 10th.--I visited my grapevine this afternoon, and ate the
last of its clusters. This vine climbs around a young maple-tree, which
has now assumed the yellow leaf. The leaves of the vine are more decayed
than those of the maple. Thence to Cow Island, a solemn and thoughtful
walk. Returned by another path of the width of a wagon, passing through
a grove of hard wood, the lightsome hues of which make the walk more
cheerful than among the pines. The roots of oaks emerged from the soil,
and contorted themselves across the path. The sunlight, also, broke
across in spots, and otherwheres the shadow was deep; but still there was
intermingling enough of bright hues to keep off the gloom from the whole
path.
Brooks and pools have a peculiar aspect at this season. One knows that
the water must be cold, and one shivers a little at the sight of it; and
yet the grass about the pool may be of the deepest green, and the sun may
be shining into it. The withered leaves which overhanging trees shed
upon its surface contribute much to the effect.
Insects have mostly vanished in the fields and woods. I hear locusts
yet, singing in the sunny hours, and crickets have not yet finished their
song. Once in a while I see a caterpillar,--this afternoon, for
instance, a red, hairy one, with black head and tail. They do not appear
to be active, and it makes one rather melancholy to look at them.
Tuesday, October 12th.--The cawing of the crow resounds among the woods.
A sentinel is aware of your approach a great way off, and gives the alarm
to his comrades loudly and eagerly,--Caw, caw, caw! Immediately the
whole conclave replies, and you behold them rising above the trees,
flapping darkly, and winging their way to deeper solitudes. Sometimes,
however, they remain till you come near enough to discern their sable
gravity of aspect, each occupying a separate bough, or perhaps the
blasted tip-top of a pine. As you approach, one after another, with loud
cawing, flaps his wings and throws himself upon the air.
There is hardly a more striking feature in the landscape nowadays than
the red patches of blueberry and whortleberry bushes, as seen on a
sloping hillside, like islands among the grass, with trees growing in
them; or crowning the summit of a bare, brown hill with their somewhat
russet liveliness; or circling round the base of an earth-imbedded rock.
At a distance, this hue, clothing spots and patches of the earth, looks
more like a picture than anything else,--yet such a picture as I never
saw painted.
The oaks are now beginning to look sere, and their leaves have withered
borders. It is pleasant to notice the wide circle of greener grass
beneath the circumference of an overshadowing oak. Passing an orchard,
one hears an uneasy rustling in the trees, and not as if they were
struggling with the wind. Scattered about are barrels to contain the
gathered apples; and perhaps a great heap of golden or scarlet apples is
collected in one place.
Wednesday, October 13th.--A good view, from an upland swell of our
pasture, across the valley of the river Charles. There is the meadow, as
level as a floor, and carpeted with green, perhaps two miles from the
rising ground on this side of the river to that on the opposite side.
The stream winds through the midst of the flat space, without any banks
at all; for it fills its bed almost to the brim, and bathes the meadow
grass on either side. A tuft of shrubbery, at broken intervals, is
scattered along its border; and thus it meanders sluggishly along,
without other life than what it gains from gleaming in the sun. Now,
into the broad, smooth meadow, as into a lake, capes and headlands put
themselves forth, and shores of firm woodland border it, covered with
variegated foliage, making the contrast so much the stronger of their
height and rough outline with the even spread of the plain. And beyond,
and far away, rises a long, gradual swell of country, covered with an
apparently dense growth of foliage for miles, till the horizon terminates
it; and here and there is a house, or perhaps two, among the contiguity
of trees. Everywhere the trees wear their autumnal dress, so that the
whole landscape is red, russet, orange, and yellow, blending in the
distance into a rich tint of brown-orange, or nearly that,--except the
green expanse so definitely hemmed in by the higher ground.
I took a long walk this morning, going first nearly to Newton, thence
nearly to Brighton, thence to Jamaica Plain, and thence home. It was a
fine morning, with a northwest-wind; cool when facing the wind, but warm
and most genially pleasant in sheltered spots; and warm enough everywhere
while I was in motion. I traversed most of the by-ways which offered
themselves to me; and, passing through one in which there was a double
line of grass between the wheel-tracks and that of the horses' feet, I
came to where had once stood a farm-house, which appeared to have been
recently torn down. Most of the old timber and boards had been carted
away; a pile of it, however, remained. The cellar of the house was
uncovered, and beside it stood the base and middle height of the chimney.
