A PIONEER TAVERN.
We had walked a distance of eight miles, and it was quite dark, when we
came within sight of the clearing where we were advised to stop for the
night. Completely blockading the road, and full in our way, was a
confused mass of felled timber, which we were afterwards told was a
wind-row or brush-fence. It consisted of an irregular heap of prostrate
trees, branches and all, thrown together in line, to serve as a fence
against stray cattle. After several fruitless attempts to effect an
entrance, there was nothing for it but to shout at the top of our voices
for assistance.
Presently we heard a shrill cry, rather like the call of some strange
bird than a human voice; immediately afterwards, the reflection of a
strong light became visible, and a man emerged from the brush-wood,
bearing a large blazing fragment of resinous wood, which lighted up
every object around in a picturesque and singular manner. High over
head, eighty feet at least, was a vivid green canopy of leaves,
extending on all sides as far as the eye could penetrate, varied here
and there by the twinkling of some lustrous star that peeped through
from the dark sky without, and supported by the straight trunks and
arching branches of innumerable trees--the rustic pillars of this superb
natural temple. The effect was strikingly beautiful and surprising.
Nor was the figure of our guide less strange. He was the first genuine
specimen of a Yankee we had encountered--a Vermonter--tall, bony and
awkward, but with a good-natured simplicity in his shrewd features; he
wore uncouth leather leggings, tied with deer sinews--loose mocassins, a
Guernsey shirt, a scarlet sash confining his patched trowsers at the
waist, and a palmetto hat, dragged out of all describable shape, the
colour of each article so obscured by stains and rough usage, as to be
matter rather of conjecture than certainty. He proved to be our landlord
for the night, David Root by name.
Following his guidance, and climbing successively over a number of huge
trunks, stumbling through a net-work of branches, and plunging into a
shallow stream up to the ankles in soft mud, we reached at length what
he called his tavern, at the further side of the clearing. It was a log
building of a single apartment, where presided "the wife," a smart,
plump, good-looking little Irishwoman, in a stuff gown, and without
shoes or stockings. They had been recently married, as he promptly
informed us, had selected this wild spot on a half-opened road,
impassable for waggons, without a neighbour for miles, and under the
inevitable necessity of shouldering all their provisions from the embryo
village we had just quitted: all this with the resolute determination of
"keeping tavern."
The floor was of loose split logs, hewn into some approach to evenness
with an adze; the walls of logs entire, filled in the interstices with
chips of pine, which, however, did not prevent an occasional glimpse of
the objects visible outside, and had the advantage, moreover, of
rendering a window unnecessary; the hearth was the bare soil, the
ceiling slabs of pine wood, the chimney a square hole in the roof; the
fire literally an entire tree, branches and all, cut into four-feet
lengths, and heaped up to the height of as many feet. It was a chill
evening, and the dancing flames were inspiriting, as they threw a
cheerful radiance all around, and revealed to our curious eyes
extraordinary pieces of furniture--a log bedstead in the darkest corner,
a pair of snow-shoes, sundry spiral augers and rough tools, a bundle of
dried deer-sinews, together with some articles of feminine gear, a small
red framed looking-glass, a clumsy comb suspended from a nail by a
string, and other similar treasures.
We were accommodated with stools of various sizes and heights, on three
legs or on four, or mere pieces of log sawn short off, which latter our
host justly recommended as being more steady on the uneven floor. We
exchanged our wet boots for slippers, mocassins, or whatever the
good-natured fellow could supply us with. The hostess was intently busy
making large flat cakes; roasting them, first on one side, then on the
other; and alternately boiling and frying broad slices of salt pork,
when, suddenly suspending operations, she exclaimed, with a vivacity
that startled us, "Oh, Root, I've cracked my spider!"
Inquiring with alarm what was the matter, we learned that the cast-iron
pan on three feet, which she used for her cookery, was called a
"spider," and that its fracture had occasioned the exclamation. The
injured spider performed "its spiriting gently" notwithstanding, and,
sooth to say, all parties did full justice to its savoury contents.
Bed-time drew near. A heap of odd-looking rugs and clean blankets was
laid for our accommodation and pronounced to be ready. But how to get
into it? We had heard of some rather primitive practices among the
steerage passengers on board ship, it is true, but had not accustomed
ourselves to "uncase" before company, and hesitated to lie down in our
clothes. After waiting some little time in blank dismay, Mr. Root kindly
set us an example by quietly slipping out of his nether integuments and
turning into bed. There was no help for it; by one means or other we
contrived to sneak under the blankets; and, after hanging up a large
coloured quilt between our lair and the couch occupied by her now
snoring spouse, the good wife also disappeared.
In spite of the novelty of the situation, and some occasional
disturbance from gusts of wind stealing through the "chinks," and
fanning into brightness the dying embers on the hearth, we slept
deliciously and awoke refreshed.