The oven, in which household bread had been baked for daily food, and
puddings and cake and jolly pumpkin-pies for festivals, opened its month,
being deprived of its iron door. The fireplace was close at hand. All
round the site of the house was a pleasant, sunny, green space, with old
fruit-trees in pretty fair condition, though aged. There was a barn,
also aged, but in decent repair; and a ruinous shed, on the corner of
which was nailed a boy's windmill, where it had probably been turning and
clattering for years together, till now it was black with time and
weather-stain. It was broken, but still it went round whenever the wind
stirred. The spot was entirely secluded, there being no other house
within a mile or two.
No language can give an idea of the beauty and glory of the trees, just
at this moment. It would be easy, by a process of word-daubing, to set
down a confused group of gorgeous colors, like a bunch of tangled skeins
of bright silk; but there is nothing of the reality in the glare which
would thus be produced. And yet the splendor both of individual clusters
and of whole scenes is unsurpassable. The oaks are now far advanced in
their change of hue; and, in certain positions relatively to the sun,
they light up and gleam with a most magnificent deep gold, varying
according as portions of the foliage are in shadow or sunlight. On the
sides which receive the direct rays, the effect is altogether rich; and
in other points of view it is equally beautiful, if less brilliant. This
color of the oak is more superb than the lighter yellow of the maples and
walnuts. The whole landscape is now covered with this indescribable
pomp; it is discerned on the uplands afar off; and Blue Hill in Milton,
at the distance of several miles, actually glistens with rich, dark
light,--no, not glistens, nor gleams,--but perhaps to say glows subduedly
will be a truer expression for it.
Met few people this morning; a grown girl, in company with a little boy,
gathering barberries in a secluded lane; a portly, autumnal gentleman,
wrapped in a greatcoat, who asked the way to Mr. Joseph Goddard's; and a
fish-cart from the city, the driver of which sounded his horn along the
lonesome way.
Monday, October 18th.--There has been a succession of days which were
cold and bright in the forenoon, and gray, sullen, and chill towards
night. The woods have now taken a soberer tint than they wore at my last
date. Many of the shrubs which looked brightest a little while ago are
now wholly bare of leaves. The oaks have generally a russet-brown shade,
although some of them are still green, as are likewise other scattered
trees in the forests. The bright yellow and the rich scarlet are no more
to be seen. Scarcely any of them will now bear a close examination; for
this shows them to be rugged, wilted, and of faded, frost-bitten hue; but
at a distance, and in the mass, and enlivened by the sun, they have still
somewhat of the varied splendor which distinguished them a week ago. It
is wonderful what a difference the sunshine makes; it is like varnish,
bringing out the hidden veins in a piece of rich wood. In the cold, gray
atmosphere, such as that of most of our afternoons now, the landscape
lies dark,--brown, and in a much deeper shadow than if it were clothed in
green. But, perchance, a gleam of sun falls on a certain spot of distant
shrubbery or woodland, and we see it brighten with many lines, standing
forth prominently from the dimness around it. The sunlight gradually
spreads, and the whole sombre scene is changed to a motley picture,--the
sun bringing out many shades of color, and converting its gloom to an
almost laughing cheerfulness. At such times I almost doubt whether the
foliage has lost any of its brilliancy. But the clouds intercept the sun
again, and lo! old Autumn appears, clad in his cloak of russet-brown.
Beautiful now, while the general landscape lies in shadow, looks the
summit of a distant hill (say a mile off), with the sunshine brightening
the trees that cover it. It is noticeable that the outlines of hills,
and the whole bulk of them at the distance of several miles, become
stronger, denser, and more substantial in this autumn atmosphere and in
these autumnal tints than in summer. Then they looked blue, misty, and
dim. Now they show their great humpbacks more plainly, as if they had
drawn nearer to us.
A waste of shrubbery and small trees, such as overruns the borders of the
meadows for miles together, looks much more rugged, wild, and savage in
its present brown color than when clad in green.
I passed through a very pleasant wood-path yesterday, quite shut in and
sheltered by trees that had not thrown off their yellow robes. The sun
shone strongly in among them, and quite kindled them; so that the path
was brighter for their shade than if it had been quite exposed to the
sun.
In the village graveyard, which lies contiguous to the street, I saw a
man digging a grave, and one inhabitant after another turned aside from
his way to look into the grave and talk with the digger. I heard him
laugh, with the traditionary mirthfulness of men of that occupation.